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indouloureux · 2 years

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scandals & handcuffs; burning altars

eddie munson x reader

summary: it’s summer and eddie’s bored out of his mind. and while he spits out mindless questions, clarifying gossip and racy expeditions, eddie finds himself indulging you (and your touch, scent, kisses)

word count: 5, 297

warnings: explicit ones below the cut!

a/n: i know i already posted yesterday (here), but i finished this one early and i wanted to post it. hope you all filthy whores indulge in this eddie smut. mwah mwah

MASTERLIST

explicit warnings: poorly written smut, bondage ft. handcuffs and bandana, soft!dom eddie, cumplay, unprotected sex (practice safe sex!), cumplay, praise kink, multiple orgasms, biting, tongue fucking, cum eating, oral (fem receiving), rough sex, squirting, and short aftercare <3

“Do you think I should get a buzzcut again?”

Eddie toys with the nail polish you brought, reading the labels and what-not. You’re on his bed, laying down with your elbow propping you up, desperately trying not to smudge your nails. “Dunno,” you shrug.

He’s pacing, entertaining himself by playing with the nail polish bottle, and giving his guitar a small strum when he walks by. It’s obvious Eddie’s bored, which was why he invited you in the first place. “Think I’ll still rock one?”

“I love your hair.” You do love his hair – long, tangled and curled, probably needs an entire bottle of coconut oil conditioner and a proper comb, but it fits him well. It’s what makes him Eddie. “I think you should just keep that one.”

“But,” he gently places the small bottle on the bedside table, plopping down beside, copying your position with a curious look. But he’s only gets that kind of curiosity when he’s bored out of his mind. “If I get a buzzcut, would I look like I’m sick, or, sick.”

“Sick as in cool?” he nods, stupidly cute. “I guess. But you haven’t had it in years and your face back then was like, so small and cute and chubby.”

It’s not that he’s not cute anymore, but his face has shaped into more of an adult-ish physique. Eddie doesn’t have the cherubic prepubescent look anymore. They’ve morphed into predominant cheekbones, and his face has grown a bit longer. He’s gone from cute to handsome, but with a little bit of cute when he smiles.

“What if I straightened my hair?” he pats his hair down, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Would I look like a hippie or a pervert? Or like, a wet afghan hound?”

“Where are all these questions coming from, Eds?” you laugh. Eddie smiles at you, even with his eyes. “Are you really that bored? You’ve been growing your hair for years and refused to get a haircut. Now you want a buzzcut?”

“It’s a ridiculous thought,” you say to him. Eddie stares at you for a short while, crossing his arms over his chest.

Then he covers his eyes with his hair, the smile sitting faintly on his face. “I’m just wondering.”

You pick up a thick strand of his hair and split it into three sections. Eddie lets you loosely braid his hair, removes the one on his eyes to look at you. You like his eyes – they’re dark, almost black when he’s in a dim room. But even then they hold such devilish irradiance when he’s happy, or doing something he loves, or when he’s at peace. And you can see them right now.

“Please don’t cut your hair,” you say. “I love braiding it.”

“Okayyy,” he quips. “What about a tattoo?”

You sit up, suddenly interested. “Can I design it?”

Eddie ponders for a bit. He shrugs. “Yeah sure, why not. What would you give me?”

“Hellfire Club right above your butt crack. But in cursive.”

He laughs. “Shit, that’s cool. I’ll consider it.” Eddie makes a quiet ‘mmm’ noise, looking up. His hand props his head up, too, the other tapping rhythmically on the space between the two of you.

“What?”

“What if I get a tatt right on my dick? Like on the tip. Or beneath the tip, and they’re like the Devil’s Horns?” Eddie suggests. You make a disgusted face, where he responds with two pointed fingers on either side of his head, mimicking horns while poking his tongue out to you.

You pull his fingers down, “Eddie, don’t do that.”

“Alright,” he chuckles. “Anything for you, sweet thing.”

“Gross.”

Eddie lifts his head, a smile that walks on the border between offence and humor. “Gross?” he scoffs, furrowing his eyebrows at you. “Yeah, but when Mike Lewinski calls you ‘hot stuff’ last year, it has you skipping around the halls like an idiot. But when I call you ‘sweet thing’ it’s gross.” Eddie rolls his eyes, turns his head away from you a bit. “I’m offended.”

You half-gasp. “That’s because he was a hot senior, Eds.” You push his shoulder a little. “And people kept on spreading rumors that he was going to ask me out. So forgive me for gushing about a guy who’s really hot.”

Petulancy gets the best of him. Eddie spares you a short glance, before turning his shoulder away from you.

“Eddie!” you laugh, pulling on his shoulder. “Eds, I’m sorry I called you gross,” you place your chin on his bicep, pouting down at him. “Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

Stubborn, you quietly groan and poke at his side. He doesn’t flinch, as you expected, so you groan loudly and pull on his hair. “Ow!” he yelps, his hand comes up to pry your hand away from his hair. “(y/n)! dude…” he laughs at your violence. “That fucking hurt!”

“You wouldn’t look at me!”

“Alright, now I’m looking at you,” he widens his eyes, leaning closer, like he’s trying to scare you. “Isn’t this what you wanted? I’m looking right at you – stop leaning away!”

Eddie grabs your shoulders and holds them in place, restricting you from moving back. And you continue to laugh, perhaps out of fear, because his wide eyes are starting to scare you. He likes to indulge in scaring you sometimes, either with words or his menacing stares. “Eddie,” you laugh nervously. “Stop it or I’ll kick your face.”

“Alright,” he chuckles. Eddie moves away from you and reaches for his bedside table, pulling on the drawer and taking out a pack of cigarettes. It’s the same one from two weeks ago, the one you bought for him, and you can tell it’s from you ‘cause you can see the small ‘fuck you’ written in the bottom in your handwriting.

“You still have that?” you query. “The Eddie I know finishes a pack in two days. It’s been two weeks. Are you trying to quit?”

He places one between his lips, taking a lighter out of his pocket and lights it up. “No,” his answer is muffled, and Eddie takes a long drag before he lets it go.

“Ah, right, you were too busy doing crack with Chrissy Cunningham.”

“It wasn’t crack,” he waves his hand, cigarette almost dangerously burning your arm. “It was just marijuana. And I wasn’t with her.”

“Right,” you scoff. “And I know who the Night Stalker is.”

He places the cigarette back between his lips, but does nothing. Eddie looks at you, jejunely, lets his cigar hang loose from his parted lips. “What? Don’t believe me? You’re believing what does shitheads say about Chrissy?”

Eddie plays with his rings. His hands are extremely attractive, brutishly adorning his brash silver rings. The one on his index had four skulls on each corner of a cross, the one on the middle looks like a pig, and the other had only a single skull, though it’s larger than the others.

You like the one on his other hand. It’s small, pretty on his ring finger. The band’s black, but the crest of it was a darker shade of blue, surrounded by silver. Eddie’s let you borrow it once, sometimes you’d even take it off from him and wear it yourself.

And you do take it. You gently take his hand off the cigar and pull the ring off, placing it on your own. It’s a bit bigger, almost would slip off, but you like the way it looks on your hand (and so does Eddie.)

Then you shrug. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I know Chrissy’s not a crackhead, but I highly doubt you weren’t with her. I mean, come on, Eds. People saw you two.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds. He senses grandiosity in your speech. He can tell by the way your lips twitch into almost an unpleasant frown that there’s something you’re not telling him with your colloquial words. You reach for the impassive cigarette in his lips, place it on yours, and take a longer drag than he does before you puff it in his face.

The boy doesn’t cough. He’s used to the smell. “(y/n),” his playful ebullience is masked with allegation when he says your name. “Are you jealous?”

He drags his vowels, and you drag your eyes into a roll. “What would I be jealous about? I snort coke with you all the time…”

“Hawkins High is built with scandals,” it’s true. The school’s filled with crass students and naïve adults, and they live on gossip. Repetitive, fraudulent, juvenile gossip. Caused only to destroy someone’s life; it’s like an unspoken rule that there’s to be eloquent lies spoken every month to entertain the dull town. Every lie slips past the thin walls and into another’s mouth. And so far, you’d only believed one (maybe two) out of ten gossips that entail your best friend.

“And?”

“I know you’re not just accusing me of doing crack with Chrissy,” Eddie murmurs, finger hovering at the right side of your neck to trace its slope.

You scoff, twirling the cigar between your fingers. “And what would you be doing with her?”

It’s an ever-so-soft, shivering touch when the side of his finger traces your temple, lightly brushing the hair away. His eyes are deceiving, you don’t know if he’s looking at your lips or your eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe…sit near her. Or…hold her hand,” Eddie’s finger drags on your bare shoulder, though maintains eye contact, and leans forwards to your ear. “Whisper shit to her that makes her cross her legs, then lift her to the bench. Or bend her over there, knowing damn well she’s still dating fucking Jason Carver.”

You know he’s quoting all they said about him when they caught him with Chrissy. And the fact that you weren’t there to see what happened makes you suspicious, because they actually could be true. The thought leaves a bitter aftertaste on your tongue, makes you swallow dryly.

“Maybe I might have handcuffed her, too,” he finishes, dusk eyes dragging themselves to the handcuffs hanging beside his door. Much to your dismay, Eddie removes his finger from your shoulder. “Or yeah, maybe I was just doing crack with her.”

You sigh. “Eddie…”

“Aha!” he sits up, points a finger accusingly at you. “You are jealous!”

With wide eyes, and eyebrows sunken and creased, you sit up too. You slap his hand down. “What? All I said was your name!”

“You made a sound!”

“It was a fucking sigh.”

“A sigh, a depressing sound of jealousy, they’re all the same, babe,” he teases, taking the cigarette from you. He doesn’t take a puff, though, instead he kills it and throws it in his ashtray.

What a miffing concept for you – Hawkins High’s infamous Freak, and their Queen. It’s uncanny, unbelievable. Maybe it does make you jealous because you solely wish they’d make a rumor like that with you and Eddie.

You shake your head in disbelief, looking away from him. You’re dancing dangerously on a tightrope, knowing if you fall you’d lose all the reverential avidness for the man in front of you. Tiptoeing on that rope, your hands balance teenage lunacy and sophistication. You’re scared to fall, to give in, but knowing Eddie’s down there to catch you is almost too fucking tempting.

“You and your fucking handcuffs…” a wry chuckle leaves you. It has Eddie leaning closer, tilting his head at you.

“‘d you like my handcuffs?” the murmur’s imbued with palpable taunting, one that pulls you from the tightrope. “They’re very fun to play with, y’know?”

Him and his fucking handcuffs. Eddie’s handcuffs. His scandals and handcuffs. Handcuffs used for sheer folly to delight his sordid disposition. Calumnious scandals that paint him notorious. Notoriously hot as he looks at you like that – a coquettish gaze, lips quirked into a sadistic smirk. Oh yeah, they’re definitely making you fall from that tightrope.

You take one last glance between his eyes, then his parted lips. “Fuck you,” you say, and then you kiss him.

It hits you like a pistolwhip that you’re kissing your best friend Eddie Munson. You’re drunk on nothing, maybe now that you’re tasting his lips – soft like his old leather jacket, but the kiss is rough like his sleeve-ripped denims. He’s very keen on kissing you back, forcing his head closer that his nose bends from your cheek.

But he pulls away, taking your hand in his. Eddie opens his eyes, panting a little, and pushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “You sure about this?” he murmurs against your lips, and he’s only looking at them.

“I just fucking kissed you, Eds,” you exhale. You’d already fallen on the tight rope. “Fucking want this.”

He kisses you again. It feels nefarious to do this, but you love doing heinous things with Eddie, only this one’s new. It’s what makes your relationship with him so thrilling, to unveil the disposal of repugnant ardor and indulge in this new side of moronic titillation.

Eddie slips his tongue between open-mouthed kisses, hand crawling up your arm to cradle your neck. You feel his cold rings against your skin, has you gasping at the feeling, maybe even at how hot his mouth is. He kisses you deeper, makes your mouth open wider.

Desperate hands grip his shirt, your fingers lathering all over him – his hair, his cheek, his chest over his shirt, his tattoo-obscured arms. He laughs against your mouth when he makes you whine by pressing his thumb in the middle of your throat.

“You wanna try them out? My handcuffs?” Eddie gently pulls your face away. “I know you want to. Be honest,”

“Okay,” you breathe out, pulling on his shirt. “Okay, fuck, just make it quick.”

He tuts. “So bossy,” he pecks your lips. “So cute.”

Eddie stands up from the bed, almost tripping over scattered clothing. He plucks the handcuffs from the hook, waves them around. You’ve pushed yourself up to his headboard. Eddie walks over to the edge of the bed, pulls on the bottom of his shirt and discards it on the floor.

He’s got tattoos everywhere – random tattoos with random meanings. They’re all Devils and Skulls and Bats, some with DnD references, but you think you’ve spotted your favorite:

Right on his left hip-bone were the words fuck you in your handwriting, standing out in dark black ink. It’s a strange juxtaposition to his abominable tattoos, but you love it either way. The vulgar tattoo makes you bite your lip, chuckle even. “When’d you get that?” you point at it.

“Two weeks ago.” He says, bending to crawl over you. You spread your legs apart, allowing him to slot himself between you easily. “Pretty fucking cool actually.”

“Sweet,” you purr. Eddie drags his fingers behind your earlobes, thumb grazing your cheeks. He leans down to kiss you, soft, unlike seconds ago. The kiss is sweet, like he’s trying to say something. But he doesn’t say anything, even when he pulls away to take your hands in his.

Eddie takes your left hand and raises it to the side until it reaches the headboard. He sits up, thighs on either side of yours and handcuffs your left hand to the bottom bar of the headboard. He slots two fingers on the space between the cuffs and your wrists. “Y’ alright?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he leans back. But he doesn’t go back to kissing you yet. He sits on his knees, hands on his hips. You lift your head from the pillow to look at him, waiting.

“What’s wrong?”

“I realized I only have one pair of handcuffs,” he chuckles. You click your tongue at him. “Wait, hold on.”

Eddie pulls something from behind him, showing you his black bandana. He twirls the fabric in his finger, leaning forward again to take your right hand in his to raise it above you and tie them to the headboard again. So now you’re fully restrained, hands unable to move. It makes you feel a tad bit anxious, but Eddie’s got you.

“Tell me if you wanna remove them, alright?” he leans down to kiss your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips.

“Course,” you smile at him. “Wait, Eds. I’ve still got my shirt on.”

He leans back again, towering over your helpless body. “Right,” Eddie smiles at you. Both his hands reach to cup your shirt, and you gasp when you hear a loud tear and feel the cold air of his trailer graze your bare stomach.

“Eddie!”

“I’ll get you a new one,” he compromises, tearing the sleeves off so the shirt’s finally off you. “There. Now it’s gone.”

Impatient, Eddie places incremental kisses from your collarbones to the top of your breasts. He greedily sucks on your skin, makes you whimper. Eddie decides that he likes the sound you make, and he does it again. It’s ethereal, a new sound he likes other than metal. And he’s lucky enough that the clasp of your bra’s right in the center.

He unclasps them, goggles at your exposed tits like a newborn. You chuckle at his expression and kick at his shin. “Watcha staring at?”

“Tits.” He breathes out. “Pretty,” his hands knead your breasts, thumb grazing over your hardened nipples. You arch your back to him, almost digging his face on the valley of your tits. “pretty tits.”

You feel your face redden. “Flirt,” you sigh, moaning when he nips at one of them. “Fuck.” The restriction from your hands makes you groan, because you want to touch his hair, let your nails comb through his shaggy tresses. He sucks and nips at your buds, greedy, hungry, and treats the right breast with the same eagerness.

“You like that?” he mumbles against your skin. “Being helpless? All tied up while I suck on your tits? God you look so fucking hot right now.”

“Eddie,” you whine. “Do something.”

“Patience,” he says, but his hand leaves your mounds anyway, trails down and teases your stomach with light touches that it tickles. Eddie’s fingers tease your belly button, circling around it, before they decide to trace your hipbone, until they draw the top row of your jeans.

With lips still around your nipple, he unbuttons your jeans, drags the zipper down ever so slowly, like he’s got all the time in his world. And he does – maybe a lifetime full of times like these, where he’s indulging you (and your touch, scent, kisses).

But he spares your impatience. Eddie tugs your jeans down, in a motion that goes slow to fast when they reach your calves. He lets go of your breast, kissing your collarbone before he bites on your neck. He’s doing all that with his hand tugging your underwear down.

“They’re cute, baby,” he giggles in your neck. “I like them.”

You moan, followed by a shy laugh. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank for,” Eddie kisses you. “I love anything you wear. But I love it even more when you’re wearing nothing.”

“Cheeky- ah,” you moan when his finger drags between your slit, lathering up your wetness just in his middle finger. “Shit.”

“So wet, baby,” Eddie bites your bottom lip, releases it with a soft titter. “So fucking wet. God, it’s amazing how I did all of this.”

“Don’t be complacent, Eddie,” you tease him, raising your leg to wrap it around his ass. He shakes his head, presses chaste kisses on the corner of your lips.

His fingers rub your clit in slow circles. Eddie’s neophyte fingers possess abundant dexterity in certain things. You’ve always glorified his hands when he plays the guitar in quick riffs, or when he gesticulates his hands when he narrates during DnD, or anything he does with them. But now, maybe his fingers touching your pussy might be your favorite sight (and feeling) of it all.

Eddie rubs, circles, applies pressure to your clit. He has you whimpering and squirming with his miniscule touches, and he loves the feeling of seeing you like this – a mess for him. Desperate for him. You can tell he’s also tracing something; something you can’t perceive because everything feels too delicately good. But they’re eight letters. Eight letters of an unknown sentence, eight letters lost in your voluptary haze.

“More,” you demand, pushing your hips harder into his hand.

He tuts. “Where are your manners?” Eddie looks up at you. “You gotta beg for it, baby. I can’t just give you everything that you want, can’t I?”

“Eddie,” you whine.

“(y/n),” he mocks you.

“Please,” an embarrassing plead. “Please, Eddie. Just touch me.”

He’s teasing you. “I’m already touching you,”

“Fuck me,”

“With what?”

“Your – your fingers,” you exhale. “Your fingers. Fuck me with your fingers, baby, please.”

“Alright baby,” he rubs on your clit still, not obeying yet. But he eventually does, his fingertips tracing your hole before he slips one in. Eddie moans quietly at the feeling of your tender walls, tracing each crevice of you. You’re moaning again, perhaps a bit louder despite having one finger in.

Then he slips in another one, and another, easily. Because you’re all gaping for him. He fucks you with his fingers slowly, making sure you adjust. He kisses your neck for good measure, then your cheeks, then your lips. Eddie kisses your lips again and again, parting your lips open with his tongue. You sloppily kiss him back ‘cause your moaning, louder when his fingers go fast.

Your cunt makes loud wet sounds. It makes you feel embarrassed that he hears this, although he doesn’t tell you that the sounds make him harder than a fucking rock.

“Fuck, baby,” you grunt. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah, I know it does. I can tell,” his hands move over the threshold of rapidly vigorous. Eddie moves his fingers faster, thumb rubbing your clit. It overstimulates you, makes you moan until the nearby trailers hear you. “Greedy girl. So fucking spoiled, getting everything that she wants.”

He declares it’s not enough to himself. Eddie descends from your face and down to where his fingers continue to fuck you like there’s no tomorrow. You cry when he removes three of his fingers, but he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your gaping cunt, the entire thick muscle forcing itself in.

The feeling’s foreign, having to never been fucked by a tongue before. It’s not as thick as his fingers but it feels good nonetheless, because you’re still moaning for him. You’ve got your legs over his shoulders, and he’s got his thumb rubbing your clit still. The vacant hand rests on top of your pelvis, holding you down when he fucks his tongue in and out of you.

“God, fuck,” he groans against your cunt.

You tug on your hands. The handcuff hurts around your wrist the harder you tug, but the pain only adds more delectation to what you feel down there to your cunt.

“I’m close, Eddie,” you gasp, tears brimming your eyes from the gratification. “I’m gonna fucking cum.”

He pulls his tongue out, only to be replaced by three of his fingers again. You practically scream, thrashing around with your back arched, head deep on the pillow with a slacked jaw and shut eyes.

Eddie moves his fingers faster, and faster, until your legs shake. “Cum for me, baby. I got you. I fucking got you.”

He doesn’t stop until he starts to feel the warm substance on the tip of his fingers, and when your legs stop quaking and dig your feet on his back, sweeter liquid pours out with a loud cry.

You taste sweet. A sanctuary with walls flooded with nectar, and he’s a sinner thirsty for wine as he’s spent his entire life in Hell with a parched throat. Your salubrious liquids remedies his throat; it spurts out with ire, staining even his face and coats his voracious lips.

Eddie’s zenith doesn’t prevent him from stopping, only when he sees you calm down. Your body slackens on his mattress, and only then he sees the stains you caused on his bed.

“Holy fucking shit,” you laugh. Eddie smiles at you, sucking his hands clean like the greedy bitch he is before he places them on either side of your head. He brings himself down to kiss you, and you can’t taste yourself on his tongue. “I’ve never done that before,”

He pulls away a little. “Well then, I’m honored.”

But he’s not done. Eddie removes the belt from his denims, pulls them off quicker than he removed yours. When he pulls his boxers down, the sight of his cock has your lips water. He’s well shaven, pink and swollen on the tip, two indignant veins around the shaft. You quietly moan when he pumps himself, precum leaking from his slit.

A hand props himself up while the other lines his cock right in front of your swell pussy. He gives your clit light slaps, laughs when you grunt and whimper. “You ready? Or you’re tired?”

You shake your head. “Fuck me or I’ll rip my hands off these things and use you as a toy.”

Eddie gasps at your vulgarity. “Demanding!”

But he does command to your demand. Eddie pushes himself in, until he can’t move anymore. You feel so full, the feeling of his cock buried inside you is preposterously rapturous.

“So tight, baby,” he pants, hand cupping your ass to lift your leg around his torso. “Feel so amazing, (y/n). Feel so fucking amazing I wanna stay here forever.”

Your nail scratches on his bandana. “You could,” you look at him. “Only my legs would go numb. So I totally don’t recommend that.”

“I’ll carry you everywhere.” He bargains. “Then you wouldn’t have to walk. I’ll do everything for you.”

“Anything for a lifetime of cockwarming, huh?” you giggle.

“Totally,”

“Well you can have that after you fuck me. So please,” your head lifts to bite his bottom lip, pulling it out with a quiet pop. Eddie grunts. “fuck me, freak.”

Eddie only kisses you as he begins to thrust. He pulls his cock out completely before pushing in. His opted movement draws out a long moan out of you. You look up at him to see his eyes closed tightly, jaw relaxed into quiet moans. It’s like dream to see him like this, only it is happening and you’ve never been happier.

A cock that has you voracious for him, it feels like Eddie’s fucking you in a burning altar – fire increased by each thrust he makes. Eddie wraps your legs around his torso, balls slapping at your ass. It’s a plethora of obscene sounds that gets you wetter than you ever could. And although you wanted it, it frustrates you that you can’t pull on Eddie’s hair.

But you love the feeling of submitting yourself to him, anyway. So who are you to complain for wanting something you’ve craved for a long time?

“Eds,” you moan into his mouth. “Feel so fucking amazing.”

“I know, baby,” he chuckles, rubbing his nose against yours.

He’s rocking harder into you, each thrust stupendous as it tethers you together. Eddie fucks his cock harder into you, doing it like it’s his swan song. But it’s not, he’s gonna keep doing this forever. Even when you burn together in Hell, he’s going to keep fucking his cock in your until you turn into ashes.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, fingers clawing on your restraints. And you moan, tumultuously. Eddie’s red cheeks and hair stuck to his forehead due to sweat deserves to be in a painting placed as the main attraction at a museum. He craves for your touch, too, so whilst pounding into you, Eddie pulls out the key from his drawer and unlocks the cuffs from your wrist before untying the bandana from the other.

Immediately your hands dig themselves into his hair, scratching every part of his back. You claw at him, seeing the red tendrils form on his biceps, and on his back when Eddie digs his head on the crook of your neck.

But the sovereignty of your hands don’t last long. Eddie grabs them and pins them to the mattress, sucking on your neck. “Harder,” you grunt when hits that spot in you. “Harder, Eddie.”

“I’m already giving you everything I got, babe,” he chuckles. “This is hard as I can go. Unless you want me to take you in the ass-”

“That’s for next time,” you stop him. Eddie ignores the fact that you said there’d be next time, like you plan on doing this immorality with him for as long as you both wanted.

Your feet digs themselves on his ass, urging him on. “I’m close,” he tells you, and his thrusts go sloppy. You can feel his cock twitch inside of you, like he’s going to burst.

“So am I,” he forces your hands deeper into the mattress. “Where are you gonna cum?”

“I gotta pull out,” he exhales.

“Okay,” you nod, voice barely a whisper. “Okay, Eddie, I’m gonna cum.”

“I’ll hold it in,” he lets go of your hands so he could rub your clit. You feel it teetering on the edge, and his incessant rubbing cuts the knot and you’re cumming again.

Eddie pulls out, just enough time for him to give himself a few more strokes before he’s shooting his warm seed on your stomach. He paints your skin in alabaster stripes, his hand covered with your slick and cum as he strokes himself still.

The culmination is rhapsodic; a cognizance that you just fucked your best friend, or rather he fucked you. The altar stops burning, your legs fall down on the mattress, and Eddie runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Fuck,” he gasps. His back slackens from exhaustion. Eddie places his hands on your thighs and leans down to kiss you again.

The innocence in the kiss is strong, as if he hadn’t just fucked your legs out of its mobility. You wrap your arm around his back, where he breaks away from you to kiss your biceps, back to your neck, then to your lips.

“That was cool,”

“That’s it?” he looks at you. “Only cool?”

“I’m too fucked out to explain how amazing your dick was,” you chuckle, tracing his cupid’s bow. “But it’s so cool. So, so cool. You made me squirt, so take that as a sign that it’s more than cool.”

“Alright,” he pecks you again. “Just give me a moment, ‘kay? I’ll clean you up.”

Eddie stands up, cock softening as he disappears in the bathroom right outside his bedroom. He comes back with a wet towel in his hand, kneeling in front of you to wipe the mess he made.

“You stained my bed, babe,” he kisses your knee when he wipes the outside of your swollen cunt. You flinch when he accidentally presses hard on you. “Sorry.”

“‘s alright.” You smile at him.

Eddie can’t help but smile even as he wipes his mess on your stomach. And he can’t stop wanting to kiss you – which is what he does. He gives you a tender kiss. Two. Three, until he lets his tongue prod your mouth for a few seconds before pulling back.

You cup his face in your hands, tracing the creases on his face when he smiles. “You know, if you get to fuck me this good whenever I’m jealous, I’d be jealous all the time.”

“Aha!” he beams, like a triumphant child. “I knew it! You were jealous.”

You pull on his hair, glaring at him. “Freak.”

“Freak in the fucking sheets, yeah.”

“Gross.”

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bfpnola · 6 months

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ID 1: Instagram post by @/therwees. It reads: “I do not envy those of you with the ability to look away, to "log off", to prioritize your "mental health" over bearing witness to genocide. one day you will be in the position to tell someone where you were when all this happened, when an entire people were wiped off the map - what you said, how you reacted, which congress people you called on to help stop it. and you'll have to tell someone - a daughter, a grandson, a niece or nephew, a boyfriend - that you couldn't even look. that you couldn't even give those people the easiest thing you could give them, which is an eyewitness testimony of their pain, their suffering, and the denial of their freedom.” End ID.

ID 2: “here is what you must know, deep down inside of you: that the only way you are to rationalize all this death, all this tragedy, is islamophobia and racism. the only reason you are able to look away is because there is a grotesque part of you, a dead appendage of your soul, that believes brown people are destined to be miserable forever. that we deserve these calamities thrust upon us. It's why so many of you readily shared racist fabrications about baby beheadings, mass rapes, a global day of jihad. you are so ready to accept the image of the angry arab, the evil muslim, the heinous savagery innate to our identity.” End ID.

ID 3: “to be arab or muslim in this country is to be burdened with the task of constantly proving your humanity and your innocence. there is always some awful thing to condemn - a terrorist attack, a corrupt regime on another continent, a preacher's vile sermon. it is psychically_draining to be suspicious of everyone, to wonder *all the time* if your next date is gonna say something islamophobic or if your employer will hold your faith against you or if the man staring at you on the bus is going to erupt with violence. to wonder if simply advocating for the liberation of Palestinians or Iraqis or Afghans will get you fired or ostracized or even just marred with the reputation of a histrionic.” End ID.

ID 4: “and then, when the drum beat of war starts again, and the headlines start to look like guns, and the correspondents start to sound like executioners, it becomes obvious that our anxieties were not unjustified. that some of you do want us dead. that you only like falafel, that you only enjoy vacationing in marrakesh, that if bella hadid said hello to you on the street you'd have a story to tell forever, at every thanksgiving. that we bring color and vibrance to your social circles but only when we're quiet about our heartbreak. that arabic is a beautiful, sophisticated language for a barbaric people.” End ID.

ID 5: “I know, as I've always known, since 9/11, and maybe even before, since I wore the hijab for ten years during the war on terror, since I saw my mother terrorized by our neighbors, that our lives are political fodder. you like us better than we're dead. we've learned nothing from our follies in Iraq, follies that came at the cost of more than half a million Iraqi lives.” End ID.

ID 6: “american life is underwritten by the suffering of others after all. every shein haul, every iPhone, every meal delivery comes at the cost of another person's hardship. I think we really underestimate the psychic toll of this, to enjoy excess and convenience and peace at the price of someone else's despair. it has rotted our souls, to know that every gallon of gas we use steals a moment away from someone else's future, and to continue doing it.

so it is easy for us to look at the Israelis say: they should be able to enjoy their nice tel viv beaches, their lovely kibbutzes built on stolen palestinian land. civilization is built on the graves of barbarians, of people lesser than you. manifest destiny and all that.” End ID.

ID 7: “I am so heartbroken for the palestinian people. I have faith that liberation is possible, but the price they've paid for it is too heavy. it's too too heavy. and now muslims and arabs all across the world will also pay the price. the very least you can do is look.” End ID.

#reaux speaks #instagram #resources #bipoc #palestine #free palestine #arab #muslim #islam #anti zionism #united states #iraq #afghanistan #islamophobia

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trulybetty · 4 months

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Pickled Peña | Resolutions

Prompts: pickles, resolutions & "You stand there and accuse me, but where were you at the time?" Pairing: Javi P. x gn!reader Word Count: 1,041 Warnings: alcohol, hangovers, smoking, resolutions & maybe some angst? oh, and pickles if you hadn't worked that one out 😋 - oh, and author has watched like four episodes of Narcos and copious amounts of gifs! Summary: you had one resolution for the new year, yet somehow you managed break it before the new year could even really start AO3: Linked Masterlist: check out @pickled-pena for the full masterlist of entries 🥒

A/N: this is my entry for the first @pickled-pena challenge. The rules were simple, use all of the three prompts, a minimum of 500 words and have fun with it. If you want to join in on the fun, you have the month of January to post your entries. Head over to @pickled-pena for more information or feel free to reach out!

You blinked against the harsh sunlight streaming through the window, the remnants of last night's celebrations lingering like the dust in the air that could be seen in the streaks of light. You'd ended up in Javi's bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, a testament to the chaos of the evening before.

You groaned, you couldn’t remember much of what happened once you’d made it back to to his place. You tried to focus enough to look at the hands of your watch, but at that moment it was proving difficult without inciting a further pounding to your head.

What you could remember though was that it was January 1st, 1999, because last night you’d attended a New Year's party hosted by Javi’s cousin.

The house was silent and still, as if it were taking in a deep breath after the milestone of another year gone by.

With two failed attempts at getting out of bed, on the third you successfully swung your legs over the side, your feet sinking into the artificial shag of the carpet. You scrunched your feet, feeling the fibres tickle between your toes. The dark cherry hardwood panelling lined all four walls, only broken up by the sun-faded buttercup yellow curtains that framed the small window across the room.

The room, and the house encompassing it, were frozen in the fifties, the last time the home’s decor had received any attention.

Managing to pull yourself up you found the woollen sweater you’d had on the night before and after some searching managed to find your leggings on the other side of the room. The rest of your belongings had been strewn about the house in a pathway that led from the front door to the door of Javi’s room.

Stepping out of the bedroom to the living room, you were grateful the curtains were still pulled. The smell of coffee had you shuffling to the kitchen, pausing only momentarily to pull the crocheted afghan from the back of the sofa around your shoulders. The patchwork of colours was almost too bright in the light of the headache that had moved behind your eyes. You just hoped it’d stave off the cold that had settled in the house.

The kitchen tiles were cool under your feet, and had you bouncing on the balls of your feet. The cold too much coming off of the carpeted living room. You poured yourself a steaming cup of coffee. It was strong and black, the bitter aroma wrapped around you like a familiar embrace.

With the chipped mug cupped between your hands, you slipped on your boots and stepped outside. The air was chilly and the blanket wasn’t enough to stave off the cold, but it felt refreshing in your hungover state. Though very much a stark contrast to the warmth of Javi’s bed you’d left behind.

Shielding your eyes from the morning sun there he was at the edge of the property, where the land stretched out to rolling hills. He was leant against the fence, the one he and his father had built the week before, a cigarette dangling from his lips. There was an aura of peace about him that you couldn’t help but gravitate towards.

If he knew you were there, he didn’t make it known. Only acknowledging you with a brief nod when you handed him your coffee to hop up onto the fence before taking it back to fill your hands with the warmth it held.

Exchanging a look between the two of you, you accepted the silent offer of a drag from his cigarette. The smoke filled your lungs, a familiar burn that didn’t quite hide the taste of last night's mistakes.

“I broke my resolution already,” you said, the words floating out with the smoke from your lips.

Javi turned to you, a question in his eyes. “What was that?”

“That I wouldn't sleep with you again.”

You don’t know when he’d gotten that much closer, the heat of his body was in contrast to the chill of the morning. He nuzzled your jaw with his nose, a gesture so typical of him that it tightened something in your chest. “Why's that?” he asks, his voice a gentle rumble.

“You know why, Javi,” you reply, the reminder bitter on your tongue.

He smiled, a flash of teeth and mischief. “That was last year.”

“We got back here at 2 am, Javi. Hardly a new leaf turned.”

His chuckle was soft, almost lost to the wind that rustled through the trees. “Things got fuzzy after those shots.”

You both fall silent, the ridiculousness of last night's concoction making you grimace. “Who told Leslie-Ann that mixing pickle juice with tequila was a good thing?”

Javi just laughed, the sound echoing in the crisp morning air, as if the absurdity of the concoction was a fitting tribute to the absurdity of resolutions—and maybe, to the unpredictable nature of the relationship between the two of you.

He moved closer, the look in his eyes a mix of warmth and something a little more earnest. His hand found yours, fingers entwining as if they always belonged together. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that held the soft promise of the new year. It was a kiss that spoke of the years gone by, of the turbulent history shared, and the magnetic pull that kept drawing the two of you back to each other.

The kiss broke, leaving you both slightly breathless. You looked up at him, your eyes locking with his as you steadied your voice, “You stand there and accuse me, but where were you at the time?”

Javi's eyes softened, the playful edge giving way to sincerity, “I was right by your side sweetheart, making the same foolish decision as you to drink that shit.”

The intensity of his gaze held you captive, his words holding a deeper meaning tethering you to the spot. You felt the weight of the unspoken feelings between you, the years of near-misses and what-ifs crystallizing into a single, fragile moment under that New Year's sky.

#pickledpena #pickledpeña writing challenge #pickled-pena #pickled-peña #javier peña fanfiction #javi peña x you #narcos fanfiction #javi peña x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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afghanbarbie · 1 month

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The sex-based apartheid against women in Afghanistan cannot be reduced to, "Afghan men saw Afghan women enjoying freedom and got mad, so they established extremist religious governments to stop it." I am really tired of seeing this misconception and oversimplification spread around by leftists, liberals and feminists – it's racist, and simply not fucking true.

The majority of Afghans want a secular government and for the oppression of women to end. The Taliban represent a minority of Afghanistan's people. The deterioration of Afghan society – in particular, women's rights and freedoms – directly results from decades of foreign intervention, imperialism and occupation. Afghans did not destroy Afghanistan, the United States did, and the USSR paved the way for them to do so.

Had Afghanistan never been treated like a pawn in the games played by imperialistic powers, had we not been reduced to resources, strategic importance and a tool for weakening the enemy, extremism would have never come to power.

An overview of Afghanistan's recent history:

The USSR wanted to incorporate Afghanistan into Soviet Central Asia and did so by sabotaging indigenous Afghan communist movements and replacing our leaders with those loyal to the USSR. The United States began funding and training Islamic extremists – the Mujahideen – to fight against the Soviet influence and subsequent invasion, and to help the CIA suppress any indigenous Afghan leftist movements. Those Mujahideen won the war, and then spent the next decade fighting for absolute control over Afghanistan.

During that time period, known as the Afghan Civil War, the Mujahideen became warlords, each enforcing their own laws on the regions they controlled. Kabul was nearly destroyed, and the chaos, destruction and death was largely ignored by the United States despite being the ones who caused and empowered it. This civil war era created the perfect, unstable environment needed to give a fringe but strong group like the Taliban a chance to rise to power. And after two decades of war, a singular entity taking control and bringing 'peace' was enticing to all Afghans, even if their views were objectively more extreme than what we had been enduring up to that point.

When the United States invaded Afghanistan in 2001, they allied with the same warlords that had been destroying our country the decade prior and whom they had rallied against the Soviets – these are the people that made up the Northern Alliance. The 'good guys' that America gave us were rapists, pillagers, and violent extremists, no better than the Taliban. And that's not even mentioning the horrible atrocities and war crimes committed by American forces themselves.

So, no, Afghan men did not collectively wake up one day and decide that women had too much freedom and rush to establish an extremist government overnight. No, this is not to excuse the misogyny of men in our society – the extremists had to already exist for Americans to fund and arm them against the Soviets – but rather to redirect the bulk of this racist blame to the actual culprits. The religious extremism and sex-based apartheid would not be oppressing and murdering us today if they hadn't been funded and supported by the United States of America thirty years ago. And despite all the abuses and restrictions, many Afghan women prefer the Taliban's current government to another American occupation. I felt safer walking in Taliban-controlled Kabul than I did being 'randomly searched' (sexually assaulted) by American military police in my village as a child.

Imperialism is inextricably linked with patriarchal violence and women's oppression. You cannot talk about the deterioration of Afghanistan without talking about the true cause of said decline: The United States of America. Americans of all political views, including leftists and feminists, are guilty of reducing or outright ignoring Western responsibility for female oppression in the Global South, finding it much easier to place all blame on the foreign brown man or our supposedly backwards, savage cultures, when the most responsibility belongs with Western governments and their meddling games that forced the most violent misogynists among us into power.

(Most of this information comes from my own experience living as an Afghan Hazara woman in Afghanistan, but Bleeding Afghanistan: Washington, Warlords and the Propaganda of Silence covers this in much more detail. If you want more on the Soviet-Afghan war and Afghanistan's socialist history, Revolutionary Afghanistan is an English-language source from a more leftist perspective)

#afghanistan #taliban #anti imperialism #feminism #radfem safe #america is a terrorist state #america is a failed state #global south #western imperialism #hazara genocide

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mariacallous · 5 months

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Afghan refugees who fled their country to escape from decades of war and terrorism have become the unwitting pawns in a cruel and crude political tussle between Pakistan’s government and the extremist Taliban as their once-close relationship disintegrates amid mutual recrimination.

On Oct. 3, Pakistan’s government announced that mass deportations of illegal immigrants, mostly Afghans, would start on Nov. 1. So far, at least 300,000 Afghans have already been ejected, and more than a million others face the same fate as the expulsions continue.

The bilateral fight appears to center on Kabul’s support for extremists who have wreaked havoc and killed hundreds in Pakistan over the last two years—or at least that is how Islamabad sees it, arguing that it is simply applying its own laws. The Taliban deny accusations that they are behind the uptick of terrorism in Pakistan by affiliates that they protect, train, arm, and direct.

Mass deportations are a sign that Pakistan is “putting its house in order,” said Pakistan’s caretaker minister of interior, Sarfraz Bugti. “Pakistan is the only country hosting four million refugees for the last 40 years and still hosting them,” he said via text. “Whoever wanted to stay in our country must stay legally.” Of the 300,000 Afghans already ejected, none have faced any problems upon returning, he told Foreign Policy. As the Taliban are claiming that Afghanistan is now peaceful, he said, “they should help their countrymen to settle themselves.”

“We are not a cruel state,” he said, adding: “Pakistanis are more important.”

The Taliban—who, since returning to power in August 2021, have been responsible for U.N.-documented arbitrary detentions and killings, as well forcing women and girls out of work and education—have called Pakistan’s deportations “inhumane” and “rushed.” Taliban figures have said that the billions of dollars of international aid they still receive are insufficient to deal with the country’s prior economic and humanitarian crises, let alone a mass influx of penniless refugees.

The expulsions come after earlier efforts by Pakistan, such as trade restrictions, to exert pressure on Kabul to rein in the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), the Pakistani Taliban, whose attacks on military and police present a severe security challenge to the Pakistani state. Acting Prime Minister Anwar ul-Haq Kakar said earlier this month that TTP attacks have risen by 60 percent since the Taliban regained control of Afghanistan, with 2,267 people killed.

The irony is that Pakistan bankrolled the Taliban throughout their 20-year insurgency following their ouster from power during the U.S.-led invasion in 2001. Taliban leaders found sanctuary and funding from Pakistan’s military and intelligence services. When the Taliban retook control of Afghanistan in 2021, then-Pakistani Prime Minister Imran Khan congratulated them, as did groups such as al Qaeda and Hamas. But rather than continuing as Islamabad’s proxy, the Taliban have reversed roles, providing safe haven for terrorist and jihadi groups, including the TTP.

“While it’s still too early to draw any conclusions on policy shifts in Islamabad, it appears that the initial excitement about the Taliban’s return to power has now turned into frustration,” said Abdullah Khenjani, a former deputy minister of peace in the previous Afghan government. “Consequently, these traditional [Pakistani state] allies of the Taliban are systematically reassessing their leverage to be prepared for potentially worse scenarios.”

Since the Taliban’s return, around 600,000 Afghans made their way into Pakistan, swelling the number of Afghan refugees in the country to an estimated 3.7 million, with 1.32 million registered with the U.N. High Commission on Refugees. Many face destitution, unable to find work or even send their children to local schools. The situation may be even worse after the deportations: Pakistan is reportedly confiscating most of the refugees’ money on the way out, leaving them in a precarious situation in a country already struggling to create jobs for its people or deal with its own humanitarian crises.

Border crossings between Pakistan and Afghanistan have been clogged in recent weeks, as many Afghan refugees preempted the police round-up and began making their way back. Media have reported that some of the undocumented Afghans were born in Pakistan, their parents having fled the uninterrupted conflict at home since the former Soviet Union invaded in 1979. Many of the births were not registered.

Meanwhile, some groups among those being expelled are especially vulnerable. Hundreds of Afghans could face retribution from the Taliban they left the country to escape. Journalists, women, civil and human rights activists, LGBTQ+ advocates, judges, police, former military and government personnel, and Shiite Hazaras have all been targeted by the Taliban, and many escaped to Pakistan, with and without official documents.

Some efforts have been made to help Afghans regarded as vulnerable to Taliban excess if they are returned. Qamar Yousafzai set up the Pakistan-Afghanistan International Federation of Journalists at the National Press Club of Pakistan, in Islamabad, to verify the identities of hundreds of Afghan journalists, issue them with ID cards, and help with housing and health care. He has also interceded for journalists detained by police for a lack of papers. Yet that might not be enough to prevent their deportation.

Amnesty International called for a “halt [to] the continued detentions, deportations, and widespread harassment of Afghan refugees.” If not, it said, “it will be denying thousands of at-risk Afghans, especially women and girls, access to safety, education and livelihood.” The UNHCR and International Organization for Migration, the U.N.’s migration agency, said the forced repatriations had “the potential to result in severe human rights violations, including the separation of families and deportation of minors.”

Once back in Afghanistan, returnees have found the going tough, arriving in a country they hardly know, without resources to restart their lives, many facing a harsh Himalayan winter in camps set up by a Taliban administration ill-equipped to provide for them.

Fariba Faizi, 29, is from the southwestern Afghanistan city of Farah, where she was a journalist with a private radio station. Her mother, Shirin, was a prosecutor for the Farah provincial attorney general’s office, specializing in domestic violence cases. Once the Taliban returned to power, they were both out of their jobs, since women are not permitted to work in the new Afghanistan. They also faced the possibility of detention, beating, rape, and killing.

Along with her family of 10 (parents, siblings, husband, and toddler), Faizi, now eight months pregnant with her second child, moved to Islamabad in April 2022, hoping they’d be safe enough. Once the government announced the deportations, landlords who had been renting to Afghans began to evict them; Faizi’s landlord said he wanted the house back for himself. Her family is now living with friends of Yousafzai, who also arranged charitable support to cover their living costs for six months, she said.

With no work in either Pakistan or Afghanistan, Faizi said, they faced a similar economic situation on either side of the border. In Pakistan, however, the women in the family could at least look for work, she said; their preference would be to stay in Pakistan. As it is, they remain in hiding, afraid of being detained by police and forced over the border once their visas expire.

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edenfenixblogs · 3 months

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The Jews who argue against the word “genocide” do not do so because they support what is happening; they do so because they are arguing that what is happening is better described by the term “ethnic cleansing,” which is also a horrifically bad and inexcusable thing. It just also doesn’t have the antisemitic connotation here.

Hey, need to point out using Ethnic Cleansing (which i only saw used by slightly less radical left) is just as bad and inaccurate to use as Genocide- Jews have experienced Ethnic Cleansing and to label this war as such disregards the actual ethnic cleansing Jews experienced for centuries- most recently SWANA Jews! And I would argue Ethiopian Jews too. Individuals willingly and temporarily leaving their home because it is a war zone (due to a war their leadership systems!) is not ethnic cleansing. We can look to what is happening to Armenians, and Afghans in Pakistan- that is ethnic cleansing.

I really need people to brush up not only on their dictionary terms but on the legal definitions that help determine something. Definitions and the correct usage of them matter! Languages matters- when we use definitions wrongly we water them down.

This is why we have people screaming genocide at something that isn’t one! Because their definition of genocide has been watered down- because every war is suddenly a genocide and every bad person I disagree with is a Nazi.. You get my drift. I’m very sensitive to correct usage of words and definitions.

I absolutely understand this perspective and I refrain from using either term personally with regard to this conflict.

I respect your sensitivity, which is one of many reasons I urge people to try to understand the impact of these words on the Jewish community.

That said, I am sensitive also to the fact that there are dictionary definitions of things and legal definitions of things and scholarly definitions of things. I try to keep in mind that everyone is approaching this conflict from their own cultural context so I am not as intense personally about correcting people's usage of these terms, simply because I'm not expert enough to determine which definition is "best." I think legal definitions should definitely always be used in the context of legal discussions, but I don't know if the legal definition is best in a sociological context.

I want to be clear: I'm not disagreeing with you. I'm just respecting my own limitations on this subject matter.

Rest assured, we agree on the main point here: It is important to be specific and accurate in the usage of terms. We cannot allow emotions running high to justify the watering down of such serious terms.

People of all identities affected by this conflict should approach discussions of terms in the same way they approach everything else about this conflict: with good faith, an open heart, and a goal of peace.

I respect that you also disagree with the use of the term ethnic cleansing. However, I personally do not agree that it is "as bad." This is not me trying to tell you that you're wrong. I just think this particular discussion point has a lot of equally valid takes. Your take is absolutely valid. But allow me to explain my take on the situation, which I consider to be equally valid:

I think there is a lot more wiggle room in the term "ethnic cleansing" than there is in the term "genocide." When I use the term ethnic cleansing, I am referring to the United Nations Office on Genocide Prevention and the Responsibility to Protect.

The key takeaways I have from the United Nations here is that ethnic cleansing is not actually a crime under international law. The two very loose definitions offered here are:

… rendering an area ethnically homogeneous by using force or intimidation to remove persons of given groups from the area.

a purposeful policy designed by one ethnic or religious group to remove by violent and terror-inspiring means the civilian population of another ethnic or religious group from certain geographic areas.”

I consider Palestinians to be a an ethnic group. I know some critics do not, but I disagree with those people. So if you do not agree with me on that, I doubt we will agree on the specifics that follow. I think recognizing Palestinian identity is vital to fostering a peaceful future for all currently residing in the Levant. However, I know that there are also politics and political realities in Israel between those who call themselves Arab-Israelies vs. Palestinians. I do my best to stay informed about topics, but this is too fraught for me to parse with any authority. I believe in Palestinian ethnic identity because of several reasons I won't elaborate on here, but can elaborate on upon request.

I am not particularly swayed by the first bullet point. I do not believe that Israel is trying to render Palestine as ethnically homogeneous, even though they are using force on the area.

The second bullet point has merit to me. I do not believe all Jews or all Israelis wish to eradicate and remove Palestinians from the Levant, so I do not consider Israelis in general or Jews in general responsible for the cleansing. Furthermore, even though I am personally a pacifist, I am also pragmatic. I believe there are much less violent ways to eradicate Hamas than the heavy bombing currently taking place. I also know Hamas has been firing rockets into Israeli civilian areas for quite a long time and Israel has every right to treat Hamas like the hostile, terrorist organization it is.

But I do hold Netanyahu and the Likud party responsible for their affect on Palestinian civilians. I was disgusted when Netanyahu justified his violent actions by invoking Amalek. And I believe that by invoking Amalek he did in fact cause all of his actions as commander of the military to be in support of ethnic cleansing. I do not deny the parallels between the Amalekites relationship to the ancient people of Israel and Palestine's relationship to the modern state of Israel: namely, repeated attempts to destroy Israel, repeated attacks on Israeli civilians (including the taking of hostages and the attack of women and children and the elderly as a terror tactic). However, what I cannot and will never endorse is the implication that we should treat Palestine the way ancient Israel treated the Amalekites.

G-d ordered the people of Israel to blot out the living memory of the Amalekites from the earth--to eliminate every living Amalekite as well as their city and livestock so that they would only be remembered for the horror they inflicted.

We cannot and must not treat modern Palestinians in this manner, and by invoking a religious precedent in this manner as justification for the modern assault on Gaza, I cannot really conceive of a way in which this is not a specific, religious directive to violently target a civilian population on the grounds of their ethnic identity.

Before anyone uses this as an excuse to demonize all Israelis or Jews, I want to explicitly shut that down as well. I know for a fact that not all Israelis or Jews support or agree with Netanyahu here. And while Netanyahu's horrific invocation of Amalek must be rejected, that rejection does not mean that there should be no consequences for Hamas terrorists and those who support their terror. What it does mean, is that as long as Netanyahu is directing the military response, he is, in my personal opinion, carrying out an ethnic cleansing. And we must be able to criticize him for that and respect Palestinian civilians enough to give them the grace to use the phrase "ethnic cleansing" to describe the horror they are experiencing. Criticizing this does not mean Israel has no justifiable military response. Hamas has been engaging in antisemitic terror and mass violence against Israelis and Jews for a long time, even prior to 10/7, in a way that must be stopped by force. However, the main goal for all people of good faith affected by this conflict should always remain peace, not retaliation or attacks on ANYONE (Jewish or Arab) based on their ethnic identity.

I fully respect that you may disagree with this. As there is no legally widespread accepted definition of ethnic cleansing, you may be operating under a different set of criteria to define the term "ethnic cleansing." That's OK, too. I would not call myself uninformed on the topic of the i/p conflict. I have been actively affected by it for over 25 years. That said, I'm also no scholar or international expert on the topic either. I would rate my knowledge and familiarity with the conflict and relevant terminology to be much higher than average and steeped in years of observation and personal experience. So, if I still view his as a matter up for a variety of interpretations, I cannot fault others for feeling the same way, even if that means they disagree with me. I hope this makes sense, and you are able to see my stance as legitimate, even if you disagree with it.

#ask me stuff #4everevolving #i/p #israel #palestine #jewish muslim solidarity #arab israeli solidarity #ethnic cleansing #terminology #amalek #amalekites #fuck netanyahu #hamas is a terrorist organization

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ancaporado · 6 months

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None of us wanted to be right when Dr. Paul explained 20 years ago that inflation, war, and empire are the death of nations. The US has committed suicide, we are just waiting for this beast to finish bleeding to death. The hubris and ignorance of the elite blinds them to these facts. They seem to genuinely believe it's still 1995. We are physically incapable of preventing the Russians, the Arabs, Persians, or Chinese from becoming dominate regional powers. We can no longer administer the global order with impunity. We could have saved 10,000s of our own soldiers lives, trillions in treasure had we not had the folly of the Iraq and Afghan Wars. Bin Laden won. We could have had peace, trade, security, and moral righteousness. Now we are desperately clinging to a bygone world order and sacrificing the wealth of generations for proxy wars. I pray our enemies have mercy for us.

Prepare youself accordingly.

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abyssal-ali · 5 months

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Project #68 [Operation Concupiscence] - 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 ao3 Masterlist | Day 3: Erotic dreams about a best friend are so wrong, but so good

Rating: M WC: 2k TW: Demon AU

Raven materialized out of the shadows in the middle of the Common Room, directly behind Damian.

With an inward snicker, she tapped him on the shoulder.

When he whirled, she ducked and tapped him on the other shoulder.

He spun the other way, a flicker of flame forming at his fingertips.

Raven decided to reveal herself before he burned down the Demon Coven, clearing her throat quietly.

The flicker died when he saw it was only her behind him, his gaze flatly meeting hers. “Hilarious,” he said dryly.

She grinned cheekily in return, pleased at having turned the tables on him for once. She sank into the overstuffed sofa behind her, Damian perching regally in the other corner.

“Why do you want to know?” Raven asked him again.

Damian shuffled his feet.

She slapped his thigh. “Shh!”

Grimacing at her, he lifted them to sit cross-legged and facing her.

His fingers picked at the fringes of the afghan slung over the back of the sofa, braiding them together neatly.

“I’ve been curious since Year One, you know,” he said at last.

Raven frowned, trying to remember what had happened when she was twelve.

“I grew up being taught how to control my natural abilities to influence people, but I was still young when I arrived here, so sometimes if I was emotionally unstable, I would unintentionally influence others.” She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“One time I was really…emotional. And I was influencing everyone, even though I didn’t realize it. When an older student pointed it out, because they were almost affected before they realised what was going on, I noticed that you were the only one unaffected by me.

“Once I had my abilities firmly under control, I started little experiments to test you. You never reacted, even if other students were influenced. You fascinated me. You weren’t drawn to my natural, unintentional charm, and you even disliked me. You didn’t care about my heritage, you just challenged me academically. I liked that about you.” He ducked his head at that admission.

Raven hummed thoughtfully.

“Thanks for explaining that, Damian.”

He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “So, are you going to tell me how you avoided my charms?”

“Ugh, turnabout is fair play, or whatever the humans say, I guess. I’m actually not an Amaimonite-human hybrid; my mother was a rare Azraeline. I’m an empath demon.”

Damian’s jaw loosened. “I thought all the empath Azraelines were extinct.”

“They are now,” Raven informed him bitterly. “My mother’s world was destroyed by my father when he came to take me back to his world.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s hardly your fault.”

“I know. Just let me comfort you, okay?” he whispered harshly. “I know I don’t always show it, but I am an incubus; we’re in touch with other’s emotions.”

Raven scoffed at him but moved over to lean against his chest and let him hug her. Damian ran his hand up and down her arm soothingly, sending waves of relaxation and peace towards her.

“My mother knew life would be tough, so she taught me how to keep my emotional walls up and not be influenced by others’ feelings. I probably didn’t even notice and naturally repelled your charms back then,” she murmured drowsily. “But don’t be so sad. I think somehow your charms got past my walls anyways.”

~~~

Raven squirmed in Damian’s arms, overwhelmed with sensations. His large hands lightly traced runes on her bare skin, while his feather-soft lips pressed kisses to her most sensitive parts.

“See how it feels when you let me in?” He paused his path down her chest to gaze up at her.

“Yes,” she agreed impatiently, carding her fingers through his fluffy hair. “You’re even more annoying than usual. Kiss me already.”

Damian tutted. “If you want me to kiss you, you can’t call me annoying. You’re giving me mixed signals here.”

She groaned, catching some words that would definitely not further his kissing on the tip of her tongue, biting her lip to corral them.

He watched her trace her lips, then met her gaze again. “What’s it gonna be, Roth?”

“Ugh, just kiss me, al Ghul.” She wrapped her arms around his back, hauling him up to her mouth.

~~~

Damian’s eyes opened abruptly, his lips tingling with phantom warmth from Raven’s kiss.

The object of his thoughts and dreams was curled up between his arms, her cheeks pouty from being squished against his chest.

He carefully sat up, making sure not to wake Raven, while he collected his thoughts.

She shifted against him, her knee hooking farther around his thigh.

Damian pinched his eyes shut, ignoring his friend practically grinding against him in her sleep, doing his best to think about things like his upcoming Summonings test, or his Lust Potion assign- no, his everyday katas were a better subject to ruminate upon. Her eyelashes curved against her cheek so delicately, surprisingly fine considering her thick dark hair…wait, katas.

“D’m’an,” Raven slurred, her nails scratching lightly down his back, sending shivers down his spine.

He jerked unconsciously, his hips meeting hers.

Raven’s breathing changed, and Damian relaxed into practiced faux-sleep, closing his eyes as Raven woke up.

She stilled, acting much like he had when he’d first awoken.

A whispered curse met Damian’s ears as she took in their entangled limbs and attempted to unwind herself. She’d been quite the clinger, trapping Damian in her embrace, willing though it was. Slowly, painstakingly, she crept free.

Damian focused on keeping his breathing even to stop himself from gripping her wrist and begging her to stay.

“What did you do, Raven?!” she muttered to herself, standing up soundlessly. “Dreaming about your best friend like that?! Sheesh, you’re too comfortable with him.”

The warmth of the afghan settled over Damian before he heard her footsteps retreat to her room.

He’d mentally tracked her to the hallway leading to the individual dorms when she cursed again, the sound making him suspect she’d stubbed her toe as she bounced on one leg, hissing.

Deciding that was as good a cue as any, he rubbed his eyes, leaning over the back of the sofa.

“Roth?”

“Al Ghul.” She held her foot in her hand, her second pair of eyes appearing with a red glow.

“Uh, are you alright?”

“No!” she hissed. “Stupid door frame, I swear…”

Damian swallowed a chuckle. “Good thing we woke up early, before anyone found us out here, huh?”

“Distracting me is not going to take the–azarath!--sting out of this, al Ghul,” she warned.

He shrugged. “Was worth a shot. Would the reminder of how you woke up distract you sufficiently?”

Even halfway across the room, in the early morning, Damian could make out the flare of colour spreading over Raven’s upper body.

“You were awake?” her tone dripped with mortification.

“Was kinda hard not to be,” he inwardly snickered at his innuendo. “You seemed like you were having a good time.”

The afghan raised from its comforting warmth to drape over his head, but he still heard her retreat.

Smirking to himself, he lay back down and plotted how to fluster her more.

~~~

Raven (gently) dropped the tome onto the table beside Damian, a thin cloud of dust floating up from the cover.

He jerked in his seat.

“I may have found something,” she informed him.

“Oh?”

“I marked the relevant pages, as you can see. Tell me your thoughts once you’ve read everything.”

The quiet scritch of her quill on parchment filled the air while Damian perused the pages, occasionally glancing through his pages of notes beside him.

“I think with this, we have enough to write our essay for Zatara,” he finally turned to her, a genuine smile curling his lips.

“I’m so glad you agree; I have a rough draft worked out already.” Raven pulled out a roll of parchment from her satchel and handed it to him.

He chuckled. “Of course you already have a rough draft.”

“As if you don’t?” she stared at him, daring him to disagree and lie to her face.

“I might.”

“So, one last study session tonight after patrols?” “Sure. My room or yours?”

She considered it momentarily as she packed up her things. “Yours.”

~~~

The quiet knock on his door alerted him before Raven slipped inside.

“Sorry I’m late, one of the Year Ones got lost and needed a guide.”

“You’re not late; I just arrived myself. Party in the Year Sixes’ dorms.”

“Oh, you didn’t stay for the festivities? I’m shocked,” Raven said in a monotone.

Damian grinned evilly. “Oh no, I was the evil Year Eight who took great pleasure in shutting it down.”

Raven smirked. “Nice.”

She unloaded her armful onto his desk, spreading out papers, quills, and books in neat rows.

Damian blinked.

“You carry all that with you? Why not just summon it?”

“It looks like I have an excuse to be out past curfew, then,” Raven said, leaving an unspoken ‘duh’ at the end.

That was clever.

“How many times has that excuse saved your behind from being given detention?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she grinned up at him, the curve of her hair teasing her neck as Damian imagined following its lines with his lips-

“Well, let’s get started.”

~~~

Damian glanced at the clock as he handed her the stack of papers, their final draft dry and neatly tied together.

“It’s a little late to test your excuse, don’t you think, Roth? You can stay here; better safe than sorry.”

“You think I’m safe here?”

Damian’s jaw dropped in offense at her words.

“Do you really think-”

“-No, no, Damian, I’m sorry. It was just a joke; I wasn’t thinking.”

She really hadn’t meant to imply anything untoward, she was just tired and trying to crack a joke and didn’t think about its consequences. He looked really hurt, and…now he was grinning.

“I know, Roth. You could take me out in a second if you wanted, anyways.”

What an insufferable tease…but oh, what a perfect set up he had left her.

“I do want, actually. Tomorrow, after Advanced Potions, you and I.”

“What?”

How eloquent. This was why she liked him.

“I’m trying to take you out,” she elucidated, taking a step towards him. “What do you think?”

“Oh! I think that sounds like a date, which I would love to go on, as long as you’re the only one attending.” He moved forwards.

“It is a date.”

“Maybe we could go on this date as boyfriend and girlfriend?”

“That sounds perfect.” Their noses were touching now. “Maybe we could kiss on this date, too.”

“That sounds good,” his voice sounded huskier. “I think we should practice before the date. Just to make sure.”

“Okay,” she breathed, rising on her tiptoes to cover the minuscule gap between them.

~~~

They stayed in the middle of the room, doing nothing more than kissing, for quite a while.

Finally Raven pulled away, lips red and kiss-swollen. “I think this bodes well for our date, but I need my beauty sleep if I want to be presentable for it.”

Damian waved gracefully at his bed. “I’d like to preface this by saying I’d think you were lovely no matter what; but please, make yourself at home.”

She snorted at his flattery but climbed onto the fluffy structure. “Trust me, al Ghul, you haven’t seen me first thing in the morning after pulling an all-nighter.”

“I haven’t, unfortunately, but I’d like to,” he agreed, stepping into his closet to pull on sweats.

“Who made you so flirty?” Raven pulled up his furry blanket to her chin, relishing in its heavy softness.

He exited his closet and crawled in on the other side, rolling over to face her, tracing the shape of her face with his fingertips. “You bring it out in me.”

She fell asleep to the comforting sounds of his breathing, the faint touch of his fingers still sparking through her nerves.

#damirae sauce week 2023 #damirae #demonbirds #ali writes #fic #damirae smut

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hockybish · 1 month

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nico and matt making up more?

Nico woke up at some point early in the morning and couldn't fall back asleep. Knowing Matthew had the tea she liked, she got up to make herself a cup. On her way to the kitchen she notice him sleeping on the couch with the TV on.

She snagged the crocheted afghan the had been draped over a chair and threw it on him. She turned off whatever was playing in the background. She turned to face Matt on the couch again.

He looked so peaceful sleeping. She couldn't help herself. Her lips brushed against his cheek. And she swore he was smiling, it could have been something he was dreaming about but she liked to think it was because of her kiss.

The next morning Matt woke up to a burning smell coming from the kitchen. He scrambled to get off the sofa when the smoke alarm started going off.

“What are you doing?” He found Nico trying to cook something on the stove and fail horribly like she always does when she tries to cook. Thank god when she’s at the u she has Mara to cook for her or else she probably wouldn’t eat.

"Making breakfast." Nico had her tongue sticking out slightly. Even though the food was burned at this point she was still very concentrated on salvaging something out of it. Eventually she did get frustrated with it not turning out and ultimately tossed the eggs, instead opting to make a couple of slices of toast. She couldn't mess that up, like she had everything else.

"I'm sorry" She mumbled, she needed to break up the quietness. The silence between them was too tangible. Nico was staring at the table, memorizing the patterns in the wood, while Matt grabbed one of the pieces of toast.

"I know you said that last night." Crunch, Matt bit into the toasted bread.

"I know I did, but it got me thinking maybe you were proposing to lock me down, because of the whole Brock thing last season." She continued rambling off more of an explanation. She needed him to know.

"Can I talk?" Matthew switched the conversation. He had heard all she had said, he understood where she was coming from with her actions. He forgave her already. But did she really understand how much she hurt him?

She nodded giving him her full attention.

"It really hurt Nico. I know you didn't mean it. But just walking out of the restaurant not saying anything? I was confused. It felt like you were walking on me, like maybe you didn't want me anymore and I couldn't figure out why."

"All I was trying to do was tell you how proud I was of you. You set records this year and I couldn't be there for any of it. I wanted to give you something that showed how sorry I was for that. I wanted to make up for it. And you basically threw it back in my face."

"So I figured if you were leaving, I was going to too. I left the necklace with the Carmen to give to you, because I knew you come to your sense about the whole thing. See, I know you, I'm not some stupid hockey player."

"I never said that!" Nico tried to interject.

"I know, but it felt like that. And at one point you did think like that." He knew hoe she used to feel about him. But that was a few years ago, her opinions have obviously changed since then.

"So where do we go from here Matty?" She fiddled with the necklace again. She didn't want to lose him. She couldn't lose him.

"I forgive you and I love you too much to break up with you." He turned his lips up into a small smile. "I don't want to act like this never happened, I just need a little time, okay? You have camp and then it's Paris. Let's keep doing what we're doing and we'll be okay."

She sighed in relief. Nico knew she had a long way to make up for this whole situation. Maybe she could start tonight by taking him out, courtesy of her brother.

#zegras!sister au #nicolette.grace #matthew x nico #I hope this makes sense

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wizzard890 · 2 years

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how do you deal with liking an author's work when you find out the author has done something shitty/harmful? i found out yesterday that hilary mantel made terf-y comments and i'm (what feels like) unreasonably devastated. thought you might have a good perspective on this, thx.

There are two questions here, as I perceive it. So I'll answer both, separately.

1.. You're basically asking how to separate the art from the artist. This is a question that has been litigated to death, but my thoughts are blessedly short: you decide it for yourself. If someone has done something or holds opinions that irrevocably color your opinion of their work, that can be all there is to it. How you choose to engage with art is your own business, and so are the things you think are a bridge too far. However, we all should appreciate that other people don't have the same cut off points as we do, and let them navigate their own feelings in peace.

2. A few things, right off the top. At this point, TERFs are a fascist hate movement. They're no longer exclusionists, or uncomfortable, or confused, or asking bigoted questions. They're like (and often allied with) Nazis: their goal is to suppress and destroy people in order to make the world fall into line with their politics. A seventy year old woman getting her dander slightly up about The (British media's largely fictional) Gender Wars is not the same thing as TERF apologism. I understand that it can be upsetting to see an author whose work you love espouse views you feel are self-evidently wrong, but at this point we need to be very very clear about what it means to be a TERF. What we could call "terf-y comments" in 2013 are a world away from what TERFs have become.

With that said, I'd like to take a look at the comments in question, which I'm quite familiar with. I've thought about them a lot.

(They're all from this interview in la Repubblica, a centrist Italian newspaper, if anyone wants to play along at home.)

The conversation is wide ranging, but eventually the questions begin to hone in on nationalism and the state of the country, and the interviewer asks Mantel about the future for women in the UK.

You are also a great example and symbol for all the women in this country and worldwide. Are you optimistic about the future of women’s equality? Mantel: "I would say, as I did above, that from where I stand, the world seems to be getting better. But I would hardly feel that if I were a young Afghan."

This response reaffirms Mantel's attitude in the larger piece: she approaches liberal ideas of progress with a grain of salt, and emphasizes that the world does not improve for all people at the same rate or through the same means.

The interviewer then pivots somewhat sharply into a question about JK Rowling.

From the point of view of a woman, what’s your opinion on the TERF-accusations against your colleague JK Rowling? I recently interviewed Margaret Atwood and she defended her. What’s your opinion about all this?

Mantel's answer is long, and has therefore been pull-quoted by all sorts of people in all sorts of different ways. So let's break it down a section at a time. First, her response to the direct query about Rowling:

Mantel: I have never met JK Rowling, but I know her to be a woman who has brought much pleasure and done much good. I think the attacks on her were unjustified and shameful. It is barbaric that a tiny minority should take command of public discourse and terrify those who disagree with them.

So here's the thing. JK Rowling has brought much pleasure and done much good. Does this uncouple her from the fascist shitheels she pals around with? Absolutely not. But we are on Tumblr, we all know how much joy people have taken from her books. It's also a matter of public record that Rowling has been very generous with her wealth.

She also has been viciously harassed online. This was happening long before she went full TERF, when she was circling the top of the radicalization funnel, liking gross tweets and "just asking questions." I understand why some people, especially trans and GNC people who have a fraction, a skerrick of the power JK Rowling has, lashed out at her when they saw her teetering at the top of that long drop. She was deluged with threats of murder, rape, and violence.

Two things are true at once.

One: JK Rowling's decision to loudly side with a hate movement is hers and hers alone. It is her responsibility and her inexcusable moral failing.

Two: a woman who has been a victim of domestic violence and sexual assault getting inundated with online harassment absolutely sucks. The fact that it happened at a delicate point in the radicalization process, and at the hands of people she associates with the entire trans rights movement, likely shut off some routes that might have been used to reach her.

What a shitty, ugly situation all around. But, returning to Mrs. Mantel, it is worth remembering: this is a shitty, ugly, very online situation all around.

The legacy media has covered Rowling's harassment. Beloved author devoured by her own fans! That's news. Online radicalization and the struggles of the trans community? Less so.

Mantel is famously analogue. She has no internet presence, and used a typewriter for comms with her editor at The London Review of Books until the mid-aughts. She presumably knows about JK Rowling what your grandma knows about JK Rowling: she wrote the Harry Potter books, and used that money to become a famous philanthropist. People on the internet are harassing her for -- vague reasons, reasons that those big articles in the Guardian never quite manage to explore in depth.

What does Hilary Mantel know about cancel culture? The same thing, again, that your grandma does, because that's the moment of moral panic we're in. This doesn't come from exclusively right wing sources, either. You know what The New York Times writes, you can find ten fuckin...coastal media listicles on this shit right now.

Cancel Culture, as a concept, is an amorphous blob of lies (trigger warnings are for kids who Just Can't Handle Shakespeare), actual infighting (the cultural elite just can't decide whether watching a movie about about rape makes you a rapist), and the complex rendered flatly as possible (someone said that abortion is in many ways a women's issue and now everyone is screaming at one another). And then this whole blob is just thrown, undifferentiated and sensationalized, into the opinion sections of every newspaper in Britain and the United States.

What a seventy year old woman is going to glean from this pearl clutching from the papers of record, rightly or wrongly, is that a small group is taking "command of public discourse and [terrifying] those who disagree with them."

Is that what happened with JK Rowling's harassment? It's more complicated than that. But you know what else is more complicated than that? An elderly woman's uncertainty as to whether gains that she fought for, struggles she lived with, will be elided by a fast moving world with no grace for nuance. I think you can see a genuinely confused and defensive human moment in the second part of Mantel's answer to the interviewer, something that makes me take her comments in much better faith:

"I recently found myself ‘misgendered.’ I received a university publication, with news items relating to alumni, where I was referred to as ‘they,’ not ‘she.’ My books were ‘their books.’ I wasn’t singled out – the other alumni were similarly treated. I thought, ‘Being a woman means a lot to me. My sense of it has been tested. I have thought deeply about it. I value it, even though it has meant struggle and pain. I do not want my womanhood confiscated in print. It is not right to deprive an individual of identity on a whim, and make him or her into something neuter, plural. I have not given my consent to become a grammatical error."

You see this sentiment a lot with older women. You see it with Gen X and Boomer lesbians. You see it with second wave feminists who have fought for reproductive justice. Women who have had to really fucking knock their heads against a brick wall in the mid-20th century, trying to establish themselves as creatives or career people or someone who wanted to have a fucking abortion, or a lesbian who didn't want to give dick a chance because who knows she might Change Her Mind. Being a woman means a lot to them. Accomplishing what they have, as women, means a lot to them.

I have empathy for her dismay at seeing herself misrepresented, especially in such a top-down way, from a university publication that was clearly covering its ass rather than reaching out to the authors in question to discern their pronouns.

Unfortunately this adds fuel to that Cancel Culture moral panic: you will not have a say in how you are understood or perceived, you will have something personal and intimate about yourself dictated to you by a group that does not know you and cares for you only insomuch as you acquiesce to their worldview.

(Note: this is what trans people go through at the hands of a cis-oriented culture every day.)

Older women have been through a lot, and I want us to remember that they can and should be our allies. Often all it takes is for someone to explain to them what the trans rights movement actually is. Away from splashy newspaper articles and the shit that they have swimming in our brains that we heard somewhere once and take as unconfirmed but emotionally urgent concerns. If a person is, overall, thoughtful and compassionate, I think it's best to extend a hand to them in good faith, and see what can be achieved with dialogue.

I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I was born fully formed with a nuanced and evolved and sensitive understanding of trans people or their struggles or the social aims of their justice movement. I'm not going to pretend I had one five years ago. Or even now. I'm just trying my best here, and I only can because people who knew more than I did gave me the benefit of the doubt when I said dumb shit.

So, in conclusion, how do I feel safe saying that Hilary Mantel is thoughtful and compassionate, and would hopefully respond well to a larger conversation about trans rights? Here is an answer she provided earlier in the interview, to a question about racial justice:

Do you think Britain and England are places of “systemic racism” as Black Lives Matter and other activists say? Is England more racist than in the past? Mantel: "To me – but what would I know? – it seems that we are going in the right direction, and most people aren’t as racist or misogynistic as they were when I was growing up. But once sexual and racial discrimination are ‘baked in’ to a country’s opinions and institutions, it takes generations to scrub them out; language may be made over, but real-world change takes longer. I fully concede that the changes may be cosmetic, and I have great sympathy with those who say radical action is needed."

That seems to me like a promising person.

#uhhhhhhh jesus #tw: transphobia #(I guess? discussions of it I suppose)

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djuvlipen · 9 months

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15-year-old Hazara activist who narrowly escaped the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan, Nila Ibrahimi, addresses the 15th Annual Geneva Summit for Human Rights and Democracy – see below for her remarks.

Full Remarks

Good morning everyone.

I’m incredibly honored to be here today with you at the Geneva Summit. Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to share my story.

It was August 15, a beautiful sunny day that soon turned dark and cloudy, casting a shadow over the lives of millions of Afghans, especially the girls and women of my homeland. I had woken up early to study for my last mid-year exam at school, scheduled for the next day.

A few hours after breakfast, my mother heard from the neighbours that the Taliban had reached Dasht-e-Barchi, the district where we lived, and may take over Kabul soon. My mother had lived through the civil war and the first Taliban regime and had made me understand how miserable and frightening that tyranny was. And now, her worried eyes and shaky hands made me even more scared.

We ran to destroy our family documents that could put our lives at risk, because it was expected that the Taliban would conduct house to house searches. My father, a former government worker, passed away a month after I was born so the photos, uniforms, and documents were the only memories I had of him. As I watched them burn and turn to ashes, it was as if they had never existed, as if he had never existed. My school certificates as well; I felt so angry and sad to be told to destroy them that I decided to take the risk of keeping them. I knew all of this was only the first spark of a fire that was about to consume our whole lives.

The weight of the situation was overwhelming, and fear took hold of me. My mother is a great person, but she belongs to the generation of women who were subjugated by the Taliban. This created in them a mindset that they had no right to say no, no right to protest or stand up for themselves. They were made to feel like they were incomplete human beings without a man. Now, there were rumours that the Taliban would marry young girls. I felt helpless and scared for what the future held.

I am Nila Ibrahimi, a 16-year-old women’s rights activist. My journey of advocacy started when the Kabul Education Directorate banned schoolgirls over the age of 12 from singing in public. As a member of the Sound of Afghanistan Music Group, I found this decision disappointing and aggravating. We were singing for peace, women’s rights, and humanity on different stages and well-known TV channels. In some parts of the world, there are societies that welcome teenage girls who are using their voices to make changes; however, when I heard about the ban, I realized a sad fact about my society: There were people who wanted to silence me solely because of my gender. I had to stand up for my rights for the first time in my life. So, I recorded a video of me singing a song as a call to action for all girls and women. Murtaza, my brother, posted it on social media, alongside the #IAmMySong, and it soon went viral. The movement successfully reversed the decision.

Later that year, before the fall of Kabul, I was watching President Joe Biden’s briefing on TV regarding his country’s withdrawal from Afghanistan. I vividly recall him sharing a story about his visit there, where he had conversations with several girls. One of them had told him: “If you leave Afghanistan, I will no longer be able to pursue my desire to become a doctor.” She urged him not to abandon Afghanistan. Upon hearing this, tears welled up in my eyes, and my heart splintered, as I could truly empathize with her feelings. She understood the imminent situation and was desperate to hold onto her dreams. Unfortunately, her plea fell on deaf ears. As a 16-year-old, of course I am not aware of all the political complexities, but why couldn’t the US have at least negotiated some form of peace instead of abandoning the country without any resolution?

So now, the dream of that girl, along with the dreams of millions of other girls and women, were shattered overnight when the US and the international community abandoned Afghanistan. The Taliban, a group with a regressive mindset that deems being a girl or woman a crime, took control in a chaotic and shocking manner.

To capture my emotions, allow me to share an excerpt from my diary written the day after Kabul fell, “It doesn’t matter when I wake up anymore, because I cannot close my eyes at night. I see everyone terrified of an uncertain future. At breakfast, no one speaks. After breakfast, I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I can’t study. Why should I study now if I am not allowed a future? Humanity is dead all over the world and I am tired of everything. In our airport, people died from stress, heat stroke, dehydration, from being crushed in their desperation to get out. Taliban are everywhere. Some people say they are going to go to every single house to search for guns or take some girls. I am wearing a long dress and covering my face. Am I going to be forced to cover my face all my life? Am I going to be locked up in my home forever?”

Five days after the fall, my family decided to flee to Pakistan. We were lucky. After eight tense months, the 30 Birds Foundation helped us resettle in Canada. While I feel safer in my new home, every single day, I think of those girls left behind in Afghanistan; left with no hope. In Canada, I make decisions about my life, and embrace the person I aspire to be. But, what about them?

As I stand here today, I want the world to know that girls have been out of school for 640 days. Universities are also closed off to them. Women have been stripped of everything, their education, their freedom of movement, their right to work, their choice of what to wear, and their ability to participate in public life. This is a grave injustice that denies them their basic human rights, rights that should be afforded to every individual on this planet.

I am in awe of the immense bravery displayed by Afghan girls and women, who have steadfastly fought for their dreams in the face of the Taliban’s oppression. In the darkest of times, hope becomes our lifeline. It is our collective responsibility to be their hope, to stand with them, and to take action.

So, I ask you, all of you, be part of this movement. And I ask those of you who have the power and the influence to please lend your voice and actions to support the Afghan girls and women. Let us unite and prove that humanity’s strength lies in its compassion and unwavering commitment to justice. The time for action is now.

Thank you.

Soomaya Javadi, another young Hazara activist who fled Afghanistan following the fall of Kabul with Nila Ibrahimi, addressed the U.N. Opening of the 15th Annual Geneva Summit for Human Rights and Democracy, on Tuesday, May 16, 2023.

#Nila Ibrahimi #Afghanistan #Taliban #Hazara

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starlitangels · 2 years

Text

Those Nights (Just One Of)

@darlincollins I finished it! Thanks for permission to write this based on your post! 1.6k words

—

2:43AM

I’d been watching that damn alarm clock that projected its red numbers onto the ceiling tick away the minutes—then the hours—since we’d gone to bed at midnight. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable. Sam’s bed was remarkably comfortable. We both preferred roughly the same mattress firmness.

It was just one of those nights when I couldn’t sleep.

I tried not to toss and turn too much. I knew Sam was tired and needed a good chunk of sleep after everything that had been going on recently. My tossing and turning would just keep him awake, and that was the last thing I wanted. Every time one shoulder started to ache because I’d been lying on it for so long, I’d shuffle as gently as I could onto my other side. Sam was lying on his stomach with his head facing me. He looked so peaceful, in sleep. One of the few times there wasn’t that worried crease between his eyebrows.

I reached out and brushed a few hairs off his forehead. I love you. So much, I thought. Sometimes that feeling of tightness in my chest from how deeply I did, truly, love him overwhelmed me. Years of pushing emotions aside did that, I imagined.

I slipped out from between the covers and left the room, quietly opening and closing the door.

Bare feet on carpet made very little noise as I made my way to the living room and sat on the couch. I hoped the gentle rain outside masked some of the noise I’d made on the way out so I wouldn’t wake Sam.

I picked up his Switch controller and spun it around in my hands, considering pulling the small screen off the dock and playing Super Smash Bros to try and release some pent-up energy. But I figured I’d probably just wind myself up too much to sleep at all if I tried that. So I just spun the controller in my hands and fiddled with the joysticks, not letting them click against the sides of their casing.

I’d ordered a pre-owned copy of Mario Kart 8 Deluxe from a local GameStop for him, but it hadn’t arrived yet. It needed another day or two.

After a few minutes, I put the controller down and sighed, flopping back against the couch and looking off to the side out Sam’s living room window at the rain through the tiny gap in the curtains.

Why can’t I just sleep? I thought, frustrated, reaching back to rub the back of my neck. Hoping it would help calm me down.

I wanted to get up and run. Take off through the woods at top speed and just burn off all the energy coiled up in me. But I didn’t want to leave Sam with no explanation. Honestly, I just didn’t want to leave him at all. This house was so much cozier than my apartment. It always smelled like cleaning supplies and scented candles. It felt more like a home than my apartment ever had.

I heard the whisper of fabric brushing fabric.

“Darlin’?” Sam asked, voice bleary and thick with sleep.

I jolted and whirled to see him pulling the afghan off the back of the loveseat and plopping down next to me, flinging the blanket haphazardly over the both of us. “Hey there,” I greeted.

“Howdy,” he muttered. Then made a face. “Don’t read into that.”

I snickered. “How can you get grumpy at me and Vincent for calling you cowboy when you go and use words like that.”

“Bein’ from the South does not make me a cowboy.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Where do you get off teasin’ me at… what time even is it?”

“Like three-AM.”

Sam groaned in complaint, leaning against me and putting his head on my shoulder. “What’re ya doin’ out here at three in the mornin’?”

I shrugged with the other shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Sam took a deep breath. “Any particular reason why?”

“No. Just one of those nights.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Sorry, darlin’.”

“It’s fine. Happens every so often. I’m just sorry it had to happen on one of the nights I get to spend with you.”

“Why?”

“Well, believe it or not, I like falling asleep next to you,” I said. I felt his smile squish his cheek against the curve of my shoulder.

“Me too,” he said softly.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, during which his breathing grew long and deep. Slow. He was either falling asleep or had already fallen. His side was warm where it was pressed against mine. My strong, steady, unflappable Sam. Who’d saved my life more than I’d ever be able to articulate accurately.

I reached up and brushed my fingers through some of his soft hair.

He sucked in a deep breath and shuffled, grunting slightly.

“Falling asleep on me, cowboy?” I asked gently.

He grumbled something unintelligible, smushing his face down against my shoulder.

“You are so a cowboy,” I said, taking a guess what he might have muttered. “What else am I supposed to think when you’ve got three pairs of those sexy boots in your mudroom?”

He mumbled something else I couldn’t actually make out. I smiled and scratched the back of his head.

“I know you find the boots practical,” I said. “They just also make you undeniably a cowboy.”

He grumbled with a groan that I could sense was accompanied by a roll of his eyes, even if they were closed. I snuggled closer to him and started to tuck the blanket more securely around his shoulders.

He squirmed, opposing my movements.

“Hey. What are you doing?” I protested softly. “Don’t you wanna snuggle up?”

Sam grunted and resituated himself so he could wrap his arms around me and rest his head on the top of mine. “There,” he muttered quietly. “That’s a little more comfortable.”

I smiled and went back to shuffling the blanket. Once it was cozily wrapped around the both of us, I rested my head against Sam’s chest. He sighed.

“I’m sorry you’re strugglin’ to sleep, darlin’.”

“It’s okay, Sam. It happens.”

“Anythin’ I can do to help?”

I took a deep breath, thinking. “No?”

His grip tightened around me. “Want me to use some magic to make you sleep?”

“I’m fine. Don’t strain your powers.”

“One sleep spell isn’t enough to strain my powers, even as a vamp,” he reasoned.

“Well, with how much magic you’d have to use to override how stubborn my mind will be resisting the effect, it might.”

He chuckled. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” He took a deep breath and sighed, lifting one hand and scratching at the back of my scalp. I leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. Sam could be my mate for the next several decades and I doubted I’d ever get used to the way he touched me. He never handled me roughly—unless we were both into it—and during moments like this, his gentleness always seemed to catch me off guard.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to being treated gently.

Sam chuckled, the noise rumbling in his chest against my ear. “Seems I found a soothin’ spot,” he said.

I grunted agreement.

“What if I move and scratch... over here?” His nails gently scratched their way over the back of my head to the sensitive spot just behind my ear.

Tension leaked out of my muscles immediately. I felt Sam’s amused exhale out his nose disturb a few hairs on the top of my head. I groaned in complaint. “I’m a human who can turn into a wolf,” I grumbled quietly. “I’m not actually a dog or something.”

“I know,” he said. I could hear the mischievous laughter in his tone, even if he wasn’t laughing. “But if it works, it works.”

I “Hmph”ed and burrowed into his chest. He kept scratching behind my ear. I tried not to let my eyes roll back in my head, but it felt really damn good and I couldn’t help it.

Sam chuckled softly as I released a long, slow sigh. “There we go,” he whispered. “Just relax. Let those racin’ thoughts just... ease away.” The scratching turned to long, slow strokes, back and forth just behind my ear. “Deep breath in... and out...” He started to rock us side to side, the movement careful and unhurried. “That’s it, darlin’... Keep those eyes closed...” He buried his nose against the top of my scalp, holding me closer to him.

His steady, strong heartbeat in my ear was lulling my energy into ease, his arms firm and solid around me. Safe. He felt like home. That rich, earthy scent that tended to cling to him soothed my mind. The wolf inside settling, smelling my mate. My heart rate slowed to match his after a few moments.

“Love you, Sam,” I whispered.

“I love you too, darlin’,” he replied quietly.

I’d never been in love like this before, and despite the fact that I occasionally felt like I’d missed out, I was also really damn happy that I’d saved these feelings for Sam. I smiled against his chest and hummed, content to just stay here in his arms whether I fell asleep or not.

I snuggled against his chest and took a deep breath.

Sam’s breathing and heart rate slowed even more, his head getting heavier where it rested atop mine.

Smiling just slightly to myself, I released the breath I’d taken in and joined him in sleep. Finally.

—

Tag list: @zozo-01 @thegoldenlittlerose @mainhoesstuff

#Redacted Audio #fic #Redacted Sam #Redacted Darlin'#Sam Collins #Darlin'#Sam #Starlit Fic

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zestyaahbutler · 2 months

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ALRIGHT YA GALS GOT QUESTIONS

LOTTE:

🍒 [CHERRY] Who is your OC's perfect companion?

OKSANA:

🍓 [STRAWBERRY] How do they feel about 'cute' things?

babygirl ROMAN:

🍍 [PINEAPPLE] Pineapple on pizza or not?

LOTTE/OKSANA/babygirl ROMAN

🥑 [AVACADO] What will they never back down about, even if it makes them seem bad?

🥔 [POTATO] What do they have that others see as a flaw, but they don't care about?

Wow im super late to this ;; ty Caes for sending me something. Everyone else who sees this will be in the dark. Basic synopsis is These three ocs are all Hellsing ocs. They do not have any direct affect on the plot of Hellsing really. They are based in the same world and I do have interactions before the canon timeline and afterwards.

They are part of the Orthodox Church. Based in Russia, it’s a similar organization to the Vatican but with different practices and approaches to how they deal with conflict. If anyone has any questions about what it is, I could make an official introduction post that explains that and characters.

In short, Oksana is a scuffed regenerator who oversees everything. By 1999 she is a 24 year old girl which is very young for someone in her position. God complex character who worked as a child soldier.

Lotte is her not biological “mother” figure that helped train her for monster hunting when she was young. She isn’t the primary reason why Oksana is the way she is but definitely plays a part. They do both care and love eachother as a mother/daughter type of bond. It is just their definitions of love are very different for both good and mostly bad reasons. She is an old woman, like 74 by 1999. She was a professional freelance exorcist through her younger and older years only to end up working in the church as a small job that got a little fucky wucky later. She’s a German girl and is a host for a demon named Asmodeus who is mostly peaceful. She has one of the longest running cases of demonic possession but it’s a very symbiotic, mostly mutually beneficial relationship.

Roman is an advanced regenerator, think Anderson level of combat but without the disciplined personality. He’s a charming Russian soldier with a happy-go-lucky attitude that was trapped into his position after the soviet-afghan war. They all met eachother in 1987.

These are characters I ramble to my friends about. Anyways, to your question Caes.

Answers under the cut

[LOTTE]

Who is your OC’s perfect companion?🍒

That would be Asmodeus for sure. Asmodeus doesn’t have a gender, so when I talk about them, I switch pronouns sometimes. Generally I say he for simplicity but they aren’t a man. Asmodeus is one of the king of demons, demon of lust. But is generally treated more as a concept than a set being. He is a collection of consciousness. When his host succumbs to him and he absorbs him, he loses his sense of self really because that is another soul. Asmodeus fell in love with his previous host but it didn’t work out because they ended up dying and being apart of him.

He wanted a host, not to take over humanity, but to experience being human. He wants to experience the pleasures of life. He wants companionship more than anything. Lotte met him in the early 60s in a bar. She didn’t know how to deal with him as a vastly powerful demon. In a last resort of what she could think of, she challenged him to a game of poker. If she lost, he could consume her soul, if she won then she would be his host but would have to help her. Lotte has a terrible poker face. But still somehow won.

They both love each other dearly. It’s similar to a married couple. Asmodeus refers to Lotte as their wife. Asmodeus is flirtatious but is very hostile towards Lotte’s partners. She did have a long-term relationship with Walter before Asmodeus came into the picture. Asmodeus did not take kindly to her partner for a while. His attempts were juvenile ones such as messing with the radio when they were on a date or chucking books at her boyfriend.

He was there after the end of this long-term relationship. Comforted her through it all. He saw it as natural. Relieved that he had her all to himself. Asmodeus has the capabilities of suppressing her emotions. So it was easier for her to move on. She does still experience that loss but he allows it to be more comfortable. Same with suppressing parts of her past. Asmodeus loves Lotte. He knows her thoughts, her feelings, her likes, her dislikes. He knows her fears. He wants her safe. He lets her enjoy life how she wants to. There are only a few select times where he will act out of bounds. It is only to protect her or what he sees as the best decision for her for survival. Lotte loves Asmodeus too. It is a very sensual relationship where they both see one another and accept what is there.

What will they never back down about, even if it makes them seem bad?🥑

Killing Oksana. She feels that it’s her duty as the person who trained her to take her out. It is also a final wish from Oksana’s scientist (not biological). Most see her as at least questionable in her motives or even as a bad mother. Lotte does prolong how long it takes to get rid of Oksana because she cares about her. It makes her feel sick for doing that. She still sees Oksana as the same little girl but too far gone. Oksana has very extreme ideals that could put the world at war and ruin the ecosystems for monsters that live in the world.

What do they have that others see as a flaw but they don’t care about?🥔

Lotte has a tendency to fall off the face of the earth and not talk to people for a while. She traveled throughout her life so she thinks of it as normal. Usually she comes back with people like how she left them. Unless they were on bad terms. It does cause others to assume she doesn’t care about them or that she’s irresponsible. For example, She did this to her long-term partner after they broke up but still sent the heir of Hellsing family holiday gifts because she was still on good terms with Arthur. She then random visited about one decade after breaking up with him, asked him out on a date, only to inform him that she is going on a big job and could die. Then falls off the face of the earth again.

Ouch…

[OKSANA]

How do they feel about ‘cute’ things?🍓

She loves them. As a little girl she didn’t have toys to play with. She was brought up in a calculated way and wasn’t expected to act like a child. The only people that treated her like one was Lotte and Roman. Lotte would buy her toys and show her how to do her hair, help her learn about what kind of fashion she likes, and developing her interests. When she got older and she became more influential in her position, she began expressing herself as a young girl. She is a natural red head but dyed her hair blonde.

She enjoys dressing in cute outfits, fur coats, mini-skirts, etc. She does love stuffed animals and dolls. She does have a fondness for animals. Especially dogs. They seem to love unconditionally to her.

What will they never back down about, even if it makes them seem bad?🥑

Keeping Lotte around. She’ll stop at nothing to stay with her for as long as long as she is alive. She is very attached to her. It doesn’t matter how Lotte feels. If she has to make Lotte unable to leave or say anything, then she’s willing to do it. But it’s an extreme that she would never hope for. She does love being able to interact and talk to her as they usually do.

What do they have that others see as a flaw but they don’t care about?🥔

Oksana purposefully will make herself come off as dumber than she actually is. She puts up a fun/girly front with no real depth. She is polite on the surface but is not afraid to retaliate or hurt people for her own gang. She is able to switch up very easily. So most that know her for longer than a single conversation will know that it is a thin front for a girl who is ready to crush anyone in her way.

[ROMAN]

Pineapple on pizza or not?🍍

Yeah he could do pineapple on pizza. He has had weirder dishes. Especially pizza in Europe. He would enjoy Pineapple on pizza. He would want to put on some form of spice on it. Chili Oil Maybe.

What will they never back down about, even if it makes them seem bad?🥑

Living for himself. Lotte brought him out of his cynical ideals during the war. He thought he would be comfortable enough when he went back to Russia if they won the war. When the war was a brutal and embarrassing loss, he had to go home to nothing but then found out he couldn’t even live a normal life. Lotte had found him conspiring with an American spy and he had found out about the supernatural, Orthodox Church, etc. He wasn’t allowed to waste away as a war veteran even. He was trapped into being a soldier for them. He quickly found that if he is going to have that kind of life, to do whatever he can to enjoy it. Be nice to people, buy that lottery ticket, take any drug, flirt with any girl even if he doesn’t have a chance, etc. He comes off as stupid and an incompetent to anyone who takes him at face value but has depth underneath that. He only found that early on, that happiness is made up of tons of short experience so he tries to have as many as he can.

What do they have that others see as a flaw but they don’t care about?🥔

He has a weakness towards woman. Definitely a ladies man but in a girlfailure way. Incredibly sweet and wouldn’t do anything to make the other party uncomfortable but he’ll put himself in danger to be taken advantage of by a girl if she is cute enough and gives him pity. He doesn’t mind too much. He enjoys experiencing love, even if it’s short lived. It’s just to know the person and feel known himself.

End of my rant. Thank you for the question. Also thanks to anyone who actually read all of this??? You’re insane if you are reading this. Feel free to ask questions about them! :)

#hellsing #hellsing ultimate #hellsing oc #Charlotte Antionette Edilweiss #Lotte Edilweiss #Roman #Oksana #zesty yaps forever #oc ask #hellsing orthodox church

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