#but he’s part of the washington package so its what you get

[frightmeister]

i don't think that josh was actually that close with a lot of the group until ironically after the events of the game. outside of chris and sam i feel like most of them were really just the friend group of the twins and josh just tagged along. he can struggle at times making friends and he leaned a lot on his sisters for emotional and social support so their friends ended up being his social group.

but i think he didn’t super like most of them, usually because they just didn’t have a lot in common or some part of their personality annoyed him. i think he wasn’t a fan of emily, mike or jess, thought ashley was kinda annoying sometimes and didn't actually get why chris likes her, matt he was neutral to cool with. then the prank happens and naturally he kinda wants them all dead.

it’s a only really after/during the game those opinions start to flip. he actually likes mike a lot after and gets what hannah saw in him finally, thinks jess is kinda sweet actually and emily is a bitch (affectionate now). matt is officially good in his books, and while ashley can still grind on him (they’re just both too anxious to be near each other sometimes) he get’s her better and is genuinely happy for her and chris. and ofc he simps chris and sam even harder after it all.

it’s just that for years he was struggling to even really function and human interaction is hard even when you’re not in the fucking pit. so he never actually got too close with everyone and just accepted the social circle that developed around him since it was better than nothing. but it also fueled his fears of isolation and rejection because outside of chris and later sam, they weren’t really his friends so what reason would they have to stick around. the fact that likely all stopped talking to him for the most part after the prank out of guilt just confirmed that.

[fangirldreams101]

Coming Home pt. 1

DBF! Daryl, Rick, Negan, and Shane x F!Reader

You come to your dad's hometown for college and meet some very very attractive individuals.

TW: None for this chapter (I think?)

pt. 2

Your mom and dad met in college up in Washington and ended up having you as an accident. They tried to create a happy household for you to grow up in but they soon realized that a one night stand was not a good base for a sudden marriage and decided to part ways. While you and your mom stayed up in Washington, your Dad went back down south to his hometown near Atlanta, where you would go and visit him for the summers and holidays. Eventually, it was decided that the trip back and forth was too taxing for you especially for the important high school years, but you wanted to spend college in Georgia so it was decided that your mom would get you for 4 years, and your dad would get you for the next 4. Holidays were shared and you would always call and chat. As unorthodox as this may all sound, you had a great relationship with your parents, so you were excited to spend the time with your dad.

You drove down with all of your stuff for college packed into your car. It was an old piece of junk but your mom was a mechanic so she managed to prolong its life as long as possible. You arrived in your dad's town and decided you should pick up some of his favorite foods as a gift. Pulling into a neighborhood grocery lot, you noticed some shady looking guys leaning against their motorcycles and arguing. Deciding to ignore it, you parked and grabbed a few bags to carry your items in. Spotting one of the arguing men, you took note of his fun vest, angels wings sewn on it. He was rugged looking, and if he wasn't yelling right now, you would have thought he was rather attractive. You didn't pay much attention to the actual words being exchanged, just enjoying the view as you made your way inside the store. After grabbing a couple of things, you made your way to the home supplies aisle, looking to see if they had the wrench your dad mentioned needing in passing on your last phone call.

"Dang, only one left, talk about lucky," you said, dropping it into your cart before continuing to browse.

Suddenly, you see the man in the vest from before make his way around the corner, grumbling under his breath. He stopped a little way from you as you pretended to not pay attention to him, his eyes sharply moving from object to object.

"Where the 'ell is it," he grumbled, "he said it'd be here."

At this point you were pretending to read the back of a glue stick, wanting to watch the ruggedly handsome man for just a little longer. He called a clerk over, and his next words made you perk up.

"'Ey, do ya know if ya have anymore of these wrenches?" He motioned towards the exact spot you grabbed your own from.

"‘m sorry, sir," the teen clerk said, "that was our last one."

"Mind checkin' in the back fer me-" the man began to say before you practically bounded over.

"I'm so sorry," you practically purred, "I couldn't help but overhear about what you needed. Would you like mine?"

You fished out the wrench from your cart and handed it over to the man that caught your eye.

The man looked at you, briefly glancing down subtly before his eyes darted back up, "Ya don' wan' it?"

"No, it's okay," you smile up at him through your lashes, "Seems like you need it a bit more."

“Uh, alrigh'," he stutters under your gaze- you look so young -and he twists the packaging around in his clasp, "I can, uh, get ya sumn for the trouble?"

You perk up even more at the prospect of getting to know him a bit more, "Oh you don't have to!"

"Oh okay then, thank ya," he nodded, turning around and not seeing how your eyes widened that he didn't seem to catch the hint.

"Um! If you'd like to make it up to me, could I have your number?" you decided to make the leap.

You would never have been so bold back in Washington, but everyone was kind of ugly back there anyways. Not to mention that college was supposed to be the time for fun and adventure and the man before you was pretty darn hot. Seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Daryl Dixon had a damn near heart attack at your words. Such a young, pretty thing like yourself was not only giving him the time of day, but was actively showing interest in him? This had to be some kind of joke Merle put you up to. There was no way someone who looked like you would ever be into someone like him. An old, worn down hillbilly.

"Sorry, kid," he shakes his head, looking at you and trying to ignore the fire that lights in him and the way your lips form a small pout.

He quickly walks away, feeling a blush begin to heat up his ears and he speed walks to the checkout aisle.

"Aw man," you mutter underneath your breath. It was a good shot at least. You also made your way to the checkout aisle after grabbing a few more things, the man that caught your eye nowhere in sight. He must've left already. Such a shame.

Getting back to your car, you made your way to your Dad's house, the earlier rejection from the hot looking man now pushed to the back of your mind. Pulling up to the classic suburban looking house, you spot a familiar looking motorcycle parked in front of the garage. Parking, your notice your dad and the man in the vest from before conversing.

You hop out, carrying your offerings to them, "Hello!"

Your dad spun around with a huge smile on his face, "Sweetheart!"

He bounded over, crushing you in a hug before pulling away, "Why are you carrying so many things? Let me help!"

Your dad picked up some things from your straining arms before seeming to remember his guest, "Oh! Daryl! Let me introduce you to my daughter!"

You gave a coy smile at Daryl, introducing yourself, "Nice to meet you sir.”

Daryl felt his heart drop at the word, 'daughter', "Um, yeah nice to meet you to."

He turned to your dad, "Hey, listen, I just wan'ed to give ya that wrench ya had been hunting for the past few days," he set it down on your dad's workshop table in the garage, "I actually have ta, uh, head on home now. Bye."

Your dad and you watched him scurry away.

"Huh, haven't seen him act like that before," your dad mused, causing a wicked grin to light up your face before dropping it as he turned back to you, "I'll invite him and a few other buds of mine over for dinner some time so you can know who your old man is hanging out with."

"Sounds good," you smiled, thoughts of Daryl running through your mind.

[phoenixyfriend]

Possible verbiage for calls to senators and representatives, emails to the same, and public calls to action:

This past weekend, an American service member, active duty, self-immolated in front of the Israeli embassy in Washington DC. We are told that this man, Aaron Bushnell, age 25, truly believed in the ideals espoused by the US military, that he truly believed in liberty for all and a person's right to self-determination. What he did was not an act of mental illness, but rather an act of protest. It was premeditated. It was clearly stated. It was public, and recorded, and he has died making a statement, and it is truly inappropriate to try and dismiss it as simply a matter of mental illness.

It's a tragedy, but he is someone who has made choice to follow in the footsteps of many who have come before. Self-immolation is, after all, a protest tactic that has been in use for centuries, including in the US. If you have any true care for military personnel and veterans, as you and so many other politicians claim to, then you should be asking yourself, "What it is about this war that has caused such a choice in someone who really and truly believes in the ideals that the US claims to uphold? What it means that someone in this military, in this country, cannot stand to continue being part of that institution, in light of what the United States is enabling with aid packages to Israel, and refusal to enact any kind of censure?"

What caused the death of Aaron Bushnell was not a mental health crisis. It was a humanitarian one.

If you claim to care about protecting children, Israel must be censured. Israel must be sanctioned. Israel must be stopped.

We are seeing Israel seed the beginning of its own future devastation. It has created thousands, if not tens of thousands of orphans, and has reportedly disabled the majority of the children in Gaza, from what we are hearing. Israel has also demanded the dismantling of UNRWA, is even now blocking aid trucks and has been for weeks, despite the fact that the agency is currently the only thing that appears to be standing between the children of Palestine and death, between everyone in Palestine and a death by mass starvation. We know, have now gotten confirmation from the World Health Organization, that a famine is in progress. If you care about any power that the United Nations should have to prevent atrocities, then Israel must be stopped. Aid must get to the children, and to all the civilians of Gaza who are currently dying of bombing, and hunger, and disease.

Civilians are exiting to Egypt, a country that is already unstable, not yet having recovered from the Arab Spring. The economy of Egypt is already under strain, from the Civil War, the new administrative capital, the reduction of traffic in the Suez, and they have not yet cleared themselves of the Muslim Brotherhood. Will those orphans Israel created be found by extremists who share many of the same goals as the one that Israel claims to be trying to extinguish? Will Israel start a war with Egypt when those children they have orphaned in Gaza grow old enough to seek revenge? What of its other border, where Hezbollah has increased attacks, or the months of impact by Yemen on international trade? Israel is not extinguishing the threats to its people, but increasing them. If you care about Israeli civilians, as you claim, then Israel must be stopped.

Recently, in Russia, a political opposition member died in an arctic prison under mysterious circumstances. This was very high-profile, and the US enacted sanctions within a week. Those sanctions were deserved, yes, but it is a very poor look on behalf of the United States that we enacted sanctions on Russia for the death of one man, but nothing on Israel for the death of nearly thirty thousand, half of which are children. If you care about the reputation that the United States has on a world stage, Israel should be under censure.

And finally, if you care about your own party and your own hide, Israel must be stopped. You are losing Michigan. You are losing Georgia. You are losing Arizona. Some of these states won us the 2020 election. Some of them won on the power of the Arab-American vote. We cannot afford another four years of Trump.

Even if you don't have the heart to care for the hundreds of thousands of children that are dead or dying, you should have the brain to care about Michigan.

A member of the Air Force died to make you listen. A loyal soldier to the US decided that rather than die for his country fighting a war, he would die to stop one.

Listen to him, and to all who tell you that the US cannot be complicit in what, every day, is more likely to be remembered forever as a genocide.

(Call your reps)

(A more general post on how to talk to your reps)

This has not been proofread but I keep rolling phrases around in my mind and had to get at least something down in the page.

[palmofafreezinghand]

oh bill, i love you so...

Billy Black and Sarah Wilde get engaged. on ao3 here.

1984. 

La Push, Washington. 

The trip had been shit, the entire last three months of fishing had been shit. Not a single catch was worth the amount he spent on diesel. This time Billy would be lucky to get two hundred bucks for a week worth of work. He was halfway to Mexico — off the recommendation of Harry Clearwater who had caught enough bluefin to pay his rent for the rest of the year — when the engine started to click…again. Last time that had cost him almost a grand in parts and almost a month in a dry dock. 

At this point he would be better off sinking the thing, taking the insurance payout, and working at the gas station for the rest of his life. He had missed last month’s insurance payment. It was between that and the slip fee. There went another one of his plans. 

The boat pulled into its slip, the clicking louder and louder, like a time bomb, until he cut the engine. Then it was hauntingly silent. 

Anxious to get to shore before the entire thing exploded, Sarah wouldn’t get his life insurance anymore, he tied the knots quickly, looser than he should have. Maybe he’d get lucky and it would drift out to sea, he’d have no other option than to work at the quick fill or maybe he’d get a job at the bait shop telling hobbyists what lure to use when he couldn’t manage to catch anything himself. 

He threw the nearly empty cooler onto the dock, a week of exhaustion meant the cooler flew right over the dock and into the harbor, his spoils spilling into the sea. The gulls which had followed him in from a mile out, anxious to get spoiled bait descended on the gourmet feast. He cursed under his breath, watching two pelicans fight over a halibut larger than both of them combined. He threw his laundry bag onto the dock, which landed perfectly dry, because of course it did. 

After he locked the boat up, although there was nothing to steal he didn’t need to find a sea lion in his bed, he jumped onto the dock himself. He landed wrong, not in the water, but his ankle rolled under him. Another expletive as he analyzed the sprained ankle. 

He needed a drink. He needed a stiff drink. Hell, he’d take the bottle. 

Sarah hated alcohol, so he rarely drank, but she wasn’t here. She was almost four hours away, ignoring his proposal. 

When she got the almost full ride to the University of Washington there was no question she had to take it. She had offered to stay, to go to Pensiula instead, they would be able to see each other more often. He wouldn’t hear it. At that point, they had been dating for almost five years. They had started as two dumb middle schoolers who didn’t know a thing about love and then in the blink of an eye his grandmother was giving him the family ring and Mr. Wilde was asking when he was going to get serious. 

He let her go without asking, he figured it would be easier that way, and it was until it wasn’t. 

She had less than a year left, it might as well have been a death sentence for him. They hadn’t seen each other in months. 

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he decided to send her the ring, instead of waiting until they saw each other next. All he knew was two weeks ago he had driven down to the post office in Forks, wrapped the ring box in three dollars worth of bubble wrap, stuffed the package in a far too expensive cardboard box, tucked a simple note inside, and paid for overnight shipping for the first and only time in his life. 

He waited by the harbormaster’s phone for three days, waiting for an answer to a question he had asked in a hundred unspoken ways. His boat bore her name, a deteriorating friendship bracelet that had never left his wrist since she had made it many summers ago, he spent every Saturday evening eating dinner with her family. It was a question he had waited to ask until he couldn’t anymore. 

It was a question she had yet to answer. They had spoken on the phone twice since he sent the ring. On the first call, she hadn’t gotten the box yet, on the second call she had just picked up her mail but had yet to open the box but she promised she would as soon as she could. 

They hadn’t spoken since. She had left a voicemail that she had gotten full credit on all her finals and she was excited to finally have a weekend off, she was doing something he didn’t quite catch with her friends. No mention of the ring. 

He slung his laundry bag over his shoulder and fished his cooler out of the empty slip next door. A gull lunged at his hand, a half-eaten mackerel still hanging out of its mouth. He averted the attack and started to wheel his cooler down the gangway. 

Someone in the parking lot was blaring their radio, some kids who should have been in school. He was barely twenty. Two years removed from being one of those rowdy teenagers ditching last period to linger around the harbor and he was already a cynic. They had warned him the sea would turn him cold, would take everything he ever loved until it swallowed him too, but he hadn’t listened. 

A car horn honked. He didn’t look up. The kid probably bumped it, clamoring into the backseat doing something they shouldn’t. Billy had found himself in that situation before. Never in broad daylight, he’d been smarter than that. Well, Sarah had been smarter than that. 

The horn blared again, longer much more intentionally this time. 

“William Black Junior!” His head shot up. No one used his full name…except one person. 

Sarah Wilde was leaning against the hood of her car, doors open, radio blaring. Much too far away for his liking. 

“What are yo-” 

“Listen to the song,” she shouted across the harbor. 

He stopped, dropping the cooler by his feet. It was an old song, he’d heard it before, years ago, probably on one of his mother’s cleaning records. He didn’t know the song well enough to understand why Sarah had shown up unannounced simply to play him the song. 

“ I was on your side Bill when you were losin'

When you were losin’”  

He was certainly losin’ at the moment. He opened his mouth to speak again, and Sarah simply held out her hand to quiet him. 

‘I'd never scheme or lie Bill there's been no fooling

There's been no fooling

But kisses and love won't carry me.’

Sarah was now holding a small box in her hand. Was it the same box he had spent a small fortune shipping to her? No. It couldn’t — 

“'Til you marry me, Bill

I love you so I always will.” 

Waves were crashing against the jetty behind him, threatening to drown out the song. 

She opened the lid of his grandmother’s ring box, picked out the small heirloom ring, and slipped it on her left ring finger. The whole time singing along to the woman on the radio lamenting about her own Bill. 

“Yes?” Billy stammered. 

“You thought I’d say no?” She yelled over the gulls and radio. 

“It took you two weeks to respond!” He shouted back. 

“You sent me a ring in the mail. Who does that?” 

“How else was I supposed to get it to you?” 

“Just kiss her already!” An old man shouted from the dock across the way.

Sarah laughed, leaning into her car to turn down the radio as the song ended. Billy smiled to himself, picking up his empty cooler and full laundry bag and starting down the creaky gangway. 

The short walk felt like a marathon. 

He unlocked the harbor gate and was promptly greeted by arms latching around his neck. He dropped his cooler again but caught something, someone, much better. 

The two broke the kiss when they were interrupted by cheering. From the docks, the nosy fishermen who had pestered him about settling down clapped, he could hear a few jokes about the big mistake Sarah had just made. He was too happy to care. From the small fish and chip stand by the shore came a roar of applause, from some of their best friends: Harry Clearwater, the head cook of said fish and chip shop, Sue Uley, and Billy’s best friend since third grade, Charlie Swan, who had been the first person Sarah called and the only person’s blessing she asked or cared for.  

“You reek,” Sarah smiled, hands clutched on the lapels of Billy’s jacket. 

“That’s me?” Billy asked, feigning innocence. He smelled like a bait box. 

She laughed, a laugh he had missed more than land. 

“You’re not quitting school,” he said, thumb brushing over her hand, settling atop the diamond. 

“Can you stop worrying for one minute?” She grinned, leaning closer for another kiss. He happily obliged. 

“Hey,” Harry shouted. “I have world-famous fish fry in here, come on!” 

Billy looked up. 

“It’s on the house,” Harry laughed. 

“Alright then,” Billy smiled, slinging his arm around Sarah’s shoulders as they made their way across the parking lot. 

They ate dinner happy as could be, and for the first time in his life, without a worry in the world.

----

2000. 

Somewhere in the Olympic Peninsula, Washington. 

The Clearwaters had the children for the night. Sue had insisted he needed a night to himself. The last thing he wanted was to be alone. But, the one thing he wanted more than anything a month after he had received the call which stopped his heart was to break down. He refused to do this in front of anyone, let alone his children and so he found himself driving down the 101 at three in the morning. 

That’s how he found himself driving down the 101 at three in the morning, sobbing. He had refused to get in a car for a week after the accident. But La Push was too small. Every single inch a reminder of her. Every street one she had been on. Every person, someone she had known, who looked at him with pity. 

He needed out. He drove all the way to Astoria, without truly realizing it. He needed to make it back before school drop-off. He was in Quinualt, less than an hour from hom– the house, when the song came on the radio. 

The truck swerved off the road and into the ditch as The 5th Dimension sang, ‘ I look at you and see the passion eyes of May .’ 

At some point, he managed to get out of the truck, hike down to the roadside phone, and call Charlie Swan. It was blurry. 

An hour later a police cruiser, lights on, came to a screeching halt on the side of the highway. 

It took Harry and Charlie till sunrise to pull the truck out of the ditch. Billy sat on the side of the road as they worked, working through a six-pack of Ballantines Charlie had brought. His first drink in fourteen years. 

Charlie drove him home, without a question, Harry following in the now dented truck. They made it home in time for Billy to walk his kids to school when nothing else Billy Black was a man of his word.

[mariacallous]

Ukraine’s Ambassador to the United States has just about as much trouble answering the question “how are you?” as many Ukrainians these days.

“I usually tell people we are kicking, fighting, but to say that we are fine is hard,” Oksana Markarova told the Kyiv Independent during our first conversation over Zoom from her office in Washington, D.C. in late November. 

In between near 24/7 work with the Pentagon to secure much-needed weapons for Ukraine’s fight against Russia, the ambassador says she is able to get in touch with her family, affected by Russia’s constant attacks on Ukraine’s energy infrastructure, when they have power. 

“They’re more or less hanging in there, but it’s cold,” she said.

Since Oct. 10, Russia has launched a series of mass missile and drone attacks at Ukraine, damaging and destroying critical energy infrastructure in the middle of winter. Millions across the country have faced frequent heat, water, and power outages. 

Markarova says Russia’s goal with its attacks on Ukraine’s infrastructure is pretty clear: to completely subjugate and occupy Ukraine. “It’s just that their means are evolving as they fail to do so.” 

According to the ambassador, it’s all part of Russia’s perennial strategy to absorb Ukraine into its orbit. Even before 2014, when Russia invaded eastern Ukraine and annexed Crimea, Russia went to lengths to install its puppets in government positions, managing to get its own citizens into leadership positions in Ukraine’s Defense Ministry and security services, she said. 

“When that didn't work, and people said a resolute no on Maidan to (then-President Viktor Yanukovych’s decision) not to join the European Association, that's when the war started.”

But Markarova is certain that no matter what Russia does to try and scare Ukrainians into submission, they will not be successful, despite living with frequent blackouts in the middle of winter. 

“Talking to not only the president but also to family and friends (these attacks) have made everyone more resolute,” the ambassador said. 

It is not just Russia’s attacks on critical infrastructure that have made Ukrainians more determined. As Ukraine continues to liberate territories and evidence of Russian war crimes comes to light, Ukrainians understand that they “only have one choice, to fight,” Markarova said. 

Gaining and maintaining support from the US

Fighting Russia will require a steady stream of support and weaponry from Ukraine’s Western partners. 

American support for Ukraine has been on a roll lately. In late December, the U.S. announced $1.85 billion in military aid to Ukraine, including the first Patriot air defense system–a big hand in protecting Ukraine’s skies. 

Following President Volodymyr Zelensky’s trip to Washington, during which he delivered a historic address before Congress on Dec. 21, the U.S. announced more than $3 billion in military aid–this time with the long-awaited Bradley infantry fighting vehicles. 

Markarova believes Zelensky’s trip to D.C. has a lot to do with this latest military aid package–the largest so far. 

“Zelensky’s trip energized everyone. There was no guarantee that the Congress would support a bill that big, they could have let the next congress decide. I think the trip was essential to that decision,” Markarova said during a follow-up conversation over Zoom in early January. 

Traveling to D.C. also allowed Zelensky to talk to U.S. President Joe Biden one-on-one. “There are so many things that you cannot discuss even over the secure phones,” she said. 

During the trip, Zelensky also spoke to leaders of Congress about the possibility of confiscating Russian assets to use as assistance for Ukraine through the Foreign Assistance Act. That made it into the bill just days before it was passed, Markarova said. 

The recent and seemingly sudden change of heart among Western politicians who earlier claimed sending more advanced weaponry could escalate the war and antagonize Russia is also partly the result of 11 months of empty Russian threats, according to the ambassador. 

“During the past 11 months, Putin himself has proven how the new capabilities that help us to liberate our territories and our people do not result in anything escalatory on his part,” Markarova said, citing the lack of major Russian escalation or retaliation after each time Ukraine liberated its territories.

Ukraine’s cause enjoys widespread support not only in the halls of the U.S. government but among the American population. According to the latest poll by Reuters in October, three-quarters of Americans say that the U.S. should continue its support for Ukraine despite any threats by Russia. 

When asked where this support comes from, Markarova says that firstly, Russia’s full-scale invasion is black and white: “This is horrible injustice being done by a large nuclear, barbaric country to a much smaller democratic country that never attacked Russia.” 

But on another level, Markarova believes that the support is deeply rooted in American culture. Ukrainians “are fighting now for the values on which this country is built. And it's not just great words. It's its freedom, its independence, I think this fight is so deep in every American heart.”

True or not, support for Ukraine among Americans didn’t just happen, Markarova said.

After February, diplomats were no longer diplomats but soldiers of the country, she said. This means being “everywhere all the time” and finding ways to co-organize and co-sponsor pretty much every major event in support of Ukraine. 

And everywhere Ukraine appears to be. In April, Zelensky gave a speech to the crowd at the Grammys. New York City’s Metropolitan Opera and Carnegie Hall gave concerts in honor of Ukraine, with the likes of film director Martin Scorsese giving keynote speeches. Ukrainian flags have been seen popping up all over the country, even in seemingly unlikely places. 

Which is why the ambassador isn’t too concerned with the recent shift to a Republican-led Congress in Washington. According to the ambassador, support for Ukraine is “really bipartisan and has always been bipartisan, regardless of different ideas” that some members of Congress may have about aid to Ukraine.

Markarova nonetheless cautions being overly optimistic about the support. People’s attention has a way of wandering, and maintaining support for Ukraine requires constant work: “work with the administration, Congress, and with so many people.”

Fighting Russia on all fronts

A large part of generating support for Ukraine is combating Russian disinformation and propaganda, which Markarova says didn’t begin with Russia’s full-scale invasion, or even with Ukraine regaining independence in 1991. 

Over the past 400 years, the world has seen the region through the eyes of Russian imperial, Soviet, and current-day Russian propaganda, according to Markarova. 

Russian President Vladimir Putin’s war agenda may be “based on a false history which he created in his mind,” as Markarova puts it, “but he’s not the first Russian ruler who put it on paper, and for generations, billions were spent on promoting that (history) outside of Russia.”

“Some people might say that weapons and sanctions are the priority now and we can leave history and culture for later, but as a matter of fact, it can’t because it’s all very much interrelated.” 

In addition to coordinating with the defense sector on weapons, the Ukrainian embassy in the U.S. works with universities, think tanks, and museums “because in so many places we still find artifacts from Kyivan Rus marked as Russian.”

Combatting centuries of Russian disinformation is no simple task. Despite the widespread support for Ukraine in the U.S., Markarova understands that Ukraine’s diplomats “have to constantly explain, get the truth out about Ukraine, about Russia, and the truth about every event because every time they do something to us, they also try to spread lies about it.”

When Russia blocked Ukraine’s Black Sea ports amid the first days of the full-scale invasion, Russian propaganda claimed that it was Western sanctions that prevented grain shipments from getting to countries that needed it most ��� "a total lie,” Markarova said. 

Even after a U.N.-backed deal between Russia, Ukraine, and Turkey to allow for some grain shipments out of Ukraine’s ports, Russia falsely claimed most of the grain was going to Europe instead of the countries that needed it most. “We have to stay on top of it,” Markarova said. 

One upper hand Markarova does see Ukraine has over Russia on this front is freedom of the press in both the West and in Ukraine, as there “is no such thing in Russia.” 

Markarova believes Russia simply doesn’t stand a chance against the number of journalists in Ukraine who are unhampered by a lack of freedom and 21st-century technologies that can get the truth out quickly. 

Winning the war 

Winning the war against Russia is as much about liberating Ukrainian territory as it is about helping to solve global problems, according to Markarova.

And Ukraine is the answer to many of those problems, Markarova says. Ukraine possesses the most arable land in Europe. Markarova says that after victory, Ukraine can double, even triple, its agricultural production to be a solution in food security. 

Ukraine’s energy sector, which had begun exporting energy to other European countries even before the war, has the ability to be a crucial actor in Europe’s green energy goals. 

“But we have to win first. The faster we can get more weapons, the faster we isolate Russia, the faster we increase sanctions, the faster we can actually win.” And it’s not going to be easy, she said. 

Russia is counting on a drawn-out war scenario in which people get tired and begin to focus on their own problems.

But as Markarova says, “President Zelensky and the people of Ukraine have been very clear that after this brutal, full-fledged war, after all these war crimes and atrocities, we will not give up, and we will not surrender.”

President Zelensky has outlined his 10-step plan for Ukraine’s victory, which he presented at the G20 summit in November. The plan includes restoring Ukraine’s territorial integrity and sovereignty, and that includes Russian-occupied Crimea. “We have to return our people, all of our people.” 

Part of winning isn’t just kicking Russia out but seeking justice for those who started and carried out this war, Markarova says. Ukraine has recorded over 50,000 war crimes committed by Russian soldiers and has filed cases with the International Criminal Court in the Hague and the European Court of Human Rights.

“It is not only important to have justice for Ukraine, but also to prevent other dictators from doing something like this in the future.”

Which is why President Zelensky said people should not waste time proposing something that excludes parts of Ukraine, like Crimea.

Regarding calls for negotiations among certain Western voices, Markarova said she hears fewer suggestions for a negotiated peace with Russia that would involve territorial concessions from Ukraine. 

She also said that her counterparts in the United States government have been firm in their stance that they will be with Ukraine as long as it takes. 

But Markarova admits that some, but not everyone, she said, “want the issue to be somehow resolved and go away.”

But for Ukrainians, reaching a deal with Russia that does not involve the full liberation of Ukraine’s territories is not an option, Markarova said. 

“We did not start (this war). We did not choose it. And the choice for us is pretty clear. It's either fight and liberate Ukraine or die. And we choose not to die.”

[payback-wpp]

PAYBACK - September newsletter

“Revolution is impossible until it's inevitable.”

― Leon Trotsky

AGENDA

Meeting Date: September 11

Meeting Time: 7:00 PM CDT

Video meeting link (jitsi): https://meet.jit.si/KindProsecutorsDressPermanently 

(Jitsi is an equivalent to Zoom meetings - click the link and join the meeting) Call to Order

Approval of minutes https://shorturl.at/qsL58

Greetings and Introductions; Nick Ramos, Executive Director of Fair Maps Wisconsin will give us an update on redistricting in Wisconsin

Current Events/Calendar

Update on COG (Coalition of Groups)

Adjourn

What's going on in the news

"Nurses Fight Godzilla

The severe nursing shortages in hospitals across the country has turned one of the most important jobs in the medical profession into a nightmare. Nurses at a major hospital in New Jersey fight back."  https://shorturl.at/bdS48

"How climate policy could change if a Republican is elected president in 2024

If Republicans recapture the White House in 2024, some conservatives will be ready with a climate policy plan.

The Heritage Foundation, a Washington think tank, has laid out its own climate ideas as part of a wide range of policy recommendations known as Project 2025."  https://shorturl.at/fsIMW

"The US Needs a Socialist Movement to Break It Out of the Two-Party Choke Hold

It’s taken both major parties to tango their way into the current weathered state of U.S. democracy, crafting over decades both accelerating wealth inequality and an austere social safety net unique among modern nations. Even modest progressive reforms struggle mightily now to overcome legislative hurdles, whether from the languid liberalism of mainstream Democrats or the dedicated fanaticism of far-right Republicans." https://shorturl.at/ahyK2

 

"UPS workers could have won more

Last year, 350,000 Teamsters were prepared to take on UPS in a historic strike that could have shown workers everywhere that fighting back can lead to victory. However, pressure from Democratic Party politicians like Joe Biden and weak leadership from Sean O’Brien led to a disappointing contract offer that Teamsters ultimately approved. Despite claims from O’Brien and the union leadership that this was the "best contract in the history of UPS," it actually contains significant concessions and fosters divisions between full-time and part-time workers. Workers Strike Back, Socialist Alternative, and other rank-and-file groups called for a "no" vote, but unfortunately, the former opposition caucus Teamsters for a Democratic Union campaigned for a "yes" vote, leaving isolated efforts to expose the realities of the new contract." https://shorturl.at/loNZ7

Introducing our Vice President and Newsletter Editor, John Lemberger

"When I was a teenager, my dad started having an affair with a woman who lived out of town. He had a mail order business, so the procedure went like this. On Friday afternoons he would load up his Chevy pickup with his packages and drive to the post office. We wouldn’t see him again until Monday. The stress almost killed my mother. She developed a bleeding ulcer. When she finally got treatment, the doctor said she was close to hemorrhaging to death. One Friday I cooked up an idea. As my dad and I finished loading up the pickup, I jumped into the passenger side. My dad looked at me and said, what are you doing? I told him I thought I’d come along and help him unload at the post office. He said he didn’t need any help, but I insisted. He got into the pickup, but instead of driving to the post office, he drove around the block and pulled over to the curb. Without looking at me, and with murder in his voice, he said two words, get out.  I opened the door and slipped out onto the curb. I stood there and watched him drive away. I’ve been standing on that curb ever since. No one came by to pick me up. No one rescued me. I walked home. In the 1980s our oligarchs did the same thing to American workers. They pulled the economy over to the curb and told us to get out. That was 40 years ago. No one has come by to pick us up. No one will rescue us. Both major political parties are now fully owned and operated by the oligarchy. We’re going to have to rescue ourselves. To accomplish this, we will work towards the following principles. We will support the general principle that all institutions and programs vital to the well-being of the people should under the control of the people. The oligarchs won't. We will support the right of all people to have an equal voice in the government of the land in which they live. The oligarchs won’t. We will support the right to quality universal healthcare paid for by our taxes. The oligarchs won’t. And most of all… we won’t leave anyone standing on the curb. The oligarchs will."

[antoine-roquentin]

obliquely, this is in reference to how formerly working class bastions in the midwest that used to elect socialists now elect republicans. if we all gave up the theory that LGBT people are normal, we might once again go back to the days where we elected socialists across the country. thomas frank, what’s the matter with kansas:

But its periodic bouts of leftism were what really branded Kansas with the mark of the freak. Every part of the country in the nineteenth century had labor upheavals and protosocialist reform movements, of course. In Kansas, though, the radicals kept coming out on top. It was as though the blank landscape prompted dreams of a blank-slate society, a place where institutions might be remade as the human mind saw fit. Maps of the state from the 1880s show a hamlet (since vanished) called Radical City; in nearby Crawford County the town of Girard was home to the Appeal to Reason, a socialist newspaper whose circulation was in the hundreds of thousands. In that same town, in 1908, Eugene Debs gave a fiery speech accepting the Socialist Party’s nomination for president; in 1912 Debs actually carried Crawford County, one of four he won nationwide. (All were in the Midwest.) In 1910 Theodore Roosevelt signaled his own lurch to the left by traveling to Kansas and giving an inflammatory address in Osawatomie, the onetime home of John Brown.

The most famous freak-out of them all was Populism, the first of the great American leftist movements.* Populism tore through other states as well—wailing all across Texas, the South, and the West in the 1890s—but Kansas was the place that really distinguished itself by its enthusiasm. Driven to the brink of ruin by years of bad prices, debt, and deflation, the state’s farmers came together in huge meetings where homegrown troublemakers like Mary Elizabeth Lease exhorted them to “raise less corn and more hell.” The radicalized farmers marched through the small towns in day-long parades, raging against what they called the “money power.” And despite all the clamor, they still managed to take the state’s traditional Republican masters utterly by surprise in 1890, sweeping the small-town slickers out of office and ending the careers of many a career politician. In the decade that followed they elected Populist governors, Populist senators, Populist congressmen, Populist supreme court justices, Populistcity councils, and probably Populist dogcatchers, too; men of strong ideas, curious nicknames, and a colorful patois....

For a generation, Kansas has been the testing-ground for every experiment in morals, politics, and social life. Doubt of all existing institutions has been respectable. Nothing has been venerable or revered merely because it exists or has endured. Prohibition, female suffrage, fiat money, free silver, every incoherent and fantastic dream of social improvement and reform, every economic delusion that has bewildered the foggy brains of fanatics, every political fallacy nurtured by misfortune, poverty and failure, rejected elsewhere, has here found tolerance and advocacy.

Today the two myths are one. Kansas may be the land of averageness, but it is a freaky, militant, outraged averageness. Kansas today is a burned-over district of conservatism where the backlash propaganda has woven itself into the fabric of everyday life. People in suburban Kansas City vituperate against the sinful cosmopolitan elite of New York and Washington, D.C.; people in rural Kansas vituperate against the sinful cosmopolitan elite of Topeka and suburban Kansas City. Survivalist supply shops sprout in neighborhood strip-malls. People send Christmas cards urging their friends to look on the bright side of Islamic terrorism, since the Rapture is now clearly at hand.

Under the state’s simple blue flag are gathered today some of the most flamboyant cranks, conspiracists, and calamity howlers the Republic has ever seen. The Kansas school board draws the guffaws of the world for purging state science standards of references to evolution. Cities large and small across the state still hold out against water fluoridation, while one tiny hamlet takes the additional step of requiring firearms in every home. A prominent female politician expresses public doubts about the wisdom of women’s suffrage, while another pol proposes that the state sell off the Kansas Turnpike in order to solve its budget crisis. Impoverished inhabitants of the state’s most scenic area fight with fanatical determination to prevent a national park from opening up in their neighborhood, while the rails-to-trails program, regarded everywhere else in the union as a harmless scheme for family fun, is reviled in Kansas as an infernal design on the rights of property owners. Operation Rescue selects Wichita as the stage for its great offensive against abortion, calling down thirty thousand testifying fundamentalists on the city, witnessing and blocking traffic and chaining themselves to fences. A preacher from Topeka travels the nation advising Americans to love God’s holy hate, showing up wherever a gay person has been in the news to announce that “God Hates Fags.” Survivalists and secessionists dream of backyard confederacies out on the lone prairie; schismatic Catholics declare the pope himself to be insufficiently Catholic; Posses Comitatus hold imaginary legal proceedings, sternly prosecuting state officials for participating in actual legal proceedings; and homegrown terrorists swap conspiracy theories at a house in Dickinson County before screaming off to strike a blow against big government in Oklahoma City.

the problem with this simple story is that social liberalism actually grew in lockstep with an economic policy tailored to the poor. in the 70s, the most common place to get gender reassignment surgery was at a catholic hospital in small town colorado. in 2010, in response to deep opposition in the town, the practice was forced to move to california. the second most common place was at a baptist hospital in oklahoma city, where such surgery was viewed as routine until a number of religious leaders decided to oppose it in the 70s. at the same time, many other religious leaders spoke out in favour of the surgery, saying that it comported well with religious tenets.

likewise, colorado legalized abortion in 1967, as did states like kansas, missouri, georgia, and north and south carolina prior to roe v wade. today, these states are considered anti-abortion and anti-lgbt hotspots, yet prior to the late 70s, compassion for such people was viewed as paramount in the life of america’s christians. so what happened? it clearly wasn’t an emphasis on the social aspects of poor american lives that shifted the political arena in favour of religious conservatism. rather, as thomas frank points out in the same book:

Nobody mows their own lawn in Mission Hills anymore, and only a foot soldier in its armies of gardeners would park a Pontiac there. The doctors who lived near us in the seventies have pretty much been gentrified out, their places taken by the bankers and brokers and CEOs who have lapped them repeatedly on the racetrack of status and income. Every time I paid Mission Hills a visit during the nineties, it seemed another of the more modest houses in our neighborhood had been torn down and replaced by a much larger edifice, a three-story stone chateau, say, bristling with turrets and porches and dormers and gazebos and a three-car garage. The dark old palaces from the twenties sprouted spiffy new slate roofs, immaculately tailored gardens, remote-controlled driveway gates, and sometimes entire new wings. One grand old pile down the street from us was fitted with shiny new gutters made entirely of copper. A new house a few doors down from Esrey’s spread is so large it has two multicar garages, one at either end.

These changes are of course not unique to Mission Hills. What has gone on there is normal in its freakishness. You can observe the same changes in Shaker Heights or La Jolla or Winnetka or Ann Coulter’s hometown of New Canaan, Connecticut. They reflect the simplest and hardest of economic realities: The fortunes of Mission Hills rise and fall in inverse relation to the fortunes of ordinary working people. When workers are powerful, taxes are high, and labor is expensive (as was the case from World War II until the late seventies), the houses built here are smaller, the cars domestic, the servants rare, and the overgrown look fashionable in gardening circles. People read novels about eccentric English aristocrats trapped in a democratic age, sighing sadly for their lost world.

When workers are weak, taxes are down, and labor is cheap (as in the twenties and again today), Mission Hills coats itself in shimmering raiments of gold and green. Now the stock returns are plush, the bonus packages fat, the servants affordable, and the suburb finds that the princely life isn’t dead after all. It builds new additions and new fountains and new Italianate porches overlooking Olympic-sized flower gardens maintained by shifts of laborers. People read books about the glory of empire. The kids get Porsches or SUVs when they turn sixteen; the houses with asphalt roofs discreetly disappear; the wings that were closed off are triumphantly reopened, and all is restored to its former grandeur. Times may be hard where you live, but here events have yielded a heaven on earth, a pleasure colony out of the paintings of Maxfield Parrish.

america's workers and small farmers were saved by the reforms of the 1930s, as frank explains, then crushed as the wealthy found out how to squirrel away their taxes (in part thanks to the collapse of the british empire), accumulate wealth away from prying eyes, lobby the government for preferential treatment, and between 1976 and 2000, triumph completely in the political domain. mission hill donates more money to politicians than the rest of kansas combined. unions are swamped in state politics, and see declining fortunes. as a result, neoliberal social atomization takes effect, which sees even workers demanding beggar-thy-neighbour policies. and when thy neighbour is socially distinct from you, it becomes easier to justify voting for such politics based on a survival instinct. the majority of the working class tuned out and do not vote any more. among the rest, low skilled working class jobs in highly stratified and inequitable cities vote democrat, hoping for some patronage from the white collar creative class voters they serve, while blue collar skilled workers tend to vote republican, devoid of any examples of class politics in their lives with the death of unions and hoping to keep their share of wages against their only opposition, the tax man.

ultimately, any socially liberal politics sustained by donations from rich big city donors is unsustainable. on the other hand, the notion that “woke” politics is holding back leftism is, save for a few clearly absurd situations (robin diangelo, for instance) also wrong. economic leftism leads to social leftism, because respect to the working class leads to respect for its identities. neoliberal atomization is a much deeper force than can be surmounted at the ballot box, even in a primary, but it is always an economic force first and foremost.

[wyn-n-tonic]

Baby, Let the Games Begin -- Part II

Word Count: 1,058 Warnings: Use of the word cunt in a derogatory fashion. IDK, these two psychos wanna fuck but that doesn't happen in this part because... I don't have the energy in me to write it RN.  A/N: This is shorter and the first part was shorter and the next part will probably be short too because I hate writing second person so much. I'm going back to OFCs or ships after this okayloveyoubyyyyyyyyye.

Part I

It wasn’t hard to find home.

Remember, he’s fucking stupid.

So convinced that he could talk freely amongst his men about how you needed to be wrapped up, he had to get back to Washington. Molly had a dance recital and he couldn’t miss another one, he hated seeing the disappointment on her little face.

It was sweet, honestly, how he turned into the perfect father as he coo’d into the phone. I know, baby, daddy’s sorry. I’ll be home soon, I’ll bring you a present. He laughs, Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll bring you a llama.

He rounds the corner, breathing heavily through his lunch time jog. You watch quietly through your sunglasses, your book propped in front of you for cover. He shaved, that natural pout more prominent without the scruff. You don’t know which one you prefer to look at but you know which one you’d prefer between your legs.

He passes you by without even a glance in your direction.

Yeah, fucking stupid.

You made sure to run the credit card at the bookstore. —

She’s fucking here.

It’s been two months since he slipped into your insanity in South America and he feels like he’s losing his fucking mind all over again. Nothing in weeks and suddenly… there you are. A hit on a credit card at a bookstore not too far from the office.

You’ve been in his head since he left, making yourself perfectly at home since he took the job. He’s never been outsmarted like this and he fucking hates you.

His mind flashes back to earlier in the park, the woman sitting alone on the bench. The sunglasses were inappropriate for an overcast sky. How did that book look? Was it new? What was the title? Was it you?

He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the bookstore.

One ring, two. “Hi, my wife bought a book there earlier and lost the receipt. We need it for tax purposes so I was wondering if you could email that over to me?”

He waits, glancing back at the computer as the manager comes over the line. “The last four digits of the credit card? Absolutely, it’s one five seventy-seven. My email is dyork at D-I-A dot gov. Thank you so much.”

His email chimes as he hangs up the receiver and he’s not slow in clicking right on it. Right there on the screen —

1. The Blackest Widows - Sarah Clarkson                 $9.99

He flashes back to that woman in the park this afternoon. Did he see the cover? He types the title into the search bar, looking for an image and as it pops up his eyes go wide, one of those large hands brought to his mouth.

“You fucking cunt,” is all he can manage in his disbelief. —

He grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door, a new fire in his belly. Everything about you was in the safe house, he needed to get to it. Everything about the woman in the park couldn’t have been you. She wasn’t the same you in the pictures.

Dave, you fucking idiot. His thoughts are racing in at him, telling him he was trying too hard. He didn’t fucking try at all though, not really. He underestimated you. Had been all these months. You weren’t some bimbo blatantly poisoning your husbands for the insurance money. No, you were smarter than that. Smarter than to get caught. Of course you changed your hair, his hand tracing the strands on the blown up photograph. Your skin had taken on color, three months in the sun. The weight though, that was new. It wasn’t bad but he hadn’t expected it. You didn’t look fragile anymore, you looked full of life.

When he went private, he decided there were no more good people or bad people, just those unfortunate enough to make it on his list.

He had been wrong though, digging up your story. You weren’t bad. You weren’t any good either but you existed in this grey area, you belonged there. No remorse, it had all been taken from you. So what? You did the same thing he did, really. You kill a few rich guys with one foot out the door anyway. Who the fuck will miss them?

Did he really fucking try at all or did he just not want to catch you? —

He’s getting jumpy again. You couldn’t just go and enjoy your money on a beach. No, you had to start fucking with him again. A man that good looking comes after you and starts crying your name out in the middle of the night? Well… Keeping your life isn’t enough, you missed the cat and mouse of it all. You missed leaving him presents. You missed hearing his ragged breathing through shared walls. You missed him.

You set your jaw as he pulled his coat closer to himself. Leaving what you can only assume is a safe house, he swept the vicinity with his hard eyes. If David York was going to kill you, you were absolutely going to fuck him first. —

He didn’t notice any cars following him home but, when he got there, everything felt off.

“Daddy, daddy! You got a package!” Alice ran to him while pointing to the kitchen table. “Can I open it with you?”

“You know, sweetheart, it might be something top secret but I’ll show you if I can.”

He picks up the small padded envelope, postage paid for same day delivery. No return address. Something hard and square in its center.

He rushed to the bathroom, the tears across the seems in line with his steps. Breath hitched, door closed, he reached in and pulled the solid weight of the book out.

He was blinding white in his rage. This fucking book showing up at his home. You are dangerous and audacious. Work has never followed him home like this. There’s a humming so loud in his ears he almost doesn’t notice the the folded up piece of paper that’s fallen at his feet.

He lowered himself and flipped it open.

I’m tired, David. Apartment Suite, The LINE Downtown DC.

He let out a tight huff of breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Which one of you is the cat and which one of you is the mouse?

[cake-writes]

No Vacancy (3/5)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader 

Story Warnings: Both Bucky and Reader are gonna get kind of dark in this, so… Dark Fic (I guess?), Very Dubious Consent, Somnophilia (sex with a sleeping partner – and it’s gonna be more than once), Breeding Kink, Rough Sex, Angry Sex, Hair-Pulling, Visible Marks, Breathplay, Throatfucking, Restraints, Subspace, Choking, Spanking, Degradation, Masturbation, Angst, Anxiety, Feels, Mutual Pining, VERY OBVIOUSLY 18+

Summary: You and Bucky have been on so many missions together, you’ve lost count. How is it that you’ve never shared a bed until now?

A/N: NEW WARNINGS so have a look just in case there’s something you don’t want to read. i also made a moodboard. other than that... heh. enjoy, my fellow harlots. 🙈 

Part Two / Master List

The devil on your shoulder tries to frame it as a confession.

The angel tries to claim it’s a sign of a guilty conscience.

I pressured you into sleeping with me, didn’t I?

Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s both.

Pressure. You should have said force. You encouraged him – took advantage of him – spurred him on with pleasured gasps and desperate pleas and god, you feel so full. He’ll be dripping out of you for days after.

It’s wrong.

You should have stopped him. He couldn’t consent – but the memory turns you on.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Just knowing how easily he can overpower you even while he’s asleep leaves your body burning with a certain kind of heat you’ve never felt before. Not to this degree. You’ve always known that he’s enhanced, of course, but until last night, you’ve never seen his strength so up close and personal – never experienced it firsthand like that, and now, it’s all you can think about. He’s all you can think about, and he doesn’t even know what he’s done.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

His hand pressing your face into the pillow – you couldn’t breathe.

His cock stretching you out so perfectly – you couldn’t think.

His cum filling you to the brim – you couldn’t stop him. Or at least that’s what you try to tell yourself, but it’s a lie. You didn’t even try.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.  

But you do.

The morning is spent tiptoeing around him, like he’s a grenade ready to explode at any given moment. It’s evident that Bucky doesn’t remember a thing about the night before by the way he interacts with you: careful, guarded, like maybe you’re the grenade.

You know you should tell him, but you don’t. 

The secret you keep is the grenade, and when the pin is pulled, you don’t know what will remain. You’re scared that he’ll hate you, but you’re not ready to consider that he won’t.

So you confess in a bout of anxiety, instead, because your conscience is muddled and things are weird and you can’t even act right around him anymore.

You’re suffocating.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

He wanted to sleep with you. That’s what he said, but in that moment, it’s crystal clear that you’re not on the same page. The sleeping with you mean is vastly different to the sleeping with he means.

There’s tension. There’s never been tension before. It feels like you’re walking on eggshells, and you hate it. You hate the way he puts you on a pedestal half the time and treats you like a friend for the rest. You hate that the only time he’s serious with you is when you’re joking around. You hate it.

Why can’t he just be honest?

Why can’t you?

It’s overcast outside – downright miserable, really, with rain every ten minutes and you with no wet-weather gear. Washington State is dreary at the best of times, but now it’s even worse. It reflects your state of mind; the storm clouds are your inner conflict, and every clap of thunder signifies a punishment for yourself for wanting this, wanting him, wanting more.

You have to tell him.

As Bucky pulls the beater into the parking lot at the drugstore, the rain finally lifts for the umpteenth time. It feels like a blessing, or maybe it’s a sign.

You slide your hand into his as the two of you walk inside, something you’ve done too many times to count whilst undercover: a fact further proven when his fingers lace with yours so easily, so comfortably, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is.

When the bomb drops, it won’t be anymore.

“Cold meds are over here,” Bucky says as he leads you in that direction – but you don’t follow, and he stops to glance down at your hands like he’s only just realized what you’ve done. Then his eyes turn back up to your face, and in those pretty baby blues you watch as the confusion turns to suspicion, and your stomach turns to knots. “What are you doing?”

“I—I have to tell you something,” you stammer, hesitant, unsure. Your voice wavers and there’s a lump in your throat that makes it difficult to swallow.

You’re nervous. Of course you are. You’re not ready to pull the pin.

“We’re not together on this mission,” Bucky informs you, plainly, like you don’t already know that. You know what he means by together; you’re not a couple. You know that, too. It’s painfully obvious that you aren’t, now.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

“We could be,” you suggest, to which he sighs in annoyance and pulls his hand free.

“Get your meds,” he says, tone clipped. “You can tell me in the car.”

And then he’s gone, and you’re left feeling even more uneasy than before.

By the time you get back outside, it’s raining again. Thankfully, the car’s unlocked, and you jump inside to find that Bucky has his seat reclined and his hands are tucked behind his head like a makeshift pillow. The radio’s tuned to some station you don’t recognize, but you’re in the boonies, now, so that’s really no surprise. A bit of static distorts the song that’s trying to play – something classic rock, but you can’t really place it through the low volume.

As you pull the door shut, he greets you with a sharp, “Took you long enough.”

He’s pissed off, and the way he eases his seat back up is further testament to that – slow, but precise. Calculated. Vibranium fingers tap the steering wheel, like he’s waiting for an apology.

Great.

The pharmacist just had to grill you about your sexual history, because this really is the boonies and you’re a single, unmarried woman looking for contraception. It took a lot longer than it should have, so much that you’re in a mood now, too.

“Sorry,” you mutter, locking the seatbelt into place. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, or,” you gesture to Bucky’s general vicinity, “whatever the hell this is.”

You’re already so tired and it’s only eleven o’clock.

That’s when you finally meet his eyes – just long enough to see that sassing him was probably a bad idea, and predictably it pokes the bear.

“If anyone’s acting off,” he begins, voice sharp, turning the engine back on, “It’s you. Don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but figure your shit out. We’re on a mission.”

You and Bucky have argued before, but not like this. This is personal. The fact that he used your words from your earlier spell of anxiety is proof of that.

As if you need him to tell you what your priorities should be. You already know.

“Roger that, Sarge,” you bite out sarcastically, rummaging around in the plastic bag to rip open the pill package. “I’ll get right on that.”

Then you shove the pill into your mouth and take a swig of water from your water bottle, before you slam it back down into the cup holder a little harder than necessary. Bucky lets out a long, slow breath as he shifts the car into gear, and you don’t even have to look at him to know you’re trying his patience.

Good. He’s trying yours, too.

Crumpling up the bag and its contents, you toss it haphazardly into the back seat and pop your feet up onto the dash in a fit of irritation. That’s when Bucky turns up the radio, and you finally hear the lyrics over the static:

We are all just prisoners here of our own device—

Of course it’s Hotel California. As if you can feel any more trapped than you already do.

You’re suffocating.

It’s clear you won’t be having any more conversation until you arrive at your next destination.

It’s clear that Bucky doesn’t care what you wanted to say, or maybe he’s forgotten. Not that it matters.

Up until now, the confession burned hot on the tip of your tongue – a desperation to tell him about what happened last night, or maybe even an apology, but not anymore.

He was the one who woke you up.

He was the one who held you down.

As far as you’re concerned, you’re the victim here. Not him.

So you don’t say a thing. Instead you shut your eyes and hope to god he didn’t get you pregnant.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave—

The rest of the day unfolds with even less camaraderie between the two of you.

There’s friction, so much that you’re about ready to scream by the time you make it back to the motel. Maybe a little friendly fire would be sufficient, because you’ve had enough. 

Steve would understand. He knows what a pain in the ass his best friend can be. 

Bucky doesn’t get the door for you this time, not like he usually does; instead he walks right into your shared room and leaves you standing out in the rain. That pisses you off even more, and you slam the door shut behind you so hard that the window next to it clatters in its pane: old, decrepit fibreglass.

You’re lucky that the whole thing didn’t shatter. It’s only hanging on by a literal thread.

That observation sobers you up a little. You can’t keep on like this.

“What are you, a bratty teenager?” Bucky barks at you, and the way he rounds on you so suddenly sends a jolt of excitement straight to your core. “Do you want the rain getting in, princess?”

The last word is spat at you with such vitriol, it makes your jaw drop.

He’s angry. He’s pissed off. He’s had it with you, and it turns you on.

What the hell is wrong with you?

You’ve felt like this all day – just blamed it on your anger because it’s easier to focus your energy into that than on the fact that you want him. That you always have. That you always would, now that you know what he’s capable of.

It’s wrong.

“No,” is what you finally answer; timid, almost, and your shoulders slump in defeat. You can’t keep on like this. It’s only seven o’clock – less than half a day of fighting with him and you’re already over it. 

You’re exhausted. And so is he, by the looks of it.

He’s drenched from the rain. The carpet where he’s standing is damp with water, and his clothes haven’t fared much better. You’re sure you’re in a similar state – t-shirt and jacket soaked through, not to mention your jeans, and you’re dripping water into a matching puddle on the floor.

There’s a pause while Bucky runs a hand through his wet hair, before he mutters under his breath, “Christ.”

The rainwater only adds to the atmosphere, of course, and although that certain musty, damp smell isn’t quite as bad as the guest services office, it’s still very present. It tickles your nostrils, makes you sneeze, and then you can’t help but shiver because of the bitter cold.

Bucky’s hand on your shoulder is all the warning you get before he shoves you toward the bathroom – not gently, but not too roughly, either. Just enough to make you stumble.

You open your mouth to rip him a new one for it, because you’re feeling defensive over how much you like it, being pushed around so easily, being put in your place – but he beats you to the punch.

“Go have a hot shower.” The way he says it makes it sound like an order, and you shiver again when your thoughts go where they shouldn’t. “Your cold’s gonna get worse if you don’t warm up.”

That’s right. Your excuse from this morning.

“Fine,” you snap, “but I’m not going because you told me to. It makes sense.”

He sighs in frustration and picks up his towel from this morning off the back of a chair – uses it to dry his hair. “Fine. Just go. I don’t want you getting sick.”

He doesn’t have to say how much of a pain he thinks it’ll be if you do. The implication is enough.

So you shoot him another dirty look and stomp into the bathroom, feeling pissed off and turned on and fed up with this stupid fucking mission and awful fucking town and this shitty fucking motel. The old shower creaks and shudders when you turn the handle, and it takes a couple of minutes to heat up, but soon the hot water is a balm and you’re sighing in relief.

That feels much better.

When you take a little extra time to relieve yourself of the day’s frustrations, too, those happy sighs turn to breathy moans, and you can only assume they’re being drowned out by the water – but they’re not.

The walls are paper thin.

Not that it matters.

The shower leaves you feeling a lot more refreshed.

As you exit the bathroom, towelling dry your hair, you feel so much better. Clearer. Even if it’s wrong to use last night as a fantasy, it still takes the edge off – lets you concentrate more on the mission than Bucky, which is the entire reason the two of you are here.

Problem is, he’s staring at you like that.

Her mind is tiffany-twisted—

Hotel California immediately dies in your throat; you hadn’t even realized you were singing it to yourself until the look on his face made you stop.

“What?” you ask, feeling awkward all of a sudden. Bare. You’ve got a towel around yourself, but it’s not enough. There’s something about the look in his eyes that’s dark, hungry, and it makes your throat go dry. Makes you feel like you’re on display.

Bucky clears his throat and pulls himself to his feet; he’d been sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning more like, probably waiting for you to finish your shower so he can have one himself. “Nothing.”

And then he pushes past you into the bathroom – leaves you alone with your thoughts.

By the time he’s done, you’re already asleep. Or maybe that’s just what you want him to think.

It’s cold.

You must have fallen asleep at some point; you don’t know when, but the digital clock on your bedside table glows bright red in the darkness – 01:12 – and you stifle a yawn. You’re still exhausted, not to mention sore from being put through the ringer over the last day and a half. Your body’s still aching from last night, never mind the soreness between your legs.

The blankets shift beside you, just a little, and you freeze – but Bucky doesn’t do more than roll onto his back. Judging by the steady rise and fall of his chest, he’s fast asleep.

It’s like last night was a dream. Like it never even happened.

He’s a light sleeper, usually, but he doesn’t wake even when you go to get a drink of water, nor does he stir when you climb back into bed, half-scrambling to get back under the sheets and away from the autumn chill in the air.

It’s freezing, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of him even from your side of the bed.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

No response.

So you reach out hesitantly, nervously, like he’ll lash out at you for even trying – but of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know. Your hand splays across his shoulder in a gentle caress, and it’s only when you finally have his too-hot skin beneath your fingertips that you realize how cold you really are. Your fingers are like ice.

Or maybe it’s just an excuse for you to get closer.

Carefully, you lift his arm just enough to slide underneath. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt and your cheek rests just beside; he’s warm, so warm, and your eyelids instinctively flutter shut because god, he smells good. Sandalwood and musk and everything him, just like last night, only stronger, more concentrated, right from the source.

That’s when the fire between your legs starts to burn. You almost wish it didn’t. You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this, but you can’t escape it.

Last night did happen, and it’s something you’ll never, ever forget.

You shift to peer up at him in the darkness, but his breathing stays just as even – just as steady.

“Bucky.”

It’s not a whisper anymore, but it’s not so loud, either. Your voice is rough from sleep. That’s all.

His brows knit together, and for a moment you think you’ve woken him – but then his face relaxes again. He’s still asleep.

Your hand smooths along the planes of his chest, slowly, as if to savour the feel of his muscles under your fingertips; and then it slides lower, to his abdomen, and your heart starts to race.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He’s so strong, so ripped, so fucking attractive and you just can’t help yourself because you’ve never touched him like this. You shouldn’t be touching him like this.

It’s wrong.

Your hand dips lower still, to the waistband of his sweatpants, and you swallow thickly.

Another glance up at his face – he’s still asleep.

You should stop. You shouldn’t do this.

But you do.

Your palm brushes against him through the thick cotton and fleece of his sweats, and your heart skips a beat because he’s hard.  It spurs you on, gives you the courage to wrap your fingers around him, pump him once, twice—

And then you’re on your back, with him on top of you and cold vibranium fingers digging into the flesh of your neck.

You can’t breathe.

There it is again, that expression that makes your heart sink in realization and your core throb in muscle memory. He’s not here. Not really. Those pretty baby blues of his are blank, emotionless, and a cold sweat breaks out over your skin when you gather that he might actually hurt you this time.

“Buck—” You choke out, but you can’t breathe. “Bucky—”

He’s too strong, too powerful, too good at what he does. He has your arms pinned down with the way he’s straddling your upper body, and he’s far too heavy for you to push him off.

You’re trapped.

Only when your vision starts to go a little spotty does he finally let go, and you gasp and cough for air – at least until you feel the vibranium trail up your neck and along your cheek, and suddenly you’re staring up at him with baited breath as he drags his thumb against your lips. When he dips it inside to feel the wetness of your tongue, you shiver.

You like this.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He says something in Russian, then, but you don’t know what it means. Probably should have taken Natasha up on her offer to teach you way back when. Not that it matters.

At your lack of response, he grips your chin to the point that it’s almost painful. Almost.

It turns you on.

Then he repeats himself, a little more firmly this time.

“Da,” is all you can manage, a breathy whisper, because ‘yes’ is the only Russian you know. Problem is, you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.

You soon find out when he lets go of your chin in favour of burying his hand in your hair, to pull your head forward; and with his free one, he pulls down his sweats just enough to free himself, let you come face to face with his cock. All eight inches of him, thick and hard and leaking precum.

The breath leaves your lungs with a whoosh.

He says a single word, and you don’t have to understand the language to know what he means.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, first, and then you glance up at his face, like maybe this is the dream and he’ll snap right out of it. Then again, you’re not really sure that you want him to. The desire coursing through your veins feels like a bushfire, turning any rational thought in your mind to ash.

It’s not a dream. He’s not awake.

It’s wrong, and you don’t care.

You lean forward slightly to take the head into your mouth, and then you give it a tentative little suck. He’s thick, so much that you know your jaw will be aching by the end, but the salty taste of him is intoxicating, it’s addicting, and you can’t get enough. Your tongue swirls around the head, as if to collect every drop of precum he’s offered you – and then you take him further.

About halfway down is what triggers your gag reflex, and you quickly pull away to cough.

A mistake.

He uses his tight grip on your hair to shove your mouth right back onto him – and then he pushes past your tonsils, and your nose is buried in his curls.

Sandalwood. Sweat. Bucky.

You gag once, twice, feel your throat constrict around him, but he doesn’t let up – just makes you take every inch of him until you feel like you’re about to pass out for a second time. Survival instinct has struggling to push him away, has your fingernails digging into the backs of his thighs, has you drawing blood but you don’t even notice – the lack of oxygen’s already gone to your head.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

You like this. You like it so much that your panties are soaked through.

By the time he pulls away, you feel a little dizzy, but you have half a mind to beg for more.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Each gulp of air feels like a blessing, one that he’s given you, that he’s allowed you to have and you look up at him again through half-lidded eyes as if to say thank you.

Then his cock’s all the way down your throat again, and your vision blurs with tears: a physiological reaction from gagging and coughing, nothing more. You’re not scared, no – you’re turned on. So turned on that you can’t think straight anymore.

You’re losing it.

When he finally relents, you rasp, “Fuck me.”

It’s in English, but he seems to understand just fine.

He lets go of your hair and moves off of you so that you can catch your breath. Your cheeks are wet, and radiating heat – but you don’t notice the latter until cold metal fingertips come back up to brush away your tears.

You feel dazed. High. Floating, and you never want to come down.

Clarity slowly comes as your breathing returns to normal, but everything still feels like a fever dream.

“Clothes.”

Another one-word order, in English this time, and you comply like you’re on autopilot because he’s him and your body’s buzzing with endorphins. Your t-shirt hits the ground first, followed by your pajama bottoms – but when you reach for your underwear, you notice that your hands are trembling. That’s how excited you are.

It’s wrong.

Not that it matters, because you discard your panties quickly, too.

“Spread your legs.”

After leaning back on your elbows, you do so – and when he finally touches you there, your head lulls back. Two warm fingers spread you open like he’s checking to make sure you can handle what he’s going to give you. You’re not sure that you can, now, but hell if you don’t want to try.

When he removes them, a glistening string of wetness follows – and then it breaks. Some part of you does, too.

His arms hook around your thighs before he pulls you forward, just enough to line you up where he wants you. You yelp in surprise at the suddenness of the action, but it doesn’t faze him; he just sluices the head of his cock through your folds, and then he pushes in.

No warning. No preparation.

You don’t need it anyway.

The first thing you notice is that you’re sore, an observation soon forgotten the further he slides inside. The stretch of him feels different, now – better, because you’re already so soaked and the saliva only adds to the slickness. The position he takes you in bears a resemblance to missionary, with him on his knees, and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning because it’s so good.

That doesn’t last long. The last couple of inches sink into you all at once with a snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” you whine, holding onto the pillow above your head like it’ll ground you, maybe keep you from losing yourself.

It won’t.

With his fingers digging into your hips, you’re not sure how long you’ll last. It’s a grip that ensures full control of your body, something only further proven when he uses it to pull you off of his cock. Then he shoves you right back down onto him, forces you to take every inch of him inside of you, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

It feels too good. He feels too good.

You’re losing it.

The pace he sets isn’t gentle, but you don’t want that anyway. Not now. Not anymore.

Skin audibly slaps against skin as he fucks you – and that’s exactly what it is. He’s fucking you. He’s fucking the life out of you, rough, brutal, and there’s nothing admirable about it. It’s not the kind of sex that they show in the movies; it’s the kind that warps your mind, distorts your senses, makes you feel like you have only one purpose: this.

It’s carnal. It’s instinct.

You need to feel him blow.

It’s addicting, watching the sweat roll down his muscular chest. It’s exhilarating, seeing the furrow of his brow as he concentrates. It’s shameless, the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust, and you know he notices when his fingertips tweak a nipple.

Every part of you is exposed to him like this. Raw. Debased.

His.

It only sends you higher when you see the bruises on your hips.

You’re losing it.

And then he leans forward onto his forearms, caging you in – and it’s intimate. His forehead touches yours, his nose brushes yours, and you shudder because it’s not real.

Every part of you is exposed to him except for that.

So you pull him closer, giving him no choice but to bury his face in your neck, and it’s there he sucks a bruise; he leaves a mark, a claim, a scarlet letter on your skin.

It’s wrong, but it almost feels right. Almost – but it’s off.

The suddenness of him slamming into your g-spot draws you out of your head and back into the present. Even if it’s not real, he still knows how to play your body like an instrument, and he soon has you dangling over the edge, whimpering, begging, ready to implode. His fingers are in your mouth to stifle your moans, and he’s saying things – things in Russian – things you can’t understand, but it doesn’t matter.

None of it matters. 

None of it is real.

When the pace changes, your ankles lock around his waist. He’s close.

“Come inside me,” you gasp, or maybe it’s a plea.

His hips stutter, then, and when he shoves it in as far as he can go, you fall.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

His cock throbs, and that’s when you can feel it, the warmth, the heat – you feel each pulse as he spills inside of you, every hot rope of cum as he fills you to the brim. You’re clenching down so tightly around him, it’s impossible not to feel it. It’s impossible not to lose yourself. It’s impossible not to break.

When he bites into the tender junction of your neck and shoulder, you see stars. It’s a mark, a bruise, a delicate mixture of pleasure and pain, and his teeth leave your skin a reminder for the morning—

You’re his, inside and out.

If only.

Part Four

[eretzyisrael]

An extinguished, precious life remembered in Melbourne

Twenty years ago we started the endless process of adjusting to life without our delightful first-born daughter Malka Chana - Malki to her friends - stolen from us before she reached her sixteenth birthday.

Our copy of the Melbourne Herald-Sun's front page report on August 11, 2001 isdamaged. We are trying to acquire a repairedimage.

It wasn't an illness or a tragic accident that removed Malki from the warm embrace of those who loved her. It was a gang of ideology-crazed thugs led by a chillingly satanic Jordanian woman, armed with a powerful explosive package disguised as a human being, an Arab man in his twenties, and egged on by millions of backers.

Those millions still exert a deeply painful influence on our lives.

We scan the Arabic social media six days a week. This week on the day of the twentieth anniversary we saw - though we didn't need it - plenty of evidence of how utterly different the world in which they live their lives is from ours in this generations-long war of terror.

It's a war that Arabs launched against against Jews in Palestine long before the name Palestine was appropriated by the Arab side. And decades before the State of Israel announced its existence as new-born state on the 1948 day the British Mandate ended and six Arab armies invaded.

A random selection of some deeply hostile and ugly anniversary messages appearing on Twitter (minus the links - we have interest in giving these people any traffic or attention):

Today marks the twentieth anniversary of Operation Sbarro carried out by the martyr Izz Al-Din Al-Masri in Jaffa Street in occupied Jerusalem with the help of the liberated captive Ahlam Al-Tamimi in retaliation for the martyrdom of the two leaders Gamal Selim and Jamal Mansour [Arabic]

..A martyrdom operation in the Sbarro restaurant in Jerusalem which led to the deaths of 20 Zionists and the wounding of 100 [Arabic]

We do not want to forget the liberated captive, Ahlam Al-Tamimi, who carried the attacker of the Sbarro restaurant, Izz Al-Din Al-Masri, to the restaurant after which she was arrested by the occupation army [Arabic]

Prepare it for them in the manner of the people of Aqaba and serve it [pizza] hot and delicious. Al-Masri [the name of the human bomb], go through here. Occupied Jerusalem August 9, 2001 [Arabic]

Proud of our representative from the family in the heroic operation. The liberated captive, Ahlam Al-Tamimi, who transported the martyr Izz Al-Din Al-Masri and handed him a guitar stuffed with maddening death [Arabic - posted by a male with the surname Tamimi]

...Al-Masri was killed on the responsibility of the Jews and their responsibility is extensive [Arabic]

If her parents hadn’t chosen to become foreign invaders she’d probably be alive now

My argument is with the creation of an apartheid theocratic state created by the West (mostly by the US and Britain) in Palestine largely so Jews wouldn't immigrate to the US. I'm a Jew not an Israeli Zionist. She should never have been put in this position by her dad.

We saw no Arabic messages condemning or criticizing Tamimi or the massacre. They might exist and we're just not seeing them, but the truth is we have been looking for years and not finding.

Malki, like her father, was born in Australia. The current edition of the Australian Jewish News, a weekly community-focused newspaper, ran this editorial on Thursday. It's reprinted with the permission of its editor, Zeddy Lawrence.

‘A precious life extinguished’

"THE Australian Jewish community was in mourning this week," reported The AJN 20 years ago, on Friday, August 17, 2001. "The death of 15-year-old Malki Roth in the Sbarro bombing catapulted Israel's crisis into personal grief for much of this community."

Fifteen innocent people were killed in the terrorist attack just a few days earlier, when a guitar case packed with nails was detonated at the central Jerusalem pizza restaurant. Among the victims were seven people aged between just two and 16. Scores of other diners were wounded.

Reflecting on the death of his daughter at the time, Arnold Roth told The AJN, "This was the extinguishing of a precious life."

Ahlam Aref Ahmad Al-Tamimi, who masterminded the attack and drove the bomber to the restaurant, was apprehended by Israel soon afterwards and sentenced to 16 life terms in an Israeli jail. But in 2011, she was one of more than 1000 Palestinian prisoners freed in exchange for the release of Gilad Shalit, who had been held hostage in Gaza for five years.

Since that time, Tamimi has lived in Jordan, feted as a celebrity, and expressing her joy at the high death toll the Sbarro bombing inflicted.

Determined to bring her back to justice, Arnold and his American-born wife Frimet have long called for her to be extradited to the US, as Malki and another victim held American citizenship.

A warrant was issued, but insisting the extradition treaty between the countries was never ratified, Jordan has never acted on it.

The latest evidence, however, appears to show that the treaty was indeed signed.

With that in mind, as the community marks 20 years since Malki's death, the Roths are hoping their sustained campaign may bear fruit.

Pressure is mounting within Washington for the US to withhold foreign assistance from Jordan, and they're urging the Australian government – who they claim have been reticent to speak out – to also take a stand.

Twenty years on, we share their hope that the authorities, both here and Stateside, will take action, so that the unrepentant, bragging terrorist who has Malki's blood on her hands will soon be back behind bars, where she belongs.

The same AJN edition carried this article by senior journalist Peter Kohn:

Still seeking justice for Malki Roth

ON the 20th of Av this year (July 29), Arnold and Frimet Roth visited the Israeli grave of Malki Roth and recited Kaddish. It was their daughter’s yahrzeit – 20 years after the Australian-born teenager was murdered in a Palestinian terrorist attack at a Jerusalem pizzeria, along with 15 others, including seven children.

“Life was heavy,” Malki’s father told The AJN this week, reflecting on the yahrzeit. “You’re missing somebody desperately and feel awful about the fact that she’s not part of your life.”

But this Monday, August 9, the secular anniversary of Malki’s killing, Roth was back on Zoom and on the phone continuing his relentless campaign to see Ahlam Tamimi, the mastermind of the attack, extradited from Jordan to the US. “The ninth of August … that’s all about justice,” he stated.

Tamimi had picked out the Sbarro pizzeria targeted by her and another bomber on August 9, 2001, her accomplice dying in the attack. Tamimi left the scene disguised as a tourist, later professing her glee as the ever-rising death toll was reported.

Although sentenced in Israel to 16 consecutive life terms, she was exchanged in a 2011 prisoner swap to free Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit from Hamas captivity. She continues to be feted as a media celebrity in Jordan, and, according to Roth, she recently added a regular newspaper column to her stint as a Jordanian TV show host.

In the US, she faces charges relating to the death of two American citizens – Malki, who held dual citizenship, being one of them – and an extradition request was issued in 2017.

But four years on, Roth is still battling three governments to get Tamimi extradited.

For years, the US had maintained its hands were tied because Jordan had not ratified its extradition treaty, a position stated by a Jordanian court in 2017. However, in 2019, Roth learned from an American official that Jordan had indeed ratified the treaty as far back as 1995.

Last year, under US freedom-of-information laws, he even received an archived letter from Jordan’s former monarch King Hussein to the US State Department confirming that fact. He is hopeful this legal development will provide a much needed stepping stone.

Desperate for the Australian government to weigh in, Roth’s entreaties to Malcolm Turnbull when he was PM did not bear fruit. Approaches to Prime Minister Scott Morrison last year were referred to Foreign Minister Marise Payne, whose office cited constitutional problems in Jordan with extraditing its nationals, an assertion Roth rejects because oddly “it goes beyond what the Jordanians say”.

In Israel meanwhile, Roth says his fight to have Tamimi extradited to the US has been “betrayed by a chain of Netanyahu governments and, so far at least, by the new government. Of course, Israel could do something. But Israel has no charges against this woman. Israel has washed its hands of the case.”

Roth’s growing perception is that justice for Malki has become expendable to higher policy priorities in Jerusalem, Washington and Canberra.

“There’s a lot of group-think going on – among Israelis, among Americans, among media people,” he said, describing Tamimi as “the most wanted female fugitive alive today”.

The Roths maintain their ties to the families of other victims of the Sbarro bombing, particularly to a victim who remains “in a vegetative state”, he said.

Arnold remains honorary chair of the Malki Foundation, established in his daughter’s memory to support children with disabilities. Malki had been a caring, loving companion to her severely disabled younger sister and others with special needs.

“A 15-year-old girl who had a legacy – it’s unbelievable, but she did,” exclaimed Roth. “She was so good, so empathetic, so involved in making the world better for children with special needs.”

This blog isn't a memorial to our daughter. That function belongs to the website of the Malki Foundation (www.kerenmalki.org). We hope you will visit it.

In the context of terrorism and the worldwide efforts to defeat it, we write here at the site you are now visiting about our efforts to bring Malki's killers to justice - in particular Ahlam Tamimi. the Jordanian orchestrator of the massacre at Sbarro twenty years ago.

Tamimi, now 41 years old and a celebrity in the Arab world, lives free and famous in her homeland despite being the world's most woman female fugitive with a $5M reward issued by the US State Department for her capture and conviction.

One valuable way to give us your support is to sign our petition at change.org/ExtraditeTamimi

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Who owns the covid vaccines?

A key idea from sf is “all laws are local, and no law knows how local it is.” Prisoners of our own time and place, it’s hard not to feel like we’re living in the only possible world, is if everything around us is inevitable and natural — and any change is “unnatural.”

But anyone who’s ever dabbled in multi-agent modeling (sims where “individuals” each have their own goals and aversions) knows there are lots of stable configurations that a big, complex system can fall into, and re-rerunning the same sim produces wildly different outcomes.

14 months ago, we hit STOP on our big, complex system and now the US is about to hit START again. It will not be a return to “normalcy,” because the old normal wasn’t inevitable. There are lots of other ways we could get along. And frankly, the old normal sucked.

A key way in which Old Normal sucked was the way that monopolists were able to style themselves as heroic entrepreneurs whose great rewards were commensurate with their great risks — when in reality, the risks were always socialized and only the gains were privatized.

That’s an area where a new normal is long overdue, and that new normal is being born in the controversy over public access to covid vaccines.

Helping the poor world manufacture its own vaccines is the obvious right thing to do.

Not just because vaccine apartheid is slow genocide, but also because the longer billions of people are infected, the greater the chance that one of them will incubate a vaccine-resistant, even more deadly mutation.

MRNA vaccines are wild: compared to conventional vaccines, they can be manufactured with 99.7% less capital and 99.9% less physical plant, and mRNA production facilities can retool to make new vaccines 1,000% faster.

https://coronavirus.medium.com/manufacturing-mrna-vaccines-is-surprisingly-straightforward-despite-what-bill-gates-thinks-222cffb686ee

Moderna’s own assessment is that new mRNA facilities can be built in 3–4 months. There’s no good scientific or humanitarian reason to object to patent- and know-how transfer to the Global South, where vaccination is currently projected for 2023/4 (!).

https://apnews.com/article/drug-companies-called-share-vaccine-info-22d92afbc3ea9ed519be007f8887bcf6

We’ve just experienced the collapse of the racist lie — peddled by Big Pharma, Bill Gates, Howard Dean and other vaccine apartheid apologists — that poor brown people are too primitive to make vaccines.

The new talking point? “CHINA! CHINA! CHINA!”

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/15/how-to-rob-a-bank/#roll-the-dice

Whether it’s racist lies about the Global South or New Cold War hysteria, the underlying ideological story is the same: exclusive patent rights and the (spectacular) profits they yield are the foundation of lifesaving medical innovation.

That is, fate has placed among us a tiny cohort of collosi, endowed with the superpower of inventing the future. But for all their creative might, these saviors-in-potentia have the fragile temperaments of toddlers, and if they’re denied their due, they’ll abandon us to die.

“Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.” The true mRNA vaccines theft isn’t entrepreneur-inventors who face robbery by the public sector — rather, those “entrepreneurs” have enjoyed billions in public subsidies, and now insist they owe nothing in return.

So much public investment went into the covid vaccines that it’s hard to account for it all. The GAO thinks that Uncle Sam coughed up $18–23b in direct subsidies. BARDA pumped in $19.3b.

https://www.healthaffairs.org/do/10.1377/hblog20210512.191448/full/

The USG picked up the tab for non-clinical studies of new covid vaccines ($900m), and also shelled out for Phase III trials ($2.7b).

Moderna got $53m for production capacity, part of $100m in direct capacity contracts to pharma, backed with $2.7b for contract manufacturers.

J&J got a $1b pre-order from the USG; Moderna got $4.95b, Pfizer (which touts its lack of public subsidy!) got a $5.97b guaranteed order.

That’s just the latest round of investment. BARDA has been backing mRNA vaccine research for years, pumping billions into the project.

Pharma’s claim that it doesn’t owe us anything in return makes no sense, even by the companies’ own logic. They say that markets produce wonders because they reward canny risk-taking with vast fortunes.

By that logic, the public — who assumed the majority of the risk in developing vaccines — are the angel investors in this high-tech unicorn, and the pharma companies are the VCs who came in with some late capital to help scale up a sure thing.

It’s neither good business — nor legal — for early minority investors get squeezed out by latecomers.

But, of course, the government isn’t a business. Our democratic institutions direct our national productive capacity to R&D in service to human thriving, not profit.

Public investment in R&D isn’t a business in the same way that having kids isn’t a retirement plan: we have kids because we love them and want them to thrive. If they care for us in our dotage, that’s great, but if you treat your kid as an ambulatory 401k, you’re a monster.

I first encountered these ideas when serving as an NGO rep at WIPO alongside Jamie Love and Knowledge Ecology International. Love helped create the Access to Medicines Treaty and has been fighting the pharma industry’s self-serving story of fragile genius for decades.

In an interview with Janine Jackson at FAIR, Love lays out the plain case for an IP-waiver to enable poor countries to make their own vaccines, like the undeniable truth that this would “definitely expand the production and supply of vaccines.”

https://fair.org/home/government-money-thats-gone-into-vaccine-development-is-being-privatized-by-a-handful-of-companies/

Love also recounts the kind of public subsidy that went into covid vaccine production (for example, Pfizer’s boasts of free enterprise entrepreneurship omits the €400m from Germany and €100m from the rest of the EU).

Pharma’s claims of philanthropic largesse are wildly overblown. Pfizer told its shareholders it expects $26b from covid vaccines in 2021; Moderna’s projecting $20b (Moderna’s CEO’s personal net worth just hit $5b).

All that before pharma companies jack up the prices for “their” vaccines, in the years to come when we all need annual boosters, when the price will go from $10 to $175/dose, for a vaccine that costs $0.10/dose to manufacture.

The case for public access to vaccines and the case against pharma as a necessary or even laudable force for good is so thin, it’s remarkable that it’s persisted this long.

But as Love points out, the ideology that knowledge-monopolies are moral has some powerful backers.

Bill Gates is a prime example. Gates has been committed to enclosing commonly created knowledge and turning it into a monopoly — in service to coaxing our toddler-genius-collosi into action — since he was a teenager, writing petulant letters to computer hobbyists.

Today, Gates — a convicted monopolist — directs one of the world’s great fortunes (“behind every great fortune…”), and he mobilizes his capital to prop up the story of necessary and benevolent profiteering.

The Gates Foundation, for example, donates millions to “independent” media outlets (as well as partnering with public media like the BBC), and as Love describes, this has a chilling effect on negative reporting on Gates, the Foundation, and its ideology.

Like the time Love got a Washington Monthly reporter interested in a critical story about how the Gates Foundation’s grants influence its media coverage — only to have the reporter’s editor kill the story because they’d just applied for one of those grants (!).

Gates is a true ideologue, a relentless campaigner against any public access to public goods, in every domain, not just software. He’s been at it a long time, leading the charge against Nelson Mandela’s demand that South Africa be allowed to manufacture its own AIDS drugs.

Love: “Gates is a smart guy; he’s not the only smart guy around or smart woman around. I think people need to listen to other views. And, actually, Gates has sort of a mental block about these issues, and so some of his arguments just don’t add up.”

But all laws are local, and multi-agent systems have many stable configurations. On Friday, the New York Times editorial board — long a voice for strong corporate power — published an editorial and accompanying package strongly endorsing vaccine waivers.

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/14/opinion/biden-covid-vaccines-world-india.html

The Times notes that the global economy is losing trillions due to lockdown, and that these loses will mount for so long as vaccines aren’t universally available.

But it also makes an ethical case, calling vaccine apartheid a “moral failure.”

It warns of political instability and the potential for states to topple if something isn’t done, pointing to the pitched battles in Colombia (in which death squads are now murdering leftists with impunity and posting snuff videos to social media as a boast — and a warning).

Beyond advocating for vaccine waivers, the Times backs Public Citizen’s plan to spend $25b ramping up domestic, publicly owned vaccine production facilities to make vaccines to be given away free or at cost to poor countries.

https://www.citizen.org/article/25-billion-to-vaccinate-the-world/

That effort will produce 8b vaccine doses, “enough to vaccinate half the planet.” And it will provide booster shots and new anti-variant vaccines into the future.

The future is coming. Lockdowns are lifting. The rich world is inching toward an emergence from emergency. But normalcy isn’t returning — thank goodness. The whole world deserves (and requires) so much better than normal.

Image: Quapan (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/hinkelstone/49920420853

CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[guessimwritingficsagain]

To been seen, part Four (Frankie Morales x Reader)

Summary : You get a text. You freak out.

Author’s note : I am very very soft for Frankie.

Also, I have a few days off and I thought I have been really self-indulgent so : the cheese gift really happened to me (best birthday ever, he got me a Mont d'Or because he knew I had planned on eating one with my best friend to celebrate), the Edward Scissorchands movie thing really happened to me, and the "date" with the grandma too. In France, the Opera is often showed in movie theaters. When I was a teenager, I thought it was quite the event, though. So I got invited. Next thing we saw together with that guy was the movie Black Swan and I made sure someone was tagged along.

The holidays came and went in a blur of laughter, hot chocolate was big sweaters. You were happy. And Jessie was happy too. January came, and went, too. Everything was slow. So you watched the movie you’d bought, and a bunch of others too.

February was over before you knew it, and when March warmed up the air, you found yourself, one morning, looking at the screen of your phone like the message would disappear if you blinked. You turned your eyes to the cupboard that contained the empty box of chocolate that sat there, hidden from the sniggering remarks of Linda, and looked back at the screen. The text message was still there. You put the phone down, abruptly, fingers tingling and burning and went to get a glass of water. Your eyes landed on the bottle of wine, still unopened, and you almost spilled your drink. You went back to your phone in a hurry, opened the chat you shared with your friends and sent

Who the fuck gave Francisco fucking Morales my phone number ?????

You waited, breathing hard, hoping anyone would answer. Nothing came, not right away. Phone on the table again, you slumped on the couch, nervous breakdown on its way. You couldn’t do it, there was no way you could do that, you couldn’t, that would kill you, you wouldn’t survive this.

Time floated for a while, up until your phone vibrated and you jumped. You’d been so caught up in your thoughts you hadn’t noticed everyone had answer, Anna, Jessie and Linda with a simple « not me » but James …

James had sent a

Go get some

And an eggplant emoji.

James, then.

Okay.

Okay.

You were fine. You could answer a text. You knew the drill, by now. You knew how to pretend you were not freaking out every time Frankie did something unexpected and kind, like that time he offered you chocolate and a bottle of wine for Christmas. You had coping mechanisms, now, to hide the fact you had a doctorate in yearning.

You’d replayed the Christmas Scene so many times in your head you sometimes thought you made it up, but the reminders were there, in your flat.

You’re replaying it now.

You’re getting out of your car, with ten minutes to spare before work starts. It’s almost six. You spot Frankie’s truck on the parking lot and you’re a bit surprised but mostly delighted, even more so when you see the man himself jogging towards you. It takes you a minute to see he’s holding presents. By the time he gets to you, you’re confused. He smiles a breathy hello before handing you what he’s got in his hands. You stare at the neatly wrapped packages for a bit, like the dumbass you are, unable to put two and two together. Maybe it’s for Clara ?

It must be for Clara.

You take them. Say thank you. And Frankie answers :

« Open them. »

Your braincells must have left the building like God in Supernatural, gone off to do the Macarena dance somewhere very far away because all you can answer is what and you know you sound like a dumbass and you feel like one too.

The lack of reaction is getting to Frankie, you can tell, because he’s rubbing the back of his neck and you feel bad that he’s embarrassed so you say :

« You got me presents ? »

Well, except you don’t really say it. More squeal it. Or shriek it. You’re not sure. It feels like a repeat of that moment a boy you’d liked but never made a move on offered you fucking cheese on your birthday and was all embarrassed about it and you didn’t know what to do or say because his birthday had been a few days before yours and you didn’t get him anything.

You add, for good measure, because why the hell not :

« But I didn’t get you anything. »

Like maybe he’s going to take them back, or maybe the moment is going to rewind except you don’t want it to rewind because Frankie has gifts for you, just for you.

Maybe he got something for Jessie and Anna, too ? You wonder. And Linda. You know he goes there to buy books. Maybe he showed up and got her some stuff. Not books, you hope. Stupid to buy books to a bookseller.

All of this goes through your mind and in the meanwhile Frankie’s waiting and when you finally put your bag down on the hood of your car to carefully open the first present, your body finally moving, you don’t miss the sigh of relief that escapes Frankie. It’s a box of chocolate, a fancy one at that. You recognize the brand. You hold it for a while, before you set it down with your bag and say thank you in a voice that’s way too small. You open the second one, then. Wine. White wine. Wine that you actually love. Your favorite. You wonder how he knows that.

You’re holding the bottle the way he’s holding his breath : tight. You lift your eyes to meet his and you can tell he’s embarrassed and a bit blushing. He rearranges the cap on his head and announces :

« Merry Christmas. »

You say it back, smile so big your cheeks hurt because Frankie got you presents for Christmas. You put the bottle with the rest of your stuff and then, on a whim, you throw yourself at him for a hug. He closes his arms around you, and one hand comes up right between your shoulder-blades, his thumb just here, sitting on the back of your neck, skin against skin and maybe you’re dead and in heaven right now.

You stay like this way too long and at some point you mumble against his shoulder that you really didn’t get him anything.

« It’s fine », he answers as he lets go, hands squeezing your side briefly.

You get into work late.

And now, you got a text. You opened it, read it again.

Maybe you could do this. Maybe you could take it to the next level. After all, you’d became closer to the boys over the last two months. Santi could have sent you that text, right ? That text didn’t have the word date in it. Maybe you were friends now. Frankie’d gotten you Christmas presents, after all.

So you read the words again, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you sent a yeah, sure, I’m in !

Your eyes went over his message once again, just to make sure the words would be burnt into your brain.

Hey, it’s Frankie. I know Friday’s your day off this week. I got two tickets to that new Marvel movie and one with your name on it. You in ?

You could spend two hours in a dark room with Francisco Morales right next to you. No problem. None at all.

———

He’d picked a screening that ended around seven. Your mind supplied just in time for dinner, and you kicked the two remaining braincells you had. You’d decided to drive there separately and were now sitting next to each other, you explaining the Marvel timeline and him listening intently. You were a nerd, but, him, not as much. You didn’t try to think too hard about the fact that he was doing this for you, because he was not as much into comics or movies as you were.

The whole thing was pleasant and relaxed.

This was not a date, you reminded yourself.

You got dinner after that, dissecting the movie as you ate - nothing fancy, but it was nice. The conversation shifted, at some point.

« Yeah, I get what you mean : movies are not the place to make a move. Especially when there’s a hot guy on the screen. I mean, what chance do you get when you’re watching a movie and Oscar Isaac is right there ? » Frankie laughed.

You nodded, getting another sip of your drink, and, as an afterthought, added :

« You know, Santi kinda looks like Oscar Isaac … »

Frankie grunted :

« Never, ever, tell him that. »

You promised you wouldn’t. After that, the two of you told each other stories about your worst dates, and you remembered :

« You know, when I was younger, before I met James, I hung out with a bunch of guys. I was like, fourteen, and they were sort of … beginning to understand I was a girl, you know. There was this guy, a good friend of mine, who actually told this other guy we weren’t going to see a movie. I remember, it was a special screening of Edward Scissorshands. So, my other friend never showed up and the guy told me he couldn’t make it. »

« Let me guess, the other guy told you later he thought you weren’t going ? »

You laughed.

« Yeah, basically. And then this guy I went to see the movie with invited me to a really fancy thing. It was a Wednesday afternoon, I remember. We got lunch. I didn’t pay for anything because he’d invited to come along with him and his grandma. Let me tell you : after that, I made sure to always have someone with us when he invited me somewhere. »

Frankie’s laugh was something you’d never grew tired of, you knew that.

———

Months went on, like that, with you and Frankie hanging out to see movies, and everybody showing up for Benny’s fight when you could (Jessie and you had to keep James updated, those nights, because he’d gone back to Washington after new year’s eve but wanted to know everything). Jessie had started dating a guy, at some point, and you didn’t find him that great but Will hated him.

« When are you gonna make a move ? » You asked, one evening as you were sipping beers with him at his place.

« When she doesn’t have a boyfriend dull as dishwater » He answered without missing a beat.

You knew this was the moment, then. You had two options : say nothing and let things be, or say something and get those idiots together. You thought hard, about the phrasing of your next sentence, and settled with :

« For you, she’d dump him. »

Will froze at that, just for a second, and quipped back :

« I’ll make a move when you make a move on ‘Fish. »

So that conversation was happening. You’d hoped none of the guys had noticed but obviously, at least one of them had. And you knew, by now, that his ex-wife had left him, had left Maria too. You knew he was available. You sputtered a bit and Will, kind Will, let it be. You enjoyed a nice evening with him, not once wondering why he sought you out, because Will and you didn’t hang out.

The answer came a few days later, with a simple text from Frankie.

Come over please

———

« I need you to take care of Maria », Frankie said as he opened the door. He looked really tired, like he hadn’t slept in days.

Please, he added, begging but you didn’t quite understand what he was begging for.

You complied, never stopping to think that this was the first time you saw Maria, never stopping to think about what might be possibly happening, even as Frankie went to his room, muttering apologies. It hit you when you put the girl to bed, and you remembered Frankie and the way he’d been looking at you that day, when he’d asked if they could throw a birthday party for their late friend’s daughter.

It was around that time, last year.

You walked hesitantly towards Frankie’s bedroom and stared at the white paint in it for a while. You were nervous, and actually turned around to smoke a cigarette outside, the air a bit too chilly for you, but cold enough to wake you up and give you the strength to walk to Frankie’s bedroom and knock.

So you did it.

He didn’t answer, but, feeling bold - or rather, feeling like you needed to do it - you opened the door anyway. The room was almost dark, the moonlight giving you an idea that Frankie was curled up, on his side. You put a hand on his shoulder. He put his on top of yours. You chose - you chose - to take it at a silent invitation, lifted the covers, and got, fully dressed, right next to him. Because friends do that.

———

When you woke up, he was staring at you. While your brain tried to make sense of the situation, you asked, voice heavy with sleep :

« What time is it ? »

Seven, Frankie answered. Maria’s gonna wake up soon, he added. You were too tired to say anything else, because when you’d laid down next to him you’d felt like your heart had been about to burst so you’d just listened to him, his breath steadying as he’d got to sleep. You’d finally got to sleep too, but it was too damn early for you.

Later, you’d blame what happened on your foggy brain : you snuggled closer, and Frankie let you. Then, it hit you. At that moment, right next to him, it hit you : you were not friends with him. You were pretending to be, but you were not and never would.

You couldn’t.

You wanted to wake up everyday like that, to Frankie telling you it’s seven, Maria’s gonna be awake soon. You wanted everything and friends just wouldn’t cut it.

Two things happened at once, then : you were realizing how much you liked - loved - Frankie when he gently took one of your forearm and brought it to his lips. All of the feelings hit home just as he was kissing the soft skin on your wrist and you froze.

He saw it and let go immediately, muttering apologies, while you were still processing what you felt about him. When you reached to grab him, to tell him how good that was and how wanted him to do it again, it was already too late.

[stxrrywildflower]

carolina (2)

pairing - emily prentiss x reader

summary - you meet emily in a bar, she doesn’t realize who you are until she hears a song about her on the radio

warnings - none

series masterlist

emily felt like she couldn’t breath.

the profiler tried to go on with her life, she really did. except, your song was already extremely popular. it was topping the charts, people were constantly talking about it, and it was played on most radio stations. it was incredibly difficult to avoid the song, nonetheless you.

an entire week went by of emily trying to escape the song. the details of your hookup were never released, emily was starting to regret not admitting it to j.j. and garcia. the tech analyst loved the song, always gushing about the lyrics. all emily wanted to do was yell that it was about her.

but she couldn’t for multiple reasons; your privacy and the reaction from others. sure the team knew of her partner preference but how would they react if they knew emily had hooked up with one of the most famous singers at the moment.

news articles were another issue too. drama outlets were pestering you with questions about who the song was about. each time, you would remain stubern and not open up. it made her want to scream.

emily decided to just move on, work becoming her main priority for the next few days. j.j. and penelope didn’t let up on their questions, though they did learn to be more subtle about it.

no new cases were presented which was more than suprising. the team was fairly thankful for it, paperwork and 9 to 5’s were usually uncommon. being able to actually work and be home in time for dinner was one of their simple pleasures.

walking into work, emily was focused on one thing; coffee.

she couldn’t have been in the main floor for more than a few seconds before penelope was rushing over to the elevators.

“hey em,” penelope greeted. “there was a package dropped off for you this morning. i told the delivery guy to just leave it at your desk.”

though emily nodded, her mind was already formulating theories as she hasn’t ordered anything recently. being a profiler will make you that paranoid.

just like penelope had said, a smile white box with a small gold ribbon sat on her desk. emily narrowed her eyes slightly, having even less of a clue on what it could be.

“well, are you going to open it?”

emily ignored the remarks from the team, taking a seat and placing her bag at the base of her desk.

with only slightly shaky hands, she reached out to untie the ribbon. the sides of the box fell away as the strings were released, leaving the top on. after pulling the final piece off, she froze.

inside was an envelope, another piece of paper under it. the note was in your handwriting, edges crisp and extremely neat. in cursive letters was ‘emily prentiss.’ all thoughts of it being a mix up went right out of the door.

she refrained from opening it yet, wanting to see the other contents in the box before reading. emily next put the note on her desk, now focused on what was under it.

of all things, it was a plane ticket. ‘washington dulles international airport (IAD) to los angeles international airport (LAX). 9:30 am.’ it was set for the following morning, first class and already paid.

emily opened the note, seeing a five letter offer scribbled down.

‘meet me in los angeles?’ -y/n

emily’s never taken time off quicker.

____

touching down in the warm city of los angeles, emily was a bundle of nerves. she was already begining to regret wearing joggers and a t-shirt.

she had no clue how to feel about dropping everything or just the situation as a whole  

it was only when emily grabbed her luggage that she realized just how much of an idiot she was. she had just flow across the country with no clue where to go, who to talk to, or where you were. she was acting on pure adrenaline and impulse. her luggage finally came around, emily picking it up and extending the handle to grab.

a tap on emily’s shoulder caused her to jump. she turned around, now in front of a man in a clean black suit. he was holding a name card and a small index card.

“emily prentiss?” he asked.

“yeah?” emily replied, not quite sure what else to say. “this is for you,” he added, handing over the small piece of paper.

‘if you’re reading this, i assume you arrived with no issue. i sent leo to pick you up at the airport, hope he didn’t freak you out. he’ll take you back to mine. xx - y/n’

emily picked up her luggage once more, ready to follow leo out. “just letting you know, it’s a bit of a drive,” leo offered, getting in the drivers side while emily took the back. she nodded, letting out a sigh with it. at least she could think for awhile.

pulling up to your house, scratch that, it was pretty much a mansion, emily didn’t know if she had guessed completely correct on what it would look like or was just flat out wrong.

the house was in hollywood on one of the steep hills. after passing through the gates, a heavy security measure, she finally got view of the home. the outside was pretty modern, made up of mostly white and grey colors as well as many windows. a garden with a fountain in the center greeted her as they pulled into the circular driveway.

“well this is where i let you out. just head up the stairs and ring the doorbell. y/n should be down to greet you soon,” leo spoke. “i really hope everything works out. i’ve never seen y/n happier then when she came back from washington d.c.”

emily thanked him quietly, still processing the final piece of information he had spoke.

dragging her bags behind her, emily headed up the series of steps and to the door. just like leo had instructed, she pushed the doorbell button and stood back.

you didn’t greet her at the door, the lock on the door clicking signaling emily that it was now unlocked. she twisted the knob, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

the foyer may have been more impressive than the outside. a grand chandelier hug from the ceiling, a curved staircase leading up to the top floor. her heels clicked around the floor as she twirled around, looking up at the decor.

you heard the front door of your house open, the alarm alerting you just moments before. you were currently making lunch, just a simple sandwich and then fruit on the side

after putting your lunch on hold, abandoning your knife you were using as well as your now finished meal, you left the kitchen to meet your guest.

emily stood only slightly awkwardly in your open foyer. her bags were by her side, eyes darting around the room. half the stuff in there was probably worth more than she could think.

footsteps broke the profiler out of her observation.

you were finally in her eyesight a moment later, a small smile on your face as you walked down the hallway. what captivated emily once again was just your overall appearance. a sharp breath escaped her lips before she would realize that.

a loose oversized tan cardigan hung of your body, a white tank top underneath that with leggings as your pants. your hair was down, relaxed in its natural style. no makeup was on either, not even lipstick like you had on when she first met you.

“hey em,” god just the way you said her name made her blush.

“hi,” emily greeted, thankful her voice didn’t crack.

“i can take your bags upstairs,” you offered. “i’ll put them in my favorite guest room, it has the best views. you can go into the kitchen if you want, it’s just down the hall. the rooms open, there’s no way you can miss it.”

the two of you went your separate ways, you upstairs and her to the kitchen.

out of pure habit, emily ran her hand across the marble countertops, looking around at the details you had strewn about.

“sorry about the mess, i was just making,” emily jumped at your voice. she wasn’t expecting you back so soon. “it’s totally okay, honestly.”

another wave of awkward silence fell over you two, neither quite sure what to say. “look emily-” you started. “we do need to talk about what happened.”

“do we?” emily spoke. you laughed, “yes we do.”

while you took a seat at one of the counter seats, emily stood up. she was obviously holding back, reluctant how to go with the situation.

“come on emily. you’ve been all i’ve thought about for the past two weeks. hell, i even wrote a song about you. and we do need to talk about the elephant in the room,” you pleaded. “have you even heard it?”

emily nodded, “yes i have. my friend penelope sent me the link. listed it it then and didn’t really know how to react. it was kinda difficult to avoid, it’s playing everywhere. your doing amazing by the way. figured i could throw in a complement there.”

a blush passed across your cheeks. “thank you,” you whispered.

emily then looked down, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. you figured you might ask well just dive into the heavy stuff.

“all i’m saying is that you came here for a reason. there has to be some part of you that’s been thinking about me too. i would like to think you aren’t the person to just drop everything and meet in a whole different state for just anyone,” you commented.

you did get her there. emily did really just leave work without explanation to come see you.

emily didn’t respond, choosing to step forward to connect your lips. you hooked your legs around her, holding her cheek and arm in your hand.

the kiss was incredibly different than the one at the bar, that one being sloppy and rushed. you two were in a hurry, wanting to feel as much of the other as you could.

this one, you could actually take your time. very little could interrupt the two of you. you could actually savor the feeling of her body against yours.

“let’s give us a try,” you mumbled against her lips.

emily nodded, holding your waist a little tighter. “let’s give us a try.”

☆ ☆ ☆

tags - @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @kissessforharryyy @garcias-batcave @zoseph @kissessfordraco @ogmilkis @cm-is-kinda-cool @matthewgublerswife @guessthatswhyiliveinhell @spencerslatte @babyangellee @agentshortstacc

[thefanficmonster]

Quarantine On Crack...yet again

PART ONE 

Until Dawn Gang + Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing, Underage Drinking, Shameless Flirting

Genre: Crack, Humor

Summary: Time to check on our favorite gang who are still quarantined together and have still surprisingly not murdered one another. The lodge is still intact, which is promising. And everyone still has all seven of their limbs. How long will this simulation of peace last for is the real question.

Requested by my dear Until Dawn Anon who I haven’t heard from in so long 🥺 Hii dear! I have missed you tremendously! Here we are again to witness the craziness of our babies and I hope you’ll join me on the rollercoaster once again! Sorry it has taken me so long to write the long-ago-promised part 2 to the crack fic but here it finally is! Hope you enjoy it! Love and miss you, Vy ❤

“Alright folks, the delivery has arrived!“ I announce as Josh, Sam and I stumble through the front door of the lodge, each one of us carrying large boxes of food and toiletries. Bless the Washingtons for still sending us food, if I were them, Lord knows I’d either forget to do so or simply not do it because I didn’t feel like it. Hey, I’m not saying I hate these people, I’m just insinuating that they would not among my priorities had I been the one responsible to send them food. They should be in that case - but I’m being very honest when I say they wouldn’t be.

“Finally!“ Jess and Emily are so in sync for two people who supposedly can’t stand each other, it’s scary. Not that I wasn’t already scared of them to begin with. I just have a hard time dealing with them. But they are good in bed so I keep them around...

“What do you mean ‘finally’? We still have food from last week.“ Matt points out, a slight frown on his face when he lifts his head from the book he’s reading.

“We ran out of coffee capsules, duh!“ Jess says as though she’s addressing the most obvious thing to a person with very low IQ.

Matt does the smart thing of rolling his eyes and returning to his book. Speaking of which, I’m sending another blessing to the Washingtons for having the GRAND library here. I know I would’ve gone nuts and murdered half of these bitches if I didn’t have a book or two to keep me busy. That’s how things are with me, I either have a book to read or I’m committing a murder rampage. No in-between, at least not with these people.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs attracts our attention. Mike, Mr. Golden Boy comes down the stairs and plops down next to Jess, wrapping his arm around here, “There better be some beer in there.” He winks at me. Yeah, that’s Mike alright - has his arm around one girl, winks at another.

“I swear to God, if you two try to have a sword fight with empty beer bottles again, one of you is getting sent to the cabin.“ Josh warns us, taking on the parent role for once.

“Whoa there, Dr. Phil! Send us to the ranch next, why don’t ya!“ I roll my eyes at him, seeing his expression beg to change into a smile at my joke while he’s trying to maintain his no-funny-business look.

“Can we go unbox these things already? My arms are dead by now.“ Sam complains and doesn’t wait for an answer from us as she takes off with a rather fast pace towards the kitchen.

Josh and I are quick to follow. Much to my dismay, in order to reach the kitchen, we have to pass by where Emily is sitting. Since I haven’t already put in a request for a restraining order against her, passing within grabbing distance of her is risky as all hell. But you know me, I love risks. Passing in front of her I get ballsy and even give her the finger as I go. 

“You’ll regret that, Y/N! You’ll fucking regret it!“ She calls after me in teasingly threatening manner that almost makes me chuckle, however I keep my features as still as the ones of a statue and I don’t turn back around.

Sam and Josh have already cut the boxes open and have started moving the products from the box onto the kitchen counter and island. I grab the box cutter from its spot near the sink and cut the box open as well. To Josh’s dismay but my incredible luck, there are indeed a few beer bottles in my box. I cheer silently as I take them to the cooler.

“You know, Sam...“ Josh’s voice interrupts the silence just as I’m about to close the cooler. I’m honestly intrigued by what he has to say to Sam, and eavesdropping might be wrong, but it’s not like the fuckers can’t see me standing five fucking feet away! - so I pretend I’m organizing the cooler so I don’t have to return to the center of the kitchen where the two of them are crouched by their packages. A quick look over my shoulder confirms that they are indeed having a *MOMENT*, one I wouldn’t want to interrupt.

“Yes, Josh?“ Sam responds, giving me an urge to go grab some popcorn before any more progression happens. I know these two have eyes for one another, but they are both massive hypocrites! The are doing the very thing they hold against Chris and Ashley: hiding their feelings. Since I’m Josh’s unlicensed and unpaid therapist, I have a bit more intel on what’s going on in his head. It’s basically: 30% what am I doing with my life; 30% I need a drink; 40% Sam. You’d be surprised if you knew how often he mentions her when he’s venting. I’ve encouraged him to make a move countless times but it’s like trying to talk me into not killing Mike - impossible.

“You could melt the snow outside.” It takes me all my might to hold back from facepalming. Oh God, if this is what he thinks I meant when I said ‘tell her how you feel‘ he couldn’t be more wrong.

“Ok, lovebirds!“ I have never been happier to hear Chris’ voice. He saved me the trouble of having to step in and end the awkwardness myself. I turn around with a what I hope is a casual and friendly and totally not distressed smile. Behind Chris stand Ashley and Mike. “Need any help?“

“Yeah, you guys could come in handy.“ I tell them, waving them over almost desperately, “Ok, one of you help me with the rest of the things in the box. The other two can organize the shit that’s on the counter.“

I duck back down to continue unboxing. There’s bags of dried fruit, tea, the coffee capsules Jess was talking about, some spices which I’m not sure why they’re there but I’m not complaining.

“Heard you needed help.“ Oh for fuck’s sake, Mike again. Why couldn’t it be Chris or Ashley, or Satan for that matter. I’m really not in the mood to be cleaning blood off the kitchen floor tiles.

I tilt my head to the side and it’s only then that I realize how close he is to me. My eyes immediately travel to where I left the box cutter. “Back it up, Michael, or....“ FUCK IT’S NOT THERE. I swear I left it there! Where the fuck is it?!

“Or what?“ He reads my confusion and holds up his hand that is holding the box cutter I’m searching for. I’m afraid the more time we spend under the same roof the more experience he’ll have in defending himself and disarming me.

“Motherfucker...“ I growl and grab the tea and coffee capsules and stand up, “It’s a pandemic, damn it. Six feet apart at all times, buddy. I wish you’d put a mask over that mug of yours too.“ I narrow my eyes as I look down at him, resisting the desire to kick him.

“Only if you were the mask.“ Oh this fucker...he even has the audacity to stand up and step closer. Why are the four other people not noticing this? Ok yeah, cause they don’t wanna be witnesses to the murder of their old class prez. I got it.

“Six feet apart or six feet under, Munroe. Your call.“ He cockily waves the box cutter, not as a threat but as a remainder that I don’t have a weapon. “Bold of you to assume I need that to kill you.“

“She could always snap your neck.“ Chris pipes in.

“Or poke your eyes out.“ Ash does too.

“Or strangle you.“ Sam adds.

“The latter doesn’t sound so bad...“ He smirks at me, earning himself mortified looks from the peanut gallery.

“I. Hear. FLIRTING.“ Jess’ voice cuts through the tension that has built up in the kitchen. Mike and I turn to the doorway simultaneously as well as every other head in the room.

There is Jess looking like a pissed off cartoon toddler - aka: my escape.

“And I hear the void calling me.“ I catch her off-guard and put the items I was carrying in her arms, “I better go see what it wants from me. Byeeee.“

I all but hightail it out of there. I mean, say what you want about Mike’s shitty personality, or lack of personality all-together, but the fucker’s got sexappeal. Not that I’d ever admit it or fall under its effects.

In the living room I find Hannah and Beth with no traces of Emily or Matt. I feel slightly relieved, to be perfectly honest. Seeing the perfect stress relieving opportunity, I sit down next to Beth on the couch and lie down, placing my head in her lap. “Hi!” I give her a cheeky smile.

“You’re the Devil.“ Beth mutters without giving me as much as a glance. I turn to wave at Hannah and that’s when I see the chess board set up on the coffee table. So that’s what she’s so focused on.

“Oh please, you’ll make me blush.“ I fake a giggle and blow her a kiss while she remains completely unbothered.

“Whatever’s going on over there - I DON’T LIKE IT!“ Josh says menacingly as him, Sam, Chris and Ashley enter the living room.

“ME NEITHER“ Oh no, that’s Emily’s voice. Her and Matt have just walked into the lodge after another stroll - they have those when they wanna make out in private. Speaking of making out, I don’t see Jess and Mike anywhere, much to my relief - one of them wants to kill me at the moment but they both wanna sleep with me too so you get why it’s a situation I’d like to avoid.

“No jealousy, guys, please. I love you all the same!“ I prep myself up in a half-sitting position to give them an apologetic but seductive look when a pillow whacks me in the face, “What the hell?!“

“I thought you loved me more!“ Beth barks back angrily.

Well, I’m in some serious trouble now. Not only is Beth DEADLY when angry, but she also has two siblings who are more than capable of kicking my ass.

“I do! I really do, Beth, I swear!“ My apologies are put to an end by another hit with a pillow. “You know I do!“ I sit up completely and turn to look at Beth who has turned the opposite direction. “Pwease?” I give her the best puppy-dog eyes I can pull of despite feeling utterly ridiculous.

“So you do have a favorite member after all? And it’s not me? Wow, Y/N.“ Ash glares at me as well, crossing her arms and also turning away from me.

“I SECOND THAT.“ Emily stomps her foot down and storms out of the room

Oh fuck.

“I do too, honestly. I’m really hurt, Y/N.“ Matt the person I can always trust to be on my side has turned his back to me in this time of need.

Oh fuck squared.

“You’re in some deep shit now.“ Hannah laughs almost evilly as she leans back in the armchair she’s sitting in.

“Josh, could you set something on fire again? Preferably me this time.“ I mutter with a monotone voice. I’d like to picture there’s a rain cloud above my head just pouring down on me. And zaps me with lightning every now and then for good measure.

“Nah, that’d be too easy on you.“ This motherfucker....

“Oh so you WANT me to tell a specific someone what you think and say about them when they aren’t around?“ I change the meaning of ‘death glare‘ with this look I give him. I’m sure that if I keep staring at him like this long enough I’ll burn holes into his skull.

After a few moments of still silence and intense glaring he finally breaks, “Alright fine, I’ll get the deodorant and lighter.“

I sigh in relief. I suppose there are worse ways to leave this world...

“No!“

“Don’t you dare!“

“No way!“

Beth, Ashley and Matt all jump up as soon as Josh gives any effort to stand up.

“Washington, I swear to God!“ There go Emily and Jess in sync again as they both enter the room armed. Jess is only in her underwear but we don’t talk about that. What’s important is that she’s carrying the box cutter from before while Emily is armed with a dull butter knife. Knowing how determined she can be, I wouldn’t underestimate her power due to the lack of sharpness to her weapon.

Josh is rightfully stunned by the sudden turn of events and sits his ass back down with hands raised in the air. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.

“Y’all love me!“ I smile at them, putting a hand over my heart.

Jess turns to me in a split-second, angry as fuck, and points the box cutter at me. “Y/N, I swear to God-”

“Alright, alright, alright...“ I too raise my hands in surrender.

This is how shit goes down over here. Just pure fucking CHAOS, a lot of drinking, flirting and sex jokes. And so much wondering how we’re all friends.

[aliveandfullofjoy]

It’s the first day of 2021, which calls (yet again!) for my ten favorite new-to-me movies I watched in 2020!

The rules are the same as always: no movies from this past year (2020) or the year before (2019). Every other year is free game.

All ten of these movies are fascinating and beautiful and well worth your time, so consider this a strong endorsement for all of them. I’ve also included ways to watch all of the films (as of this writing, Jan. 1, 2021). 

01. Two for the Road (dir. Stanley Donen, 1967; USA) Donen takes the ideas of romantic cinema and celebrates it while injecting a healthy dose of painful reality. He chooses two of the English language's most attractive movie stars, Albert Finney (in full himbo mode!) and Audrey Hepburn, and follows their ten-year marriage as seen on their various road trips across Europe. It's a memory piece more than anything else, but the arc of their relationship is clear and their palpable connection burns through the screen. These are two beautiful, intelligent adults who love each other deeply, who are still physically attracted to each other, who are able to hurl verbal jabs and insults at each other with the best of them. Finney is magnificent, but Hepburn sort of steals the show. In what is probably her finest onscreen performance, she gets to grow from a virginal bride to a fully fleshed out adult, living beautifully in different shades of sexy and goofy and bitter. They make a screen couple for the ages. The script is funny without losing its honesty, it's tragic without leaning too far into artifice, it's romantic without being treacly. It's a remarkable balancing act and makes for a masterpiece. (Two for the Road is available to rent online or viewed at this link.)

02. Stop Making Sense (dir. Jonathan Demme, 1984; USA) Stop Making Sense feels like a miracle. It hints at a narrative arc, but that part is unimportant. It’s a live performance recorded and packaged specifically for consumption as a film. In its brief runtime, it becomes a living, breathing, sweating testament to David Byrne’s skill as a performer, as a songwriter, as a storyteller, and to the remarkable talents of everyone in Talking Heads. It’s a breathtakingly joyous experience. I can’t remember the last time I watched a recording of a live performance that captured the same brand of energy, of buoyancy, that you feel as you’re leaving a great communal experience. This is a masterpiece that proclaims as loudly as possible that there is no joy greater than making art with people you love. (Stop Making Sense is currently streaming on Amazon Prime.)

03. Scattered Clouds (dir. Mikio Naruse, 1967; Japan) Filled to the brim with unspoken turmoil and emotional devastation, Naruse's final film chronicles the rough terrain of a relationship between a widow and the man responsible for her husband's death. Spanning years and exploring just how deeply these wounds can go, much of the Scattered Cloud’s success rests on the performances from Yuzo Kayama and Yoko Tsukasa. Kayama is a handsome, likable screen presence who beautifully lives in his own cloud of grief. Tsukasa gets a bit more to chew on, as this really is her story: her arc and her inability to move forward, despite the best intentions, is one of the film's most lasting ideas. Brutally sad but incredibly beautiful. The work of a master filmmaker. (Scattered Clouds is currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.)

04. L’Atalante (dir. Jean Vigo, 1934; France) My only regret with L’Atalante is that I didn’t see it sooner. The final (and only feature-length) film from Jean Vigo before his untimely death at 29, this film is a technical marvel and a humanist miracle. Featuring spirited performances from Dita Parlo, Jean Dasté, and the great character actor Michel Simon, and intoxicating dreamlike imagery, as well as a relentlessly romantic score from Maurice Jaubert, this film looks and feels like no other film from its era. (L’Atalante is currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.)

05. Daisies (dir. Věra Chytilová, 1966; Czechoslovakia) Věra Chytilová's iconic masterpiece of anarchic cinema more than lives up to its reputation. Operating on its own chaotic wavelength, Daisies follows the exploits of Marie I (Jitka Cerhová) and Marie II (Ivana Karbanová) who seek to spoil themselves after realizing how spoiled the world is. They begin to live extravagantly and rip off older men and cause general mischief. Over less than 80 minutes, Daisies upends a whole slew of cultural norms. Beautiful, ambiguous, funny, cynical, and truly visionary. (Daisies is currently streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.)

06. The Hero (dir. Satyajit Ray, 1966; India) The Hero sort of feels like Satyajit Ray's answer to 8½ in its meditation of fame and regret. Uttam Kumar is fantastic as Arindam Mukherjee, a superstar actor who works through his career and his loss of values in an interview with a reporter played by Sharmila Tagore, who is also fantastic. Under Ray's sleek direction, gracefully opening up the world of the train, and with his intelligent and human script, the cast uniformly sinks their teeth into this film. Kumar is the MVP out of necessity -- without him, the whole film would fall apart -- but the whole ensemble is remarkable, peppering the background of the train scenes and in Arindam's flashbacks. This also has one of the all-time great nightmare sequences. Easily one of the master director’s best films. (The Hero is currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.)

07. Malcolm X (dir. Spike Lee, 1992; USA) Malcolm X is a truly massive film housing an even bigger performance from the great Denzel Washington. Tracing Malcolm X’s life and career while juggling numerous tones and visual styles and spanning across decades and continents, this is surely Spike Lee’s most ambitious film up to this point in his career. Washington is onscreen for virtually all of its long runtime, from the early exuberant days before his imprisonment all the way up to that fateful day in the Audubon Ballroom, and he is, of course, tremendous. All that classic Denzel charisma and magnetism is on full display, whether in his impassioned speeches or in his more intimate scenes. Lee’s direction is top notch, making this full story about a life with an incalculably profound impact feel richly and deeply intimate. This is one of the essential American epics. (Malcolm X is available to rent online.)

08. Beau Travail (dir. Claire Denis, 1999; France) Beau Travail’s place in the modern canon of world cinema is assured, and Denis is rightfully seen as a master, but it really can’t be overstated just how much of a gem this film is. Pepper with sparse dialogue (though always packed with meaning), the film lives in one of two modes: muscular, suntanned men doing slow, precise choreographed exercises in the heat of the day and those same muscular men dancing and gyrating with attractive young women in some ethereal nightclub. Between these poles lies Denis’ almost cosmic meditation on masculine ego, homoerotic obsession, and regret. A fascinating, enigmatic, devastating beauty. (Beau Travail is currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.)

09. Only Angels Have Wings (dir. Howard Hawks, 1939; USA) Only Angels Have Wings might be Howard Hawks' crowning directorial achievement. The aerial work, the rainy nights, the beautiful atmosphere of the bars, the palpable camaraderie of the characters, the tragic loss of life and yet the persistence to move forward. Cary Grant leads a terrific cast, including a quietly moving Richard Barthelmess and a rarely-more-likable Thomas Mitchell, and his chemistry with both Jean Arthur (the most charming) and Rita Hayworth is a joy to watch. This film seems to dabble in multiple genres at once, subverting the cliches of the Hollywood formula while still embracing the melodrama and the artifice within. In that way, the film feels very strange, but if the viewer lets themselves be carried along with Hawks' unique rhythm, the reward is one of the most fascinating and exciting films in Hollywood's fabled 1939 output. (Only Angels Have Wings is available to rent online or viewed at this link.)

10. Closely Watched Trains (dir. Jiří Menzel, 1966; Czechoslovakia) Between the precise composition of the shots and the young narrator-protagonist, Closely Watched Trains feels like a spiritual predecessor to Wes Anderson's work. This comparison extends to the thematic content of the film as well, as the story of a young man coming-of-age against the backdrop of the Nazi regime is definitely cut from the same cloth as The Grand Budapest Hotel. Lucky for me, I love Anderson's work, and Grand Budapest is my favorite of his, so Menzel's stylistic flourishes immediately endeared me to the film.Menzel maintains a skillful tonal balancing act throughout Closely Watched Trains. Even under the wry, almost self-deprecating humor, the film never loses track of preciousness of life and the horrific tragedy of war. Beautiful cinematography, strong performances across the board, a memorable score, and a clever script make this a gem of the Czech New Wave and a moving, delightful, and accessible coming-of-age tale. (Closely Watched Trains is currently streaming on the Criterion Channel.)

Honorable mentions (in alphabetical order): Ace in the Hole (Billy Wilder, 1951), The Band’s Visit (Eran Kolirin, 2007), But I’m a Cheerleader (Jamie Babbit, 1999), Carnival of Souls (Herk Harvey, 1962), A Cottage on Dartmoor (Anthony Asquith, 1929), Crossing Delancey (Joan Micklin Silver, 1988), Divorce Italian Style (Pietro Germi, 1961); Eat Drink Man Woman (Ang Lee, 1994), Fireworks (Kenneth Anger, 1947), The Freshman (Fred C. Newmeyer & Sam Taylor, 1925), The Hitch-Hiker (Ida Lupino, 1953), Kuroneko (Kaneto Shindo, 1968), Le Bonheur (Agnès Varda, 1965), Le Notti Bianche (Luchino Visconti, 1957), Like Father, Like Son (Hirokazu Kore-eda, 2013), Local Hero (Bill Forsyth, 1983), Love & Basketball (Gina Prince-Bythewood, 2000), Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (George Miller, 1981), Monsoon Wedding (Mira Nair, 2001), One Sings, the Other Doesn’t (Agnès Varda, 1977), Pennies from Heaven (Herbert Ross, 1981), Pickup on South Street (Samuel Fuller, 1953), Rushmore (Wes Anderson, 1998), Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa, 1954), Sleepless in Seattle (Nora Ephron, 1993), Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One (William Greaves, 1968), Tea and Sympathy (Vincente Minnelli, 1956), They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (Sydney Pollack, 1969), Tomboy (Céline Sciamma, 2011), Wendy & Lucy (Kelly Reichardt, 2008), Within Our Gates (Oscar Micheaux, 1920), Whisper of the Heart (Yoshifumi Kondo, 1995), and Who Framed Roger Rabbit (Robert Zemeckis, 1988).

And some miscellaneous viewing stats:

First movie watched in 2020: A Fantastic Woman (Sebastián Lelio, 2017)

Final movie watched in 2020: Holiday (George Cukor, 1938)

Worst movie watched: The Notebook (Nick Cassavetes, 2004)

Oldest movie watched: Ten films by the Lumière Brothers (Louis Lumière, 1895)

Longest movie watched: Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa, 1954; 207 minutes)

Month with most amount of movies watched: December (58 movies, including shorts)

Month with least amount of movies watched: February (11 movies) (pre-COVID, naturally)

First movie from 2020 seen: Birds of Prey (Cathy Yan, 2020)

Total movies watched: 455

[reynahermione]

HI... I love your Apollo x reader so bad I'm crying aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Can you make another Apollo X Reader where reader is like going on a quest w Percy and reader got wounded and Apollo who have a crush on reader but pretends that he doesn't have a crush on reader get super worried and like confessed to reader uwu. I'm sorry if it's confusing, anyway LOVE YOU

HI! Thank you so much for reading and requesting this, I really hope you love it!

pairings: Apollo X Reader | Percy Jackson X Reader (platonic)

warnings: near-death experience 

You were having a wonderful day. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight, there was a nice slight breeze flying by, the strawberries were growing nicely, everyone seems to be in a great mood, nothing could ruin your day. Or so you thought. When you arrived at your cabin, you spotted your best friend since middle school, Percy Jackson. You both arrived together at camp all those years ago and have been by each other’s side since. But from the smile on his face, you knew he was about to ask for something. 

“Wanna go on a quest?” He smiled as you stopped by the steps of your cabin. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, “Wow. Hey Y/n, how are you today? Oh! Hey, Percy! I was having such a great day, thanks for asking.” 

He dramatically rolled his eyes, “Hey Y/n, I’m so happy you had a great day. Wanna go on a quest with me?” 

“Sure, what are we doing?” You asked going up the steps of your cabin, heading to the door. 

“Hermes is down so Demeter wants us to give Persephone something.” He held up a small wrapped package.

That doesn’t sound very hard. This quest could very possibly only be a day or two long. 

“Alright. Give me a minute to pack.” 

You entered your cabin and went straight to your bunk. Grabbing your bag from the trunk by your bed, you quickly started to shove in your quest essentials: your extra toothbrush, toothpaste, clothes, deodorant, drachmas, money, and your emergency dagger that y/g/p gave to you on your sixteenth birthday. After you close your bag, you put it on just as the door was opened. You turned to see your little sister, Ginger, walking in, with a bright red face and goofy smile.

You smiled at her, “What’s with the smile Ginger?” 

She giggled as she rushed over to hug you. You bent down and caught her in your arms, picking her up and tightly hugging her. 

“Apollo is outside and he says I look radiate.” She giggled. 

Apollo is outside? Well, that’s not really shocking. Ever since his punishment ended he has been visiting Camp more often and hanging out with his children. You would be a liar if you said you hadn’t fallen for the sun god. How could you not? During his time as a mortal, you realized your crush on him. He had unquestionably grown as a person and it made your heart flutter whenever you two would hang out together. Part of you selfishly wanted him to remain mortal so the two of you could be together, but you accept the fact that he probably only saw you as a close friend. Apollo has been hanging around some of the other campers lately and has become a bit distant.

Placing Ginger down, you ruffled her curly brown hair, “He’s a bit too old for you Gin, like a couple of centuries too old. I don’t think y/g/n is gonna approve of that.” She playfully rolled her eyes, unraveling herself from your hold. 

“He’s talking to Percy outside. He told me to tell you to hurry up.” She skipped away further into the cabin. 

Walking to the door, you stop about a foot away from it and fixed your clothes, and smoothed your hair out with your hands. You hoped that Aphrodite would give you a quick blessing before opening the door and stepping out, seeing Percy and Apollo speaking to each other on the steps of your cabin. 

“Morning Apollo!” You smiled as they both turned to look at you. 

“Morning Flower! Are you going somewhere?” He asked motioning to your bag. 

You nodded, “Yup, I’m going with Percy to giving something to Persephone.” 

He gave Percy a look, it almost looked judgemental to you. Why would he give Percy that type of look? 

“Did you ask her to go with you?” He questioned Percy, in an off-putting tone.

“Uh-yeah. Persephone likes y/n. I figured bringing y/n along would make Persephone happy.” Percy shrugged. 

“Why would you care if he asked me?” You defensively asked, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He looked at you again, opening and closing his mouth, trying to formulate an excuse.

“I-I-I didn’t-I didn’t mean it like that!” 

“Yeah whatever,” you scoffed, “come on Perc. Let’s get this over with.” 

You grabbed Percy by his arm and dragged him away from the bumbling God who was yelling out apologies. How dare he even ask something like that? You helped save Olympus for crying out loud! If saving Olympus wasn’t good enough for him, you were going to show just how well you could handle yourself on a quest. Here you were thinking that he had changed into a better person/god.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The train cart was quiet as it went to its destination, Washington D.C. Why Persephone was there was beyond you, but you couldn’t wait to see your old friend. Percy sat in the seat across from you, staring out the window. He had been quiet since you left the camp. You assumed he was letting you cool down.

“He didn’t mean it that way, ya know.” 

You looked at your best friend. He was still staring out of the window, arms loosely folded across his chest. 

“But why would he even ask that? Like-I helped save Olympus for crying out loud. Does he not think I can handle doing a quest?” 

Percy chuckled as he shook his head, a smile on his face, “You’re so blind.”

You scoffed, “Blind about what? He’s an asshole.” 

“Y/n, he has a crush on you.” 

You stared at Percy in shock. He what? Apollo has a crush on you?

“Apollo has had a crush on you since his punishment. You never noticed how he would literally agree with everything you would say, laugh a little too hard at your non-funny jokes, and wanted to hang out with you every second of the day?” 

You had to think about that. Honestly, you didn’t see it as him wanting to be closer to you because he liked you. It just felt as if he just wanted to be around someone he was familiar with. Him having a crush on you was the last thing you expected. 

“Look, he told me to give this to you when you’re in a better mood. Apollo can be an idiot, but I can tell that he wants to make things better with you.” 

Percy handed you a folded up piece of paper. You slowly took the piece of paper and looked at it. Your name had been written on the top in elegant cursive writing. Glancing up at Percy, you see him leaned back on his seat, eyes closed, getting comfortable in the seat to take a quick nap. Looking back down at the folded note, you open it up and see many attempts at haikus filling the page. Many of them were crossed out, and some were unfinished with self ridiculing comments written around them. Why would he send you a page filled with unfinished haikus? You turned the page and saw that he had another unfinished haiku written, but this one was different. It had arrows pointing towards it and little hearts and stars surrounding it. 

‘Little Flower

My little flower

Blooms under the starry night sky

And that’s all I have…’

Your face felt hot as you reread the title and unfinished haiku. As far as you knew, you were the only person that Apollo called ‘flower’ and he had never called you his little flower. Maybe he did have a crush on you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The beginning half of the quest had gone well. It took you a minute to regain yourself from the discovery, but you had to put it aside to focus on the quest. You swore to yourself that you would speak to Apollo as soon as you got to Camp again. 

After delivering the package to Persephone, she asked for you both to take her young demigod son Timothy with you to Camp. Taking Timothy with you, both of you heightened your awareness. The most powerful son of Poseidon, the child of y/g/p, and the young son of Persephone was a bright neon sign calling out to monsters to come eat them. That’s how you got into this situation, running away from five echidnas and two harpies who were hot on your trail. You held little Timothy in your arms as you ran through the woods, ducking and jumping over tree branches, heading to Camp. Percy ran beside you, trying his best to block any attacks from hitting you or Timothy. Once you saw the border guards, you began to scream at them for help.

“Help!” The two closest guards jumped at the sound of your panicked voice and immediately ran over to help out. 

“You’re mine child of y/g/p!” 

Before you could cross the border, a searing pain came from near your left collar bone area and you watch as a spear came out through your body-your blood coating the tip of the spear. Timothy screamed in horror as you fell forward, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you fell unconscious. His tiny hands clutched your shirt as his screams drew the attention of other guards and campers passing by. One such camper being Will Solace, son of Apollo. Running up the hill, he stops when he sees the scene before him. You laid unresponsive on top of a small child who was screaming for help and a bloody spear stuck out through your body. He felt his blood turn cold as he prayed to every god and fates that you weren’t dead. He bolted to your side and carefully took Timothy out from under you, handing him off to another camper that came to help. 

“Stay with me y/n.” He tried his best to put pressure on your wound but it wasn’t much help. He was going to need the big guns. His dad.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Nothing felt different. You slowly woke up without an ounce of pain rushing through your body. Your throat didn’t feel dry, your collar bone area didn’t hurt, and your head didn’t hurt either. Everything felt normal. Well, except for a strange presence laying between your legs. Carefully lifting your head, you look down at your legs and see a little body cuddled in between your legs. It was Timothy. He had a tight grip on the blanket covering you.

“You swore you would keep them safe Percy!” 

You slowly turned your head to the loud voice and tried to focus your eyes on the two people standing by the door. It took a moment before your eyes adjusted and you saw Apollo and Percy. 

“I tried! We can’t help it that monsters want to kill us Apollo, I let y/n run while I took them on. I thought they were safe.” Percy’s voice cracked as he defended himself. 

“Well, they’re clearly not,” Apollo turned to point at you but he froze when he saw you staring right at him. “Y/n!” 

He dried his tears and ran to your side, dropping down next to your cot. The god had more tears in his eyes, his once golden skin and breathtaking blue eyes were blotchy and dull. He gently grabbed hold of your hand closest to him while you laid your head back on the pillow. 

“Do you like me?”

 Of course, that is the first thing you ask after almost dying. 

Apollo let out a laugh as he brought your hand up to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the top of your hand. Tears ran down his blotchy red cheeks as he lovingly stared down at you.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” He asked. 

“I need a solid answer-,” 

Apollo kissed you. You were momentarily shocked but quickly reacted by kissing him back. You could’ve never dreamt of a kiss like this. Albeit a gentle kiss, you felt all of the passion and love he was putting into it. His kiss had you forgetting about the world around you and made you feel like you were his world, because to Apollo, you were just that. His world. His everything. The person he wanted to change for and give them the world. 

When he heard Will’s prayers, he felt as though his entire world crumbled. He rushed down to the infirmary and did everything in his power to heal you. He couldn’t lose another love, especially if he could stop it. Blocking off anyone from going near you (except for Timothy. Apollo could bare to say no to his little puppy dog eyes), he acted as your bodyguard, monitoring you, feeding you nectar, telling you about his day, singing random hymns and jingles. He wasn’t going to lose you. Not before he even had you. 

The kiss was short, but it gave you your answer. Apollo was head over heels in love with you and you felt the same way about him. Looking at the god, you saw a new set of fresh tears forming and him smiling down at you. You smiled back at him while reaching over and drying his eyes with the hand he had been holding. 

“Can I tell you something?” 

He frantically nodded his head while drying his face again with his hands, “You can tell me anything you want my little flower.”

You smiled, “The second line of your haiku had eight syllables.”

For a moment, you both stared at each other before erupting into loud laughter, only stopping when a tiny groan came from the sleeping toddler laying between your legs. You looked at Apollo, admiring him as he did the same to you. His little flower. 

“Can I read you the updated version?” He asked, pulling something out of his pocket. 

You excitedly nodded. He opened the folded piece and cleared his throat as his eyes scanned the paper, 

“My little flower

Blooms under the starry sky

Calling me, her love.”