#Preparing for a UN Interview

[businessabroad]

How to Successfully Interview For a Competency-Based Job #16

Navigating the Maze: Competency-Based Interviews at the UN

Competency-based interviews can be complex, but with the right preparation, they're your chance to shine. Our latest video, "How to Successfully Interview for a Competency-Based Job - UN Jobs #16," dissects the art of effectively communicating your skills in an interview setting.

Learn the STAR method, understand the competencies the UN looks for, and walk through common questions with tailor-made answers. Get a glimpse into the preparation process that could set the stage for a successful career with the United Nations.

#UNJobInterview #CareerPreparation #CompetencyBasedSuccess #UNEmploymentTips

[tenlee-tv]

ten lee mujin announced the week of my 1 year wayversary they did it for me guys 😇

[purplepink-blueberry]

is my school hard or am i just leaving everything to the end of the semester which is now?

[purinfelix]

FELLOW FRANCO LOVERS RISE!!

Ok I’m not good at making requests but I think it would be cute if one of the interviewers wears an Argentina jersey and Franco is blushing and yapping in the media pen (and then he posts about it a million times like his handshake w Lewis)

good journalism ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ - franco colapinto

a/n: YES FRANCO LOVERS JOIN MEE i honestly love writing fics for this flirty little shit pls send more requests like this one eee it was so cute w/c: 922

It's all for the sake of good journalism.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself - and all the other interviewers who were questioning why you were sporting an Argentina kit to a race that was being held in Singapore. Watching, buried in a hoard of other photographers and journalists, the race drew to a close and suddenly the crowd around you sprung into action. As drivers started trickling in, with tired expressions - some happy, others not, you resigned yourself to waiting. It was pretty clear you were only here for one.

He spots you as soon as he enters the media area, even though you're concealed by about a dozen other people. You watch as his eyes light up at the sight of the familiar blue and white fabric and he beelines towards you, ignoring the sound of others calling his name.

"Hello," he says, breathlessly with a beaming smile - you chalk the flush in his cheeks up to having just finished a race.

"Hi!" you spring immediately into interview mode, listing off question after question about the race. He answers them all as earnestly as he can, and the entire time you're watching him with an awe-struck look. The clamour and sound of camera flashes around you are drowned out as the two of you talk, and before you realise it you've forgotten you're conducting an interview and not just having a conversation.

"Well that's all the questions I had prepared, good job out there today, you did amazing!" you say, fully aware that you're gushing at this point but you're relieved when he offers you an earnest smile.

"Nice shirt," he points out, and you realise suddenly how keen he is to keep talking. You laugh, a little shy at being so openly acknowledged.

"I knew you'd like it!"

"Who's on the back?" he asks curiously and you turn around to show him, "Ah, Lionel of course, a woman after my own heart." You chuckle softly as he places a hand over his chest. There's a beat of silence when you honestly think he's about to leave but then he leans in a little closer.

"Blue looks good on you, maybe a Williams shirt next time?" He says it so casually it takes you a while to take in what he's saying - and to realise how boldly he's flirting with you.

"Ah," you let out, though it's more of a gasp than words, "I'll have to talk to your merch department about that."

"I'll be waiting," he beams, giving you a sly little nod before disappearing back into his garage. It's only once he's gone do you realise how sore your cheeks are from smiling non-stop. Letting out a shaky breath, slightly overwhelmed by how well that interaction went, you turn around to snake your way back through the crowd. You try to avoid eye contact with anyone but the other camerapeople only smile at you knowingly, and you can only hope some of them got good enough photos for you to remember this moment by.

It's only once you get back to your hotel room and open up your phone do you realise just how many pictures had been taken of the two of you - and how many of them were far better than 'good enough'. In one the two of you are deep in conversation, your brows furrowed in a frankly un-flattering way, him as perfect as ever. In another, you're both laughing, about what you're not entirely sure, but just looking at the photo makes your heart flutter. Your favourite by far though, is one where you're looking down at your notebook trying desperately to remember the questions you had wanted to ask him. There's a childish pout at your lips that you cringe at - but what makes it your favourite is the look on Franco's face as he watches you, cheeks flushed as his lips curl subtly at the corners.

You don't seem to be alone in this opinion either - at least, that's what you've deduced from the half a dozen times Franco has posted it. Clicking through his stories, you're taken aback by the fact that he posted more about your interaction than him scoring points - the photo of the two of you even becomes the cover of his post dedicated to the weekend. Looking at the post you're not even bothered by the hundreds and hundreds of comments speculating what's going on between you two. Instead, your attention is captured by the caption he's added to it - "A race weekend to remember, for more reasons than one."

It's a little corny, and you let out a soft chuckle as you scroll through the rest of his page shamelessly, though you're sure not to like any of his posts for fear of letting on too much. The two of you spoke once, and if you're being completely honest you're a little embarrassed to still be thinking about him at this moment.

Just as you're about to set your phone down though, it chimes with. a notification that makes your eyes widen - a follow request from none other than the man of the hour. The rational part of you begins questioning how he managed to find your profile or the professional concerns of a journalist and driver following each other. These concerns however do little to slow you down as you race to hit accept because at that moment the only thing you can think about is one thing - that he's thinking of you too.

[coolemmasulivan2]

My Champion

Pairing: Pedri Gonzalez x Reader

Summary: A kiss on TV, after Barça’s victory!

Word count: 1335

Kiss me, out of the bearded barley Nightly, beside the green, green grass Swing, swing, swing the spinning step You'll wear those shoes and I will wear that dress

The final whistle blew, and you couldn’t help but jump out of your seat. Barça had just won the Supercopa de España against Real Madrid. The stadium in Jeddah erupted in cheers, and your heart felt like it might burst with pride.

This wasn’t just any match for you. It was the first one you attended as Pedri’s girlfriend. You couldn’t stop smiling as you watched him on the pitch, celebrating with his team. He had played so well, and all you wanted to do was run onto the field and tell him how proud you were.

But that was out of the question. You were here for work, not as Pedri’s girlfriend. As a journalist, it wouldn’t be very professional to run onto the pitch, no matter how much you wanted to.

Still, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He looked so happy, holding the trophy and grinning with his teammates. You held onto your press badge, reminding yourself to stay focused. Even though you couldn’t celebrate with him right now, you knew you’d get your moment later.

"So, you’re going to interview Raphinha and then maybe Balde, okay?" Your coworker’s voice crackled through the earpiece.

You nodded, even though they couldn’t see you. "Yes. Okay!" You replied, keeping your voice steady.

Everything was set. The mic was firm in your grip, and the camera stood ready in front of you and the buzz of the stadium hummed in the background.

Raphinha stepped forward, his jersey still damp from the match, a wide grin stretched across his face. You held the mic steady and met his gaze with a professional smile.

"¡Raphinha, felicidades por la victoria! How does it feel to take home the Supercopa after such a thrilling match?" (Raphinha, congratulations on the win!)

He laughed, his excitement almost tangible. "It feels incredible! We knew it would be tough, but the team gave everything, and moments like this make it all worth it."

As he spoke, you nodded, keeping your attention on him, but you couldn’t ignore the pull of your peripheral vision. Pedri was standing a few meters away, surrounded by teammates, but you could feel his gaze drifting toward you. Each time you glanced his way—brief, fleeting—he was already looking.

But you stayed composed, your focus fixed on Raphinha. "You mentioned how tough the match was. What do you think made the difference tonight?"

"The second goal, for sure. The penalty!" He said. "After that, it just gave us the energy that we needed. The fans were incredible too. They gave us so much support."

"It was a great performance." You replied with a smile. "Congratulations again!”

"Gracias!" Raphinha said, flashing another grin before heading back toward the group.

As he walked off, Alejandro Balde approached, his wide grin practically mirrored the gleam of the Supercopa trophy behind him. You greeted him with the same warm, professional tone you’d used all night, lifting the mic slightly.

"Alejandro, congratulations on the big win! What does it mean to you to lift this trophy with the team tonight?"

He chuckled, his excitement contagious. "Honestamente, es irreal. I’ve dreamed about moments like this since I was a kid... I’m just so grateful to be part of this team." (Honestly, it’s unreal.)

You nodded, smiling as you prepared your next question, but before you could get the words out, you heard quick footsteps behind you.

"Perdón!" A familiar voice interrupted, and before you could turn fully, Pedri was there, standing between you and Balde. "Un segundo, hermano." Pedri said, glancing apologetically at Balde, who looked surprised but amused, trying not to laugh. (One second, hermano.)

You barely had time to process what was happening before Pedri cupped your face with both hands and kissed you. Right there, in front of the camera, the crowd, and the entire world watching at home.

Gasps rippled through the nearby press and staff, followed by cheers and whistles from his teammates in the background and from the public. For a second, your mind blanked, caught somewhere between shock and the warmth of his lips on yours.

When he pulled back, his eyes locked with yours, his expression soft and unbothered by the scene he’d just caused. "Lo siento, guapa." He said with a small, unapologetic smile. "I couldn’t help it." He said casually, jogging back toward his teammates, who greeted him with cheers and teasing shouts.

Your face burned as you looked back at Balde, who was clearly enjoying every second of the chaos. "Should I still answer, or do we need to cut?" He teased, barely containing his laughter.

Taking a steadying breath, you lifted the mic again, forcing yourself to stay professional. "I--wh--Let’s try that again." You said as the camera was still rolling.

The buzz of the post-match chaos had finally started to die down. Interviews were done, the cameras were off, and the crew was packing up. The Supercopa celebrations, however, were still in full swing on the pitch as players laughed and posed for photos with their families.

You stepped onto the field, the grass soft under your shoes, and scanned the crowd. It didn’t take long to spot him. Pedri was chatting animatedly with his family, his smile was wide and his hair still damp.

As you approached, you couldn’t help but smile. His mom noticed you first, her face lighting up as she waved. "There you are!" She called warmly, as if she’d been waiting for you.

Pedri turned at her voice, his eyes finding yours immediately. His grin softened into something sweeter, and he looked at you like you were the only person on the pitch.

When you reached him, you playfully swatted his arm. "¿De verdad, Pedri?" (Really, Pedri?)

"¿Qué?" He asked, his voice innocent but his expression anything but. (What?)

"You know what!" You shot back, crossing your arms. "What was that back there? You kissed me on national TV! During an interview!"

His family chuckled nearby, clearly amused by the exchange, but Pedri just shrugged, his smile turning sheepish. "I couldn’t help it." He said simply, his voice so soft and genuine that it made your heart skip.

"Couldn’t help it?"

He nodded, stepping a little closer, his free hand brushing yours. "You looked so focused, doing your job... and you were amazing, by the way." His smile grew a little shy as he added: "I don’t know--I just had to."

Before you could retort, his mom spoke up. "Come on, you two, picture time!" She held up her phone, gesturing for both of you to join the family.

"Oh, no, no way." You said, stepping back. "I’ve already had enough attention tonight."

But Pedri reached for your hand, gently tugging you forward. "Come on. They want you in the photo."

"Listen to him!" his mom chimed in, smiling warmly at you. "Eres parte de la familia." (You’re part of the family.)

That made your heart swell, and you couldn’t argue with her sincerity. With a quiet laugh, you let Pedri pull you closer. His mom positioned everyone, and his brother cracked a joke, making you all laugh as the first photo was taken.

Then, just as his mom was about to snap another, Pedri leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. You froze, your face warming as the camera clicked, but when you turned to him, he was already grinning.

"Pedri!" You whispered, trying to sound scandalized but unable to hide the laughter in your voice.

"What?" He teased, slipping an arm around your waist. "I’m just making it memorable."

His mom laughed, shaking her head fondly as she looked at the photo. "Perfect." She said, holding up the phone. "This one’s going in a frame."

You shook your head, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade. Pedri looked at you and squeezed your hand lightly. "¡Te quiero!" He murmured. (I love you!)

And in that moment, surrounded by his family and his quiet confidence, you believed him. "I love you too."

[ffxivtranslations]

Why did Haurchefant have to die? Interview Translation

I translated part of an interview with Yoshi-P and the two main scenario writers of HW, Ishikawa and Oda. It's about Haurchefant's character arc and why he had to be sacrificed. At least Oda tried to save him, bless his heart!

Interviewer: In 2.x, Haurchefant appeared to be a cheerful character, but in 3.0 his role takes a serious turn. What was the reason for this change?

Ishikawa: In the 2.x series I was in charge of his dialogue as the Character Concept designer, but in 2.55 I felt I had properly written down his important points and position in society, so I could hand him over to Oda and Maehiro for 3.0. Because of this I don’t think anything changed about him from the start; how he cares about his friend, or his essence as a knight.

Oda: I agonised over Haurchefant’s fate right until the very end… over and over I suggested plots in which he might somehow survive.

Yoshi-P: Those plots were too contrived; I couldn’t approve them! LOL In depicting this war between humans and dragons, I thought it was wrong to only have the dragons’ side experience loss after loss and not have the humans make any sacrifices. So that’s why I told them to properly decide the fate of every character. The fate of every character should have been decided early in the development phase of Patch 2.3. So Haurchefant’s fate was decided by then too, right?

Oda: Yes, that’s right. That’s why in Patch 2.4 and 2.5, when I wrote all his un-voiced lines, I was already doing so conscious of the fact that he would die later on.

Yoshi-P: Haurchefant is a character that is not just loved by players, but also loved by the development team. But since we decided on the plot twist where he would become the Warrior of Light's shield, we were prepared for the worst. Because of that we were able to write the Patch 2.5 scene, in the Falling Snows, where he reaches out to the Warrior of Light in his time of need. I think that such a long build-up led to the deep emotional impact of Haurchefant’s final moments. In that way, I think the deciding his fate early on was connected to how much importance he had to the story.

Oda: However, seeing how warmly players reacted to him, I feared that having Haurchefant lose his life would cause some players to quit the game forever, and fought desperately against it to the end…

Yoshi-P: He kept giving me re-takes of the plot where Haurchefant is able to come back to life, and eventually I remember getting quite mad at him. At one point, the 3.0 ending ceremony scene had Haurchefant appear in a wheelchair and I yelled “Hey, isn’t that the same as Thancred in ARR?!”. I’m pretty sure I shouted at him LOL

[onlyonetifosi]

Behind the camera: Netflix S7

hellooo beautiful people, how are you? hope you like the episode, comment if you want to be in the taglist

The episode kicks off with a chaotic scene at a Monaco supermarket. You, Charles, and Joris are pushing a cart down the aisles, filling it with essentials (and, in Charles’ case, a ridiculous amount of pasta and cheese).

"Charles, on a littéralement une cuisine pleine de pâtes," you say, eyeing the groceries. (Charles, we literally have a kitchen full of pasta.)

"C'est une semaine importante, je dois manger correctement!" Charles defends, tossing another pack into the cart. (It’s an important week, I need to eat properly!)

Joris smirks, glancing at the overstuffed cart. "Correctement ou comme un homme qui se prépare à l'hibernation?" (Properly or like a man preparing for hibernation?)

Cut to the checkout line. Charles confidently inserts his credit card into the machine, only for the machine to beep. Declined.

Silence.

You and Joris exchange looks before bursting into laughter.

"Leclerc, multimillionaire Ferrari driver, can't pay for his own groceries!" you tease, pulling out your own card. "Sérieusement, c’est quoi ce bordel?" (Seriously, what the hell is this?)

Charles groans, rubbing his temples. "C'est la banque, ils bloquent parfois ma carte quand j'achète trop à Monaco." (It’s the bank, they sometimes block my card when I buy too much in Monaco.)

Joris leans in. "Ou peut-être qu'ils savent que tu dépenses trop." (Or maybe they know you spend too much.)

The cashier chuckles as you hand over your card. "T’inquiète pas, Charlie, je t’enverrai la facture." (Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ll send you the bill.)

Charles rolls his eyes as you and Joris high-five.

Then the episode shows old footage: a young Charles, Y/N and Arthur Leclerc, karting together on a track. Their father, Hervé Leclerc, stands by, smiling. His voice, captured in an old interview, echoes through the scene.

"Ils ont toujours été rapides, mais Y/N aussi. Ils ont la course dans le sang." (They have always been fast, but Y/N too. They have racing in their blood.)

Charles, Yn and their childhood friends are on his yacht.

You and Alexandra are lounging on the deck, sunglasses on, watching the guys fool around and dare each other to jump into the water in the most ridiculous ways possible.

Riccardo stands on the railing. "Cinq euros si je saute en faisant un backflip." (Five euros if I jump with a backflip.)

Charles leans back. "Je te paie dix si tu rates et tombes comme un idiot." (I’ll pay you ten if you fail and fall like an idiot.)

Alex turns to you, shaking her head. "Ils n'ont pas changé depuis l'école, hein?" (They haven’t changed since school, huh?)

You smirk. "Pas du tout. Juste plus d'argent pour faire des conneries." (Not at all. Just more money to do dumb things.)

Riccardo jumps—flailing, belly-flopping straight into the water. The entire yacht erupts in laughter.

Charles claps dramatically. "Dix euros pour la pire tentative de l’histoire." (Ten euros for the worst attempt in history.)

Hugo and Nico grab Riccardo’s towel and refuse to give it back, leaving him shivering.

It’s midweek, and tradition dictates one thing: Charles gets his pre-Monaco GP haircut from Pascale, your maman.

The scene opens inside Charles’ Monaco apartment. He’s seated on a chair, cape around his shoulders, while Pascale meticulously trims his hair. You, meanwhile, are on the floor with Léo, Charles and Alexandra’s tiny dachshund, rubbing his belly.

Alexandra sits beside you, scrolling on her phone as you gossip.

Léo suddenly jumps onto Charles' lap, causing Pascale to huff. "Léo, arrête! Il va finir avec une coupe asymétrique!" (Léo, stop! He’s going to end up with an uneven cut!)

You and Alex burst into laughter as Charles tries to hold Léo still.

Then the episode shows all the Leclerc siblings—Lorenzo, Charles, Y/N, and Arthur—sit together on a Monaco rooftop terrace, sharing a meal.

Lorenzo pours the wine, acting like the responsible older brother he always is.

"C’est fou de penser que cette semaine, tu pourrais enfin gagner à Monaco," he tells Charles. (It’s crazy to think that this week, you could finally win in Monaco.)

Arthur smirks. "Ouais, ou bien il va encore maudire cette course." (Yeah, or he’s going to curse this race again.)

You laugh, nudging Charles. "Si tu maudis encore Monaco, je te déshérite." (If you curse Monaco again, I’m disowning you.)

Charles groans. "Pourquoi vous êtes toujours contre moi?" (Why are you always against me?)

Lorenzo chuckles. "On n’est pas contre toi, on est réalistes." (We’re not against you, we’re just realistic.)

Arthur raises his glass. "Allez, à la chance, parce que tu en auras besoin." (Cheers to luck, because you’re going to need it.)

Charles rolls his eyes but clinks his glass anyway. "À la famille." (To family.)

Then, Netflix transitions into dramatic music—because next comes the real test.

Cut to: Monaco, 2024. The weight of expectation hangs heavy over the weekend. Ferrari has given Charles a car capable of winning, but the question remains—can he finally break the Monaco curse?

"We were born eighteen minutes apart," you say in your Drive to Survive interview. "Charles has always been ahead. He was always ahead in karting… and now, he had the chance to be ahead of history too."

The Ferrari garage is suffocating with tension. You grip Arthur’s hand so tightly it’s cutting off his circulation, but he doesn't care. Your eyes are locked on the screen as Charles navigates the final laps of his home race.

Joris is beside you, pacing, muttering curses under his breath. Alexandra, Charles’ girlfriend, is clutching your arm so hard you think she might leave bruises.

"If something happens now, je jure que je casse tout." Arthur mutters. (I swear I’ll break everything.)

"He’s got this," you whisper, willing it to be true.

Then—the checkered flag.

Silence for a second. Then the Ferrari pit wall erupts. Engineers throw their headsets, people scream, and you—you can’t breathe.

"He did it," Joris says, stunned.

You don’t even think before sprinting towards the pit lane, pushing past Ferrari personnel until you see the monitors displaying the leaderboard: P1 – Charles Leclerc.

He won.

Charles steps out of his car to deafening cheers, his hands shaking as he pulls off his helmet. He looks around, eyes wide with disbelief, before covering his face with both hands.

Netflix cuts to the post-race interviews. Charles stands in front of the cameras, still breathless, the Monegasque flag draped over his shoulders. His voice wavers.

"The last laps… I was thinking about my dad," he says, swallowing hard. "It was our dream."

The camera zooms in as his eyes glisten under the harsh lights.

"The emotions started coming up two laps from the end, and I was struggling to see." He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking his head. "On the last lap, coming out of the tunnel, I couldn’t see anything. I was crying."

You watch from the sidelines, biting your lip to keep from crying yourself. Your mother, Pascale, stands beside you, eyes glassy with emotion.

"Il l’a fait, Maman," whispers Yn. (He did it, maman.)

She nods, voice thick. "Oui. Papa aurait été si fier." (Yes. Papa would have been so proud.)

Charles looks over, eyes finding yours, and in that moment, you know—this isn’t just his victory. It’s yours, Arthur’s, your maman’s. It’s your father’s.

The curse is broken.

Later that night, Monaco is drowning in red. Jimmy’z is packed and half the F1 grid is there

And Charles? Charles is absolutely wasted.

You lean against the bar, watching your twin brother stumble onto the dance floor, a massive Monegasque flag draped over his shoulders like a superhero cape.

Pierre, already tipsy, claps him on the back. "Le Prince de Monaco!" (The Prince of Monaco!)

"Arrête, il va plus passer les portes de Maranello à cause de son ego!" you joke, shaking your head. (Stop, he won’t fit through the doors at Maranello because of his ego!)

Charles, oblivious to everything, wraps an arm around your shoulders, grinning like a madman.

"YN, j’ai gagné," he slurs, his voice thick with emotion. (YN, I won.)

Your heart clenches.

"Je sais, Charles," you whisper, reaching up to push a damp curl from his forehead. (I know, Charles.)

His green eyes shine under the club lights, and suddenly, the music, the people—it all fades away.

"Papa serait fier." (Papa would be proud.)

Charles nods slowly, pressing his forehead to yours for a second, then pulling away when Pierre drags him off for another shot.

Joris slides an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. "He did it."

You glance back at your twin, now dancing like an idiot in the middle of the club, his long-awaited victory finally sinking in.

"Yeah," you murmur, the weight of years lifting from your shoulders. "He did."

And then the credits roll.

Bonus: Singapore GP Dinner At a restaurant in Singapore, with a view of the Marina Bay, the Leclerc family is seated—except Pierre Gasly, who is late.

And tonight, Charles is not in a good mood.

He did badly in qualifying, and it’s written all over his face—arms crossed, jaw clenched, tapping his fork against his plate.

Arthur, already sensing his bad mood, leans over to Y/N and whispers:

"Il va exploser sur quelqu’un, c’est sûr." (He’s going to explode on someone, for sure.)

Y/N sighs, watching Charles angrily flip through the menu. "Ouais, et ce sera Pierre." (Yeah, and it’ll be Pierre.)

Charles? Already ordering the food.

Alexandra looks around. "Euh… on n’attend pas Pierre?" (Uh… aren’t we waiting for Pierre?)

Without even looking up from his phone, Charles answers "Non." (No.)

Arthur snorts. "Pierre est toujours en retard, on sait comment ça finit." (Pierre is always late, we know how this ends.)

Charles doesn’t even hesitate—he calls Pierre.

The camera zooms in on his phone screen:

📞 Calling: Pierre

Pierre picks up on the third ring.

"Ouais, Charlie?" (Yeah, Charlie?)

Charles doesn’t even say hi.

"T’ES OÙ?!" (WHERE ARE YOU?!) he answers angrily

Pierre pauses for a second, like he’s debating whether to lie. Then:

"J’arrive, j’arrive! Deux minutes!" (I’m coming, I’m coming! Two minutes!)

Charles rolls his eyes. "Ça fait vingt minutes que tu dis ça, Calamar." (You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes.)

Pierre laughs nervously. "Je suis littéralement en route." (I’m literally on my way.)

Charles, completely done: "Ouais, bah moi j’attends pas." (Yeah, well, I’m not waiting.)

And with that, he orders the starters.

Fifteen minutes later, the restaurant doors swing open.

Pierre walks in with Kika and his trainer. He immediately spots the table—and Charles, who is already drinking and eating.

Pierre’s face drops.

"T’AS PAS ATTENDU?!" (YOU DIDN’T WAIT?!)

Charles, completely unimpressed, takes another sip of his drink. "J’avais faim." (I was hungry.)

Pierre drops into the seat next to Y/N, still offended.

"T’avais faim ou t’étais juste énervé après ta qualif?" (Were you hungry, or were you just mad after quali?)

Silence.

Arthur snorts. "Il va te tuer." (He’s going to kill you.)

Charles sets down his glass. "Tu veux vraiment me parler de qualifications, Pierre?" (Do you really want to talk to me about qualifying, Pierre?)

Pierre raises his hands defensively. "Okay, okay! Pas besoin de m’agresser." (Okay, okay! No need to attack me.)

Pierre finally starts eating, still shaking his head.

"Tu sais, je suis vraiment blessé, Charlie. J’aurais attendu pour toi." (You know, I’m really hurt, Charlie. I would have waited for you.)

Charles raises an eyebrow. "C’est faux." (That’s false.)

Arthur, smirking, nods. "Mens encore." (Lie again.)

Pierre sighs dramatically, stabbing his fork into his food. "Vous êtes horribles." (You’re all horrible.)

The Netflix camera cuts to Charles, calmly chewing his food, absolutely ignoring Pierre’s whining.

taglist: @love4lando@gcldtom@im-mi@hiireadstuff@celesteblack08@reblog-princess@sunf1ower16@janeholt3@athena-artemis-dorian-gray@minkyungseokie@tesi1

[mclarengf]

un rosso inconfondibile

attending a fashion show (and scoring yourself a date in the process)

[2.1k]

note: in the two week long process of writing this, i have moved into a flat, broken two of my actual nails, and rewatched all the monster high movies. sorry it took so long. <3. (lmk if u want a part two??? im kinda in love w this dynamic i would be so keen to write more x)

“i’m genuinely so thankful to be here, and i can’t wait to see what looks they have to show tonight,” you trail off with a smile and blow a kiss to the camera.

the interviewer seems pleased enough with your response, and thanks you for your time before getting ready for the next famous face on the ferrari-red carpet.

the paparazzi were ravenous, like they always were— camera flashes were going off every second, while questions, directions and compliments were called out to you.

“please, turn this way!”

“who are you most excited to see?”

“give us a little smile!”

“you look gorgeous tonight! who are you wearing?”

at the last question, you laugh and gesture down to your silky black outfit.

“now, why would we be at a ferrari fashion show and not be wearing ferrari?”

your reply garners some laughs from the mob of cameras, and the reporter thanks you for your time.

your publicist gestures for you to head towards the entrance of the venue, allowing you to finally step off the carpet and take a breath.

like you had said earlier, you’re insanely grateful to have been invited to watch ferrari’s newest collection walk down the runway, but the sheer amount of pr you had to do before each of these shows… it could honestly bring about an early grave, you thought.

just as you were about to recollect your thoughts and continue to the door, your dress was tugged back suddenly.

you turned to see who had stepped on your train and found a man crouched down, trying to examine for any damage.

“i’m so sorry,” he said, smoothing out the fabric, seemingly pleased with the quality of it after his mishap.

“i was not looking where i was going. it’s a bad habit of mine, really…”

he had a strong accent- french, maybe— something european, at least. 

“don’t worry about it,” you assured him, “i’m sure no one will notice.”

now standing, he reached out, holding his hand out. you took it, and he bowed his head to kiss it gently, making his introduction to you.

“i’m charles.”

in return, you told charles your name, and that it was very nice to meet him, but your publicist was looking quite displeased with you by the door, where you were meant to be a whole minute ago.

he raised his eyebrows, amused by your story, and followed your gaze to where there was, indeed, a stern looking woman waving you over.

“i’ll see you around, then.”

charles nodded by way of a goodbye and let you leave, chuckling as you made hurried steps towards the entrance. 

your publicist frowned as you came closer, worriedly typing something out on her phone.

“come on, love, you were meant to be in there ages ago! they need to get more photos inside, and you have…” she pulled up her email and checked something quickly, “you have two interviews for ferrari’s social media, and for vogue france.”

“you worry too much,” you replied, shooting a smile at her, “it’s okay, i know what to do. we’ve been here hundred of times before, remember?”

she seemed to calm down a bit after your reassurance, but that did nothing to stop her from giving you a nudge to go inside.

you took some more deep breaths before you walked in, preparing for another round of photo ops.

at least these photographers didn’t yell.

“could we get one of you facing left, please?”

“perfect, and just another with your head turned!”

you weren’t really listening, just letting your body follow their instructions loosely.

just as you were getting into a rhythm with it, the instructions stopped coming. instead, the photographers were focussed on someone who was coming around the corner towards you.

“charles!”

ah. 

you narrowed your eyes at him as he came closer. he was walking with a cocky sort of swagger, but who wouldn’t, you supposed, with all those cameras following him.

“we meet again,” he smiled widely.

“and so soon, too,” you added before you were interrupted by the photographers asking to get a photo of the two of you together.

you both forwent verbal answers, and instead positioned yourselves to be photographed— his arm came up to your waist, and yours behind his back.

“you’re a pretty big deal, huh,” you took the opportunity to ask, in between looking into different camera lenses with him.

he laughed, causing a rapid flurry of camera clicks as he did so.

“i suppose you could say that.”

you opened your mouth to reply, but was cut off by a shout, “please, charles, now by yourself!”

…maybe these guys did yell.

you shot a ‘what can you do’ look to charles as you left the spotlight, taking the photographer’s plea as a rightful cue to leave.

he held his hands together and mouthed a ‘sorry!’ quickly, before turning back to the horde and flashing them a brilliant smile. 

jesus— he could be a toothpaste model or something. 

you made it through your two social media interviews with no hiccups, though the vogue correspondent did ask you the nature of your relationship with charles, as, “you two seemed quite friendly earlier!”

you’d laughed it off and told her the truth, though for some reason, she didn’t seem too convinced.

a loud voice echoed around the room, telling everyone, “ladies, and gentlemen, signore e signori, if you could please take your seats.”

you found yours with ease, being seated in the front row, almost halfway down the runway, to the left of some magazine editor you honestly hadn’t heard of.

you started up a conversation with her about the current fashion season, and what trends she was predicting would hit the mainstream soon. 

you were discussing animal print when a figure sat down into the seat on your left. they felt familiar before you even turned around, and you somehow weren’t surprised to see charles grinning sheepishly at you.

“life is funny how it works, no?” 

you rolled your eyes and excused yourself, turning back to the editor, only to find she was engrossed in a conversation with her other neighbour. resigned, you faced charles again. 

“are you stalking me?” you questioned him.

he understood your sarcasm and laughed, holding his hands up in innocence.

“of course not. it just seems the world wants us to be together.”

he let the words sink in for a moment, then realised his mistake.

“no, i- i didn’t mean together like that, you know? i just meant- erm…”

you try not to laugh at his attempt to explain himself, and place a hand on his knee to stop him from bumbling.

“so how’d you get invited? are you a model or something?” you decided to ask, the question having been on your mind for a while.

he smiled, like he knew something you didn’t, and shook his head.

“nothing like that. i… work with ferrari.”

your lips formed an ‘oh’ of understanding as he kept talking.

“i usually do not come to these things, but i was in town.”

the lights dimmed, ending your conversation before you could reply, but as you turned your attention towards the runway, you felt charles shift towards you and whisper, “i am happy i decided to come. i am here with you,” before moving back as if nothing had happened.

was he flirting with you?

you smiled to yourself, allowing yourself a selfish moment of pride before taking your phone out and recording a video of the first model.

charles didn’t bother you too much for the rest of the show, only leaning over every now and again to share his thoughts on whichever outfit was being walked down the runway. you found yourself agreeing with many of his opinions, and he would smile whenever you told him so.

focussing back on a gorgeous denim set walking past, you caught him in the corner of your eye nodding his head slightly to the music, then pursing his lips and leaning towards you again.

“you look beautiful, by the way,” he murmured softly, “i don’t know what you look like when you’re not at fashion shows, but i’m sure it’s beautiful too.”

oh, he was definitely flirting.

another model walked past, and you took the opportunity to lean over and whisper back in his ear, “i can’t lie and say you’re not pretty handsome too.” 

a slight flush covered his cheeks, though you couldn���t say definitively that it wasn’t because of the scarlet dress strutting past at the moment. then, he was quiet for a while, and you worried you had upset him somehow. 

your fears were alleviated when you felt his body move closer once more. 

“i think we should have a dinner together.”

you turned your head to look at charles in the eyes, to gauge if he was being serious or not. 

he looked serious about it, albeit there was a cheeky smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

with the way he was looking at you so intently, how could you not say yes?

“i’m free tonight, if you are too.”

a smile finally broke out on his face as he nodded enthusiastically. 

“if you let me rush back to my hotel and change after this, you can pick me up at…” you checked the time on your phone quickly, “nine?”

at his insistence, you scribbled down your number onto a scrap piece of paper you'd found in your purse, making him promise to call when he arrived at your hotel. he replied by pressing the paper to his lips, closing his eyes as he kissed it, then tucking it away in a pocket, returning both of your attentions to the runway, though he was sitting much closer to you than he had been before.

the rest of the show seemed to pass twice as quickly, the idea of your date with the handsome man next to you occupying most of your thoughts, although a few pieces you had eyed up on the runway were also on your mind, making you wonder if you could add them to your personal wardrobe afterwards. 

after rocco iannone came out from backstage and thanked everyone for coming, the house lights came on, and a gentle chatter filled the room as the audience bid their goodbyes to each other at the end of the show.

charles offered you his arm, helping you up. no doubt the paparazzi would have a field day with those pictures. you could practically picture the second-rate gossip magazine headlines already.

the two of you navigated your way to the doors, hand in arm the whole way. you exchanged thoughts on the show to each other, telling the other which clothes really caught your attention, or which model surely had a great career ahead of them.

recognising your publicist from earlier, charles dropped you off in front of her, introducing himself when she said hello. 

“we’re going to dinner after this,” you mentioned to her, “so after we get back to the hotel, you can have a well-deserved night off, yeah?”

she waved you off jokingly and, after glancing down at her phone, told you your driver would be pulling up about now.

“i’ll call you when i am there to pick you up, chérie.” charles stepped away from you, kissing your hand again before disappearing into the crowd, presumably to find his team. 

“he’s very charming~” your publicist nudged your shoulder, teasing you. 

you rolled your eyes at her antics and took your arm in hers, leading the both of you outside to find the car.

—

you settled into the rented sprinter van and rested your head on your hand, watching the lights of the city zoom past your window as you drove down the streets of milan.

you snapped out of it when you heard your publicist calling your name. you’d missed what she’d said, so you were left staring at her as she pushed her phone into your face.

it took a second to focus on the bright screen suddenly in your vision. 

what you saw was a photo of charles and you from earlier in the night on vogue italia. 

in the caption, though, was a description of your job and his. 

‘charles leclerc, pilota di formula uno per la scuderia ferrari.’

scuderia ferrari formula one driver. 

his words from before suddenly echoed in your head and you caught yourself grinning at the realisation. you’d assumed he was just a corporate employee, but no— he was one of two drivers upholding the entire ferrari legacy in formula one right now. 

somehow, you were even more excited for your dinner now, and if nothing came of the date, you could at least go home to your friends and laugh about the first time you’d met a formula one driver. biting back another smile, you were already picturing your wardrobe at the hotel, mentally picking out what you should wear. 

[lazysoulwriter]

No In-Between - Paul Mescal.

The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, casting golden hues over the wooden floor and the mess of pillows and blankets scattered around. You lay on your back, arms stretched above your head, staring at the ceiling with a lazy smile. Paul was beside you, propped up on one elbow, tracing slow patterns over the fabric of your oversized hoodie—his hoodie, really, but you had stolen it so long ago that it was basically yours now.

“What are you thinking about?” he murmured, his voice laced with that familiar Irish lilt that always made your stomach flutter.

You turned your head to look at him, the golden light catching in his eyes, making them look impossibly warm. “Nothing important,” you replied, but the truth was, your mind had been a whirlwind of thoughts about him. About you. About this strange, wonderful thing that had been happening between you both.

Friendship had always been the foundation. From childhood, you and Paul had been inseparable. The media loved to romanticize your relationship, painting you as the ever-present best friend, the girl always by his side at premieres, at interviews, in candid paparazzi shots of him grabbing coffee or going for a run. You had laughed about it so many times, scrolling through online articles where people speculated about your status.

For the longest time, you had denied that there was anything more. It had been easy to, back then. But somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. A drunken kiss at a party had turned into stolen moments behind closed doors. Touches that lingered too long, glances that spoke of something deeper. You weren’t just friends anymore, and you weren’t entirely lovers either. It was something in between. Something you didn’t have a name for.

But you knew, deep down, that it was love. It had always been love.

Paul sighed, rolling onto his back, mirroring your position. His hand found yours between the folds of the blanket, fingers lazily playing with yours. “You’re quiet today,” he observed.

You smiled, turning your head toward him again. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you considered whether to say it. It was a joke, really. A casual, offhand remark that could be shrugged off if necessary. But the words burned on your tongue, demanding to be spoken.

“If it were up to you,” you began, your voice light, teasing, “we’d be dating already.”

For a second, silence stretched between you. You almost regretted saying it, your body tensing as you prepared to laugh it off. But then Paul exhaled a quiet chuckle, shifting onto his side to face you fully.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “We would.”

Your breath hitched. You had expected deflection, teasing, maybe even an awkward change of subject. But he had said it so naturally, so easily, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You swallowed, your fingers still intertwined with his. “Oh.”

Paul smiled, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “Surprised?”

“A little,” you admitted. “I mean, I didn’t think—I didn’t know you actually wanted that.”

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Are you serious? Christ, I thought I was being obvious.”

Your brows furrowed, your mind racing through the past few months. The way he kissed you like you were something precious. The way he touched you as if memorizing every inch of you. The way he looked at you, like he was seeing his whole world in front of him.

It had been obvious. You had just been too afraid to believe it.

“So...” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. “What now?”

Paul shifted closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with the gentlest touch. “That depends,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “Do you want it too?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his lips, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you. It wasn’t hurried or frantic; it was soft, deep, full of the unspoken feelings that had been simmering between you for so long. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m tired of pretending.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers tightening around his. “Me too.”

Paul grinned, pressing another kiss to your lips, and in that moment, you knew. There had never been an in-between. There had only ever been this, pulling you toward each other all along.

[businessabroad]

List of Questions used in Competency-Based Interview #17

Decoding Competency-Based Interview Questions for the UN

The questions asked in a UN competency-based interview are not just inquiries—they're a window into your professional soul. Our "List of Questions Used in Competency-Based Interview - UN Jobs #17" video is your cheat sheet to understanding and mastering these probing questions.

From teamwork to leadership, this video breaks down the questions, reveals what interviewers are really looking for, and how to frame your experiences in a way that aligns with the UN's core competencies. It’s time to turn those questions into your stepping stones for success!

#UNCompetencyInterview #JobInterviewQuestions #UNJobHunt #CareerStrategies

[maryleclerc]

𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 — charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: in which after everything, charles and reader end up back together. become a family!

warning: use google translate, english is not my native language. this is the first ending, which mean reader will end up with charles, i’ll post 2nd ending soon. i do not claim any of these images as my own

i know i know, why’s so peaceful? i wanted if reader end up with carlos than i’ll make it more dramatic! so wait for my ending with carlos!!

please if you wanted to be tag in any of my future work, you can reply or dm me! thank you!! 🤍

read part 01, part 02

deuxmoi

3,918,622 likes

deuxmoi Our first image of Y/n and Charles today in NYC together. Taken by a fan today!!

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brianng If they are really back together, i’d be real happy to know that my wishes finally came true

ynscharlesleclerc They’ll always be the best couple of my heart

megancharles She’s ruining other people happiness, she’s the reason why Charles broke up with Meg

charles_leclerc

Liked by yourusername and 4,091,672 others

charles_leclerc I think today is a suitable day to write this article. Just like the rumors these past few weeks, about Y/n and I, I want to confirm that Y/n and I are back together and we are very happy now. We also prepare together to welcome our little angel. Also thank you for all of your concern

tagged: yourusername

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ynusernamefan I am happy for you

charlessgoddess It’s seems like this is their fate, after so many things had happen to both of them, they still find their ways to get back together without even trying

yourusername

Liked by yoursisterusername, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername Sharing all of my favorite saved in my gallery while enjoying few weeks left in my last sem 🤍

tagged: yoursisterusername

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uhbbjorn_ What’s your favorite part of being pregnant Y/n?

⤷ yourusername The most favorite part of being pregnant is when you can feel the baby’s kicking

jenniej__ Have you had any ideas for the baby name yet?

⤷ yourusername Actually me and Charles both like the name Ceres and Agnes, but haven’t will fit her

charles_leclerc with yourusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 6,180,044 others

yourusername Ceres Faye Leclerc decided to come on her own schedule 4 weeks early. Born 12/20 at 20:20 👶🏻🧸 and her papa @charles_leclerc was made it in time.

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arthur_leclerc ❤️ my niece

geeherst Congratulations and blessing! This is so incredible

kathykeeth She’s so little, I can’t 🥹

shhanann Her name feel so like goddess

wired

Liked by charles_leclerc and 4,441,810 others

wired [HIGHLIGHT] Some of the most cutes moment of Autocomplete Interview Couple Edition with Y/n and Charles Leclerc today.

CHARLES: Hi! I’m Charles Leclerc

Y/N: I’m Y/n Y/l/n soon to Y/n Leclerc and today we’re with WIRED Autocomplete Interview

BOTH: Family Edition

Q: Have you ever google yourself?

Y/N: Oh yes I have, only once

CHARLES: I never google myself —

Y/N: Why?

CHARLES: I mean… I don’t know

Y/N: Okay first question, are you ready Charles?

CHARLES: More than ready soon-to-be Mrs. Leclerc

Y/N: [Chuckle] Stop it, first question “Is Y/n Y/l/n single?”— Well guess what, I’m still available

CHARLES: What? No you’re not, you’re mine [Laugh]

Y/N: Okay okay I’m just kidding, so is Y/n single? No, I’m not single and already engage to this gorgeous man sitting next to me

CHARLES: Next up “Is Charles Leclerc nice?”

CHARLES: I don’t know, ask her [pointed at Y/n]

Y/N: Yes he’s the nicest person I’ve ever met

Y/N: “How did Charles and Y/n met?”

CHARLES: Well we met through Y/n mom, like everyone already knows. So it’s was on Christmas Eve and my family just casually having dinner together at this restaurent called and then all of a sudden my mom just point at Y/n whom also sitting with her family and said “Oh my god, Charles ressemble à un ange, va lui parler, Charles” which mean “Charles she look like an angel, go talk to her, Charles” and everything started from there.

Y/N: [Laugh] Yea, I remember that I heard something in French and just right the moment I look up, I saw his face. But there is something I haven’t told you, that when I step into that restaurent I already like really like into you.

CHARLES: Awww I know you do had crush on me baby

CHARLES: Next question is “How many childens do Charles and Y/n have?”

CHARLES: We have a daughter and her name is Ceres Faye Leclerc, she’s my treasure

Y/N: And she’s a spitting image of Charles

Y/N: “How many children do Charles want?”

CHARLES: I’m a family guy you know, I got to say that my ideal is to have 3 kids but —

Y/N: Wow that’s take lots of work to do Charles

CHARLES: But after witnessing what Y/n went through during the birth of Ceres, and all the difficulties that came with it after giving birth, I have reconsidered this. Actually, for me, how many children I want is not as important as whether Y/n wants it or not. After all, the one who gives birth is still Y/n not me, so I always prioritize her choice.

Link in bio for full WIRED Autocomplete Interview with Y/n and Charles Leclerc

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charles_leclerc Thank you WIRED for the best Interview 🙌🙌

yourusername We have so much fun time with WIRED Autocomplete Interview. Thank you WIRED!!🙌

helenaandersson THEY’RE ENGAGE!!!

lulnan One of the best interview WIRED had done so far!!

macharlesitan Never knew Charles could be this sweet

kitt._ I need a man like him in my life 😩

⤷ alexandraandersson Too sad, a man like him on this planet are RARE

( taglist ) @janeholt3 @formulas-bitch @celestialams @aundercover @1655clean @amalialeclerc

[mysticfalls01]

Home

(Ona Batlle x reader)

Growing up in Manchester you couldn’t help but to love football. Football was everywhere in the city.

As much as you loved football you couldn’t see yourself playing the sport however, coming from parents who were doctors you knew how you could be part of that world.

In 2017 you decided to go the States to study physiotherapy with a speciality in sports medicine. You studied in UNC where you worked with the North Carolina Tar Heels.

There you met two British girls who coincidentally also were there, Alessia Russo and Lotte Wubben-Moy. Having other British girls helped you to miss Manchester so much less and you formed an amazing friendship with them.

You made the most of your time there learning new techniques, you used the most updated medical equipment, you worked with many athletes, so you had seen any type of injuries, and you gained experience as a field medic.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In 2020 Alessia, Lotte and you decided to go back to England due to the uncertainty of covid. Lotte signed with Arsenal while Less signed with Manchester United.

Due to Lessi’s recommendation and your great experience working with female athletes Manchester United offered you a job in their medical squad.

When you arrived to the club you made sure to have a one on one meeting with every girl in the team and that’s how you met United’s new incorporation, Ona Batlle.

At the beginning it was quite difficult to understand her because of her accent and her basic English however, the connection with Ona was there.

You found it cute how she tried to explain to you what she was feeling, what part of her body had she injured and how suddenly each time you entered a room she suddenly got red cheeks.

After being in the club for three months Ona asked you out, your relationship was based in love, commitment, communication and comprehension. You guys had similar schedules as you were working for the same club, you understood when she had to back to Spain for national duties and she understood when you had to stay extra time with a patient.

Eventually you started taking Spanish classes, so you could talk with her and her family and it was worth it as her family came to see her for her second derby.

“Mama te quiero presentar a y/n. Ella es la fisioterapeuta en jefe para el club y también es mi novia” Ona couldn’t help to tell her mother with a smile on her face.  (Mom! I wanted to present you to y/n. She works the club’s head physiotherapist and she’s also my girlfriend)

“Mucho gusto señora Batlle, soy y/n! Es un placer conocerla”  (A pleasure to meet you Mrs. Batlle, I’m y/n!)

Ona didnt know that you had started taking Spanish classes

“Mi amor! No sabía que hablabas español”  (My love! I didn’t knew that you spoke Spanish)

“Empecé a aprender por ti y por tú familia mi vida”  (I started to learn it because of you and your family my life)

Ona’s mother couldn’t help but watch the interaction and she saw the heart eyes that her daughter was giving you. Since that moment she knew that you were the one for her daughter.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

After almost three years of dating you knew that Ona was about to take one of the biggest decisions of her career, renewing with MU or going back to Barcelona.

You always knew what option was she going to choose, so ever since  your last trip to Spain to visit her family you started to prepare everything. With the help of her family whom distracted her for a day and with the help of your fellow British friends Lucy and Keira you landed an interview with FC Barcelona.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

May 2023

Ona was nervous she didn’t knew how to tell that she was accepting Barca’s offer. She prepared dinner in your now shared apartment.

When you came back after finishing your job at MU you were surprised to see the table arranged and to see Ona taking the food to the table.

“Mi amor! I’m glad that you are here! Come and sit down”

You sat down and started eating dinner with your girlfriend. After an hour or so Ona got nervous.

“Mi amor, there’s something that I need to tell you”

“What is it baby?” You looked at her with curiosity

“As you know my contract with United will be over after this season and Barca made an offer. I want to accept it”

“Well my love I also have something. Do you remember the day when your mother wanted to spend a day just with you?”

“Yeah, I remember” she said with an uncertain voice

“That day Lucy picked me up and took me to La Ciutat Esportiva. I always knew where your heart was my love. I had an interview with the head of the medical team. For the interview I had to do Frido’s physiotherapy session and I did Jana’s tape. The girls and I clicked immediately, better than I did with United’s girls and latter I learned they had given a positive feedback to Barca. Last week Barca reached out to me ” 

Ona couldn’t be believe what she was hearing.

“So what I’m trying to say my love is that I have an offer from them. I told them that if it was possible for me to finish May with United I would sign with them the same day as you did and they accepted. That’s how sure I was of your answer also, Lessi is moving to London so there’s nothing else that ties me to United”

You took her hands and spoke again. “I know that I grew here in Manchester and I considered it my home. That was until I met you that I realized that home isn’t a place, it is a person”

Ona was fully crying, you knew her so well that you prepared everything to move to Barcelona even before she said yes to the club. Ona knew that this was the moment. She took out the velvet box that was in her pocket and kneeled in one knee.

You realized what was happening, tears started to come out and your hands covered your mouth.

“Mi amor, I had something else prepared but this moment feels right, this feels like us. We’ve been dating for almost three years, you learned Spanish to talk to my family and my family loves you. You became my rock when I moved to England and you are ready to move from club and country because of me. I love you with all my heart, I didn’t believed in soulmates until I met you. I know that many persons will think that we are too young but I don’t care. So y/n l/n will you make me the happiest girl on earth and will you marry me?”

“Yes! Ona I’ll marry you!!”

You didn't knew where life was going to take you and you didn't cared as long as you were with Ona you would always be at home.

[miyakuli]

Some infos from the live interview with the creators of Belfort and Lupin

The chara design for Belfort and Lupin changed a lot and came from many different inspirations. Belfort was supposed to be more brown with a blue collar but it looked a bit too much like Lady from the Lady & the Tramp (which inspired his curly design) so they changed the color tone of his fur and collar. Lupin was supposed to be a dog raised by the servants at first but once again, it was too close to Tramp from Disney xD (B&L being Lady & the Tramp literally lol) so they went for a wolf and for his design there are many inspiration like the movie Balto or even Beastars with Legoshi.

Disney inspired them a lot actually. They took the idea of the relationship with B&L with The Aristocats mostly, but also Kuzco for the humor & of course, Lady and the Tramp for some designs. Also Tanne & Ponne, the sisters, are also inspired by Cinderella's stepsisters ;) there is even a scene in one episode (La Glacière) that was inspired by The Lion King (wildebeests scene)

The idea to put some historical anecdotes at the end of the episode comes from the fact that the writer of the show grew up with show like The Mysterious Cities of Gold that did something similar. And they wanted a show that could be both cute, fun and educational :)

Belfort and Lupin are both teenagers in the show <3

It took them 7 years to create B&L! they wanted the animation to be perfect and put so many details, from the settings (by sketching every little things in Versailles when they visited) to the characters movements. They said at first they hesitated B&L to even touch ("penetrate" if I use the real technical term for 3d animation lol that was funny xD) bcs that would be super complicated but at the end, one of the animator insisted bcs they wanted their relationship to be more sincere and lovely <3

About their relationship, they said there won't be romance between Belfort and Lupin (for the moment) and that was totally open to interpretation ;))) (one of the designer ships them anyway lol). And IF something would happen between them, the creator said he would prefer it to take time and develop slowly bcs they are still young (so we can totally imagine them being bf in the future hehehehe)

Belfort's name is the name of a city in France. Also in his full name, Augustin Proper de Belfort, Prosper is the name of his late father. They said we'll discover Tanne & Ponne full names in the future too ;D

They are optimistic for a season 2 and have already many ideas for it :D they said it would take place around the same time than s1. They would like to show much more sides of Versailles bcs there are so many things they haven't put in the show yet.

They talked about a special episode about Belfort and Lupin first meeting ; it happened in the forest (*v*)

In the upcoming episode "The Big Bad Wolf", there is a wolf named Remus that will appear (and you might have already seen his design here). He will be an adult wolf and it's gonna be the most emotional episode of the season apparently ;v;

They also want to make us cry more with a future episode where Belfort's dad would be mentioned :'o

There is a fox character that they wish to introduce in the future.

The comics of B&L takes place a bit before of the show apparently bcs the sisters don't know about Lupin yet. Few tomes are already in preparation and for those who don't read french, you can buy it with a files that will contain the english translation :D <33

The OST might be available someday on music platform (I WISH)

There will be an event in Versailles in June 7th, 8th and 9th with the broadcast of an episode and some Q&A with the creators and autograph too :))

(s'il y a des français, allez on forme un groupe de fan et on se donne rdv là bas XD)

[minasattic]

“no matter what.”

im nayeon x fem!twice 10th member reader; fluff

warnings: a HINT of angst if you squint, talk of disbandment

w/c: 747

a/n: i don’t like this fic but i’ll post it anyways </3 NOT PROOFREAD !!!!

-

it was saturday, and today was one of the days where all of the girls had an off day. they were rare, so most spent it with eachother, doing fun things around seoul, but a select few, including you, decided to stay at the dorm and rest.

you lounged on your bed, keen on spending your day off rotting in bed. you had scrolled through your phone for hours now, and honestly you were getting kind of bored. you were thinking of going to bother Mina, who had stayed behind, but figured she’d probably tell you to leave so that she could continue playing her game.

so instead, you kept scrolling, mindlessly wandering the internet. that’s until something caught your eye. It was an article on Jeongyeon’s interview with Bazzar earlier that week. You skimmed through the interview, curious to see what the older girl had said.

You stopped when you came across a question asking “Can you believe twice is in its 10th year?”

You felt your heart pang. No, you couldn’t believe that twice was in its tenth year. You couldn’t believe that you had spent ten years with these girls, who used to be strangers to you. it all felt so surreal.

you continued to read, wanting to know what Jeongyeon replied. You felt another pang in your heart reading what she answered. She replied, “How many more albums can we release as twice in the future? We can’t be active as twice forever. Of course, it would be nice if we could, but there will come a time when we each have to walk our own path. It’s not a given that we can prepare an album together like now.”

You set your phone down, getting lost in your thoughts. You hadn’t thought about what it would be like without twice. without your members. you’ve spent every waking hour with them since sixteen, and a world without them feels unreal. but Jeongyeons right, you can’t be twice forever. you’ll have to move on eventually.

just the thought makes you tear up. and in seconds, you have tears running down your face, ugly crying. you grab the tissue box by your bed and try to clean your face up, but failing as the tears continue to stream down your face.

you hear a knock on your door, “y/n-ah, are you okay?” it’s nayeon. she must have heard your wailing.

you sniffle, using all your strength to muster up a reply. “y-yes, nayeon un-unnie” you said through sniffles.

“y/n, you’re clearly not. i’m coming in.” she opens the door, revealing you sitting in your bed, your face red, tissues spewed everywhere, and snot running down your nose. her eyes soften instantly. “oh baby…” she walks over to you, sitting on your bed and pulling you into her embrace. “what’s wrong?” she asks, stroking your hair.

“what are we going to do, unnie…” you mutter. nayeon pulls away, looking at you softly.

“what do you mean?” at that, you start spewing out words. you express how you’re not ready for the future. how you don’t want to grow up. how frightened you are at the fact that it’s already been ten years, when it seemed like only yesterday you all debuted. and how scared you are that you’re going to lose all of them. your best friends.

nayeon looks at you with a pout. she takes your face in her hands and wipes your tears. “it will be okay, y/n-ah.” she says, stroking your hair.

“unnie, i don’t kn-know what i’m going to do without you g-guys..” you say, sobbing.

nayeon sighs. of course she’s thought about disbandment. she wasn’t ready for it either; none of them were. so she tells you what she had been telling herself. “y/n, no matter what happens. no matter what path we choose to take. we are always going to be twice. a silly disbandment won’t break our friendship. we’ll always have eachothers backs, and support each other in whatever we decide to do.”

you nod, hugging her again. she lays down on your bed, putting your head on her chest. “go to sleep, y/n… you’ve had a long day..” you nod, wiping a stray tear.

the two of you sit in silence for a while, before you speak up. “i love you, unnie…” you say, hugging her tighter.

nayeon rubs your back with her hand. “i love you too, y/n.”

you fall asleep, with nayeons comforting embrace assuring you that no matter what life brings you, you’ll always be together.

you’ll always be twice

[encachette]

smart mouth 1

Part 1 of 2.

❣ Professor! Bucky Barnes x F!student

❣ uni au, F! student is in her 20s (she’s meannnnnn to our boy, I’m trying to write an unlikable FMC ok)

❣ cw: this is just the build-up to a pwp ch. 2, mentions of university tenure system (sorry, I’m in academia), political science (derogatory), crackfic

❣ MDNI

❣ Word Count: 8.1 k

❣ Summary: The last year of your university career is spent figuring out your life and bickering with taking out your anger on a the new professor in your department. Completing your degree feels endlessly tedious amongst the pile of bills and low prospects of career advancement. So maybe you let yourself indulge in a little game of catch-and-release with a handsome professor who falls over his own feet trying to keep up with you. But sooner or later the man cracks.

❣ Author’s Note: heavily inspired by a professor I had in an undergrad class on “human rights in the 20th century.” The professor himself was a bit of a fuckwit, but still reluctantly very nice to me against all effort on my part. I just wanted to make him scream.

I honestly won’t ever watch superhero movies but I thought Sebastian Stan’s public personality is quite himbo-ish if not a bit shallow, so he was kind of perfect for this piece. (Sorry to his fans, but ain’t no way that man has read Marcus Aurelius. His copy of the book in that GQ interview advertisement had a perfectly un-cracked spine.)

smart mouth, part 1.

“Miss, would you mind taking those out of your ears, please?”

Dr. Barnes mimed at you with a tight-lipped smile, forefingers and thumbs of each hand plucking out wired phantom earphones. You look up him, cocking an eyebrow and trying not to give a smirk — too early in the class to start challenging the doofus — and repeat his motions back to him, making a show of rolling the wires around your slender fingers before shoving them into your jacket pocket. No need to start today’s little sparring session over such a petty attempt to annoy you.

There would be countless errors in his pedagogy or lecture for you to pick at during the course of the hour, no need to tear into him quite yet.

You pull out your notebook and pen, letting out a loud yawn before leaning back in your seat and hiking your feet up on the seat next to you. You’re front and center, your usual spot in every course. At the computer, Dr. Barnes was fumbling around, trying to pull up another one of his bland presentations that would inevitably regurgitate the reading material. You sigh, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head, scanning him as he’s trying to remember his password to his Google Drive.

Begrudgingly, you allow yourself to notice how handsome he was; especially so in today’s sky button down and perfectly tailored slacks. The sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, exposing a few veins snaking up his forearm before hiding again under a bunch of white fabric at the crook of his elbow. You follow along the hard lines, eyes dragging up Dr. Barnes’ muscular form and to his face — that creeping shadow from one or two missed days of shaving, angular lines framing downturned, pouty lips. You wanted to bite into them and see the blood rush to the surface.

“Alright gang, we’re up and running. I hope you all finished the book and the accompanying article about…” You tune him out, reviewing in your head the reading material and finding logical flaws with the arguments, preparing to play with Dr. Barnes a bit as he makes his way through his lesson plan.

Today was a particularly irritating day. Your boss at your part-time nonprofit job spent too much time berating you about incorrectly formatted documents, and you sat in on one too many meetings that should have been one email. Plus, you had a stack of reading you had to do for your lectures this week — for classes that actually nurtured your intellectual curiosity. Running on three cups of coffee, your meds, and a spiteful attitude (you had forgone breakfast in exchange for an extra five minutes of sleep this morning), you had skulked into the humanities building and jerkily settled into your seat without your usual patience. In retrospect, maybe this was why you were more ruthless than usual today. Unfair, if you really thought about it.

Dr. Barnes was a perfectly nice guy, when you were feeling generous. Not particularly bright, but still a hard worker who seemed to like teaching; rigorous intellectual interrogation wasn’t a prerequisite for a PhD, evidently. Armed with a travel mug of tea and that stupid leather messenger bag, he was always exactly five minutes early to class, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to prostrate in front of dimwitted little college students in exchange for the raving course evaluations necessary for tenure promotion. He was overeager, if you were totally honest.

Today, his tendency to prolong out his lecture — lingering on obvious concepts that any high school half wit would have understood — was grating on your last nerve. That slow voice he uses to read verbatim from his presentation slides (a sign of insecurity, in your eyes, that an alleged expert needed notes to prompt his lectures) to the class reminded you of the way adults spoke to you when you were five, shooing you away so you wouldn’t insert yourself into their adult conversations.

You’re leaning back in your chair, feet up on the seat next to you, scribbling a few chicken scratches of notes you have no intention of revisiting when you catch an opening in his lecture to interject. Perfect.

“And so, several scholars in the field have argued that practices in these countries have been unable to achieve the same standard of human rights that we find here in the United States,” Dr. Barnes finishes reading off of his lecture slides and aims a bright, toothy smile at the class. “Any questions before we get to discussion of the material?”

Your hand and a corner of your mouth shoot straight up, smirk deepening when Dr. Barnes’ eyes sweep over the class before reluctantly calling on you. You can almost hear his silent prayer, begging for any other student in the class to speak. You feel that beginning sparkling sense of fated victory bloom when he calls your name.

“So, these scholars…” you begin, voice saccharine and playful, “what methodologies did they use to get to that conclusion?” You start easy, asking a question you know he can’t answer, like circling around your prey pretending to decide whether to go in for the kill.

“Uh, well. I’m sure they used comparative methods and used the United States as a control,” he says, so unsure. Your eyes positively gleam at the opening he’s left for you.

“You’re sure, Dr. Barnes? So you’re saying that the United States gets to define ‘human rights’ in these studies?”

“Yes, that’s explicitly in the lecture today,” he says. Aha. He thinks he can rely on his little notes to save him. Too confident.

“So the United States should be the final arbiter of ‘human rights’ in the international political stage, is that what your lecture is arguing?” Fingers formed in air quotes, you’re practically simpering at this point, staring at his expression — he was too satisfied and sure that he had averted a land mine.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a stifled chortle, which seems to have an unnerving effect on Dr. Barnes. You make a note of how his shoulders have a tendency to tense upward when he’s defensive, when he’s faced with a challenge. So, with pure delight in your eyes as you raise an eyebrow, you challenge him to do something. Anything.

He clears his throat before saying your name, real nervous and slow, gravelly. Almost sexy in how pitiful it was. But you continue to speak, steamrolling right over his short-lived moment,

“Because the United States is famously really good at upholding human rights, right Dr. Barnes?” You relish in that little indignant flash across his baby blues, satisfaction dancing through your body the sight of your professor, squirming under your gaze. You made him squirm, someone who was ostensibly a figure of authority over you; some idiot who, by the skin of his teeth, might be a passable researcher but in no way possessed the chops necessary to be a good teacher.

It was cute, the few false starts Dr. Barnes stuttered through before fake laughing — nervous, pink-tinged cheeks curving upward. You almost wanted to flush yourself, a bit too focused on the scruff of his shadow, wondering what it’d be like for it to drag against your skin.

You blink that image out of your head, poised and ready to give your final contribution to the discussion,

“Weird that this is a lecture about the United States’ role in global politics and not a single reading about imperialism was assigned. Pedagogically irresponsible, if you ask me.” You bless him with your brightest smile, uncrossing your legs and crossing them again in opposite order — the sarcasm and smugness practically drips from your gaze. Dr. Barnes’ eyes flash indignantly, but you don’t miss that swift glance down toward your thighs, exposed under the skimpy hemline of your miniskirt.

The sound of laptops shutting and shuffling zippers and paper draws the both of you out of your staring contest.

Dr. Barnes clears his throat again, running his metal hand through his hair and pushing a few loose locks back from his forehead. Your bratty little demeanor remains undisturbed, and you think maybe Dr. Barnes is holding your gaze just a smidge too long before he tears away from you and back into his surroundings.

“Don’t forget to schedule your one-on-one office hour with me so I can approve your final paper research topics. Instructions are on the syllabus!” His last few words are drowned out by the hubbub of chairs screeching against the linoleum and students filling out the door.

Dr. Barnes turns toward you as you’re shoving your notebook into your bag, his handsome face shadowed in a scowl so childish you almost want to reach out and pinch his cheeks. Almost.

“That was extremely disrespectful conduct, Miss —“

“Hey Barnes, you got a minute?” Dr. Barnes’ fuming was abruptly cut off by a cheery masculine voice. You both turn to see Dr. Rogers — one of these days you’ll be able to snag a seat in his research class.

“Stark is asking everyone in the Department to turn in their syllabi for next semester by end-of-business today,” he continues, “Need you to look over my reading list, Buck.” Dr. Rogers stops for a second, clocking that you’re still in the room and clearing his throat, sheepishly correcting himself,

“I meant Dr. Stark; don’t tell him I forgot the ‘doctor’ part, he’s insufferable,” Dr. Rogers speaks to you, slightly nervous chuckle escaping as he offers you a good-natured smile. You make a gesture of zipping your lips, returning Dr. Rogers’ smile as you turn to leave.

Dr. Barnes looks between you and Dr. Rogers before calling your name again.

Hm. Stern, as if he were about to reprimand you.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Dr. Barnes glares at you, clearly loathing that smug look you’ve schooled yourself into maintaining. You make a show out of shoving your earphones in and paying attention to your phone instead of him, happily aware that his eyes were boring into your skull as you turn on your heel and strut out of the classroom.

Flippantly, you glance back through the door, a false little smile lighting up your face as you utter a phrase you know won’t do anything but rile up your professor,

“See ya later, Barnes.”

If the academic utopia is meritocracy, you’ll eat your shorts.

✶

To: jbbarnes@mcu.edu

From: waris_aracket@mcu.edu

Subject: Meeting re: research topic approval

Hi Dr. Barnes,

Can I stop by your office hours next Monday to talk about my research paper topic?

Thanks.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

To: waris_aracket@mcu.edu

From: jbbarnes@mcu.edu

Subject: re: Meeting re: research topic approval

Yes, please stop by on Monday.

Thunderbolt Hall, Room 616.

JBB

✶

You can’t help but snort as you close out of your email app on your phone, a bit taken aback by the bluntness of Dr. Barnes’ response to you. Half of the time, the man couldn’t stammer out two coherent sentences to answer your questions. The other half, his answers, delivered in clipped tones, were so cookie-cutter and shallow that you’d inevitably be left a little bored. Never were his responses so blunt.

Sure, maybe you were tiptoeing on that line between childish iconoclasm and outright insolence, but really, Dr. Barnes was an academic. He should be grateful that you were there to keep things interesting. At least your questions were generative for discussion!

Not that you cared, but did you push him too far during the last lecture?

Whatever.

Shoving your phone into your jacket pocket, you pack up your supplies and stumble from around the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, back aching from hunching over your books for the last two hours. Peter Parker is rounding the corner and bounding toward you as you hike your bag up your shoulder, two to-go cups in his hands. One for you, one for him. Thank God for that kid.

“Hey, Parker,” you relieve him of one of the coffees, glad you didn’t have to waste time picking up a source of caffeine before your next shift at work. “What’s going on?”

“Hiya. Locking in before my date with MJ later,” he takes a sip of his own coffee before slinging his backpack onto the desk and occupying the seat you just vacated — you would have complained that someone was using your sacred library work alcove if it were anyone other than Peter.

“Godspeed, buddy. Tell MJ I said ‘hi’ and that I’ll see her for Book Club next week.” You give Peter a goofy salute, stern face struggling to contain a smile, before making your way through the labyrinthine library stacks toward the more populated work areas in the front of the building.

✶

Bucky Barnes is spending his usual Tuesday afternoon deep in the stacks of the social sciences library, cobbling together research for the manuscript he was working on. Piles and piles of dusty leather-bound books surrounded his work station, which rudely occupied an entire table that could have sat several other library patrons.

That day was particularly irritating. Nothing felt right. The deadline for a draft of an article was looming large, and the pressure to publish as often and as much as possible was slowly closing in on him. Helping Steve formulate two undergrad syllabi proved to be a several hour-long endeavor, so Bucky lost an entire morning that he planned on devoting to catching up on his reading. Too many papers to grade, too many faculty meetings to attend, too many articles to review: Bucky was on the brink of burn out.

Despite the organized chaos that was his life as an untenured academic, a significant chunk of that day’s irritation can be attributed to that fucking smart mouth girl in his first lecture of the day. He’d dealt with his fair share of knuckleheads throughout his few years as a young professor, always with an open mind and a kind shoulder — qualities that he felt were essential for a good educator to possess. But you, he pictured you in his head with a sneer.

It was always something with you —

“Actually, that’s the wrong year, Dr. Barnes,” or

“You don’t sound so sure about that, Dr. Barnes,” or

“Dr. Barnes, are you sure that’s how you want to structure the lecture today?” Of course he was fucking sure. He’d been teaching this course for years and his teaching evaluations were top-notch, no thanks to you and your attempts to shake his confidence. Where the fuck did you get off on questioning his authority?

Bucky had spent maybe the first few weeks of the semester mulling over what he had possibly done to provoke you into being such a thorn in his side.

He supposed the first incident happened when he made the mistake of giving you a 98% on a paper and you had decided to grade grub him into oblivion. He thinks about that moment with a derisive snort. Little Miss Overachiever. Bursting into his office, absolutely incensed that a — and this is verbatim — “second round draft pick hire” had the gall to give you anything less than a 100%, the stones to ruin her perfect record.

If he were being perfectly honest, you were much more intelligent than your peers, and part of him understood that your behavior stemmed from boredom. University hadn’t been particularly challenging for you and it seemed to him that you were fed up with it. Figuring out how to fulfill every student’s needs in the classroom tended to be easy for him — his course evals were almost always glowing with praise for his pedagogy. But you. He just couldn’t figure out how to channel all of your spite into something intellectually productive, not only for the sake of peace in his classroom but because he (quite begrudgingly) wanted you to feel like you learned something. That was his fucking job, for fuck’s sake.

Bucky shakes his head, as if his brain were a goddamn etch-a-sketch and he could erase the image of you, sitting so pretty with that petulant smirk that seemed glued to your face. Without fail, always front-and-center. Ready to taunt him, make him flustered, like he wasn’t good enough to be your academic superior. With a deep sigh and a frustration that didn’t seem to dissipate no matter what he did, Bucky tries to knuckle down to finish his task in the library. He would not let some tiny little know-it-all distract him from his work. A know-it-all with a pretty face.

No. Focus, Barnes…

Bucky had started off that day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having completed his departmental duties for the week. He even had the time to edit both his and Steve’s syllabi for the course offerings next semester. His house was spic and span, not a spec of dust or a cat hair out of place — no thanks to Alpine. (Bucky loved that little fleabag to bits but goddamn did she shed like it was her full-time job.) The quiet of his morning routine was perfectly routinized to prep him for the bustle of the day. It was almost ritualistic, the warmth of his coffee mug — “Professor of the Year, 2020” garishly printed in university colors — and an apple as he reads through the queue of journal articles he’s behind on editing. Alpine would undoubtedly be inhaling her food (top of the line, grain-free, high protein, expensive cat food) after screaming bloody murder because her kibble landed in her dish at 7:01 instead of 7:00 am on the dot. After breakfast, Bucky lets Alpine go outside in the yard to chase around the critters in his herb garden, which he admitted was wilting at a faster pace than he’d like. Every so often Alpine would up look at him while he flipped through his textbooks, bright eyes blinking at him slowly as he sat on his porch with his one allotted cigarette of the day.

That morning had proceeded like every other morning, calm and restorative. Nothing was out of place, and Bucky was feeling pretty confident in himself that day. Finally. The stress of working toward tenure was wrapping itself around him like a vice, a near-constant suffocation until recently. Bucky thought he was getting a handle on his career, surefooted in his future at such a prestigious research university.

That is, until the venomous game you insisted on playing with him in every lecture finally knocked him off kilter.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

“Everyone read the assigned text for this week, correct?”

A weak mix of murmurs and ‘yes’s answered his question as an incessant noise started to permeate through the classroom.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

Dr. Bucky Barnes’ bright blues, followed the source of the tapping, up the slender hand of its owner before loudly clearing his throat, as was his wont, though he quite hated that habit of his.

“Great, can someone briefly summarize the author’s argument so we’re all on the same page?”

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Perfectly polished nails wrapped around a pencil as its eraser end collided again and again onto the desk. Bucky’s quick to glare at you this time, one eye twitching as he called on some overeager student whose hand shot up immediately.

“Well, Habermas’ idea of the public sphere…”

You raise your eyebrows, but you don’t challenge him, placing your pencil down instead of tapping it harder. A-ha. Victory, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t quite understand why in that moment, but the thought of  that small, ever-so-slight advantage he had over you in today’s game sent a burst of warmth through his chest.

Overeager Try Hard pulls Bucky from his slight victory, and he trains his attention on the kid again.

“…and so liberal regimes tend to emphasize intellectual exchange in the public sphere as a basis for the educated voter.” Listening to this kid was such a fucking effort today, but Bucky forces a brighter demeanor,

“Yes, that’s correct —“ Bucky is cut off by a loud snort, much earlier than he expected. His eyes shoot straight toward you, as if he was willing you to combust in your seat. All you can do is roll your eyes at him, like a fucking child, he thinks. He almost bares his teeth when you dismissively mutter,

“Oh, please.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for about three seconds, desperate to keep his slender grasp on his self-control, before he draws out your name and practically snarls,

“Do you have something to say? Or can we both be adults and have a discussion without your attitude?”

A few mocking “ooh, she’s in trouble” ring out from the rest of your classmates, a low sniggering coming from Try Hard behind you. Bucky almost felt like he was winning — the teasing from your classmates, the brief shock at his assertiveness before your face breaks out into such a bright smile.

To Bucky’s great dismay, that mischievous, evil grin didn’t look anything like a conciliatory “You’re right, Dr. Barnes, I’m so sorry and I’ll never undermine you in my tight little skirts again” kind of smile. No, it was a “You’re in for it now, Barnes,” kind of grin, one that sent shivers up his spine in a way that left him almost… excited? Desperate for you to keep responding to him?

You only look at him, maintaining eye contact that felt much too intense for a lesson about what’s-his-philosopher-face and abstract political theory. Bucky swears he feels the tingles in his spine shoot straight to his heart when you respond in the most unexpected way: you back down.

“Aw, I’m sorry, Dr. Barnes.” That saccharine sweet voice, infused with the most malice he’d heard from you yet; and he almost short circuits when you push your bottom lip out into a pout. “Please, continue the lesson.”

What, no jab about his intellect? No undermining fucking snobby comments about his teaching methods? Bucky didn’t know how to respond, so he moved forward. “Just keep going, Barnes. Class is almost over,” he chides himself.

“Right. So,” Fuck. Stop stuttering, Barnes. “As we were discussing, Habermas’ ideas —“

Tap. TAP. Tap. TAP.

Bucky looks down at you again, no pencil in hand this time so his eyes travel down to the source of the noise. You don’t miss the way they’re caught on the skin left uncovered by your skirt, a sudden rush of heat flowing through your chest when your professor’s eyes slink down your legs toward the source of his annoyance. When Bucky’s eyes land on your boots, one of them tippy-tippy-tapping away in a  deliberate attempt to make him go insane.

“Are you kidding me, right now, Ms. LN!?” Bucky blurts out at you, clipped tone threatening to burst into something louder, more powerful in impact because you have needled him one too many times. The sheer delight in your eyes doesn’t do anything but completely infuriate him.

“Oh ho ho! Look who’s finally developed a backbone,” you actually jeer at him. That domineering little smirk that he’s become so familiar with. You stop your tapping, leaning back and folding your arms across your chest. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your chest is pushed against your arms, making them look bigger, big enough to fit into the palm of his hand, maybe. Fucking God, Barnes. Focus.

“You’re way out of line today,” Bucky starts, ready to tear you a new one, let you know how fucking irritating it is to have a know-it-all in a course that he spent so much time, so much meticulous attention into developing.

“I’ll step back in line when you can teach, Barnes,” you scoff. You actually fucking scoff. And Bucky is seeing too much red to pay any attention to the taunting and chittering surrounding the two of you. And maybe, (just maybe) Bucky would grow to regret the words that spilled, unrestrained and furious as he slammed down his pile of lecture notes on the table:

“Listen, you and your smart mouth have been nothing but disrespectful to me and your classmates every single day of this semester. If you don’t like my teaching style, drop the class.”

“This course is required for my major, Dr. Barnes,” you state, too smooth, derisiveness barely concealing a deeper anger. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be wasting my time listening to an ‘academic’ so clearly devoid of intellectual depth.”

Bucky swears he feels both of his eyes twitch as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, every drop of will he had channeled into remaining civilized. ‘She’s just a student. Don’t say anything you’ll regret,’ he breathes to himself, over and over.  The air quotes you placed around “academic” were too far.

Before Bucky could figure out the most civilized, but strict response, you stand up and turn on your heel, careful to tap your boots as annoyingly as possible as you leave in the middle of the lecture. You stop by the exit, turning around and calling over your shoulder to Bucky, again in that deceptively sweet voice, “Whatever, Dr. Barnes, see you in your office hours.”

In a move that was nothing short of uncool, Bucky calls after you, lacing as much menace as possible, as if he was issuing an ominous warning: “Fine! See you then. We’ll be discussing your unruly behavior, Miss LN.” You return nothing but a simpering smirk, fingers wiggling in a facetious wave that boils Bucky’s blood.

He does everything he can to ignore how shiny your hair is as you turn to leave, short skirt hiking up that much further as you tap, tap, tap down the hall.

˚̣̣̣ ꒷︶†︶꒷˚̣̣̣︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶˚̣̣̣꒷︶†︶꒷ ˚̣̣̣

Even the quiet of the library, with its warm wood and cozy chairs, couldn’t soothe his mood. Bucky decides he needs a break, maybe a cup of coffee to wipe the mishap of today’s lecture from his brain. Maybe he’ll go down to the library café on the first floor and see if they had any of those blueberry muffins he liked so much. He stands up and drags one of the large leather armchairs near him closer to the large, arched windows. A hot cup of coffee and his books next to the window. Surely that’ll return him to some kind of equilibrium.

Bucky sighs and gives a yawn, arms up as he’s stretching out his back before he makes his way through the maze of shelves lined with rich leather-bound tomes, each in its rightful place. He lets that thought calm him. Everything is where it should be in the library. No nagging smart ass student. No irritating boss, because Dr. Stark would rather spend time schmoozing with department donors than in a classroom. No distractions — just Bucky and his stack of books, ready to be digested and organized into coherent research.  Nothing out of place in his library until he runs into you, that is. As Bucky rounds the corner toward the elevator, a flash of long hair and a familiar short skirt stops him in his tracks.

He pauses for a second before stepping behind the nearest immediate shelf, able to see you and Peter without being observed himself. Bucky doesn’t really process it in that moment, but a tug of adrenaline sends his heart rate up as he watches Peter hand you a cup of coffee. Your face — annoyingly pretty, Bucky thinks — lit up gratitude as your hands grab for the warmth of the cup. Peter leans in, surely too close for propriety’s sake, to hear you better as the last few whispers elicit a chuckle from him. He watches you give a stupid salute to Peter, and a strange, dark heat bubbling through him and tightening his chest.

That day, head hunched over a few archival parchment documents, all that pranced through through his brain were you and your little attitude and little fucking skirt, and the fact that you had picked the wrong fucking day to antagonize him.

Hours later when he retraced the events of the day before bed, Bucky still really couldn’t explain why he stopped so abruptly, why seeing you with that Parker kid was so frustrating for him.

✶

It’s fucking early. Too fucking early on a Monday for you to be dragging yourself out of bed to make your appointment with Dr. Barnes. Usually you wouldn’t bother getting out of bed before 11 AM, but today was a stacked day: meeting with Barnes, work, then a few hours in the library to finish a few assignments. First on the agenda: getting Dr. Barnes’ office hours appointment out of the fucking way.

Of course, you were aware that you were in for a rather unpleasant conversation with Barnes, but you knew that it was bound to come sooner or later. Your behavior wasn’t exactly exemplary of a bright student on track to attending an R1 research graduate program next year. Oh on the contrary, you recognized that your behavior wasn’t much of a deviation from that of a petulant child who had missed her afternoon nap — grouchy, mean, and desperate for calm. But you couldn’t help it. Every time Barnes wanted to explain something (something you already knew, most likely), he dragged out his words like you were actually four fucking years old, like you were just learning such big words and couldn’t connect ideas together with your own, undeveloped brain. Worse than the over-explaining, you supposed that his worst crime was that you had learned absolutely nothing from him throughout the semester. You didn’t feel intellectually challenged. In a course you PAID TUITION for, no less. It was completely unfair.

So, if he treated you like you were a dumb kid, then you’d make it as unpleasant for him as possible. He made it so easy to argue with him. Often wrong, always timid and slow to rebuke — quite honestly, sometimes you thought that you were doing him a service, pushing him into becoming a better teacher. Forcing him to prove his arguments rather than regurgitating outdated research that had no business being taught in the 21st century.

Obviously, this effort was to no avail.

The chill of autumn seeped into the brick walls of your tiny apartment, kicking on the creaky radiator that sometimes disturbed your sleep with its ghostly noises. Usually, the sounds and smells of your routine, the slowness of the morning, were enough to calm you: the burbling and snap of the electric kettle, fragrant coffee with a hazelnut creamer, your little mackerel tabby, Friday, mewing at you for her breakfast.

“Hi, baby,” you coo at her, all nine pounds of terror weaving between your ankles, “Momma’s gotta be out for the whole day today so you be good.” You scratch her one last time under her chin and pour kibble into her bowl, refreshing her water before you mentally prepare for the gruel of the work day. “Don’t try to chew through the treat bag again or we’ll have a problem.”

It was sluggish, the pace at which you pull on your clothes, guided by the weather app on your phone. With perfunctory, sharp motions, you yank on your knitted tights, skirt, and sweater, the second-hand cashmere a tiny comfort to you as you lock up and trudge to the bus stop, the weight of your school bag exacerbating your misery and irritation as your make your way to Thunderbolt Hall.

Earbuds blasted music through your ears, sunglasses blocking your stare. The scarf you’ve pulled close around your nose and mouth to keep in the warmth swishing in the air as you stomped through the university commons. Any excuse to avoid social interaction this early in the morning. Music gave you an excuse to keep walking, anyone stopping to greet you automatically assuming that you couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them, or didn’t want to be bothered. Your sensory-deprivation contraption, you think, amused as you trekked toward Dr. Barnes’ office.

✶

Dr. Bucky Barnes hears the tap of your boots before he sees you. He’d been dreading this meeting, unsure of how you’d react to him reprimanding you for your behavior. He was determined to remain civilized today. Last lecture was nothing more than a student getting to him and him losing his cool. It was unprofessional. It felt fucking good, but unprofessional, nevertheless. And Bucky was nothing if not professional.

Nested at the end of the hall on the fourth floor of an old building foisted aside to be used by underfunded humanities departments, Bucky’s office was lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of the sun streaming in from two wide bay windows. Surrounded by furniture of dark wood, a cozy living room setup sat in front of the fireplace, which would be put to use as the northeast winter arrives in full force. Bucky tried hard to make it comfortable, bringing in a blanket and a few photos that he framed and displayed on the mantle. One of him and Steve the day they both graduate from their PhD programs. A photo of Bucky with a tight smile while shaking Dr. Stark’s hands, taken against his will on the day of his “welcome” party that the department secretary insisted was earmarked in the budget.

In the corner, a coffee machine whirred as it made his usual second cup of morning coffee. Bucky scoots in his fancy leather chair over to retrieve his mug, sipping on it just as he hears your knuckles wrap on his office door.

He waits a second, placing his mug down on a coaster before arranging himself behind his desk, ready to be the responsible adult between the two of you. He has his hands around his coffee mug, the ceramic warming his hands, and clears his throat one last time,

“Come in.” He watches the knob turn before your head pokes in, looking left and right before stepping in, leaving the door ajar. You’re stone faced, making your way slowly to the seat directly in front of Bucky’s desk and facing him. Bucky notices your skirt… barely catching his disappointment when he sees that your legs are covered in cable-knit tights. God damn, focus, Barnes. You cross, and uncross your legs, fidgeting with your bag in your lap, and raise an eyebrow at him.

He doesn’t respond, but just continues to stare at you, challenging you with an arch of a brow. You can make the first move today. He wants to know which way you’re headed.

“Well, Dr. Barnes,” you sigh, “we have a laundry list of shit to get through on the agenda, so where do you want to start?”

He snorts, amused and unable to conceal it, so he smirks and just says,

“Why not the easiest task? Run your research paper idea by me first.” Just as he couldn’t conceal the fact that he found you amusing, you couldn’t hide your surprise at his choice. But you quickly school yourself into a stony face once again.

“Sure. I’m thinking of juggling several ideas in my paper...” you explain as you pull out your notebook, flipping a few pages before turning to a sheet lined with pretty, swooping handwriting. Bucky notices the neatness with each flare of your pen, how organized you are and how it tickles something in his brain when he sees your long fingers wrap around a pen.

“…hello?” You snap a finger in front of Bucky’s face, shocking him out of his daze. Shit, what did she say?

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Bucky lies, hurriedly trying to get a grip on himself. He was so determined to be in control of the conversation. “Your idea is good. No notes.” 

Your face wrinkles, confused and a little frustrated. That pouty lip pushes out a bit, just the way Bucky liked to stare at sometimes when he caught you zoning out in class. Oops. Wrong thing to say, Bucky winces.

“That’s it?” You spat out your words with incredulity, vaguely aware that you had crossed a line somewhere and giving over to your intuition, you tense; ever so slightly, but enough for Bucky to feel his eyes flash in defiance.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says as his brows knit together, crossing his leg to rest one ankle on the opposite knee; he can still salvage the situation. But what the fuck would he say? “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to a word you were saying, I was too fixated on your fingers and what they could be touching?” The thought of it was enough to make him blush.

“I mean, you have no suggestions at all as to how I can improve my research topic?” Okay. Don’t panic, Barnes. Double down. Just double down.

“I think it’s brilliant, actually,”

“Figures.” You scoff, murmuring under your breath, and by this point, Bucky knows that he’s completely lost control of the situation.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Figures that you’d have nothing useful to say. Thanks for the meeting anyway.” You look at your watch before adding, all lofty and slow, “I have somewhere to be.”

You’re spinning on the heel of your boots — much too smug for someone dangerously close to receiving a referral to the Student Conduct Office — before you stop in your tracks at Bucky’s next command.

“No,” he spits out, “We have one more thing to discuss.” He’ll be damned if he let you out of this classroom without some acknowledgment that you were a pain in his ass.

“And what would that be?” you whirl around, quiet, frustrated, and a little taken aback by Bucky’s harsh tone.

“Don’t start,” he commands. You notice his upper arms, muscular, veiny, flex as he grips the arms of his office chair.

“What, you want me to apologize to you? You want me to say ‘sorry’ to the big man whose ego can’t take a little bruising?”  you jab, but the confidence is not quite as striking as usual.

“Sit down,” he commands. Again. Much more assertive this time. He nods his head towards the seat you had previously occupied, and adds, “now.” You had frozen, midstep,  with your hand on the door handle, cold brass against your palm making your pulse all the more noticeable.

Bucky is almost gleeful when he sees the surprise on your face at his directions. So surprised. So pretty. He watches you slowly make your way back into the chair, setting your bag on the floor next to you and crossing your legs before leaning back.

“Yes?” You grit out, slowly dragging your eyes up to meet his. Arms crossed, you dare to pull that face that gets Bucky so riled up. He clears his throat before beginning,

“We’re not done talking. Your behavior in class has been disrespectful and disruptive. I know for a fact that you don’t behave like this with other professors. What’s going on?” This was the mature thing to do, Bucky had thought. To sit down, ask his colleagues for help, and talk to you like you were an equal. “What’s your problem with me, huh?”

You don’t react, at least externally. You only smile, that fake sweet smirk that he can’t get away from.

“Why, I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Barnes.” Bucky has to take a deep breath, reminding himself not to get riled up. Not to let you get to him.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” Bucky responds, strict and to the point. He keeps staring at you, sure that he was in command of the situation. You watch as he gets up from his chair, making his way to lean back against his desk, directly in front of you. He crosses his arms, mirroring you. You don’t like the confident little attitude he has today. You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. So you keep poking at him, in a way that you knew, that you were sure would rile him up.

“Aw, Dr. Barnes. Why don’t you explain to me what you’re talking about? As clearly as you can, please?” You keep the shit-eating simper on, but it fades into confused intrigue as he moves closer to you, invading too much of the air around you.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Bucky savors that innocent moment of shock on your face before he rests his hands, one on each arm of the chair you were sitting in, your arms and legs still crossed as you failed to keep your breathing even. A vague scent of man and aftershave sending an exhilaration through you and flooding you with a warmth. A familiar warmth you’ve only ever felt in your bedroom at night. After the long fucking library sessions and steaming hot showers, when you’d collapse into your bed utterly exhausted but mentally alert, you’d let your mind wander.

The closer Bucky got to you, the more you could see the little flecks in his blue eyes. He was angry. Furious, even. His mouth had set into a frown, and he was so fucking confused about how out of hand the situation had gotten, how out of control he felt in that moment. So he does what he feels is right, just like you always say what you feel is right. He leans in closer to you, nose almost touching yours as he breathes into you,

“I’ve been so patient with you, you know that Little Miss Smart Mouth?” Bucky looks down at your lips and back at your eyes, rasping, “Every fucking day. You come into my classroom and you torture me.” He watches you uncross your arms and legs, attempting to sit up straighter in your chair. He keeps waiting for you to push him away. For you to say something mean. To reject him.

But you don’t. You stare right back at him, demeanor so bewildered and at a loss for words, Bucky dares to let himself think that you were sexy. Pupils dilated, staring up at him, at a loss for words. Uncharacteristically quiet, and Bucky decides that he likes that look on your face, a little awed, a little defiant, but sexy. He watches you swallow, trying to grasp at words that usually come so easily to you,

“I —” Your stammer sounds so strange, and Bucky relishes in this moment, the chance to catch you off guard and unsure of where the dynamic between the two of you broke. He watches you, as you wonder how you have lost the upper hand.

“What, Miss L.N.? Cat finally got your tongue?” he teases, smirking down as he slowly, ever-so slowly, closes the gap between the two of you.

The press of his lips against yours is hungry. Electrifying. Hot. Bucky groans when you lean into the kiss, your hands coming up to cup his face and pulling him closer. Impossibly closer. He breathes you in as he kisses you, hands traveling up your back and bringing you to your feet. He feels a twitch in between his legs when you moan into his mouth, and he bites your bottom lip when you break the kiss.

Bucky stares at you as his chest heaves, your mouth swollen and pink where he had nipped you. Your eyes are glued to his lips, and he gives you what you want, with just as much desire and urgency as before.

“Can’t be a snarky little know-it-all now, huh baby?” Bucky murmurs into your mouth, fingers carding through your hair and working toward a firm grip at the base of your scalp. He gives a tug, and his cock hardens at the whimper that comes out of you when he turns your face to look at his, at the control he has over you in that moment, at the fact that you couldn’t escape him. You smirk up at him, still wild-eyed, and bite back,

“I don’t know, Dr. Barnes, guess you’ll just have to see.” You giggle, that girlish teasing giggle that drove Bucky fucking crazy. Your hands, just as greedy as Bucky felt, ran up the length of his arms, squeezing his biceps lightly before they settled on his chest.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he sighs into you before capturing your lips again, desperate, savoring the feel of your lips on his. His cock demanded so much more when he felt you smile into the kiss. 

But no, he’s in control today. Even if he hadn’t planned for today to turn out the way it did,  he was still going to be in control of this. Of you.

The moment you both come up for air, Bucky steps back, trying to catch himself, to calm down. Your eyes trail down his body appreciatively, the glowing smile on your face brightening when you land on the bulge in your professor’s slacks and Bucky feels his cock betray him, twitching under his boxers and hardening even more under your observant gaze.

“Dr. Barnes,” you look up at him through your lashes, glasses slipping down your nose bridge when your lips perk up, “I thought you were an unremarkable teacher before, but now I’m thinking you’re dumber than I originally thought.”

Bucky tenses up even more, arms cross as he leans back against his desk. It’s taking everything in him not to pounce on you. You seemed to obey his commands earlier, when he was losing his grip on his temper. Bucky could do that again, he could be what you wanted, if it meant you’d stay.

If it meant you’d let him get you off.

“Stop talking, Miss Smart Mouth,” he sneers at you, in command of his tone — low, seared with lust when he sees you bite your lip, obeying him. God, fuck. You were just turned on as he was, he knew it. “Strip.” he says, more demanding this time, still not moving from his position against his desk. You weren’t more than a foot away from him. He could just reach out right now, give you both what you wanted.

But Bucky was patient. He was going to drag this out. For himself. For all the times you’ve gotten on his fucking nerves, undermining his authority during class, in front of other students. For getting to his ego, of all things.

He was patient as you stripped, one garment after another peeling off to reveal smooth, glowing skin that he was dying to lay his hands on. A glimpse of your clavicle here, soft thighs there, Bucky wasn’t sure where he wanted to concentrate his stare. Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks to himself when his stare lands on your cleavage; soft, supple, begging to be bitten. By the time you were down to just your bra and panties, Bucky catches himself just in the nick of time. 

“Wait, stop.”

You pause, looking up at him and arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, Dr. Barnes?” you ask, timid, in anticipation of what would happen next.

More often than you’d ever admit, your hands would wander under the cloud-soft cotton of your panties, fingers wandering toward your slit and smearing the wetness around your clit, determined to reach an orgasm that would put you into a deep slumber. You’d rather die than admit it, but sometimes, it was Dr. Barnes’ image in your head that brought you to your peak. His muscular forearms, lined with veins and evidently fortified by strength-training, would strain under your grip as he shoved himself in your imagination.

“Come here,” he gestures to you with one hand and moves to clear space on the desk before he taps the wood. The sight of his huge, toned body in front of you, out of reach and ready for you to touch — you felt the cotton of your panties dampen, just like you did on those nights you got yourself off to the image of Dr. Barnes. You take a step forward, hesitant, unable to keep your nerves reigned in.

“Finally found the stones to fight back, huh, Dr. Barnes?” you tease, attempting to get your head back into the dynamic you were used to. You were turned on, but not so much that you were willing to give up your dignity in that moment. 

Unamused, Dr. Barnes taps the wood again. His next command is huskier, like he’s not willing to play your game anymore.

“Bend over,” he says, muscles in his jaw jostling with the strength it takes to hold himself back. He couldn’t describe it, this energy between the two of you. A heady, lustful sheen had blanketed the two of you in your own little world. He forgot who he was. He forgot that you were his student. He forgot himself, and all he wanted to do was scream.

[eretzyisrael]

By JUDY SIEGEL-ITZKOVICH

The bestial crimes carried out by thousands of Hamas-led terrorists on October 7, 2023, were unspeakable – but the authors of a newly released 79-page report want the world to speak about them and spread the word.

Writing for the Civil Commission on October 7 Crimes by Hamas against Women and Children, they have even given it a name because at no time in history had this exact type of crime been committed. They called it “kinocide” – the targeting of families, calling it a new crime against humanity.

In preparation since February 2024, the report is authored by Dr. Cochav Elkayam-Levy, Dr. Michal Gilad, and Dr. Ilya Rudyak from the civil commission. The Raoul Wallenberg Center for Human Rights (RWCHR), under the leadership of former Canadian justice minister Irwin Cotler, with whom Elyakim-Levy decided on the term “kinocide.”

The horrific assault in southern Israel resulted in over 1,200 deaths and the kidnapping of more than 250 people, including men, women, children, infants, the elderly, and disabled people, all in one day. The heinous acts of murder, torture, gender-based violence, and abduction spurred the immediate formation of the commission.

What is Kinocide?

By coining the term kinocide, the report exposes the deliberate, widespread exploitation and destruction of familial bonds to intensify victims’ suffering, highlighting the profound and lasting harm inflicted on individuals, communities, and societies. She noted that the Dvora Institute calls for urgent international recognition of the term as it describes a new, distinct international crime against humanity and presents legal and policy recommendations to close gaps in international criminal law, ensure accountability, and prevent such atrocities in the future.

GENOCIDE, AS practiced by the Nazis, is directed against a group of people – ��national, ethnical, racial or religious,” according to the UN’s 1948 Genocide Convention – but kinocide is a specific type of assault against a group, using the relationship between family members and their emotional, identity, cultural, symbolic, material and other bonds, as a way to maximize the intended harm of the attack.

In an interview with The Jerusalem Post, Elkayam-Levy – a leading international law expert who teaches at Reichman University in Herzliya and who founded and chairs the commission – said that the world must know. This includes government and religious leaders, the UN, parliamentarians, legislators, and members of the Hague International Criminal Court, which has castigated and “tried” in absentia Israeli leaders and threatened them and IDF officers with imprisonment.

She has already presented the report to 300 very influential leaders at the Halifax International Security Forum, an annual summit for international government and military officials, academic experts, authors, and entrepreneurs, held in Nova Scotia, Canada.

The acts of terrorist inhumanity included cutting women in their homes, murdering them, forcing their children to watch or coercing parents to watch what was done to their children, and then sending photos and videos to all the contacts on the victims’ mobile phones. There were 17 minutes of video in which families were murdered at a balloon-and-blood-filled party for a daughter’s 18th birthday.

Elkayam-Levy said that the commission is assembling an archive of videos, texts, photos, and more – many produced by Hamas – to document these crimes, giving a voice to the victims and raising awareness of war crimes committed against women, children, and families. For this work, she was awarded the prestigious 2024 Israel Prize, Israel’s highest civilian honor in the field of Solidarity, topping many other prestigious awards she has received.

The archive, she declared, will serve as a vital resource for research, education, and advocacy, ensuring that the stories of those impacted are preserved, recognized, and remembered for generations to come. “We will bear witness! The murders weren’t random but carried out systematically to create the most vicious effects,” she said.