#black agenda report
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Democrats have been fooled into thinking that only the courts can protect abortion rights. In fact, legislation could protect abortion permanently, but their party has refused to do that. Now that SCOTUS control is lost because of their corruption and betrayals, they continue to spin lies that bamboozle the party faithful.
“What about the Supreme Court?” Those words are used to thwart any discussion which questions support for the Democratic Party. The democrats maintain their hold on voters who would otherwise be rid of them by dredging up the fear of the federal judiciary falling under Republican Party control. The legal right to abortion is one of the issues used to keep millions of people from leaving the democrats once and for all.
After decades of democrats’ corruption, inaction, and lies, the right to abortion is indeed at risk. The majority of Supreme Court justices are republican appointees. They may uphold a Mississippi law which severely restricts abortion access or even overturn the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision which declared a constitutional right to abortion. The boogeyman of right wing judicial control is now real and the democrats have only themselves to blame. Unfortunately, most of their voters still go along with their faux outrage when they should be questioning the whole rotten apparatus.
The democratic party is called a “big tent” which includes corporate interests, wealthy funders, well funded think tanks, elite academia, and left leaning voters. Black people are the constituency they depend upon the most, although one would never know that by looking at the policies the democrats hold near and dear.
Black voters in particular are caught in a trap, seeing themselves as powerless to do anything except keep republicans out of office. The openly white supremacist nature of the republicans is not met with any opposition by the party that fails to fight for them. Instead fear mongering and betrayal of their most loyal voters are their favorite means of getting support. The political duopoly are like fake heroes and fake villains in professional wrestling. The differences are all for show.
The bloom was off the rose in 2016 after the hope and change promised by Barack Obama was revealed to be nothing more than neo-liberal business as usual. Many democrats were disgusted when the primaries were rigged against Bernie Sanders. Hillary Clinton’s “pied piper strategy” amplified Donald Trump, and the combination of miscalculation and hubris gave him the electoral college votes needed to win and to make lifetime judicial appointments.
Hillary Clinton was so sure she would defeat Trump that she chose senator Tim Kaine as her running mate. Kaine is one who straddles the fence claiming he is personally opposed to abortion because he is a Catholic while claiming he would defend Roe v. Wade. Clinton herself foolishly sought to portray herself as being ambivalent about abortion, thinking she would get support from some conservative voters. Of course real conservatives were in love with Donald Trump. So-called moderate republicans voted for him too. Hillary’s efforts to be as slick as Bill Clinton were laughable and her sad attempt at Clintonian triangulation led to Trump’s victory.
Democrats don’t like to mention that Ruth Bader Ginsburg should have stepped down when Barack Obama asked her. He also didn’t fight for his nominee Merrick Garland because he assumed that a president Hillary Clinton would have her choices. The miscalculations are guarded like a shameful family secret lest left leaning democrats question the cult leadership and head for the exits.
Of course the constant demand that leftists stick with the democrats over the issue of abortion falls apart upon even cursory examination. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi was taken to task in 2017 for saying that abortion was “fading” as an issue of concern to her party’s members. In 2018 when democratic voters were urged to give control of the House to democrats and diminish Donald Trump’s power she said abortion was not a litmus test issue. While voters are harangued to stay with the democrats as if they are a political lifeboat, the leadership make clear that they don’t care what their constituents want and only raise issues at opportune moments to raise money and keep the rank and file in line.
Democrats are only serious about neo-liberal austerity, protection of corporate interests, and carrying out imperialism abroad. Everything else is propaganda meant to convince the gullible to stay in their camp. Liberals think themselves superior and sneer at white republicans for voting against their interests. They are no better, allowing themselves to be fooled again and again by SCOTUS fear mongering when their party could protect abortion rights with legislation if they really wanted to do so.
The joke is on liberals who want to relitigate the 2016 debacle by blaming everyone but the people who should have won the election they said was so important. The barbarians are not just at the gate, they have breached the walls and the democrats are responsible. But even as they fail in the electoral arena,
their propaganda knows no bounds. They never discuss legislating abortion rights and their constituents never take them to task.
MAGA hat wearing Trump supporters are no more indoctrinated than the average democrat voter. The discredited leadership exemplified by the likes of Nancy Pelosi have a strong hold on their members despite failing them time and again. The only sure prediction of the 2024 presidential campaign is that the need to control the federal judiciary will again be trotted out to end any questions or hesitation to support the party that fails its people so often.
Democrats have been fooled into thinking that only the courts can protect abortion rights. In fact, legislation could protect abortion permanently, but their party has refused to do that. Now that SCOTUS control is lost because of their corruption and betrayals, they continue to spin lies that bamboozle the party faithful.
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Google-translated, posted October 8th
This piece Manoel wrote in 2020 should also be mandatory reading for all Western "leftists," especially now as the Western illusion of military invincibility is being shattered
[...] Another factor that is very common in the western left is to treat suffering and extreme poverty as elements of superiority. It is very common in Western leftist culture to support martyrs and suffering. Everyone today likes Salvador Allende. Why? Salvador Allende is a victim, a martyr. He was assassinated in Pinochet’s coup d’ etat.
And, on Western leftists support of Palestine (pre Al-Aqsa Flood — Manoel, writing in 2020, was clearly underestimating the military capabilities of the Gazan resistance)
Palestinians are a people who are deeply oppressed, in a situation of extreme poverty, that don’t have a national economy because they don’t have a national state. They don’t have an army or military or economic power. Therefore, Palestine is the total incarnation of the metaphor of David vs Goliath, except that this David doesn’t have a chance of beating Goliath in political and military conflict. Therefore, almost everyone in the international left likes Palestine. People become ecstatic looking at those images -- which I don’t think are very fantastic – of a child or teenager using a sling to launch a rock at a tank. Look, this is a clear example of heroism but it is also a symbol of barbarism. This is a people who do not have the capacity to defend themselves facing an imperialist colonial power that is armed to the teeth. They do not have an equal capacity of resistance, but this is romanticized. Western leftists like this situation of oppression, suffering and martyrdom.
If you're a Westerner, I think it's worth investigating to what extent this image Palestinians as 'defenseless' or 'defeated' (I've seen some of you talk about Palestine in the past tense) factors into your support of Palestine as it is now, under occupation.
Because there will be an after.
Everyone supported Viet Nam when it was under attack, being destroyed and bombed for over 30 years. Viet Nam beat Japan in WW2, then had to fight France, and then had to fight the United States. It passed 30 straight years without being able to build a damn school or hospital because a bomb would drop, first from France and then the United States, and destroy it. When the country was finally able to beat all of the colonial and neocolonial powers and have the opportunity to start planning, to build highways, electrical systems, schools and universities without having bombs land on them the next day and destroy everything that was being done, the country was abandoned by the majority of the left. It lost its charm, it lost its enchantment. There is a fetish for defeat in the western left. It is an idea that defeat is something majestic.
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Program descriptionolliDr. Marsha Coleman-Adebayo advocates for Julian Assange/liliBook promotion for The Black Agenda, the late Glen Ford's anthology/liliQuestions about NYPD fatal shooting of Rameek Smith/li/ol
#blacklivesmatter#black agenda radio#black and white#julian assange#marxist#marxism#karl marx#marx#cornel west#leftist#leftism#news#reporting#broadcast#radioplay#radio
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you shook me all night long
sex on fire chapter one
requested by @whore-4-pedro (hope u enjoy lovely)
lived all my succession fantasies out writing this one icl. enjoy 🖤 check out my masterlist for more joel fun ‼️
pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader
summary: as joel miller's assistant, you're expected to meet all his needs. some are a little more personal than others
warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) creepy dude at the beginning, lotta teasing and touching, mentions of female masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public sex, daddy kink, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), alcohol and drug use, cursing, low-key inappropriate work relationship (if bad then why sexy?)
word count: 7.8k
series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist
You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.
You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.
“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”
“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”
It’s Friday night.
You only got home from work an hour and a half ago. Tired, hungry, sore eyes from staring at a screen all night, sore back from sitting hunched over all day. Dumped your bags at the door, ripped your clothes off by your bed, dove straight into the shower. You’d picked an outfit, curled your hair in record time, and even done your makeup before Deb called to say she was out front.
It was a ten-minute drive from your place to the hotel – it’s only a couple blocks from work. The cab driver made light conversation, talked about his daughter and her new puppy, and you both nodded and uhuhed in all the breaks in his sentences. Deb made some comment about it being easier if you’d just stayed at the office until the party, and you’d hummed in agreement, looking out the window at the regal hotel.
Truth be told, you’d rather be doing anything other than attending a work function. You’ve had a long week. A lot of meetings, paperwork, emails to be answered, and most of all, running around after your boss. It’s not all fun and games being Joel Miller’s assistant, regardless of the pay, or the view from your desk over to his.
Your head’s elsewhere when you waltz through the revolving door, heels clicking along the marble floor. The elevator – gold, by the way – slides open and you both step inside, hitting the highest button before you’re swept up twenty floors to the penthouse.
“Did you send those documents over to us yet?” Deb asks.
“Nope,” you reply, slipping out when the elevator dings. “Had to sit in on a meeting with Joel and take the fucking minutes, spent all night writing them up.”
“He won’t be pissed at you?”
“If he hadn’t insisted I was in there with him, you’d have your reports, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugs, agreeing.
“Anyway,” you continue, “I can take angry Joel. He doesn’t scare me.”
Deb chuckles as you shoulder the doors to the penthouse open.
It’s a moody dull, lit only by the lights lining the bar and small lamps decorating mahogany tables, sat next to deep green velvet couches. There are clusters of people everywhere you look; stood near shelves filled with leather-bound books, examining the view from the floor to ceiling windows, sprawled out over luxurious chairs with champagne flutes in their hands. There’s a tree in the middle of the room, branches decorated in blinking string lights reaching to a glass dome in the ceiling.
It's, like, sickeningly pretentious. You know it. Hell, you all know it. Still, in your little black dress, you strut over and take a champagne of your own, sipping on the fizzing drink with one elbow resting on the wooden bar.
“There’s my girl,” his voice coos over your shoulder. “Been watchin’ for you all night, took your time.”
You lean back, bored expression on your face.
Joel’s broad chest pulls on the white shirt he’s wearing, same one you just saw him in little over three hours ago, only without a tie; the top couple of buttons are undone to reveal his chest hair peeking through. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long.
“You look fuckin’ ecstatic to be here.”
He leans against the bar next to you, arms crossed. When you don’t reply, he nudges you. Your champagne jolts in its glass.
“I always look like this. I’m always ecstatic to be everywhere.”
He smiles. “Why aren’t you mingling?”
“Don’t wanna.”
“’s a work event. That’s the whole point.”
“Then why are you over here talkin’ to me?”
His eyes flash across your lips, and you swear they drop for a nanosecond to your chest.
“Come on,” he says, taking your wrist in his huge hand, “some people you oughta meet.”
Joel ignores your sigh and leads you over onto a plush rug, sidling between knees to sit you down on the soft couch between himself and some bald dude in a jet blue suit, whose shirt is also undone, though much further than Joel’s. He has a chest like a hairless cat.
Cue Ball snakes an arm over the back of the couch; his fingers dance across your back. You shimmy a little closer to Joel and he notices instantly, jaw turning slowly to glance over. When he sees your knees angled toward him, seeking protection, he leans back and wraps his left arm around your shoulders, his right coming down to cup your knee.
“This,” he shakes your leg, left arm pulling you tighter against him, “is my wonderful assistant. My right-hand lady. Couldn’t do anything without her, could I?”
“Could wipe your own ass, that’s about it,” you mumble into your glass, and a roar of laughter sounds from your audience.
Joel, still leaning back, pulls his arm from you but keeps his shoulder firmly behind yours, making sure whatever the creep on your left tries, he’ll feel first. Your elbow rests in the crook of his, and you keep it there, quietly enjoying the intimacy of his body caging yours.
His left hand is settled on your thigh. You realize it after a swig of champagne, and start counting in your head how many seconds his fingers stay gripped on your skin.
He talks with his hands – always has. Walks around his office, ranting and raving sometimes, arms swinging around in the air while you take notes, or file your nails, or just watch until he’s done. For the next half hour, though, he only talks with his right hand. Only sips his beer with his right hand. Only scratches his beard, or pulls his phone from his pocket, or reaches up and passes you a second drink, and then a third, with his right hand.
You stay rigid, legs unmoving, eyes barely leaving his knuckles, locked tight around your thigh. There’s heat from his touch siphoning from his palm down through your skin, rippling like waves all through your body and pooling somewhere south of your belly button. No matter how hard you try, you can’t shake it. Can’t stop thinking about it. You barely notice when Cue Ball’s hand ghosts across your back a second time.
But Joel notices, straight away. He flashes the guy a look, and you swear he’s baring his teeth. Eyes locked on the blue suit like it’s a target, never blinking. He doesn’t say anything when his prey excuses himself to the bathroom, and you don’t turn to watch him go, but you do notice three other sharp-suited pricks stand and wander off in that direction after him.
Probably not a coincidence.
Joel still has a hold on your leg. Your flute is empty, and you lean forward to place it on the wooden table at your knees, beginning to stand.
His grip loosens, but he looks up at you as you tower over him.
“Cocktail,” you tell him with a sweet smile, and he nods, letting you go.
You know he’s watching you as you slink away. Is it the alcohol in your system, or something darker, that makes you sway your hips a little more for his benefit?
Deb’s over at the bar with Martha, another of Joel’s assistants. She’s around his age, worked for him much longer than you have, but when he hired you, you took on most of the groundwork. Following Joel’s orders– sorry, requests, organizing meetings, filing paperwork for him. Martha sits at a desk outside Joel’s office, answers the phone and directs anyone who happens to wander up to the top floor of the building.
Did I say directs? I meant strikes coldblooded fear within them and sends them back running the way they came, with just one look and a nod in the opposite direction.
Unless they’re there for a meeting with Joel, that is. And if they are, that’s where you come in. Good morning, Mr. Salazar, Mr. Miller will be right with you. This way, he’s just finishing up a call.
Martha’s a tough nut. But she likes you enough, so she smiles warmly as you approach.
“I’m hearing all about your note-taking this afternoon,” she hums when you hop up onto a barstool, catching the bartender’s eye. He trots over.
You sigh to Martha, eyes wide. “I didn’t leave until, like, eight. What the fuck’s that about? Can I just get a cosmopolitan, please?” you ask, and the bartender nods. He looks about fifteen.
Martha shakes her head, laughing. “He did it to me when I was first startin’ out, too. Told him to stick his minutes where the sun don’t shine.”
“I’ve been here three years,” you mutter, and Deb snorts.
“You’d think Joel would’ve changed his ways in the, what, seven decades since you started, Martha?”
It earns her a slap across the shoulder. You stifle your laugh behind your glass, thanking the teenager who served you it with a nod.
“Twenty years next March, actually,” Martha says.
“That so? D’you think he’ll get you anything for it?”
“If I’m lucky,” she sighs, eyes travelling up to the ceiling in thought, “a lunch break where he doesn’t bother me once.”
“Knowing Joel, that means a lunch break where he bothers you twice.”
You smile, glancing past the pretentious tree to where Joel is, and notice he’s already staring right back. A swarm of butterflies flutter around your stomach, dancing over the heat his handprint left within you. They only grow more violent when he stands and walks over, broad shoulders swaying, eyes flitting up and down your body.
You lean back, sitting up straight, eyeing him right back as he joins the three of you.
“Speak of the devil,” Martha says, and Joel chuckles in response, but his eyes never leave you.
“We were just talkin’ about Martha’s twenty years,” says Deb, winking.
He finally turns to answer her. “Oh, yeah? When’s that, then, old-timer?”
“Dirtball!” Martha yells, and Joel smirks. It goes straight to your core.
“How many Manhattans tonight, then, Deb?”
Deb holds her glass up. “I am on my second, and I will not be exceeding three. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.”
“Aw,” Joel complains, tutting, “I liked hammered Deb.”
“That’s ‘cause you didn’t have to deal with hungover Deb,” you mutter, and she shoots you a look.
Joel smiles at you, takes a step closer as Deb and Martha begin comparing past hangovers. He leans forward, waves the fifteen-year-old down, and asks for a beer. As he leans back, you notice the weight of his wrist on your right hip. Nicely done.
“You know there are four guys in the bathroom doing coke?”
“I hope to God that’s all they’re doin’. I don’t need another orgyhappenin’ at one of these things.”
You giggle like a fucking schoolgirl. He looks pleased with himself, and you instantly regret it. You try to play it off by lifting your glass back to your lips.
Joel’s studying you, though, mapping every inch of your face. Watching your mouth as it curves around the shape of the glass, your tongue licking your lips after your sip. He tracks the glass as you set it back down on the bar, then his eyes trail along your arm to your dress, and your stomach leaps.
He looks so fucking good, it sends another wave of energy through your body. Dark hair lined with grey, beard much the same. Strong jaw, lips wetting with every sip of beer he takes, dark eyes flitting across yours, holding your stare long enough to melt you a little, and then dipping just before you can read the thoughts behind them.
His skin a little tanned, his neck thick with muscle. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, you’re so close. Close enough that you could lean up, part your lips and sink your teeth under his ear, suck a mark there, taste him on your tongue.
Your head cocks after a few minutes silence, just the two of you enjoying the fucking look of each other. You lean a little against his arm, steady around your back.
“I hate work parties,” you sigh.
Joel scoffs. “Free alcohol, nice penthouse. Cocaine, if you want it. What’s not to like?”
You narrow your eyes and he laughs for real.
“I hate ‘em, too, baby. Gotta keep up appearances, though, don’t we?”
Baby. This fucker.
“Do we?” you squeak, after a few seconds dazed.
He shrugs. “’s what I hear.”
He’s so close you can smell the beer on his tongue. It makes your heart quicken, your body hum with energy. That could just be the alcohol in your system, though, right?
Who are you kidding? It’s fucking Joel doing it to you.
You have no idea how long he was here before you arrived. He left the office around six, and you presumed he’d come straight here to check everything was in order before guests started arriving. How many beers has he had? Is he just drunk, feeling up on you with liquid courage?
You’re mulling over the thought when a pair of hands clamp down on Joel’s shoulders and his hold on your waist loosens. He mumbles an apology as he’s dragged away by a couple of loose-collared, baggy-suit drunks. You shake your head in response, trying to be cool – It’s all good, man. I’m good. I’m not totally fawning over you right now, no way.
Deb swings her barstool around when she notices you’re on your own, inviting you back into their conversation. Thirty seconds into talking about childhood pets, you’re wishing Joel was back around you, igniting your skin and peaking your adrenaline. Max the Pomeranian is a nice picture; Joel’s nicer.
Martha says something with a hand motion, and Deb nods, elbow knocking into yours.
“What?”
She nods toward the balcony. “We’re headin’ out for a smoke, you comin’?”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll save your seats.”
They nod and wander off between a crowd, swallowed up by bodies in the direction of the open sliding doors, the blinking lights of the skyline ahead.
You’re twirling the base of your empty glass around on its napkin when you feel that same heat behind you again, and a hand rests on the small of your back.
“Coat,” Joel mutters, pulling his suit jacket on.
“Huh?”
“Get your coat. Everyone’s headin’ across the street.”
“Why is everyone heading across the street?”
He shrugs. “Afterparty, I guess.”
“It’s a work function. It’s like–” you check your phone, “–oh, fuck, it’s almost midnight.” You screw your face up, watching as the small crowd slowly melts away through the suite doors.
“I know. I throw a good party, right?”
“So good, people are leaving it.”
He tuts. “Coat. Now.”
“I didn’t bring one.”
“You didn’t bring a coat?”
“You told me the party was here. I didn’t think we’d be walking all over town.”
“’s not all over town, baby,” Joel murmurs with a sigh. “Here.”
He peels the jacket off his shoulders and you hold a hand out to stop him.
“Joel, it’s fine, it’s–”
“Quit moanin’,” he groans as he throws it over your shoulders. He scoops your hair and pulls it softly out from under the collar. “Alright? C’mon.”
He takes your hand and leads you past some stragglers down the hall toward the elevator, where a group are waiting for the doors to open.
“Tight squeeze, Miller,” some dude chuckles as you follow Joel in, his hand still gripping yours.
He turns, backing into the corner, pulling you with him until your back is flush against his chest.
His hands drop to your hips. You swallow back a scream.
One of the accountants is stood in front of your – Harriet? Helen? Something beginning with H – anyway, she keeps knocking back into you, pushed by the sway of the packed elevator. It means you knock a little into Joel, and feel his chin on the crown of your head.
You turn ever so slightly to mumble an apology to him, but when you feel his breath on the shell of your ear, your words die in your throat.
“Hazel?” – That’s her fucking name – Joel reaches around you to tap her shoulder, and her bobbed haircut swings when she turns. “Did you get those balance sheets yet?”
“Not yet, Joel,” she tells him, and your face prickles with heat.
“No? That’s weird.” Joel’s grip tightens on your hips, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. In a low whisper, only to you, he says, “Thought I asked to have ‘em sent over by this afternoon.”
You muster up the courage to reply with a deep breath. From the corner of your mouth, through gritted teeth, you tell him, “That was before you forced me to sit in on a buyers’ meeting.”
You feel his chest rumble between your shoulder blades as he laughs. The elevator shudders to a stop and the doors slide open; the crowd spills out.
You step forward, ahead of Joel, and make it maybe three steps before he’s back on you, an arm draped over your shoulders. You reach up and take his hand, leaning against his strong torso to let him guide you toward the exit.
No idea what makes you do it. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe not only on alcohol.
You’re the last of the pack, stumbling over air across the gleaming floor toward the revolving door, which Joel pushes open for you. The cool night breeze hits you as you slip out.
The crowd ahead are rushing across the street, yelling and whooping as they go. It’s juvenile, a little cringe. A bunch of rich corporates skipping across the street toward cheap alcohol and peanuts. You’d care more about the way it looks if you were sober.
Joel’s hand finds yours again and he’s leading you down the steps, cutting between parked cars toward the dive bar. You link your other arm around his elbow and he glances down, noting it. You wish the walk was longer.
A flickering fluorescent light drowns you both in a red glow, and Joel pushes the doors open. The place is flooded with half of your party, drowning booths, leaning against the bar, dancing in any open floorspace.
The floor is sticky, the bar dim. Joel takes you over to the same crowd he introduced you to earlier, and makes space for you to sit. You slide along the booth to the wall and he follows, squeezing up to you to let two more in after him.
“Beers?” a guy with a loose tie asks, to a chorus of yeses and a show of thumbs up. Mitch? Mark?
You tug Joel’s jacket from your shoulders – the movement nudges him and he turns to lift it from your back and tuck it behind you, brushing the hair off your shoulders. You smile in thanks, and his hand falls back onto your leg.
It takes you a few minutes to notice it this time. The gentle squeeze of his fingers around your thigh, the way it slowly bumps up each time he adjusts in his seat or shifts to allow space for someone else to join the booth.
His hand moves slowly, dangerously close to pulling your skirt up with it. Mitch or Mark returns with your beers and you take a massive swig, nerves and anticipation and fucking need for Joel to keep doing what he’s doing, taking over.
Under lights blurred by the alcohol in your system, the table buzzes with energy and chatter and laughter. There are posters and stickers all over the walls, graffiti of names and initials, numbers and dates scored into the walls. Joel traces them with his finger and you laugh at some of the messages.
“Lydia and Jack,” you mumble, “12-24-19. Wonder what happened then.”
“Bathroom sex,” Joel replies, eyes scanning the wall.
You scoff, beer to your lips. “On Christmas Eve?”
He nods, like it’s obvious. “Magical time ‘n all.”
You look past him with a smile to the opposite side of the bar where, through silhouetted bodies, you notice a jukebox.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your eyes widen, your mouth agape.
Joel follows your eyeline and then twists back around. “C’mon,” he says, taking your hand and motioning for the others to let you by. He drags you over to the machine, lighting your faces up in yellow light, and your drunk eyes scan the screen.
“Nope." You swipe Joel’s hand away right before he can pick some Pet Shop Boys song.
“Really?”
“Good, but not the vibe,” you tell him, and budge him out of the way with your hip. He sways off, laughing, and leans a palm against the jukebox, his chest on your back for the second time tonight. As your tired eyes scan the songs, Joel’s chin rests on your shoulder.
He’s judging every fucking song you linger on. “Queen? Little before your time.”
“Dick.”
“Fleetwood Mac. Definitely before your time.”
“The entire fucking jukebox is before my time, dude. Shut up. These are good songs.”
You settle on a track and turn to face him. He has you almost fucking pressed against the box.
“Change, please.”
“Oh, I’m payin’, am I?”
“Mhm. Your work party, your wallet.”
He sighs and pushes a fist into his pocket for coins, tossing a quarter into your outstretched palm. You turn back and select your song, put the money in, and the old machine barks out the intro.
Joel sighs, shaking his head. “AC/DC? That’s your thing?”
“It’s not yours?” You’re taking him by the hand between bodies, swaying as you go.
He’s laughing, following you until you’re in the middle of the cramped bar, chest to chest, moving together. His hands find your waist again and this time you don’t even flinch; your fingers trail up his shirt, across his chest, settle on his collar.
You fucking swear he’s leaning in, each beat of the song drawing his jaw closer to yours. If you weren’t in a room full of co-workers, you’d probably let him kiss you.
I mean, what you’re doing right now is hardly innocent anyway. His hands are splayed on your lower back, your hips flat against his, rubbing, dancing. Your head rolls back and your lips are under his chin, smiling up at him and singing along. Joel sings the words straight back, your breath meeting and mingling in the tiny gap between your lips.
As the song ends, it fades into another. And another, and another. It’s two in the morning before your group of partiers begin to call taxis. You stumble out of the sweaty bar with an arm linked through Deb’s, still singing along to Whitney as you catch your breath.
She staggers off to a quieter part of the street to call a cab, and you hang around under the red light waiting for her. Joel’s stood at the curb; the back door of his sleek black Rolls-Royce open.
“Where you goin’?” he asks.
“Deb’s callin’ a cab,” you reply, arms folded, shoulders hunched.
Joel shakes his head. “Get in.”
“It’s cool, I’m jumping in with those guys. Thanks, though–”
“Baby,” Joel holds a hand out, “get in.”
Your eyes trace from his palm all the way up his sleeve, to his tired, handsome face. You’re sobering up. He looks clearer. Maybe that’s just the streetlights.
“Get you home in five minutes. C’mon.”
You swivel around to look for Martha and Deb, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cab will come, they’ll assume you’re staying a while, and get in. No big deal, right?
Well. Stepping into your boss’s car after a night of highly inappropriate touching is kind of a big fucking deal.
That’s why you do it. Waddle over to him, take his hand, let him guide you to the car. You swing a leg in and slip across the seats, admiring the ceiling dotted with hundreds of tiny white lights, like you’re staring straight up at the night sky.
They blur through your drunken gaze, which doesn’t pull from them until you feel the weight of Joel on your right and hear the door slam shut.
“Mind puttin’ the partition up, Rand?” Joel’s voice says, though you mostly hear the vibrations through his chest, where your head is lying. His arm slips around your back, pulling you closer into him as the two of you are granted privacy by the quiet whir of the screen closing.
“Good night?” Joel asks, lips on your hair.
You nod. “You?”
“Mhm.”
His fingers are drawing shapes on your left hip. His right hand intertwines with yours. Your left hand starts to wander.
You liked his hand on you. Liked feeling his grip there. Wanted him to keep moving it up, wanted to see how far he’d take it. So, you put your own hand on the inside of his thigh, just like he did. Starting at the knee, and slowly sliding north. Joel’s breath tightens, his chest lifts, his jaw ticks.
The movement knocks you sober for a couple seconds. You realize what you’re doing. You draw your hand back.
“Sorry,” you mutter.
He unlinks your hands and places a steady palm over your withdrawn fist.
“’s okay, baby. You can do that if you want to.”
The drawl of his voice makes your eyes roll back, your heart leap. Your fucking legs clench.
You let him replace your hand where it was, and his legs widen a little. His crotch more available. You’re watching what you’re doing like you’re not even in your own body; watching it how Joel must be, thinking Higher, higher, keep going, keep doing that.
You lift your heavy head, resting it on his shoulder, and look up into his brown eyes. He’s framed by the starlit ceiling of the car. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, face lined with his expression.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod lazily. “Tired.”
Just then his hand takes yours again and shifts it softly, stopping what was probably about to happen but still holding onto you, still wanting your fingers locked in his. Not halting the train, just switching tracks.
It’s not a long journey, certainly not as long as you’d like, until you’re parked on your street. Rand lowers the partition to call back, and Joel thanks him.
“You okay gettin’ to your apartment?”
“Yup,” you groan, hoisting yourself out of the comfortable car.
“Sure? I can walk you up if you want.”
You bend down, one arm on the roof of the car. “I’m good, thanks. Thanks for the ride, Miller.”
“Be safe, baby.”
“You be safe, too. Bye.”
You throw the door closed and meander off up the steps toward your building. Joel’s car doesn’t roll off until your elevator arrives and you disappear inside.
You spend all weekend in bed, recovering not only from the party but from the week of work you’d endured. You keep yourself busy, though. There’s a Desperate Housewives marathon on TV. And when you’re not watching that, your hand is stuffed down your pants, Joel on your mind.
All. Fucking. Weekend.
In the shower, you’re picturing him on his knees in front of you, lapping you up. Hands gripping your thighs, draped over his shoulders. Your hand plants firmly against the wet tile when you cum, your orgasm threatening to collapse you in a heap.
In bed, you’re on top of him, knees either side of his waist, letting him buck his hips up until you’re screaming, covering him in your wet. Your vibrator battery dies by Saturday night.
Monday morning, you’re getting ready to leave for the office, and need to take ten minutes out to relieve the ache between your legs again. This time, he has you pressed against your bedroom wall, fucking you quick and messy, cumming deep inside you before he’ll let you head out.
It’s just a crush, right? It’s just because of how touchy you guys were on Friday. When you were drunk. And in a cramped, dark dive bar. Everybody gets crushes. And who wouldn’t, on a six-foot-whatever man with a jawline that could cut glass, hands that take a grip of you with minimal effort, a cock probably the size of…
No. Nope. That’s enough. Cut that the fuck out.
It’s just a crush. That’s what you keep telling yourself in the elevator, lights counting down the floors until you’re going to see Joel again. Is the sparkling feeling in your chest fear, anticipation, or excitement?
And is your cunt beginning to throb again?
You give a curt nod to Martha as you arrive, hauling your bag a little further up your shoulder and adjusting the folders in your arms on your hips.
“Where’d you go?” she asks, eyes still on the computer in front of her. Her chin propped on her elbow, face inches from the screen, reading something intently.
“Huh?”
“On Friday. We couldn’t find you when the cab arrived.”
“Oh, I, uh,” you clear your throat, “Joel gave me a ride. Yeah.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Generous of ‘im.”
“Yup.”
“He’s in the conference room waitin’ for you.”
“Cool, thanks.”
You hover for a few seconds, then take your cue to leave. You hurry over to the conference room door, knocking twice before pushing it open.
Joel’s sat at the top of the table, leant back in his chair, feet up on the wood in front of him. You feel like you could collapse.
“Mornin’,” he says, over the dull droning from the phone. Your eyes flit down to it, a question, and he answers, “weekend update.”
“Anything good?”
He shakes his head, leaning forward to hit the unmute button, affirm whatever the hell the other dude had been saying, say his goodbyes, and then hang up.
“Feelin’ fresh?” he asks when he’s sat back.
You take a deep breath and wobble your head as an answer, laying files and folders out on the table in preparation for the meeting Joel has this morning.
“That bad, huh?”
“I was fine by Saturday afternoon. How were you?”
He shrugs. “Wasn’t that drunk.”
Yeah. Sure, Joel. Your fingers took the brunt of the alcohol.
He stands up, wanders around the table to join you. Your fingers begin to tremble at the thought of him so close. Your thighs heat.
“This all of it?” he asks. He’s closer than you thought.
“Y-yep. Some copies there, too, if anyone needs a spare.”
His hand slips up between your shoulder blades, patting you gently at the base of your neck.
“Good job, baby.”
You almost fucking shudder. Your stomach jolts, your chest tightens. The ache between your legs pangs, reminding you it’s there, even though you can’t fucking do anything about it.
You spin around, settling back against the table, ankles crossed. Tense.
“How long do you reckon it’ll go on?”
“No idea. Why? Somewhere you gotta be?”
You shake your head. “Just organizing lunch ‘n stuff for you.”
“That can wait until after.”
“I’ll have it ready for you comin’ out. Be easier.”
He steps forward. Your heart stutters.
“You’ll be in here with me.”
You cock your head. “Again? What– Why?”
“I need you in here. To take–”
“–minutes? Yeah, figured as much. You gonna have me up here all night again writing ‘em up?”
He smirks, dimples in his cheeks. There are two options here: either smack him, or jump his bones – he deserves the first and you deserve the latter.
“I like having you in my meetings, darlin’,” he says, as the door handle turns, “stops me wanting to blow my brains out.”
Martha enters and Joel slots in alongside you on the table. She sets a tray with a coffee pot and packets of sugar and milk on the sideboard.
Your head is fucking dizzy. There’s a ringing in your ears. Energy sparkling in waves from the tops of your thighs all through you. Joel’s shoulder brushing against yours, his eyes boring into the side of your face.
You won’t look at him. Won’t take your eyes off of Martha, laying paper coffee cups out in rows, her back to you guys.
Joel lays a palm flat on your thigh, rounding the curve until his hand is firm between your legs, threatening to push your skirt up. You feel his breath hot on your neck, his voice like honey in your ear.
“Makes for a nice view, too.”
You whip around to glare at him. He leans back, chuckling to himself.
Through gritted teeth, you whisper, “Can I talk to you? In private?”
Joel shrugs, excuses you both to Martha, and then follows at your heels out of the conference room and over to his office door. You waltz in without permission, shoving the door open and waiting for him to close it behind himself.
Joel’s office is bright, clean. Giant windows lining three walls, huge desk with an even bigger bookcase behind. Two black leather couches opposite, facing one another with a glass coffee table between. Soft white rugs, obnoxiously huge lampshades, small fern plants dotted here and there. You found and booked the interior designer for him, and not a day’s gone by since that you don’t remind him of how nice a job you did.
Today, though, you break that streak. You round on him as soon as he closes the tall, wooden door behind him.
“Will you fucking quit it?”
“Fucking quit what, baby?” He’s almost laughing, strolling around his desk and settling into his leather chair, leaning back. Casual. Fucking – arrogant.
You stammer, holding up a shaky finger. “Okay, first of all – that. Don’t call me baby, that’s not appropriate. Second – the teasing?”
“I don’t get it, you liked me callin’ you baby on Friday night.”
You take your bottom lip between your teeth and give him a furious stare. He holds his hands up.
“My mistake.”
You stalk over to the windows separating Joel’s office from the reception area. Martha’s still in the conference room, the door ajar. You haul the shades shut to give yourselves some privacy.
“Stop – fucking with me. Stop it. We were drunk on Friday night. It wasn’t– Stop.”
“’m not fucking with you.” He leans his head to scratch his eyebrow. He repeats it when you turn away, hands flying up in the air. “I’m not.”
“Let’s just forget Friday happened, can we do that?”
Wandering around Joel’s office isn’t doing anything to relieve the weight between your legs. If anything, it’s making it worse. You make your way back to his desk and place your hands down on the wood, leaning over.
“Wh…what’s next on the agenda?” you ask, almost panting, your eyes closing.
You hear Joel’s chair rock when his weight leaves it. His footsteps pad across soft carpet, around the desk. Nearing you. They come to a halt and you feel the air stop short, right behind you.
For someone not trying to fuck with you, he’s doing an awfully good job at it.
You surrender, leaning back, your shoulders making contact with his chest. Then his hands find your hips, light, gentle. No pressure on them, not until your ass presses against his crotch and your head tilts, allowing Joel to hook his chin over your shoulder.
He’s hard, under his pants. Against you. You can feel it, still, steady. Rock solid beneath four layers of clothing.
His hands lift from your waist and glide up your shirt front, your stomach tensing when they brush over it. They come to rest over your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples through your shirt. And you fucking let him; lifting your right arm to hook around his jaw and pull him closer into your neck, where his lips leave soft, wet marks.
It feels like the first gasp of fresh, sea air after being underwater. The first gulp of chilled water after a hike. The first wave of aircon in the car. It’s relief. It’s desperate, borderline orgasmic relief.
You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.
You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.
“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”
“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”
“Fuck me?” you repeat, and he nods. You take a breath. “S-sounds good.”
Joel’s hands find the hem of your skirt and start to pull it up your legs, painfully slow, revealing more and more of your bare thighs as he goes. He’s rubbing them, massaging until your skirt sits on your hips, little black panties exposed. His hand comes down to cup you, fingers gently applying pressure to your clit through the lace.
You moan, finally being touched by him again, finally feeling his hands on you where you need it most. Already, he’s doing better, making you feel better than you could ever by yourself. Than you did, by yourself. Involuntarily, you breathe out, “Daddy…”
Joel’s fingers pick up the pace. He fucking loves it.
“That feel good, baby? Like it like that? Tell me how it feels.”
“So – fucking – good,” you whisper, legs parting more to grant him better access. He dips his hand lower, thumb staying planted on your lace-covered clit, fingers shifting the fabric under your entrance aside.
He toys with you first, middle finger swaying back and forth through your folds, collecting slick, spreading it around. Then, a second finger, pushing upward, dangerously close to entering you. You’re gasping, leaning into him, letting his strong form keep you upright.
“That’s my girl,” Joel’s whispering into your ear. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’, just enjoy.”
And then he pushes up, two thick, curled fingers entering your cunt in one motion. He has you down to his knuckles, limp against his chest, mouth wide open in a silent gasp. Your head rolls to the side to watch him as he feels you for the first time, and his expression mirrors yours.
“So fuckin’ wet, babygirl,” he whispers, lips on your forehead.
“Fuck, daddy,” you whimper as his fingers press hard inside your soft pussy, starting to pump gently before picking up the pace and fucking you good.
The office is silent, save for your gasps and moans, and the wet sounds of Joel’s fingers in your cunt. He hums into your neck, thumb pressing hard against your clit, drawing tiny circles over the swollen bud.
It doesn’t take fucking long before you’re collapsing, walls clenching, teetering on the edge of your orgasm. It’s all that’s been on your mind for almost three days, all you’ve imagined, dreamt about, thought of.
Joel feels you, knows you’re close.
“Wanna cum all over daddy’s fingers, pretty girl?”
“Mhm,” you bite back a yelp, “so – close.”
“Know you are, baby. It’s okay, you can cum. Let me feel you.”
That coil, slowly winding since approximately nine-thirty on Friday night, not relieved by your hands, your toys, or your fucking pillows, snaps in one second. The tension breaks across your stomach. Your legs give; Joel’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you upright.
You throw your head back against his shoulder again, jaw slack with a moan you know you can’t give voice to. Joel fucks you all the way through it, fingers coated in your cum only to dive straight back in, wetter and slicker than before.
There are stars in your vision. You can’t feel between your legs. The office is slowly blinking back into view, but Joel gives you no time to recover.
He pushes you face down onto his desk roughly, hastily, like someone’s about to wander through his door any second. One ear pressed to the cold wood, you hear his belt clink, feel the teeth of his zipper graze your thighs. Hear his deep breaths as he drags his pants and boxershorts down to free his cock.
You’ve never seen him, obviously. You’ve pictured it, dreamt up what it would look like with your fingers deep inside yourself. And from this angle you still don’t see it, but when the weight of it springs against your ass, when Joel lines himself up and his tip dips between your cum-covered folds, you fucking feel it.
His thick head pushing slightly into your entrance, coating him in your slick. He’s big. You moan at the time he’s taking to just shove into you; it’s probably seconds, but it feels like fucking hours.
“I hear ya, I know,” he’s saying, but your hearing’s starting to fade. Blood pumping through your head, white noise rattling against your eardrums.
He pushes in, length separating your clenched walls, entering your wet, warm cunt with a deep growl from Joel’s lips and a gasp from yours. You open up around him, swelling as he pushes deeper and deeper.
“So – fuckin’ – tight for me, baby,” he groans, hands on your hips pulling you back onto his length. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are?”
“Mhm,” you reply, the stretch of his thick cock burning and igniting you in flame. Your eyes screw shut as he keeps pushing, further than you ever thought anyone could, until his tip kisses your cervix and you whine.
“Quiet, babygirl,” he says, pausing and placing a steady hand on the small of your back. “We don’t need anyone out there knowin’ what we’re doin’.”
“So good, daddy,” you whimper quietly, and he knows. He fucking knows.
He begins to draw back, hips leaving your ass, cock pulling out of your pussy. Your eyes roll closed, missing him the more he withdraws. Before he’s fully gone, he snaps back inside, entering you harder, faster, deeper.
You gasp, knuckles whitening with the grip of your balled fists. You bend one arm, biting into your sleeve to stop your whimpers from slipping under the door.
A couple more thrusts and Joel’s fucking you. Hard. He’s fucking huge, so huge it blurs the edges of your vision every time his cock hits against your cervix. He’s almost fucking whimpering behind you, growling your name with every stroke, groaning each time he bottoms out inside you and your tight hole wraps around his length.
You can feel the edge of the table bruising your pelvis, and it feels so fucking good. Everything about this feels good. Joel’s cock stretching you out, his hands gripping you roughly, your own hands outstretched to hold onto the desk for some sort of stability.
The only thought going through your head, only words your lips can part to utter: daddy daddy daddy.
“Good girl,” Joel hums, your moans like music to his ears. “Good fuckin’ girl. Know how naughty you are for me?”
You smile. “Yeah, daddy.”
This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever fucking done. Sure, you love sex, especially when it’s rough. But nothing you’ve ever done with anyone else, nothing you’ve ever had done to you by anyone else, compares to being bent over your boss’s desk and fucked dumb by him.
Calling him daddy, corporate managers slowly filing into a conference room just outside. Only an unlocked door separating them from you, writhing and throbbing under Joel’s cock, his rough hands on your hips, your name passing his lips in breathy moans.
Is it wrong? Yes. Do you care? Fuck no.
You know he’s close; his thrusts become sloppy, hips start hammering against you.
“Where d’you want it, baby?” he grunts, skin slapping.
You’re on the pill, and if you answered honestly, you’d tell him to finish inside you. But you know that if he wanted to do that, he’d just fucking do it. Wouldn’t ask. And you’re not prepared to waste time arguing.
“My m-mouth.”
“C’mere.” Joel slips out of you with no effort, you’re so fucking soaked for him, and spins you around. A gentle hand on your shoulder, he pushes you onto your knees, free hand jacking his cock over you.
It’s the first time you see him, fist tugging up and down a thick, veiny shaft; swollen, reddened tip spilling precum which his thumb collects and drags down his length, gleaming with your wet.
On instinct, you push forward, one hand coming to rest on his thigh, the other taking over from his on his dick. You pump him a few times, and then open your mouth wide enough to take him all the way until he’s brushing the back of your throat.
With a choke, you begin bobbing your head up and down, cheeks hollow, breathing deep through your nose. Joel moans, head rolling back, hand coming to hold your hair in a fist. He drags you back and forth a few times before he begins to shudder and you draw back, holding him steady on your swollen bottom lip.
He looks down at you and your eyes lock as he cums all over your tongue. You moan as your mouth fills with his warm, salty load. When his cock stills and he stops spilling all over you, you lean back and close your mouth, licking your lips and swallowing him.
“Aw, babygirl,” he coos, stroking your hair. “Good job. Such a good girl for me.”
You both take a few seconds to catch your breath before Joel’s hands hook under your arms and he pulls you back up, letting you lean against his desk.
Still in a daze, you feel him tug your skirt back down, fix your shirt. Tuck your hair behind your ears, wipe either saliva or cum from your lips.
“Good?” he asks, and you lace your fingers in his.
Your breath is still shaky, but through a sigh, you say, “Good.”
He nods. “Can hear Ken out front, must all be arrivin’.” He pulls you over to the door.
His fingers wrap around the handle, free hand coming up to cup your cheek. He leans down and presses his lips against yours. You open your mouth and let his tongue past, moaning into the wet, messy kiss.
Something in you almost wants to laugh, thinking about the fact you let him fuck you before you’d even kissed him.
When he pulls away, your hands take hold of his jaw, keeping him at your height.
“Have a good meeting,” you whisper, pecking him on the lips, “text me what you want for lunch.”
He growls, yanking the door open and passing by you, granting your wish to sit this one out. Something in you tells you not to wander far, though.
He’ll probably want to blow off some steam when he’s done.
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#joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller x reader#ceo!joel miller#ceo!joel#the last of us#tlou#tlou fic#joel miller smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal joel miller#joel miller x you#the last of us hbo#tlou hbo
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PLAYING DANGEROUS | (one)
summary: It's been almost three years since Jack in the box was caught, and no one could make him talk. No one knew his story, and what drove him to become the monster he was today. That is until you're assigned your first story. What makes you so lucky?
rating: 18+ (I'm not your mother you're in control of what you consume)
pairings: Journalist!Reader x Criminal!JungHoseok x CEO!Kim Namjoon x Detective!MinYoongi.
warnings: warnings: no thoroughly edited, EW Ai , character death (nothing to cry about), black/plus sized coded reader, talks of murder, talks of torture, corporate evilness, violence, Mc reads hobi to filth, yandere characters, possessive/obsessive behavior, short hair namjoon (yes that's a warning), one maknae introduction, maknae helping cause chaos, cigarettes, Yoonie is an angry kitty this chapter, bratty mc, mc is kinda a bitch (a bad one at that), unhinged serial killer hobi (joker vibes tbh) , yoongi hates his job, namjoon loves his job (he gets to piss you off everyday) SMUT— nothing too crazy , choking, sub mc , missionary, mating press , man handling (yummy)
a/n: HEYYY omg this took me so long to write and it's just a little over 2k words... LMAO I suck i know, but we're getting there I pinkie promise. I really hope you all enjoy this and constructive criticism is welcome!!
TAGLIST: @sumzysworld @bbgniecyy @paramedicnerd004 @heartsbr0ken @grltwin @superbbananananana @secfir @darkuni63 @thisladysperspective @p34rluv @secfir @sarcastic-cookie @coffeedepressionsoup @ot7nem @italiekim @cynicalbitch666 @jalexd @whenthebeatdrop-beatdrop
2 MONTHS BEFORE JACKS ESCAPE
Kim multimedia station.
The place of business was always busy and there was never not anything to be done, Endless reports and stories in need of being written, the podcast teams always chattering about the hottest topics.
KMMs was a journalist's dream — your dream.
You were a known face around the company both online and in person. A pretty foreigner who was damn good at her job and that made you favored by the late CEO Kim. You were always hand picked by him to attend press conferences in his favor. He treated you kindly, allowing you into a large world of business pulling strings to get you the best stories helping you— a once broke freshly graduated English major climbing up in the world of reporting.
It's only been three months since CEO Kim passed away and the company was changing fast. You were grateful that you weren't a part of the many that were fired and replaced by new faces and AI, and you were now noticing how low the viewers were on podcasts, social media and blogs.
KMM was dying out very slowly and that meant you might go away with it. You were dedicated to your work, and the company that helped you become the person you were today.
And you were willing to do anything to not be forgotten.
Sleeping was not on the agenda right now.
A quick double tap to a cell phone showed an awfully bright screen reading 4:40 am. You had been lying in your bed mind racing while staring at your wall for the past hour and a half.
Jack in the box.
Rolling out the tangled bedsheets and arms you pull on a large T-shirt that'd been discarded a long with the other items of clothing on the floor shuffling towards the desk in the corner of your room. Laptop already open from your previous research when you pull out a pack of cigarettes from your drawer before plunging deep into the web. Your mouse clicks every site as your pen moved furiously taking in all the information you can about said serial killer.
“On May 14th, 2018 Serial Killer Jack In The Box was finally caught after a murdering spree in Seoul. The killings of ordinary outgoing individuals taken with a quick swipe of a knife and a long torture method.”
"Before his kills Jack likes to taunt his victim. He ironically sends them a Jack in the box to let them know they're next. The next few days said victim lives in constant fear, looking over their shoulder, leading the mostly known outgoing victim to slowly isolate themselves from loved ones in fear of them being hurt, eventually this leads to insomnia and in some cases hallucinations and histera. Then Jack disappears for a while making them think they're finally okay and he's gone until he wasn't."
The scoff that left your lips echoed through the quiet room, breathing out the nicotine smoke from your Cancer stick.
So Jack was an antisocial loser and took out his lack of social skills on people who could.
"No one knows of Jack's real identity. Police have reported that the man has lived many lives and has owned many faces for the past 11 years. Reporters have tried their hardest for the past 4 years to get a one on one interview with the man but unfortunately he refuses to talk only resorting to violence."
A reporter says he went for a handshake and left with two missing fingers.
Another says he watched the man bang his head on the wall hard enough to bleed when he asked the murderer's real name.
A broken arm??
“Fuck” you huff flicking the ash at the butt of your cigarette. You stare at the mugshot photos supplied at the end of the article. Dark wide eyes, shaggy black hair falling over his forehead, the piercings sticking from the bridge of his nose eyebrow and top lip.
The look definitely screams psycho but…. he was kinda hot. It took everything in you not to go and click the endless fanfiction that you stumbled upon.
A pair of warm lips press onto your shoulder causing you to jump. Turning to look over your shoulder at the shirtless sight of Kim Namjoon.
“We have to be up in four hours, baby, come back to bed.”
You hum into his embrace with a pout stubbing out the cigarette into the pink ashtray beside your computer. “Did you know Jack went through eight lawyers? Until one day he randomly called Kim Seokjin. That high profile guy from the law firm we're partnered with? they must know each other”
Though Namjoons attention was not on the words that were leaving your mouth. Hands wander all over your body while placing kisses on your neck, and cheeks.
“He literally bit the finger of the last reporter clean off. Like do you know how much force you have to put into that? I think he reads too much gothic liter—”
Cutting you off with a quick grab of your jaw turning your head to connect his plump lips to own. Pulling away with a cheeky dimpled smirk, “I’m not sure how I feel about you talking about another man.”
“Well you shouldn't feel any type of way because you aren't MY man.”
You squeal when you're lifted up from your chair and throw over a broad shoulder. He huffs when he throws you onto the memory foam comforter, your (his) shirt lifting up your thighs exposing your bare cunt. Immediately his big body was hovering over you as he slightly pressed his body weight onto you.
“Get off you dick” pushing and smacking his tan shoulders but that did nothing for you at this moment. “Well I'm trying to put it in you.”
He bullies your legs up over his shoulders as he taps his hard piece against the wetness between your thighs. “If something happens to me during this case I swear” choking on your words as he slowly but surely presses his thick head into your cunt.
“Fuck — may the man himself strike me down.”
Hand reaching to grip your throat smashing your lips together. Luckily your mind left the thoughts of the serial killer , the only thing on your mind right now was Namjoon and his ridiculously large cockm
It wasn't weird for you to obsess over your assignments to the point where it was all you thought about. Everyone does that.
Though this one you couldn't seem to finesse your way out of. Without the help of the late Kim you'd have to pull your own strings to get what you wanted and now that Namjoon was in charge he loved making your life harder.
“Y/n.”
Your head snaps up from your laptop hand stalling from moving on your notepad face to face with gorgeously pale Detective Min Yoongi.
“Yoonie” you smile, motioning for him to sit in front of you. He looked different from when you last saw him all the months ago, more tired and cat- like you guessed it was from the heavy responsibilities that came with the position as Chief of Seouls police department
“Did you just call to look at me?”
“Sorry it's just been . . a while” you push the large Iced Americano towards him as a peace offering. He gladly accepted it with an amused raise of an eyebrow, “You know I just wait for your call.”
“The phone works both ways” you internally wince , you sounded like an estranged father talking to his child.
“What do you want?” A frown spread across your face and lips, shutting your laptop. “I can't call an old friend for a friendly coffee date.”
You waited for his answer as he took his time generously drinking from his plastic cup. With a smack of his lips he sat the cup down leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest.
“You only call me ‘Yoonie’ when you want something” eyes scanning over the scatter of papers and notes taking up your side of the table.
“This must be serious”
Hands going to clasp under your chin you sigh, cutting the bullshit. “Three years ago you were the lead investigator on the Jack in the box case which brought you from rookie detective to Chief of police.”
“I was wondering if you could help old friend out tell me what you know about-”
“No.” He cuts you off with little to no thought.
“No? Why not? This isn't our first rodeo Min”
There were plenty of times Yoongi helped you with stories without a second thought. He'd give you case files, witnesses, and anything you needed but why not now?
“Anybody but him”
You scoffed at him, irritation rising in your body. “I need this story not anyone else.”
“Well I can't help you, princess.”
“That's bullshit!” Your voice raises causing a couple people around you to turn their attention towards the two of you. He stood up, chair scraping the floor, slamming a few dollars on the table. “Call me if you need anything else.”
Turning on his heel he leaves you sitting there in your slowly growing rage. You quickly hopped from your seat chasing after him, managing to catch up with his long strides. “Yoongi slow down dammit”
He twirls around grabbing onto you by your arm, “Who gave you this story.
“Namjoon he-” you whine as his grip tightens on your arm as his eyes slit. The angry red scar on his face makes his angry stare look even more intimidating. “You don't understand how dangerous Jack is. Just because he's behind bars doesn't mean he won't have people on the outside that will whack you for being a nosy reporter.”
He softens his hold, lifting his hand to rub your cold cheek. “If something happens to you. . .” He shakes his head letting you go.
“Sit this one out Y/N I don't want to see you in our precinct mortuary.” with that he walks away disappearing into the crowd.
You sniff doing the walk of shame back to the Café sitting back in your seat with your head in your hands
Detective Min Yoongi.
“Excuse me Ma’am” the blonde barista came over holding a box of blueberry doughnuts which happened to be your favorite. “It's on the house.. everyone saw your fight with your boyfriend, manager said this might help cheer you up.”
“Oh! Thank you but he wasn't my boyfriend, just a work colleague.” You tried to defend yourself but the sympathy in his eyes only grew so you accepted the treat with another thank you. “What is your name? I've never seen you here before.”
A soft brightens his pretty face, eyes scrunching slightly adding to the prettiness of his face. “Park Jimin, Ma’am.”
MEANWHILE
The buzz of the electrically wired door opening didn't alert the man that stayed deep in the corner of his cell. “Long time no see.”
“Why now?” the visitor asks, “After all this time you choose now.”
He giggled, the haunting sound bouncing off the walls. “Did you bring what I asked for”
The visitor threw the pictures and the box of cigarettes into the cell. “Answer my question.”
“It's been three longgg years.” He finally answered, moving from his corner to pick up the photos. “Tell me is she this gorgeous in person?”
“Just for her?”
“And I need to stretch my legs” he laughs louder this time the high pitched sound echoed even through the thick steel door that kept him locked in tight.
Jack was ready to play more games
©hobicakesss , please don't repost or steal my work. don't be a loser
#bts x black reader#bts x reader#jungkook x reader#yoongi x reader#namjoon x reader#yandere yoongi#jungkook x you#bts series#bts fic rec#bts fanfic#yandere bts#yandere hoseok#park jimin x reader#kim namjoon x reader#kim seokjin x reader#hobi x reader#jung hoseok x reader#bts poly au#bts poly#bts yandere#yandere kpop#bts mafia au#bts a/b/o#august d x reader#ceo bts#min yoongi x reader#jungkook smut#namjoon smut#bts smut
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Could you do a Rhys x reader where people always thought she was more masculine until she mated with Rhys where she started to become and feel more comfortable being feminine and just being herself.
It’s like the saying where if the woman feels safe enough and comfortable in the relationship, she allows herself to be more feminine and starts to relax little by little.
It’s also like that trend going around on TikTok where it’s like when you’re by yourself, you double check everything and you are hyper aware of everything around you, but the second your husband is there, you can relax and just turn off your brain and not worry about anything lol
Hopefully I explained this well enough. My dyslexic ass is having a rough time today 😀
okay tbh I'm not the most familiar with this but a special thank you to @lidiacerv0s for the help + showing me the TikTok trend. I hope you enjoy this, it was fun to write🤗💜
The Archer
Rhysand x fem!Reader fluff
warnings: this gets very suggestive towards the end, I couldn't help it 🤷♀️
With a final sweep of black coal to your eyes, you stepped back from the mirror, taking in your finished look. You kept the makeup simple but dark, to match the all-black tailored suit you’d donned for today’s meetings. Smoothing down the sides of your hair - neatly pulled back in a tight bun - you sighed, already tired of the facade you were building.
Rhys was busy with matters in Windhaven, leaving you in charge of the meeting with the Lords in the Hewn City today. It was doomed to be a day full of males challenging you and people looking to you for direction, something that always exhausted you.
A knock on your door distracted you from those thoughts, and you took one last look in the mirror at the severe female staring back at you before striding towards the door, head held high and chest out as you wore the mask of confidence you relied on as part of your role of High Lady.
The click of your heels echoed through the obsidian stone hallways, announcing your approach to the counsel room. The set of double doors were opened for you, your unamused gaze sweeping the room as you assessed the varying levels of nerves each Lord exuded in your presence.
With a cruel smile, you looked to Keir, the Lord immediately straightening in his seat at your piercing gaze. You let out a dramatic sigh, long nails idly tapping against the long table as you relaxed in your chair.
“Report,” you ordered, smooth voice cutting through the room like a knife as everyone grew impossibly silent. Keir rambled about problems in the Court of Nightmares, status of the Darkbringers. Complaint after complaint from each incompetent male at the table. All problems and no solutions.
As Lord Thanatos began to complain about his daughter and the behavior of the young women in the court for the thousandth time, you cut him off, letting the dark look in your eyes convey the thinly veiled threat that lurked beneath your words like a shark in the water.
“I will be sure to check on your daughter, as well as all the females in this Court soon. Any threats that we find will be dealt with at the hands of the Shadowsinger.” You looked pointedly at Thanatos with those words, your lips curving upwards as the scent of his fear permeated the air.
“Now that you all have your agendas, this meeting is adjourned.” You stood from your chair, chin high as you strode towards the doors that were already being opened for you.
With a glance over your shoulder, you flashed a feline grin at the males, each of them shrunk into the seat of their chairs as they stared at you, wide-eyed like the helpless children they were inside. “Do not disappoint me,” you purred, a final warning before you disappeared from their sight.
You barely held your composure, forcing yourself to keep a leisured pace until you were away from everyone. Closing the door to your room, you nearly collapsed against the wood as you finally let the mask slip.
An inviting tug on the bond nearly brought tears to your eyes - Rhys was home. Without a second thought, you winnowed back to Velaris, kicking off your heels as you ran to where Rhys stood, stirring something that smelled incredible over the stove.
“You’re home,” you cried, running towards him. Rhys set down the ladle, fully turning towards you as he wrapped you in his arms, allowing you to sink into his comforting warmth.
Pressing a kiss to your head, Rhys tilted your chin up to look at him. “You are so beautiful, darling,” he whispered, capturing your lips in his in a hungry kiss. You collapsed into his hold, back arched as you allowed yourself to be swept away from your worries as he swept your feet off the ground.
“Are you making dinner?” you murmured against his lips, admiring the way Rhys’s violet eyes twinkled as he looked down at you, playfully bumping his nose against yours.
“Mhm,” he hummed. “I’m trying a new recipe that I think you’ll love.” Tears threatened to spill as relief washed over you, this magnificent male who would always care for you, look out for your needs.
“Thank you, my love,” you whispered, allowing Rhys to set your feet back on the ground as he prepared plates for the two of you.
“Come here,” Rhys purred, patting his leg as he took a seat at the table, both plates in front of him. You practically squealed with delight as you dashed to claim your seat in your mate’s lap. Relaxing against his warm chest, you sighed as Rhys slid an arm around your waist, rubbing soothing circles against your skin as he cut your food for you.
“Here, darling,” Rhys whispered, pressing a kiss to your neck as he brought the fork to your lips. You moaned at the flavors, head leaning back against Rhys as you murmured praises for his cooking.
“I am so lucky to have you,” you whispered, kissing his cheek as Rhys grabbed another forkful of food for you.
He simply chuckled, his hand squeezing your waist affectionately. “And I you, my love.”
Once you were content, a full meal resting in your stomach, you began to gather the plates to clean up. “No you don’t. Let me do that. Why don’t you go take a bath, change into something more comfortable?” Rhys teased, his eyes darkening with barely controlled desire.
You responded with a smirk, pulling your hair from its updo as you let the hair fall over your shoulders in waves. “I can do that. But I want to bake you something for dessert after,” you countered.
Rhys swallowed thickly as he watched you ascend the staircase, his eyes trained on your form with each step. You stepped into the bathroom, a content sigh slipping from your lips as you breathed in the floral scents wafting from the already-filled bathtub.
Peeling off the offensive suit, an unabashed moan left you at the feeling of the warm water on your muscles. Allowing yourself to soak for a short while, you scrubbed the memories of the day from your skin before stepping out of the tub.
A devious grin graced your lips at the idea that came to mind as you stared in your wardrobe, pulling the lacy pink lingerie from the drawer. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t help the bright smile that took over your features as the real you smiled back.
You strode down the stairs, the confidence you exhibited real this time as you locked eyes with your mate. Rhys watched you, enchanted, from the other side of the room, admiring your free-flowing hair and the way the lace of your lingerie framed your curves.
“What are you doing?” he choked out, his knuckles white as they clutched the countertop.
Bending over, you gave your mate a view of the cheeky panties you wore (if they could even be called that) as you pulled ingredients from the cabinet. “I’ve had to deal with those incompetent males, wear awful restrictive clothing all day... I just want to spend some time with my mate, wearing something that’s a bit more... me,” you finished with a giggle, flipping your hair over your shoulder as you cracked an egg in the bowl.
Rhys prowled to stand behind you, his hands roving over every part of you he could touch. Playfully swatting away his hand, you shook your head as you scolded him.
“If you would like to help with the baking, you are welcome to. We can play later,” you whispered, lifting up on your toes to give a playful tug to his earlobe. Rhys shivered, but nodded as he stepped back slightly.
“I would always like to do whatever serves my lady,” he responded, his finger lightly grazing your arm. “What can I do for you?”
You hummed thoughtfully, swaying your hips as you whisked. “I would love if you would taste this for me,” you declared, scooping a bit of the chocolate batter on your pointer finger. Violet eyes darkened further as Rhys gripped your wrist in his large hand, drawing your finger into his mouth.
You could see the moment he scented your arousal, his tongue flicking against the digit as his eyes remained locked on yours. “Delicious, as always,” he moaned, smirking as you pulled away with a blush.
“Alright then, let me get this into the baking pan then,” you whispered. Before you could reach for the pan, Rhys already had it in his hand, reaching for the bowl as he poured the remaining batter.
Rhys held you in his lap, playing with your hair as you told him about your day, and listened about his while the brownies baked.
“You are an incredible female,” your mate murmured, his sweet words interrupted by the timer signaling that dessert was ready. You leapt from Rhys’s lap, enjoying the feeling of his eyes on your body as you plated dessert for the each of you and returning to your spot on his lap. Pleased moans left the both of you at the rich taste of dessert, and you settled into Rhys’s arms, deep contentment settling over you.
Rhys scooped you up bridal style, carrying you over to the couch where he wrapped himself around you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as his hands idly wandered your body.
“What else do you want to do tonight?” Rhys whispered, dipping his head to pepper kisses along your neck.
A content sigh left you at the comfort and care he was giving you, a vibrant contrast to the dark role you played earlier today. “Nothing tonight. I just want to spend time with you, my perfect mate,” you responded, pressing a lingering kiss above his heart as you settled into him.
“Well, how about tomorrow I take you shopping? And then we could get dressed up, go to a nice dinner?” Rhys questioned, his playful tone a show of exactly how well he knew you.
“I could be convinced to do that, I suppose,” you retorted, unable to hold in the joyous laugh that escaped you.
Rhys flipped you over, his onyx locks falling in his eyes as he caged you in underneath him. “Good, because I’m not done with dessert. And these,” Rhys emphasized with a snap against the band of your panties, “will need to be replaced,” he purred as you heard the fabric rip.
#acotar#a court of thorns and roses#acotar x reader#acotar fanfiction#acotar imagine#rhys acotar#rhys x reader#rhysand x reader#rhysand acotar#rhysand x y/n#rhysand x you#acotar reader fic#acotar fanfic#acotar fic#acomaf#rhys#rhysand#acotar fluff#rhysand x reader fluff#acotar rhysand#acotar reader imagine#rhys acotar x you#rhys x you#rhys x y/n#acotar x you#acotar x y/n#acotar x reader fluff#acotar smut#rhysand smut#rhys x reader fluff
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Spreading my morally grey Kunikida agenda. Because I refuse to believe this man's ideals completly vibe with the law.
And he hates authority.
If Kunikida didn't meet Fukuzawa he was probably going to end up in jail for vigilante justice or some shit.
Kunikida had canonically broke into a meteorological bureau, all because the weather report was wrong.
Imagine what he'd do if say... An innocent person was on trial?
Or if during his days as a teacher that one of his students was being abused and the staff nor police would do anything about it.
He'd take that shit into his own hands, legal or otherwise. Oh he won't kill you but he'll do a Batman and break every bone in your body.
Kunikida would be the kind of criminal who would sell organs on the black market from willing donors to save countless lives of people on waiting lists for transplants.
He'd get in fights with cop's for trying to fine people sleeping rough and personally patrol the area and make sure they have food and blankets.
Kunikida lives and breathes by his ideals. And if you're in his way of that... Good luck.
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Batfam as the weirdest Tumblr asks you've ever received?
Dick: the person in my DMs who kept insisting I'm Jewish even after I told them I'm not
Jason: the tirade that felt like it was ghostwritten by the Joker. I posted it but Tumblr's search engine was designed by squirrels
Tim: the QAnoner telling me I'm a media insider pushing Biden's leftist agenda after Tim came out (I wish)
Damian: the person who sent me a picture of their dog. That was nice. I really needed that
Duke: the person who asked if I'll ever consider taking commissions. They were polite about it but the answer is no
Cullen: the person who wanted me to promote their Batfam x Danny Phantom Wattpad fanfic
Stephanie: shoutout to everyone who asks me how I'm doing. I won't unload my problems onto you but I appreciate it
Cassandra: I think someone tried to send me emojis but they came out as squares
Barbara: someone who came pretty close to guessing where I live based on how I speak
Harper: apologies to everyone asking for the batfam as anime but I saw 2 episodes of Death Note and that's the extent of what I know
Carrie: the commenter I reported for being under 13. I'm sorry but Tumblr has an age limit for a reason
Kate: the person who asked my opinion on a Black Widow jacket they found. They're just biker jackets but it's the thought that counts
Alfred: maybe I'm old and out of touch but why do people keep sending me my own posts?
Selina: anyone who's tried to flirt with me. Not spambots, actual people who developed a parasocial bond
Bruce: pretty much every PSA, signal boost, GoFundMe, etc. I'm not doing that to my followers
dishonorable mention to all the neckbeards. why are you on tumblr?
#i wish i was making this up#does this mean i'm popular#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#damian wayne#duke thomas#cullen row#stephanie brown#cassandra cain#barbara gordon#harper row#carrie kelley#kate kane#alfred pennyworth#selina kyle#bruce wayne#batman#batfamily#batfam#batbros#batboys#batgirls#batkids#batsiblings#batman family#dc comics#ask#anonymous#personal
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#Indigenous History#Black writers#tw genocide#Fuck Amerikkka#Glen Ford#Black Agenda Report#Rest in Power
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Red carpet with the batkids, asked about an important figure in their life:
Dick: Clark ? I have never seen someone so upright in my life, as a reporter he's always trying to write about what matter the most for the people and not a political agenda by some bald billionaire you know. I'm trying everyday to follow his path of honesty and truth.
Barbara: Dad ? There is a picture of him next to the word "resilience" in the dictionnary. Nobody could have done what he did for this city while staying on the good side of the law.
Jason: Talia Head ? Yeah, she was there when I got caught in this attack in Ethiopia. She spared nothing for my réhabilitation when I couldn’t return to Gotham because of witness protection. I know I can trust her with my life because I had to for years. I wouldn't have enough time in my two lives to thank her enough for her patience with me.
Tim: Selina ? You know a lot of people who'd hire Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy and Catwoman to stole back what Black Mask robbed in the museum ? Iconic I have to say.
Steph and Cassandra: Diana, just look at her to understand. She knows history like she was there the whole time. She's the biggest expert on ancient greece on the planet ! She's even the mythology advisor on the percy jackson's show ! 6'3 olympic wrestling champion nerd. I'm in love. 💖💖💖
Damian: Alfred is the most wise, elegant, selfleness being. And he doesn’t scratch the couch.
(I don't know enough about Duke, sorry)
And what about Bruce Wayne ?
Batkids:...Batburgers...He buys batburgers sometime.
#batman#batfamily#batfam#dc comics#bruce wayne#jason todd#dick grayson#damian wayne#tim drake#cassandra cain#barbara gordon#stephanie brown#alfred pennyworth#clark kent#wonder woman#superman#batkid#batkids#talia al ghul#good mom talia#gotham city sirens#harley quinn#poison ivy#Catwoman
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I completely support Israel being held accountable for its crimes against humanity, but we also can’t ignore that Indonesia has been violently occupying West Papua - a region more than twice the size of occupied Palestine - for the past 55 years, and has murdered 500,000 indigenous West Papuans in the process. Indonesian soldiers routinely burn indigenous villages to the ground, pose with the bodies of murdered Papuan civilians, and actively prevent journalists from reporting on the genocide. West Papuans often refer to their homeland as “Indonesia’s Palestine.”
There's nothing to add. I agree. I am not trying to imply that all of the countries supporting Palestine don't have their own interests or agendas or that they are perfect in any way. Such as China or, say, Iran. Not everything is black and white, and there are definitely multiple geopolitical reasons for their actions or stand.
There are definitely many biases when it comes to geopolitical situations and blatant hypocrisy.
I completely understand and do sympathise with the West Papuans.
Undoubtedly, the situation is awful and has been going on for years. Basic research shows plenty of results of the brutal Indonesian occupation and brutality against the people.
《 Here is this website I found which might be helpful to gain some insight, feel free to drop more and I will add it to the post. 》
The West Papua Genocide Monitor
Welcome to the Awareness Campaign page for West Papua genocide. You have come to the right place if you are looking for information about West Papua genocide. - the introduction. Very good information.
The situation is indeed very similar to Palestine, with some mentions of settler colonialism in some of the articles. Hence the name is fitting I suppose. Hypocrisy runs high in politics and history, no doubt.
Countries such as Turkey and Egypt come to mind, its very telling. They probably put out statements to pacify the outrage and the anger of their own citizens since it would and should threaten their power otherwise.
This includes several Arab governments such as Jordan (there are huge protests daily)
The information about it is easy to find although I think a much more educated blog would do well in explaining the situation.
#palestine#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#current events#jerusalem#yemen#palestinian genocide#indonesia#settler colonialism#genocide#west papua#zdm talks#zdm speaks
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An Israeli influence campaign is using hundreds of online avatars and fake social media accounts to attack Democratic lawmakers critical of Israel and promote news articles disapproving of the United Nations Palestine refugee agency (Unrwa), according to a report by the Israeli online watchdog, Fake Reporter.
According to the report, the targeted campaign has used more than 600 avatars, sending out 58,000 tweets and social media posts to circulate articles published by The Guardian, CNN and Wall Street Journal, among other major news outlets that amplify Israel’s position on the war.
The campaign relies on three major social networks, UnFold Magazine, Non-Agenda and The Moral Alliance, which were created prior to the war in Gaza. But the Hamas-led 7 October attack on southern Israel sent the accounts into round-the-clock posting.
The sites, according to Fake Reporter, are geared specifically to a “progressive audience”, publishing content on climate change, AI regulation, and human rights, in addition to the war in Gaza. They have more than 43,000 followers across Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.
The avatars promoting the content talk up their identity with lines like, “As a middle-aged African American woman” and use hashtags like #FaithJourney and #AfricanAmericanSpirituality.
Some examples from the report:
And continuing,
The avatars were all created on the same day and their profiles were written with the same formula, subbing out just a few words. The declared gender and ethnicity of the avatars don’t match the profile photos, which have been taken from websites selling headshots.
The campaign works to amplify news stories published by major media outlets. First, the fake news sites share the reports. Then, the avatars share them across social media, including on the official accounts of Democratic lawmakers.
Avatars also shared social media posts showing video clips of what appeared to be Pro-Palestinian protestors calling for "massacres to be normalised" and calling for the US to "go to hell", contrasting that with peaceful protests of pro-Israel protestors.
In other cases, Avatars simply reshared widely published video clips of US lawmakers questioning the heads of Ivy League schools about antisemitism on campus.
[...] According to the report, around 85 percent of all the US politicians targeted by the campaign were Democrats, and 90 percent of them were African Americans.
Ritchie Torres, a black Democratic Congressman with generally pro-Israel views, garnered the most social media engagement from the avatars. Other lawmakers targeted included Cori Bush; Lucy McBath; House minority leader Hakeem Jeffries; and Democratic Senator Raphael Warnock.
Israeli news site Haaretz reported in January that the Israeli government had launched an online influence campaign to respond to pro-Palestinian content and reports about Hamas.
It’s unclear whether the campaign revealed by Fake Reporter is part of that initiative.
. . . continues at MME (20 Mar 2024)
#free palestine#palestine#israel#gaza#hasbara#bot network#if you're active on twitter you've likely encountered these israeli bot networks already#but note how targeted it is#''around 85 percent of all the US politicians targeted by the campaign were Democrats#and 90 percent of them were African Americans''
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A Swim | Leon S. Kennedy x Reader
I somehow had it on repeat while writing *cracks up*
summary: Colorado wasn’t the only self-indulgent vacation that Kennedy took before he found a road to sobriety. When the world is the oyster, Bangkok is the pearl.
content: cheesy af (help me), older Leon, drunkard Leon, thus mentions of alcoholism; mentions of/implied thoughts of suicide, kinda light angst (obviously); Hunnigan with an agenda; gn! and a tad bossy reader with Interpol background; heavy sexual tension, swearing
author’s note: that was unplanned and uncalled for, proceed at your own risk. Also, I need to scream about the man in Death Island. Omfg.
if you’re a minor, go away <3
love y’all, you beautiful souls
xoxo
***
Ingrid called you in the middle of the night, reassuring that only you could track down the infamous Leon S. Kennedy. You breathed out a sleepy “…Why?” and got a response that you could barely consider an explanation. He took a vacation, Hunnigan said. He seemed to disappear, and she needed him back immediately. You could not see her face, but you could hear a pretty please in her voice.
“I am not even under D.S.O. command.” You groaned lightly. You have been working with several D.S.O. agents for the past couple of years, particularly with agent Kennedy, but you have been directly reporting to Interpol instead.
“I have already cleared you for this assignment,” Ingrid confessed. You stayed silent for a moment and then sighed. There wasn’t anything that Hunnigan could not do, after all. “He trusts you.”
As for you, Leon Kennedy trusted no one, but you wouldn’t get into this argument.
“Where was he seen last time?” You pulled yourself out of bed and walked towards the pair of jeans that were casually hanging from the only chair present in your room.
“Ingrid?” You called again when radio silence was your answer.
“We assume he is Bangkok, Thailand, since two days ago.” You sensed a touch of guilt in Hunnigan’s voice. “You have already been booked for a commercial flight.”
It took your tired brain a bit of time to do the math.
“Isn’t it like fifteen hours or so from JFK?” You inquired, genuinely concerned.
“Twenty hours,” Ingrid confirmed mercilessly. “You need to be at the airport within an hour.”
Rushing to your wardrobe, you devotedly cursed Kennedy to the high heavens.
***
Bangkok was hot. Your shirt became almost transparent in minutes and now felt like a second skin clinging to your body. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like any of it. Not until you find the son of a bitch, Kennedy, who went rogue due to no particular reason and made a decision to vacay on the other side of the planet Earth.
The taxi driver that you hailed on the street was painfully chatty, thanks to your creeping headache, but your suffering was about to end when your cab stopped in the middle of the road abruptly.
“That’s the place.” The driver told you in broken English, and you swiftly left the creaking vehicle that smelled of cheap cigarettes and incense.
The place was a dimly lit bar with little to no likable people inside. Damned Leon S. Kennedy was occupying one of the bar stools but was also spearheading the list of human beings that you felt no sympathy for at this particular moment.
He was drunk. You knew he appreciated his liquor, but you had never seen him even close to the condition he was in right now.
You briefly messaged Hunnigan that you have just found her “runaway bride” before shortening the distance to Leon’s chair. He made no effort to check out the newcomer, and you took it to your advantage.
“Surprise, you asshole.” You greeted him coldly. The agent blinked; you could see gears turn inside his intoxicated head while he was trying to identify you.
Finally, he grunted.
“The heck are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse. You blamed it all on some cheap brandy in his whiskey glass. “I am on vacation.”
“Your vacation is my vacation now, too, after Hunnigan made me fly twenty fuckin’ hours to find you.” You grimaced and took over the closest seat to Leon. He looked annoyed. You didn’t care.
“You look like you’ve had enough.” You concluded, having his drinking spree in mind.
He let out a drunken laugh that was devoid of joy. “What’s it to you if I have? I can take care of myself.” He scoffed and slurred his words a little.
A stubborn dumbass—you let out a heavy, irritated sigh. You felt your heat-infused headache intensifying.
“You cannot.” You gave him an unimpressed look. “At least I don’t consider it self-care when one drinks himself to death.” That was harsh, you thought. But right now he probably deserved it.
Your comment seemed to strike a chord with him.
“I told you I can take care of myself!” He raised his voice slightly, and some of the patrons looked over.
Jesus Christ. You wouldn’t consider yourself religious, though.
“How are you planning to take care of yourself?” You raised your voice slightly, too, giving him an unappreciative look. Suddenly, you quietly snapped. “I don’t know what you are thinking, Kennedy, but this is not a vacation. That’s a bloody suicide waiting to happen.”
You have seen alcoholics in your line of work before, and it didn’t matter what Leon thought of himself in this situation – but he looked like one.
To your surprise, he went silent, visibly taken aback. He blinked; there was a noticeable glimmer of confusion in Leon’s eyes.
Did not he realize that he was hurting himself this much?
“I’m fine…” Kennedy groaned, although his denial was slowly crumbling. “I’ll be fine…”
You could see he fought it – the alcohol numbed his feelings, but now, with a glimpse of sanity, they seemed to return to him in droves.
You watched him in awkward silence while he was babysitting his demons until he looked at you, both headstrong…
… and embarrassed?
“I swear, it would be better if Hunnigan sent some D.S.O. shrink, not you.” He grunted in disappointment, unwillingly sobering up. This vacation was over.
“Ingrid is worried about you.” You muttered, then scoffed. “And I’m your witness, Leon – you haven’t been fine in years. I know you long enough.”
He didn’t have to like what you said, but you thought he needed to hear this.
Leon gave you a dirty look. How could you see through him? The rest was tiptoeing around his alcoholism for ages, nurturing his drunken arrogance. You might not be nice, but what the others did was not kind.
The man cursed and fumblingly pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his Hawaiian-looking shorts; these made you stifle a chuckle. The image of invincible Leon S. Kennedy looking like this would be imprinted into your brain forever and ever.
He threw a few – too many – bills in local currency on the table and got himself up heavily from the bar stool. Now he towered over you grumpily. “What a buzzkill you are,” he mumbled, and you could smell that cheap brandy you noticed before on his breath.
You smirked, showing no remorse. “Let’s get you a cab, handsome.”
***
He stayed in one of the hotels right at the beach, and, stepping out of the taxi, you froze for a second, enjoying the view.
“That's one thing people got right about Thailand; it's beautiful here.” Leon hummed, approaching you from behind.
You still had your gaze fixed on the curves of the twilight bay when Kennedy spoke again. “You're right... I haven't been fine in years.”
You raised your eyebrows at him, making no attempts to hide your flabbergasted facial expression. Was this man admitting that he was wrong?..
Then pigs were about to start flying.
But Leon kept going.
“Do you want to know what's been happening in my head... How badly have things affected me?”
Was he even drunker than you thought?
“Yes, you dumbass.” You replied softly. Whether it was Ingrid’s push or not, Hunnigan was not the only one who cared about Leon to follow him around the globe.
The man walked towards the seashore, letting the waves lick his feet.
“My mind is so chaotic these days,” Kennedy admitted; his voice was barely a whisper. “Sometimes, I even lose sleep at night because of the nightmares of...”
Leon hesitated. You didn’t nudge, afraid of ruining his mood. He has already called you a buzzkill once.
At last, he sighed. Why was it so hard to talk about it?
“I made promises I couldn’t keep; that’s all you need to know.” Leon summed it up without looking at you. Did he really want to talk about it? You followed his tired, unfocused gaze, staring at the horizon.
“How about a swim?” Your suggestion came out of nowhere. You tilted your head, waiting for his response, and he glanced at you, confused, for the first time in the past moments.
Leon then let out a laugh in a drunken manner. “What? Now? In my state? I'll sink straight to the bottom.”
“You decided to vacation in Thailand – and not to swim?” You rolled your eyes at him jokingly and pulled him by his wrist. “Come on, Kennedy.” You begged. You might have been a tad aggressive back then, in the bar, but now…
You thought he deserved a break.
Leon groaned slightly but didn’t fight it, tagging along behind you. He felt a little dizzy; the cheapness of the served brandy was finally getting to him. Despite it all, he scoffed, his tone friendlier than before. “You are not going to let me forget that I am on vacation here, are you?”
You smirked, stepping into the gentle ocean waters and shamelessly ignoring his question. “We are not going to go far. I won’t let you drown, Kennedy.”
He smirked. “I trust you.” Oh, did he? Suddenly, shivers ran down your spine when you recalled Hannigan’s words. Why were you special?
You submerged in the water further with no regard to your clothes, now soaking wet. Leon, to your amusement, did the same.
“That should help with your hangover tomorrow.” You gave him a dirty look, and he huffed out a laugh.
“What's with all the dirty looks you've been giving me all day? You think I deserve it?”
“Oh, you deserve all of them.” You snorted - right before he pulled you by the waist, making you scoff out of surprise. You froze, barely reaching his chin covered with two-day stubble.
“You are drunk, Kennedy.” You reminded him softly, still making no attempts to leave his embrace. His intense gaze was trained on you.
“I'm not that drunk,” he scoffed, a grin forming on his lips. What the heck was going on?
“Oh, you are that drunk, Kennedy.” You smirked at him.
And then you felt it; his lips crashed into yours. Unconsciously, your hand darted to his hair, playing with the dirty blonde strands. A soft moan escaped your lips.
What were you thinking? It felt so wrong; you have been partners for years, and you didn’t like to mix work and pleasure. And if he had an excuse, let alone an awful one, to kiss you, you had none.
It felt so good, though.
Leon pulled away from your lips only when your lungs started to burn with a lack of air. His grin was too cheeky for your liking.
“You don't mind spending the night with me, do you?” The audacity.
You smirked. “I’ll spend a night with you when you sober up, handsome.” Otherwise, one of you might have regretted it – while him standing in front of you with wet hair and a soaked-up t-shirt made you hot and bothered. Damn, that man was fine. One way or another, at least.
“You should get to bed, Kennedy.” … And sleep through that hangover.
“Just one more…” He mumbled—one more taste of your lips. “... For today.”
Liar. So you whined into his lips softly when he kissed you again. And again.
Forcing yourself out of the water later, you looked at the boiling ocean; the waves crashed against each other as the sun set behind them. It took you all your willpower to let go of him this evening, and the only thought that brought you peace was that he was suffering at the loss of contact as much as you were.
***
You called him the following morning when you were making yourself a coffee.
“Hey.” Your lips curved into a smile. “How is your hangover, handsome?”
Leon, barely awake, first laughed, then groaned, and there was an audibly sound note of hangover in his voice, too.
“A dreadful headache... And I can still taste you on my lips, which doesn't help.” Your breath hitched. His comment about him tasting you stained your cheeks bright pink.
He yawned. “…I feel like crap.”
You mischievously bit your lip, although your tone was innocent. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
Leon, no doubt, knew precisely what would make him feel better right now.
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