#zero cost hiring

[pavithracbe1]

Top Strategies for Overcoming Workforce Challenges in 2025

Introduction In today's dynamic business environment, addressing workforce challenges is crucial for organizational success. This guide highlights top strategies to navigate these issues effectively.

Identifying Common Workforce Challenges Understanding the pain points such as talent shortages, employee retention, and skill gaps is the first step towards finding solutions. Companies must continuously evaluate their workforce needs and address these challenges proactively.

Leveraging Talent Solutions Utilizing comprehensive Talent Solutions is essential for attracting and retaining top talent. Mazenet offers tailored talent acquisition strategies that help organizations build a robust and skilled workforce, ensuring they stay competitive in the market.

Effective Staffing Services Partnering with a reliable staffing service like Mazenet can streamline the hiring process, reduce time-to-hire, and enhance the quality of new hires. Their expertise in providing customized Permanent Staffing and Contract Staffing solutions ensures that organizations can meet their specific workforce requirements efficiently.

Hire Train Deploy Model Mazenet's Hire Train Deploy and Source Hire Train and Deploy models are innovative approaches to bridge skill gaps. These models ensure that new hires are not only qualified but also trained to meet specific organizational needs from day one.

Train and Hire Approach The Train and Hire approach by Mazenet allows companies to equip candidates with the necessary skills before their official onboarding, reducing training costs and improving productivity.

Conclusion Overcoming workforce challenges requires strategic planning and the right partnerships. By leveraging Mazenet's Talent Solutions, organizations can navigate these challenges effectively and build a future-ready workforce. For more information, visit Mazenet's Talent Solutions. Get in touch at- +91 73977 23052 or email us at- info@mazenetsolution.com

[the-trans-dragon]

Every time I buy toothpaste the tube is smaller and I hate it!!! Give me fucking the toothpaste!!!

[dduane]

I just received a copy of a book I've been very much looking forward to by a favorite author, but the quality of the book itself is... not great. Cheap paper, weak binding, even a weird illustration of the main character on the cover that I'm having trouble believing the author approved. Obviously, I don't want to leave a bad review on Amazon or GoodReads or anywhere, as I'm 100% certain the content is as excellent as her other work. But how can I best let the publisher (Baen) know I'm disappointed without threatening to never buy her books again? Because, well, if this is the only option, I'm gonna keep buying them even in my disappointment.

Well, the first thing I thought when I read this was "Wow, I'm really glad I don't have anything in print from Baen at the moment except a couple of anthologized short stories." :)

As for the rest of it, let's take it point by point.

Adding a cut here, because this will run a bit long. Caution: contains auctorial bitching and moaning, painful illustrations of cases in point, and brief advice on how to complain most effectively. (Also links to paintings of cats.)

Cheap paper: This has been an accurate complaint since well before COVID—and it's often been worse since, with supply chain issues also being involved. That said: one way publishers routinely save money on printing books, especially the bigger ones, is by going for thinner/cheaper paper. I remember one of our UK editors going on at great length and with huge annoyance—during one of those late-night convention-bar bitch sessions—over how the only way they could get some really good books published (because Upstairs insisted on reducing the per-copy production costs) was by reducing the paper quality to the point where you could nearly read through it. Sacrificing decent text size(s) also became part of this. Nobody in editorial was happy about the result: but there wasn't much they could do.

Bad bindings: Similar problem. Sewn bindings used to be a thing in paperbacks... but not any more: not for a good while, now. These days, it's all glue. Even hardcovers are showing up glued rather than sewn. Don't get me started. :/ (This is why I so treasure some of the oldest paperbacks I've acquired, which are actually sewn.)

Crap covers: I've had my share of these—though my share of some really good ones, too. And one of the endless frustrations of traditional publishing is that the writer routinely has little or even no influence over what the cover will look like... let alone how much will be spent on it, or (an often-related issue) how good the execution will be.

There are of course exceptions. If you're working at the, well, @neil-gaiman -esque level or similar in publishing, a lot more attention is going to be paid to your thoughts. You may even be able to get "cover veto" written into your contracts, so that if you disapprove, changes will get made. But without actual contractual stipulations, the writer has zero legal recourse or way to withhold approval. (And I bet even Neil has some horror stories.)

The normal workflow looks like this. After a book's purchased, its editor and the art director discuss what it's about and what the cover should look like. The art director then hires an artist and tells them what to do. After that, the artist executes their vision and gets paid. It is incredibly rare for a writer to have any significant input into this process. And as to whether or not they approve of the final result, well... the publisher mostly just shrugs and goes back to eyeing the bottom line, muttering "Who told them they get a vote?"

Now, I've been seriously lucky to occasionally be an exception in this regard. In particular, my editors at Harcourt (when Jane Yolen and Michael Stearns were editing Harcourt's Magic Carpet YA imprint) would ask me what I thought would be a good idea for the next Young Wizards cover, and I'd think about it a bit and send them back a paragraph or so about some core scene. They'd then talk to their art director, and after that send their notes and mine to Cliff Nielsen (who started doing the covers for the hardcover and mass-market paperback editions of the series in the mid-90s) or to Greg Swearingen (who was the artist on the digest-format editions). And the results, by and large, were pretty good. ...I also think affectionately of the UK artist Mick Posen, who insisted on seeing pictures of our cats before painting the covers for the Hodder editions of The Book of Night with Moon and On Her Majesty's Wizardly Service (the UK title for To Visit The Queen).

But this kind of treatment is a courtesy—not even vaguely suggested in the books' contracts, and very much the exception to the rule. And for every writer who's midlist, there are times when the luck runs out. For example: one time I wrote a book that was an AU-Earth-near-future fantasy police procedural, thematically pretty dark—dealing with issues of abuse of megacorporate power, institutionalized bigotry, and (explicitly) attempted genocide. And the cover, done by an artist who's a good friend and some of whose fabulous art hangs in our house, came out looking like this. It was... let's just say "not ideally representative."

So I was glad, when my local workflow allowed it, to recover the current, revised version of the book with something at least a little more apropos. But the original cover's not the artist's fault. He did what the art director told him... as a cover artist must do to get paid, and (ideally) to get hired again. At present, that's how the system works.

...So. You've got a badly-built and -presented book on your hands. How best to make your feelings known in some way that might make a difference down the line? (As you make it plain that you'll keep buying this author's books this way if you must.)

First of all: when (as part of my psych nursing training) we were taught how to complain most effectively, we were told that the first and most basic rule of the art is this:

Only Complain To Someone Who Can Actually Do Something About Your Problem

So I salute your desire not to waste your time taking the issue to the reviews on Amazon, or the pages of Goodreads... because they can't do anything. The odds that anyone from production at Baen is reading the comments there strike me as... well, not infinitesimally small, not being hit-by-a-meteorite-while-in-the-shopping-center-parking-lot small... but really low.

So: write to corporate.

In your place I would go online and rummage around a bit to find out who's on record as the publisher at Baen. I would then write them a letter on paper. And I would lay out the problem pretty much as you laid it out up at the top.

The tone I think I'd choose would be the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger approach. I'd say, "I write to comment about your recently published book by [X Writer], whose work I love. I have to say, though, that I don't think the cover on [X Book] is terribly representative of the quality of the prose inside. And also, the construction and production quality of the book itself was a disappointment to me because [here spell out why].

"I'd really like to see [X. Writer's] books succeed with you, and I'd like to buy more of them without wondering whether I was going to be disappointed again. But if this is typical of how they're being produced, I'd also be concerned that the state of these books is setting up a situation in which the author's sales will be damaged, and you would stop publishing them... which would really be a shame. Whereas on the other hand, better production quality could keep previous purchasers coming back and buying, not only more books by this author, but books by others whom you publish."

This phrasing, as you'll have seen, walks a bit wide around the issue of your further purchases, while directing attention toward the bottom line... which will routinely be what the publisher's looking at from day to day. And—being, one has to hope, in possession of the wider picture as regards what's going on with their production costs—maybe they can actually do something about it.

Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained, yeah? It's worth a try. All you can do is hope for the best.

And finally: please know that I admire your commitment to the author: whoever she is, she's lucky to have you. It's a terrific thing to have readers who'll willing to spend the time to hunt you down, and who're willing not to judge a book by its cover. :)

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn’t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I’ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

[lotus-tower]

Safety for the rich Ordinary people have zero clue just how many tools the rich are using to avoid this virus. The rich are photographed without masks during public appearances, giving the public the impression that it’s safe to ditch masks. But what we don’t see are all of the precautions being taken behind the scenes. Nasal photodisinfection Celebrities are using hospital-grade technology to photodisinfect their nostrils. KISS’s manager, Don McGhee, talked about the band’s use of nasal photodisinfection in an interview, saying, “Without this, we wouldn’t be on the road.” The technology, called Steriwave, has been used by hospitals to reduce infections in surgery patients for more than a decade and is now available commercially—for a very high cost. Event Scan & Covid prevention companies [...] And they are paying for it. The rich CEOs of these major companies and rich government officials are getting everyone PCR (or LAMP) tested before their big corporate parties, screening all their guests beforehand, and taking Covid very seriously—while telling their low-level employees to return to the office. Far UV-C The schools, workplaces, and homes of the rich are being outfitted with special UV lights that kill viruses in the air—including Covid-19. Far UV can continuously and autonomously eliminate over 90% of pathogens in the air (and on the exposed surfaces) of an enclosed room. These high-tech lights cost thousands of dollars. [...] LAMP Testing Loop-Mediated Isothermal Amplification (LAMP) testing may be the “better sibling of PCR testing” and is being used by the rich to rapidly diagnose Covid-19. [...] Fancy private schools, like this one (whose tuition fees are $17,664—$18,900 annually) are requiring all visitors to submit samples for LAMP testing—in addition to daily testing of students, teachers, and families, requiring high-quality masks, cleaning the air, serving outdoor lunches, and a lot more.   When you're seeing photos of maskless rich people gathering together, it may look like they aren’t taking any Covid precautions. But the reality is: they've all tested beforehand. They’ve hired private companies to screen their guests, using multiple layers of protection. They are not taking any chances with this virus, because they know it’s extremely serious and nothing like the flu.

-The Pandemic Isn’t Over: The rich know it. You should, too.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 7

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Words Count: 2,143

Warning: Angst, Tragedy.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more

“Well, if he can afford it,” you said, knowing your dad probably didn't realize how much you charged per hour for consulting.

Bucky felt challenged. “I think I can afford it.”

You raised an eyebrow, silently asking, ‘Are you sure?’ Then, you grabbed a pen and started writing numbers on paper.

When you showed it to Bucky and Tom, both of their eyes widened. Tom exclaimed, “That's per hour?”

You nodded, folding your arms.

Bucky glanced at the paper, then back at you. “If it's in New York, this price is understandable. But here… with this price, I could afford two brand-new cars.”

“Take it or leave it,” you said, your expression unyielding. If Bucky truly needed an auditor, he would accept your terms.

“I didn’t say no,” Bucky replied. “Alright. I hope you can start tomorrow. I'm looking forward to working with you, partner.” He extended his hand for a handshake.

You simply said, “Hmm,” and walked past him, leaving his hand hanging in the air.

Bucky maintained his calm demeanor and smiled, that smug smile you always wanted to slap off his face.

It's risky to work with your former tormentor, but after thinking it through, you realize you had just left your previous job and decided to stay with your dad.

But you don’t want your skills to get rusty. Bronze Lodge Hotel seems reasonable enough as a place to work in this small town.

Back then, he drained your mental strength; now you will drain his money.

Bucky tidied up the documents, placing them back into his bag. “I’m so glad I came here. Thank you for your help, Tom,” he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

Tom slowly nodded his head, though he wasn't entirely sure about it. You had offered to help, but at such a high price. He had never seen that many zeros in his life. He felt a bit sorry for Bucky, but also proud of you. It was amazing to him that you had the skills and experience to command such fees and be hired by people in the big city.

Bucky slung his bag over his shoulder and headed toward the door. Before leaving, he looked at you and said, “See you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

You stood there, arms crossed, watching him leave. “I won’t be,” you replied, a determined look in your eyes.

Bucky gave a small nod, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he exited. Tom watched him go, then turned back to you with a mixture of pride and concern.

“You’ve come a long way,” he said softly, touching your shoulder.

🧮🧮🧮🧮🧮

The next morning, you arrived at the resort in your sports car. All eyes were on you from the moment you left home until you pulled up at the hotel.

You found it amusing. Back then, nobody even bothered to notice you. But now, thanks to this car, you were suddenly worth looking at. It saddened you that money, expensive stuff, and status seemed necessary for respect.

As you walked into the hotel, Natasha was shocked to see you. She left her reception desk and rushed toward you.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, looking you up and down. Natasha followed fashion trends closely and recognized the luxury of your outfit, even though it didn’t flaunt brand logos. The cost of what you were wearing was more than her salary. She clenched her fists in frustration.

With your high heels, you towered over her. Even before, you were taller than her, but she always had a superior attitude and was surrounded by her group, while you were always alone.

Now, even though you were still alone, you no longer felt small in her presence. You put on a confident smile. This feeling of superiority, of having a life so much better than hers, was intoxicating.

You scratched the saddened part about living in this world. Money, expensive stuff, status—if these three things were enough to make a person like Natasha jealous of you, you would do anything to obtain them.

“Whoops… I could see the tension from far away,” Bucky suddenly appeared and stood between you and Natasha.

“She’s…” Natasha began, but Bucky cut her off.

“Na-ah. Here at the Bronze Lodge, we always give a warm welcome to new employees. Well, she’s temporary, actually. We have a new auditor,” Bucky announced.

Natasha flinched at his words. She grabbed Bucky’s hand and whispered, “Does your mother know?”

Bucky gently pried her hand away. “I’ve texted her. She hasn’t replied yet.” His mother was traveling with her friends, probably with her new boyfriend.

It was his mother’s mistake to hire a lousy accountant, forcing him to manage things himself. His skills in accounting were pretty limited. With your help, he hoped to uncover the true condition of the resort’s finances, even though paying you would cost him an arm and a leg.

“Let’s get ready. We have 20 minutes left before this place opens,” Bucky clapped his hands and then looked at you, tilting his head. “Follow me.”

You followed him, leaving Natasha glaring daggers at your back. Bucky led you to an empty office room filled with disorganized papers and documents. You cringed at the mess.

Rolling up your sleeves, you prepared to start cleaning and organizing. “Leave,” you commanded Bucky, your expression turning serious.

Bucky looked at you, surprised by your sudden change in demeanor. “Alright. I’ll check in on you later,” he said, leaving the room.

You start working, your eyes scanning over rows of numbers, your mind quickly calculating and cross-referencing data from various documents. The first step is organizing the mess left by the previous auditor. You methodically sort through the stacks of papers, categorizing them by month, type, and relevance. Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you input data into a detailed spreadsheet, ensuring every transaction is accounted for.

As the hours pass, you become more absorbed in the patterns emerging from the chaos. You notice repeated anomalies in the records—suspicious transfers, inflated expenses, and missing receipts. You pause occasionally to make notes, your handwriting precise and clear. The further you dig, the more discrepancies you uncover.

You compare the financial statements to bank records, invoices, and internal reports. It's clear that large sums of money are unaccounted for, and there's a distinct pattern of funds being siphoned off over time. Your brow furrows as you pinpoint the telltale signs of money being funneled into untraceable accounts.

Your focus is unbroken, and you don’t realize you’ve been working for nearly 12 hours straight. Your hand doesn’t stop writing, just like at your previous job. You were used to long hours at the company, and so was Ransom. But here, it’s different, especially for Bucky. He’s worried about you.

Just as you finish drafting a report of your findings, you hear a knock on the door. You don’t notice it initially, but Bucky’s voice breaks your concentration. “It’s time to go home.”

Your pen stops moving. Slowly, you lift your head and fix your gaze on him with a cold stare that cuts through the air.

Bucky, sensing something amiss, asks tentatively, "Bad numbers?"

"Worse. Someone's been stealing from you," you reply sharply.

Meanwhile, Natasha glances around nervously on the emergency stairs to ensure no one is watching. She pulls out her phone and makes a call, her voice low and urgent. “We have an uninvited guest,” she whispers, her tone laced with fear and frustration.

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Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[lorddeathofmurdermountain]

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

NIJI TERMINATED SELEN??????

I'm not saying it was unexpected but I still can't believe how fucking Galaxy brain they have to be to look at black company accusations, as well as suspicions of abuse and all kinds of shit and Riku just goes "yup don't give her access to her account for a month, stay silent and terminate" if Nijisanji doesn't go under I will personally hire a hitman to seduce Riku and plant explosives in Riku's yacht when they get a tour.

Let me paint anyone reading this the full picture, if unaware

>Selen was one of the first chuubas in Niji

>keep in mind Nijisanji VTubers get ZERO base salary, ZERO debut money, ZERO advertisement and have to organize every event and new rig with THEIR OWN MONEY, of which they only get a portion of the donations as well as the infamous 2% from merch sales

>despite this Selen was one of the top dogs with organizing events and doing a bunch of stuff, literally at the top when it comes to productivity alongside Pomu

>she releases a new song cover which the original author gave the green light for but which was STILL taken down by Niji management

>Selen tells fans to reupload and posts on a private account how the cover cost her 15k dollaridoos

>Niji management stealth suspends her

>no word for days until one day she says she's been in a hospital (there's also a rrat about how it wasn't made by her because the post used squiggly apostrophes which she can't do on her keyboard)

>two days after she gets released from the hospital

>a month of silence

>people are worried because not even management is saying anything, Dragoons (fans) are begging management just to release SOME kind of statement, literally just a "Selen is alive and healthy"

>while all this is happening Pomu suddenly graduates (totally different from termination bro trust) and even that Niji management can't do right because they release the statement hours before it was slotted to happen so Pomu literally woke up to the announcement and had to quickly start stream, during which she cried

>today Selen has been terminated

>one of the reasons for termination is that she "gave a bad image to Nijisanji"

They're a literal black company. High turnover rate (they have iirc literal dozens of livers who were terminated or graduated), excessively low salary, management abuses their power, fuck they even encourage livers to fight and create controversy for ENGAGEMENT and most livers have to SHARE managers. Nijisanji is way below the industry standard at every turn yet is widely considered to be the biggest rival to Hololive purely through the sheer will and honest passion of the livers, and Riku can't even take care of the people whom his success is based on?

[the-gay-prometheus]

Important Update

Thankfully, as of Sunday, her symptoms started to improve, but we still went ahead with the stool sample to make sure that her immune system had finally kicked in and was fighting off the cocci on its own. Results today showed that the sample was now negative, which means we don't have to worry about any medication right now. That said $79.50 (receipt is screenshotted and included) is still a major blow when you've only got $140 to your name and no guarantee of employment and no other assistance.

So. I appreciate everyone who has shared this post and the individual who donated (and thanks to that individual, this is no where near as urgent now)! If anyone the ability to help me cover the rest of the cost I would super appreciate it and it would help a lot, but otherwise I'm not in panic mode at the moment.

Thanks to everyone who was so willing to help!

~~~

Alright I hate to have to do this but I don't really have any other choice right now.

Hi. I'm Jay. Or Victor. Or Viktor. Any of those names work. I'm a disabled neurodivergent transmasc who is currently in unemployment hell because the few jobs I am physically capable of and meet all of the requirements for are also coincidentally all the jobs that either don't want to hire me, or just straight up won't get back to me. I'm sending out applications daily, so far I have gotten three interviews, one of which was for a job that it turns out I would not be physically capable of doing, the second ended up being filled before I could even get to the second interview, and I still haven't heard back from the third. Needless to say, I have absolutely zero income right now.

This is my cat.

Her name is Catra.

Catra recently got extremely ill to the point of needing to be hospitalized, which meant that between me and my family, she has recently cost well over $3000. At this point, my family cannot afford to help me with any more medical costs for her, and I can't afford to continue with extra medical costs for her if I want to still be able to feed her until I do manage to get a job. Thankfully she has made a very strong recovery, for the most part...

However, she is also now battling a nasty coccidia infection that seems to be resistant to the medication the vets had given her. Which means I am once again going to need to send in a $75 stool sample and pay for a different medication. My parents will not help now as they have already gone over budget for her and also believe it is my fault that I haven't been able to find a job, but I literally cannot live without this cat. I will not live without this cat. She is all I have left right now.

So that said. If you have even a little bit to spare, I would greatly appreciate it. I'm asking for $100 $79.50 to cover the stool sample and the medication. Thank you in advance.

Please make sure if you do send anything that you select the 'friends and family' option. If you can't send anything, I would appreciate reblogs and signal boosts. Thank you.

$36.26/79.50

paypal: @binonjay

venmo: @BiNonJay

cashapp: $BiNonJay

[wolven91]

NSFW-ish - Poker

It's an odd thing being bored in a universe of science fiction.

Humanity and humans in general, had this concept that with the advancement of technology, there would always be a distraction. Thousands of films and shows from back on Earth, portrayed holodecks and endless entertainment. When humanity was shown the building sized printers, able to create entire machines within themselves, it was as if they promised unending entertainment and unlimited toys.

Yet, like many before and after him, when Harvey found himself within that idealised future, he found that it was actually; incredibly simple to become bored.

Endless entertainment wasn't free. The printers had to be paid for. Not to mention the toys exist even after one has had their fun. Even with the ample space provided by the station, filling a home with junk was a quick way to find oneself living as a pack rat.

Not to mention that when the options are easily within reach, they are suddenly; no longer desirable. It was the idea of endless entertainment that was fun. The reality was different and caused people to fall into the paradox of choice.

So instead of forcing himself to go play zero G sports or hire and wait for a holodeck that was monitored at all times, Harvey sat in the communal area, listening to the other aliens' lament that; they too; were bored. Harvey had gained a small, select group of friends that had helped him during his first few days amongst the stars and the group had become a surprisingly tight knit team in rapid order.

Despite taurians, ursidains, and felinoids not often getting along, Harvey found that the five of them played off each other and the various differences gave way to their similarities. Right now, they were all similarly bored.

Harvey couldn't stand it. Yet everything else was effort! He had to learn everything that they suggested or knew that the suggestion was what one of the group wanted to do, but not what any of the rest of them wanted. The ursidain would suggest eating. The female taurian would suggest weightlifting, but the male would suggest writing poetry. God forbid whatever the felinoid could come up with. The tamest thing they'd ever suggested was taking drugs and having an orgy. What the human wouldn't give for a simple pack of..

Harvey's eyes lit up and caused the small group to blink in surprise as he ran from the room with a hurried 'back in a minute!', leaving his chair rattling in his haste.

The smaller printer as blessedly unused when Harvey arrived, so his return was literally only a few minutes later. He was still shuffling the two decks together. It had cost him roughly three minutes of labour to pay for the materials, despite it being larger than he needed. A human standard deck of cards would be too small for the larger aliens to hold with ease. It felt like he had a geriatric-friendly set with how large the cards and pictures were.

The computer had listened carefully at his description, but hadn't quite got the image correct for the Jacks, Queens and Kings. They oddly had a striking similarity to Harvey when he considered them before shrugging and continuing to shuffle the comically oversized cards.

"Right! Ladies, gentlemen, and other demographics. We're going to play Poker!" The human announced to the group as he re-entered and sat at the table. It was still gaoling to have to sit on a booster seat, but with the chintians involved, it was less infantizing and more a necessity.

The group weren't dumb by any stretch and with some explaining and a few practice rounds, the male taurian, Baarum, won the first game that Harvey hadn't deliberately thrown. This was followed by a win by Emralse, the felinoid who won the next two rounds. The female taurian, Rias, bellowed in victory as she slammed her hand flat against the table displaying a winning hand when it was her go. Bringing up the rear, Mulls, the ursidain eventually won one after convincing the group he was just playing for fun. Turns out the ursidain had a fantastic poker-face and his victories came after convincing the whole tale, including Harvey that they knew what his tells were; only to which them up later.

It took three hours before the felinoid asked about the history and different version of poker as she idly fiddled with her cards. Harvey had noted she liked to keep high cards or cards that she had multiple of on her left-hand side of her fanned cards.

When he explained they usually bet chips and money, the group agreed that next time they'd fabricate some of these chips for fun.

That was when Harvey made the error of explaining strip poker.

The trouble with this was not the mere fact that strip poker meant that someone was going to eventually go down to their bare flesh. The issue was that the hangups humanity had about nudity and public spaces was not mirrored by the rest of the races.

Oh sure, most if not all the races generally wore clothes. In a work environment it was wise to protect oneself, but it also allowed modesty and a level of camouflage when the office flirt deliberately dropped all her paperwork in front of Harvey's desk and deliberately bent over.

So, when Harvey mentioned this version of the game, the whole group agreed and abandoned the current hand.

"Guys, we're still in the communal room." Harvey pointed out, gesturing to the handful of observers as well as those who were elsewhere, dotted about the large room.

"It's fine. It's public and if someone has a complaint we'll listen." Replied Emralse, a felinoid who was well versed on the station's specific decency laws. Each station was different and out of all the races, felinoids were the likeliest to go about buck naked.

Although as the cards were shuffled and redealt, Harvey had to admit that even 'naked' with the fur that covered most things, one of the aliens without clothes on was hard-pressed to be called 'naked' in the same sense a human was.

Still, Harvey played his hand and did well. It was Baarum, who lost the first hand, and a single glove was removed and placed carefully into the centre of the table.

What followed was a quiet, intense series of games that each of the remaining players were fully invested in.

Little by little, each of the players lost clothes and bartered others. Rias was the first to lose her top. Harvey had to blink and stare so hard at his cards he thought they'd catch fire only to avoid staring at the bare chest mere inches from his elbow. The taurian didn't seem to care, instead grumbling that she had been certain that no one would have had the card that led to her loss.

The next loss was Emralse's, but Harvey wasn't sure if this was deliberate or not. Halfway through the round, it was noted that Harvey was quiet and had changed shade. The team even worrying that he was ill or upset. That was when Baarum, as smug as could be, pointed out how humans considered the female form to be taboo.

Rias glanced down at herself, then back up to Harvey before grinning wildly, seemingly thrilled to find out she had such an effect on the human. Harvey had to admit that they were lovely, blantately larger than his own head, but tried to avoid staring at them, even when Rias would deliberatly bounce in her seat during victories.

But that was followed rapidly by Emralse folding, but unlike normal, refusing to show her hand and doffed her own top, revealing her own breasts. Whether this was a genuine loss or if the felinoid was merely refusing to be out done by a taurian, Harvey wasn't sure. Either way, the man now had a women either side, each one shameless as the game progressed.

When Harvey lost his shirt, the two women at the table openly stared, whilst Mells and Baarum averted their eyes. There was a brief moment where Harvey considered crossing him arms before steeling himself once more. It was nice to be desired.

The game continued.

Out of all the players, it was not Baarum who Harvey expected to be rendered naked by a series of crushing losses.

The demure taurian's final item of clothing? A single, pink silk head band that covered what Harvey understood to be Baarum's horn stumps.

"You really don't have to remove that." Harvey pointed out, as the next hand was dealt. The human was well aware that in taurian society, the covering of the male's removed horns was a requirement by every single one of them. Harvey wasn't sure if it was religious and society, but felt it unfair to force the fellow male in a position of shame.

Baarum seemed to consider it before glancing over to the nearly naked ursidain, fellow taurian, human and felinoid before hooked a thumb beneath the slip of material and pulling it away with a single, fluid movement. Baarum kept his eyes closed and back straight as he gently folded the material and placed it into the centre of the table. Opening his eyes, the taurian reached for his drink and downed it in one.

The two black circles that framed either corner of his forehead were not as dramatic as Harvey expected, but the hush in the communal room was heavy and Rias's ears had gone a bright red.

"I respect it." Harvey said as he retrieved his cards and checked the hand.

In the end, Mulls won the final hand, removing Harvey's underwear and dragging the now entire pile of clothes towards himself.

"Well! It was a pleasure playing with you all! I'm thrilled to have won." The ursidain declared, holding the various items between two claws and inspecting his 'winnings'.

"Can I have my sash back please?" Asked Baarum quietly, and with a nod from Mulls, retrieved the sash and reapplied it. He didn't seem to care that everything else was on display; only about hiding the stumps.

"Can I get my underwear?" Asked Harvey, reaching over for his boxers only to find them snatched away by the ursidain.

"Not a chance! No one would buy a taurian sash, but genuine human underwear? By my father's belly, tomorrow night drinks are on me!"

The group cheered whilst Harvey had to pick his jaw up off the floor.

[r/WolvensStories]

[AO3]

[Ko-Fi]

[tpquill]

What would another 4 years under Trump be like?

Imagine if you will, someone who has zero empathic qualities. A person vibrating with revenge. Someone who has spent their entire life self indulging on a brand, a purpose that is all they ever care about. A narcissistic sociopath; deeply entrenched in outbursts of anger, hatred and lustful ignorance. Living life on “my brand is higher turnover than any loan a bank can give you.” A gentleman’s agreement, but they are no gentleman. This person has spent their entire life; 70+ years on this planet, growing up in a standard of living he has only ever known. A man, whose father was a businessman and through his businesses, met a lot of wealth, a lot of influence and a lot of questionable behaviour. This person was surrounded by people he was introduced to in a world of social ignorance and old money wealth, because he had become his narcissistic father’s business protégé.

Throughout his entire academic and business career he has bought, bullied or faked his way out of everything, resplendent in the firm belief “dearest daddy” bred into him “everyone can be bought for a price”

Banks, businesses, criminals, judges…the list is endless in their world, because money speaks many languages, including Russian. His deep needed greed to be famous, to be talked about, to be adulated and praised - strokes his fragile ego. He demands attention like a toddler in the throes of a temper tantrum, because he’s always got what he wanted. Not an only child, but definitely a high maintenance one. Reminding me of a character from a well known book series, whose ridiculous parents spoilt their child endlessly while ignoring the child in their foster care. A child who demanded everything and got it no matter the cost - this is how this person has lived their entire life, bully into submission, threaten legal action if they never got it.

I watched in 2015 this person proclaim they were setting their sights on the presidency and I laughed with concerned hysteria. This idiot, who had spent his entire business career in and out of court due to bankruptcies. Casinos and hotels foreclose due to overdue loans, employees not being paid. Employees who had invested most if not all of their pension money in “shares” that would make them a sizeable profit to pay off their mortgages - to later find out it was just another scheme to help pay off or pay into his businesses, while they lost everything. His desire to hire undocumented migrants is old news he’s always done it. That’s why he holds favour with the old dusty republican men and women in congress, because they come from a long line of plantation owners and as you would know through American history, plantation owners had…you guessed it, slaves who they bought at auction to do the menial tasks for next to nothing. He is a man of very little talent but one who has bought and sold everyone and anything for his brand. He wants the celebrity status, he wants the adulation and ceremony of a King, he wants the authoritarian rule and suppression of a dictator, he wants the immunity of god but does not live with a Christian heart (not evangelical brainwashing)

Yes, this very same person wanted to be crowned a King, because he coveted that rule, but settled for Commander in chief instead. And, just like everything else in his life, he took measured steps to secure it through nefarious ways. His questionable admiration for authoritarian leaders puts his loyalty in the right paths of those who see America as their bankable gain. Years of political and foreign resentment balances out evenly when you meet with a weak minded, fragile ego who has always wanted to be praised. The art of the deal was never about the savvy businessman lie he always told but about the “fake it to you make it” mantra and he always excelled at that.

But here’s what lies ahead. He spent four years destroying America the last time. You can listen to the mentally concerned drum on about how he made their lives better, or how he made America great. Or how he made America the best it has ever been and think to yourself - do they actually go outside?

There was only one thing on Donald Trump’s mind from 2016 to 2020, how can I benefit from all of this? He used the office and seal of the president of the United States to enrich both himself and his blood sucking family of hangers on. He made his children (all adults) head of administration in the White House with no formal training in anything, including business (fake it to you make it) the nepotism he used in his questionable business practices, he simply transferred to the “People’s House” he installed a cabinet of lawmakers who lusted for fame, but felt left out. Grievance and vengeance because a black man had held that coveted office for 8 years and they needed (dusty and white privileged republicans) to drive that stench out. His plan was to stay there to show the world he wasn’t just Trump the businessman (6 bankruptcies, several business failures, university & charity disasters) but also the greatest world leader ever.

* stock market tanked

* economic downturn

* unemployment at an all time high

* infrastructure never fixed

* Medicare never looked at

* tax breaks for the filthy rich, tax increases for the working class

* migrants put into cages and separated from their children (white privileged free world)

* racism raised its ugly head and laughed, fascism, xenophobia, homophobia soon followed.

* gun related deaths increased, because why not? he abolished or allowed laws to lapse that had been put in place.

* scraped bills that he deemed unnecessary, pulled out of the Paris agreement, called America veterans suckers & losers, disgraced the military, threw paper towels at hurricane ravaged states claiming they weren’t part of America anyway.

Went on the world’s stage and mocked NATO demanding the countries pay more (America had only started paying more) or he was pulling out of NATO and Russia could occupy them all. Completely made himself an absolute laughing stock in front of other well respected leaders by throwing temper tantrums if he didn’t get his way.

Kissed the ass of Putin on more than one occasion. Ignored daily briefings, hired horrible actors to be his press secretary on multiple occasions. Went through more “chief of staff” positions than any former president.

And then came Covid and his botched handling of that. Nearly 5 thousand deaths, the worst of any country’s handling of the pandemic due to the size of the population of the United States. Mocked the scientists and doctors, refused states (who did not support him) of vital PPE instead, used another nepotistic family member to sell it off to states that didn’t use it because they questioned the vaccine and any easier way to keep their people alive.

His disastrous handling of the very serious pandemic led to so many unnecessary loss of life, ignorance into vital medicine that could help, instead advertising the use of injecting bleach into your veins. Once again Trump’s ignorance of not listening to sound advice, instead using his own because, he knows everything.

I won’t beat on about what happened during the previous election (we all witnessed it) the insurrection, the riots, the deaths and the damage when he very legally as witnessed by over 60 court cases all saying the same thing - lost the 2020 election, it was not stolen. Since then, he has done daily if not weekly rallies (he needs that hit of serotonin that can only be found through crowd adulation) he seeks to be re elected back into the White House. Not because he did such a fantastic job the last time, but because he could very well go to prison. 91 felonies, he’s already lost one tax fraud case and one sexual assault and rape case. He still has the hush money case, the RICO and espionage case to go through all while pleading he needs immunity, because without it, a president can be subjected to influence from foreign countries or leaders. Donald J. Trump already is, he just wants the freedom to do it all over again only this time, not get caught and answer for it, because immunity means he will be like Vladimir Putin and the leaders he greatly admires from Saudi Arabia - Turkey - Israel - China - North Korea - Russia -self appointed leaders with a regime that cripples the people of their country.

The point to this journalistic account on my tumblr is simply this;

After everything I have documented (not all in order) after all I have written, after everything that has been witnessed and grieved for. Even in the face of terrorism in your own country. The birth of a very dangerous ideology of Making America Great Again, christofacists plotting revenge on the country built on freedom and democracy, where in its constitutional legislations simply put the rule that divides church and state and successfully removed its colonial predecessors - the stripping of women’s rights and freedom of anatomy, the destruction of legal abortion (Roe vs Wade) and the push to go back in time to the 1800’s - will people still firmly believe this hate filled, vengeful, egotistical, delusional narcissistic sociopath is still worth electing him as the next president, knowing full well that once he gets in again he will do everything in his power to stay there. To then elect his predecessor (another Trump) to take over from him? He successfully taught his children well - grift, lie, squander, tax evade, hide business assets - they won’t let him down.

Or do you look at all that you went through, all that has taken 4 years to recover. To put right the horrors of the predecessor. To make the economy grow, to improve the medical system. To fix and improve the infrastructure, to raise employment and lower the cost of living. To help with student debt and get more money back in your pockets. To make America respected on the world’s stage and warn authoritarian leaders that this is not the way a countries people should be ruled. To stand up to murderous dictators and help a country fighting for its freedom from tyranny. To try and unify their country, not divide it. To have empathy and compassion, respect and loyalty to their people, not to themselves. To lift all voices including women’s to fight for what is most important up.

I hope this time you don’t send yourselves backwards, but move forwards to a better place. There is only one place Donald J Trump needs to go, one time he will ever be held accountable for his poor behaviour. One place he needs to be shown and to answer for all he has done for far too long…

Prison.

TPQ

[simply-ivanka]

Joe Biden and America’s Out-of-Control Spooks

The president should step aside rather than find out how the deep state would save his candidacy.

Wall Street Journal

By Holman W. Jenkins, Jr.

Thursday’s catastrophic debate can be a lifesaver for America. A different kind of 2024 election is still possible, starting with a rollicking contest of impressive Democratic governors for their party’s nomination. The outcome wouldn’t merely result in replacing an invalided Mr. Biden. It would allow Democrats to hire a new standard-bearer who doesn’t need to dig America ever deeper into the pit of lawfare, media lying and intelligence meddling to get himself re-elected.

This is the real issue now.

Not exactly the bipartisan wise person I’ve been hoping for, Bob Bauer will have to do. A former White House counsel under Presidents Obama and Biden, he has a timely new book, “The Unraveling.” Our democracy, he writes, endangers itself with its free fall toward win-at-all-costs cynicism, and the trouble doesn’t begin and end with Donald Trump.

He’s right, and only missing is 75% of his case since he doesn’t mention the collusion hoax or intelligence officials lying about the Hunter Biden laptop to help Mr. Biden get elected, episodes in which his own hands may not be entirely clean.

Now he has a chance to put his money where his mouth is. I see the same descent into reckless, zero-sum politics that he does. So does fund manager Ray Dalio, who told clients this week that the behavior of our parties is “threatening the rule of law as we know it and is bringing us closer to some form of civil war.”

What I don’t see is an underlying cause or dispute, such as slavery in the Civil War, of transcendent magnitude to explain it.

The tainting of our elections itself is what’s driving Americans apart.

This is where Mr. Bauer’s moment has arrived. He played Mr. Trump in Mr. Biden’s debate prep. He’s obviously trusted by the candidate. He could point out a few things about how we got into today’s mess, starting with former FBI Director James Comey’s ill-advised meddling in the Hillary Clinton email case to help another Democratic candidate. Play history backward without Mr. Comey and everything is different now. Mr. Trump likely loses in 2016. The collusion follies never happen, profoundly damaging half of America’s faith in Washington.

Mr. Biden is playing with the same fire all over again. He had every moral and political reason not to seek a second term—his age, Hunter Biden, the intelligence community’s unseemly lying to the American public to secure his first victory over Mr. Trump.

Almost anybody in the Democratic Party was a better bet to beat Donald Trump a second time, and Mr. Biden wasn’t a good bet to beat almost any Republican who might earn the GOP nomination instead of Mr. Trump.

But Mr. Biden insisted on being the candidate anyway, and we got the bubbling up of Trump prosecutions from dutiful Democratic prosecutors around the country. Whatever their merits, the charges had an overridingly political purpose: Return Mr. Trump to center stage and give Mr. Biden the one opponent he might reasonably hope to beat.

The miscalculation is now apparent. Mr. Biden’s own deterioration makes him the opponent even a scandalized and distrusted Mr. Trump could likely beat, possibly in a landslide.

What now? Ours was already in danger of becoming a government of siloviki, to borrow Russia’s word for intelligence operatives actively manipulating domestic politics. This subject our media continues to shy away from though academics are taking it up: the revolutionary and unprecedented activities of Mr. Comey and Obama intelligence veterans James Clapper and John Brennan starting in 2016 and again in 2020 with the laptop lie.

In my view, Mr. Biden is more blundering than calculating in this mess. He foolishly indulged his son over the years, getting himself in a situation in 2020 where his campaign had to be rescued from his family-created scandal by the shockingly disingenuous intervention of intelligence officials falsely fingering Russia for the laptop.

But ask yourself: Having stumbled into a dynamic where they might need a failing Mr. Biden to hold off a Trump restoration, how will our Clapperized elite prevent the outcome they have been telling themselves and us for eight years would be the end of America? Do you want to find out?

The 2024 election is already shaping up to be a deeply souring democratic experience for millions of Americans, the third such presidential election in a row. It can get a lot better or a lot worse depending on what Democrats decide to do, with Mr. Bauer hopefully whispering wisdom in Mr. Biden’s ear.

The next few days will be telling. If Mr. Biden remains in the seat, Mr. Trump may romp to a broad, unambiguous victory and mandate. Then you’ll want to hold your breath on the morning of Nov. 6.

[pavithracbe1]

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[mr2swap]

Gymswap: the first case

Yeah that's me, and I'm not talking about the arrogant and sweaty young man who is posing in the center of the photo but the fat and bald old man in the background... but I used to be, My name is Danny and although it may not seem like it, I'm only 20 years old , I was hired as a model for a new chain of gyms that will begin rolling out across the country next year.

I used to be used to all the brands fighting over me, after all I have a ton of followers who would buy whatever shit I was wearing or eating, I used to be used to getting a ton of merchandise from my sponsors and all they wanted was a photo of me with all that shit while flexing my muscles in front of the cameras, I miss my life… and my body.

I thought it would be just another job and just focused on the huge number of zeros on my paycheck. They took my perfect, hot body and gave it to a perverted obese old man named Bruce, and when I realized what was happening now I was Bruce.

A fat 55 year old single man who lives in a tiny apartment and has a crappy job as a telemarketer, Every day I have to go through the horrible humiliation of going back to that crappy Gym and training Bruce's fucking body while I do it. I watch mine "train", I feel disgusted every time I'm inside Bruce's body, but… I signed that fucking contract and if I refuse to give my body to that fucking old man they're going to sue me for every penny in my bank account… I'm super fucked up.

I have been in these sessions of 3 hours a day training in Bruce's body for 2 weeks and I have only lost 1 kilo, the contract that I sign says that everything will end when I finish putting Bruce's body back in shape… so I will be in this I work much longer than I thought.

And while I sweat all of Bruce's fucking fat on the treadmill he does everything he can to make me uncomfortable, there is no corner of my body that Bruce hasn't touched with my bare hands, at first he listened to me when I told him how to exercise my body now he doesn't It does more than pose in front of the cameraman and showing off my own body that it cost me so many years and effort to build.

Thank god I'm done training for today, I just have to take a shower in Bruce's horrible hairy body and I can go back to my body, It's so strange to be in Bruce's body, of course I'm totally straight but... Watching my own body getting naked and worshiping, kissing his own biceps and licking his doubtful armpits like a fucking pervert in front of the mirror and in front of everyone in the gym who doesn't know what's really going on makes me so horny, it's disgusting to feel the small cock that I now have between my legs hardened while I try to use one of the gym equipment.

When I'm alone in the shower I unload what's left of my energy into massaging Bruce's tiny cock with my fingertips, it even fucking feels better than when I do it on my real body. It is so sensitive that the bathrooms are filled with my moans in my thick old voice.

 Who knew there's still a little cum left on these wrinkled old balls?

Hey! You can support me to continue creating stories, see similar stories on my patreon, you can also join my discord if you are interested in role-playing about bodyswap, possession and transformation, m2m!

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

There are more important things for Congress to do than try to restrict drag, according to Representative Robert Garcia.

The California Democrat passionately defended the art form during a debate in the House of Representatives over the National Defense Authorization Act. Republicans sneaked a number of culture war issues into the annual defense funding legislation, including amendments preventing funds from covering service members' abortion travel costs and gender-affirming care, as well as preventing funds from being used to host drag shows on military bases.

Garcia zeroed in on the drag ban when it was his turn to speak, expertly dismantling the measure by citing the military's storied history of hiring female impersonators for entertainment.

“We can document and celebrate Drag shows on military bases since the late 1800s and through both world wars. The USO and the Red Cross supported drag during World War II," Garcia said. "That’s right: The Army that defeated Hitler and saved the world included drag queens.”

He continued, “Ronald Reagan starred in a movie called This Is the Army! — a movie about World War II that featured four drag performances. And he’s not the only Republican president who knew that drag can be fun and sometimes silly."

The House of Representatives, narrowly controlled by Republicans, approved the defense bill Friday with the attached amendments. The measures are not expected to pass the Democrat-controlled Senate.

Garcia added that in the face of "threats to the health and well-being of our service members and their families" such as "poisoned water, toxic mold in military housing, PTSD, and suicide," he was "stunned to see that the Republican idea to protect our troops is to ban drag shows."

"My Republican colleagues want us to believe that ‘these gays are trying to murder us,’" he said, referencing Jennifer Coolidge's iconic scene in White Lotus season two. "They want us to believe that drag is harmful, or immoral and wrong. This is ridiculous."

Garcia then called out the hypocrisy of the GOP for referring to drag as "obscenity" and banning it when they did not have condemnation for Republican Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene after she showed nude images of President Joe Biden's son Hunter during a hearing.

“Mr. Speaker, drag is art. Drag is culture. Drag is creativity. Drag is comedy. And no, drag is not a crime. It’s not pornography," Garcia said. "The real obscenity is when one of our colleagues, the gentlewoman from Georgia, shows literal posters of revenge porn in our Oversight Committee! If we want to end porn in government facilities, let’s ban that.”

Robert Garcia defends drag during NDAA hearing

[sleepymccoy]

Let me tell you about the space ship I've made up

Looks like an alien ufo

Biggish. Like, could land in a football stadium but it'd be tight

Used to be a novelty luxury cruise ship so the interior walls are artistic and stupid

The outside is artistic and stupid too lol

This is a random google image, but has the vibe

Is now a retrofitted fishing vessel owned by the government

Still has a theatre tho. Madness

Top floor in the little alien bubble is the bridge and some of the engine

The government is making the crew trial a new form of engine fuel which is basically fish offal and sunlight. It's working but god at what cost?

Is fish offal a term? I think it gets the vibe across

So the engines need like weekly cleaning and are exhausting

They've got three engines cos if a crab gets caught stalled in there they have to swap to an auxiliary

And it smells like cooked fish

One quarter of the floor opens up to let them do some open air fishing when they're over water

The bottom floor is smaller than the main and used to be the staff rooms when it was a yacht

Now it's been retrofitted into a vegetable farm in another government initiative to have self sustaining food on short transit ships

Like this

It kinda works, this is a small scale rollout to check feasibility

They don't have fake gravity so when they're in space everyone floats

The beans are having a hard time adjusting to zero grav

Some of the crew are a bit new to it too

There's hooks to help people walk and furniture on the ceiling to use while in space

The ship feels much smaller when it's landed

Cos it's a big ol disc it has to flip 90° to launch out of orbit, cos of air resistence

So all the launch safety chairs are mounted on the walls out of the way and you've gotta climb a little ladder to get to one lol

Union regs are trying really hard to keep up with 24/hr ship maintenance

There are four eight hours shifts in a 24 hour day, three of them function in turn for a third of the day each, and the fourth in management

They don't have titles like night duty, morning shift, so on, cos time is made up here. But they have different focuses and skill sets

Like the equivalent of night duty has an extra cleaner to do deep cleaning, and the engineer is more skilled in maintenance and upkeep than complex flight support

The management shift is the worst for sleep schedule cos you just gotta get up when shit happens

There are half as many beds as there are crew and they share with someone on a different shift

Management shares with night duty and if they have to be up during night duty they just find a different spot to kip during the day

Like I said, union is still figuring it out

We're around Saturn, the union movement is pretty new! This is a source of tension cos most of the government employees aren't unionised

They also actually wear the uniforms, the losers

So I got ahead of myself there, there's three types of crew

Ship function, like engineer, cleaner, cook, pilot, that kind of vibe (mostly unionised, mostly refuse to wear the uniforms)

Government hire, like the gardeners (they prefer botanists but cmon) and chemical engineers figuring out the propulsion system (taking the initiative project very seriously)

The fishermen (the fuck is a uniform I'm paid commission) (that is not true, but they have that vibe)

When they're over the ocean fishing most of the rest of the crew take a weekend

When they're landed to trade fish nearly everyone gets time off

When they're flying the fishermen get time off

There might be some small jobs to do if there's a long period of time with no real work, like if it's four days between fishing jobs the fishermen will do a stocktake count in storage

Or if they're trading keeps them overnight the engineers and cleaners might take the opportunity to clean the airlocks and chutes safely

An eight hour shift is never busy, there's a lot of down time between tasks cos they work every day and need some time off

This means there's often an opportunity to fuck, which has formed most of the forward momentum in the story I'm writing lolll

Also cos the beds are on a roster they kinda have to fuck in public places oh noooo what a shame that I get to add tension to every other blow job

[viric-dreams]

🧍‍♂️ for eleanor

🧍‍♂️— What stats would they provide as a companion? Where would you obtain them?

So this was actually a thing that came up not too long ago. There's a very non-zero chance she might moonlight occasionally as a chaperone for hire. In that case, she'd raise your Watchful and reduce Scandal, at cost to your Persuasive. Check the papers for how to hire this companion.