#compromised candidate

[pochapal]

this being the first theory battler has lampshaded and discarded as a joke is making me extremely 👁

[sufferfishdragon]

Your unwillingness to put pressure on your candidates is going to have long term consequences. I heard a lot of very conservative ideals being cheered at by democrats. When you make the standard "not the other guy" you put the bar on the floor.

You are cheering for a woman who continues to insist on Israel's "right to defend" itself, while they are committing a genocide. Is that REALLY what you want?

You are cheering for a woman who made a commitment to the US having the world's most lethal military. Is that REALLY what you want?

I do not disagree with the belief that this election is too important to fuck around with. That is why people have been protesting and putting public pressure on her. That is why people voted uncommitted in the first place. And some of you spend more energy arguing with leftists than you do actually trying to participate in the system. Some of you think voting is the one stop shop for participating in the democratic process.

You are all going to abandon us the second this election is over. You want to talk about moral superiority? Let's talk about about intentionally excluding Palestinians from having a seat at the table and then telling them they are on the menu.

You think fun buzz words and bad analogies make you right and they just make you sound like you have never had a thought of your own.

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

“By night all cloaks are black, Your Grace.”

- Bran III, ASOS

The Night’s Watch is probably the most underrated institution in the fandom, which is quite interesting considering the fact that an ice apocalypse is about to befall Westeros and the NW is the one thing standing between the Others and the rest of the realm. Sometimes, we tend to look at the coming Long Night as the North’s fight or even just the NW’s fight when really it’s humanity’s fight. It’s a fight everyone will have to mount against winter - and death itself. That’s why I like the quote linked above. Because at the end of the day, when night falls and winter comes, all cloaks will have to turn black. Everyone will have to become part of the night’s watch whether they like it or not. So the Night’s Watch evolves from being a ragtag group of a few hundred to a group that encompasses tens of thousands. It probably why the vows say “I am the watcher on the walls”. Not the Wall (singular) but walls (plural). But doubly important is the post of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, whose job is to lead and command the entire Watch through this winter. He has to keep morale high, has to provide food and resources and training, has to come up with battle strategy, has to ensure that the NW remains true to its purpose, has to make and keep peace between all the different factions and prepare them for the coming winter, and so on. He has to deal with hundreds of lords and kings and dozens of armies. He becomes the most important lord in all of Westeros when you think about it. So it looks like our current Lord Commander, Jon Snow, has a lot of work cut out for him. But thankfully, GRRM spent an entire book preparing him for the task.

[a-song-of-art-and-fire]

Ser Denys Mallister, Commander of the Shadow Tower

“We are the sons of great lords, you and I. We know the importance of birth, blood, and that early training that can ne’er be replaced. I was a squire at twelve, a knight at eighteen, a champion at two-and-twenty. I have been the commander at the Shadow Tower for thirty-three years. Blood, birth, and training have fitted me to deal with kings."

Rounding out my winter's worth of cold themed minis - the Commander of the Shadow Tower. This is going to destroy any credibility I had, but... despite loving House Mallister and loving Denys Mallister, I had somehow never consciously connected that Denys Mallister is... a Mallister. It actually fits very well with his rivalry with Cotter Pyke as an ironman vs Mallister rivalry, but until I was painting those little eagle pauldrons, I'd never considered him as a Mallister.

It also fits with GRRMs pattern of using the Mallisters in particular as a stand in for "The Nobility" - Will was arrested for poaching in a noble's woods - Mallister. There's a rough lowborn commander vs a hoity toity noble commander - Mallister. Catelyn realises she can hide in plain sight because nobles who have known her her whole life won't look twice at an apparent commoner - Lord Mallister, even though he's in a tournament in Kings Landing at that time.

The mini is pretty straightforward, classic Nights Watch colour scheme, but I'm fond of the details - his breastplate and especially those eagle pauldrons. Honestly if I'd noticed them before starting painting, I might have repurposed him into Jason Mallister, my bizarre minor character crush.

[fideidefenswhore]

After the traumatic events of 1533, and having done all she considered she could for Mary, Margaret [Pole] sensibly decided to maintain a lower profile. Little is heard of her during the next three years except for a brief episode which found her in conflict with Thomas Cromwell. Characteristically unable to put common sense before conscience, she became involved in the opposition to William Barlow’s appointment as prior of Bisham. This is not surprising as Barlow enthusiastically supported Catherine [of Aragon]’s repudiation and enjoyed the patronage of Anne Boleyn and Thomas Cromwell.  Although Margaret had been opposed to the previous prior, whose resignation she had sought, upon learning that Barlow was to replace him, she did her utmost to ensure that he would not now resign despite his being ‘very [unmeet] to [continue]’. She was still proving herself a force to be reckoned with, and Nicholas Carew, who had also become involved in the affair, wrote miserably to Cromwell: 'I [would] I [had] spent a hundred pounds I had never [spoke] in it [for somewhat it touches my poor honesty]'. Despite her being one of the most powerful figures in the vicinity of the Bisham Priory, Margaret’s protest proved ineffective against the combined efforts of Cromwell and Anne Boleyn, and Barlow was duly appointed.

Pierce H. (2013). Margaret pole countess of salisbury 1473-1541 : loyalty lineage and leadership. University of Wales

[granonine]

Saturday Soliloquy: Politics

The day is half over, and I’m just now getting around to my Saturday post. Let me say at the outset that this post is NOT for or against any candidate. It’s about some principles I believe we have lost, or are losing, because of constant misrepresentation in the media. First, we hear constantly that we are a democracy. Defined, a democracy is a state run by the people. Every vote counts, every…

[likehephaestionwhodied]

me: now that I've moved i gotta register to vote blue no matter who ""leftists"": So you can vote for Joe Biden in a swing state right? me: I'm so excited to write in the green candidate for the third election in a row!

[tr4ggot]

Look into Claudia De la Cruz! She's a 2024 presidential candidate with the Party for Socialism and Liberation and she is actively participating in pro-Palestine protests.

on the off-chance this isn’t a bot that flagged my account because i posted that i won’t vote for biden, i wanted to clarify that i purposefully will be abstaining from voting, not just voting for someone else, in the 2024 election for a few reasons.

for one, i live in california. in los angeles county. we will be a blue county regardless of my vote, including my district. my abstention will have no effect on the outcome of the election. i would have otherwise held my nose and voted for biden again, but the point is that he lost my, and many other of my peers, votes, through intentional inaction in the face of genocide. to vote for another candidate would just be stepping on a different rake.

secondly, i am a progressive, but also understand how politics really works in terms of parties. voting anything other than democrat or republican is in practice casting a symbolic vote. there is no near future where any other party gains any degree of power in our government, by design. the last time there was a powerful third party to vote for in this country was a good 25 presidencies ago. when the upcoming election will be between someone who has enthusiastically and emphatically positioned the force of an empire against a people suffering a genocide against the will of the empire’s citizens, and a bumbling fool who is ready, willing, and eager to fully embrace fascism and punish political enemies, where both candidates are so reprehensible and morally bankrupt, to vote for either or even participate in the system that enabled them would be such a betrayal of every value i hold close that i could not and will not, especially when my vote would be in effect meaningless otherwise.

people can do as they wish, but i will not play a part in any of it.

and as a side, palestine will be free, but it will not be because of whatever american politicians do, it will be in spite of what they do.

[twinsfawn]

chat is it defeatist to not want to vote for someone who has explicitly expressed their support for a genocidal regime

[tpwrtrmnky]

options

[ID: Three panel comic with crudely drawn stick people.

Panel 1: A closeup view of the Avatar of Decay, a shrivelled stick person with fungi emerging from their body, surrounded by flies. They are standing at a podium.

Avatar: "The decay party is in principle opposed to the 'infinite genocide forever' policy of the overt neofascism party, as it goes against our principle of embracing stagnancy and letting the rot take us.

We are however committed to bipartisanship and compromise, and so our policy plan has provisions for up to half of an infinite genocide for half of forever.

I, the Avatar of Decay, promise that under my care our institutions will embrace sweet, sweet rot."

Panel 2: Closeup of a child with a propeller hat standing at an opposing podium.

From off-panel: "Neo-fascism party candidate Microtransactions Child, how do you respond?"

Microtransactions Child: "The Lockheed-Nestle person said I get ten power crystals for every drone strike while I am president so if I am elected we will do all the drone strikes always.

Also, the Avatar of Decay is a poop face communist farty poop."

Panel 3: A leaf green person and a lime green person are watching this unfold on TV from the comfort of their couch. The TV is showing a wider view, revealing that the microtransactions child is standing on a stool to be at the podium.

Avatar of Decay: "This is soil, not poop, actually!"

Microtranscations Child: "poop face poop face poop face"

Leaf green: "Wow, I'm so glad we've got ranked choice voting here and these are just fringe weirdoes rather than the only two options."

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next

[nyancrimew]

okay i love your posts and work and understand why you hate the US and both parties (reasonably) but can we please stop with like. just the biden slander. like haha biden old and dumb bothers me because it equates 81 year old continuing like 80 years of US foreign policy and 78 year old who openly paraphrases NAZI rhetoric in one of the worlds superpowers. like i fucking hate biden and am vocal about this but equating status quo old guy and fascist old guy is such a false comparison

you (plural, i have multiple of these asks rn) gotta reflect a bit on what you're using your political campaigning energy on if your biggest issue of the day is me making a shitpost. my post i made last night literally just comments directly on the two biden press conferences that day where he first referred to ukrainian president zelensky as "president putin" and then later referred to his vice president kamala harris as "vice president trump".

i am making fun of the CURRENTLY SITTING president of """""the free world""""" who's very clearly not in any position anymore to be doing this job. none of what i said in any way even pits him against trump, but im not making fun of trump because right now he's fucking irrelevant as he's not currently in control of the most powerful country in the world. i sure hope he still won't be after november, but you're not going to win this election by getting mad at some european tumblr user who made an observational joke.

there is so much more i could say about this and especially how meaningless this election really is when it's suddenly taboo to at all criticize the lesser of the two evil, who as a reminder, has been actively aiding the genocide in gaza and has now thrown trans kids under the bus for some minor campaign points. i somehow remember there being this thing about how biden was the compromise candidate but surely we could push him to the left, but hey, what do i know about politics.

[fremedon]

I'm not making this a reblog because there have been a lot of posts this applies to and I'm sure there will be more.

But if you ever do find that perfectly pure candidate that you feel can vote for without morally compromising yourself--that person with a completely stainless career and no blood on their hands--they will still step into the morass created by all their predecessors. They will have blood on their hands from the moment they take office. The blood comes with the office. There is no way to avoid that.

If they want to not execute the evil and unjust laws which they have just sworn to faithfully execute, they will have the choice of flouting the law or changing it. Both of these are difficult, take time, and cannot be done by one person's fiat.

Laws are made by Congress; changing a law--even the worst one on the books! even that one!--means getting a majority of both houses on board. This is drastically easier if the president's party has a majority in both houses, but still requires coordinating literally hundreds of people to do what you want; if the president's party does not have that trifecta, it may simply be impossible until after the next elections.

Flouting the law--just deciding to ignore it--sets a worrisome precedent: In general, we would like the executive branch to follow the laws of the country! But beyond that, it is also difficult and also requires coordinating with hundreds of other people. The administrative state is designed to run on rails. The administration can hand down guidance on the interpretation of laws--which often as not gets challenged legally and needs to be resolved by the courts, which is a whole other level of complication and, currently, a whole other level of fucked up--but ordering federal agencies to violate the law wholesale is usually going to be a non-starter. Even when the law is bad. Until the law is actually changed, which, see above, sometimes the most that can be done is harm reduction--delay implementation, narrow the scope, tie it up in red tape.

And. Look. I want you to find that perfect candidate. I long for the day that someone can make it all the way into the highest office without ever compromising their morals. But if they do, they will become complicit with all the horrors their predecessors left to us. There is no way to dismantle those horrors without taking on some degree of complicity.

When the machine is covered so thickly with blood, pulling the off switch still gets blood on your hands.

[socialistexan]

Oooo the follower count going down after that post.

That's fine, I know some of y'all were here because I so gleefully participated in the nihilistic do-nothing circlejerk leftist sphere for a while, but I seriously can't do that any more.

I'm tired of being a jaded edgy asshole who is more focused on showing that I can out leftist the most leftist to ever leftist and that I'm the most morally pure person of them all. All of us are sullied by even living in this country, sorry, we're all compromised by the imperial-core.

I'm going to make it real fucking clear that we can in fact do mutual aid and vote. We can do both. And anyone that tells you it's one or the other is a fucking grifter, ignorant, or a flippant asshole that wants to do nothing.

The threat of fascism is too great this time. I pity any of you who can't see it. We're on the edge of a cliff where we are 3+ months from my existence as a trans person being made illegal, from the right to choose being obliterated. From the right to even vote being gutted. From having a President who isn't just a Zionist, but one who want to raze the entity of Gaza and the West Bank off the map so they can build luxury condos.

We aren't falling in love with and marrying a candidate. We aren't even green lighting all of their policies. We aren't flexing our morals. We are making a political calculation to keep things from getting worse in one of the many fronts we have. It's that simple.

In the same way that sitting on the sidelines and not proving mutual aid or community support is bad, so is sitting on the sidelines for this one fucking thing.

There are many fronts and we have to stop the fascists in all of them.

[zyafics]

PLAY FAKE | 03

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe needs to secure a girlfriend for his father to see him as a viable candidate for Cameron Development, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, depictions of jealousy + aggression, emotional turmoil, mild descriptions of violence, and usage of drugs.

The first 'date' is going to be at the country club.

You find it ironic that your first date, in general, is going to be a fake one. Truly, that sets up the rest of your love life. While you never had a steady boyfriend—simply because you don't have time or they couldn't stand that you didn't have time for them—you have fooled around before. You had flings. You had needs and they were met.

Now, funnily enough, so is your lack of dating experience.

You're closing Sailor early today. You hate that you had to but it was the only compromise you had with Rafe. He wanted to pick you up at your house, which you immediately rejected, and you wanted to meet him at the country club. Neither of you would settle, stubbornly, that Rafe decided it would be easier if he picked you up from work and let you get ready at Tannyhill.

As you're locking up the front, you hear a distinct voice calling out your name. Looking over your shoulder, you spot Pope and JJ approaching you, one offering a friendly wave while the blond tips his chin in greeting.

"Hey," Pope says, glancing at your locked doors. "You locking up early?"

"Yeah," you nod, dropping your keys into your bag. "I have to go somewhere."

"I never thought I'd live to see the day," JJ remarks, causing you to chuckle. You grew up with Pope and JJ, despite being a couple of years older, simply because they worked and live near you in The Cut. Pope, specifically, lives just a couple of houses down from yours—having helped you on several occasions with your siblings when you couldn't find a babysitter in time. "Does this mean you're finally getting a life?"

You roll your eyes at the blond. "I have a life."

"Sorry, let me rephrase that," he teases. "A life outside of bartending."

You cross your arms. "You don't seem to be complaining when I give you free booze."

JJ laughs, raising up both hands in surrender. "My bad. I didn't say shit."

Pope rolls his eyes, elbowing his best friend, before turning back to you. His expression is friendly. "Maybe this means you're free to attend some parties."

The idea sparks a reminder in JJ's eyes. "Oh, shit, that's right! We're about to head over to The Boneyard for a kegger. Wanna join?"

It's been a while since you've been to a Pogue party. The idea sounds appealing, but you had other priorities. "Sorry, boys, I got somewhere else I gotta be."

Pope shifts his gaze to the bag in your arms. "Yeah, what's that? Are you planning on running away?"

You chuckle softly. "Nope, not yet. I just have to get ready for an event and these are my new clothes."

JJ raises a brow, flicking his gaze down to the bag for a second. "Can we see?"

You flip the blond off and he laughs. Pope is about to add something else, when a car honks behind you. It must be Rafe. Without glancing behind, you declare that you need to head out and Pope nods, dragging his best friend off the docks with a farewell. When you reach the car parked near the back of the lot, the one that screams money, you get in.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you set the bag on your lap and buckle your seatbelt. Ready to go, but the car hasn't moved. When you turn your head, you see Rafe watching you with a slighted jaw.

"What?"

"What's that all about?" His voice is sharp.

"What?" You repeat, not understanding where the tone is coming from.

"Maybank and Heyward," his expression is hard and unreadable. "What were they talkin' to you about?"

"Nothing," you answer, shifting in your seat, but Rafe doesn't appear pleased. You sigh. "It was just about a party. They always invite me on the off-chance I'll go."

It takes him a beat before he responds.

"You party with them a lot?"

"No, that's why they invite me," you snap, getting a little agitated by the interrogation. "Can we go now? I still have to get ready."

Rafe looks like he wants to probe more, but thankfully, he didn't. He reverses the car out of the parking lot and takes you down the road to Tannyhill, while you admire the drive. You can't believe how split Outer Banks is—how the change in scenery goes from fishery and unkempt lawns to perfectly-manicured yards and a boat per house.

The ride is quiet. When he pulls up to the estate, the largest mansion on the island, you can't seem to stop the awe from flooding your vision. It truly is a sight. You've been here once, a couple of years ago, and the admiration still hasn't worn off. If anything, now older, it amplifies it.

When Rafe turns off the car, he exits from the vehicle in a swift motion. You half-expected him to play the boyfriend act and help you with your bags, but instead, he goes straight into the house. Asshole. You roll your eyes, unbuckling and following after him, meeting one step of his with twice of yours.

"Y'know, a boyfriend would’ve opened the door for me." You declare, following him up the stairs.

"Good to know," he sneers, "but I'm not paying to give you the boyfriend experience, am I?"

He cuts a look behind him to catch your expression and you flip him off, causing a smug look to lift at his face. When he reaches his bedroom door, he cracks it open for you to enter through.

Stepping inside, you noticed how clean it is. Then, you realized, of course it would be. Rafe probably has maids coming in every day to make it spotless for the crowned prince. You were just used to leaving your room a mess in the mornings that your Pogue expectations rolled over to him.

"You can use my bathroom." He points to the closed door on the other side of his room. You follow the voice to find him opening his closet, his back turned to you, searching for his own attire. Without a word, you nod, heading to the ensuite as you set your bags on the ground and unravel them on the sink counter.

You didn't own many fancy clothes. You never needed them and it wasn't affordable. However, you brought the most expensive thing you own. It was nothing in comparison to the luxuries in Rafe's closet, but it was enough. A white cocktail dress that cuts mid-thigh—it was what you wore for your high school graduation.

You put it on before you got ready, and when you did, it was tighter and shorter than you remember. You did gain some weight. You are also older. You try not to let the sentiment pass through you too much—that you're almost twenty-two but in the same place you were when you were eighteen.

You push the thoughts away.

You also push the reason for why you're here away too.

With a deep breath, you start on your makeup. You curl your hair. You even sprayed a little bit of the perfume that your parents got you as a birthday gift a long time ago. It's a bit faint, the smell has faded away from age, but it still smells like that morning when you opened the box, finding a present in your hands, for the first time in a long time.

You push those away too.

Stepping out, you find Rafe dressed. In a tailored dark blue suit, he sits on the edge of his mattress, his hands messing with his phone. Even you have to admit, he cleaned up nicely. His dress shirt spans perfectly across the broad of his shoulders, his biceps filling out the arms, and the form-fitting material latches onto his chest. He even styled his hair—gelled back but loose; a stark contrast to the rundown and casual look he sports upon entering your bars and parties.

The low click of your heels against the marble floor alerts him of your presence.

His gaze lifts to meet your face, before trailing down your body to take you in. You notice his Adam's apple slightly bobs and you wonder if it's because you're a little underdressed compared to him.

"Are you done?" He asks stiffly, clearing his throat and shifting his eyes away. You walk out of his bathroom completely, stopping in front of his closet mirror to apply the finishing touches of your makeup.

When you're finished, you turn back around and strike a small pose for him. "What do you think?"

"You look... good." He settles and you roll your eyes. Of course that's the only compliment he can come up with. You expect nothing less.

"You should expand your vocabulary and give better compliments to your girlfriend," you tease, stepping closer to him. His legs parts slightly, almost inviting you in. "Or else people might assume you aren't giving them enough."

He scoffs. "You look fuckable. Is that better?"

Your nose wrinkles. "Awful. 0/10."

He chuckles, looking to the floor, but his laugh is tense. You glance down, noticing the way his shoulders are rigid and his posture is straight as a rod, and realization strikes you. Just as you're nervous, so is Rafe.

You step forward, in between the space of his legs, and place a delicate hand on his shoulders. He looks up to you. "You good?" You ask gently.

"I'm fine." He quickly brushes off, pushing away from your touch. "I'm just ready to get this shit over with. I hate business dinners."

"Spoken by someone who wants to get in said business." You retort, turning around to grab your purse off his dresser, when suddenly, you feel Rafe grabs your exposed thigh, holding you in place between him.

You turn back, raising a confused brow.

"Give me a kiss."

This request startles you. "Why?"

His eyes study your face before shrugging. "Practice."

You can't help but laugh a little. It truly is your go-to response to everything, and you notice his shoulders slightly unwind at the sound. "Why? Are you a bad kisser?"

He rolls his eyes, and with one strong tug, you fall into his open lap. His hand cups your cheek, and without another word, he kisses you. Softly, at first, as if he's trying to get used to the feel of your lips against his, before deepening it. You can't help but let out a content sigh, enjoying the feeling.

When he slightly pulls away, he murmurs against your lips. "Someone needs to do something about that mouth of yours."

You scoff, placing both arms on either side of his shoulders and looping it around his neck, pulling back to get a better look of his face. His eyes are unreadable and his lips are faintly red from the shade of your lipstick.

"Isn't that supposed to be your job?" You tease, tilting your head to the side. "Or should I find another fake boyfriend to put me in my place?"

His expression goes hard. This time, he leans forward and captures your lips against him, in a firmer, more possessive manner. It's everything that accumulated so far—from seeing you with Maybank and Heyward outside the docks to the little dress-up you did specifically for him.

It's the idea of you, in his lap, knowing for the next couple of hours, you're his.

You only pull away to catch a breath, giggling at the sight of your lipstick smeared over his face. Running the pad of your thumb over his mouth, you attempt to wipe away the cosmetic product with no avail.

“You messed up my makeup,” you jokingly pout, rising from his lap. His touch loosens around you, but with great reluctance. When you go to the bathroom to take a paper towel, you return to wipe the remnant of your kisses off of Rafe.

"I'll buy you a new one." He says as you wipe away the last of it.

You roll your eyes at the suggestion. "No need." You declare, returning to his closet mirror to reapply your lipstick and fix the smudges.

He says nothing in return. His gaze follows your every move. It isn't until you're done, really done, that you step in front of him and hold out your hand for Rafe to take.

"Come on, boyfriend," you say the title with a tease. "Time to play house."

—

When you arrive at the country club, your heart stutters in your chest. It's a bit intimidating, the glory of Fight Eight and all their Kooks, pinned down to this exclusive membership to say you made it. You wonder, for a brief moment, if you'll ever get there.

But, then you remember, for the next couple of hours, you'll pretend you did.

You don't know if Rafe allowed you a few minutes in the car to get ready or if he needed it himself, but you take the scraps. When the moment was over, he stepped out and crossed over to the passenger side to open your door.

You smile at the gesture, allowing yourself to be led out of the car by his hand. When he closes the door behind you, you tilt your head up at him. "Thought boyfriend acts were below you?"

"Had to play the part in front of these people, didn’t I?"

You remember where you are and the smile fades out. You are no longer in the confines of your bar nor his desolated mansion. It's you, with people watching, with people reporting, with his father within proximity. Every decision, in the next couple of hours, is an act.

A falsity.

Remember that.

You silently nod as he places his arm around your waist, planting a soft kiss on the side of your forehead, as he leads you towards the entrance. There were waitstaff attending there, and when you approach close enough, they open the double doors. Rafe skips past them without a single acknowledgement, but you mumble a thank you in their direction, before being whisked away to the setting.

Your eyes admire the details. The decorations hung against the walls and railings of the place, the bouquets set on every corner, the streams of crystal chandeliers dangling above you in every room. It's glorious.

"They have tulips," you whisper to Rafe, who follows your gaze to the centerpiece in front of the stairwell. "It's not even in season."

"We're Kooks, sweetheart," he says with a scoff, an air of arrogance. "If we want something, we get it."

You say nothing as you scan the rest of the room, preparing yourself for the evening. Rafe and you went through most of the details about your arrangement, how you two got together, when it happened, and the minor sentiments to make it seem real. You believe you're prepared enough.

"Ready to meet my dad, sweetheart?" Rafe mumbles into your ear, his breath hot against your neck. You nod.

"As ready as I'll ever be, darling."

Rafe chuckles at the nickname you picked, but you figured it would play the part. Pretend there's some tenderness between the two of you. You may not have been given instructions on how to be a girlfriend, but you imagine it would be something cheesy. Sweet. A little bit unrealistic.

Just like this.

Rafe pulls you towards the crowd. While caterers and waiters waltz across the room in a coordinated dance, you couldn't help but search for the bartenders. Of who they booked this evening. You wonder, for a moment, if you were even on their radar.

A murmur of conversations starts to fade out as you arrive and your fingers squeeze Rafe's hand. Ward was the last to acknowledge your presence, his eyes observing you and trailing down to the intertwined hands of you and his eldest son.

"Dad," Rafe greets, his voice filled with proper and posh, you wonder if this was the same person you were talking to moments ago. "I'd like you to meet my girlfriend."

He introduces your name to the crowd and Ward stares in amazement, if not, with a little bit of disbelief. His eyes left his son, tracing you, trying to pinpoint anything out of place.

"Hi," you hold out your hand for a handshake. He takes it. "It's so nice to meet you. Rafe has told me all about you."

"He has?" Ward lifts his dark brow at you. "What does he say?"

Other than rants about you? Nothing good, you thought.

Rafe stiffens beside you, his eyes on the firmed on the side of your face but you don't falter. You've been in customer service for a long time, you knew how to lie.

"He said you're a good businessman for Cameron Development. Someone with a lot of difficult choices to make. He hopes to be there with you one day." You summarize, pinpointing the good details of Rafe's tirades. You hope he didn't recognize the little jab you placed there.

Ward looks amused. A bit proud. But says nothing more. Dinner is declared ready and everyone begins to take their place. You fall into a seat beside Rafe; he even pulled out a chair for you before he sat.

You want to stick your tongue at him and tease him, but you know this isn't the appropriate time. Returning your sight to what's before you, you feel slightly out of place. Usually, you're the one serving these people, not the ones being served. The reversed role is jarring.

When the waitress comes around and asks for everyone's drink orders, you internally frown. When she came to you, you answered that you wanted some pinot noir while Rafe chose whiskey neat. Leaving off, the business dinner proceeds.

You zone in-and-out at their conversations. It's mostly about marketplace and land developments, furthering relationships between companies, and the occasional jab on who has the better enterprise. You wanted to nod off, but you didn't.

So, you watch Rafe instead.

His eyes are set on his father, observing the interactions between him and his business partners. His gaze is focused and diligent, absorbing every little detail, as if he's making mental notes about it. About how he would proceed if he gets the company.

You admire that. It reminds you of how you view Sailor.

When the conversation winds down to casual talk, and you're on your second course, Ward surprises you by calling you out by name.

You lift your gaze to meet his. "I wanted to ask where I know you from," Ward begins, raising his glass. "You seem vaguely familiar."

You clear your throat before you answer.

"I work at Sailor," you explain, wiping your hands against the clothed napkin. "My family owns it. We catered for you a few years ago."

It takes a moment for it to click, and recognition dawns on his face. "That's right," he drawls, amused chuckles signals to the rest of the table. "You were working as the bartender for one of the company's charity events. You had that specific drink I like," he clicks his fingers, trying to remember the name. "That whiskey."

"The Godfather?" You offer, to which Ward nods in confirmation. You laugh softly. "Yeah, that's a family recipe. It's been in my family for a couple generations."

"I remember you saying that before," he nods. "So, that makes you a Pogue."

You know it wasn't said with disdain. Not the same manner that his son carries for the second class. Ward used to be a Pogue himself, being one of the very few who was able to rise out of lower-class and make a name for himself. Despite knowing he's on the opposite side of you, you did admire that. You wanted that yourself.

"So were you, sir. You're a legend around The Cut," you compliment. "The ideal story of how we can make it out."

"With your work ethic, I don't doubt it," he compliments with a wink and you smile. The compliment feels real, and you felt appreciated. Saying nothing else, you take a sip of your drink as you watch how Ward's gaze slides over to his son sitting quietly next to you.

The dinner proceeds with more chatter. You swear you were getting full by the end of the meal, before dessert, that you ask Rafe to take some of your food and finish them for himself. He begrudgingly accepts, allowing you to inconspicuously slide the plate over to his. When it came down to the final hour and everything was served, people started heading out for the night.

Everyone leaving, the table slowly empties until it was only Ward, Rose, Rafe and you.

"So, you're dating my son," Ward declares, and you hesitantly nod. You don't know which direction this conversation may lead, especially now that there's no social barriers constraining his interrogation. "How long?"

You lift your gaze to Rafe, hoping he could answer and you could supply.

"A few weeks," he answers curtly, his eyes set on his father. You notice his hands clenched on his lap, his leg bouncing under the table. "It's new."

"After our...?"

"Yes," Rafe answers without allowing him to finish. "I thought I would listen to your advice."

Ward nods, satisfied. You thought it would be the end of it, before he turned back to you. "Do you know about Rafe's habits?"

Rafe stiffens. His eyes pinned on his father with a hard expression, almost a silent plea not to continue, but Ward ignores his son. "His parties and his drinking? The occasional drugs?"

Rafe turns to you, watching you as you come up with an answer. You silently move your hand over his, enclosing it over his larger one, hoping it would ease some relief into his system. Almost a silent promise; a way to say I have your back.

"I do," you nod, letting the words roll off lightly.

"And you still choose to date him?"

You nod again. "Yes, sir."

Ward laughs. "A saint."

Rafe tense under your touch.

"It's not that." You shake your head, your expression serious. "He has his vices, sure, but that doesn't undermine who he is. He's determined and focused, and when he has a goal, he puts his whole being into it. It's good to have someone like him in your corner."

You avoid Rafe's eyes as you say this. It surprised him. He didn't think you would say some positive attributes about him, especially since he's been nothing but a pretentious asshole to you, but your words were genuine. Authentic. He heard you lie and tell truths, and this one leans towards the latter.

Ward looks to be in the same vein of astonishment and you say nothing as you smile, lifting your glass by the stem and taking another sip. The alcohol isn't as good as yours, but you were glad to make it out alive and passed the test.

When the caterers came back to clean up the table, you decided that you wanted to help them. You know it was unconventional, to be assisting the help as the guest, but you wanted to get out of the space for a moment. To get back to your roots.

You carry some dishes and head towards the kitchen, despite the gentle pleas from the waitstaff.

When you left, Rafe remained with his father. Rose is gathering her things as Ward rises from his chair, Rafe following in suit. When the patriarch gestures for him to approach, the diligent son listens, stepping towards his father.

Ward claps his hand on his shoulder, almost proud. "I'm surprised, Rafe, I never thought I'd see the day." He begins, glancing over to you in the kitchen, moving around in swift and coordinated style. "You did good, son, probably the best you'll ever do."

Rafe stiffens under his father's touch. The words pricking in his ears. "She's a capable woman. But, next time you bring her, make sure she wears something more... appropriate."

He glances back over to you, replacing the plates to the top cabinets, rising to your tippy-toes in a way that pulls up the back of your short dress. Yes, he noticed that it wasn't the typical business attire, a little shorter than recommended, but he pinned it as something a Pogue would wear. Something they didn't think about.

But, the criticism in his ear from his father, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Rafe clenches his jaw, just as Ward slips his hand off his son's shoulder and gathers his wife to leave.

Rafe stands still. He watches you for a few more moments. He noticed some of the sparsely-remaining guests would pass the kitchen, on the way to the exit, and spare a glance at you and your barely-covered ass. His anger heightens.

Marching over, Rafe says nothing as he surprises you and grabs your arm. Without saying a word, he pulls you away from the kitchen and takes you to the nearest bathroom.

He locks the door close.

"What–what the hell?" You snap, pulling your arm out of his grip but his hold is firm. Your furrowed gaze looks up to meet him, finding his expression nothing short of a timid rage and fury, ready to boil over and burst.

Rafe is strumming with adrenaline. With anger. With all these emotions coursing through him in rapid succession, he can't reach out and grab any of them. Something about his father's comment tonight rubbed him in a bad way. The way Ward doesn't think he was good enough for you, a Pogue he found off the streets. The way your dress is too fucking short. The way you were being too kind—grabbing his hand, calming him, complimenting him. It was all wrong.

He needs release.

He needs to take it out on you.

"You had to wear the shortest fucking thing you owned?" He sneers, his hand sliding over your ass and squeezing it, hard. It elicits a small moan from you. "Had to show off what a fucking slut you are, didn't you?"

Your mind is spinning. You don't understand what is going on. You thought everything was good—you even sweared you saw a covert smile on Rafe's face before you left. You don't know what could happen between then and now and why he's being so aggressive to you. His words. His touch.

You don't know why you like it.

Turning around, you try to grab his attention, placing a hand on the side of his face. "What happened?" You say, breathless, "talk to me."

He flinches out your touch. "I don't want to talk."

"What do you want?"

"Get on your knees."

You do.

Rafe watches as you sink to the bathroom floor, the lack of coverage from your dress does nothing to soften the hardness of the ground. He unbuckles his pants, removes them, and reveals the impressive bulge hidden behind his boxer-briefs.

You watch attentively as he takes the last piece of barrier off, freeing his cock, just inches from your face. The tip is covered with a bit of precum, something that you want to put in your mouth. You feel the throb in your pussy, squeezing your legs tighter to relieve some of the ache.

"You want a boyfriend who puts you in your place?" He looks down at you, the look on his eyes is hard and detached, like he's out of it. "One who's there to do something with that mouth of yours? You want that, Pogue?"

You find yourself nodding, almost hungrily, following along to his words. He scoffs with a condescending laugh, gripping the base of his shaft with one hand and guiding it closer to your mouth. "Open."

Part of you want to use the moment to ask him what's going on. For him to clue you in on something. But you don't get the chance. Without your immediate obedience, Rafe roughly grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks, forcing your mouth to pop open.

"Are you going to listen to me, sweetheart?" He taunts, "or am I gonna have to teach you a lesson?"

"I'll listen." You confess, your voice doesn't sound like your own. The ache between your legs doesn't subside.

Satisfied, Rafe levels the tip to your face, tapping it against the plump of your bottom lip, before pushing it in.

He goes a little fast. Like he's trying to fuck your face. Your touch comes up to slow down, exchanging his hand with yours, grabbing his base to allow you to guide his cock into your mouth at your own discretion. He allows you to have that control, his hand traveling up to your hair, tugging at the roots.

When he hits the back of your throat, you gag, and Rafe lets out a guttural groan. "Fuck, just like that," he murmurs, tipping his head back at you take him in. "This fucking mouth."

He comes in and out of you, finding a rhythm that allows you to get used to his dick in your mouth. When you do something that makes him feel good, his grip around your hair tightens, pulling you to stay in place.

"Is this how I have to punish you?" His voice is sharp, but the edge comes off with every pleasure that elicits out of him. "You get one fucking chance to meet all these people, all these Kooks, and you had to dress like a slut. To show off?"

He grabs you by the roots, tilting your head in a way that pops his cock out and your eyes to find his. "Who do you belong to?" He asks.

Your core throbs at the possession. "You."

He nods and breathes out a raspy breath. "That's fucking right."

Letting you go, Rafe suddenly pulls you to your feet. His hands hooks under your ass and lifts, setting you down on the sink counter, your back slams against the wall in a harsh beat. Without wasting a second, Rafe grabs your thighs and pulls you towards the edge, just enough where you don't fall off.

"Rafe," you call out, as your eyes connect with his, his breathing is heavy. His eyes are wild. He doesn't answer you, roughly spreading apart your thighs, his hand traces the wet patch formed against your panties, causing a shiver to run down your spine. "God."

Rafe leans in, his lips just caressing your bare shoulders. "Just a Pogue who does what I want, when I want, aren't you?" He reminds you of your place, the gentle touches of his fingers erupting aches and unbearable heat between your legs. You don't answer him in time. "Aren't you?"

"Just yours."

He chuckles, pulling back to flick his gaze up to you. "And who made you this wet?"

Your voice is needy. "You did."

"That's right," he pushes your panties to the side, fingers moving up and down your slit in delicate strokes. You lean forward into his touch but his grip is placed on your hips. "I did. And I want you to remember that this is mine. No one can touch but me."

You nod into his words, willing to give him anything to prove some semblance of pleasure for you. "All yours," you choke desperately, "please, make me come."

His hand leaves your core, and the coldness that evades his absence pricks your sensitive skin. His hand raises to cup the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Aw, baby," he mocks, "bad girls don't get to come."

You open your mouth to object, but Rafe lines his cock against your entrance and, without warning, pushes himself in. You feel your body arches forward, letting out an uninhibited moan, as he stretches you out.

"Fuck," you press your forehead against his warm chest, your breathing unsteady and your eyes flutters in-and-out of consciousness. "It's so—you're so—" You can't find your words, your mind scrambled.

Rafe catches your jaw, forcing your eyes open and to look down at you see him lodge deeper and deeper inside of you. His motion is slow and steady, allowing you to adjust, before quickening his speed. "Look," he murmurs into your ear, your skin hot everywhere, "look at how good your pussy is taking me."

The sound of wetness echoes in the small bathroom, the evidence of your arousal to him, to Rafe, that you can't help but choke at the noise. Your head is spinning. You feel pleasure and pain ripping out of you, all at once, subdued by the rising credence of your climax.

Rafe doesn't loosen his grip around your jaw, forcing you to watch attentively to how his cock thrusts upon you, entering and leaving, the motion a mesmerizing sight that produces further need within you.

"Rafe," you moan with a whimper, you steady yourself by gripping his shoulders, digging your nails into your shoulder blades, trying to regain some control. "Faster. Please, I want to come so bad."

"What did I say, sweetheart?" He tilts your head to meet his hardened gaze, his breathing shakily and unorganized as the feeling of the way your walls grip him provides the most pleasurable sensation, he was sure to come soon. "Bad girls don't come."

Your eyes grow teary as you feel him fill you up, to the hilt, your stomach so full of him. He moves at a pace that works for him, that allows him to climb to his climax, while it's frustratingly slow for you. Not enough for you to reach the peak.

You lean into him, chest pressed to chest, your breathing unsteady as your walls tightens around cock.

"Come on, baby." He taunts. "Make me feel so good."

Him, you note, because this is about his pleasure. Because you didn't deserve to reach the same ecstasy.

"Rafe," your voice is so raspy, you resort to begging. You can feel his cock twitching inside of you. "Please, please, I'll be so so good—"

He slaps a hand over your mouth, covering your pleas. Your eyes teary as you stare up at him. "I don't want to hear anything." He snaps with a grunt, "you're a Pogue. Fucking act like it."

This Rafe is cruel. It isn't the same person who defended you against the drunk stranger. He isn't the same one who kissed you at Tannyhill. This is the Rafe you met on the back porch of Topper's house, the one who comes into your bar, the wildcard his father warns you about.

You know you should stop this. To come to your senses and deny him of the pleasure he so desperately chasing from you. To gain some control. But it feels so goddamn good, that the idea of losing the feeling of Rafe, inside of you, was harder to bear. It makes you lose all clarity.

When you feel Rafe's strokes growing more sloppy, a sudden realization dawns on you.

"Rafe," you say breathily, "pull out. I need—you need to pull out."

He cups your cheeks, a firm but not harsh grip like before, and forces your eyes to meet his. "What did I say about telling a Kook what to do?" He taunts lazily, just with one final thrust, he comes inside of you.

His hot cum fills you up, and it feels so warm and nice, you think you're going insane with the buzzing sensation you feel afterwards. He stiffens as he spazzes, his head leaning against the crook of your neck as the wave of his climax rolls over him, the stillness of his cock inside of you leaves an unbearable ache between your legs.

Rafe pulls out within a few short breaths, slipping his dick out of you as the cum leaks onto the counter and drips onto the floor. You are completely still, your eyes following him as he reshuffles around in his post-orgasmic haze, redressing his pants and briefs in one piece.

He moves around to grab some tissue papers, coming back to dab the area around your filled cunt to clean you up, his eyes not meeting yours. In shame, frustration, or clarity, you don't know.

When he finishes, he buckles his belt and throws the tissues into the trash. Pausing at the door, he glances at you for a brief, tiniest second. "Clean up. I'll drive you back."

When he leaves, you take a moment to gather yourself. To reel in everything. You slowly slip off the counter, landing on wobbly and aching legs, and turn around to view your reflection in the mirror.

The mess of your hair, the wrinkles of your clothes, his cum leaking down your thighs.

It takes a beat, then two, before you find yourself producing words.

"What the fuck just happened?" 

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Navigation — Part 02 | Part 03 | Part 04

[trumpwillkillyourfuture]

People have been comparing Israel's atrocities in Gaza to slavery to explain why they're not voting for Kamala Harris ("her position on Gaza is so unacceptable that I can't vote for her even though her opponent is worse on nearly every other issue I care about"), so here's a relevant history lesson.

The 1844 presidential election was between Henry Clay and James Polk. Clay had what we would now consider an unacceptably moderate position on slavery: He thought that it should be allowed to continue where it was already legal but that it shouldn't be expanded to other parts of the country. Meanwhile, Polk wanted to see slavery both preserved and expanded.

To some abolitionists, Clay's position was effectively no better than Polk's, as the Missouri Compromise had set a policy on slavery west of the Mississippi River that prohibited it north of 36°30′ north latitude (with the exception of Missouri itself), and slavery was already legal in every state south of 36°30′. Many voters, unwilling to vote for either Clay or Polk, found someone to support in a third-party nominee: James Birney, representing the Liberty Party, who wanted slavery abolished entirely.

At the time, this position was outside of mainstream politics, and Birney was seen as a fringe candidate with no chance of victory. Sure enough, Birney came nowhere close to winning any state, but he did get 15,812 votes in his home state of New York. Incidentally, the entire election came down to New York, where Polk defeated Clay by just 5,106 votes. Had Birney's voters voted for Clay instead, he would have been elected the 11th president of the United States.

Instead, Polk went on to be the most pro-slavery president in American history, starting a war with Mexico to gain new land that would be open to slavery. A situation that Birney voters thought couldn't get any worse, Polk had found a way to make worse.

Now, 180 years later, people driven by fury at Harris's support for Israel and a belief that Donald Trump can't make things any worse for Palestinians are at risk of making the same mistake. Trump absolutely can make things worse, most clearly in the West Bank, which multiple members of the Israeli governing coalition would love nothing more than to annex completely, something Trump's biggest donor reportedly wants him to allow. Given Trump's transactional nature, it's likely that he would give Israel the go-ahead to fully annex the West Bank, which would destroy hopes of Palestinian statehood for the foreseeable future. Surely those who support the Palestinian cause can't countenance that happening by refusing to vote for Harris, the only candidate with a chance to defeat Trump?

As infuriating as it is that both major candidates are so unconditionally supportive of Israel's actions in Gaza, the fact is that either Kamala Harris or Donald Trump will be elected president in November. Benjamin Netanyahu and his extremist governing partners very much want Trump to win. It seems safe to say that the vast majority of Palestinians who happen to be paying attention to US politics want the opposite: a Harris victory. Please don't let them down.

[tuesziday]

Here's a useful resource from the IRS explaining what counts as political involvement/election interference—if your pastor is telling you to vote for a specific candidate while representing the church, that compromises their tax exempt status!

Gonna add this one too

And this

There seems to be a trend of US church leaders telling their young folks to get on social media and spread the church's message - which is invariably anti-LGBTQ, anti-choice, etc. That's not just astroturf; it could cost them their tax-exempt status. If you see them doing this, here's the link you need.