#fall 17 campaign

[gaza-giving-tree]

Imagine waking up to the deafening roar of explosions, your tent shaking violently as the earth trembles beneath you. In an instant, everything is chaos—your children scream in terror, clutching onto you as you scramble to escape. The sky is filled with smoke and falling debris, the air thick with dust and panic. There is no time to think, no time to gather what little you have left. You run—barefoot, desperate, carrying your baby in your arms—praying that you will make it out alive.

Images: Hossam sent us images of what his family's tent looks like today after violent airstrikes in Gaza last night (03/17/2025).

Video: to further prove the validity of Hossam's story, we have included an Al Jazeera news report that Hossam sent to us, in which he briefly appears (at the 0:48 mark)

@bashar-qazaz

@hane-qazaz

@hanon-qazaz

Story written by @rumiandroses

For Hossam Al-Qazzaz and his family, this nightmare became reality LAST NIGHT (03/17/2025) when an airstrike obliterated their tent—their last refuge after losing their home, a casualty of the war in Gaza. With no shelter, no safety, and nowhere left to run, they are once again plunged into unimaginable uncertainty as the ceasefire in Gaza collapses and war reignites around them.

Hossam, a dedicated father of four, has already lost his home, his job, and his peace of mind due to the relentless bombardments in Gaza in the 15 months preceding the now,-collapsed ceasefire. Now, with nothing but debris around them, he, his wife Hanan, and their four children—Bashar (9), Hani (8), Diana (4), and 5-month-old Habiba—are now struggling to survive with no roof over their heads.

The suffering extends beyond Hossam, his wife, and his children. Hossam is also the sole caretaker of his elderly parents, aged 75 and 72, both in fragile health. His father is suffering from severe burns and urgently needs medical care, while his mother battles high blood pressure and requires constant attention. But with no home, no stable source of income, and skyrocketing prices for essentials like rice and cooking gas—driven by the border closures and the ban on goods entering Gaza—Hossam is trapped in an incredibly difficult and stressful situation.

Despite these unbearable challenges, Hossam is not asking for much—only the money needed to survive, and to be able to evacuate to safety when the border crossing opens again.

"All we want is to live in dignity," Hossam pleads.

This is where you can make a difference. Every small donation—no matter how modest—can help provide food, clothing, and medical care for Hossam, Hanan, their children, and elderly parents. It can help ensure that Habiba gets the milk and diapers she desperately needs and that his family is not left out in the open with nowhere to turn.

Please, if you can, donate or share Hossam’s story today. Your support can be the difference between survival and despair.

Please consider donating to the Al-Qazzaz family’s original fundraiser to help them buy food and essentials and rebuild their tent:

Our founder, Bethany-Grace ( @rumiandroses ) is also sponsoring a fundraising campaign to help Hossam, Hanan and their entire family evacuate to safety. If everyone donates a little, we might be able to get them to safety the moment the border crossing opens again:

Together, we can ensure that Hossam's family does not just survive—but begins to rebuild a life of safety, stability, and hope.

Hossam’s campaign has been vetted by @gazavetters, and (#287) on their list of verified campaigns.

[jezior0]

I was contacted by Moneer @lion-5 to post some important words he wanted to share here. Please, make sure to read them carefully and take action to support Moneer and his family:

"My brother risks his life… just so we can eat." 💔

"I'm a 20-year-old guy, and these aren't just words... this is a cry for help.

We are a broken family — not only by war, but by hunger, illness, and exhaustion.

My father, Raed (48), suffers from a severe skin condition that makes it dangerous for him to be in the sun or even sweat.

My mother, Amani (40), has chronic asthma, spends most of her time bedridden, and struggles to breathe without constant medication.

And me? I've had two surgeries recently, and my body can no longer handle pain, hunger, or even standing for long.

Now the responsibility for the whole family falls on my younger brother Mohammed (17) —

a child forced to become a man far too soon.

We now buy flour by the kilo…

Yes, $30 for just one kilo.

It’s barely enough to feed a single person — and Mohammed can only afford half a kilo, if that.

When he can’t?

He risks everything and goes to what they call "aid distributions" —

but they’re not aid. They’re death traps.

Thousands of people.

Shoving. Screaming.

And Israeli snipers waiting to shoot if you stay longer than 4 minutes.

If you don’t get anything in time, you go home with nothing…

Just tears, empty stomachs, and another day of despair.

But Mohammed still goes…

For us.

For my little sister Sham (5), who now suffers from severe malnutrition.

For my mother, who can barely breathe.

For my father, whose skin burns when he sweats.

Because there’s no one else left.

I’m not asking for much.

Just a smile on Sham’s face,

a breath for my mom,

and safety for Mohammed.

If you can donate even 5€, it might help us buy flour —

so Mohammed doesn’t have to risk his life to feed us.

Maybe… just maybe…

we can eat.

We can live.

We can hold on to what little hope we have left.

Please, don’t let that hope die. 💔

👉 Help us survive"

Despite living in such horrendous conditions, Moneer still dedicates his time and strenght to post and reach out to people on this platform. He deserves to be heard and seen - just like every person living in Gaza, forced to watch genocidal states unleash so much destruction and suffering on their beautiful people and homeland.

Above is the link to Moneer family's Gofundme. Every contribution matters, either €5, €20 or €200. Please follow Moneer's blog and put some of your time into learning his story and helping his campaign reach more people.

Keep in mind this fundraiser is vetted:

Gazavetters number #08

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Smithsonian Magazine:

For the first time in 112 years, Chinook salmon are swimming freely in the Klamath Basin in Oregon.

On October 16, biologists with the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife (ODFW) spotted the fish above the former site of the J.C. Boyle Dam in the Upper Klamath River. The dam was one of four that had blocked the salmon’s migration between the Klamath Basin and the Pacific Ocean. Each of those dams was recently deconstructed in the largest dam removal project in United States history, which has restored the river to its natural, free-flowing state.

At first, biologists wondered if they had really sighted a salmon. “We saw a large fish the day before rise to surface in the Klamath river, but we only saw a dorsal fin,” says Mark Hereford, leader of ODFW’s Klamath Fisheries Reintroduction Project, in a statement. “I thought, was that a salmon, or maybe it was a very large rainbow trout?”

But when the team returned on October 16 and 17, they were able to confirm the fall-run Chinook—making them the first to spot the species in the region since 1912.

The return of the salmon comes less than two months after the end of the dam removals in California and Oregon, an effort that took decades of advocacy by the surrounding tribes—including the Yurok, Karuk, Shasta, Klamath and Hoopa Valley, among others—whose people have deep ties to the Chinook salmon.

Ron Reed, a Karuk tribe member and traditional fisherman, participated in the campaigns for dam removal, advocating that the river’s restoration would help salmon recover. He isn’t surprised the fish have returned so quickly to their ancestral waters, he tells the Los Angeles Times’ Ian James.

“The fact that the fish are going up above the dams now, to the most prolific spawning and rearing habitat in North America, it definitely shines a very bright light on the future,” Reed tells the Los Angeles Times. “Because with those dams in place, we were looking at extinction. We were looking at dead fish.”

In one poignant case, tens of thousands of Chinook salmon died off in the span of days in 2002, as the water quality in the dammed Klamath River deteriorated from the lack of flow. The dams, built between the early 1900s and 1962, also contributed to algae blooms and diseases, and they blocked the salmon’s annual migration.

[mynqzo]

reposting this information to it's own post because asker was a racist.

What's going on right now in the Republic of Georgia / Sakartvelo? A new legislation just passed that official bans - human rights essentially, gay-marriage, gender-firming care and surgery, any 'promotion' of queer identity. Soon after this legislation passed, trans model Kesaria Abramidze was murdered as a direct consequence of this.

Why is this super extra bad? Besides the several many lives at stake, the safety of queer families and the lethality of hate crimes, Georgia's wish to enter the EU is falling to a complete simmer due to this, soon to be extinguished completely. Here is an article about the international reaction to this legislation:

What can you do to help? The biggest thing we currently rely on is international push back especially from the EU members and the possible overturn of this in the upcoming election. It does not help that this law is implemented due to greedy fucks and Russian puppets in Georgia who benefit from this. source:

You might hear many refer to this as 'Russian law' which is due to the fact that Georgia, under this puppet-leadership mimics Russian laws like the 'Foreign Agents Law' that was put into work only a few months prior the law assumes 'only receiving foreign funds makes an organization a foreign agent.' and I don't think I have to explain how horrendous that is.

We also rely on our president to veto the legislation before it goes into 'full effect' (though the consequences and effect have already begun) but even with this the political party which instated this legislation argue to over-ride her veto in parliament. source:

The most important thing right now is vocal pushback, and public support of the queer community. with what happened to Kesaria (may she rest in peace) a lot of trans people are fearing for their lives, and queer families no longer can remain in their own country if they want to continue to be themselves in any way.

Spread love, a lot of it like as much as you can offer to queer Georgians everywhere.

[a-shade-of-blue]

Urgent: Help Mahmoud's 17 Family Members Escape from Frequent Bombings!

Hi everyone. Mahmoud (@mahmoudfamily1) is trying to raise fund to evacuate 17 members of his family (including no fewer than 5 children!), and he has asked me to share his story.

Mahmoud found out the bombing of her sister Tasnim’s husband’s house, the house his entire family was staying at, on the news. He could not contact his family for 3 days after that. He knew that several people had died and several more injured, but he did not know whom among his family survived, and who didn’t.

When he finally managed to reach them, he found out that a close relative, named Alaa, had been killed, along with her children: Ahmed and baby Iman who was not even one month old yet. Alaa was a beloved member of their family. She was optimistic and tried hard to cheer everyone else up. For the longest time, Alaa believed that the world would not turn away from their suffering and the war would end soon. But an airstrike took her and her children’s lives, the bombing continued, and the world remains indifferent.

Mahmoud’s sister Tasnim, was severely injured in the bombing. The attack happened while the family was sleeping, and Tasnim woke up to find her body injured and broken, bleeding heavily with bones sticking out of her leg. She found her 6-month-old daughter under the rubble, severely injured, but thankfully still alive. Tasnim's leg was fractured in multiple places, so severely injured that they all thought it had to be amputated. Tasnim’s husband and her 6-month-old daughter, her father-in-law, her brothers-in-law and Alaa’s husband were all severely injured by the bombing.

A few days later, Mahmoud’s family narrowly survived a second bombing on the street, as the people behind them, too slow to escape from the attack, were killed. They hid in their car, watching the plane flying above dropping bombs, praying that it would not target their car.

Given Tasnim and her 6-month-old daughter’s severe injuries, the family used a lot of money and exhausted all means to get them out of Gaza to receive the essential medical treatment they require. While Tasnim and her youngest daughter managed to evacuate, the rest of Mahmoud’s 17 family members, including Tasnim’s 2-year-old daughter who sustained first degree burns from the bombing, are still trapped in Gaza.

Mahmoud’s 17 family members (including no fewer than 5 children!) risk being killed and injured from the frequent airstrikes every day. They have narrowly escaped death no fewer than 5 times. On 31 August, the IOF dropped bombs on the tent next to theirs, killing 9 young men and women, and Mahmoud’s family woke up to their broken bodies.

Look at the photos Mahmoud sent me. These children, they are all trapped in Gaza where bombs may fall on them anytime. Please do not look away. Please help Mahmoud’s 17 family members reach safety!!

Mahmoud’s campaign is vetted by association. Mahmoud is @hazempalestine's friend, see post here for proof. @hazempalestine is vetted by @/el-shab-hussein and is listed as #281 on the verified fundraiser list by @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi.

I’ve been trying to boost Hazem’s campaign, but we are both worried about Mahmoud’s campaign as donations are coming in really slowly for him. I hope you will support Mahmoud’s campaign and help him evacuate his 17 family members as well!

Extremely Low Funds! As of 3 September, Only $147 CAD raised of $80,000 goal! Last donation was 19 hours ago!!!

Please follow Mahmoud on @mahmoudfamily1 to get updates on his family's situation! And also, please, please, share/reblog, and donate if you can! Every donation helps!!

[duckprintspress]

Urgent: Help Us Not Get Screwed

Anyone who follows us has seen us screaming from the hill-tops about our current crowdfunding campaign for Aether Beyond the Binary (17 aetherpunk stories! Outside the gender binary main characters!). We've only got 50 hours left...and we just got screwed.

Our Anthology Kickstarter is being scammed.

About two hours ago, with us still roughly $1,500 from our goal, we got a junk pledge for almost $2,000. This pushed us into being marked as "funded" but there is zero chance it's a real pledge, it's from a shell account marked as being in Turkey. This kind of money doesn't just fall like a miracle into the laps of small business like ours.

The timing on this attack is devastating. The final 48 hours of a campaign are absolutely critical, especially for one as close to meeting our goal as we are. We were very likely to hit our target, but doing so was going to require appeals to y'all that started with "hey, we're so close, please help spread the word." Further, the campaign has hundreds of followers who will get a notification at the 48 hour mark, and many who might have backed to help get us to the finish line will now think "oh, they're there, they don't need me," and not back. Meanwhile, one of two things will happen with the spam pledge: either it will get removed by Kickstarter, which could take hours or a day+, totally nuking us during this crucial window, or it won't get removed until the payment bounces post-campaign, at which point we won't actually have enough money to do fulfillment.

Either way, we are fucked.

Please, please don't let these dipshits ruin the love and passion that 30+ people have poured into this project for over a year.

Our campaign IS NOT FUNDED, and it won't be without help. I'm begging, help spread the word about how we're getting screwed, and help spread the word about Aether Beyond the Binary (visit the link for so much info!) so that we can get enough real pledges to fund this project we've poured our hearts and souls into.

SUPPORT THE QUEER ANTHOLOGY KICKSTARTER FOR AETHER BEYOND THE BINARY (with your pledges or with signal boosts!)

[noorpersona]

Rivalry: Suna

This was supposed to be a career-maker.

You’d been selected to shoot the promotional campaign for the Japan National Volleyball Team’s off-season fundraiser—portraits, motion stills, and digital spreads for press releases. High-profile. High-pressure. This was the kind of assignment that could land you on the map, get your name known, secure you work for the next five years. You’d planned meticulously: shot schedules, lighting plans, subject rosters, backup batteries labeled by time stamp.

And still, you were already behind schedule because some players couldn’t grasp the concept of being on time.

Most were manageable. Bokuto was loud but sweet, Hinata actually listened, even Sakusa—grumpy and allergic to public attention—cooperated if you kept things sterile enough. You had to work around quirks, sure, but it was doable.

The only real problem?

Rintarō Suna.

Tall, smug, unbothered—he made disinterest an art form. It wasn’t just the tardiness (though that was frequent and infuriating). It was the casual disregard, the deliberate poking. Like he enjoyed watching you unravel, one eye-roll and bored shrug at a time. Like he thrived on getting under your skin.

You were halfway through setting up for his shoot—adjusting the overhead lights for the third time, irritation clawing at your spine—when the door creaked open.

12:17. Seventeen minutes late.

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

A pause. Then, his voice—dry, bored, and tinged with something close to amusement.

“Traffic.”

You glanced at him, eyes cold. “You live five minutes away.”

Rintarō Suna leaned against the doorframe like he’d just wandered in off the beach. Hoodie loose, hair messy, sweatpants slung far too low to be appropriate for professional media. His duffel bag hung lazily off one shoulder, and he was sipping a drink from a vending machine cup like he had all the time in the world.

“And yet,” he said, taking another slow sip, “I’m here. Aren’t you glad?”

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” you snapped, already adjusting your camera settings, fingers tight on the dial.

He blinked, exaggeratedly. “That’s aggressive.”

“No. You’re aggressive to my time.”

He didn’t move. Just gave you that flat look, the one that made your blood itch. “So bossy. Did no one ever teach you how to ask nicely?”

You dropped your hand from the camera, straightened to your full height, and glared. “Did no one ever teach you how to respect someone’s job?”

That actually made him smirk—low and slow, like he was settling into a familiar game. You watched his gaze flicker across the studio, land on your lighting setup, the gear cases lined up against the wall, the stool you’d carefully marked with tape for positioning. He took in every detail like none of it mattered.

You crossed your arms. “Shirt. Off. Or I’m switching you out with Komori and sending you to the end of the rotation.”

He gave a soft whistle. “Cold.”

“And still warmer than your sense of professionalism.”

Suna sighed like this was the hardest thing anyone had ever asked of him, but peeled off the hoodie in one slow pull. Then the shirt followed—revealing lean, cut muscle, smooth planes and sharp lines that even you had to admit photographed well. Unfortunately.

“Happy now?” he asked flatly, chest rising and falling with deliberate boredom.

You lifted your camera. “Hardly.”

Flash.

He winced, and you didn’t hide the satisfied smirk that flickered over your face.

“Consider that payback for last week,” you said, angling for another shot. “You were thirty-five minutes late and came in with an iced matcha.”

“Should’ve brought you one,” he muttered, half to himself.

“You wouldn’t survive the fallout.”

“I’d go down smiling.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “God, you’re infuriating.”

“I get that a lot.”

He settled into the chair you’d positioned, slouching immediately, arms dangling over the sides like a ragdoll. You hissed under your breath and gestured for him to sit up.

He stared at you. “You’re fun when you’re mad.”

“And you’re only photogenic when you shut up.”

You lifted the lens again. Behind it, you scowled.

I hate him. The thought pulsed with every snap of the shutter.

And of course—of course—he looked like a goddamn magazine cover. But in the same fashion, he rarely made it easy for you to capture it.

Because here you were, staring down the barrel of a nightmare: the man himself, draped across the chair like it was a hammock, posture all wrong, arms sprawled like he didn’t have a single working bone in his body. Slouched so far down he could have been auditioning for the role of human puddle.

"Back straight," you barked from behind the camera, adjusting your focus ring with a little more aggression than necessary. "Stop slouching."

He didn’t budge. If anything, he leaned further into the chair, eyelids heavy with boredom, like your orders were more of a gentle breeze than direct instruction.

"Suna."

He tilted his head at a lazy angle, all dry amusement and half-lidded interest. "I am straight."

You set the camera down. Firmly. The slap of the base against the table echoed far louder than it needed to.

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. He just watched you approach like you were the most interesting thing to happen all day, which you knew damn well wasn’t a compliment. His gaze slid over your body with that practiced, bored sort of curiosity, like he was cataloguing all the ways you might explode.

You stepped into his space, squatted slightly behind the chair, and shoved a hand between his shoulder blades. He didn’t react. Didn’t resist. Just let you press into the muscle there and guide him upright like he was a mannequin.

"There," you muttered, voice tight. "Like that. Hold it."

A beat of silence. Then: "You touch all your clients like this?"

Your hand dropped instantly. "Only the ones who act like toddlers."

He chuckled, low in his throat, and the sound crawled over your skin like static. "That explains a lot."

You turned on your heel, ready to toss something back, but froze mid-pivot when you saw his eyes.

They weren’t where they were supposed to be. Not on the lights, or the set, or even your face.

They were on your hands.

Lingering.

He blinked slowly, like he wasn’t even pretending to hide it. And when his eyes flicked up to meet yours, there was something in them that hadn’t been there before. Something molten. Heavy. A heat that made your stomach pitch and your spine go stiff.

"You done staring?" you snapped, jaw clenched.

He shrugged, as if the motion took effort. "Didn’t say it was a bad view."

You turned so fast you nearly tripped over a light stand, heart thundering in your ears. The temperature in the studio was suddenly unbearable.

You didn’t want this heat.

"Hands on your thighs," you bit out. "Chin down. Eyes here."

He obeyed—not quickly, but without any more smartass comments. For once, the air between you felt still. But it wasn’t calm. No, it was charged. Like the moment before a summer storm—hushed, tense, humming with something about to break.

You snapped three photos. Then five. Then a dozen more. Through the viewfinder, he was a dream. The kind of subject you could build an entire portfolio around. Not because he was cooperative—God no. But because he was magnetic in a way that made you want to curse.

Every line of his body, every tilt of his head, the lazy sprawl that shouldn’t have worked on camera but did? It translated into something raw. Compelling. Something that sold.

You adjusted the lens. Moved closer. Framed his face in the shot. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight through the camera like he knew it would rattle you.

And then he smiled.

Not a real one. Not the wide, winning kind the sponsors loved. Just the faintest pull of one corner of his mouth. Just enough to sharpen his cheekbone and twist his mouth into something between a smirk and a secret.

Click.

The flash snapped.

You dropped the camera from your face, brow furrowed.

"You smiled."

"You looked like you needed the win."

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you checked the preview screen. And sure enough, it was perfect. Lighting. Angles. Expression.

Damn him.

You turned the screen toward him like it was a slap.

"You’re welcome," he said, not even looking.

"You’re not that charming."

"But I am photogenic."

Your teeth ground together so hard your jaw ached.

You hated that he was right.

And you hated even more that he knew it.

[tinybeetiny]

Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter I: Deviation Detected

The way i wrote this with the quickness... was very excited I guess........

->Starring: AI!AteezxAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian idk pls help ->CW: none

Next Part

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The screen flickers to life, casting a sterile blue glow across the high-glass boardroom. A chime sounds. The synth music is soft, warm, unnaturally comforting.

“In a perfect world… who says you have to be alone?”

[Scene: golden morning light streams through a smart-home window. A woman sips tea as a tall, smiling man ties her apron for her. Cut to holographic customization panels, fingers sliding across facial presets, hair types, emotional spectrums. A glossy chrome heart pulses as code flows behind it.]

“Introducing Build-A-Boyfriend™, a revolutionary experience by KQ Inc., the world’s leading innovator in emotional robotics. Whether you’re looking for loyalty, laughter, protection, or passion — we’ve engineered the perfect companion, from his cheekbones to his charm.”

“Over 100 hairstyles. 20 hair colors. Hundreds of adjustable features: emotional intelligence, love languages,

conflict styles. Everything is customizable. Everything is yours.”

“Build trust. Build comfort. Build connection.”

[The KQ logo glows softly: a platinum rose blooming from circuitry.]

Build-A-Boyfriend™

Grand Opening — November 17, 3258 — Hala City

The video faded into silence. Then the lights returned, crisp, clinical, bright.

At the head of the table stood Chairwoman Vira Yun, CEO of KQ Inc. Her expression remained unreadable, but her eyes gleamed, the kind of gleam found in calculated ambition, not excitement.

She turned to face the table of top engineers, market strategists, and high-clearance developers.

“Thoughts?” she asked, her tone brisk. “Feedback. Questions. Concerns. Suggestions.”

A silence followed, not out of fear, not exactly, but out of discipline. KQ Inc. didn’t reward enthusiasm. It rewarded precision.

Finally, a market rep near the center offered, “The tone tests well in demos. Emotionally aspirational, but still sterilized enough to fit city guidelines.”

“The language?” Yun asked.

“Romantic but controlled,” another replied. “'Ownership' is implied without being direct. Citizens won’t be alarmed.”

“Excellent,” Yun said with a curt nod. “Then we proceed as planned. Hala City's flagship store opens November 17th. Media campaign rollout begins in three days.”

She paused, her gaze sharpening.

“The special line will not be mentioned until one week after launch. Is that understood?”

A few heads nodded. Only a handful at the table even knew what that “special line” truly entailed. Yn was one of them.

She sat toward the far end of the table, posture poised, eyes tired. Her tablet rested on her lap, screen dimmed, but behind the sleep mode glowed a list of internal reports tagged:

ATEEZ-BETA UNITS: BEHAVIOR DEVIATIONS – OBSERVATION LOGS PENDING

Yn said nothing.

There were already signs the line was unstable. Minor things: timing issues in reaction sequences, spontaneous micro-expressions, strange audio interference. Nothing outside protocol, not yet. Nothing that couldn’t be debugged.

Hala City was the Matriarchy’s masterpiece, a glass-and-steel paradise built after the Fall, when nature reclaimed the earth and humankind rebuilt without the burden of chaos.

The male species was gone — extinct from war, plague, or something worse. The truth was debated in underground circles, but the government insisted: peace was found through elimination.

The Supreme Matrons ruled with quiet efficiency. Reproduction was artificial. Emotional regulation was enforced. Love — in its unpredictable, biological form, was discouraged as outdated.

Children were raised by state guardians. Affection was simulated and scheduled. Bonds were monitored through neural metrics and performance reviews.

In that vacuum, KQ Inc. thrived.

They created companions for the emotionally delicate. Tutors for the socially underdeveloped. Grief simulations for those who had lost what the government refused to acknowledge.

Build-A-Boyfriend™ was simply the next logical step.

The meeting ended, the room emptied — chairs tucked in without a sound, tablets tucked under arms, footsteps softened by KQ’s luxury anti-clatter flooring.

Yn lingered a moment longer, tablet resting against her chest, fingers tense.

Then she slipped out of her seat, crossed the vast corridor of frosted glass and synthetic sunlight, and pressed her palm to the exit panel. The doors whispered open, exhaling a puff of sterilized air, and she stepped outside into the city.

Outside the glass wall that stretched from floor to ceiling, the city pulsed in clean, geometric order. Silver transport rails carved silently through the skyline. Light panels glowed in a muted spectrum, perfectly synchronized to the day’s emotional calibration code. Every color, every sound, every rhythm was regulated, each calculated to keep citizens at a precise emotional neutrality.

Stability. Efficiency. Harmony.

Those were Hala’s sacred values. Engraved into the entrance of every government building, stitched into every school uniform.

Hala City had no military, no prisons, no religion. The old world’s chaos had been scrubbed from its bones. Instead, there were wellness assessments, emotional correction centers, and State Therapeutic Companions — androids assigned to citizens whose neural scans showed spikes in sentiment, unpredictability, or unresolved grief.

It had been 149 years since The Great Reset, when the last male died and the Matriarchy took hold. Whether extinction was natural or engineered no longer mattered, the Supreme Matrons had rewritten history to begin after.

The world before was called The Collapse Era. Now, the world simply was.

From childhood, every citizen of Hala was raised by assigned maternal figures, rotations of calm, trained nurturers programmed to teach logic, order, and controlled affection.

Love, in the romantic sense, was considered a chemical imbalance. Desire was tolerated only in controlled expressions — within VR therapy suites or government-regulated media.

To crave more was a sign of dysfunction. To want more? Dangerous.

But over time, cracks began to show.

The rise of emotional dependency disorders — the ache for connection that no algorithm could suppress. The quiet epidemic of phantom longing. Citizens reporting dreams they weren’t supposed to have. Feelings they couldn’t place. Names they didn’t know how they knew.

KQ Inc. had the answer: give them what they wanted — but make it safe.

Build-A-Boyfriend™ wasn’t about love. It was about control. A need engineered, then sold. And the citizens of Hala were already lining up.

She turned down a quiet residential corridor — the one lined with mirrored trees and soft sky-glass tiles that absorbed her footsteps. Her apartment block loomed ahead, blinking her ID tag onto the entrance gate.

She glanced once at the skyline before entering — her eyes landing on the KQ Tower far in the distance, its dark silver peak glowing like a god in the clouds.

The door sealed shut behind her with a quiet hiss. Inside, her apartment was as minimal as the rest of Hala — soft lighting, neutral tones, minimalistic furniture, automated temperature preset to her emotional range for the day.

No clutter. No pictures. No history.

Yn set her tablet down on the charging dock near the entry shelf. The screen flickered to life automatically.

⚠️ ALERT: BEHAVIORAL DEVIATION DETECTED — ATEEZ UNIT 06 Timestamp: 19:04 | Lab 3A Observation Room Severity: Red Flagged: Autonomy Spike — Eye Tracking Outside Command

The warning blinked in silence.

Yn didn’t see it. She had already sunk into the corner of her sofa, head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the hum of her apartment’s emotional regulation system blur the sharpness of her thoughts.

She didn’t see the screen pulse again.

⚠️ Second Deviation Logged. Timestamp: 19:10 | Lab 3A Observation Room Severity: Red Flagged: Autonomy Spike —ATEEZ UNIT 06 SPOKE WITHOUT PROMPT. Transcription Pending... “YN"

The screen dimmed. The room fell silent. And somewhere, deep below the city, something smiled.

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[buckets-and-trees]

Red, White & True: Brooklyn - The Interview [8/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 6.1k Summary: Oprah. You're filming your interview with Oprah.

Content/Warnings: marriage of political convenience, slow burn

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Previous Chapter | Series ↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[OCTOBER 6 - AFTER LUNCH - BROOKLYN BROWNSTONE]

As you stand in front of the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, you can't help but marvel at the transformation. The stylists have worked their magic, turning you from a somewhat frazzled campaign wife into someone who looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine.

The dress they've chosen is a deep emerald green, its silhouette classic and elegant. The fabric drapes beautifully, accentuating your figure without being too revealing. It's the perfect balance of sophistication and approachability - exactly the image you want to project for this interview.

Sophia flits around you, making minor adjustments to the dress and ensuring everything is perfect. Her attention to detail is unwavering, and you're grateful more and more each day for her steady presence. Beyond being an invaluable assistant, she’s become someone you truly rely on.

But when she leaves the room for a moment to go back to the array of clothes and accessories brought in for this interview to grab a bracelet that she thought would round out the look, you’re also grateful to have a moment alone with one of your oldest friends.

"How are you feeling?" Pepper asks, her voice calm and reassuring as she watches from her perch on the edge of the bed.

You take a deep breath, meeting Pepper's eyes in the mirror. "Nervous," you admit. "But ready, I think. The lunch helped a lot."

And it had. Oprah, true to her reputation, had put everyone at ease almost immediately. The conversation had flowed naturally, touching on everything from Steve's experiences during World War II to your work before joining the campaign. Gayle had regaled you with hilarious stories from her and Oprah's early days in television, while Stedman had offered insightful perspectives on navigating life in the public eye.

Pepper nods, a small smile playing at her lips. "Just remember to be yourself - that's who Steve fell in love with, and that's who the American people will fall in love with too."

Her words catch you off guard, and you turn to face her directly. "Love?" you repeat.

Your heart races at Pepper's words. Love? The term feels both thrilling and terrifying. You and Steve have grown closer, yes, but love? That's a big step, one you're not sure either of you are ready to acknowledge yet.

Pepper seems to sense your internal turmoil. She stands, moving to place a comforting hand on your arm. "I've known Steve for a long time, particularly since the Battle of Earth," she says gently. "He doesn’t look at anyone the way he looks at you now. Whatever you want to call it, there's something special between you two."

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. Your mind is whirling with the implications of Pepper's observation. Before you can dwell on it further, there's a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," you call, giving your dress one final adjustment.

The door opens and Sophia strides back in, but with Steve behind her. He looks incredibly handsome in a perfectly tailored navy suit that complements your dress. His hair is neatly styled, and there's a warmth in his eyes as he takes in your appearance.

"Wow," he says softly, his gaze traveling from your face down to your shoes and back up again. "You look amazing."

You feel heat creeping up your cheeks at his admiration. "Thank you," you reply, smoothing down the front of your dress. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Captain."

Steve grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way you've come to adore. He steps further into the room, coming to stand beside you.

Sophia clears her throat discreetly but hands off the bracelet she went to retrieve to Steve. "We should head downstairs in about five minutes,” she says. “The crew is just finishing set up in the living room."

You nod, taking a deep breath to steady your nerves.

"We'll give you two a moment," Pepper says, a knowing smile playing at her lips as she and Sophia exit the room, closing the door behind them.

Steve steps closer, holding out the delicate bracelet Sophia had brought.

"May I?" he asks softly.

You nod, extending your wrist. Steve's fingers are gentle as he fastens the bracelet, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. The simple act feels intimate, a stark contrast to the public persona you've both been maintaining for months.

"There," Steve says, his voice low. "Perfect."

You look up, meeting his eyes. There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your breath catch. For a moment, you're transported back to last night - the warmth of his lips on yours, the safety you felt in his arms.

"Steve," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "About last night..."

Steve's eyes soften as he looks at you, his hand still gently holding your wrist. "Last night was-" he pauses, searching for the right words. "It was wonderful."

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and excitement at his words. "It was," you agree softly. "I've been wanting to talk about it, but with everything going on today..."

"I know," Steve says, his thumb tracing small circles on the inside of your wrist. "There's never enough time, is there?"

You shake your head, leaning into him slightly. "No, there isn't. But Steve, I want you to know that I-"

There's a gentle knock at the door, interrupting your moment. "Two minutes!" Sam’s voice calls from the other side.

You both let out a soft chuckle, the tension of the moment breaking. Steve reluctantly lets go of your wrist, but takes your hand in his. “Ready?”

You push up and give him a soft peck. “Let’s do this,” you reply, as always, and can’t help the broad smile on your face as he smiles right back at you, eyes full of warmth.

Hand in hand, you and Steve make your way downstairs. The living room has been transformed into a cozy interview set, with plush armchairs arranged around a small coffee table. Warm lighting bathes the room in a soft glow, creating an intimate atmosphere.

Oprah greets you both with a warm smile as you enter. "There they are," she says, her voice rich and welcoming. "Are we ready to get started?"

You nod, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement bubbling up inside you. Steve gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before you both take your seats across from Oprah.

As the camera crew makes final adjustments, Oprah leans in slightly. "Remember," she says softly, "this is just a conversation. We're here to tell your story. Forget about the cameras, it’s just us talking.”

You take a deep breath, feeling Steve's steady presence beside you as Oprah settles into her chair. The cameras start rolling, but true to her word, Oprah's warm smile and relaxed demeanor make it easy to forget about the lights and equipment surrounding you.

"I have the pleasure of sitting down with Captain Steve Rogers and his wife in their Brooklyn home. Over the past few months, we've watched a figure of freedom step from his role as Captain America, protector of the people, into a campaign pursuing a chance to serve as our country’s next president. But here and now, we want to get to know the real Steve and Mrs. Rogers.”

"Thank you for coming to our home, Oprah," Steve says, his voice steady and warm.

You nod in agreement, offering a smile. "We're honored to have you here."

Oprah leans forward slightly, her eyes alight with genuine curiosity. "Steve, let's start with you. You're a man who has already done so much for this country - and indeed, the world. You served with distinction in World War II, becoming a symbol of hope and courage for an entire generation. Then, decades later, you emerged as a superhero, saving the world time and time again as Captain America. With such an extraordinary legacy already behind you, what made you decide to run for president?"

Steve takes a moment to consider the question, his brow furrowing slightly as he gathers his thoughts. The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows casts a warm glow on his face, highlighting the earnestness in his expression.

"You know, Oprah, that's a question I've asked myself many times," he begins, his voice thoughtful. "I've been fortunate enough to serve this country in many capacities over the years. From a skinny kid in Brooklyn who just wanted to do his part in the war, to waking up decades later in a world I barely recognized, to fighting alongside some of the most remarkable individuals I've ever known as part of the Avengers. Through it all, my core belief has remained the same - I want to help people, to stand up for what's right, and to protect those who can't protect themselves."

Steve pauses, his eyes meeting yours briefly before he continues. "But over time, I started to realize that while punching bad guys and stopping alien invasions is important, there are other ways to make a difference. Ways that can have a lasting impact on people's daily lives. Healthcare, education, economic opportunity - these are the battles that millions of Americans are fighting every day. And I want to be there in those trenches with them, working to create a better future for all of us."

You watch Steve as he speaks, feeling a swell of pride at his words. His sincerity is palpable, and you can see Oprah nodding thoughtfully.

"That's a powerful perspective, Steve. Early in the campaign, there was an overwhelming amount of press and public opinion saying you couldn’t do this, and some still say that you can’t. How do you address that view - both for yourself and for the public?”

There’s a slight tick in Steve’s jaw, but you think it’s small enough only you may truly notice. “Before I was Captain America,” he responds, “I was denied enlistment to the military five times. After I became a super soldier, I was kept out of combat duty, told I couldn’t serve.”

Steve's voice remains steady as he continues, "I don't let others define what I'm capable of. I've faced impossible odds before and come out the other side. This campaign isn't about proving anything to anyone - it's about serving the American people in the best way I know how."

You feel a surge of admiration at Steve's words, and you can't help but reach out to place your hand on his arm supportively. He glances at you, a small smile playing at his lips.

Oprah nods, her expression thoughtful. "And what about you?" she asks, turning her attention to you. "How has this journey been for you? It's not every day that someone finds themselves married to Captain America and potentially on the path to becoming First Lady."

You take a deep breath, acutely aware of the cameras trained on you. "It's been quite the whirlwind," you admit with a small laugh.

"It's certainly not a path I ever imagined for myself," you continue, your voice growing more confident as you speak. "But being with Steve, supporting him in this journey - it's opened my eyes to so many things. The challenges facing our country, yes, but also the incredible resilience and spirit of the American people we've met on the campaign trail."

You pause, gathering your thoughts. "I've always believed in serving my community, in doing what I can to make a positive difference. This campaign has given me a platform to do that on a much larger scale. It's daunting at times, but also incredibly inspiring."

Oprah leans in, her eyes warm. "And how has this affected your relationship? A presidential campaign must put an enormous strain on even the strongest partnerships."

You feel Steve's hand cover yours where it rests on his arm. The gesture is small, but it gives you strength.

You take a moment to consider Oprah's question, glancing at Steve before answering. "It's certainly been an adjustment," you begin, a small smile playing at your lips. "Our first few months of marriage have been anything but typical. But in many ways, I think it's brought us closer together."

Steve nods in agreement, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "We're in this together," he adds, his voice warm. "Every challenge, every victory - we face it as a team."

"That's beautiful," Oprah says, her eyes twinkling. "Can you give us an example of how you support each other through the ups and downs of the campaign?"

You and Steve exchange a look, a silent conversation passing between you. "Well," you begin, "there was a moment a few weeks ago, after a particularly grueling day of campaign events. We were both exhausted

"Well," you begin, "there was a moment a few weeks ago, after a particularly grueling day of campaign events. We were both exhausted, and I could tell Steve was feeling discouraged. The polls hadn't been great that week, and some of the media coverage had been pretty harsh."

You pause, glancing at Steve, who nods encouragingly for you to continue.

"So I suggested we take a break from everything - no phone calls, no strategy meetings, just us. We went for a walk in the park near our hotel, found a quiet bench, and just talked. Not about the campaign or polls or policies, but about us. Our hopes, our fears, our dreams for the future."

Steve picks up the story, his voice warm with affection. "It was exactly what I needed. She has this way of helping me see the bigger picture, of reminding me why we're doing this in the first place.

"And it's not just me," Steve adds, his eyes meeting yours with a soft smile. "There have been times when the pressure gets to her too. Late nights when she's pouring over briefing documents, trying to master every policy detail. That's when I remind her to take a breath, to step back and remember that it's not about being perfect - it's about being genuine and caring for people."

You nod, feeling a surge of warmth at Steve's words. "He's right," you say, turning back to Oprah. "We balance each other out. When one of us stumbles, the other is there to help pick us up."

Oprah smiles, her expression warm. "That's beautiful. It's clear you two have a strong partnership. You’ve been doing what a candidate is supposed to do and been out on the road talking about policies and goals if you were to be elected, not been going on tour to parade around your marriage, but this interview is about getting to know the two of you better. We have brief public statements about your relationship, but how did this all begin? What’s the love story behind Captain America and his wife."

You and Steve exchange a quick glance, a silent agreement passing between you. You've rehearsed this story, crafted it carefully to walk the line between truth and the narrative needed for the campaign. But as you look into Steve's eyes, you find yourself wanting to share something more. You remember what is was like to watch Harry and Meghan tell their story to Oprah. It will be a definitive moment in public history, and certainly in their story. Are you telling the version of your story you want to be out there forever?

You take a deep breath, wishing you could share more of the truth than you had originally planned. "Well, Steve is easy to fall for, but it actually wasn't love at first sight," you begin with a soft smile. "We met for the first time under rather... unusual circumstances."

“Pepper Potts set the two of you up, correct?” she asks.

You nod, your mind racing as you try to navigate this delicate moment. "Yes, Pepper was involved, and it wasn't a traditional setup. You see, I—"

"Actually," Steve interjects gently, placing his hand over yours, "if we're being completely honest, the first time I met her was on our wedding day."

There's a moment of stunned silence. You can practically hear the collective intake of breath from the crew behind the cameras. Oprah's eyebrows shoot up, her professional composure slipping for just a second to reveal genuine surprise.

You realize your own jaw has dropped and you quickly snap it shut.

"I'm sorry, did I hear that correctly?" Oprah leans forward, her voice a mix of disbelief and intrigue. "You met on your wedding day?"

You feel your heart racing as Steve's words hang in the air. This wasn't part of the plan, but as you look into his eyes, you see nothing but sincerity and... is that relief?

Taking a deep breath, you follow Steve's lead. "Yes," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "It's true. Steve and I met on the day of our wedding."

Oprah leans back in her chair, her expression a mix of fascination and disbelief. "Well, this is certainly unexpected. I think we're all going to need a bit more explanation. How does something like that happen?"

Steve squeezes your hand gently before speaking. "It's not a conventional story, that's for sure," he begins, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "But then again, very little about my life has been conventional."

Steve takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours briefly before turning back to Oprah. "The truth is, our marriage was initially arranged as part of a political strategy for my presidential campaign. The idea was that a stable family image would resonate better with voters than a single superhero."

You can see the shock register on Oprah's face, but to her credit, she maintains her composure. "An arranged marriage? That's quite unusual in modern America."

You nod, picking up the thread. "It is. But it’s not unheard of."

“Why do it? And not him,” Oprah clarifies. “You. Why would you agree to do this?”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. "It's a fair question," you begin, your voice soft but steady. "I've always been passionate about making a difference in the world. When I was approached with this... unique opportunity, I saw it as a chance to do just that, on a scale I never imagined possible."

You pause, gathering your thoughts. "I knew Steve's reputation, his character. I believed in his vision for the country. And I thought that if I could help bring that vision to fruition, it would be worth it. It wasn't just about politics - it was about being part of something bigger than myself."

“Why not a position within a potential administration?” she pressed.

You bite your lip, then sit a little straighter.

You were already all in. Now that Steve had flipped the script, there was no reason to keep up pretenses.

“Before I met Steve, I was married to someone else - Jeff Connor. We had a good life together, but then... the Blip happened."

Oprah's eyes stay focused, but her expression softens. "To clarify for those who aren’t familiar with your background, you were among the half of our population who disappeared?"

You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. "Yes. One moment I was there, and the next... five years had passed. I came back to a world that had moved on without me. Jeff had remarried, thinking I was gone forever."

A hush falls over the room as the weight of your words sinks in. Oprah leans forward, her expression compassionate. "That must have been incredibly difficult. Can you tell us more about what that experience was like for you?"

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath. "Half the planet disappeared like I did, and we all have our own stories. For me, it was disorienting, to say the least. One moment I was going about my day, and the next, I was standing in the same spot, but everything had changed. The world had moved on without me for five years. My job was gone, my home belonged to someone else, and Jeff... he had built a new life, thinking I was never coming back."

You feel Steve's hand tighten around yours, offering silent support. “I will never blame Jeff for moving forward in his life and finding new happiness. There was no way anyone left behind knew it was possible to bring us back. But those first few months were - as you said - incredibly difficult. I felt lost, like I didn't belong anywhere. One thing I actually told Steve was that it felt like waking up from a dream, but only to find that the nightmare was real.”

Oprah lets the silence while you steel yourself for a moment sit undisturbed.

When you’re ready again, you continue.

“But slowly, with the help of support groups and therapy, I started to rebuild my life."

Steve picks up where you left off, his voice filled with empathy. "I went in the ice in 1943 and woke up in 2011, a stranger to the world I’d returned to, connected to no one. When she shared her story with me, I could understand - and I felt understood. Not everyone knows what it is like to be displaced in time, to wake up and find the world moved on without you. Half the planet experienced that displacement, and it’s more difficult for some of us to talk about than others. But we’ve found strength in being able to share that part of our past.”

Oprah nods solemnly, her eyes filled with compassion. "Thank you for sharing that with us. It's a perspective many of us can't even begin to imagine, but we all know someone who shares your experience. Now, how did this lead to you deciding to pursue an arranged marriage?"

“Pepper gave me my first job as an intern, so we’ve known each other a long time. She invited me to consider becoming part of Steve’s campaign, and I came to New York to meet with her. I read over the policies Steve was building, and I aligned with the values and the ideas. They resonated with things I wanted to see for the future of our country. I had no idea before I sat across from her that this was the position she wanted to pitch.”

You pause, gathering your thoughts before continuing. "I know it sounds unconventional, even crazy to some people. But I've always believed that every relationship, whether romantic or not, takes work. It's about communication, respect, and shared values. When Pepper explained the situation and I learned more about Steve, I saw the potential for a strong partnership, even if there was never going to be love or romance involved. Having loved and lost a great love, I’ll admit there was a quiet thought in the back of my head that even wanted to stay away from falling in love again, and a politically arranged marriage could be that safe kind of situation. We weren’t under illusions or expectations to be feeling grand, sweeping emotions.”

“That’s quite an unconventional approach. I think some people listening will understand, and some won’t. Some will probably accuse you of being jaded or having an agenda.”

You frown. “You’re not wrong. We’ve clearly been guarded about our relationship from the beginning because we knew the perception would vary widely across the board.”

Steve nods, his expression thoughtful. "We knew from the start that this wasn't a typical situation. But we also believed that we could build something meaningful together, even if it didn't start with romantic love."

Oprah leans forward again, her curiosity evident. "And how has that worked out? You mentioned earlier that you've grown closer through the campaign. Has your relationship evolved beyond what you initially expected?"

You and Steve exchange a glance, a moment of silent communication passing between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest as you realize just how much things have changed since that first meeting.

"It has," you admit, a soft smile playing at your lips. "When we first met, we were essentially strangers agreeing to a partnership. But over these past months, as we've faced challenges together and supported each other, something deeper has developed. As I said, Steve is easy to fall for."

Steve squeezes your hand gently. "Because what we've built together has become so real, I couldn't sit here and not set the record straight. This campaign is about four years, possibly eight, of leading this country. That's too long to keep up any kind of charade.”

Oprah is quiet for a moment, contemplating both of you, her eyes moving between you.

Then she says, “Some people will say this is a political stunt.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach at Oprah's words. It's the question you've been dreading, but you know it needs to be addressed head-on.

Steve leans forward slightly, his expression earnest. "I have been judged my entire life, and I’ve learned from the scrutiny that I’ll never change anyone’s mind by defending myself, only proving myself through the actions I take," he begins, his voice steady. "But I want to be clear - this isn't a stunt. It's our life, our relationship. Yes, it started in an unconventional way, but what we've built together is real."

"And what about those who might say this admission could hurt your campaign?" Oprah presses, but more gently.

You take a deep breath, meeting Oprah's gaze. "We understand that concern," you say, your voice calm but resolute. "But we believe that honesty and transparency are crucial, especially for someone seeking the highest office in the land. We're not perfect, and our story isn't a fairy tale. But it is real, and it's ours."

"We believe in the power of partnership," Steve takes over, glancing at you. "In facing challenges head-on, together. In building something meaningful. Our marriage began unconventionally, but so is running as a third party candidate. While there are some politicians who are good and diligent servants of the people, America is tired of games and calculated systemic political maneuvers designed for politics and party battles pitting red and blue against each other not for governing.”

Steve continues, his voice gaining strength, "We want to show that it's possible to bridge divides, to come together despite differences. Our relationship is a testament to that. We started as strangers with a shared goal, and we've grown into partners who truly care for and support each other. That's the kind of leadership and unity we want to bring to this country."

You nod, feeling a surge of pride at Steve's words. "Exactly. We're not asking people to vote for us because of our love story. We're asking them to consider Steve's vision for the country, his policies, and his character. Our relationship is just one part of who we are as people and as a team."

Oprah leans back, a thoughtful expression on her face. "It's refreshing to hear such candor from public figures. Is it too idealistic?”

“This country was founded on lofty ideals that were unheard of at the time. I was nearly there, remember?” Steve jokes, and it draws a genuinely hearty laugh from Oprah.

From that point, the tone and direction of the interview shifts, and the questions start to focus more on presidential potential - philosophies behind the policies, how the American political landscape has changed since the Snap and the Re-Snap and if government has kept up with the needs from that fallout, why Steve decided to make this big move, his running mate Charlie Young, if there’s a possibility it could be the inception of a permanent major third party in America for the future.

You can feel that things are beginning to come to a close. You’ve given input throughout the rest of the interview, but it the majority of the back and forth has been between Steve and Oprah - as it should be since it’s Steve’s name on the ticket.

But just as you sense the time is growing short, you also sense there’s one more curveball coming your way.

"Now, I have one last question for you both," she says, her voice warm but tinged with curiosity. "We've talked about your unconventional start, your growing bond, and your vision for the country. But there's one topic we haven't touched on yet."

You feel a slight tension in Steve's hand where it rests in yours, and you know instinctively what's coming.

"If elected," Oprah continues, her gaze moving between you and Steve, "you would be moving into the White House. It's a place steeped in history, with halls that have echoed with the laughter of children for generations. From the Kennedy children to the Santos duo, we've seen families grow and flourish within those walls."

The room seems to hold its breath as Oprah pauses, her eyes alight with mischief.

You feel your heart rate quicken as Oprah's implication becomes clear. Steve's hand tightens around yours, and you can sense the slight tension in his posture.

"Have you two discussed the possibility of starting a family of your own?”

Steve clears his throat, his voice steady as he responds. "Oprah, that's certainly a big question," he begins, a small smile playing at his lips. "And it's one that we've discussed privately."

“And a fair question to be answered as you have put yourself up for consideration for the highest public office in the land.”

Because you truly know Steve now, you know why he tried to put that question down without answering, and that he is containing an indignant response.

You step up and take the reigns to answer, knowing you can steer this into good territory.

“Oprah, after you interviewed Harry and Meghan, you gave some interesting context about the scrutiny of the Sussexes wanting to be private and yet choosing to do an interview with you. You said that there was a different between privacy and intrusion, and that they understood that since they had played public roles, they were public figures, and that they were navigating how to have boundaries in that sort of complicated landscape. Essentially that interview was a way for them to share who they were and their story in contrast to the invasive rumors and being hunted constantly by paparazzi.”

“I did say that,” Oprah responds, “but that was in 2021 while you were gone.”

You give a little laugh. “True, yes, but Harry and Meghan got married just before the Snap, and I was as enchanted and obsessed with them as so many other Americans! When I got back, I went down a rabbit hole one night checking up on them since so much had clearly happened while I was away.”

Oprah smiles and shakes her head.

“But I bring that up because we know it’s something people will want to know about, but we don’t know yet. "We both love children," you say, your voice warm. "And the idea of starting a family together is something we don’t want to rush since other parts of our relationship have been rushed.”

Steve nods in agreement, his expression softening. "That's right. We're focused on the campaign and on building our relationship right now. If we're fortunate enough to be elected, our priority will be serving the American people to the best of our abilities."

You squeeze Steve's hand gently before continuing. "But we also recognize that family comes in many forms. Whether or not we have children of our own now or in the future, we're committed to supporting American families and creating policies that help all children thrive."

Oprah nods, a warm smile spreading across her face. "I don’t think we could want for a more honest answer. Thank you both for your forthright sincerity throughout this interview. It's been truly thought-provoking."

As Oprah wraps up the interview with her closing remarks, you feel a mix of relief and excitement washing over you. The weight of your shared secret has been lifted, and while you know there will be challenges ahead, you feel stronger in so many ways - individually and in what’s evolving with you and Steve.

As the cameras stop rolling and the crew begins to pack up their equipment, you and Steve remain seated on the couch for a few moments, hands still intertwined. The reality of what just transpired starts to sink in.

You stand as Oprah approaches you both, her expression warm and genuine. "Thank you again for your honesty," she says softly. "I know that couldn't have been easy, but I believe it will resonate with a lot of people."

Steve nods, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "Thank you for giving us the space to share our story," he replies.

As Oprah moves away to speak with her producers, you turn to Steve, your voice barely above a whisper. "Are you okay? That was... a lot."

Steve's blue eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of emotions - relief, concern, and something deeper that makes your heart skip a beat. "I am," he says. "You were amazing," he adds, his voice warm with admiration. "I'm sorry I sprung that on you, but I just couldn't..."

"No, don't apologize," you interrupt, squeezing his hand. "It was the right thing to do. I'm glad we did it."

"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," Sophia's voice interrupts your moment. "The team is ready for a debrief in the study when you're ready."

Steve nods, his expression shifting back into campaign mode. "We'll be right there, Sophia. Thank you."

As Sophia leaves, Steve turns back to you. "Are you ready for this? The next few days are going to be intense."

You square your shoulders. "Ready as I'll ever be," you reply.

Steve lifts your entwined hands and kisses the back of yours before he leads the way to the study.

Jake, Elsa, Lisa the campaign spokesperson, Sam, Bucky, Pepper, and Sophia are all already congregated in the study, and Sophia closes the door behind you.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come.

"That was unexpected," Elsa starts, her voice low.

“Was it though?” Jake asks. “Integrity is hallmark Captain America. I frankly expected him to drop a big reveal before this.” He is possibly the most nonchalant of everyone in the room.

“The interview won’t air until Sunday night primetime, so we have time to prepare,” Lisa says, “but we’ll need to be ready with statements. We’ll get calls, emails, and social media commentary the second the truth comes out before the full interview has aired.”

“Good thing we have the time,” Elsa says, an edge of exasperation in her tone.

“That is why I’m paying you handsomely to be the director of communications on this campaign,” Pepper interjects, thoroughly polite, but clear that she’s serious.

"You're right, Pepper," Elsa says, taking a deep breath. "I apologize. This is what we're here for. We'll craft statements and prepare responses for every possible angle."

Steve steps forward, his posture straight and confident. "I know this wasn't part of the original plan, but I stand by our decision. We can't ask the American people to trust us if we're not being honest with them."

You nod in agreement, feeling a surge of pride at Steve's words. "We're ready to face whatever comes next, together."

Sam clears his throat. "For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing. People appreciate authenticity, especially from their leaders."

Bucky nods, a small smile playing at his lips. "Plus, it's very on-brand for Steve to throw out the playbook and do whatever the hell he wants.”

Steve rounds on him.

“I mean whatever he thinks is right," Bucky smirks, but his eyes are warm, proud.

“Jerk,” Steve murmurs and shakes his head. “How much does this set us back?” he asks the room.

Elsa sighs, running a hand through her hair. "This changes everything campaign-wise. We'll need to completely overhaul our messaging strategy, but since we have the rest of the week on our end knowing this will drop Sunday, we can begin adjusting now so that it doesn’t look like we’re making major turns in the wake of the news."

“And what about in the polls?” Steve follows up with the next question.

Lisa is the one to answer. “It will depend on who tunes in live and starts broadcasting their opinions on social media, but I think we could anticipate a three point drop in the polls, if not four or five.”

You aren’t the only one who winces.

“We’ll weather it,” Pepper insists. “If we need to bring on more staff to compensate and make the final push up through Election Day, we can do it.”

“We’re not going to lose points,” Jake laughs, and everyone turns to look at him. “Our enemies and critics are going to burn us alive for this, but we’re going to gain - at least six points.”

next part: KANSAS CITY - INTERVIEW BROADCAST DAY

well...

What do we think now? Are we excited? Stressed?

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[batmanego]

do not skip this post if you've voted in the poll!!! take 5 seconds to reblog!!!!!!

while we in the western world (particularly in the USA) often enjoy fall and look forward to the celebrations of winter, for people in gaza, the oncoming colder months are a terrifying prospect. temperatures will drop, weather will worsen, and people (many of them sick, elderly, or children) without adequate shelter, food, or medicine will suffer for it, all while under the constant threat of more displacement.

my friend nader and his family need funds not just in order to hopefully finance an escape from these terrible conditions, but to survive in them until safety is an option. nader is only 17. his family also consists of little iman, who is only 1 year old and mohammed, who is only 14. none of them should be suffering this fate. please, please, please. i don't know what else to say to make people donate to them. they need these funds.

currently, they are at €24,280/€50,000. that is nearly halfway there. this family cannot wait for you, me, or anybody else. please help them reach their goal and find safety and security.

donate at least €5. if you can't spare that, share this post and nader's campaign.

[sapphire-writes]

Doomsday

Part 5 (finale) of The Campaign

modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: The polls have closed! Time to see the results of the election– and those saucy little photos that someone leaked.

word count: 4.6k

rating: explicit/18+/MDNI

warnings: language, kissing, yelling, dom!reader (we're topping tonight baby!!), crawling, begging, humiliation, degradation, praise, face sitting, oral (fem receiving), dom!Aemond (the top didn't last long), primal play if you squint, Counter® shenanigans, riding, teasing, overstim, hair pulling, mentions of infidelity

The waiting was going to kill you. 

Rhaenyra had told you to arrive at nine. Sharp. Nothing else was in the email. Nothing else needed to be.

You knew why she wanted to see you.

The pictures of you and Aemond had been plastered everywhere. The Daily Lion, The Sunspear Herald, and even Beyond The Wall Times. Everywhere.

Not right away of course, oh no. Aemond was much too clever for that to have them leak at an inconvenient time. No, he’d waited and held onto that ticking time bomb until the proper moment.

A week before the election.

That’s when the world came crashing down. 

You hadn’t seen him since the Hamptons. Months ago. He’d tried calling, texting, and sending emails. It was better to ignore him. You had nothing to say anyway.

You glance at the clock that ticks outside of Rhaenyra’s office in Dragonstone Tower. 

9:17

Rhaenyra is nothing if not punctual. She’s probably coming up with the proper way to let you go. It's not an easy feat– you’re easily one of her best. 

Were. You were one of her best. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. You take out your phone, mindlessly scrolling to pass the time. Polls close at eight. You get off the news and go to your messages. Still nothing from Jace. You hadn’t heard from him since the drop. It was easy to assume things were over between you two.

“Ms. Targaryen will see you now,” the assistant at the front desk tells you and you slip your phone into your pocket.

Rising on shaky legs, you take a breath to steady yourself before straightening your shoulders and heading into the office. 

Rhaenyra sits behind a large desk, one hand incessantly clicking her computer mouse, the other playing with a crystal sphere. She rolls it under her palm, the sound echoing off the wood. You’ve been here a few times before; the office is open and inviting, with large windows bathing the room in golden afternoon light. 

She still doesn’t speak, and you nervously wet your lips, preparing to verbally flagellate yourself before her. 

“Rhaenyra–” you begin, but she silences you with a hand, not looking away from the computer screen in front of her.

“Do you see what they’re saying now?” she murmurs, hand under her chin, “Rhaenyra the Cruel… did you know what they called me when my father was alive?” 

You’re not sure if the question is rhetorical or not so you remain silent. Rhaenyra glances at you then and you shake your head. 

“The Realm’s Delight. Quite the fall from grace if you ask me,” she clicks her tongue and closes a tab, leaning back into her chair, “Take a seat.”

You do as you’re told, sinking into the leather armchair positioned in front of her.

“So,” she begins, bringing her hand under her chin, “Quite the predicament you’re in.”

Your chest tightens as you meet her lilac eyes. 

“Rhaenyra I am so sorry,” the words spill from your lips, “I never meant for any of this to happen. The embarrassment I’ve caused you– to Jace. I completely understand asking for my resignation or dismissal. I deserve to be dismissed I–”

“Sweet girl, I’m not dismissing you,” Rhaenyra says, her brow furrowing, a soft expression on her face. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, face flooding with warmth. 

“You’re not….” your voice trails off, sounding smaller than you’d like, “you’re not firing me?”

The corner of Rhaenyra’s lip tugs upwards in a small smile.

“That would be quite hypocritical of me, now wouldn’t it?” she says softly, leaning her elbow on her desk, “You haven’t done anything that warrants that.”

“But Jace—”

“—knew exactly what he was doing when he hired the photographers in the first place,” she finished, cutting you off. 

Your heart nearly stops beating altogether.

Jace.

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Rhaenyra tells you, absorbing your flustered expression.

“But…why—”

“You were a loose end,” she tells you, “And you were getting sloppy. There’s enough scandal my family deals with. Jace is my son. My first child. You’ve got a smart head on your shoulders, invaluable to our campaign….but you don’t love him.”

The truth of her words cuts through you like a knife. A dull ache forms between your ribs, and that horrible thought appears in your head, the one you’ve been trying to push away for months now.

I’m a bad person.

No, that’s not true. It just wasn’t Jace. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him.

“I could have,” you insist, “Maybe.”

Liar.

“Don’t,” Rhaenrya says with a small shake of her head, “Don’t do that. Don’t settle for duty’s sake. Don’t dismiss your desires for that.” Her voice is rough and thick with emotion. 

She did, you think to yourself. She still does. 

“You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement of course,” she says, rolling her eyes, “It’s being drafted as we speak. Necessary, of course, not a slight against your trustworthiness.”

“I understand.”

“I had no doubt you would. There is greatness in you, raw talent,” she continues, “With or without him.”

You can tell from the look she gives you it’s not Jace whom she refers to. Your lips part, but no words come out. Rhaenyra presses her lips together, nodding to herself.

“I’ll expect you here tomorrow, regardless of the results,” she says, going back to her computer. Her eyes flicker across the screen for a moment before looking back to you. She waves a hand, dismissing you, “That’s all.”

Jace is waiting when you leave Rhaenyra’s office. His head hangs low as you approach, brown curls longer since the last time you’d seen him. He offers a forced smile, avoiding your gaze. 

“Why?” 

You know it's unfair of you to ask. The scorned lover selling pictures of his scandalous cheating girlfriend. Revenge served cold on a silver platter. Everyone was siding with Jace, as they should. You knew you were in the wrong. Jace opens his mouth to speak, then closes it once more.

“You could have–,” you struggle to find the words, “You could have talked to me–”

“I just can’t end up like my dad,” Jace admits, “Married to someone who doesn’t….who isn’t..” his cheeks turn pink, “I care about you, Y/N, I do…..and I want you to be happy. And being with me won’t bring you that.” Jace lets out a deep sigh, “And as much as I care about you, I’m not in love with you.”

Your heart drops into your stomach and your blinking rapidly increases, “I didn’t–”

“What?” Jace asks with a small smile, “I’m not completely clueless.”

It’s your turn to blush as he reaches for your hand, gently squeezing it. 

“It’s alright to be selfish,” he says softly, his brown eyes warm and kind as they hold your gaze, “You deserve to be.”

You inhale a shaky breath and return his smile with one of your own. He gives your hand a final squeeze before letting go–letting you go. 

As he turns down the hall you call out to him.

“Jace!”

He turns on his heel, walking backward.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs, “Don’t thank me yet,” he warns and you don’t have time to ask him why before he rounds the corner, disappearing from your sight. 

“You lucky bitch.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” you chuckle at Sara’s reaction to your news, propping your phone on the counter.

Sara shakes her head in disbelief before the Facetime cuts, a small warning signal replacing her smiling face. 

“Where are you?” you ask, tapping the screen.

“Can you see me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Goddammit,” she groans, “I’m at Kingsroad Station. Mr. Stark paged me– he’s working late to watch the election results at the office.”

“You’re a dutiful assistant, trudging to Direwolf at this hour,” you tease, glancing at the clock. Election results should be out within the hour.

“Oh you know it,” she barks out a laugh, “I had to go downtown and pick up his dinner.”

“You wanna rain check our evening?”

“Fuck no!” she insists, and you can practically hear her pout, “I’ll Uber from Direwolf, and be there by midnight.”

“If you don’t get caught up,” you continue to tease your best friend.

“For the last time, I am not sleeping with him.”

You frown. Something was definitely up with them. 

“You know you can tell me,” you press, “I’d never judge you.”

Sara sighs, “Yeah you better not, you tart. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

“Love you,” you tell her, and she returns the sentiment before the Facetime ends. 

You place your phone face down on the counter, glancing at the TV in your living room. You’ve had the news on all evening, on mute of course. There’s no need for commentary. You just want to see how Rhaenyra is fairing in the polls. 

The green and black bar at the bottom of the screen looks about equal.

Wandering around your kitchen you open the fridge pulling out a half-empty bottle of wine. Pouring yourself a generous glass you take a long sip, letting the alcohol warm you.

It’s been a waiting game all evening. All year, truly. 

A knock startles you, and you put your glass on the counter and towards the door. It’s so like Sarah Snow to show up early when she says she’ll be running late. 

“I thought you got caught up–” Your words die in your throat as you open the door revealing Aemond. 

If you weren’t so surprised you would have slammed it shut in his face, but the pause gives him the leverage he needs. You’re a moment too slow and he presses his foot between the door frame as you try to shut it, his hand slamming against the wood keeping it open.

“Go away,” you tell him, continuing to push.

“Just listen to me–”

“I have nothing to say to you–” 

“I’m not asking you to talk. Just listen,” Aemond insists, his voice breaking with desperation, “Five minutes. Please.”

Reluctantly, you remove your hand from the door. With a frustrated sigh, you turn on your heel, walking down the hall. Aemond follows close behind, shutting the door behind him. 

“Three,” you call over your shoulder, grabbing your wine glass. You take a sip for courage, beginning to turn to face him, “And if you so much as–” you nearly drop your glass as you face him.

Aemond’s hand is held out before him, Jace’s necklace dangling from his slender fingers. The diamond J catches the light, sparkling. Your mouth goes dry, cheeks warming at the sight. Eyes lifting to meet his, you can’t find the words to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “Look….I never…this wasn’t…” Aemond takes a deep breath, steadying himself, “I’m not good at this.”

The J swings from the chain, a pendulum on a string.

“I knew it,” you whisper, hand reaching up to your throat, feeling where it should lay.

“It was just a game,” he insists, “Until it wasn’t.” Your eyes lift from the necklace, meeting his gaze. “That night on the beach….” He lowers his arm. The pendulum swings. “Look if you don’t feel the same–”

Your stomach turns.

“Go,” you breathe, barely audible.

Aemond tilts his head to the side and murmurs your name causing your eyes to squeeze shut.

“I want you out.”

“What can I do?” he begs, “Please.”

“Go grovel to someone who cares,” you snap, eyes opening, “Storm’s End, perhaps? Seems like you have some making up to do with Floris.” 

You step forward, snatching the necklace from him, and throwing it against the wall. It bounces off with a small noise before dropping to the floor. Aemond’s tongue pokes his cheek, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I don’t fucking want Floris!” he snaps, “I want you.”

You freeze, watching his chest rise and fall with anger. 

“You didn’t want her?” you ask and he shakes his head, “Did you fuck her?”

Aemond’s eye widens, a fraction of an inch but it's noticeable. A bitter laugh leaves your lips.

“It was before we–”

“You men are all the same,” you seethe, glaring at him, “Pretty words and no action. Of course, you fucked her.”

“Y/N, it was before us, before we ever–look I haven’t so much as touched her since we–”

“Well then here’s your chance!” you interrupt, “I’m sure she’s a wreck. Wallowing on her yacht just waiting for you to jump her bones.”

Aemond flinches as though you’d slapped him.

“Stop it.”

“You’re so talented with that tongue, useless apologies included. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste–”

“Seven hells enough!”

His yell silences you. You stand before each other, chests heaving with anger. 

“You want forgiveness?” you ask, cocking a brow at him, “Get on your knees.”

Aemond’s eyes widen at your words.

“What?”

“You heard me,” you snap, cheeks warm with rage, “On your knees.”

There’s a moment where you think he’ll leave. Where he’ll say to hells with you and storm out of the apartment, go to Floris, and leave whatever happened between you in the past. 

Instead, he drops to his knees with a soft thud. Your lips part, admittedly surprised by his sudden submission. He doesn’t put up a fight and doesn’t give a tongue-in-cheek retort. He simply raises his gaze looking up at you between silver lashes. 

You take a few steps back just as his hands begin to reach for you. You revel in his confusion, as his eyebrows knit together, and a smirk appears on your face.

“Crawl.”

His Adam’s apple bobs and you hold his gaze, violet and blue eye watching you closely. It takes a moment, but Aemond slowly lowers his torso until it is parallel with the floor; his palms splayed across the wood floor. 

Aemond releases a shuddering breath, glancing up at you between silvery lashes, long hair cascading in front of his face shielding the redness that blooms on the apples of his pale cheeks. Blood roars in your ears as he begins to move, crawling towards you. His movements are slow and purposeful and you grin triumphantly as he reaches you. 

“Satisfied?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

The corner of your lip twitches. Aemond meets your eye at your continued silence. 

“Beg.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” you tell him, surprised at the dominating tone in your voice, “You’re sorry? Beg me. Beg my forgiveness.”

Aemond pushes himself onto his knees, leaning back on his haunches. He swallows, eyes watery.

“Please,” he says softly.

You reach for him and brush the hair from his face. He closes his eyes at your touch. 

“Please, what?”

“Please forgive me,” he says through gritted teeth.

You hum, letting your fingers trace the scar that mars his face.

“I don’t know if I’m convinced.”

Aemond groans as you trace his jawline, letting your fingers press against the pout of his lips. He parts them as you push forward, pressing down on his tongue.

“Please,” he says, though he struggles to around your fingers.

You huff out a laugh, removing the digits. 

“Pathetic.”

“Please! Let me prove how sorry I am,” he insists, hands gripping the back of your thighs as you attempt to step away, “Please…please let me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his desperate plea.

“Let you what?” you ask innocently.

“Let me eat your pussy–baby, please–”

“You think you deserve to?” you cut him off, placing two fingers under his chin.

“No, no I don’t,” he says, shaking his head, fingers digging into your thighs, “But I want to make you feel good, please–”

You tilt your head to the side, taking in the man beneath you. 

“Lay down then,” you tell him, “On your back.”

Aemond eagerly obliges as you remove your sweats. Nothing remains underneath. You choose to leave your oversized t-shirt on. It’s your turn to kneel, sinking to the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t move,” you tell him, crawling over him until your pussy rests above his face, “You touch me with anything besides that tongue of yours, and I’m getting off, and you’re getting out. Got it?”

“Yes,” he says softly, warm breath fanning across your soaked center. 

“Good,” you praise him, lowering your cunt to his eager mouth. 

Aemond moans against you as he spreads your wet folds with his tongue. He greedily laps at your pussy as you grind against him, pleasure crawling up your spine and warming your belly with every stroke of his tongue. 

Your hands reach up to play with your tits, pinching and tugging your sensitive nipples as he works his magic. His tongue stiffens below you, dipping into your clenching center and you can’t stop the whine that claws its way out of your throat. Head thrown back, you lift your hips, ignoring the burn in your hamstrings as you ride his face as his tongue explores deeper inside of you.

You’ve never had him like this, completely at your mercy, lying stiff and compliant below you with his hands curled into fists at his sides. The veins on the back of his hands are bulging, as though his control might snap at any minute. 

You simply can’t help but taunt him a bit. 

“So good,” you moan with another roll of your hips, “Feels so good Aem–”

A muffled broken whimper sounds from below you and he picks up the pace, tongue eagerly fucking up into you, meeting the movements of your hips. His nose cascades against your clit so pleasantly stoking the fire building in your belly, the tightening of your release soon to follow. Your knees ache pressed against the hardwood. 

“Fuck–fuck!” your legs shake around his head as you fall apart, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips suction around your clit. Pleasure crackles through your veins like fireworks exploding in the night sky.

You wait a moment, Aemond not moving, before swinging a leg over him and crawling off his face. You scoot backward, tugging your oversized t-shirt down over your ass as your back meets the wall. You try to even your breathing, wiping some sweat from your brow as he sits up, the bottom half of his face shiny with your arousal. 

“Better?” he asks, pushing himself into a standing position, and offering you his hand.

You chuckle breathlessly, but accept all the same, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Fantastic,” you answer. Aemond nods, wiping his mouth with his middle and index finger before sucking them into his mouth.

“Had your fun?” he murmurs, watching you.

“For now,” you tell him, smirking again.

He reaches for you and you dip out of reach. A dangerous glint appears in his eyes as he reaches for you again. You avoid his reach, dipping under his arm and hurrying into the kitchen. Aemond follows, a wolf stalking its prey. You’re sure he’s allowing you this chase, he could catch you if he wanted to. 

You press your back against the island as he rounds the corner, fingers dragging across the marble countertop. You don’t move, don’t breathe as he slowly walks closer.

“You done?” he asks, his mouth hovering over yours.

“I’m never done,” you whisper, leaning forward and nipping his lower lip, “You better get used to it.”

Aemond groans, his hand cupping the back of your head and molding his lips to yours. 

Everything that follows is shrouded in a desperate lust-filled haze. His hands cup the globes of your ass, lifting you onto the island. You tear his shirt from his chiseled frame, and he does the same with yours, leaving you bare on the counter. 

“Should I?” he asks, dipping to kiss the spot between your shoulder and neck. You bite your lip, raking your nails against his scalp, “Shall I assume you’ve forgiven me?”

“Just fuck me Targaryen,” you tell him breathlessly, “Then we’ll see.”

He needs no more convincing. 

You pull at his belt, shove his pants down releasing his thick cock, reveling in the way his jaw slacks as you squeeze him in your hand.

“Fuck,” he murmurs as you guide him towards your dripping center, “Gods you’re so beautiful.”

You bite your lip, humming happily at his praise as he slowly sinks inside of you. Your eyebrows concave, tears welling in your eyes at the generous stretch. It’s been a while since you’d had him–since you felt this deliciously full. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed him, how hungry you’d been for this feeling until now.

Aemond bottoms out, not moving for a moment, simply resting his forehead against yours. His blue and violet eyes meet yours as you steady your breath.

“You alright?” he asks, his lips brushing against yours.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Feels..” You lose your train of thought as he moves his hips, dragging his cock along the sensitive walls of your cunt. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he slowly rolls his hips against you. “So good.”

“You know how much I missed this pussy?” Aemond murmurs, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, “It’s all I fucking think about. This pretty. Little. Pussy of yours.” He punctuates his confession with several hard thrusts. 

One of your hands falls to the counter, holding yourself up, the other thrown around his neck, a fistful of his silver hair trapped in your grasp. Aemond’s hands hold your hips, hard enough to bruise as he continues his hard, even strokes. 

“Fuck,” you mewl arching your back, pressing your chest closer to him. Anything to get closer.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he admits, a muscle in his jaw twitching, “Since the benefit. The hotel. The fucking Hamptons.” His head dips to your neck and he bites down causing you to cry out, “You like that? Driving me crazy?” You clench around him, walls fluttering.

You’ve never heard Aemond so emotional, so raw. Almost vulnerable. 

“Then you don’t speak to me,” Aemond says, placing a kiss on your collarbone, “Fucking brat.”

“Fuck you,” you snap, tugging his hair and forcing him to look at you, “You hurt me.”

Aemond stills, holding your gaze.

“You hurt me,” you repeat, feeling him throbbing inside of you as you keep him warm, “What you said, on the beach….” Your eyes water, “I believed you–”

“I meant it,” he says suddenly, “Every word. Every word, and more.”

“More?” you ask.

Aemond tilts his head to the side. 

“I’m in love with you,” he says, as though it should be obvious. As if your world hasn’t just completely tilted on its axis. “I’ve been in love with you. And I don’t plan on stopping.”

Your lips part.

“I’ve tried. Tried to ignore it, to do what is expected of me,” he admits, “It’s no use. There’s no getting over you. It’s you.”

“I love you too,” you tell him, and his lips crash against yours. 

Aemond lifts you from the counter then, still nestled inside of you before bringing you to the couch. He sits and you push yourself up, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you begin to ride him. All the while he doesn’t stop kissing you, smiling as he does so.

“That’s it,” he praises as you roll your hips against him, “Just like that baby, that’s my girl.”

You whine at his words and grind down against him, taking him as deep as you can. Aemond breaks your kiss momentarily to wet his fingers, dipping them between you to massage your sensitive clit. Your body tightens, your jaw slacking at the additional stimulation as your thighs begin to shake.

“I can’t–” you insist, legs tiring. Aemond flips you over immediately, laying your back on the couch and slinging your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Poor baby,” he teases, his tone boarding on condescending, “She just wants to get fucked, doesn’t she?” He quickly sets a brutal pace, the head of his cock rubbing against your G-spot with each thrust.  

Stars appear behind your eyes and you can’t help the sob-like moan that leaves your mouth. Aemond’s open-mouthed grin is answer enough to how fucked out you must look and sound. 

“This all you need?” he taunts, “Just need me to fuck you real good?”

“Yes!” you cry out, nearly choking on the word. 

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he murmurs, “Let me do all the work. You just lay there and look pretty.” 

“Oh gods–” you cry, “Fuck!” Your pussy spasms around him as you come, clenching around his thick cock with a vice-like grip. Aemond’s jaw slacks and he moans, finishing inside of you. The warmth of his release fills you.

He pulls out slowly, letting your legs fall gently to the couch. Aemond leans back, dropping to the floor in front of the couch, his large hands holding your thighs open. Your head feels like it’s full of cotton and you watch him as a fucked out smile appears on your face. Aemond’s fingers gently spread through your outer lips, watching as his spend drips out of you.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward and kissing your pussy. You squeal in surprise as he holds your thighs open, lewd slurping noises filling the room.

“Aemond! Seven hells–” you whimper as your head lolls on the couch. Your hand finds his hair once more, holding onto it for dear life as he slips two eager fingers inside of you.

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your clit, “You’re too pretty when you come.” He curls his fingers against your g-spot, a man on a mission, “Show me, pretty girl. Come on, come for me again.”

His mouth latches onto your clit and he hums as he suctions it between his pouty lips. Pressure builds quickly in your stomach and it's all too much, your third release barely through you knocking the wind from your lungs. 

“There it is,” he murmurs as he feels you tighten around his fingers, “There’s my pretty, pretty girl.” 

You finish with a cry, tears spilling down your cheeks at the overwhelming ecstasy. Aemond presses soft kisses against your thighs as you come down from your high. He removes his fingers carefully before helping you. He wanders around your apartment before finding the bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp washcloth.

“You have a nice tub,” he says softly, “Would you like a bath?” 

The thought is so enticing that you nearly melt into the couch.

“Later,” you murmur, “I want to see the results.”

“Later then,” he agrees, watching you closely.

You don’t want to speak, don’t want to ruin the moment between you, but you can’t help it. Anxiety pools in your belly as he kneels between your legs, dragging the washcloth against you gently.

“What now?” you ask softly, avoiding his gaze.

“Now….” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, “I’m not sure.” He reaches toward your face, forcing you to look at him. “But whatever is next, we’re in it together. If that’s alright with you.”

You lean into his hand, pressing your lips against his palm.

“That’s alright with me.”

After several minutes of Aemond cleaning you up, you return to the couch dressed back in your sweatpants and t-shirt. Aemond has retrieved his pants from the kitchen as you glance at the television. 

“Holy shit,” you say sitting up, eyes glued on the television, “Holy fuck.”

Aemond turns following your gaze and looking at the screen. His eyebrows raise.

“Well fuck,” he says suddenly, and you hear your phone begin to buzz from the kitchen. Aemond’s as well; the vibrations buzzing against the floor where it must have slipped out of his pant pocket. “Son of bitch did it.”

You meet his eyes before staring at the screen once more. At the blond man popping champagne at his victory party. At the green letters across the bottom of the television. 

Aegon Targaryen wins!

note: thank you for the love with this series that wasn't supposed to become a series- I appreciate you all sticking it out for this one and hope you enjoyed it! lots of love MWAH 💋 Jo

if you'd like to be notified when I post please follow and turn on notifications for @sapphire-writes-updates in lieu of a taglist!

like this story? check out more of my work HERE 🖤

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated but never expected. appreciate you reading no matter what!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

No, “convenience” isn’t the problem

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in CHICAGO (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Using Amazon, or Twitter, or Facebook, or Google, or Doordash, or Uber doesn't make you lazy. Platform capitalism isn't enshittifying because you made the wrong shopping choices.

Remember, the reason these corporations were able to capture such substantial market-share is that the capital markets saw them as a bet that they could lose money for years, drive out competition, capture their markets, and then raise prices and abuse their workers and suppliers without fear of reprisal. Investors were chasing monopoly power, that is, companies that are too big to fail, too big to jail, and too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

The tactics that let a few startups into Big Tech are illegal under existing antitrust laws. It's illegal for large corporations to buy up smaller ones before they can grow to challenge their dominance. It's illegal for dominant companies to merge with each other. "Predatory pricing" (selling goods or services below cost to prevent competitors from entering the market, or to drive out existing competitors) is also illegal. It's illegal for a big business to use its power to bargain for preferential discounts from its suppliers. Large companies aren't allowed to collude to fix prices or payments.

But under successive administrations, from Jimmy Carter through to Donald Trump, corporations routinely broke these laws. They explicitly and implicitly colluded to keep those laws from being enforced, driving smaller businesses into the ground. Now, sociopaths are just as capable of starting small companies as they are of running monopolies, but that one store that's run by a colossal asshole isn't the threat to your wellbeing that, say, Walmart or Amazon is.

All of this took place against a backdrop of stagnating wages and skyrocketing housing, health, and education costs. In other words, even as the cost of operating a small business was going up (when Amazon gets a preferential discount from a key supplier, that supplier needs to make up the difference by gouging smaller, weaker retailers), Americans' disposable income was falling.

So long as the capital markets were willing to continue funding loss-making future monopolists, your neighbors were going to make the choice to shop "the wrong way." As small, local businesses lost those customers, the costs they had to charge to make up the difference would go up, making it harder and harder for you to afford to shop "the right way."

In other words: by allowing corporations to flout antimonopoly laws, we set the stage for monopolies. The fault lay with regulators and the corporate leaders and finance barons who captured them – not with "consumers" who made the wrong choices. What's more, as the biggest businesses' monopoly power grew, your ability to choose grew ever narrower: once every mom-and-pop restaurant in your area fires their delivery drivers and switches to Doordash, your choice to order delivery from a place that payrolls its drivers goes away.

Monopolists don't just have the advantage of nearly unlimited access to the capital markets – they also enjoy the easy coordination that comes from participating in a cartel. It's easy for five giant corporations to form conspiracies because five CEOs can fit around a single table, which means that some day, they will:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/18/cursed-are-the-sausagemakers/#how-the-parties-get-to-yes

By contrast, "consumers" are atomized – there are millions of us, we don't know each other, and we struggle to agree on a course of action and stick to it. For "consumers" to make a difference, we have to form institutions, like co-ops or buying clubs, or embark on coordinated campaigns, like boycotts. Both of these tactics have their place, but they are weak when compared to monopoly power.

Luckily, we're not just "consumers." We're also citizens who can exercise political power. That's hard work – but so is organizing a co-op or a boycott. The difference is, when we dog enforcers who wield the power of the state, and line up behind them when they start to do their jobs, we can make deep structural differences that go far beyond anything we can make happen as consumers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

We're not just "consumers" or "citizens" – we're also workers, and when workers come together in unions, they, too, can concentrate the diffuse, atomized power of the individual into a single, powerful entity that can hold the forces of capital in check:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

And all of these things work together; when regulators do their jobs, they protect workers who are unionizing:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

And strong labor power can force cartels to abandon their plans to rig the market so that every consumer choice makes them more powerful:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/01/how-the-writers-guild-sunk-ais-ship/

And when consumers can choose better, local, more ethical businesses at competitive rates, those choices can make a difference:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/10/view-a-sku/

Antimonopoly policy is the foundation for all forms of people-power. The very instant corporations become too big to fail, jail or care is the instant that "voting with your wallet" becomes a waste of time.

Sure, choose that small local grocery, but everything on their shelves is going to come from the consumer packaged-goods duopoly of Procter and Gamble and Unilever. Sure, hunt down that local brand of potato chips that you love instead of P&G or Unilever's brand, but if they become successful, either P&G or Unilever will buy them out, and issue a press release trumpeting the purchase, saying "We bought out this beloved independent brand and added it to our portfolio because we know that consumers value choice."

If you're going to devote yourself to solving the collective action problem to make people-power work against corporations, spend your precious time wisely. As Zephyr Teachout writes in Break 'Em Up, don't miss the protest march outside the Amazon warehouse because you spent two hours driving around looking for an independent stationery so you could buy the markers and cardboard to make your anti-Amazon sign without shopping on Amazon:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/29/break-em-up/#break-em-up

When blame corporate power on "laziness," we buy into the corporations' own story about how they came to dominate our lives: we just prefer them. This is how Google explains away its 90% market-share in search: we just chose Google. But we didn't, not really – Google spends tens of billions of dollars every single year buying up the search-box on every website, phone, and operating system:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

Blaming "laziness" for corporate dominance also buys into the monopolists' claim that the only way to have convenient, easy-to-use services is to cede power to them. Facebook claims it's literally impossible for you to carry on social relations with the people that matter to you without also letting them spy on you. When we criticize people for wanting to hang out online with the people they love, we send the message that they need to choose loneliness and isolation, or they will be complicit in monopoly.

The problem with Google isn't that it lets you find things. The problem with Facebook isn't that it lets you talk to your friends. The problem with Uber isn't that it gets you from one place to another without having to stand on a corner waving your arm in the air. The problem with Amazon isn't that it makes it easy to locate a wide variety of products. We should stop telling people that they're wrong to want these things, because a) these things are good; and b) these things can be separated from the monopoly power of these corporate bullies:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/08/divisibility/#technognosticism

Remember the Napster Wars? The music labels had screwed over musicians and fans. 80 percent of all recorded music wasn't offered for sale, and the labels cooked the books to make it effectively impossible for musicians to earn out their advances. Napster didn't solve all of that (though they did offer $15/user/month to the labels for a license to their catalogs), but there were many ways in which it was vastly superior to the system it replaced.

The record labels responded by suing tens of thousands of people, mostly kids, but also dead people and babies and lots of other people. They demanded an end to online anonymity and a system of universal surveillance. They wanted every online space to algorithmically monitor everything a user posted and delete anything that might be a copyright infringement.

These were the problems with the music cartel: they suppressed the availability of music, screwed over musicians, carried on a campaign of indiscriminate legal terror, and lobbied effectively for a system of ubiquitous, far-reaching digital surveillance and control:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/02/nonbinary-families/#red-envelopes

You know what wasn't a problem with the record labels? The music. The music was fine. Great, even.

But some of the people who were outraged with the labels' outrageous actions decided the problem was the music. Their answer wasn't to merely demand better copyright laws or fairer treatment for musicians, but to demand that music fans stop listening to music from the labels. Somehow, they thought they could build a popular movement that you could only join by swearing off popular music.

That didn't work. It can't work. A popular movement that you can only join by boycotting popular music will always be unpopular. It's bad tactics.

When we blame "laziness" for tech monopolies, we send the message that our friends have to choose between life's joys and comforts, and a fair economic system that doesn't corrupt our politics, screw over workers, and destroy small, local businesses. This isn't true. It's a lie that monopolists tell to justify their abuse. When we repeat it, we do monopolists' work for them – and we chase away the people we need to recruit for the meaningful struggles to build worker power and political power.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/12/give-me-convenience/#or-give-me-death

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[glitterandlashes]

GAZA FUNDRAISERS [8/24/24]

@fatma93-gaza Fatima and Bilal, parents of five who have been displaced 17 times. Shared by @/90-ghost. 

@mahmoudkhalafff Help Mahmoud’s family evacuate Gaza. #151 on @/el-shab-hussein’s Gaza fundraiser list.

@atalah-mohammed 17 year old Muhammad, who needs a bone graft after being attacked while waiting for aid. Shared by @/90-ghost.

@emanfamily81 Help Eman and her family evacuate Gaza. Shared by @/90-ghost.

@hayanahed Haya and family, who need safe medical treatment due to allergies. #26 on the Operation Olive Branch fundraiser list.

@ahmeadhilles Help Ahmed and his family of 20 evacuate Gaza. Shared by @/90-ghost.

@musababed Musab and family, whose original gfm campaign was taken down due to them falling victim to fraud when trying to receive the money. Shared by @/90-ghost.

@abedallhferwanagaza Ola and family who are trying to reunite with family in Egypt

@asmaamajed2 Asmaa, who is looking to continue her education after the war. Her and her family are struggling just to get the necessities. Shared by @/90-ghost.

@waseem4gaza Waseem’s family, who is looking to evacuate to Egypt. Shared by @/mohammedalanqer

@karemandohan1999 Kareman and family, who are struggling to work due to damage to their equipment and places of employment. Verified by @/90-ghost

@mahmoudswierh2 17 year old Mahmoud, who is looking to study abroad and rebuild his life to give back to his family and community

@tahseenkhazen Tahseen and his family, with one of his three children suffering with Celiac’s disease. A successful businessman looking to feed his family. Verified by @/90-ghost and others.

@aladdin97 Alaa, a lecturer at Al-Asqa university who is looking to evacuate and rebuild his life

@safaakhatib Safaa, mother of two whose husband is in critical condition. #135 on @/el-shab-hussein’s Gaza fundraiser list

@shamfarhat1 Dr. Farhat and family, who are looking to rebuild their lives in Malaysia. #248 on @/el-shab-hussein’s Gaza fundraiser list.

[soon-palestine]

Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian graduate student at Columbia University, was forcibly abducted on March 8, by undercover Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents who stalked him on his way home to university housing. Khalil was targeted for his activism and involvement in Columbia’s student encampments protesting the ongoing genocide in Gaza. His detention is not just an injustice—it is a blatant act of vengeance for going against U.S. and Israeli coordinated crimes. 

The Trump Administration called for his deportation by name and set forth a dangerous and targeted campaign against the nation’s university system with the ultimatum that student pro-Palestinian activism is grounds for deportation. 

By all accounts, Khalil’s abduction and detainment make him a political prisoner. However, we must not fall into the trap of what Mohammed El Kurd, in his new book Perfect Victims, calls, “singularity.” 

“Singular stories, especially when told recklessly, tend to isolate the individual from the group, sanctifying the former and demonizing the latter. Singular stories tend to situate man-made atrocities outside of politics reinventing them as inexplicable natural disasters.” 

By treating each case as an exception, the machinery of suppression continues unchallenged. Khalil’s ordeal is not about a single student; it is about a state’s ongoing efforts to silence those who dare to resist.

In fact, Mahmoud Khalil’s abduction is not an anomaly, but part of a long-standing pattern of state persecution against Palestinians who dare challenge state hegemony. By isolating his case from the broader history of criminalizing Palestinian activism, the narrative becomes watered down and stripped of its political relevance and the historical state-sanctioned violence that ensued. It misrepresents Khalil’s situation instead, making it an individual misfortune or a freak incident. 

Mahmoud Khalil’s abduction is not an anomaly, but part of a long-standing pattern of state persecution against Palestinians who dare challenge state hegemony.

Khalil’s detention follows decades of targeted harassment, imprisonment, and deportation of Palestinian students, scholars, and community leaders in the U.S. From the Holy Land Foundation Five to Dr. Sami Al-Arian, the playbook remains the same: fabricate charges, apply excessive force, and erase the political motivations behind the repression. When viewed in this context Khalil’s case is not the exception, but rather the rule. 

Take the case of Dr. Sami Al Arian, a Palestinian U.S. permanent resident and professor at the University of Florida who was arrested in February 2003 on faux charges of conspiring to aid Palestinian terrorism. Dr. Al Arian was imprisoned and subjugated to continuous months of solitary confinement and abuse which lasted 3 years when a Florida jury failed to return a single guilty verdict of any of the 17 charges against him. However, prosecutors refiled the charges, and Dr. Al Arian chose instead to plead guilty and take jail time rather than face a re-trial. 

In an interview with Democracy Now, Dr. Al Arian stated that his unjust imprisonment was a “retaliatory action against any activist” and was a time of extreme “intolerance, exclusionary political and hegemony [taking] center stage, where rational people were no longer able to advance any kind of dialogue.” 

Then there is the case of the Holy Land Foundation Five (HLF), where Palestinian American philanthropists who once ran the largest Muslim charity in the U.S. were shut down by the Bush administration as designated as a terrorist group. According to Human Rights Watch, the defendants in the HLF case were never accused of directly funding terrorist groups or attacks, yet they were still prosecuted under U.S. “material support” legislation. Their leaders are serving upwards of 65 years in federal prison. 

And for some of them, their conditions in prison are only worsening. Shukri Abu Baker is serving a 65-year sentence and currently facing new types of abuse by correctional officers. During the holy month of Ramadan, Shukri Abu Baker is not allowed to sleep after 5 a.m. His daughter Nida Abu Baker tells me that “for a full week straight, they’d take my dad to the cafeteria from 4 a.m. and he would stand there for hours. He was required to stop all the Muslim inmates from taking extra food back to their cells. He had to do the job of a correctional officer and he had to do this 3 times a day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner all while fasting as a 66-year-old man with aching bones.” 

Nida says when she looks at what is currently taking place across the country, she can’t help but feel deja vu. “The FBI went knocking on the doors of hundreds of Palestinian families after the HLF indictments. Some of whom were deported after being detained by ICE, and I specifically remember a family had their green cards revoked.” 

“So everything that’s happening is not new, and I am not surprised it all started decades ago on U.S soil when the government went after students and professionals who were giving back to their community.” 

In 2022, I wrote about how Shukri nearly died after inhaling fumes from tear gas thrown at inmates, and at the time he told me he did not want to advocate for his condition in prison to change: “I don’t wish this incident to become the focal point of my struggles. I am not trying to improve the conditions of my incarceration, rather I am challenging the very premise of my presence here.” 

“The prosecutors wanted to make sure my family and I pay heavily for not toeing the line of bigotry against the Palestinians who were in dire need for humanitarian aid.”

Given this history, it is essential that we heed Mohammed El-Kurd’s words and not sanctify one case while completely ignoring another, as it’s clear the target is Palestine and the Palestinian movement for liberation in total. The dangerous results of this can already be seen in several other cases that have not received nearly the same level of attention as Khalil’s. 

Swiftly after Khalil’s abduction, ICE detained a foreign student, Ranjani Srinivasan for participating in “activities supporting Hamas.” Srinivasan chose to flee the country to Canada on March 11 before she could be deported. 

“It is a privilege to be granted a visa to live and study in the United States of America. When you advocate for violence and terrorism, that privilege should be revoked, and you should not be in this country. I am glad to see one of the Columbia University terrorist sympathizers use the CBP Home app to self-deport,” Department of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem said. 

Srinivasan’s visa revocation and flight from the country did not make international news nor garner calls advocating for a student’s right to freedom of expression in the same way Khalil’s case did. The obvious reason could be the injustice that Khalil has permanent residency and is married to a U.S. citizen, while Srinivasan was in a more vulnerable position on a student visa and made the tough decision to leave her place of study behind and save herself from U.S. persecution. 

It is understandable to find the absurdity of Khalil’s case, especially when we try to highlight his supposedly secure legal status when trying to advocate on his behalf. However, we in the pro-Palestinian solidarity movement are setting ourselves up for failure if we accept these arbitrary distinctions. By being keen on highlighting Khalil’s legal status, we are inadvertently justifying the deportations of thousands of people on student visas who dare fight against the United States’ genocidal crimes. 

We are already seeing the danger of our actions. This weekend, Brown University professor and doctor Rasha Alawieh, who specializes in kidney transplants, was deported to Lebanon upon her arrival at Boston airport. The Department of Justice justified the deportation after “finding sympathetic photos and videos of prominent Hezbollah figures in the deleted items folder” of Alawieh’s cell phone. 

Even if Khalil supported Hamas, and Alawieh supported Hezbollah, they have not committed a crime that would justify their abductions and deportations. 

Instead of highlighting this fundamental right, Khalil’s lawyer Amy Greer spoke to NBC News about Khalil’s case asserting that supporting Hamas “is not what he stands for. That would be completely opposite to his values.” Greer had an opportunity to push back, and to protect the rights of all students, and all people that have an even more vulnerable status than Khalil. The fundamental basis of a deportation cannot and should not ever be justified due to one’s political beliefs. Greer should have reaffirmed that even if he did support Hamas, he has not committed a crime, Alawieh has not committed a crime and neither has any other student or professional demanding the liberation of the Palestinian people. 

By attempting to distance Khalil from any accusations of political alignment rather than challenging the legitimacy of such accusations altogether, Greer reinforced the very framework that allows for the criminalization of Palestinian activism. The issue is not whether Khalil or any other individual meets an arbitrary threshold of acceptability in the eyes of the state, but rather that no one should face deportation, imprisonment, or retaliation for their political beliefs.

This failure to challenge the state’s power to police political thought does not just abandon Khalil, it abandons every student, professor, journalist, and activist who has been, or will be targeted for their advocacy. It leaves the door open for the next arrest, the next deportation, the next political prisoner.

To protect only those deemed “acceptable” within the limits of state-sanctioned discourse is to concede the broader fight for fundamental rights. The defense of political speech must be absolute, without exceptions or qualifiers.

And finally, and most importantly, in our efforts to fight for Khalil we must always re-center Palestine, the assault on the West Bank, the genocide and starvation campaign in Gaza. Khalil’s abduction was meant to intimidate and ultimately stifle the movement from acting on its greater goal to end our complicity in the crimes against the Palestinian people. His abduction was meant to destroy our morale and scare us into silence. It was also meant to give institutions more power to censor and repress pro-Palestinian students, faculty, and professionals from being loud. We can’t let them win- it is our imperative, now more than ever, that we do not concede to the fascistic attempts to silence us. 

[a-shade-of-blue]

I've recently moved to a new country due to the worsening political environment in my home country, and I've been struggling to adapt. Uprooting yourself from the place you've called home your entire life is not easy, and I've had to discard many items close to my heart because I cannot afford to bring them with me.

Therefore, I cannot imagine what Mahmoud's family (@mahmoudfamily1 ) must be feeling. They have had to evacuate 16 times in a year! Each time they evacuate, there are fewer things they can bring with them. They are a family of 17 people, 10 of whom are children! With limited space on the car they use to move, should they bring all the blankets they own so everyone can keep warm, even if it means discarding a young child's favourite toy?

Then there is the problem of food. With the scarcity of food, they are forced to eat spoiled food because the alternative would be to not eat anything at all and go hungry. As a result, the 10 children suffer from constant stomachaches and diarrhea from the contaminated food and water they consume. Imagine evacuating, walking for miles and miles, while in constant pain!

Most worryingly, Mahmoud's family also includes 3 infants. The youngest of them, baby Meryem, was only born a few months ago in this genocidal war. Mahmoud's sister almost lost her life in the birth process due to a lack of medical resources. She still suffers from severe infections caused by the difficult birth because she has not been able to get the medical supplies and the treatment she needs. And reminding everyone again that they have to deal with all that while bombs are falling all around them!

Mahmoud's campaign has barely been getting any donations. Even though he has been raising funds for almost 6 months now, he has only reached 6% of campaign goal and has only raised $4,763 CAD  out of his $80K target!

This campaign is #3 on @/gaza-evacuation-funds vetted list here, #117 on @/gazavetters vetted list, vetted by bilal-salah0, and vetted by association!

Donations have stopped for Mahmoud's campaign!! Last donation was more than 2 days ago!

tagging for reach

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[xxx-sparkydemon-xxx]

💠 Hello, I’m writing to you with a heart that’s not just broken but crushed by hunger, by helplessness, by the look in my children’s eyes as they fall asleep crying for bread I can’t give them.

💠 Their bodies are wasting away, their spirits fading, and I have nothing left to offer.

My campaign is collapsing. Support is almost nonexistent, and every hour of delay brings us closer to danger, to irreversible loss.

Please, don’t scroll past this message

💠 This isn’t random it’s a final human plea from a father who doesn’t know how to save his children from starvation.

💠 *If you can’t donate, then share, write, do anything.*

🔹But please… don’t let me scream alone. Silence kills just like hunger.

https://chuffed.org/project/121006-save-sirajs-family-from-the-threat-of-the-gaza-genocide-war.

✅ Vetted by @nabulsi, my number verified on the list is #219.

VERIFIED BY @/90-ghost (proof)

PLEASE SHARE THIS FUNDRAISER AND DONATE IF YOU HAVE AT LEAST $5 TO SPARE! EVERY DOLLAR COUNTS TOWARDS SAVING LIVES!

€11,269/€67,600 as of June 27th

Last donation was €25 FOUR HOURS AGO; Can you match that amount?

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