#telegram from the front

[duncandonuts06]

Just want to say I love Schatzi. I think he's cute 😀👍🏻

Can we make an admirer club for him? /j XD

What is his fate after the war ended? Will he and Davenport met? Will he meet other engines (canon character) from the franchise or he just like exist in same universe as they are without meetings each other?

aw thank you very much!! So happy to see he's got some admirers! With each passing day the Schatzi fanclub grows larger XD

All awesome questions! His fate is murky. I am still in the research and development phase of his story. I have thought a lot about what his life would be like after the war and haven't fully decided what path I wish to take yet. Whatever happens it's likely it won't be all sunshine and roses. Here comes my nerd brain:

After the Treaty of Versailles, Germany had to surrender all military technology to the allies. This included airplanes, trains, ships, and weaponry. A lot of it was either scrapped, used as target practice, or integrated into allied armies for training purposes. Many Brigadeloks survive to this day and found second chances on logging railways after the war. Whatever happens to our lad, he is still going to go through a lot of hardship. All of his friends and family finally get to go home and live out their days in peace while he, most likely, would become a prisoner of war even after the war itself is long over with. Maybe his comrades find a way to save him and bring him back to Germany or take him somewhere else. Either way everyone he knew and loved will be separated from him for a long time, maybe even forever. I don't have the heart to put him through too much pain but I do love me some angst!

Schatzi will never meet Davenport in canon but I definitely want to make some little one off interactions between them for fun. They are very different in personality and build which could cause a lot of drama not to mention the whole enemies in war thing. As for canon Thomas characters! I am not sure! I sorta would like to keep it a separate story that only exists in the same "universe" but it's fun thinking about how the Skarloey engines in particular would react to him. He's so much bigger and different than them it would be like worlds colliding. I think Sir Handel in particular would absolutely despise him.

Thank you for the wonderful ask! woohoo enjoy the paragraphs oops

[diamondnokouzai]

MONSTER EATING COMIC AUTISTIC GIRL PROTAG

[hahahax30]

Hey hey, for those who don't know, South Korean women and girls are currently suffering from a disgusting misogyny epidemic by the hands of men who use Telegram as a forum to exchange deepfake porn of women and girls in their family, school, university, work, etc. These men also exchange videos of them groping those women and girls. It's a repeat of the Nth Room crime.

There are hundreds of thousands of men in those Telegram chats. Think about it. Hundreds of thousands of men--someone's father, uncle, brother, son; a girl's classmate or a uni student's 'friend'--drugging the women and girls in their life, groping there for plenty of others to see, create deepfake porn or providing pictures of the women and girls they know so that others may create the deepfake porn, and men posting private information about the women and girls in their life to encourage others to sexually assault them.

Think. About. It.

Many Korean feminists have been trying to shed light into this crime. They've specifically been trying to make this known outside of Korea because Korea's rampantly misogynistic and their newspapers won't talk about this new Nth Room unless other, international newspapers report on it.

These Korean feminists are also suffering from harassment on all fronts: from YouTube, the men in the Telegram chats who demand when women decided they should have rights, etc. One of the most vocal feminists, @/dvu84djp on Twitter, has suffered much of this harassment. I urge everyone to check her page for more info on the matter, since I don't live in Korea, don't know Korean, am not Korean and all I can see is a repeat of what she and other K feminists are saying. I also urge everyone to go report this asshole on YouTube, since he's been one of the most vocal in spreading hate against the feminists fighting for basic human rights for their women

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy universe

(Title subject to change)

Sometimes Danny really hated Clockwork. You’ll know him when you see him. “Cryptic and unhelpful as usual”, Danny groused. “You’d think the Master of Time could be a little more descriptive considering it’s his damned errands I’m running here, but noooo! I’m starting to think this whole apprenticeship is just an excuse to foist his busywork off on me.”

Here Danny was, aimlessly flying above the rooftops of Gotham, trying to figure out who he was supposed to be delivering his message to. He had a name, but no description and no location. I’ll know him when I see him my ass. Whoever this Damian Al-Ghul was supposed to be had better stick out like a sore thumb or Danny was never gonna find him. Speaking of…

Danny paused in mid-air. There was someone crouching on a nearby rooftop, peering over the edge. He was young, wearing a red and yellow outfit with a dark hooded cape. He wore a sheathed sword on his back that looked way too real to be part of some casual cosplay. Welp, if this ain’t him then Clockwork picked the wrong errand boy. Now, how best to approach this?

Danny considered his options. The cloak and apprentice staff Clockwork had loaned him gave him a suitably spooky appearance on top of his usual ghostliness but he wasn’t gonna go around scaring kids, armed or not. The friendly approach it is then.

“Hey there!”

Wow, the kid had some good reflexes. At the sound of Danny’s voice he jumped as if electrocuted, spinning around and drawing his sword in one smooth movement. He held the sword in front of himself in a defensive position and his stance showed that he knew how to use it. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.

“Easy there” Danny raised his hands in a placating gesture “I’m just here to deliver a message. I’m looking for someone named Damian Al-Ghul. You wouldn’t happen to be him, right?”

A deepening scowl was his only answer. “I repeat, who the hell are you?”

Danny sighed “Look kid, I’m just trying to do my job here. I have a prophecy to deliver, so if you’re not this Damian fella…” he trailed off invitingly.

“A… prophecy?” the kid hesitated before lowering his sword slightly, scowl still firmly in place.

“Yep” Danny popped the end of the word for emphasis “Phantom, apprentice to the Ghost of Time and part-time delivery spectre, at your service” he threw the kid a mock salute. “My Boss told me to come to Gotham to give a prophecy to you’ll know him when you see him” he dropped his voice to a lower register and made airquotes around the words, “and you’re the only memorable person I’ve seen tonight, so…” Danny spread his arms in exasperation.

The kid hesitated visibly before letting his sword hand drop to his side. “I am the one you’re looking for.”

“Great! Hang on.” Danny pulled a messenger bag out from under his cloak and started rummaging around in it, causing the kid (Damian?) to twitch “Now where did I put..? Aha!” Danny pulled out a faintly glowing envelope in triumph. It had a large purple wax seal on it and Damian Al-Ghul written in elegant cursive across the back. Danny floated closer and held out the envelope to the kid.

“The prophecy… is a letter?” Damian drawled, eyebrows rising in disbelief. Danny shrugged.

“What, did you expect a dancing, singing telegram? I only do those for the really good tippers” he shook the envelope slightly “So, are you gonna take this or what?”

Damian finally reached out and took the letter, turning it over to scrutinise both sides. Danny tucked his bag back under his cloak and rose into the air.

“Right, I’ve got other errands to get done, so… see ya!” he turned to leave.

“Wait”

Danny turned back to face the kid and to his surprise, saw that Damian was holding out some folded bills towards him.

“You know the tipping thing was a joke, right?”

“Tt. I am told it is rude not to tip delivery people” Damian sniffed “I am simply acting within expected social norms”

“Wow, um… okay” Danny took the folded bills from Damian. It looked like it would last him for a couple of good meals and he wasn’t exactly swimming in money, okay? Ghost apprentice wasn’t exactly a paid internship. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome” came the haughty reply.

Danny shrugged and tucked the money into his bag. He rose back into the air with Damian’s eyes tracking his movement. With a wave of his staff, he opened a portal back to Clockwork’s realm and passed through it leaving Gotham behind.

****

Robin’s hand rose to the communicator in his ear.

“Oracle, did you get all that?”

Now has a Part 2!

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Who is This?: Chapter 1

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky had a wife during the 40s, she was left heartbroken after the telegram arrived (missing, presumed dead). It's surprising when 80 years later, she was working behind a bar in Madripoor of all places!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Bucky followed Sam and Zemo into a loud bar, he immediately wanted to turn around and go home, why had Zemo demanded he go back to being the Winter Soldier (even if it was one night)?

The sound of heavy drums and guitars also deafened his hearing, a song he had come to learn was The Wild Boy by a band called Duran Duran. A few bartenders and waitresses were walking around, there was only one who stuck out to him - a dark-haired young woman who reminded him too much of his departed wife.

His heart breaks even more, thinking of the woman he had left behind, his girl. The love of his life. Bucky doesn't think he will ever 'get over' her.

The way the young woman walked, carrying a tray of empty glasses (before being tossed an empty bottle by a patron), was so similar to the way his girl walked in the hole-in-the-wall diner she worked in.

She wasn't quick enough to duck under the bar before they got to the door leading upstairs (which was coincidentally next to the bar), Zemo was talking to the bouncer. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the young woman said, squeezing between the back of Zemo and the front of Bucky. Which is when he got a good look at her face.

There she was.

His girl. His wife.

He couldn't even say anything to her, as he was taken upstairs and away from his girl. He could only hope he would be allowed back in at the end of the night to see her.

Y/N Barnes made her way behind the bar, glancing up at the TV where the Kansas City Chiefs were currently playing the Buffalo Bills at Arrowhead Stadium, then down at her phone which showed the live score of the Dodgers game against the San Francisco Giants.

She had been a long-time Dodgers girl, even after she found out they had moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles.

"Did you see the way he was looking at you?" Yasmine asked, pushing a dry Martini in front of a 26-year-old woman.

Y/N looked up from the glasses she was putting in the dishwasher. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"One of the men who went upstairs. The way he was looking at you," Yasmine fans her hand for dramatic effect. "I would drop my panties for him in a millisecond."

"Like you don't do that every night."

Yasmine rolled her eyes and served the next half-drunk who had come to the bar.

"Don't listen to her," Anastasia told her, rolling her eyes as Yasmine flirted with her current flavour of the week.

"It's not often I do, darling," Y/N replied, fiddling with Anastasia's curls for a second, before spotting a patron. "What can I get for you, darling?"

He hung off the bar, obviously far too drunk to understand what was going on. "Another beer and your phone number," he slurred.

She shook her head, reaching over and grabbing him another beer. As far as the boss of the bar (whoever that was) was concerned unless they were unconscious- why should you stop serving them? Y/N thought it wasn't right, but no matter how often she voiced this - she was shut down.

She set the beer in front of him and then went to the register to add it to his bill (good thing she currently has his credit card behind the bar).

"Oi, sweet cheeks!" He calls, but Y/N doesn't pay attention looking over at Yasmine and Anastasia with a raised eyebrow. "Sweet cheeks! I asked for your number."

Y/N replied by simply raising her hand proudly displaying her engagement and wedding rings to the drunk. It was only a small diamond (given Bucky worked on the docks before he was deployed), and the plain band she inherited from her great-grandmother.

"What's the matter with that 'un?" He hiccups. "He got you costume jewellery or somethin'?"

Y/N shook her head. "I'm going into the back for a moment," she tells Aidan.

Little did the drunk patron know, all those years ago, this was the date she was handed the telegraph - putting in such blunt words. Her James was missing, they presumed him to be dead. It breaks her heart that they never got to have a proper funeral.

"You alright, honey?" Elizabeth (another one of the waitresses) asked, she had been outside on her break. Elizabeth was the only one who knew her true age and about her James.

"It's the day I found out James was missing," Y/N said, before bursting into more tears.

Elizabeth wrapped Y/N up in a hug, everyone oblivious to the fact that Y/N's presumed dead husband was now running through the bar, flocked by Sam and Zemo, and into the alley behind the bar.

When Bucky was sure Zemo, Sam and Sharon were asleep, he slipped out of the safe house and into the night - determined to find out if the woman he saw in the bar was that of his (presumably? should be?) dead wife.

He eventually made his way to the front door of the bar, the bouncers had long since gone home. He could see lights on in the building and just about make out words being spoken thanks to the Super Soldier serum running through his veins.

He grasped the handle and gave it a push, the door hadn't been locked, as it gave beneath the slight push.

He could see three young women sitting on the bar, a man who was counting the money from the register and another man who was dancing.

The young woman sitting closest to the bar, had golden curls hanging around her head. "Mark, you didn't lock the door!"

The man dancing, Mark, looked over at Bucky, eyes widening when he saw the size of Bucky. "I say we just serve him, then lock the door behind him."

As the bartenders and waitress argued amongst themselves, Bucky's eyes never left the woman in the middle. It looked as if she had been crying. "Babydoll?"

The woman stopped giggling, tipping her head back to normal and looked at him, before dropping her glass as tears welled up in her eyes. "James?"

The curly-haired woman gasped, setting her glass down and giving Y/N a push off the bar.

Bucky held his arms out to catch her as her feet landed on the floor. He couldn't stop looking at her big eyes, he'd always loved her big expressive eyes. He always knew how she was feeling by just a look in her eyes.

"James? Is that you?" Her hand came out slowly, and shakily, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing in front of her.

"Hi, babydoll," Bucky smiled, tears starting to fall down his cheeks, a heavy sob held tightly in his chest at the moment in time. As soon as her fingers met his skin, Bucky let out a heavy sigh of relief, reaching over and pulling her into his arms. Y/N's arms dug themselves away from his chest and up around his neck before her hand soon started fiddling with his hair.

The couple stood there for a moment, finally finding their slice of peace. Some came barging into the bar, and the dark-haired woman who had been sitting on the other side of Y/N practically demanded Mark lock the door before the Hounds of Baskerville came in.

Y/N was so happy to finally have her James back in her arms, but there was a whirling sound she couldn't let go. "What's that noise?"

Bucky looked from his wife to his arm and back to his bride. "I'll explain everything to you later, but... I lost my arm, and I now have a prosthetic one," he tells her, letting go of her for a moment so he could take his glove off and show her the black and gold Vibranium one he had made.

"Ok, James. It's a good thing you gave me this," she reached beneath her top and pulled a ring out from beneath, hanging from a chain. "Before you were deployed."

Bucky smiled, cupping her face so he could kiss her. Bucky pulled away chuckling a little. "Babydoll, will you please put my ring back on?"

She reached behind her to unclasp the chain, and slid Bucky's band off, "if it doesn't fit we'll get it resized."

"I don't care what size it is, as long as you put my ring back where it belongs," Bucky almost growled, a piece of him falling back into place with the ring back on his finger.

The next morning - Sam, Zemo and Sharon came into the living room, seeing Bucky sleeping on the sofa (Sam was expecting this, after being told by Steve), however, there was a lump lying next to Bucky they didn't recognise.

Sam slowly makes his way over, gently easing down the thick blanket lying over Bucky and the lump.

Lying there, practically on top of the 'bionic staring machine' was a young woman.

"Did he somehow pick up a girl?" Sam whispered. Sam and Sharon were trying to be quiet - however, Zemo (who didn't care) started clattering around the kitchen, causing Bucky to wake up in a start, which then caused the young woman to look up with tired owl-like eyes.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky nearly demanded, keeping his arms wrapped around his companion.

Sam raised his eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question, Barnes?" Sam looked at the young woman in Bucky's arms. "Who is this?"

Bucky looked down at her, Sam watched as a smile grew on his face. "This is Y/N. Y/N Barnes. My wife."

[back2bluesidex]

To Be Popular - JJK [Prologue]

Pairing: Social Media Influencer! Jungkook X Marketing Manager! Reader ft. Yoongi

Summary:

You love everything about social media - apart from the ever-growing number of social media influencers. You don't understand how these people gain followers and admirers just by installing a camera and doing very basic things in front of it. And you despise how some of them can do anything to gain fame, to be popular - even if it includes uploading their bedroom scene in pornsites aka people like Jeon Jungkook. But when your company launches a new product and your department head tasks you with signing Jeon Jungkook up as an endorsement partner - you have no choice but to chase him like the corporate slave that you are. However, things turn worse when you embroil in a dating rumor with him and have to keep the game going for the sake of everything. is it really for the worse or things will turn in a way you never expected it to?  

Theme: Strangers to lovers au, fake dating au, kind of enemies to lover au, angst, smut, fluff.

Full Series Word Count: 26k

Chapter word count: 1k

Warnings: a tiny little smutty scene, dirty words.

Masterlist | Patreon (For access to the complete series)

Taglist requests are open.

Minors, I am not responsible for what you consume online. So, act more rationally and stay away.

A/N: After brooding for a long time, I have decided to (alongside your votes) release one of the patreon exclusive, since no other stories are working out. Though this is originally a drabble series, I will release longer chapters here.

Chapter index: -

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

Or read the full series right away on Patreon at a discounted price today!!

Your eyes zero on your laptop screen - the quality is just above what is called grainy. 

But you can clearly recognize those tattoos. Moreover, you can recognize that voice, even if he says nothing good but filth. 

“You whore!” a slap rings as if to punctuate the man’s breathy voice, “look at your greedy hole swallowing me up so good!” 

You look at what his voice is referring to. The place where his cock disappears into her, creating a lewd, wet sound, her arousal drips down the back of her thigh - your own thighs come against each other as an impact. 

Even though their faces are not visible in the 3 minute video, the whole country knows who they are. 

Social media influencer Jeon Jungkook and Youtuber Kim Doona. 

There are a plethora of reasons behind why you don’t like these social media influencers. If you have the energy to make a list then it will go like: 

1. These people think of themselves much more highly than they actually are. You mean, they are not even celebrities or making the country proud or something. What the fuck make them so obnoxious? 

2. They have an awful number of dumb followers. Why do people even follow them? For showing their makeup and skin-care routine? For screaming loudly at the gaming screen? For recording themselves eating, doing the most random shit every normal human being does on a daily basis? You just don’t understand why. 

3. These people are absolutely fame-hungry. They can do anything and everything to boost their followers even if the said actions aren’t really positive. 

Take an instance from the current scenario - two of the most popular social media influencers have dropped their bedroom scene at an adult site and it got monetized within a day. Nice move because they gained both money and fame 10x overnight. 

It’s not that you have paid to watch what you are watching currently - you would rather die than feeding into the delusions of these influencers. You are watching because you despise these people and there was a leaked version circulating on Telegram. 

You scoff at the screen but the wetness in between your legs scoffs back at you. 

You hate them, yeah, but it’s not like you are totally immune to the sexy scene they have portrayed. Especially the way Jeon Jungkook’s tattoo arm held onto the female’s waist, or the way his muscles flexed under the dim light, or the way his cock- 

“Y/N! What the fuck?” you scold yourself, slam-shutting your laptop with unnecessary force. You blame it on your temporary state of celibacy that has been forced upon you since your last break up. 

And the fact that you have a fat crush on your manager - doesn’t make things any less painful. 

So you decide to shut off your system for the night and go to sleep as you should have done long ago. You have work tomorrow and a meeting, being wet after watching some influencers fuck each other wouldn’t help you with your career. 

Or would it? 

Your jaw hangs ajar, threatening to touch the floor as Min Yoongi, aka the manager you have a fat crush on, presents the campaign plan of your company’s new product’s marketing. Everything was fine until Yoongi suggested influencer endorsement and if this is not a joke of the universe then you don’t know what it is because you can see Jeon Jungkook’s picture gracing the screen.   

“Jeon Jungkook? Why?” you utter these words without so much of a thought. 

Yoongi looks at you with his narrowed eyes, “why not? You know, he is really famous. He is trending currently.” 

“Yeah but the reason he is trending- well. I don’t think he is suitable for our brand image.” you press on. 

Yoongi chuckles at your constipated expression, “Y/N-ah” he calls you softly and a tiny part of your heart melts, “I am sure our brand image can go up with a few charitable works here and there. But the company wants a return of what they are investing in marketing. I bet signing up Jeon Jungkook will help.” 

“Y/N, you know we are already at a tight spot right? Our last campaign wasn’t as successful as we expected. The company may take steps if we don’t do this right this time.” calls Mrs. Lee from the other side of the table. 

“And before you ask me why him, why not the other influencers…” Yoongi chimes in again, “We are selling gaming laptops and this guy is addicted to games. He has more followers than the actual streamers. He is young, hot, and talented in many areas. In one word, he is perfect.” 

“You awfully sound like you want to date him.” You scoff at the man. He only chuckles. 

Yoongi tries to say something but a knock rings on the door. One of the staff opens the door only a little and says, “Sir, he is here.” 

Yoongi nods and says, “send him inside.” 

“Who is coming?” you place the question. Only for Yoongi to smirk as a response. 

When you are about to press more, the door swings open revealing the man who-should-not-be-named, Jeon Jungkook. 

Your eyes go wide as you take him in - all baggy clothes and a cute bucket hat perched on the top of his head. Bambi eyes scanning the room like a puppy brought to his very new home. As if he is not the guy who is going viral for fucking on camera and selling it to an adult site. 

He bows deeply and opens his mouth to greet, “Hello, I am Jeon Jungkook.” 

You feel your blood pressure raising at the thought of working with him. You will survive it right? 

You will have to. 

Permanent Taglist:

@phenomenalgirl9 @chimchimmarie @coffeedepressionsoup @meowstake @vonvi-blog @nochuel @chimmisbae @i-have-no-life-charlie @mikrokookiex @jjk174 @lallataegi @savageyoongi @jwnghyuns @parapiop7 @futuristicenemychaos @armystay89 @ryryvna @purple-realms

[raestromboli]

introducing 𝓹𝐥𝐮𝐠!𝓬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬. ♡⁩

𝓒𝐇𝐑𝐈$. ─── luvs jewelry blunts > joints hotboxes in his whip everyday $$$ nardo wick is his spirit animal always blazing in the morning smellin’ like dior sauvage veeze on blast #needthat !

plug!chris who doesn’t have social media. only way for customers to contact him is through telegram.

plug!chris who loves ripping people off right in front of their eyes.

plug!chris who has gotten in trouble with the police too many times to count.

plug!chris who has been making it his mission to befriend at least one police officer to make his life easier.

plug!chris who is both street smart and book smart.

plug!chris who has to stay away from sativa strains because he ends up being horny 24/7.

plug!chris whose first time smoking consisted of smoking out of an apple during his sophomore year of high school and he ended up eating the entire apple.

plug!chris who has insane munchies and will make the most weirdest meals ever.

plug!chris who always has an ‘emergency blunt’ with him.

plug!chris who only sparks up with matt or nate because he trusts them.

plug!chris who will always love his backwoods.

plug!chris who has his girl’s face printed on his lighter.

plug!chris who is either a giggly mess or completely relaxed when high.

plug!chris who tries his very best to not smell like weed near his parents, but when he’s whispering to matt if he smells, there’s never a time where he said no.

plug!chris who always has empty carts on his nightstand.

plug!chris who loooooves high sex.

[letaliabane]

Trip Up - Valet!SimonRiley and Maid!Reader

The abbey was on alert today. A telegram from the Lord Price's sister stating she would be visiting along with members of the Crawley family who had moved into the village.

This included the new heir to Downton Abbey Matthew Crawley, John's third cousin, who was rumored to marry Lady Mary, John's oldest daughter.

'I can't stand the thought of my only purpose being to marry. To be thrown at every heir to Downton so that the money stays in the family,' Mary said in frustration, putting on her earrings as you did her hair, 'All I want is to be chosen for me any only that.'

You nodded, putting the last of the beaded pins in her hair. She had chosen a lavender skirt with a cream blouse for the day, finished with a simple cardigan.

'It just feels so belittling. What do you think Y/N?' She asked, looking thoughtfully at you through the mirror.

You gave her a gentle smile, 'I agree m'lady. If it were my choice, I would indeed marry for love. It's more important than most things.'

'And of course position. I could never forget that! This new heir is apparently quite middle class and I just won't have that!'

You couldn't help but sigh at her words.

Mary was a kind young and beautiful lady, but at times had a cold heart and hard exterior to protect it, which included a cruel nature to those she despised.

'How is that new valet doing? Mr Riley wasn't it?'

'Oh, he's quite settled in m'lady, now that it has been a few months,' You said as you moved around the room, clearing and folding clothes away to where they belonged, 'I think he's still shaken the staff up but much better than it was previously.'

Mary tapped her perfume to her wrists, saying, 'Thank goodness, I felt terrible for Papa. He talks about Mr Riley like a dear old friend, it would be a shame if he doesn't feel welcome here, even as a valet.'

'Agreed, now I should probably head down. Will that be all m'lady?'

'Yes, thank you Y/N.'

You made your way down to the servants hall, putting away anything that needed cleaning from the daughter's rooms. Before too long, the staff were rounded up at the stairs, Mr Garrick doing final inspections of uniforms before we went up to meet our guests.

'We should go out to greet them all, now be on your best behavior. I'll have nothing less!' Mr Garrick said, the younger staff nodding nervously while others remained silent.

'Remember to not go running off William, I'll need your help with the bags,' Graves muttered to the youngest and newest of the footmen.

Mr Riley who was standing at the base of the stairs turned to him. 'I'm happy to assist you if needed.'

'No need! Don't more mistakes do we Mr Riley?' Graves was quick to quip back. You couldn't help but shake your head, following the other maids up the stairs.

The staff were lined up at the front of the incredibly beautiful house as the cars rolled in one by one through the gates, coming to a halt just in front of the tall double doors.

Lord John pushed forward first, her Ladyship Liliana close behind him to also greet Matthew. From the look of him, he looked like a kind man. Young, blond and blue-eyed just like his mother, Isobel, who followed close behind him. Older, a little grey-haired, but back straight with a smile.

The daughters greeted their aunts happily, while awkwardly greeting the newcomers. After brief chatter was shared amongst the family, they began to move into the house slowly.

Suddenly a scuffle erupted, the maids gasping as your eyes turned to see Mr Riley crash hard onto the pebbled ground, stones flying about messily and, to your horror, his mask.

You glanced up and saw Graves, an ugly smirk on his face as he looked down on the valet, his foot strangely kicked out in place before walking towards the back entrance.

'Riley, are you alright?'

You looked to see John coming to his side, grabbing the mask from the ground and handing it to him. The rest of the family watched on in shock.

'I am my lord, my apologies,' You heard Mr Riley grumble, keeping his face down as he placed his mask back on properly.

When his lordship had turned back to usher his family inside, Johnny, who stood tall at the door awaiting their entry, gave you a nod which you returned.

As the staff quickly dispersed, you went to Mr Riley's side, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.

'Here, let me help you, Mr Riley,' You quietly said, grabbing his arm and slowly assisting him until he was steadily back on his feet.

You shook off the pebbles and dust caught onto his suit jacket and pants. 'There, much better–'

'Don't!' He suddenly snapped, slapping your hand away.

You gasped, taking a step away. Though his face was covered, there was a deep anger in Mr Riley's eyes that you had never seen before. It almost frightened you.

Mr Riley froze, taking in your change of demeanour. With a sigh, he uttered so quietly you almost missed it, 'Please don't pity me Miss ... I don't need it.'

He pushed past you roughly, his loud footsteps quickly becoming distant against the pebbled walkway as he left you behind.

The day continued as usual except, you noticed very quickly, the distinct absence of Mr Riley for the rest of the day. You had overheard Mr Garrick say he had taken poorly and couldn't continue to work.

Like bees that had caught the honey, the staff buzzed excitedly with the sudden gossip of his possible resignation or firing. Though the staff had calmed down since his arrival, it didn't change their stance that he didn't deserve the job.

It made you furious. Why should a man who had been at the house for a few months be let go just because of a small mishap? Something that wasn't even his fault. Nothing even happened!

Soon drinks for the family were complete after their meal, and dinner was being served in the servant's hall, but there was still no sign of Mr Riley.

After nibbling at your meal and failing to work up an appetite yourself, you found a tray and dished up some stew and some hot bread that had been served.

'What are you doing love?' You looked up to see Mrs Patmore enter the kitchens, clearly having finished her dinner.

'Oh, I was just making up a plate for Mr Riley, him not being well enough to join us. You won't mind Ms Laswell?' You addressed the head housekeeper who had appeared behind Mrs Patmore.

She nodded with a smile, 'Of course, just this once. The poor man has been through enough in one day.'

With a nod, you finished piling up the tray before making your way carefully through the corridors of the attics where the servants lived in and at end of the corridor, a light shone from beneath a door.

Making your way over, you peeked into the room. Through the mirror that hung on the cupboard, you could see sitting on the bed there sat the shaking silhouette of Mr Riley, and in the quiet, the soft sobbing emitted from him.

You couldn't help but feel your heart break at the site. Taking a step back, you cleared your throat. 'Mr Riley? Are you there?'

A shuffle was heard from within the room, footsteps approaching before the door opened to reveal Mr Riley. His eyes were swollen and red, his hair dishevelled and his shoulders tense.

You gave him a reassuring smile. 'I brought some dinner up, in case you were hungry.'

Immediately he deflated at the sight of you, eyes softened as he took in the tray of food neatly placed. 'That's very kind Miss. Even after what I did to you earlier ... you are still so generous.'

'It's nothing really,' You placed the tray in his hands which he placed off to the side, looking back to you.

'But it's the very opposite of nothing. I-I really am sorry for this morning, that was very unkind of me Miss.'

'No need for apologies Mr Riley,' You said, trying to keep your voice steady, 'You've been wronged since you arrived here and I hate to see you like this. Please don't let them drag you down. You are so much stronger than they are.'

He sighed heavily, eyes shying away from yours, leaning against the door frame. 'I hate to admit it ... it's very humiliating. Couldn't stomach any more of it.'

You shook your head firmly, stepping closer to him. 'You shouldn't be made to feel that way. Be proud of being here, John–I mean ... Lord Price chose you to be here for a reason. You've earned your place and you shouldn't have to hide or be ashamed.'

Mr Riley looked down at you, his eyes finally meeting yours and scanning your face. He clearly could see the tears in your eyes and heard the tremble in your voice.

'Why do you do this Miss?'

You were stunned, almost at a loss for words. Couldn't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes, a thousand words and emotions even in silence. So instead, stepping even closer, chest to chest with him, you carefully reached for his hand. You felt him stiffen beneath your gentle touch momentarily before he allowed you to clasp your hands with his.

'You don't deserve to be treated as such. I don't like to see it,' You said, looking up into his eyes.

Not wanting to encroach on him any longer, you slowly pulled away, unable to hold back a small smile when you felt Mr Riley hold tight to your hand just a little longer before letting it drop from his grip. 

The next morning the servant's hall was busy with the staff filing in, breakfast of hot porridge with honey and buttered toast was served by Daisy and Mrs Patmore.

As Mr Garrick sat down, allowing everyone else to follow suit, Mr Riley appeared at the entrance to the hall and you couldn't help but smile, ignoring the scowl of some of the other staff.

'Ah, Mr Riley!' Ms Laswell greeted as she passed on bowls of porridge down the table, 'Good to see you up and about!'

'Indeed Ms Laswell, can't keep me down too long,' He muttered, looking straight at you as he did.

'That's good to hear, come and get yourself some breakfast we have a busy day ahead of ourselves!'

He nodded, making his way around the table and taking a seat beside you. And as a bowl of porridge was placed in front of you, you felt the fleeting caress of his gloved hand across your own beneath the table.

Call of Duty Masterlist a/n: I'm on a roll I tell you! And I love writing for these two.

@lostintransist @teapartydreams

[atavist]

On the eve of (the latest) most important election of our lifetimes, Mira Ptacin tells the story of the journalists, World War II veterans, rabble-rousers, lumberjacks, and policymakers who, when he tried to build a training compound for fellow fascists, ran a neo-Nazi out of rural Maine.  

Issue no. 156, "The Crash of the Hammer," is now live: 

Once he’d settled in Maine, Hammer kept his followers abreast of his progress breaking ground, frequently posting photos and uploading videos to Telegram. There was Hammer standing next to a pile of freshly chopped wood, snowshoeing through the forest, holding a beer in front of a bonfire. Followers saw him cradling an AK-47 in his arms. (Caption: “All this Slavic war training in the Maine woods has me exhausted!”) Hammer posted footage from a celebration he held with about eight of his followers, where he claimed they sacrificed a goat. Another clip showed Hammer helping a man in a balaclava slice the palm of his hand as part of an initiation ritual.

Hammer appeared excited, optimistic. He was careful—or thought that he was careful—not to reveal his exact location, lest it attract unwanted attention from his enemies, including the media and the FBI. If people wanted to join him at the compound, they could get in touch directly.

But unbeknownst to Hammer, he was being followed. A longtime Mainer was determined to wipe the smirk off the neo-Nazi’s face.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Gyan Abhishek is standing in front of a giant touch screen, like Jim Cramer on Mad Money or an ESPN talking head analyzing a football play. He’s flicking through a Facebook feed of viral, AI-generated images. “The post you are seeing now is of a poor man that is being used to generate revenue,” he says in Hindi, pointing with his pen to an image of a skeletal elderly man hunched over being eaten by hundreds of bugs. “The Indian audience is very emotional. After seeing photos like this, they Like, Comment and share them. So you too should create a page like this, upload photos and make money through Performance bonus.”  He scrolls through the page, titled “Anita Kumari,” which has 112,000 followers and almost exclusively posts images of emaciated, AI-generated people, natural disasters, and starving children. He pauses on another image of a man being eaten by bugs. “They are getting so many likes,” he says. “They got 700 likes within 2-4 hours. They must have earned $100 from just this one photo. Facebook now pays you $100 for 1,000 likes … you must be wondering where you can get these images from. Don’t worry. I’ll show you how to create images with the help of AI.”

[...]

Abhishek has 115,000 YouTube subscribers, dozens of instructional videos, and is part of a community of influencers selling classes and making YouTube content about how to go viral on Facebook with AI-generated images and other types of spam. These influencers act much like financial influencers in the United States, teaching other people how to supposedly spin up a side hustle in order to make money by going viral on Facebook and other platforms. Part of the business model for these influencers is, of course, the fact that they are themselves making money by collecting ad revenue from YouTube and by selling courses and AI prompts on YouTube, WhatsApp and Telegram. Many of these influencers go on each others’ podcasts to discuss strategies, algorithm changes, and loopholes. I have found hundreds of videos about this, many of which have hundreds of thousands or millions of views.   But the videos make clear that Facebook’s AI spam problem is one that is powered and funded primarily by Facebook itself, and that most of the bizarre images we have seen over the last year are coming from Microsoft’s AI Image Creator, which is called “Bing Image Creator” in instructional videos.

[...]

The most popular way to make money spamming Facebook is by being paid directly by Facebook to do so via its Creator Bonus Program, which pays people who post viral content. This means that the viral “shrimp Jesus” AI and many of the bizarre things that have become a hallmark of Zombie Facebook have become popular because Meta is directly incentivizing people to post this content.

6 August 2024

[metamorphesque]

Short Story: "Why do flowers die so soon?", Vardges Petrosyan

(translated from Armenian by Tathev Simonyan)

…I remember the last days of my life, which were unlike any that had come before. To the world, I seemed so happy: I had brothers, a sister, a family, a child who was a bell and a brook’s murmur. What else could one need for happiness? And yet, something was missing, for I was not happy. And then, out of nowhere, she poured into my life.

Has it ever happened that, on a hot summer day, while you’re standing there, dazed by the sun and dreams, someone playfully poured cold water on your neck? At first, you might startle, maybe even scold the one who did it, but then you suddenly feel that’s exactly what you’d been standing in the sun for, perhaps you’d been standing your whole life just for that.

That’s how she poured into my life—wild and astounding, asking for nothing, careless as could be. Now I can’t even recall if she was beautiful. In her eyes, there was an inquisitive sadness, a sliver of sky, and a bit of rustling. It felt as though those eyes were always gazing at life, asking, “Why...?” She came uninvited, wrapped herself around my days like a grapevine curling up its wooden stakes, offering me all the clusters of her youth—everything she had. And she asked for nothing. Nothing at all. Until the very end, I couldn’t convince her that I loved her too. Perhaps I didn’t truly believe it then, for I kept reminding myself every moment: I have no right to love her. And maybe that’s why, when she laid her whole life at my feet, I kept glancing at my watch; she brought me the full nakedness of her youth, while I closed the curtains and turned off the light. I never went out in public with her, and the world never found out that I was finally happy. Our love was akin to a fire we tried to cover with our hands, though the flame was scorching and uncontainable.

I’m afraid my beginning is dragging on too long.

I was ill before I died. All day long, my mother, my brothers, and my wife—sorrowful and pale—remained by my side, though in those last days, we no longer understood or recognized one another. Only she was missing, the one I waited for and loved most. She couldn’t come to our house. My brothers knew I would die; the doctor had told them so. They believed it, perhaps even expected it—sad and resigned. Only my mother didn’t believe it, though not because she was unaware of what the doctor had said…

Perhaps it’s best if I tell you about my last day. By then, I already knew I would die that very day. That’s why I wanted to laugh when the doctor tried to give me an injection, examined my stomach, and then prescribed some medicine: “Give him this twice a day for a week.” I didn’t blame him—this calm, warm-handed man; he just didn’t understand me, and no doctor understands that people only die when they’re truly exhausted. Someone might grow tired at eighteen, and another at seventy. I was tired. But I wasn’t sad. My bookshelf was in front of me, though I didn’t think about the fact that my fingers would no longer touch those books. I knew that other fingers would, and for books, it makes no difference. Books are a bit like gossipers—they reveal their secrets to anyone, so I knew that they’d share them with someone else, too. With sadness I only looked at the acacia tree rustling below my window and at the sky in the distance. I wished I could take with me, to that place beneath the ground, just a bit of that rustling and a sliver of sky. But I knew it was impossible.

“I’ll go grab some cigarettes,” I suddenly heard my older brother say, even though I knew he didn’t smoke. He was either heading out to send a telegram to our relatives or he simply didn’t want to see me pass. I understood and said goodbye with a glance, knowing we would never meet again in this world. He left. I asked my wife to take our child outside for some fresh air. “I’ll take him,” she replied, not realizing she’d never hear my voice again. I also said something to my mother, but she didn’t leave. This saddened me deeply, and I slowly closed my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed, only that I suddenly heard my mother’s gut-wrenching scream and knew I had already died. Through my closed eyelids, I saw everyone come rushing in, saw them carry my mother out—the first to sense my death, though the only one who hadn’t believed it was near.

After that, everything unfolded as it always does.

For two days, people gathered around me, and I saw many familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years. They cried or stood somber and silent, then left. Sometimes, those sounds or that silence wore me out, and I wanted to ask them to talk or be quiet. But there was such calm within me that I didn’t dare to open my eyes. With a strange sense of wonder I began to observe people—many of whom I thought I knew well. Not knowing I was watching, they felt no need to pretend. I recalled what I used to think of them when I was alive, and, truthfully, at times, I felt embarrassed by those old thoughts and judgments. But that wasn’t what preoccupied me the most; every day, I searched for the one who never came. I knew she couldn’t simply come and stand quietly by my side like the others. I knew that as soon as she entered, everyone would know. My heart ached with longing; I missed her deeply, even thought of asking my mother to call her, but I was too worn out to open my eyes. I was so tired, and for the first time, I could think of her in peace, knowing no one would interrupt—not with a phone call, nor a glance, nor love, nor hate. I thought of her even when they carried me down my street, the street where I’d grown up, loved, and grown weary.

The street was full of sunlight, but for the first time, I didn’t feel hot; instead, I wanted even more of the sun, bigger and warmer. I looked at my street: trams, cars, people stood with a kind of sadness that wore my heart out. I didn’t want to be the reason behind anyone’s sadness; thus, I didn’t feel bad at all when I saw a boy and girl under a tree, holding hands and smiling into each other’s eyes. At first, I thought they hadn’t noticed the procession, but then the girl looked directly at me and smiled again. The boy looked too, with kind and happy eyes. I wanted to smile back, maybe even wave, but I was too tired, and besides, if I lifted my hand, the flowers would fall.

Then we walked into the cemetery, and that’s when I saw her. I saw her and smiled—or rather, that smile had been there on my face the whole time because I’d been thinking of her in my final moments. For two days, through my closed eyelids, I saw that no one understood that smile; some even looked at it strangely and confused. But at the graveside, she understood; I even saw her smile back at me. Then her figure was obscured from my view by my relatives, my loved ones, and I remembered our last night together…

We were walking through the darkness. Only in darkness could we love each other freely in the open world, which is why we despised not just electric lights but even the stars when they shone too brightly. We were walking through the dark, and she wanted me to say that she was the one I loved most in the world. I was silent, perhaps already sensing that I was too tired of keeping that sentence unsaid, one I longed to cry out through all the speakers of the world. I was tired—tired of this darkness, of the lights, of everything—yet she waited. And later, under the ground, I deeply regretted that I hadn’t said those words meant only for her, belonging only to her, but it was already too late.

As I reminisced about our last night together, they started to lower me into the ground. I caught a final glimpse of her between my relatives' feet and heard her gaze. "Should I come with you?" she asked. "Should I?" That’s how I used to hear her voice through the receiver back then. In that final moment, I realized that if I just nodded, she would come, but she was only twenty-one, so I replied, "Stay." She heard my gaze, heard silently, just as she always had. Soon, she was obscured from view, and I realized I was already beneath the ground. After that, I heard the familiar sounds of stones and soil. And then, nothing more; only the thick fragrance of flowers lingered, frozen between me and the earth, then, thinking of her, I grew numb: I tried to recall the date and the day, but could only keep track of the calendar for a week or two.

Thus, days turned into months, and perhaps years went by. And I remember the words I never said to her, to the world, which is why I began to murmur this belated confession from beneath the earth. I began to exist through those unsaid words. Each day, I tried to remember how long our love lasted. A few... months? days? years?…

One day, I looked up and saw the sky once more; they had torn down our cemetery and replaced it with a garden of grasses and flowers. I had become a flower. I looked around in excitement, eager to find her and give her the words that were meant for her, belonged only to her... But she was not there; all around me were unfamiliar flowers that I did not recognize. I realized I must have been beneath the earth for perhaps an entire century, and she, too, might now be a flower, a blade of grass, or a handful of grain—who knows where in all the fields of the world... I was ready to search the globe for her, but I was just a flower, and I died as soon as I tried to lift my feet from the soil. I died for the last time. When I once more turned into soil, only then did I understand why flowers die so soon: all flowers might once have been people who rose from the earth in search of that someone, only to not find them and wither away, dying one last time. I realized that nothing in this world can be found twice, and I longed to cry out with all my floral voice, “Don’t let go, people, don’t lose what you have!”

[narwal-ed-in]

ARMY GLITTERATI - (Band of Brothers x Bimbo!Reader)

✨glitterati✨- /ˌɡlɪt̬.əˈrɑː.t̬i/ - 1940's slang for famous people, glamorous people, in the spotlight.

Summary: “You want to become a combat medic for the 101st?” “What, like it's hard?”

Warning: Period typical sexism, Fem reader, she/her pronouns, slight body shaming (not directed at reader). NO BETA READ. I WROTE THIS JUST NOW SO PLEASE DON'T EXPECT MUCH.

No disrespect to the real veterans of WW2, all my BoB fanfics are based on depictions by actors in the miniseries.

Borders by @plutism

BEFORE TACCOA

The war is raging and everyone is doing their part to help the men on the front.

For you, that mostly meant trying to look your best at all times, no matter how inconvenient the situation.

"Looking good is a ginormous part of the war effort, it's good for boosting troop morale. I saw it on a poster at the teaching hospital" You reasoned with your father after he complained about you buying another pair of shoes and some expensive vanishing creams.

"Darling, I think they meant that we should all keep our appearances up, not buy out our local department stores"

"Oh my god daddy, you're suffocating me! I'm just doing my part by looking nice..." you glare at your father in his work clothes and eye him with a grimace "...and clearly you're not"

When you get a telegram informing you that you've been selected to participate in a program that aims to send female medics into combat you jump on it.

This is going to be so much fun.

"I'm going to be the talk of the town when everyone finds out. Not even Reverend Smiths boring old story about dying for ten minutes in a car crash and seeing Jesus will be able to outdo this!"

Your supervisors at the hospital are shocked that you've been chosen, seeing as you're not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

You had once walked out of an operation because it was bloody and you were wearing white (all the nurse uniforms are white).

You hoped you wouldn't be assigned to the army or the airforce.

The army is too basic, and if you were stuck on an airbase somewhere then nobody would be able to see how fab you always were.

The navy was your goal, their uniforms were sooo cute, you were just dreaming of all the ways you could style it.

It's just your luck when you get assigned to airborne.

"THIS BLOWS! I'm in the two most unglamorous branches at the same time"

After your initial breakdown you realized it wasn't that bad. If you were jumping out of planes it just meant that your hotness would have a bigger audience since it would literally be raining down from the sky.

"When the Germans see all this falling from the sky, they're going to flip their friggin wigs! AHHHH"

CONNECTING WITH EASY

You're assigned to Easy company and meet the men a few months into their training at Camp Toccoa.

You show up randomly in the middle of the day.

Although the men had been told a woman would be joining them and they had been expecting you, they hadn't been expecting YOU.

You were a ditzy thing and looked like you’d jumped out of one of their pin up postcards. The brass surely couldn't expect them to put their lives in your hands.

"I'm sooo happy to meet everyone. You know, the other girls in the program are such massive liars, they said airborne was where all the uggos went, but that's so not true. After all, I'm here"

You always woke up an hour earlier than the rest of Easy so you would have time to put your face on.

It was one of your tenets to never be seen by anyone outside of family without makeup on, or with your curlers in.

Malarkey, Skip, Penkala, Shifty, Bull, Christenson, Lip and Winters had all been kind to you from the beginning, expecting nothing in return.

But some of the guys had other ideas.

George was one of the men that befriended you initially. And although he did have the ulterior motive of getting it on with you, he eventually stuck around because he actually liked you.

You guys have great play-flirting banter and you're both very entertaining people to be around, especially when you're drunk.

On the rare nights anyone gets passes they want to be around you and George because they know that's where the funs at.

You get sloppy drunk with George, flirt with men from Easy and other companies all night, then end up with your shoes off at 3am, sitting on the curb and crying about one of your ex boyfriends.

Perconte was one of your original detractors but when you found yourselves making the same brain dead comments about obvious things, you both decided to put your two half braincells together to form the singular braincell you share between yourselves.

Talbert was trying to get into your pants instantly. Nobody was surprised.

But just like George he grew to be genuinely fond of you.

What was surprising was Joe Toye taking you under his wing.

Toye could see that you were absolutely clueless and the worst part was, you had no idea.

Toye couldn't bear the agony of watching you skip around camp with your happy-go-lucky attitude, harping on about celebrity gossip nobody cared about.

"Y/N!" Toye yelled as you all got dressed to run Currahee "Why the hell is your PT shirt pink?!"

"Isn't it just the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen, Joe? I put a red handkerchief in with my laundry. Cosmo said carnation pink is the color of the summer"

Huffing and puffing, Toye took out one of his spare shirts and forced you to wear it.

"And when you give it back, it better not be fucking 'flamingo pink'" Toye said.

"Oh honey, this isn't 1939, flamingo pink is so over. I wouldn't be caught dead in that. You know, Joe, sometimes I feel like you don't care about fashion at all" You scoff at his cluelessness as you walk out.

Joe Toye is secretly your best friend in the company.

Toye taking you in meant Gaurnere and Johnny Martin had to be around you, much to their chagrin.

They didn't want some girl hanging off of them.

You win Gaurnere's respect when you coach him on what to write to his girlfriend back home to assure her that he's serious about their relationship when she began doubting his intentions.

And you win Johnny's respect when you help him find the most romantic gift for his wife for valentines day.

"Y'know, back home they call me the love doctor...Well, they used to, before I told Betsy Kline that Rob Jones was her soulmate but then he left her at the altar to elope with his housekeeper"

Sobel despised you from the moment he laid eyes on you.

Not wearing your red lipstick everyday was torture, but you had to stick to natural colours so Sobel wouldn't be able to tell what you had on.

He tried with everything in his power to get you kicked out, but much to everyones surprise, you kept up extrordinarily well with the men when it came to physical training.

"I do a lot of Pilates. It's really good for flexibility and helps you keep a positive outlook so you're not be such a 'negative nancy' all the time. Some of you could really use it. Some more than others..." you said as you side-eyed Skinny who just looked around incredulously

Eventually most of the men come to consider you a friend and a confidante since you give remarkably sound relationship advice.

"It's like sooo hard being the smartest person and the hottest catch in this camp at the same time"

The hardest nuts to crack in your immediate friend group end up being Leibgott, Cobb and Doc Roe, all for different reasons of course.

Leib was snide and arrogant and spoke to you like you were a silly little girl.

He didn't shy away from telling you how dumb he thought you were to your face.

Your relationship eventually becomes friendly but he will still be mean occasionally.

He always ends up apologising though and feels really bad when he makes you cry (the other guys nearly bite his head off whenever this happens).

"Jesus Christ, Y/N, stop being a baby already. I said I was sorry" Lieb said to you as you cried into your pillow.

"You can say sorry to me, Joey, but how are you going to tell Rita Hayworth you're sorry for saying nobody cares about her nighttime face washing routine?" You spoke inbetween sobs.

"I ain't saying sorry to Rita because I ain't sorry I said it. I stand by what I said. Nobody cares how some broad washes up at night"

"You take that back! That routine saved my life" You jumped up, pointing an accusing finger at the man.

"How the fu-"

"You're a horrible, horrible man Joseph Leibgott"

"Oh put a sock in it" Leib rolled his eyes, making you cry even harder.

Toye, ever protective of you, had enough "I swear to god Leibgott, leave that girl alone!"

Cobb was just straight up cruel to you and made sure you always knew "your place".

Roe didn't seem particularly close to anyone.

But as you all of you went into the more specialised aspects of your training and you and Roe spent more time together, he found himself looking out for you.

You were sitting alone on the grass after everyone had groaned and walked off the moment you started talking about an article you read in a magazine.

You sigh sadly, pulling at the grass when a shadow falls over you.

Bringing up a hand to block the sun you finally recognize who it is. It's Eugene Roe.

"I, uh, I was wondering if I could sit with you?" he asked.

You nodded excitedly and he took a seat beside you in the grass.

"What was it you were telling the others?"

You gasped "You really want to know?"

"I guess…"

Doc had seen everyone walk away, and although he didn't care much for mindless conversation, he knew talking to people meant a lot to you and had come over to cheer you up.

Without missing a beat you began one of your famous tirades.

By the end of your first year in Toccoa you end up finding your place.

Thanks for reading! Please like, comment and reblog if you want❤️

[fairy-writes]

hello there i hope you have a great day today, can i request an albert x reader. the reader is holmes younger sister (could be an age gap but if you uncomfortable you can make the reader sherlock older sister). im kinda interested that the reader and albert is ike in a fake engagement but slowly they fall for each other. im sorry if its a lott or confusing 😖😖😖😖

FAKE… OR IS IT?

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Albert James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Fake Engagement, Reader is short

Notes: I wrote this with the reader being the Holmes’s middle child. So, in between Mycroft and Sherlock :)

Here are their ages!

Mycroft: 31 | Reader: 27 | Sherlock: 24

__________________________________________________________________________

“Sit up straight, Sister.” Mycroft chastises, and you roll your eyes, propping your heeled feet up on the coffee table, much to his chagrin. You can tell he’s less than pleased with the mud on the table by the tightness around his eyes. 

“Bugger off, Mikey.” You grumble and slouch even more in your seat. His frown deepens, but he knows better than to try and get you to obey. If anything, it would make you rebel even more. 

You had never been one for proper manners if you could help it. You had always been a rough-and-tumble type of woman, playing in the dirt with the neighborhood kids while Mycroft and Sherlock dealt with their studies. Sure, you also had studies of your own. But overall, you tended to ignore whatever your governess taught you in favor of learning how to handle weapons from your father. Mycroft sits back in his seat and sighs, 

“At least sit properly when the company gets here.” He mutters under his breath. 

That gets you to sit up straight.

“Company?! Since when?!” You choke and hurriedly set down your teacup before you can spill it down your front. Your elder brother had summoned you to his office that morning with a telegram. But he hadn’t explained why you were there, even with your pestering. Mycroft glares at you pointedly and is about to answer when there’s a firm knock on the door. 

“Come in.” He calls, his voice booming and loud in the quiet room. 

A tall young man, perhaps your age, enters the room. He’s attractive, almost devilishly so. With slicked-back brown hair and piercing green eyes, he’s dressed in the typical uniform of all soldiers. 

You recognize this man. 

Your younger brother wouldn’t shut up about his family. 

Lieutenant Colonel Albert James Moriarty. 

You glare at Mycroft, who ignores your look in favor of standing up and shaking Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s hand. Brushing off the front of your dress, you stand as Mycroft gestures to you. 

“This is my younger sister,” He says. Your name follows soon after. You plaster a bright smile on your face and extend your own hand. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty bows slightly and introduces himself before you turn to look at your brother. 

“I assume this is where I take my leave?” You ask, and he raises an eyebrow, 

“On the contrary, dearest sister, you’ll be taking part in this meeting.” Your face betrays your shock before you can school it into a facade of perfect calm. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty notices but doesn’t comment. 

Mycroft gestures for you to take your seats before his desk, and you do so, perching on the edge of the seat like a bird ready to take flight. In contrast, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty sits back, relaxed in his chair, setting his hat in his lap and steepling his hands together. 

“So, mind telling me what this ‘important mission’ is about?” He says politely, and you look at him from the corner of your eye.

Important mission? 

Just what was your elder brother planning? 

Mycroft leaned his hands on his desk and then leaned his weight on his hands. It seemed he wasn’t taking a seat quite yet. 

That meant things were serious. 

“There’s a mission I am entrusting to the both of you. It’s of the utmost importance and must be handled immediately.” 

Wait…

“You’re what?!” You blurt just as Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty opens his mouth to speak. You don’t give him the chance to talk. You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. 

You weren’t about to be a pawn in your brother’s game. You weren’t even an MI6 agent or soldier of his! 

“Absolutely not! This can’t possibly be legal! I’m just a civilian!” You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. Mycroft stares down at you. He had always been the tallest of the three Holmes siblings. You were saddled with the hefty burden of being the shortest. 

“You know this as well as anyone that MI6 operates outside the law,” Mycroft says simply, and you grind your teeth. He had a point. But still… 

“What about Miss Moneypenny?” You ask, and Mycroft shrugs, 

“She’s on another mission with Colonel Moran. You two are the only ones I trust with this.” He says, turning his intense stare onto you and Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

You flinch at that. Mycroft never openly said he trusted you. It was sometimes implied, but he knew how fickle you could be! Was this mission really that important?

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty stands and accepts the papers Mycroft hands him. He then extends a hand for you to take. Begrudgingly, you take it and allow him to help you to your feet. 

At least your ‘mission partner’ was a gentleman. 

You accept Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s offer to take you back to the Holmes London estate and sit across from him in the carriage. He opens the papers Mycroft gave him and begins to read. 

“Oh dear…” He mumbles, and you look over from where you had been watching the scenery go by. He has a frown pulling at his lips and creasing his brows. 

“What’s the matter?” You ask, and he turns the papers around so you can read them. 

“It seems we’ll need to be engaged for this mission to work.”

Your engagement was announced within the next week. 

You had even commissioned an artist for an engagement photo of sorts. Granted, it was just for show, but still! You had to stand still for hours in a dress your mother picked out and that you loathed all for one portrait. 

You never understood how royalty could do it. 

Speaking of your parents… 

Part of the facade was to make sure everyone was in on it. Maybe ‘in on it’ wasn’t the right word. Because this was a top-secret mission, after all. So you couldn’t exactly tell your parents that this engagement was fake. But you did have to tell them you were getting engaged lest you incur the wrath of your mother. 

Wanda Holmes was a proper woman. She was everything you weren’t. Prim, proper, ladylike. The only thing you got from her was her height and her temper. She hated that you weren’t the little lady she dreamt of having. But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. 

In contrast, Timothy Holmes was a bit of a rule breaker. He fostered your love for weaponry and often challenged you to a shoot-off to see if you let your skills rust over. You inherited his knack for getting under people’s skins, and it was a wonder that he was still married to your mother after thirty years. 

Telling them was an… interesting adventure, to say the least. As your carriage rumbled up to the country estate where they resided, they met you outside. Your mother had her hands clasped together, a newspaper crunched in her grasp. Her face was dark with disappointment. 

Like the light side of the moon, your father all but bounded up as you stepped out of the carriage. 

“Dearest daughter!” He bellowed, and you couldn’t help but grin. 

“Dearest father!” You tease right back and step forward into his embrace. He squeezes you tight and lifts you up into a spin. You shriek with laughter and cling to him to make sure you don’t fall when he sets you back down. 

“Darling, at least let her get into the house before you bother her.” Your mother says, and you roll your eyes but don’t say anything. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty steps out of the carriage, and your father’s demeanor changes. His smile is still there, but it no longer reaches his eyes. He extends a hand, and when Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty takes it, you can tell he’s holding back a wince from how hard your father squeezes it. 

“Timothy Holmes. It’s a pleasure.” Your father says curtly, and you can tell Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty can tell he’s being judged. But he offers a polite smile nonetheless,

“Albert James Moriarty. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes.” He says, and it’s then that your mother approaches. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty shakes her hand,

“You must be the infamous Wanda Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Your mother’s face smoothes over, and she looks at you,

“At least you’re marrying someone with manners.” This is her only comment, and you can see that the newspaper in her free hand is the one announcing your engagement. 

Perhaps you should’ve informed them by telegram instead of coming to visit for dinner… 

No… That would’ve made her even angrier than she already was. 

She soon ushers you into the little cottage that served as your parents' retirement home. The minimal staff on site has already prepared and served dinner, but you don’t eat just yet because your father catches your shoulder. He has a knowing gleam in his eye, and you can’t help but get a giddy smile on your face. 

Of course, he wouldn’t forget. 

Your mother notices, and her face sours. 

“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” She asks, and now your father scoffs,

“Of course not, my love! It’s tradition!” He crows, and you can see Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty start to ask, but you’re taken out back before anything can be asked. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty follows you out, and by then, your father is setting up targets with you, assembling the two pistols you always used for this little exercise. You brush off your hands on your dress and hand your father the revolver. You take your own and pocket it in the holster strapped to your waist. He does the same and looks to Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

“Mind giving us a signal?” He asks, his tone much more friendly yet still a bit frosty at the same time. 

Your ‘fiancé’ seems to pick up on what’s happening quickly and nods. He allows both of you to take a stance before calling out a signal. 

The game takes less than twenty seconds. 

You whip out your gun and unleash all six bullets in the cylinder and barrel. Your father does the same, and before you know it, both of your guns are empty, and your ears are ringing. Holstering the weapon, you wait for your father to do the same before approaching the targets. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty is called forward to inspect the targets as well. 

“I believe your daughter is the winner.” He tells your father, and you grin proudly. 

“Guess I haven’t lost my touch, Father Dearest.” You tease, and your father slaps his thigh in defeat,

“And I guess I’m losing mine!” He chirps, and your mother calls from the doorway.

“And it’s time for dinner!”

The carriage ride back is quiet. 

“Where did you learn to shoot like that? I’ve never seen someone so accurate in a quick draw.” Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty says, and you jolt lightly. The food you had eaten was sending you into a food coma, and you had been dozing until he spoke. 

“My father. He was known as “Dead-Eye” for a long time until he retired from the military.” You said, and he nodded in appreciation. 

��He taught you well.” 

You smiled and played with your fingers. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty.” You say genuinely, and he arches an eyebrow, 

“You should call me Albert. We are engaged, after all, my dear fiancée.” His tone is borderline teasing. But you can tell he’s being genuine.

And for whatever reason, it makes your heart race. 

The mission is kicked into gear three months after announcing your ‘engagement.’ 

The gala you are attending is only for married or engaged couples. Everyone was investigated to ensure no one single was sneaking in. Why they wanted to keep single folks out was a mystery to you. But you relented and accepted the invitation as the ‘Future Mrs. Moriarty’ with as much grace as you could muster. 

You produced the invitation from your handbag and handed it to the man checking said invitation. Your free hand was looped through Albert’s arm, resting in the crook of his elbow. He chatted amicably with the doorman until you were announced as a couple and ushered inside. 

The air was already alive with the sounds of music and dancing couples. The two of you make some rounds around the sides of the dance hall, looking for your target. Hell, you even danced the waltz to a few songs! All those lessons you thought were useless were sure coming in handy now… Perhaps you should thank your mother for forcing you to listen to your governess as a child. 

Albert leans down to whisper in your ear as he brings you in from a gentle spin. 

“He’s at the top of the stairs.” He murmured, looking for all the world like he was whispering sweet nothings to his fiancée. But instead, he was walking you through the next phase of the plan. Seeing as your job was to kill your target, he was instructing you on how to get to his office, where he would meet you and find the documents he was looking for. 

Albert was to find the incriminating evidence. You were to kill the target if he tried to resist. 

The office was warmed by a crackling fire. There’s a large mahogany desk in front of the fireplace with documents and papers scattered across the surface. You clutch your purse closer to your chest, feeling the sturdy weight of the revolver inside. It was comforting. 

You had one job, so you would do it, and you would do it well. 

The doorknob turned, and you jumped, sneaking a hand inside your handbag to draw the revolver. The door opens, and the target spots you in front of the dying light of the fireplace. 

“Who are you?!” He bellows, but you know no one would be able to hear him over the sounds of music and talking. 

He doesn’t hear the door shut behind him until Albert slides the lock into place. He whirls and tries to push past your fiancé, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. 

“What are you going to do to me?!” The target demands, and Albert smiles a terrifying smile. It was nothing like the kind and even tender smiles he had been giving you as of late. This smile darkened his eyes. 

It was almost… Cruel…

“Nothing if you cooperate.” He says darkly and pushes the man to sit in the chair before his desk. You walk behind him and press the muzzle of your revolver to the back of his balding head. He freezes, a drop of sweat traveling down his temple. 

Albert rifles through the desk, and no one says a word for what seems like forever. 

At least… Until the target tries to run. 

The chair has a low back. It’s almost more of a stool, so he throws his head back and cracks it into your nose. You stumble back and fall, tripping over the hem of your dress. The only thing keeping you from firing your gun is the fact that your father had engrained it into you to not keep your finger on the trigger until you were ready to fire.

Albert freezes and reaches into his suit jacket coat, but you’re faster. 

Before the target can even make it two paces, you fire your revolver, and the bullet sinks into his skull. Brain matter and blood spatter across the carpet. The pain sets in as Albert helps you to your feet and hands you a handkerchief for your bleeding nose. 

There’s no way you could go back out into public like this…

And as always, it seems Albert reads your mind. 

“We’ll escape out the window.” He says and pockets a few documents. 

“Did you get what you need?” You ask, and he nods, his smile tender and warm again.

It makes your heart flutter. 

The two of you escape out the window like Albert had said. Luckily, the carriage was already waiting outside, so you were able to retreat without being seen. 

Mission accomplished. 

You scowl at Mycroft as he reads through your very first report from MI6. 

“It’s a bit lackluster, but everything went according to plan?” He asked, and you huffed. 

“Except for the part where I broke my nose.” You say, your voice slightly garbled from the bandages on your nose. Mycroft simply nods, 

“These things are expected to happen. Be glad it wasn’t anything more serious.” He says, tangles his fingers together, and leans his chin on them. “If you’d like, we can feed the newspapers a story about your and Lieutenant Colonel’s parting of ways. You don’t have to be engaged to him anymore.” He continues, and you freeze. 

Not be engaged anymore? 

“What about Mother and Father? They’ll be furious.” You say absentmindedly, and he cocks his head to the side. 

“Since when have you ever cared what they think?” He says, confusion coloring his tone. You avert your gaze. 

“I’m just saying… I don’t mind taking more missions from you from now on…” You mumble and stare at the carpet. But you can hear the smile in his tone when he speaks next. 

“If that’s what you desire, sister dearest. I’ll let Lieutenant Colonel know of your decision.”

[eretzyisrael]

This account, first published in JewishNews, is written by an anonymous London-based Guardian employee who has family living on a kibbutz in southern Israel. It offers a look at life in the newspaper’s offices in the days since Hamas’s attack on Israel.

I wake up on October 7 to a text from my brother-in-law: “Thoughts are with your family in Israel. I hope everyone is safe.”

I check the news. Hamas has entered southern Israel. They’re in a kibbutz. My partner’s family is in that kibbutz. His cousin is nine months pregnant. He’s in contact with them; they’re in the safe room. Terrorists are outside.

I check social media. Reports of hostages, maybe three. I check again; perhaps ten.

There has been a massacre at a music festival. I look at the video. Who do I know there? I check social media again; there are videos of hostages. I look at their faces. Do I know them?

We lose contact with family in the kibbutz. I tell myself that the phone lines are down because the IDF are there. I watch Hamas footage as it is coming out. I go on Telegram for the first time in my life and I see a room full of bodies covered in blood. I see children gunned down. I see the bodies of raped women. I see families holding each other as Hamas livestreams atrocities. I look for people I might know.

My partner and I walk 30,000 steps. There’s nothing we can do. Late that evening we hear that his family is safe but their house is gone, neighbors are dead.

I don’t understand. I could have easily been there and part of me thinks I was.

I look at the papers the next day. The newspaper I work for has a tank on the front page: ‘Hundreds die and hostages held as Hamas assault shocks Israel’—victorious terrorists hold a Palestinian flag. The subheading reads ‘Netanyahu declares war as 150 Israelis die. 230 Palestinians killed in air strikes.’

I don’t understand. I know people, Israelis, who were murdered. They did not “die,” as if in some kind of accident. I saw footage of terrorism. It was not an “assault.”

The front page of The Observer, The Guardian’s sister Sunday newspaper, on October 8, the day after the Hamas massacre. (via The Observer)

On Sunday, we get more information about what happened to my partner’s family, about how Hamas set the family’s house on fire when they thought it was empty, how my partner’s cousin screamed for her life when the room filled with smoke, how her husband had to pin her down to stop her cries, how Hamas laughed when they realized the family would need to crawl out of the room, how they refused to leave the burning building. We hear that they somehow survived and walked out through pools of their neighbors’ blood, pieces of dead children littering the street; kids who’d been playing on a Saturday morning.

I’m safe, I’m fine, but I can’t comprehend the color of the sky or the rustle of the trees. I look around at people enjoying their Sunday and I think: Do they not know what is happening? I check the news again and see there are more hostages. I look through the names.

There are still terrorists in Israel.

I listen to the radio, one Israeli interviewee and then one Palestinian. I can hear that the interviewer is struggling as defenders of Hamas justify terrorism. I don’t understand. Is this how they reported the Russian invasion of Ukraine? Did they platform Putin’s people?

I check social media. A friend has posted: “They’ve broken out of jail.” Another has said: “Today is a day of celebration,” and someone else has shared an infographic of “Settler colonialism for beginners.” My old flatmate tells her followers she will be at the demonstration outside the Israeli embassy and she invites people to join her.

On Monday I go to work. How are your family, a colleague asks. When I answer, she squirms. Can’t they just leave, my colleague says. No, they can’t actually.

I look at the morning newsletter for the newspaper I work for. It breaks down the number of dead Palestinian children. It does not mention dead Israeli children.

My group chats are exploding as family and friends work out what has been happening, who is alive. I go back to the news. I type the name of the kibbutz into the wires. Nothing. I read how Hamas invaded “settlements.” They’re not settlements! They’re small, pre-state kibbutzim.

I find out that a friend of a friend was at the music festival and is missing. I’m shaking at work.

I see a colleague who had posted about “decolonization” all over social media over the weekend. They’re laughing with the rest of their team. They’re having a great day. I used to love their podcast, full of hot takes and celeb gossip. Now they’ve evolved into an expert on the Middle East. It doesn’t look like their family is in the middle of it, though.

No one else at work speaks to me about it. I nod my way through conversations about fonts and I stumble home.

I go back the next day. I look at the front page. A photo of Gaza and “violence escalates.” Israelis “dead” but Palestinians “killed.” If they can’t empathize with the Jews now, they never will.

I email the editors. I tell them that my newspaper’s coverage has been upsetting. They tell me that their thoughts are with my family but they stand by the paper’s reporting.

I hear colleagues complaining about the newspaper’s “American readers. They’re always accusing us of antisemitism.” They’re laughing.

I leave work early to go to a vigil outside Downing Street. People quietly weep. Everyone there is Jewish.

I’ve seen on social media that I know people going to a demonstration. Later, I see photos of it: people on lampposts, red flares, Jews hiding inside, the Israeli embassy boxed in. All kinds of people are united in the chant, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” In Sydney, they are shouting: “Gas the Jews.”

On Tuesday, I find out that my friend’s friend at the music festival is dead. I remember the day I’d spent with him on the beach in Tel Aviv last month. He’d gotten back from South America and was excited to travel again. He had been gentle and sweet. I don’t understand.

On Wednesday, I go to work again, and the next day, and the next day. Finally, the pictures from the kibbutz come out. I look at all of them. I rewatch the footage. I bear witness. No colleague asks me how I am again that week.

I go to synagogue at the weekend and cry with my community. The rabbi holds space for pain. I say Kaddish for the boy at the music festival I will never talk to again.

Back at work I see someone pointing to a photo of the Israeli flag burning in the newspaper. They laugh, “This is my favorite picture.”

I remember telling my family that when I next went to Israel I’d lie to my colleagues and tell them it was Spain. I’d lie because my colleagues had said to me of Israel: “You gotta go while you still can.”

Now another colleague asks me what I think of Netanyahu. Do I hold him responsible? I explain that I have protested against Netanyahu but the only people responsible for October 7 are Hamas. She keeps asking me about the settlements. I tell her they’re bad but she won’t stop. “Don’t you think Bibi has a lot to do with this?” I ask her if she has family in the region. She does not.

I’m on social media again. Friends share infographics from Jewish Voice for Peace and heavy-hitting images from the Gaza Health Ministry. I don’t disagree with what they’re posting but they said nothing when October 7 happened. I start unfollowing decades-old friends.

In the days that follow, my synagogue receives a bomb threat, my local rail station has photos of missing children ripped off, I hear of more friends of friends who have been killed. I hear of others who are now enlisted. I hear that a synagogue president in America has been stabbed to death and synagogues all over the world have been vandalized and destroyed.

The newspaper I work for is covering the bombardment of Gaza and I watch in horror. I think that Israel must defend itself. Yet when I say this, people will tell me I am justifying the murder of children. They will tell me it is a genocide.

As the events of October 7 draw on collective Jewish memory of pogroms and the Holocaust, the newspaper I work for will dispel that myth, publishing a piece entitled “Israel must stop weaponizing the Holocaust.” Am I wrong to connect our grief today with that of our past?

In the weeks that follow, I will apply for other jobs and speak exclusively to Jewish friends and family. I will hide myself away from the streets of London and the waves of social media.

I will not forget the photos and videos I saw on October 7, but I start to think about how this day will be marked; how my children’s children will take part in a new commemoration, where we will remember not the Romans or the Persians or the Nazis but Hamas, and how we survived.

Intergenerational trauma has been retriggered but now is not the time to dwell on our historical violent oppression. Now is the time to rise up, speak out, and defend our right to exist. Now is not the time for colleagues to dismiss Jewish pain or publish inflammatory op-eds that will spark more violence.

I will keep applying for other jobs.

[fraugwinska]

Guys, here we are - my first try at VOX x Reader! ;> Who knew we would be here one day? And it's all thanks to @macabr3-barbi3, for whom this bribe was intended, but we'll graciously share it with you ;> Don't worry though - I am a Deer Girl through and through. Just with a side of TV Slut now (once in a while)

Vox x Reader : Hatefuck prompt - 18+ - Minors DNI!

Pretty Desperate

"Sir, your 6 o'clock is here."

"She can fucking wait, I need another five."

Vox rubbed at his temples, staring down at the monitor in front of him as Papermint quickly retreated from the control room, the clipboard the little shit always carried clutched in front of his chest. He had dreaded this particular meeting the whole day.

Alastor's bitch, the little assistant he had hired not a month before had been nothing but trouble. And if Vox was honest, not only to him, but also to Alastor himself. The Radio Demon had been completely clueless to the goddamn puppy crush the assistant had on him.

It made Vox sick.

Little Miss Nobody wasn't even that hot! Just an average looking demon. A bit short, not really muscular, no wings, no tail, no tits, nothing special, except for a pair of twisted horns and a somewhat nice ass. Following Alastor around like a lost dog, carrying his coat, running errands for him, all the while fluttering her lashes and smiling coyly at him, thinking nobody noticed.

Except Vox did. He fucking noticed, and he wanted to throw up.

He could understand, honestly, why the assistant had the hots for Al. His friend was charming, had a killer body, and his voice was a goddamn treat to listen to, especially when he got all excited and happy about something. His laugh was loud, a tad maniacal, and it always made Vox shiver to his bones.

But the problem was, the feeling wasn't mutual. Alastor wasn't into his assistant. Didn't have the hots for her, and wouldn't want to get between her thighs even if she shoved his microphone in her cunt. Al had never even touched her, or anyone else for that matter. Vox knew that, from first hand experience, and still he hated this bitch. He hated how she thought she had any chance with Alastor. And he hated her because he didn't have a chance with Alastor either.

Not that it was her fault per se, but still. She had some audacity, to even think to have a chance when Vox hadn't even gotten past a fucking friendly pat on the shoulder yet.

"Fuck!"

Papermint flinched, and Vox felt his lips twitch, the little shit had entered again without him noticing.

"Mr. Vox, your-"

"Yeah yeah, I know, send her in. And get me a drink, and make it a strong one."

He nodded, hurrying to get the requested drink before opening the door to let Alastor's assistant inside. She had a stack of folders under her arm, and a nervous look on her face. She had a thing against the Vee's, especially him, and it made him want to strangle her, even though he knew that his overall appearance, the sharp angles of his screened head and the cold look he always gave her was most likely the reason for her nervousness.

"Mr. Vox-"

"No small talk, get to the point. I'm sure Alastor wouldn't have sent you here if it wasn't something urgent."

"O-oh, of course. There was a... situation, I was instructed to deliver these to you, while Mr. Alastor has gone to check it out."

"And he didn't bother calling?"

"It was quite sudden, and he wasn't sure if you would answer your landline."

Vox grunted, Alastor's refusal for any modern technology past fucking landlines and telegrams was getting on his last nerves more and more, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he wanted to live in the stone age, that was his business.

"Hand those over and get out.”

"I'm afraid I was instructed to stay until you've taken care of them."

"As fucking usual."

He knew for a fact that Alastor sent her here only to annoy him. Those papers didn't need checking, Vox would only look over them and stamp a little print on the front saying 'Approved', and they were done. But his friend loved to tease him, and ever since Vox had voiced his dislike against his assistant, Alastor had gotten a certain morbid joy out of pushing him to work together with her.

"Yes, fuck, whatever. Let's get this shit over with. Come in, and shut the door behind you."

At least she kept her mouth shut while he skimmed over the content of said papers, drinking from the tumbler filled with what tasted like Gin. For once she wasn't being annoying, and she didn't stare at him defiantly the way she usually did. She looked defeated in a way, the usual sass in her stance missing as she waited, silently and unmoving next to him, hands folded tightly in front of her. Odd.

"What's the matter, dollface? Alastor finally told you he'll never fuck you?", he smirked, turning a page and scribbling his signature at the bottom of the page.

He heard a quiet, shaking breath, and for the first time since she entered the room, he looked directly at her.

Her eyes were burning red, and Vox hadn't realized she had been crying, but she clearly was. Silent, thick tears escaped her eyes, running slowly down her cheeks, leaving trails where her finger wiped them off hastily.

"Oh, seems like I've hit the bull's eye. Fuck, doll, stop crying, I get that he rejected you, but that's just pathetic."

"Leave me alone. What does it matter to you anyway?", she whispered, more tears running down her face.

"Like I care, you'll run back to Al with your little tears and tell him how much you're pining for him, how desperate you are. Maybe that's a bit of his kink and he'll actually consider it, who knows. You might get a pity-fuck with one of his voodoo-minions at the end, is that what you want?"

He expected her to respond, expected her to either throw something at him or slap his stupid grin off his screen. He certainly hadn't expected what happened. She sobbed and slapped a hand across her own face, silencing the heart-wrenching noise she emitted. But Vox had to watch how her whole expression just crumbled, he watched her face turn red, and how she wiped over her face furiously, swiping away more tears that were still coming.

For a few moments, Vox sat frozen in his chair, unable to process the situation. The paper in his hand was crumpled in his grip. It wasn't a little crush, that was painfully obvious. Fuck, what was her name again? Did she like Alastor for real?

"Alright, shit. You, uh... sit down."

He pushed another chair forward with his foot.

"Wh-why would I..."

"Because you don't really look stable on your fucking legs, and I hate this bullshit already, so come over here, take a fucking seat and pull yourself together."

She made a face, sniffling pitifully before crossing the short distance towards the chair.

"How long?"

She bit her lip, a bitter laugh escaping her as she sat down.

"Ever since I've started working for him."

"Oh wow, that must be so hard on you, sweetheart." Vox voice dripped of sarcasm. He leaned over to her, shoving his half-full glass of gin in her direction with a scrutinizing smile. "Try seven decades, then we can talk."

For the first time her lips turned upwards, not quite a smile, but the scowl wasn't there anymore.

"You're no better off than me."

He scoffed in response, filling the tumbler back up to the brim. She took it carefully, taking a few sips from the translucent liquid. Vox eyed her for a moment, wondering if she would spit it back out. Okay, she wasn't that ugly. Her lips were nice and puffy, pink, a color not that usual in hell, almost human-like.

"Maybe not, but at least I have the decency to not follow him around like a lost dog. That's just sad."

"You're one to judge."

Vox laughed a humorless laugh. "Oh-ho. Have we found our backbone, doll? I actually hate you a little less like this. It gets boring, the whole spiel with the kiss-ups constantly trying to lick Alastor's boots... or anything else."

"He never notices anyway."

"Nope. Doesn't notice shit.", Vox takes the glass from her and empties it in one big gulp.

"And still you hate me."

"Of course I fucking hate you."

"Why? Because you want him for yourself? Because you can't stand it that someone else wants him? That I want him?"

Vox snorted, the sound a bit static-y, and she flinched.

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart, I don't give a fuck about what you want. He doesn't give half a shit about you. He doesn't want you - End of the story. But if he did, he'd deserve much better than you. You're a whiny little bitch, you follow him like a kicked puppy, and you're a fucking annoyance. Al can do better than that."

Her wet eyes burned with fury. Huh. The bitch had a little bite in her after all, good to know.

"Fuck you, you're no better. You're an arrogant, narcissistic, stuck-up prick, you think everyone loves you and worships the ground you're walking on, you act all high and mighty, you're a bully, a control freak and a manipulative asshole."

He had to admit, she hit a few bullet points herself. But that didn't mean he liked her. He stood up, taking a step towards her. Her face was tinted red, anger clear in her round face. Now that was something he could work with.

"At least I don't cry about it like a pathetic little loser."

She was crying again, angry tears this time, her eyebrows furrowed and a scowl on her lips. Fucking perfect.

"I fucking hate you, too."

"Good."

Vox leaned over her, gripping her chin harshly. She flinched, and a new tear rolled down her cheek, falling on her blouse and wetting the dark fabric. She was trembling, but she wasn't moving away from him. He smirked, his hand wandering up, fingers digging into her cheeks painfully, and then his lips were on hers, hard and rough. She tasted salty from her tears, but there was a certain sweetness, a bittersweet note of her own, and the faint taste of gin. She made a small, protesting noise, but her hand gripped his arm, holding onto him tightly.

He broke the kiss, staring down at her, her lips swollen and reddened, her cheeks flushed and stained with tear marks, her eyes burning with hatred.

"Get on the desk."

He grabbed her and picked her up easily, setting her down on the large table. He grabbed her chin again, and she glared at him, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed, but a deviant smile on her face.

"Fuck you."

He smirked.

"Exactly."

The blouse tore like paper when he ripped it open. Her tits were actually nice, not as big as he was used to, but round and perky. She was panting heavily, and he had a feeling she hadn't expected this turn of events. Well, neither had he, but right now, Vox couldn't care less. All he cared about was his rage-filled desire to fuck this shitty feeling out of his system and the invitingly wet stain on her panties as he shoved her pencil skirt up her thighs, the way she squirmed and arched her back slightly, silently begging him to touch her. He leaned over her, capturing her mouth again, and he couldn't help the smirk at the way she kissed him back, a tad aggressive and demanding. His fingers pushed aside the soaked fabric, rubbing her clit lightly. She moaned quietly, breaking the kiss. Vox didn't waste a second, pushing a finger inside her.

She was hot and slick, and she was fucking tight. Vox groaned, and she whimpered, a high-pitched noise that went straight to his groin.

"Look at you, so wet already. What would Alastor say if he saw you like this, moaning like a cheap slut for another guy?"

He grinned, thrusting the finger harder and adding a second. She was almost dripping, the noises his fingers made were obscene, and it was fucking hot.

"He'd scold me for downgrading myself to someone like you."

Vox laughed as he added a third finger, bending them skillfully to hit just the right spot. "Oh please, you're a mess, doll. Your cunt is dripping, and you're trembling. And still you're trying to be a snarky little bitch."

He rubbed her clit again, and she gasped. He had to admit, her pussy was probably the best one he had felt in a while, and it was definitely the most fun he had ever had with a woman. Usually it was all him calling the shots, the women he fucked were usually dumb and eager to please, and not really capable of sassing him back the way she was doing now.

"You're one to talk, finger-banging me while having a hard-on. Is it because fucking his assistant is the closest you'll ever get to fucking Alastor?"

He didn't give her the satisfaction of a reply (of course he had a good one), but instead he removed his fingers in a swift swipe, ignoring the way she whimpered at the loss. He undid his belt and zipper, freeing his aching cock, his newest, upgraded model. She stared at it, wide-eyed, and for the first time, she actually looked intimidated, unsure... scared. Vox grinned satisfied, stroking himself a few times.

"Don't worry, dollface, it'll fit, and it'll feel really good. And the best thing - if you stop your constant bitching, maybe I'll even make you cum."

He rubbed the head of his dick over her clit, the LED's on it brightly illuminating her core in a blue hue, and she let out a strangled moan at the sensation. Her face was red and flushed, her eyes half-lidded, and she looked so goddamn sultry with her legs spread wide and her pussy glistening.

Vox grabbed her hips, pulling her close until her ass was at the edge of the table, and then he lined up his cock.

"Last chance to back out, sweetheart."

He couldn't believe his own words. Was he really offering her a way out? Why did he even care, he was the one with his dick out, and she was the one that would have to take the consequences of this whole hate-fuck-thing, he'd be fine either way.

She looked up at him, her face determined.

"Alastor always told me you're all talk, no action. Was he right?"

Oh, this little bitch was going to regret that. He pushed inside her, his cock sliding in easily. He was big, and she was so fucking tight, it was incredible. She cried out, a sharp, high-pitched sound.

"Too much action for you?"

She didn't answer, instead she was trying her hardest not to move, her hands firm on his shoulders, and Vox had to give her that, she did a good job of staying still, only the slightest of trembles visible on her legs as she willed herself to relax around him so he could move.

He was throbbing inside her, the walls of her cunt pulsing and fluttering painfully around him, and it was taking everything he had to let her at least adjust and not just fuck her right into the table. He was still holding her hips, the tips of his fingers digging into her skin, probably leaving marks, and he was sure that the force with which he was gripping her would leave traitorous, colorful bruises. Markings, his markings on Alastor's bitch. The thought made him shiver, sending electric currents down his spine as he pulled out slowly, the drag deliciously torturous. And then he thrusted back in, all the way. Hard. Her pussy clenched deliciously around him, and Vox threw his head back, a silent moan leaving his throat as he moved in and out, feeling her stretch and contract around his length, sucking him in greedily.

He felt his body overheat, electrical current flowing through him in intense pulses straight to his dick, adding another sensation to the already wonderful tight, wet, hot feeling enveloping him. He might need a little fix-me-up, it had been a while since someone got this much of a reaction out of him. The room was quiet, only her rapid panting and the sound of her cunt swallowing his cock with every pull filled the air, the noices slick and sloppy. Vox pressed one finger firmly on her clit, making her arch her back as he began circling it, the heels of her feet pressing painfully into his lower back as he increased his pace. His own breathing was starting to become labored, short puffs of static leaving him.

"Say his name", he heard himself demand, the sound of his own voice was low and static-y.

"Wh-"

"You fucking heard me, say his name. Call for him while I'm fucking you, come on, princess. See if he cares."

He increased his pace, hammering in and out of her, the air was heavy with the thick smell of sex and arousal, and she was becoming louder, keening, gasping, mewling.

"Fuck you.", she gasped.

"Wrong, try again."

Vox slowed, changing the angle to thrust right up where it made her shake. He smirked when her toes curled. "Come on, I know you can say it, I'll make it easy on you, I'll say it with you: A. La. Stor."

With every syllable he pumped into her a bit harder, the electricity from his fingertips stinging her clit, and the extra sensation had her shudder, a shaky moan leaving her throat. Vox wasn't giving her any chances to catch her breath, the air was filling with the familiar buzz of static electricity, the screens inside the room began to flicker as more and more electricity flowed from the TV overlord into her body, to her limbs.

"Oh my...fucking god... Vox!"

Her hands dug into his suit, and then she gasped, a beautiful, long, drawn-out moan ripping through her chest as her back arched, her heels digging harder into his lower back. She shuddered, violently, and came, the feeling of her pulsating muscles sucking him in combined with his fucking name rolling from her lips completely doing it for him. With one last, well placed thrust, and her voice in his ears calling for him and not Alastor, he buried his dick deep inside her cunt, riding out his own orgasm with small, careful thrusts, hissing quietly as her tight walls were milking him for all his worth.

He leaned forward, his forearms framing her on the table, and he huffed. Fuck, that was intense.

Her whole body was buzzing with the electrical currents he was putting off, and her muscles were tense as she willed herself to breath, gasping softly. Vox smirked and released a bit more power just for shits and giggles, just enough to make her gasp again, and he watched as her lips formed a tiny 'O' as the currents jerked every muscle in her body, making her walls tighten one more time around his softening dick and forcing another soft grunt from his own lips. He let off after that, knowing how tiring it could be.

He carefully pulled out, watching a mix of his cum and her own juices dribble out of her cunt, and he huffed at the sight, giving a quick rub to her swollen clit to push the rest of his cum inside.

She laid motionless for a second, staring at the ceiling blankly, and Vox was just wondering whether he had actually fried her brain, when she shifted, pulling her panties back into place. She looked up, and her almost human eyes found his digital ones, a very soft, amused, almost fond look settling on her features.

"You are really pathetic." She pushed herself off the desk, wobbly on her knees but upright while she pulled her skirt down and tidied her clothes, putting the ripped blouse back together as best as she could. "But I have to hand it to you - you know how to fuck."

Vox grinned smugly. "Baby, what do you think got me where I am now?"

"Mhm. Anyway- that was fun. Very entertaining, as Alastor would say. Might need a new blouse though."

She gathered the signed papers in front of her chest to hide the gaping hole exposing one of her tight breasts, opened the door and gave him a last glance over her shoulder, an impish smile on her round, flushed face. "I still fucking hate you."

For a few minutes, Vox remained behind, a dumb grin on his lips. He should really ask for her name at some point, he guessed, especially if Alastor planned for him to work with her again.

Hopefully in the near future.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Who is This?: Chapter 2

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Y/N talks about how she met James Barnes and how she found herself in the modern world. Follow on from this fic.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky nearly demanded, keeping his arms wrapped around his companion.

Sam raised his eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question, Barnes?" Sam looked at the young woman in Bucky's arms. "Who is this?"

Bucky looked down at her, Sam watched as a smile grew on his face. "This is Y/N. Y/N Barnes. My wife."

"I'm sorry, what was that? Wife? You two are married?" Sam asked, looking between Bucky and Y/N.

"Indeed we are, aren't we darling?"

Y/N looked at Bucky first with a smile then with dead eyes. "I'm still pissed with you," Sam couldn't place her accent. It was a strange combination of Brooklyn, southern and English.

"Babydoll," Bucky sighed, as his wife got up from the couch and walked to the kitchenette.

"No. Don't you babydoll, me. I had two officers with a telegram in their hand as they flat out told me you had fallen off a train in the Alps of all places, whilst you were on some stupid mission with Steve, they never went looking for you, they simply declared you were missing and you were most likely dead."

Bucky's face falls, realising how much she had missed him after he fell off the train. After he had escaped to Bucharest, his memories came back in flashes - her face had always been there front and centre. He never had the time to sit Steve down and ask him about the gorgeous girl in his memories. It had taken another trip to the Smithsonian Institution - and that's when he saw her further into the exhibition, her arms in both Bucky and Steve's as she looked up at him in awe. Bucky and Y/N were married on January 15, 1941 - four weeks after Bucky signed up.

He gets up also, leaving the blanket which once covered them in a ball on the couch. "Sweetheart," he said softly.

"They told me on our fucking anniversary as well!" The tears couldn't be held back as they started rolling down her cheeks.

"It may be late, but happy anniversary," Bucky says, which gets a watery sob out of Y/N - who returns the sentiment.

Sam walks around the couple and into the kitchenette. "How long have you two now been married then?"

They looked at each other. "If you don't count the time we were separated, three years."

"And if you do?" Sharon asks.

"Eighty-three."

"Seems like I owe you a lot of anniversary presents. And birthdays, and Christmas..." Bucky trails off. "Seeming like I'll always be in debt to you, doll."

She shakes her head, "I have you here now. That's the only present I need."

"So how did you two meet?" Sam asks.

August 3rd, 1922

It was the first day at Brooklyn Heights Elementary School. Winnifred Barnes held her eldest son's hand as she took him to school.

Little James Barnes was terrified, it would be his first full day away from his ma, he didn't know anyone and he had a strong feeling like he wanted to cry (his father George had firmly told him men don't cry).

The mother and son duo were stood in front of a little peg, which had his name stuck to it, he was in between someone called Steve and someone called Y/N (the little girl had already taken her coat off - which her mother was hanging up for her, as she dug through her backpack on the floor).

"Y/N what have I told you about sitting on the floor like that?" Y/N's mother said, cupping her hands underneath her armpits and sat her on her knees.

"I can't find my crayons, mama!" Y/N exclaimed, looking up at her mama.

James looked down into his backpack and saw the small pack of crayons his father had brought back home one night. "We can share mine," he tells the little girl on the floor, sitting down next to her.

She looked at him with a big smile. Even at four years old, he couldn't help but think she was the prettiest girl in the world.

"That's how you got your girl? Crayons when you were four?" Sam asks.

"No, I had always known she was beautiful, but it took me a long time to persuade her for a date."

Y/N looked at her husband with a singular raised eyebrow. "You went from girl to girl with no consideration of their feelings. I didn't want to be put on the same list."

"Not a chance, since we locked eyes on that cold floor in elementary school, I have always been yours."

January 15, 1940

"Please, doll," Bucky nearly begged, as Y/N made her way around the counter at the local diner where she currently works. "Just one date."

"No, James, you can't ask me just because you don't have a date for the night."

Bucky sighed, he loved how she was the only one (apart from his ma when he annoyed her) who still called him James. "But, doll."

"And what have I told you about calling me doll?"

"I could take you to Coney Island," which was shut down saying that was his and Steve's 'place to hang out without her'. Bucky denied it, saying that it wasn't right that he and Steve spent time together without her. "What about the movies?"

"The three of us have already seen everything at the movies right now."

Bucky looked at the ceiling, as he fiddled with his ice cream float. "You don't want to go to Coney Island, we've seen everything at the movies and you don't want to go to a diner..."

He heard someone make a passing comment that the river in that park upstate had frozen over and was perfect for. "Ice skating! That's it, I'll take you ice skating!"

Y/N looked over at him, "Will it shut you up?" He nodded. "Fine, you can take me ice skating."

Bucky let out a loud cheer. "I promise you, you won't regret it, babydoll."

Bucky leaned over pressed a kiss to her cheek and ran out of the diner - he missed Y/N rubbing her cheek with a growing smile on her face.

"You were smitten with me?"

"Since day one, babydoll."

They shared a kiss when the door was pushed open by someone who looked like he had a homemade costume Steve used to wear. "What the hell?"

"Alright, that's it. Your time is up. Tell me where Zemo is," someone came storming in, dressed like Steve, shield in one hand as he pointed at the other people in the room. Y/N looked from Bucky to Sam to Sharon and then back to Bucky.

"We know you're hiding him," his sidekick added, crossing his arms.

The Captain America wannabe ordered them to turn over Zemo, which Y/N countered with a comment about the Captain America wannabe running his mouth.

"How did I miss you?" He flirts.

Y/N raised her eyebrow at him, then looked up at Bucky (who whispered into her ear that they were trying to get the shield back). "Give me a second," She puts on a look on her face and makes her way over to the Captain America wannabe. "Oh my God, is that the shield?" She could see him preen at her words. "Can I have a look at it?"

Stupidly, he hands her the shield, Y/N looks it over, and then up at him. "Thanks," and makes her way back to Bucky.

"What are you doing with my shield?"

"I think you mean, my shield. Considering that it technically belongs to me."

Captain America wannabe looked at her confused, what the hell was she talking about? "Who even are you?"

"Who am I? He doesn't know, James!" Y/N looked up at Bucky.  "He doesn't know!" The couple laughed. "I'm Y/N, Steve's half-sister, and this muppet's wife."

"Wait, so how did you end up 80 years in the future?" Sam asks as the trio settles in for the night.

"Howard wanted to make another Super Soldier after the war after Steve had 'died'," she puts quotes around died, then turns her head to look at Bucky. "Yes, I know what happened to Howard and Maria," Bucky's face fell - she knew what he had done as the Winter Soldier(the war crimes he had committed had been plastered all over the news during his trial). 

Sam looked between Bucky and Y/N as he asked. "What happened? I presume you volunteered."

She nods her head. "I did. But, something went wrong. They gave me the serum, and I remember collapsing to the floor and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the year 2019, Steve's face over the top of mine, tears in his eyes, saying he was so happy to see me."

"Steve knew you were alive?" Bucky asked, looking at his wife in surprise. There were about two weeks between the Battle of Earth and Steve went back to the past. 

"I don't remember much from when I woke up, because I was falling in and out of sleep, for a long time." She says, looking up at the ceiling.