#advanced targeted attacks

[tanadrin]

@grimogretricks

For people saying that airport security is wholly theatre and that it doesn't do any good- certainly it seems they've gone overboard on certain things, but what is your explanation as to why hijackings and terrorist attacks involving planes are MUCH less common than they used to be?

Sorry that this is mostly off the dome, and has less references than I would like. We argued this stuff to death in the aughts, though ultimately the political incentives in favor of security theater were just too great. Everyone is terrified of the potential backlash of not being seen to do enough in advance of the next big terrorist attack, I guess. And to be clear, we are talking mostly about post-9/11 airport security measures as being security theater. Some degree of airport security has been necessary since people started getting on airplanes with guns and informing the pilot that, hey, guess what, we're going to Cuba instead of Miami today.

But the big reduction in airplane hijackings came with the institution of metal detectors to keep guns off airplanes after a couple high-profile hijackings in the 1970s. But remember that these incidents were of a very different character than what we now think of as the risk to airplanes: they were certainly a problem, but the modus operandi of hijackers in this era was to force the plane to fly to a non-extradition country and land safely. 9/11-style hijackings, that used the plane as a bomb and killed everyone aboard, were on nobody's radar--when the goal was blowing up the plane and killing passengers, bombers generally used bombs planted in checked baggage, which requires different security measures from passenger screening.

Two security changes occurred after 9/11 that made future such hijackings basically impossible: one, probably most importantly, was that passengers understood they no longer could count on hijackers having an interest in surviving the hijacking. This change in passenger behavior was immediate: later that same year when a guy tried to bomb an airplane (using a really ineffective device hidden in his shoe) passengers immediately acted to restrain him. The second important change was reinforcing cockpit doors and keeping them locked: this makes hijacking airplanes with knives (the only major modality left to most would-be hijackers) functionally impossible.

All the other intense passenger screening and security measures implemented after 9/11 has been repeatedly shown by security researchers to be pretty ineffective, not even very reliable at stuff like keeping knives off airplanes. For years after 9/11 there were endless news stories about law enforcement running drills at airports and weapons making their way through security. A lot of later security measures, like liquid limits in carry-on baggage, came from terrorist plots that didn't even make it off the drawing board (and are unlikely to have ever worked anyway), and seem mostly to be overzealous ass-covering by transportation security officials.

And, finally, we should note that the real security threats to airplanes in the post-9/11 era seem to have come come from two sources that are basically impossible to protect against using traditional security methods, and for which passenger-based security screening is useless: anti-aircraft missiles and suicidal pilots (plus an honorable mention to aircraft companies trying to skirt certain regulatory requirements).

Despite what decades of American media would have you believe, elaborate plots targeting transportation infrastructure and involving like a dozen people are actually not at the top of the list of terrorist methodologies--why time and money training members of your organization to fly planes into buildings, when you can just use social media to convince a guy to drive a car into a crowd of bystanders, or stab somebody on the street? It's much cheaper, and much, much harder to guard against. Random lone-wolf terrorism is, unlike the kind of elaborate plots portrayed on TV, and one-off real-life examples like 9/11, basically impossible for security services to guard against in advance. But in order to justify the war on terror, and large budgets for security services on anti-terrorism grounds, it was necessary to play up the threat of such plots, even if by its very nature 9/11 was impossible to repeat. For similar reasons, the post-9/11 era also played up the threat of Islamic extremism and large overseas terrorist networks, even though far-right extremists acting in small groups also have managed to kill huge numbers of people in spectacular ways.

So for all these reasons, and those noted at the top, the political incentives around transportation security means that passenger screening measures in airports are almost guaranteed to be a one-way ratchet, even if they don't work. It's a bit like the fabled anti-tiger amulet--it's easy to say the lack of tigers is proof it's working! Even if the real reason there are no tigers about is that you live in Ohio. The media environment post-War on Terror helped create a public appetite for and approval of such anti-tiger amulets, too, of course. This was not by any means a purely top-down phenomenon.

[neamamhmd9]

Save My Family From the war nightmare in Gaza

Hello My name is Neama, I'm 24 years old and I'm trying to save my family from the war. I used to work for the medical staff and help treat patients and children through my profession as a medical analysis specialist. We are the ones who separate doubt and certainty, but the occupation came and we were displaced. Because of this harsh war, I couldn't continue my profession of helping and saving children, and this saddens me.

My father, Mohammed, is 69 years old, and my mother, Amal, is 60 years old. We are a family of 7 (Ahmed, 32 years old, Alaa, 36 years old, Mariam, 27 years old, Ne’ma, 24 years old, Mahmoud, 22 years old) and the family of my widowed sister, 38 years old, who has four orphaned children (Tulin, 10 years old, Obaida, 9 years old, Laith, 6 years old, Ghaith, 5 years old). We lived a life full of happiness. We had dreams that were shattered by the barbaric Israeli attack that does not differentiate between young and old. After our house was completely destroyed, we were displaced to the southern Gaza Strip in search of a safe life, but this enemy does not differentiate at all and targets us in the shelter tents and their harsh conditions of extreme heat, lack of privacy, abundance of insects, and scarcity of water and food. We are now suffering from famine because of this war.

My father, Mohammed, suffers from a chronic disease (chronic pulmonary obstruction and difficulty breathing), and his condition has deteriorated, making him depend on oxygen tubes. One of my sisters has special needs (quadriplegia), while my other sister is a widow with four orphaned children and suffers from a chronic illness (ulcerative colitis)

You can contribute in any way you see fit to move my family out of Gaza to get the necessary medical treatment and live in a safe environment, every effort creates a useful impact and contributes to making a real difference. Through financial donations, you can contribute any amount you see fit, whether small or large, via the link or share it with your friends and anyone who can help us

Thank you very much for your humanity and standing with us. We hope that the war will end and peace will prevail in the world. Thank you all in advance for your support. May God protect and bless us all

https://gofund.me/5c9c46ba

[reasonsforhope]

"The first new treatment for asthma attacks in 50 years has been tested by British scientists.

The injection is more effective than the current method of steroid tablets—reducing the need for further treatment by 30%, according to a new study.

Researchers say their findings could be “game-changing” for millions of people around the world with asthma and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD)—especially because the drug is already available on the market.

Asthma attacks and COPD flare-ups, also known as “eosinophilic exacerbations”, can be deadly—with dozens of people dying every day in the UK after experiencing serious symptom flare-ups, according to official figures.

These exacerbations include symptoms like wheezing, coughing, and chest tightness due to inflammation resulting from high amounts of eosinophils, a type of white blood cell—and they involve almost half of asthma attacks and up to 30% of COPD flare-ups.

Yet medical treatments have barely changed for over half a century, as steroid drugs remained the mainstay of medication.

The downside of steroids like prednisolone, which can reduce inflammation in the lungs, is that they have severe side-effects, such as diabetes and osteoporosis. The treatment also fails many patients who need repeated courses of steroids, or get worse and need hospitalization within 90 days.

Results from the recent clinical trial led by scientists from King’s College London revealed that a drug already available can be re-purposed in emergency settings to reduce the need for further treatment.

“This could be a game-changer for people with asthma and COPD,” said lead investigator Professor Mona Bafadhel, of King’s College.

The team studied Benralizamab, a monoclonal antibody that targets eosinophils to reduce lung inflammation, which is currently used for the treatment of severe asthma—and the trial found a single dose can be four times more effective when injected at the point of exacerbation compared to steroid tablets.

The study, which was published in The Lancet Respiratory Medicine, split people at high risk of an asthma or COPD attack into three groups. One group received benralizumab injection and dummy tablets, another received standard of care (prednisolone 30mg daily for five days) and dummy injection and the third group receiving both benralizumab injection and standard of care.

After 28 days, respiratory symptoms—like coughing, wheezing, and breathlessness—were reduced with benralizumab.

After 90 days, there were four times fewer people in the benralizumab group that failed treatment compared to standard of care with prednisolone.

Treatment with the benralizumab injection also led to fewer follow-up episodes that required seeing a doctor or going to a hospital. There was also an improvement in the quality of life for people with asthma and COPD.

“We’ve used the drug in a different way – at the point of an exacerbation – to show that it’s more effective than steroid tablets which is the only treatment currently available,” said Prof. Bafadhel.

“The big advance is the finding that targeted therapy works in asthma and COPD attacks.”

The researchers say the jab can potentially be administered safely at home, too.

“We hope these pivotal studies will change how asthma and COPD exacerbations are treated for the future, ultimately improving the health for over a billion people living with asthma and COPD across the world,” she added...

77-year-old patient Geoffrey Pointing, who took part of the study, called the injections “fantastic”.

“I didn’t get any side effects like I used to with the steroid tablets. I used to never sleep well the first night of taking steroids, but the first day on the study, I could sleep that first night, and I was able to carry on with my life without problems.”

“Honestly, when you’re having a flare up, you can hardly breathe. Anything that takes that away and gives you back a normal life is what you want.""

-via Good News Network, December 1, 2024

[a-shade-of-blue]

Mohammed (@ahmed0khalil) and his family are sheltering in a UN classroom at Deir el-Balah right now. Do you know how worried I am when I heard that a school sheltering displaced families in Deir el-Balah has been bombed?? At least one person has been killed and more are injured in the attack.

A tent near another school has been bombed, injuring multiple children. Mohammed is only 19 years old and he has 5 siblings. The youngest is only 6 and his 11-year-old brother is autistic and does not understand anything. They are all so young and I worry for them. Israel has shown time and time again that it has no qualms killing children. Mohammed's brother Ahmed is only 6-years-old. What has he done to have to worry about being killed by bombs??

Israel has been targeting densely populated areas, refugee camps and shelters. In September alone, 17 schools have been bombed, 14 of which were housing refugees. And on top of having to fear for their lives, Mohammed and his family are suffering from malnutrition and diseases because they don't have enough money to buy food and medicine! Please give them more support!!

This campaign has been shared by 90-ghost, vetted by @/gazavetters and #77 on their vetted list!

Only €3,676 raised of €50,000 goal! Last donation was 8 hours ago!!

Tagging for reach, please message me if you want off the mailing list! We thank you in advance.

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@determinate-negation @girlinafairytale@rebel-girl-queen-of-my-world@kropotkindersurprise

[perfectlyvalid49]

It’s summer and that means the kids are going to camp! Last week the kids were at gymnastics camp at the place they take lessons. This week they’re at kosher culinary camp at the local Chabad.

The difference could not be more stark.

Last week, I drove up outside the front doors for pick up and drop off, shouted their first names through the window of my car, and either received a thumbs up at drop off, or had the kids walk out unaccompanied at pick up.

This week, I had to walk them inside (adults have to present ID to be allowed in the building) and check them in with two separate sets of adults. I had to present ID again (separately from getting into the building) to be allowed to pick them up. If someone who is not their legal guardian is going to pick them up, paperwork needs to be filled out in advance.

Last week, the only people outside the building were a couple of teenagers in orange vests to make sure the littlest of kids got inside the building ok.

This week, the only people outside the building were security guards with walkie talkies on one hip and very obvious pistols on the other.

My kids are signed up for three different Jewish camps this summer. All three of them have sent emails outlining the security measures in place to protect the children. No details, because the more people that know the details, the easier it is for someone with ill intent to discover and subvert them, but I know that there will be armed security personnel at all three camps and they will be coming with on field trips. I know that staff at all three camps have been conducting safety drills in the weeks leading up to camp, and I know that all three camps are partnered with local and federal law enforcement to stay up to date on any threats or recommended security changes.

I have never received information like this from any non-Jewish camp. I have received information like this from every Jewish camp.

This is what Jews are talking about when we say that antisemitism impacts the way we live our lives even when we are not being directly targeted by antisemitism. Summer camps shouldn’t have to hire armed guards to keep kids safe. Going to camp at the JCC should not put you at greater risk for violence than going to camp at the YMCA. Requesting that non-Jews help us live in a world where that’s true is not a ridiculous thing to ask.

And before anyone tries to say “Oh just because you feel like you’re not safe that doesn’t mean you’re actually not safe,” I’d like to point out two things. The first is that the Chabad my kids were at today has received multiple bomb threats in the last couple of years. We feel like we’re not safe because people have made it clear that they would like to attack us. We are, in fact, actually not safe.

And the second is that even if we were actually safe, and all the people out there who were saying that (((Zionist))) institutions should be attacked were just running their mouths and were not going to act on it (disproven by recent (and not recent) violent attacks, but we’ll accept the premise for the sake of argument), isn’t it pretty messed up that antisemitic actions have made Jews feel like this is necessary? Like, if one person in a couple was constantly so verbally threatening to their partner that the partner was 1) fearful for their safety and 2) felt it necessary to reach out to law enforcement, we would rightfully call that abuse. Why can we easily recognize that behavior as being immoral in that scenario, but find it acceptable in the local/national/fucking global treatment of Jews?

[sayruq]

An Iranian military security official has revealed exclusively to The Cradle that the US contacted the Islamic Republic, asking the nation to allow Israel "a symbolic strike to save face” following Iran's retaliatory drone and missile barrage this weekend. “Iran has received messages from mediators to let the regime do a symbolic strike to save face and asked Iran not to retaliate,” the source, who spoke on condition of anonymity, revealed to The Cradle. He added that Tehran “outright rejected” the proposal, delivered by mediators, and reiterated warnings that any Israeli attack on Iranian soil would be met with a decisive and immediate response.

The revelations come as US defense officials have told western media that they expect a “limited response” from Israel against Iran, which will reportedly focus on targets outside of Iranian territory. Nevertheless, US officials stressed that Tel Aviv had not briefed the Pentagon on a “final decision” as discussions within Israel's fractured war cabinet continued. “The US does not intend to take part in the military response,” they confirmed. However, they expect Israel to inform Washington about response plans in advance.

[redcali]

PAIRINGS: Fem!Reader x Xavier

SUMMARY: You and Xavier are fighting a wanderer when it unexpectedly unleashes an aphrodisiac, causing Xavier to turn feral ✶⋆.˚

WARNING/TAGS: MDNI 18+, use of sex pollen/ aphrodisiacs, mentions of rough p in v sex, multiple orgasms and overstim, grinding/ dry humping, slight dubcon, clit stimulation. Xavier's eyes glow when the aphrodisiac's in control. 1.2K words

A/N: My version of the popular use of aphrodisiacs trope ♡

You enter the forest clearing with a frown.

“Where is the wanderer? Tara said that it would be here somewhere…”

Xavier trails behind you, his brow furrowed as he glances around the open stretch of grass and the dense ring of trees looming in the distance.

“Do you see something moving amongst the trees?”

“Wh—?!” Your sentence abruptly gets cut off when something huge and heavy pounces upon you. You let out a shriek as you're met face-to-face with the creature, a monstrosity of jagged teeth, forked slimy tongues and glowing amber eyes. It aggressively swings its tail at you, long, black-leathered and barbed with jagged spikes—

And then there’s a burst of bright light. The wanderer is thrown back into the air as Xavier advances towards it cautiously, his sword drawn and poised ready to attack. The wanderer hisses, pawing angrily against the ground, its eyes swivelling between you both. It seems to make up its mind, knowing that you’re the easier target, it attacks you once more. Its tail comes down hard on you, and you stand there petrified, knowing that there isn’t enough time to dodge anyway –

With a groan, Xavier grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you out of harm’s way as the barbed end sinks into his own shoulder. You grab your gun and fire, and the bullet lands snugly right into the wanderer's heart. It growls as it collapses, taking its last few breaths of air.

“Xavier!” You rush to your partner’s side as panic seizes you. He’s on the ground, his eyebrows pinched in pain as you roll him over to inspect the damage. There are a few grazes that cut into his uniform and skin, and he clutches his shoulder, panting lightly as he looks up at you with a strange expression.

“Thank god, the cut isn’t too deep – why did you try to save me, you idiot –” You gently push him down onto the grassy floor as you straddle him, fumbling around in your bag for your first aid kit. What you don’t notice, however, is the strange dark fluid from the wanderer’s tail soaking into his wound and the way Xavier is panting almost too hard and his oddly laboured breaths as he looks up at you.

“Pl…please get off of me…” Xavier says, sounding forced, and his azure blue eyes begging.

“What? I’m trying to heal you.” You look down at him, confused.

Xavier’s eyes are dilating and contracting rapidly. His hands are balled up into fists as he desperately forces them to stay glued at his side. He grinds his rock-hard boner against your clothed cunt; it is taking all his willpower to not buck up into you and give in into his urges.

Realisation washes over you.

“The wanderer … its poison contain some sort of aphrodisiac, don’t they? What sort of monster has Tara set us up to?”

“I don’t … I don’t know … “ Xavier says weakly, closing his eyes. “But if you don’t –”

His eyes fly open, and they glow a hue of blue as he is suddenly shoving you down onto the ground with newfound strength. He growls as he wraps his hands around your clothed tits and squeezes hard, eliciting moans from you, your back instinctively arching into his demanding touch. He slides a hand over your stomach and down to your pants, and with an aggressive tug it is pulled down to your ankles, your bare cunt exposed to him.

“Stay right there.” Xavier snarls, as he pushes his boner up against your cunt. His voice is deeper, meaner, as he slides off his own pants and rubs his dick against your soaking pussy, catching up against your clit and sending waves of pleasure though your body.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you practically see stars when Xavier finally pushes his leaking cock into your tight wet heat with a hiss. He sets a brutal pace, fucking into you like some feral animal, and all you can do is lie there and take his cock.

Xavier leans down, licking a stripe up to your neck as he continues to thrust relentlessly into you. When you moan out loud, he attaches his lips onto that spot on your neck, seemingly satisfied with finding your sensitive spot as he nibbles and sucks.

“Xavier”, you whimper. “ S’ going to leave a mark…”

At the sound of his name on your tongue, the glow in Xavier’s eyes seem to dim a little . His head jerks up, and his expression twists into shock as he realizes what he’s done.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “I’m– I’m so sorry –”

For a moment, he almost seems back to normal. But then the blue glow flares brighter in his eyes, and his pace quickens. A sneer curls across his lips.

“Miss the old me?” he demands, as his hips snap into you with a particularly hard thrust. “Shame. He can’t save you now.”

His nimble, sleek fingers find your clit and they circle around it, as he continues to pound you. “I’ve only just gotten started with you.”

You whimper pathetically at this, and Xavier’s pupils dilate even further.

“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?” His lips are on the shell of your ear, his breath hot. “Look at the way your tight little pussy is holding onto my cock.” His voice is mocking, as he rolls your clit in between his finger, giving it a suddenly pinch.

Your orgasm seizes your body as you come around his big hard cock, crying his name and trembling from the force of it. Xavier fucks you through it, and true to his words, he doesn’t stop his brutal pace.

✶⋆.˚

You must have came in ten different positions before the aphrodisiac finally manages to work its way out of Xavier’s system. When he finally returns back to his usual self, for good this time, worry instantly fills his eyes as he apologises to you over and over again.

You let out a weak groan as you collapse to the ground. Xavier manages to catch you in time, pulling you close to his warm body and wrapping his strong arms around you.

“I … I didn’t know the wanderer would do that.” You quip. You’re pumped full of Xavier’s seed, and it’s obscene how it leaks out of your cunt. Xavier’s face instantly turns pink as his eyes fall onto your pussy. As his fingers reach out to swipe away the cum, they accidentally catch onto your sensitive clit, and you cry out loud from the overstimulation.

“I-I didn’t mean to –” Xavier stammers, his face turning an even darker shade of pink. “Please, let me clean you up and cook you dinner at my place. It’s the least I can do.”

The least he can do is to not cook you dinner, you think, but you don’t say that out loud. Instead, you hug him back.

“Don’t feel bad about what just happened, okay? It wasn’t your fault. Plus … I liked it.” Your face now matches the same shade of red as Xavier’s.

Xavier’s eyes are wide. He opens his mouth wordlessly, then closes it again. Finally, he says, shyly, “If that’s the case… Maybe tonight, you can come over for something a little more exciting than dinner.”

Your jaw drops. With such a sweet, innocent face, who’d expect he’d say such suggestive things?

❀❁✿

[yuechihua]

a strange case of bangboos.

summary: Harumasa brings exact Bangboo replicas of you and your Section Six coworkers to the office. For some reason, his Bangboo won't leave you alone.

notes: 3.7k words, author's notes, spoilers and references for Section Six special episode, fluff

There are a few things you’ve come to expect from your coworker, Asaba Harumasa: falling asleep at his desk during the middle of the day, sneaking requests for time off work alongside his pile of overdue reports, and walking into the office several hours late with a ridiculous excuse.

So when Harumasa strolls into the office for once, on time, with a light step and casual wave, it’s enough to make you look up from your flood of paperwork with a confused glance as he throws you a wink.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says cheerily, hand on his hips, stopping just short of entering the office. “I have a surprise for you all!” 

Soukaku and Miyabi, who have been diligently working (read: eating snacks and playing tic tac toe on official bureaucratic documents), are the first to run over. Yanagi remains at her desk, and the two of you exchange wary looks. 

“They’re so cute!” Soukaku says with childish delight, crouching down to mess with something half-hidden behind Harumasa and the open office doors. 

“How lifelike,” Miyabi muses, arms folded.

It’s at this point that you and Yanagi can’t resist striding over to see what Harumasa’s surprise entails. You’re greeted by the sight of several Bangboos crowding behind him. They appear to be custom-made: one in blue, one in black, one in white, and one in your favorite color—they’re the exact same as the Bangboo forms you and your colleagues had taken during a virtual reality attack from a hacker group. 

Soukaku is patting her Bangboo, her eyes bright as the Bangboo (Soukaboo, you decide it should be called) makes happy noises. Miyabi and her Bangboo (Miyaboo would be a good name for it) simply stare at each other without blinking, though after a moment, Miyabi nods, as if coming to some sort of internal decision.

“Bangboo?” Yanagi murmurs. “But why?”

“You can interact with them, you know,” Harumasa interjects.

“Interact with them?” you ask. 

At the sound of your voice, your Bangboo tilts its head at you. It appears to be sizing you up in the same way you’re observing it, with the same measured detachment. It’s a little eerie how similar it is to you, your mannerisms captured in a robot. 

Harumasa’s Bangboo (Asaboo, you dub it in your head) takes a few steps towards your Bangboo and tries to nuzzle it, only for your Bangboo to swiftly sidestep its advances, turning its body away in a clear sign of rejection. Asaboo lets out a sad little sigh, synthetic ears drooping, before it immediately perks up when its gaze alights on you.

“Ehn-nah!” Asaboo says, its mechanical voice sounding like the cheerful jingle of a bell.

Its body is chubby and white, smooth and sleek like the shell of a fat egg, and it preens under your newfound attention. Asaboo spins in a circle, revealing a little red target and arrow on its butt, and it takes all your self control not to throw your arms around it. 

There’s one thing you can’t deny: these Bangboo are absolutely adorable.

“It’s so much cuter than Harumasa,” you say out loud, arms crossed, as Asaboo beeps a little “eh-nah” in agreement, shuffling closer to you as it does.

“I agree,” Yanagi says. “Perhaps we could consider replacing Harumasa with this Bangboo. I imagine reports would come in a much more timely manner if we did.” 

“You know I can hear you, right?” Harumasa says, a faux wounded expression on his face.

“I know,” you say dryly. “But what’s the point of bringing them over? Don’t these look like the time we were turned–”

“It’s a change of pace,” Harumasa interrupts. “I figured we needed our own mascots, don’t you think? Think of the merchandising we can do. And they would brighten up the office.” 

“Yeah?” you say, unconvinced. “Since when did you care about that?”

“Well…” he continues, “There was also a deal at the shop I went to where if you bought one, you could get one free. Why wouldn’t I take advantage of such a good deal?”

Miyabi is watching Harumasa with a contemplative expression, her ear twitching slightly at his words. Before you can ask her what she’s thinking about, Asaboo suddenly tugs at your leg.

You glance down, and its chubby arms are wrapped around your calf, its little face peering up at you with its wide eyes.

“Eh-nah?” it asks, in the cutest, most innocent voice imaginable. 

You can’t stop yourself from reaching down and patting the top of its head. It wiggles at your touch, reaching up its little hands, as if trying to feel the spot where you just pat it to capture your warmth. 

“It’s so cute,” you say fondly. 

At your words, Asaboo jumps up and down in excitement. 

“And it’s oddly attached to you,” Yanagi remarks. “Asaba, what does the AI data for these Bangboos look like?”

For the first time this morning, Harumasa looks abashed, but that doesn’t stop him from responding, “Well, these Bangboos are modeled closely on our personalities.”

“Harumasa, is there something you want to say to me?” you tease. “I don’t recall you being as desperate for my attention as this Bangboo.”

“I think this is very telling, Asaba,” Yanagi says, crossing her arms. 

“What on earth are you two talking about?” Harumasa says, widening his eyes, neatly sidestepping your questions and avoiding your gaze. “Telling in what way? Deputy Chief, don’t tell me you’re feeling left out. Should I order one for you, too?”

“No,” Yanagi says wearily, “That won’t be necessary. I’d rather you save your money for something useful.”

“This is useful, though! It’s excellent for team morale! Don’t you think they’re cute, Soukaku?”

“Hm…” Soukaku looks down at Soukaboo, who does a little hop. “They’re cute! I like them.”

“Don’t drag Soukaku into this!” Yanagi says. 

“I think my Bangboo will make an excellent training partner. I haven’t had a chance to spar with myself yet,” Miyabi interjects in a thoughtful voice. Miyaboo nods its head in agreement.

“Chief, not you, too!”

“I think it’s harmless, Yanagi,” you say. “It’s one of Harumasa’s better ideas.” As you speak, Asaboo tugs on your leg again, looking up at you with a pitiful expression. “Oh, are you feeling left out?”

You reach down and run your gentle fingers along Asaboo’s head, rubbing alongside its ears. It has a smooth, rubbery texture, but if you press down harder, you can feel the vibration and stabilized heat of its whirring machinery beneath its exterior.

Harumasa watches you with a conflicted expression. “Why aren’t you this nice to me?”

“You’re not as cute as Asaboo,” you say resolutely, and Asaboo lets out a little “eh-nah” of agreement. 

Harumasa purses his lips. His eyes narrow at Asaboo, and it’s the exact same expression he has  right before he lets loose an arrow aimed for an Ethereal’s core. “I’m starting to regret this purchase.”

“You’re the one who brought them over. Asaboo hasn’t done anything wrong,” you say. 

“But you’re taking its side!” Harumasa protests. “Against me, your loyal partner! Our bond is forged through countless adversities in the Hollows, against the worst Ethereals New Eridu has ever seen! And you’re choosing a Bangboo over me!”

“Our relationship is strictly business. This is different,” you say, fingers dancing over the top of Asaboo’s ears as it lets out a content sigh. 

“Harumasa’s been replaced,” Miyabi murmurs.

“He’s been replaced,” Yanagi agrees. “Harumasamasa has been replaced!” Soukaku says cheerfully.

“There’s no need to rub it in…” Harumasa glances at your Bangboo, which is peacefully sitting on the floor in a patch of sunlight, staring out one of the windows, oblivious to the chaos around it. He crouches, and holds out his hand, as if to pat its head. “Hey there.” Your Bangboo immediately jumps up and scampers away without looking at Harumasa, resuming its vigil farther away.

“Rejected, even by a Bangboo,” Yanagi murmurs. “Asaba, I’m starting to feel bad for you.”

“Tsukishiro, if you say that, that’s just going to make me feel worse, you know?” Harumasa says ruthfully. “But it’s fine. We can just let them run around a little longer.”

The newest members of Section Six settle into the office with relative ease. The Bangboo are given free range around the office, though you notice that Soukaboo likes to sit near anyone with visible snacks, and Miyaboo is found in increasingly odder positions: on top of the door, hidden in a bookshelf, or tucked under a desk. 

Your Bangboo, on the other hand, is perfectly content to help deliver paperwork or coffee around the office, though it’s not immune from Miyaboo and Soukaboo pulling it into sudden games. Asaboo has no similar luck with your Bangboo, which seems to ignore Asaboo’s attempts to get close. There’s a hint of dissatisfaction in your Bangboo’s expression, though you can’t tell where it’s coming from. 

So Asaboo ends up waddling after you, settling right next to the side of your desk. Whenever you get up to grab a cup of coffee, discuss confidential information with other officers, or simply to stretch, Asaboo immediately jumps up to follow.

“Not interested in playing with the other Bangboo anymore?” you say. The other Bangboo are hopping around in the distance, bouncing a ball Soukaku pulled out from her desk back and forth.

“Eh-nah!” it says, puffing out its chest.

“Well, I’m happy to hang out with you, too.” You pat its head once more, and it gives a wiggle of delight.

“I’m also happy to hang out with you,” Harumasa adds. His desk is right next to yours, so it’s easy for him to see everything that’s going on. You glance at him, with his chair pushed back from his desk, feet propped up on the table, ankles crossed.

“Sure, but you’re not voluntarily spending time with me. We work together,” you respond dryly. You don’t miss how his mouth tugs into a pout, looking for all the world like a displeased cat which has been denied its favorite meal. 

Around lunchtime, when you pick up your packed lunch to head to the break room, Asaboo jumps up and down in the air, holding out its hands.

“Oh? Do you want to carry this for me?” you say, holding the package aloft.

It nods enthusiastically, ears flopping, and you gently place your lunchbox into its hands. Asaboo clutches the bundle to its chest like its most precious treasure, though it’s nothing more than some plastic containers set in a carrying case, with a handle that pops out that Asaboo loops its hand through.

“I could carry that for you,” Harumasa adds. His head is down on his desk, gazing at you through the fringe of his dark eyelashes. They’re unfairly long and pretty.

“Are you sure?” you say, raising your eyebrow. “I thought you said you weren’t capable of lifting anything heavier than a single sheet of paper.” 

“Well, I’m feeling a burst of strength today, so–” Harumasa raises himself from his desk and reaches out towards your lunchbox, but Asaboo leaps back before his hand can even graze it. 

“Eh-eh-nah!” it says defiantly. 

“Oh, you little–”

“Don’t bully Asaboo,” you scold, moving to stand in front of it. “Come on, Harumasa. It’s just a cute little Bangboo.” 

“It just made a face at me,” he says indignantly, throwing his hands up helplessly.

“Well, like you said, the data for its personality is based on you.”

With that, you and Asaboo head towards the break room, Asaboo wobbling behind you cheerfully the entire time. The break room itself is surprisingly spacious, with floor to ceiling windows, tasteful plants tucked in corners, and clusters of tables and cushy chairs scattered about. Various gleaming, stainless state of the art kitchen appliances are huddled in the corner. It’s one of the nicer break rooms you’ve seen, and you have HSO budget to thank for that.

Asaboo quickly runs to a table near one of the windows, and hops up to place your lunchbox on the table. It’s a quiet spot, away from the other officers, and the sunlight pleasantly warms the area.

“Did you choose this place on purpose? You’re so thoughtful,” you coo, and Asaboo ducks its head, raising its hands to cover its face in embarrassment. Really, when it reacts like that, it’s hard to imagine Asaboo derives its personality from Harumasa. It’s not as if Harumasa isn’t thoughtful; in fact, you have a feeling the presence of the Bangboo is his roundabout way to make everyone happy, somehow. 

But Harumasa, clinging to your leg, or following you everywhere? It’s hard to imagine. Is that how he really wants to act around you, or is it simply that Asaboo has its own individual quirks, separate from the influence of Harumasa’s personality data? Despite Yanagi’s earlier comment about how “telling” Asaboo’s reactions are, your own teasing, and Harumasa’s reticent response, it’s not a clear marker for Harumasa’s own feelings. 

You’re not sure you want to use Asaboo to measure Harumasa’s feelings, either. That brings up its own complications, especially regarding your own emotions towards Harumasa. It would be a lie to say that Asaboo being Harumasa’s Bangoo doesn’t make you extra sweet to it. Well, that and the mischievous desire in you to see Harumasa pout. After all, it’s payback for all the teasing you’ve endured from him since the two of you joined Section Six.

You enjoy a quiet lunch with Asaboo, though once you’re both back at the office and you’re settled at your desk, Asaboo lets out a little “eh-nah” when it sees Soukaku holding up a picture to her Bangboo, a crayon drawing of her and Soukaboo in a field of flowers, holding hands. It immediately leaps up and heads out the door. You don’t have time to wonder at its behavior, though, not when you have a mountain of tasks that’s piled up since you were away at lunch.

“Your loyal companion left. Want me to take its place?” Harumasa offers.

“Get back to work, Harumasa.”

Ten minutes later, you’re interrupted from your workflow by the patter of mechanical feet and something tugging at your leg.

You look down to see Asaboo, covered in mud and grass stains, a trail of dirty footprints behind it, and a proud expression on its face as it clutches a flower in its hand. In contrast to Asaboo’s appearance, the flower is pristine, with soft, pure yellow petals.

“Eh-nah!” Asaboo says. It holds the flower in your direction.

“Oh, Asaboo, where did you get this? Is this for me?” you ask. You gingerly take the flower from its hand, and Asaboo looks proudly at you.

“Eh-nah. Ehn-nah-nah!” It jumps up and down for emphasis. 

“I’ll cherish it forever,” you promise, and carefully place the flower on your desk. You’ll ask Soukaku to help you press it later so you can preserve it. Was that why Asaboo had been looking at Soukaku’s drawing? Because it was thinking of you?

“If you want flowers, I can give you some, too, without ripping up the building’s lawn,” Harumasa says. He looks at you sleepily, with that familiar pout curling around his mouth.

“Then why haven’t you?” you tease him. “Besides, think about it. If Asaboo gives me a flower, isn’t it essentially the same as if you gave me the flower yourself?”

“It’s completely different,” he protests. “It’s not like I knew you wanted flowers. And Asaboo isn’t me. If anything, it’s…” He brings a hand to his tie, which already hangs loose from his collar, and unconsciously slides the knot lower. 

“It’s what?” 

“The Bangoo weren’t meant to do any of this,” he says. 

“I thought you said these Bangboo were bought on a whim,” you say.

“I did. That’s not exactly wrong, but…” Harumasa hops up on your desk, perching on a spot free from papers or office supplies. He crosses his legs, and you swing your office chair in his direction. “Sometimes, if you have a bitter memory, you can overwrite it by facing it over and over until you get used to it and it’s no longer so painful, right? Like exposure therapy.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Asaboo, at some point, has slowly run off to find the other Bangboo. They circle each other and jump around, an innocent dance of happiness, though Asaboo is watching your Bangboo more intensely than anything else in the room.

“Are you talking about the time we were turned into Bangboo?” you venture. It’s a memory whose threat has faded with time, becoming less of a menace and more of a funny office story to relay to coworkers. Dangerous situations and odd circumstances come part and parcel with your job.

Still, you can remember the sensation of being a Bangboo with startling clarity: the virtual buildings of Lumina Square inflating in size around you, wobbling on legs you weren’t used to, unable to wield a weapon. When you lifted your hands, a shock would jolt through you to see metal and not limbs and fingers. It’s a feeling of helpless you aren’t eager to return to.

“I was the first to turn into a Bangboo,” Harumasa says ruthfully. “And I couldn’t do anything. I had to watch everyone fight, knowing every second we wasted was a second closer to death. I had to watch you put your life at risk to keep me safe, and I couldn’t do anything at all. Everyone here is strong, but…” He taps his fingers on your desk. “You all pretend to be fine when you’re really not.”

How long has this been on his mind? It must have been what Miyabi noticed right away, from the very moment Harumasa started showing off the Bangboo. You slowly cover his hand with one of your own, entangling your fingers together. The heavy fabric of his gloves brush against your bare fingers, but you can still feel the bump of his knuckles, the curve of the back of his hand.

No one else in the office can see the two of you right now, the front of your desk with your computer and stack of books and folders acting as a barrier from the rest of the world.

“Harumasa.” You dip a finger under his glove, to feel the tender, warm, uncertain flesh underneath and trace designs on the back of his hand. His breath hitches. “You don’t need to take on everything yourself. You also like to pretend you’re fine when you’re not; you can rely on us a little more.”

“So the Bangboo weren’t a good idea, huh?” The joke comes out light-hearted and weak.

“No, they’re very cute,” you say. “I really like them, even if you don’t. But if you want to overwrite bitter memories, I think we should all do it together.”

A heated intensity steals across Harumasa’s face, his attention on you as unwavering and steady as a shaft of blazing summer light. “Together? Do you promise that?”

He bends his head a little closer, and you tilt your head upwards in response. Whatever it is he offers, you’ll accept.

However, before either of you can make another move, there’s a great crash, metal slamming on cold tile, and you instantly rise from your seat to seek out the source of the noise. In the middle of the offic, you see Asaboo collapsed on the floor, sprawled over like a fallen egg on its side.

“Oh no,” you murmur. But before you can rush over, something astonishing happens. Your Bangboo, which previously has ignored Asaboo, immediately leaps to Asaboo’s side, patting its head with its hands.

“Ehn-nah,” your Bangboo says worriedly.

“Eh-ne-ne,” Asaboo says back in a faint tone.

Your Bangboo cradles Asaboo’s hand in its own as it helps Asaboo stand. Asaboo leans on your Bangboo, though you can’t help but feel Asaboo’s steps are a little too energetic as your Bangboo guides it out of the door, their hands entangled together the whole time, probably to find a charging port or a mechanic. 

“Huh? I thought their Bangboo didn’t like Asaboo!” Soukaku says. She jumps up from her chair. Miyabi and Yanagi are clustered around Soukaku’s desk, ostensibly discussing some business that’s been interrupted by the Bangboo drama. “It didn’t want to play with Asaboo before!”

“I wonder if their Bangboo was just shy towards Asaboo,” Yanagi theorizes. “Or it’s possible it was jealous, too, of Asaboo clinging to someone else.”

“It’s most likely both,” Miyabi says. “I believe it’s always cared for Asaboo, and Harumasa by extension, but would loathe to let everyone know the extent of its feelings.”

Your face heats up as everyone’s gazes swing towards you, like bright stage lights revealing you to an audience you didn’t realize was there. You don’t even want to look at Harumasa, still perched on your desk, because you can already imagine the smug, overly pleased expression on his face. 

“I think we should talk about something else,” you suggest hastily. “Don’t you think Asaboo’s behavior was a little strange?”

“As Asaboo’s owner and foremost expert,” Harumasa says, one hand cupped around his chin, “I think it’s obvious Asaboo was faking its sudden bout of dizziness in order to get the attention of your Bangboo.”

“Why does that sound exactly like something you would pull off?” you say. “Like owner, like Bangboo.”

“Speaking of… I feel a little faint… I think… I need to lean on you…” Harumasa, with no attempt to hide his theatrics, begins to lean strategically in your direction, face landing on your shoulder, slumping his entire body so his weight falls on you.

“Asaba Harumasa, can you at least pretend to hide your intentions?”

“Can’t hear you… Still dizzy… We need to hold hands or I’ll fall…” 

Harumasa reaches for your hand with surprising speed, but you tuck it behind your back so he can’t hold it. He takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you instead, and it takes all your willpower not to shove him off and onto the floor. 

You can still feel the gaze of your other coworkers upon you, and hear the whisper of their conversation, though they aren’t making any effort to hide their comments.

“They’re embarrassed,” Miyabi says quietly.

“They’re very embarrassed,” Yanagi says.

“Super embarrassed!” Soukaku chirps. You close your eyes, face still hot. From now on, you’re not going to underestimate Harumasa’s or Asaboo’s capacity for cunning. As cute as the Bangboo are, maybe they are more trouble than they’re worth.

[buckevantommy]

From the prompt list: “Breathe. Hi, we found you, just breathe for me, okay?”, please? Thanks in advance!

👀 it's gotta be injured Tommy + worried Buck to the rescue.. send me a prompt or two..

Tommy's awoken by turbulance, jostled in his seat from external forces, except..

It can't be turbulance. He can't be in the air. He's a decent pilot but he can't sleep and fly at the same time. The last thing he remembers was flying over downtown L.A, Lucy saying something about windsurfing, before—

A metallic banging snags his attention, his head throbbing and neck protesting as he tries to turn towards the sound.

The whir and grind of tools, muffled voices yelling— and then a great groaning sound and— bright lights blind his already poor vision, the voices are louder. There's a flurry of activity around him, the hurried capability of professionals doing their job, cautious touches to his body, inspection of his seat. Someone moves behind him, probably to get to Lucy—

"—Tommy?"

"..'van?.." His eyes are screwed shut against the torchlight but he'd know that voice anywhere.

"Tommy!"

"..Y're here.."

"Yeah, yeah I-I'm here— we're here, we got you— we're gonna get you out, okay? Just— just stay with me."

The other voices filter in and out of his awareness. He zeroes in on Evan: he's close, right by Tommy's ear, voice strained but beautiful. He hasn't heard that voice since..

Since Bobby's funeral. Since that night everything went to hell. Since the morning after they..

It's been too long. There's been too much complication and hurt. He misses hearing Evan's voice happy and unburdened. He doesn't want to add to his worry or stress.

As he shifts to try to move— pain lances through his side.

"Woah, woah, easy Tommy," Howie says. He must be the one evaluating Tommy's condition. Which mustn't be great, considering the pain.

"Just hold still," Evan says in his ear, voice wobbly. His hands— they must be Evan's hands— are braced on his shoulders, holding him steady.

He's missed those hands, strong and capable and eager. He'd do a lot to hear that voice again, feel Evan's touch again. Like stealing another helicopter, or..

..crashing one?

"Try not to move, just breathe for me, o-okay?"

Nodding seems like a bad idea and requires too much energy anyway— and he's so very tired —so he settles for humming in the affirmative and focusing on the grounding, heavy warmth of Evan's hands on him.

Lucy groans off to his left, reminding Tommy he's not the only one who's fucked up right now. "..Luce?.."

"..Wha' h'appen'd?.."

Good question.

"Civilian drone," says Howie.

An attack? It's not unheard of, people tend to target police helicopters but from far away it's hard to tell what's LAFD unless you know.

"Dumbass was tryin' to get an aerial shot for his stupid ass zombie movie," says Hen, condescending as hell.

Tommy's missed her, too. And Howie. All of them. He misses Evan's people, his old friends, misses being in their orbit almost as much as he misses Evan.

"Oh m' god— w're gonn' be in a zombie movie, T'mmy!" Lucy snickers as Hen chides her to hold still.

A laugh bubbles out of him, ending on a groan as another flare of pain shoots through him like a lightning bolt. Evan's hands grip him tighter.

"Chim—"

"Buck, just keep him steady— Ravi, get in here with that saw—"

Through slitted eyes, Tommy glimpses a long, metallic shard protruding from his midsection. So that explains the pain. As Ravi takes the saw to the metal, Howie and Evan hold him down.

Just before he blacks out, Tommy could swear he feels lips press to his temple, firm and desperate.

+ + +

There's murmurs and hushed conversation, but it's Hen's voice saying, "He's stable," that are the first clear words Tommy hears as he gradually resurfaces from unconsciousness.

The pain has subsided to a dull ache. He's comfortable, horizontal, and there's the telltale sign of a heart monitor beeping quietly nearby.

He's in a hospital bed. His hand is clasped between two strong, warm hands. Familiar hands. Hands clutching at Tommy like his only tether to this world.

Hen's a great medic, Tommy trusts her assessment, so if Evan was worried about him slipping away it sounds like he doesn't need to anymore. Not that he deserves Evan's concern, but he could probably let go of Tommy's hand now.

Tommy doesn't want Evan to let go. He squeezes Evan's hand.

"'m not a fan of deathbed confessions, j'st for the record," he says, voice low and raw.

"You're not dying," three voices say at once. A smile tugs at the corner of Tommy's mouth. Howie and Hen sound a little exasperated, but fond. A hint of humour colors the latent urgency in Evan's voice.

Tommy blinks his eyes open to find Evan smiling, tentative and gorgeous, blue eyes big and red-rimmed, brow unfurrowing as tension sloughs from his shoulders on a sigh, his messy curls limned by the morning sun. Evan could put the brightness of the sun to shame even when he looks exhausted.

"m' sorry, 'bout us. I shouldn'.. shouldn'..ve.. left." His brain is still a little foggy, words coming a little slow, but he can't wait for it to catch up. He needs to say this now, needs Evan to know.

And he'd forgive Evan for asking: which time? because he'd deserve the jab for being a coward more than once, for not fighting for them.

"No— I'm sorry," Evan says instead. "I didn't mean to push you away, and I-I should've reached out sooner."

Why didn't you? Tommy doesn't say, because he's not sure he wants to know the answer. But he knows for certain that Evan has been grieving Bobby's death and so doesn't blame him for their lack of correspondance following the funeral. It's a two-way street, Tommy could have picked up the phone but he didn't. Maybe he was giving Evan space after everything or maybe he was using circumstance as a scapegoat so he could stay couched in his own fears.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Evan says, eyes shining, brow furrowed.

Tommy squeezes his hand again and manages a small, sad smile. "M' neither." He wants to pull Evan in, hold him close, beg for another chance, promise to never run away again. But he doesn't know if it's welcome, and he doesn't know if he can trust himself anyway. He'd want to, for Evan. He'd do his damndest to not screw this up a third time, to stay despite his fears.

Evan adjusts his grip, strokes a thumb reverently over the back of Tommy's hand. "I've missed you."

Tommy's heart flutters. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You were open and honest with me that night, and I-I should've said this then— I wanted to tell you, but I-I needed— and then I—" Evan shakes his head, clearing it to refocus. "In the helicopter, I decided. Afterwards, I was gonna ask if we could talk, but.."

Tommy squeezes his hand.

"Everything's been so messed up, Tommy," he starts again, "for so long—" He pauses to take a steadying breath, "I don't wanna lose you. I wanna fix this— us— because I miss you, and.. I love you." His hands cradle Tommy's. "I love you."

The second I love you — and Tommy's head spins at the words — seems to settle something in Evan. Tommy's heart is soaring. His eyes are welling up, voice cracking as he says, "Yeah?" lips twitching up.

Evan nods. "Yeah."

"Well, then.. y'should know I love you, too."

Evan breaks into a watery grin. "Yeah?"

Tommy blinks, a tear tracking down to his hairline as his own smile breaks free. "Yeah."

It's just the two of them, hand in hand and laying their hearts out on Tommy's hospital bed.

"Thought you weren't one for deathbed confessions," Howie chimes in.

Tommy totally forgot he was there. Hen tsks and half-heartedly whacks his shoulder as she and Evan both say, Evan chuckling now, "He's not dying."

Hen's eyes are glistening and she's trying to hold back a smile. Howie looks touched, too.

"Hey," Tommy tugs on Evan's hand. "What're y'doing Saturday?"

Evan laughs and ducks his head. "Uh. Today is Saturday."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And I, uh." Evan threads their fingers together. "I was hoping to spend the day with my boyfriend."

Tommy beams. "Lucky guy."

"Yeah, I am." Evan's smile turns soft and intimate.

Tommy adores him.

Buck blinks in surprise.

"D'I j'st say that out loud?"

"Uh-huh," Hen and Chim pipe up in unison, but Tommy only has eyes for Evan.

"S'true," he says, knowing he'll say the words again with intention and feel just as content in having them known.

"I'm kinda crazy about you. Hope that's okay?"

Tommy was lucky enough to glimpse a bit of Evan's crazy during their first try at this. The thought of being the focus of that intense emotional spectrum makes him giddy. "I like y'r crazy."

"You two are sickeningly adorable," says Howie.

Tommy lowers his voice to a stage whisper. "Wan' make out in front of th' peanut gall'ry?"

Evan laughs, the sun flaring above the city skyline behind him nothing compared to his light. "Yes, yes I do."

"So this is the thanks I get for saving your life, huh?" Howie balks.

"Ravi handled the saw with expert precision, I gotta say," Evan tells him.

"R'mind me t'.. send him.. muff'n bask't.." The exhaustion is creeping back in, trying to pull him under.

"Buck's got you covered on the baked goods front," Hen adds.

"..Hmh?" His eyelids are heavy as he blinks in slow motion, trying to focus as his brain slows down again, urging him to rest.

"Just, uh. Some of my crazy," Evan admits, a shy note in his voice.

"Hm.. g'd.." Tommy hums happily as his eyes lose the battle to stay open.

There's whispered voices around him as his breathing deepens and evens out.

"Call us if either of you need anything, Buck."

"I will. Thanks, guys."

There's footsteps and rustling. A dip in the bed and a warm solid presence at his hip. Evan takes the hand covering Tommy's to brush back some wayward curls from his forehead.

Evan likes his curls. He said it more than once, but it was his hands and even his eyes more than his words that clued Tommy in.

Plush, bitten lips press a lingering kiss to his brow, Evan's hand cradling Tommy's skull, thumb scritching against his scalp.

"Get some rest," Evan murmurs between them, the gentle pressure and comforting warmth of his forehead pressed to Tommy's.

I love you, Tommy thinks, and a warm puff of air ghosts over his lips.

There's a smile in Evan's voice when he says, "Love you, too."

Tommy surrenders to sleep, his last nebulous thought being that he can't wait to wake up to this.

[saturnyo]

Hi! Could I request Joel trying to seduce reader by offering his help in everything and reader teases him by acting nonchalant and oblivious to his advancements but she takes pity on him and let's him have his way with her 🤭

Slow Hands

Requests are open!!!

Thank you anon for this request! i hope you enjoyyyyyyy

Pairing: JacksonJoel x Reader

Summary: It's a hot summer day and you are cooped up in your office poring over patrol routes that Maria asked you to look over. Joel walks in and wants to help you "de-stress", but you act like it doesn't affect you. Making him work for it until you finally give in.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Public Office Sex, Dirty Talk, Joel Miller Being a Desperate, Pussy-Obsessed Man, Sweat/Scent Kink Implied(maybe?, possibly? you decide), Emotional Vulnerability / Angst with Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence (mentioned), Post-TLOU Part II Setting (implied/ambiguous timeline), Y/N mentioned once, Mentions of Trauma (Abby’s attack / near-death experience)

WC: 2k

It’s been a hard summer in Jackson.

The heat is relentless, making your clothes cling to you as if they were a second skin. Your sweat drips down your neck, making your hair stick to you, reminiscent of melted candy on a hot summer sidewalk. Just opening the door and the sudden breeze—if you could even call it that—of hot air makes you feel as though you are a rotisserie chicken being broiled alive. Brutal doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Patrol felt even longer and more difficult. Riding on a horse for hours, going through certain areas and buildings as the blaring rays of the sun’s gaze seem to be entirely focused on you, almost targeting you, as if there was a personal grudge. Fighting infected, and even sometimes a few raiders, didn’t help the situation either. Those days are the times you missed being by a pool, drinking a Piña colada, and relaxing on a beach chair, but the apocalypse basically put a damper on that dream. But there was one person who would help you no matter how tired he may seem to be or how annoyed he was when construction on a new house went wrong.

Joel used to be the stone-faced and grumpy guy who refused to admit how much your smile made his heart skip a beat. A feeling he had long thought he didn’t deserve anymore. Sunshine and Rainbows, you barreled into his life the moment you arrived in Jackson after you helped him on a close call when he was on patrol over a year ago. You were travelling through Wyoming, aimlessly looking for some form of civilization. Until you heard yelling and the pounding sound of horse hooves—and there he was. The typical depiction of a cowboy riding to save a damsel in distress, but this time the roles were reversed, and he was the damsel. Joel was riding with Ellie, and they became overrun with infected. Despite the fact that at the time you didn’t know them, you just couldn’t let them die.

In a flash, you ran in guns blazing, aiding in their fight, and from there Ellie convinced Joel to let you go back with them to Jackson.

Now fast forward over a year later and your life in Jackson has settled. Your days consist of working with Maria on the town’s council, taking care of the animals some days with Tommy, and the nights are filled with love and laughter at the dinner table with Joel and Ellie.

You are deep in thought, sitting at your desk in your office, and you didn’t hear Joel’s footsteps walk up beside you. The papers in front of you are some Maria asked you to look over—something about the patrol routes and sightings of raiders nearby. She needed you to help coordinate a special group to check for any more possible sightings.

His hands slowly cover yours, tearing your eyes away from the painstaking task set before you. They held a touch of concern at the sight of you hunched over, close to the image of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Joel’s fingers slowly inch up your arms, tracing circles on your skin—trying to use your weaknesses to distract from the work at hand.

“Mmmmm, honey? What are you up to?” you asked, trying to hide the smirk on your face.

Joel is now standing behind you, his arms resting on both of your shoulders and his chin on the top of your head. You could feel his breath on the top of your forehead, huffing and puffing, trying to get your attention with the persistence of a sad puppy dog.

“Darlin’... you’ve been cooped up in this office all day,” he whispers into your ear. You wanted to give in right there as soon as you could feel his face right next to yours, but you secretly wanted him to work for it. You could tell he was a bit desperate—it had been a few days since the last time he fucked you with your legs on his shoulders, whimpering at how good you felt beneath him.

“I’m sure Maria will forgive you if you stepped away even for just a few minutes.”

You smiled at his attempts to peel you away from the mountain of words buried in jargon that was becoming almost a second language because of how tired you were.

“Honey… I need to finish the patrol routes. Maria needs them by end of day,” you answered, feigning your contempt for being stuck in the same spot for hours. “I can’t leave.”

Joel’s pout only grew wider at you denying him. It was adorable watching him become so needy to feel you writhe underneath his touch, moaning with the intensity of a siren calling to him from deep beneath the ocean. You were the one person he could be himself with—gone was the hardened, toughened-up man he had to be, and in its place was the sweetest, most thoughtful man who was there whenever you needed.

You tense when his lips start to trail down your neck and back up, feeling as heavenly as the air-conditioned breeze you wished existed outside your office walls. You stayed sitting upright, keeping your focus on your desk, fighting the urge to rip off his shirt right then and there.

“I can help you. May make things go by quicker, my love,” he offered, his lips drifting to your cheek, lovingly placing kisses. Moments like these melt your heart, further solidifying your love for him. You hadn’t said those words to him—not that you didn’t feel that way—it’s just fear of losing him. After the encounter months back with Abby and her group where Joel almost died is when you realized you loved him, and the thought of losing him tore you apart in more ways than one.

My love.

The endearment—you almost didn’t hear it because your heart was already thudding too loud. Flash of memories in the cabin, seeing Joel’s bloodied face as he attempted to reach for you—wanting to feel your touch in his final moments. You screamed and fought against the guy holding you down, but it was no use. And in that moment is when it hit you. The memories of you first meeting, your first patrol together, and the whispers you two shared on his porch underneath Jackson’s night sky. Thankfully, Tommy, Ellie, and Jesse rushed in, taking down the group and rescuing you, Joel, and Dina.

You picked up a pen, handing it to Joel and pointing to the chair sitting opposite you. “Well, help me and get to work. Live up to your promises, Miller.”

He winks, pulling the chair next to you. “Yes ma’am.”

A touch. A kiss. A look.

Joel is determined to distract you in any way possible, using your weaknesses and the time you two had apart against you—your body betraying you on every line you draw on the patrol map and every breath you take. The more he whispers close to your ear and his breath fans against your face, the harder it becomes to deny him. The begging… god, the begging—his eyes say it all. The warm brown pools of honey, desperate to be buried between your soft thighs.

Finally, Joel grabs the pen out of your hand, placing it down on the map, creasing it in the middle—not caring if the work wasn’t done.

“Joel…” you cautioned him, warning that you were close to the edge. And he knew it.

“Darlin’... please…”

The thread snapped. You kissed him, and the tension from the last few days poured into the sounds of your heavy breathing and the faraway sounds of hammers and drills. In a flash, the papers and pens were pushed to the floor, clattering in the haze of his hands pulling you up from your chair and lifting you onto the desk.

“I want to taste you,” he pleads. “God, let me do it. I want to be on my knees in front of you.”

Joel’s whimpers… fuck… they are music to your ears. You can’t resist it. He sounds beautiful, begging to taste your wetness on his tongue, lapping it up as though he were a dying man in a desert searching for water. You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence as he unbuttons your jeans, peeling them off slowly. Too damn slowly.

The warm air hits your exposed pussy, making you whimper at the sudden rush of Joel’s hands prying your legs apart, placing each one on his shoulders as he gets on his knees. Joel looks up at you—his smile, the crinkle at the edges of his eyes, and the way he licks his lips make him appear to be the happiest he’s ever been, at home exactly where he was.

You gasp when his tongue dances between the lips of your wet cunt, him groaning, savoring the taste as if it’s a five-course, five-star meal.

“Wait… Joel. I’ve been sweating all day,” you pleaded. “Let me freshen up.”

Joel stops, looking back up with a look on his face as if you just said the most ridiculous thing ever. As though you kicked a dog.

“I’m a man,” he says, inching a finger to tease the outside of your pussy. “And this man wants you to cum all over my mouth. I don’t give a damn if you’ve been sweating.”

You threw your head back, opening your legs to give him even more access as his tongue finds your clit once more. His tongue is flat, flicking against your center—making you tremble, unable to stay still. Joel’s grip tightens around your thighs, pinning your legs down as his head bobs up and down, licking you like you were a dessert meant to be savored, not hastily eaten. The more his fingers held on, the more his tongue circled—not caring about the world behind your office door. It was gone. Even if it was temporary before someone decided to barge through the door or knock on it with some random emergency, it felt heavenly being with him.

White-hot sparks shoot through your body as you feel your orgasm building, resembling the moment when you are on a rollercoaster and reach the very top before the drop. It’s electric. Tantalizing. Addictive. The only one who makes you feel alive.

It finally crests the peak as you come crashing down, Joel murmuring his approval, still lapping you up as your orgasm ripples through. Your legs shake, vibrating against Joel’s skin as he comes up for air, kissing you as you taste yourself on his lips.

“You are exquisite, darlin’,” Joel whispers. “Always have been. Always will be.”

You smile, still breathless as you come down from your orgasm. “I aim to please.”

“That you do. Every day without fail.”

You kiss him again as Joel starts to unbuckle his belt—until the annoying sound of someone knocking on your door rings out.

“Y/N! You in there?” Tommy yelled.

Your eyes squeezed shut at the sudden intrusion, hoping to will it away, as Joel simply smirked, watching how annoyed you were.

“Yeah, just give me a minute,” you yelled back.

As you start to put on your clothes, Joel stands back, watching you as he silently laughs.

“Is this funny to you?” you asked.

“Yes, because now you’ll be even more pent up when you come home tonight,” he quipped, giving you one last slow, drugging kiss before walking away toward the door.

Sitting down in your chair as the two Miller brothers made small talk, you shook your head, looking at Joel—the man you loved desperately. When his eyes met yours before leaving, giving you and Tommy the room to discuss business, the look in them told you he knew.

You were the sunshine to his rainy days and the rainbow casting hope across his scar-covered sky. He knew you loved him for his past, present, and future.

And this was just the beginning.

[mariacallous]

When I caught up with Elizabeth Warren, the senior Democratic senator from Massachusetts, by telephone on Wednesday evening, it seemed like she didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Hours earlier, Donald Trump had caved to pressure from the financial markets and announced, via social media, a ninety-day pause on many of his tariffs. On Wall Street, stocks shot up. Later in the afternoon, Warren, who sits on the Senate finance and banking committees, had spoken from the floor of the upper chamber, where she demanded an independent investigation into whether Trump had manipulated the markets to benefit Wall Street donors. (Anybody who had known about the policy pivot in advance could have made a fortune buying stocks or stock futures.) But while, in her floor speech, Warren had bristled with righteous anger at the idea of Trump, or anyone else at the White House, tipping off rich friends, during our conversation she couldn’t stop herself from chortling at the Administration’s claim that the President’s reversal had been the product of an artful negotiation strategy. “No serious person believes that, and I can’t even find an unserious person who believes it,” she joked. “The tariffs are on; the tariffs are off. The tariffs are on; the tariffs are off. Donald Trump is playing the biggest game of Red Light Green Light since ‘Squid Game.’ ”

Since Trump’s return to the White House, his chaotic style of governing has often seemed to catch Democrats off balance, and deprived them of a stationary target. Warren, however, has been on the offensive throughout. Unlike Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who have joined forces for a “Fighting Oligarchy” tour, she hasn’t been barnstorming around the country. (Although, as part of the mass “Hands Off!” protests last weekend, she did speak to a large crowd in Nashville.) But Warren has been busy in Washington. In February, when a team from Elon Musk’s DOGE gutted the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (C.F.P.B.), which she was the primary figure in founding, she denounced the attack as illegal and joined a street protest by the agency’s staff. More recently, Warren has broadened her critique of Trump’s policies to encompass other areas, including trade, taxes, financial regulation, and the debilitating effect of his over-all blitzkrieg. “Chaos is its own tax on the economy,” she said to me. “No business wants to plunk down the millions of dollars it takes to build something, or assemble a team, if they don’t know what the rules will be next week, much less next year. The only consistent theme is chaos, and no one can plan against chaos.”

Warren, who has long been a leading voice on the progressive left, is part firebrand and part policy wonk. During the run-up to the great financial crisis of 2008, when she was a professor at Harvard Law School, she cautioned, in speeches and blog posts, about the dangers of financial deregulation and Wall Street greed. After becoming a senator, in 2012, she focussed on soaring inequality, and, in 2020, when she ran for President, she proposed an annual wealth tax on the top 0.01 per cent. Even before last week, when Trump announced his blanket tariffs and brought the United States to the brink of another financial crisis, Warren was warning about the dangers that Trumponomics posed, including the likelihood that it would plunge the U.S. economy into a recession. “Look, this is the dumbest financial crisis in U.S. history,” she told me in an interview on Wednesday morning, shortly before Trump did his about-face. “Unlike earlier crises caused by viruses or subprime mortgages, this is one man who woke up with a crazy idea and imposed it on the world. But the tariff crisis is layered onto other ways in which he is weakening the economy.”

On a new Substack newsletter that Warren launched on Friday, in conjunction with other Democrats on the Senate Banking Committee, she highlights some of the Trump policies that she sees as particularly pernicious, including efforts to weaken financial deregulation, Musk’s slash-and-burn tactics at key federal agencies, and the pursuit by Republicans in Congress of a highly regressive tax policy that could well force spending cuts which could rip up the social safety net. “Lights are flashing red, but it is not too late,” Warren writes. “We still have time to prevent economic calamity for American families if we act quickly.”

Since coming to office, Trump has appointed new regulators—or, rather, deregulators—at many of the nation’s oversight agencies: the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Federal Reserve, the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency, the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, the Federal Trade Commission, and the C.F.P.B. To Warren, this is a recipe for disaster. “The lesson we should have learned from 2008 is that if the regulatory players don’t do their jobs in enforcing the laws and overseeing large financial institutions, these institutions will go for profit every time and load risk into the system,” she told me. In February and March, the shell of the C.F.P.B., where Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent is now the acting director, dropped more than half a dozen enforcement cases. In one of them, the agency had accused the bank Capital One of cheating customers out of two billion dollars by misleading them about interest rates offered on its savings accounts. In another, it had accused three big banks—JPMorgan Chase, Wells Fargo, and Bank of America—of failing to protect their customers from rampant fraud on Zelle, a payments platform in which they have ownership stakes.

In our conversation, Warren underscored that the Republican desire for tax cuts seems to know no bounds. “Even in the middle of this chaos, they are moving forward on a bill that has trillions of dollars in giveaways to corporations and billionaires, and cuts the underlying investment in working families,” she said. “That’s a terrible idea in the best of economic times, but it will be a complete disaster at a time when more American families are coming under financial stress.”

The struggle over taxes and spending seems set to dominate the legislative agenda on Capitol Hill until the end of the year. But, for the moment, Warren is focussed on Trump’s tariffs. Even though some are now lower than they were at the start of the week, they are all still very much in place. (For most goods from China, the import duty is now a hundred and forty-five per cent. Autos, auto parts, steel, and aluminum face rates of twenty-five per cent, as do many other goods from Canada and Mexico. Items from most other countries are subject to a rate of ten per cent.) The policy debate about how far the federal government should go to protect manufacturing jobs remains heated. Even as elected Democrats have lambasted Trump for panicking investors and tanking the markets, some of them, particularly in industrial states such as Michigan and Pennsylvania, have joined the United Auto Workers union in expressing support for at least some of Trump’s tariffs.

When I asked Warren what stance Democrats should adopt on tariffs, she marked out a middle ground, describing them as “an important tool in the economic toolbox,” but arguing that they should be introduced only in certain situations and industries. “If you get sick, and fill your prescription in America, there’s a ninety-per-cent chance that the drug was manufactured overseas, probably in Asia, and the materials for it probably came from China,” she said. “That’s a dangerous place for our country. If we got into a back-and-forth with a couple of countries, suddenly there’s no antibiotics for heart medication.” Warren argued that the keys to employing tariffs successfully are targeting them on goods that have strategic value, using them in conjunction with other policies designed to encourage production in the United States, such as subsidies, and introducing them gradually so that businesses and investors can plan for them. This was the approach of the Biden Administration, and Warren pointed out that it is very different from what Trump is doing. “Imposing tariffs on virtually every country for virtually every product sent to the United States, at rates that seem to be randomly pulled from a bingo cage, is not a way to strengthen America’s economy,” she said. “And it is certainly not a way to attract long-term investment and good jobs to the United States.”

But with Trump and the Republicans holding power in Washington, what can the Democrats do? Warren insists that, at least when it comes to Trump’s blanket tariffs, they are far from powerless. In introducing these levies, which it falsely described as “reciprocal,” the White House invoked the International Emergency Economic Powers Act, of 1977, which gave the President the authority to introduce broad tariffs during a national emergency. “But we are not in an emergency right now with Belgium or South Korea,” Warren pointed out. “That same law gives Congress the power to pass a resolution and say, ‘Nope. No emergency here,’ and roll back the entire tariff authority that Trump is using.”

On Thursday, as the stock markets fell again, Warren, together with her colleague Ron Wyden, of Oregon, introduced a piece of legislation that would do just that. Four Democrats and one Republican���Rand Paul, of Kentucky—joined them. With only forty-seven seats, Democrats seem unlikely to get the votes that they need for the bill to make it out of the Senate, especially now that Trump has announced his timeout. But Warren insists that bringing the legislation to the floor is still worthwhile because Republicans will be forced to vote on it. She said, “They will have to declare for everyone to see: Are they still simply Donald Trump’s suck-ups? Or are they legislators who will exercise independent judgment to protect the people and the economy of the United States?”

Warren surely knows the answer to her questions, which may explain, in part, her enthusiasm for the bill. When I spoke with her for a second time, after Trump’s reversal, she insisted that it was now more important than ever. “Trump demonstrated again that his whims will determine tariff policy for the entire world,” she said. “That will be true right up until Congress says no. Our resolution is the no.” 

[dxrlingluv]

Uhh what about Hermes x Reader where Reader gets attacked and Hermes is uncharacteristically quiet and absolutely pissed, hurt/comfort? GN reader preferably but any is fine? The rest is up to you

The Protector

A/N : I am so in love with Zieru’s design of Hermes like oml make love with me please. Also thank you so much for requesting this!! I can def see Hermes being like this to smn he cares about, especially his favorite mortal which is you <33.

WARNING : Gender Neutral implied Reader but no gender was mentioned, Mortal!Reader, Mentions of harassment, sexual assault, physical violation, etc. The suitors are their own warning.

The life of a servant in the great castle of Ithaca was a whirlwind of activity, a constant cycle of tasks and duties that left little room for leisure. You, however, were more than just a servant; you were a personal attendant to Queen Penelope, a position that came with its own set of unique privileges and challenges.

The work was demanding, often requiring you to be in several places at once, attending to the Queen's needs, managing household affairs, and ensuring the smooth running of the castle.

It was this very demanding schedule that brought you into contact with Hermes. The fleet-footed god, with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity, often found himself in Ithaca, delivering messages, running errands for the other gods, or simply seeking a bit of amusement in the mortal realm. He was, as always, a whirlwind of sunny disposition, his grin wide and playful, his words a constant stream of witty remarks and teasing banter.

Every time Hermes encountered you, he would attempt to strike up a conversation, his golden eyes sparkling with interest. He'd offer to help with your tasks (in his own, usually chaotic way), share some gossip from Olympus, or simply try to engage you in some lighthearted banter. But you, ever focused on your duties, would often cut him short, a polite but firm dismissal on your lips.

"I'm busy, Hermes," you'd say, your tone apologetic but unwavering, as you hurried past him with a stack of freshly laundered linens.

Or, "Too busy, maybe next time," you'd reply, with a flick of your hand, your attention already on the next task at hand, a half-finished scroll in your other arm.

Hermes, to his credit, was persistent. He never seemed to take offense at your repeated dismissals. His sunny personality remained undimmed, his grin unwavering. He would simply chuckle, a cheerful sound that echoed through the halls, and say something like, "Ah, duty calls! But the messenger god never gives up!" before flitting off to his next errand.

One particular afternoon, the Queen required a specific type of rare spice for a special preparation. The spice was stored in the castle's larder, a vast chamber where provisions were kept. You were tasked with retrieving it.

The larder, usually a place of quiet order, was filled with a boisterous crowd. The suitors, those unwelcome guests who had plagued Penelope and the castle since Odysseus's long absence, were gathered there. They were loud, drunk, and obnoxious, their usual arrogance amplified by copious amounts of wine.

You tried to slip in unnoticed, hoping to grab the spice and leave as quickly as possible. But the suitors, with their ever-watchful eyes, spotted you. A predatory gleam lit up their faces. They considered you an easy target, someone they could bully and harass with impunity.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," one of them sneered, his voice thick with wine.

"The Queen's little errand runner," another added, his laughter crude and mocking.

They advanced, their words turning into shoves, their playful taunts escalating into something more sinister. You tried to defend yourself, to push them away, but they outnumbered you, their drunken strength overwhelming your efforts. You were shoved, grabbed, assaulted, and their cruel words cutting deeper than any blade.

In the end, you managed to break free, but not without injury. You stumbled out of the larder, bruised, bleeding, and shaken, the precious spice clutched tightly in your hand. Your body ached, your spirit bruised.

Your personal room, a small but private space, was a welcome sanctuary. You collapsed inside, leaning against the door, the spice falling to the floor. The perks of being a personal servant to the Queen included having a space to retreat to, a luxury you were immensely grateful for at that moment.

You were a mess. Cuts and bruises marred your skin, your clothes were torn, and your hair was disheveled. With trembling hands, you tried to clean your wounds, wincing as you dabbed at the cuts with a damp cloth. The task was slow and painful, each movement a reminder of the brutal encounter.

Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed from the hallway, "Hey there, Darling! I was just telling old Hephaestus about the-" The voice stopped abruptly.

Hermes stood on the entrance of your window, his usual sunny smile frozen on his face. His eyes, wide with excitement a moment before, now registered shock, disbelief, and a dawning horror. The sight of you, battered and bloodied, seemed to physically knock the wind out of him.

His demeanor shifted in an instant. The transformation was startling, profound. The playful glint in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a dark, simmering anger. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, and the usual cheerful expression was replaced by a grim mask of fury. It was a side of Hermes you had never seen, a side that was raw, primal, and utterly terrifying.

He rushed to your side, his movements swift and purposeful, but his touch was gentle, almost reverent. "(Y/N)!" he breathed, his voice a low, guttural growl, a far cry from his usual melodious tones. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

You flinched at the raw intensity in his voice, surprised and slightly overwhelmed by this unfamiliar, darker side of Hermes. You tried to speak, to explain, but your voice was barely a whisper. "The suitors," you managed to croak, the word catching in your throat. "In the larder... they..."

Hermes's expression hardened. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, narrowed into slits of cold fury. A dangerous aura emanated from him, a palpable sense of divine wrath that made the very air crackle. It was a far cry from the cheerful messenger you knew. This was Hermes, the son of Zeus, a god of power and vengeance, and that power was now focused on those who had dared to harm you.

He knelt beside you, his touch surprisingly gentle as he examined your injuries. His hands, usually so swift and playful, were now careful, almost reverent, as they traced the bruises on your arms and the cuts on your face. He made a soft, hissing sound as he saw the extent of your pain, a sound that spoke volumes about his inner turmoil.

"They did this to you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. It wasn't a question, but a statement, a confirmation of a truth he already knew but couldn't quite believe.

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. You were not usually one to cry, but the pain, the fear, and the sheer shock of the attack, combined with Hermes's uncharacteristic demeanor, had overwhelmed your composure.

Hermes's jaw tightened. "I should have been here," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "I should have protected you." There was a self-reproach in his voice, a guilt that seemed utterly out of place for the usually carefree god.

He carefully lifted you and carried you to the small bed in your room, his movements swift and sure, yet incredibly tender. He laid you down with the utmost care, as if you were made of the most delicate porcelain.

Then, he turned away for a moment, pacing the small room with a restless energy that was both unsettling and mesmerizing. He was a whirlwind of suppressed fury, a storm contained within the confines of the small space.

"They will pay," he said finally, his voice low and menacing. "They will learn what it means to harm someone under my protection."

You reached out a trembling hand. "Hermes..." you whispered, trying to calm him, though a part of you was grateful for his anger on your behalf.

He stopped pacing and turned back to you, his expression softening slightly as he saw your distress. He knelt beside the bed, his gaze searching yours. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now, though the edge of fury still lingered. "I didn't mean to frighten you. But (Y/N), seeing you like this..." He broke off, unable to articulate the depth of his feelings.

He took your hand in his, his grip firm and reassuring. "I should have taken your hints," he said, a hint of his old self creeping back into his voice, though it was still tinged with a seriousness you had never heard before. "I was so caught up in my own... amusements... that I didn't see how busy you truly were. I should have realized you weren't just being dismissive."

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and a newfound tenderness. "I've been a fool," he admitted, a rare admission from the usually prideful god. "I've been so busy being Hermes, the messenger god, the trickster, the jokester, that I forgot to be... a friend."

He paused, taking a deep breath. "But that's going to change, (Y/N)," he vowed, his voice firm and resolute. "I'm going to make sure you're safe. I'm going to protect you. And I'm going to make those suitors regret the day they laid a hand on you."

He tended to your wounds with divine skill, his touch gentle and soothing. He cleaned the cuts with a nectar that smelled of ambrosia and healed with a soft, golden light, and wrapped you in bandages that felt like silk against your skin.

As he worked, he told you stories, not of his usual pranks and escapades, but of his travels through different realms, of the kindness he had witnessed, and the beauty he had seen. His voice, though still tinged with a newfound seriousness, was calming and reassuring.

When he was finished, he sat beside you, his hand resting on yours. The anger had receded, replaced by a quiet determination and a tenderness that was both comforting and captivating.

"Rest now," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I won't leave you. And I promise you, (Y/N), this will never happen again."

You giggled at his seriousness, “But Hermes, I have yet to give My lady her spice,” as you said that, Hermes flew off in a swift move. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have noticed how fast he had snatched the spice on the ground. Now that’s the god of thieves to you.

Within a second, Hermes was back, flyingback to you bedroom trough the window. Sitting back next to you, he had firmly told you to rest. Finding that protesting would be futile in this situation, you lied down, staring at Hermes with a soft and thankful look.

And as you drifted off to sleep, lulled by his presence and the warmth of his hand on yours, you knew, deep in your heart, that he meant every word he had said earlier.

The cheerful, teasing Hermes you had known was still there, but beneath that sunny exterior was a depth of feeling, a fierce protectiveness, and a loyalty that you had never suspected.

And perhaps, you realized, this was the beginning of something more than just friendship.

“Thank you, Hermes.”

[a-shade-of-blue]

I've been reading the updates on Gaza, and what I've read has made me extremely worried about Mohammed (@ahmed0khalil) and his family who are in Deir el-Balah right now.

There have been continuous relentless attacks on Deir el-Balah. Israel has been targeting tents in Deir el-Balah. Just a few hours ago, Israeli fighters have just bombed a home in that area, killing at least 5 people, including 2 children.

Mohammed and his family are sheltering in a UN classroom right now. Israel is known to target schools sheltering displaced people. Just yesterday another school where displaced families are sheltering has been attacked. This is the fourth school Israel has bombed in less than a week! But they don't have nearly enough funds to evacuate!

Mohammed is only 19 years old and he has 5 siblings. Things have been difficult for them his brother Fathi who is blind, his other brother Abdullah who is autistic and does not understand what is happening, and little 6-year-old Ahmed. They are all suffering from malnutrition because they don't have enough money to buy food, and that is on top of the frequent attacks they have to face every day!

Mohammed's campaign has been shared by 90-ghost as well as vetted by @/gazavetters and is #77 on their vetted list. I've also been communicating regularly with him. Please help! Your donation can mean life or death for them!

Low Funds! Only €3,418 raised of €50,000 goal!

Tagging for reach, please dm me if you want off the mailing list! We thank you in advance.

@dlxxv-vetted-donations @ahaura@ana-bananya@northgazaupdates@c-u-c-koo-4-40k@riding-with-the-wild-hunt @roadimusprime@aces-and-angels@just-browsing1222@neptunerings@mushroomjar@northgazaupdates2@kyra45-helping-others@decolonize-solidarity @heritageposts@timetravellingkitty @briarhips @akajustmerry @wellwaterhysteria @rhubarbspring@nevert-the-guy@ethanscrocs @gumy-shark @khizuo @brutaliakhoa @decolonize-the-everything @postanagramgenerator

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[redd-blushing-roses]

Sticking Together

word count: 4.1k

pairing: (post-winter soldier)Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: laying low and hiding from HYDRA after the events of SHIELD's fall, you're attacked in the dead of night. although they are not your only visitors that night, and Bucky comes to save you.

warnings: some blood, violence and suggestive abuse under the cut.

notes: helloo. this is the first time I've ever posted my writing. if you have any comments/criticism pls share, I'd love to hear them! honestly loved writing this, although the ending could have used some more work. looking forward to writing for Bucky some more, especially with thunderbolts hype still being so fresh and the new Avengers movie in the future! (also if the spacing on this is hideous, I'm still trying to figure out how to configure it lol. sorry in advance)

enjoy reading :)

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

The sound of the electric heater blasting echoed down the relatively quiet hall of the cramped apartment. From above the movement of the neighbors echoed down, the creaking sigh of a bed and footsteps falling between rooms. 

You sigh, rubbing the palm of your hand against your tired eyes. If nightmares didn’t keep you awake at three am, the neighbors surely found a way to. You lay there in bed, toes wiggling against your soft fuzzy socks, knees sliding against the thick cotton blanket doing little to shield you from the cold. As hard as the heater tried to work, humming loudly with its effort, it did little to combat the freezing temperature of New York’s winter. 

Twisting to reach your phone, you scroll through the latest news, giving up trying to get yourself back to sleep. Lots of stock market talk, political arguments and catching up on the latest celebrity gossip. Oh- 

A smile finds its way on your face as you click on the next headline you read.

Natasha Romonoff Sticks it to the Man in Latest SHIELD Hearing. 

You can’t help but laugh out loud reading the article.

Most of it was just admiring the outfit she had worn to the hearing, complimenting the former assassin’s killer sense of diplomatic style. If only they knew you had spent most of an afternoon helping her pick out the overly formal dress. 

It was one of the last times you had been out and about; an excuse to get you out of the cramped apartment Natasha had graciously allowed you to stake your hideout in. 

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

Natasha understood. 

You both were reaping the consequences of your pasts.

When everything went down in Washington, Captain America destroying the Helicarrier ships, Natasha releasing SHIELD files exposing HYDRA’s infiltration, all eyes were now on you: SHIELD's second best spy. And HYDRA’s as well. 

Your life had been spent working under SHIELD, tasking you with spying on foreign scientists and diplomatic events. You’d spent your life learning to become invisible, to blend in, to observe and remember.

Years of playing the double agent, working alongside Black Widow, then Captain America; taking down mercenaries and pirates, just to take the long elevator ride down to SHIELD’s basement and make your report to the STRIKE team’s head-

You hadn’t wanted it that way, hadn’t intended to walk into Pierce’s office (before you knew what a monster he was- and oh, you learned), Fury’s debrief clutched in your hand and see him.

Silently sitting in the corner. Clouded blue eyes hidden beneath dark hair. Metal arm gleaming-

It was in your better interest to just… disappear. Avoid the government agents who watched you like a hawk, questioning where your loyalties lied, and avoid the HYDRA members who wanted their test project back. 

Natasha understood.

She always had. You had never had a best friend like her, someone you could kick butt with and shoot targets with; watch cheesy romcoms with and talk about which Avenger was more of a nerd over coffee. 

She was like a sister to you.

You found yourself constantly surprised by how protective she was over you (although you were one to talk, you’d taken a bullet for her). Even now, she was loaning her apartment to you, helping you hide out while she was away on her Avengers missions.

Natasha had awoken in the dead of night to a loud banging on her door, finding you unconscious and alone on her doorstep, bleeding out from a gaping wound in your thigh.

“Oh my-” 

You barely remembered the hospital, just the stream of questions she had thrown your way. 

“You really don’t remember what happened? I find it hard to believe you, of all people, would tear through muscle and artery with a malfunctioning rifle.”

Of course it wasn’t your rifle that had gone off. But how were you going to tell her you had run through the snow, screaming out a name you’d come to know as home, a HYDRA agent behind you, throwing you to the ground and twisting a knife through your thigh, red hot blood spurting across the white forest.

“I don’t know what to tell you Nat. I was startled and the gun went off. My leg just happened to be its unfortunate victim.”

“There wasn’t even a bullet!”

“Call it a favor from God.”

“Well, do you at least remember who brought you to my door?”

“I-” 

You’d barely been conscious, strong arms wrapped around you, the painful jostling from being carried and run with. The quiet deep whispers in your ear.

It was going to be okay. He was sorry. He shouldn’t have let you stay-

Of course you knew who had left you on the door, bleeding, praying Natasha would save you.

But how were you going to tell her you had been saved by HYDRA’s Winter Soldier? 

Or that you’d spent the past six months on the run with him.

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

You sat up in bed, phone lazily thrown onto the mattress, your blanket wrapped around your body like a hooded jacket and made your way into the kitchen.

Cold nights like this reminded you of that snowy night. And those memories always required tea. And a good helping of coffee cake.

You had found the  Winter Soldier- Bucky- in HYDRA’s safe house. Waiting. Lost. 

Reluctantly you took him in, helping him piece himself back together, finding yourself growing more and more attached to him. He had told you it was time to part ways, he needed to do things on his own. Bucky had argued the longer you were together, the more danger he put you in. 

“James, you’re a super soldier. I’m a spy. We protect each other. We’re sticking together.”

But Bucky was proven right.

You missed him. As much as you had enjoyed spending time with Natasha again, you missed the quiet routine Bucky had adopted:

Find a quiet and empty house. 

Market days were Saturday, and you got your supplies and hid. Most of the time during the week was spent helping him jot down his memories, recording them with patience as you sat on the floor together drinking tea and coffee.

Once the supplies ran out, it was time to move on. Find a new hide out and restart.

You had given Bucky a burner phone, told him it was a way for the both of you to keep in contact in case one of you got in a pickle. He had forced you to watch as he threw it away. 

You still hadn’t erased the number from your own phone.

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

The kettle whistled from the stove and pulled you from your thoughts. The wooden chair scraped against the tiled floor of the kitchen, the trickling sound of boiling water pouring into a glass mug filled the empty kitchen, the quiet slice of a butter knife against the almost bare cake pan following. 

You didn’t bother turning on the light. Already, the warmth of the tea and cake was pulling you back to the comfort of sleep, your eyelids drooping. 

You ate in the silence of the night. Alone. 

You really did miss Bucky. Even though he didn’t say much, you didn’t mind. During nights when he’d have terrible fits of nightmares you’d sit together in the kitchen, sharing similar confections to the one you prepared for yourself. It was quiet, but you didn’t need words. 

You were in it together.

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

There was a sound from outside. To any other person, it could be mistaken for the sound of one of the night's many nocturnal animals sneaking into the building. A racoon. A rat. One of the neighbor's ragged looking cats.

But to your trained and sensitive ears, the distinction between animal and man was plain. 

There was someone outside your apartment. 

The blanket around your shoulders was quickly discarded, the heavy cloud of sleep vanishing. You crack open the lower kitchen cabinet door quietly, a heavy metal pan now in your hand. 

Your eyes dart from shadow to shadow as you listen for the sounds outside- another shuffle, and voices.

Someones. 

Still crouched, you crept over to the front door, slowly standing to reach the eyehole. Carefully you peak outside, the carpeted hallway dimly lit, the lamp broken above the door. 

Three men in tactical gear stood, guns carefully concealed at their thighs and on their backs. One of the men turned sideways, the red symbol which churned your stomach on full display. 

HYDRA.

One of the men glanced at the door’s eyehole, a wicked grin cracking on his face. You quickly crouch down again, heart racing as you push your back against the door.

“Ah come on darling, don’t hide. We know you’re in there.” The voice was deep, muffled behind the door. 

How had they found you?

You were careful. Not going out into public spaces alone. Only carrying a burner phone which you changed out every few weeks. 

Your phone. It was in the bedroom. Along with your gun. 

You cursed.

“We’d love to sit out here all night, but we have a job to do. You can either come with us and do things the easy way, or, we can go in and do things the hard way,” the voice came again.

As good of a hideout as Nat’s apartment was, it sure had a terrible escape layout. 

You could take them on with your frying pan. But even standing, you felt the tight pull of your leg muscle, the stitches in your leg still healing under the bandage hidden by your cotton pants.

There was only one option. To run for the bedroom and lock yourself inside. Make a phone call to Steve or Sam, both of whom lived at Avengers tower and who were currently still in the city, and ask them to get you out of there. Slowly, you left the back of the door, creeping through the living room and kitchen.

Another muffled voice sounded from behind the door. One which made your stomach churn.

“We never really had any options, fellas. She always liked to play hard to get.” 

Rumlow. The man who had been tasked to watch over you in SHIELD. To keep you in check and be HYDRA’s little pet.

The all too familiar fear kept you paralyzed in your spot between the living room and bedroom. “Come on,” you try and encourage yourself. Just a few more feet and you would be safe. 

You could hear the lock being tampered with, the men talking once more as they pushed against the door, chain lock rattling. You took a step. And then another. 

There was a shadow by the window, large and bulky, silhouetted against the dim lights of the fire escape. You froze. 

There was a loud sound from the door.

You didn’t even have time to react. You were down on the floor, the front door busted into, and Rumlow tackling you. 

He stifled the scream you held in your throat, elbow coming down to your side with a loud thump. The pan in your hands is not forgotten and despite the pain you swing at Rumlow. 

The pan hits with a sickening crunch, landing on his temple and knocking him away from you. You scramble towards the bed, yelling as two of the men grab you, one securing your kicking legs and the other painfully tugging at your arms. 

You flail between them and manage to escape the one holding your arms, falling against the other and knocking him down. You take the pan, hitting his head with another loud thud. He’s knocked out cold. The metal appliance is ripped from your hands and brought down on your back. 

You cry out, pain radiating from your shoulders. You don’t let this deter you though, you can’t. You’ve seen what HYDRA does to the women who disobey. 

You turn on your heel, and in a swift motion pull the cheap, thin rug out from under the man, causing him to fall with a thud. The pan is in your hands again and you hit him in the jaw. He goes down.

You pant, gasping for breath and ignoring the painful stitch already in your side. You brush your tangled hair out of your face, now red and sweaty despite the cold. The bedroom is just an arms length away and you move towards it.

A hand claws at your leg, pulling you back. Your chin smacks into the floor, the impact bruising your jaw and pinching your shoulder. Fingers dig into your thigh, and you cry out as you feel a few stitches popping.

Hands claw up your body, rough and slick with the blood now seeping out from your thigh. You turn and kick, clenching your teeth at the feeling of your foot coming into contact with the man’s jaw. 

His hands fall away and you grab the pan again, hitting him again in the temple. His eyes roll into the back of his head, hands falling limp. 

You hit him twice more before scrambling into the room and throwing yourself on the bed, tears beginning to fall from your face as you grab your phone.

There’s barely enough time before a hand comes down on your head, fingers roughly pulling your hair. “Did you miss me?”

Rumblow throws you back from the bed, your hands flying, ripping the window’s curtain as you go down. Your fingers had barely typed in the phone’s password, hardly scrolled through the contacts and hit the call button blindly before you were on the floor, the wind knocked out of you. Rumlow sits over you, his bulky body crushing your torso as he leans down.

“You’re lucky I always like a challenge doll.” 

This was it. He would take what he could, bind and gag you after he’d had his fun and then you’d disappear. Although this time, it would be back to the cold and dark world HYDRA liked to call home. Your ears pick up the distant sound of a phone ringing. What?? 

There’s the sound of glass shattering, and wood creaking. Rumlow turns and is knocked off you, his body flying from the impact, the sound of metal against bone still ringing. You squint through the pain, your thigh throbbing, blood still spilling in a steady stream, various parts of your body aching with the promise of dark bruises.

Between the darkness and tears you finally recognize him. Metal arm glinting in the moonlight, anger written across his stone cold face.

Bucky picks up Rumlow from his vest, butting his head into the HYDRA agent’s scarred face. Blood spurts from Rumlows nose, a pained sneer marking his face.

“Don’t call her doll.” Bucky’s voice is dark, and you know that right now, it’s not Bucky who has graced you with his presence. It’s the Winter Soldier. 

Ignoring the man's flailing punches, Bucky throws Rumlow through the already broken window. Rumlow’s body hits the fire escape and he tumbles down. Bucky makes quick work of the other three men who groan, standing back up in the apartment.

You crawl away into the bedroom, your leg twitching painfully all the way. 

Your phone is still open, and when you hit End Call, the ringing stops. It’s now just the sound of Bucky smashing the agents into the floor, their screams silenced before they can even be released. 

The ringing had stopped. You look at Bucky, his leg thrown high to kick back an agent, his body flying into the kitchen table, splitting its wooden top in half. 

In your blind panic, you had dialed  the phone you had given him, its number still saved in your phone. 

The one he had thrown away.

You watch him, blood spattering against the fridge as Bucky’s metal arm crushes the last man’s head into the appliance. There was a sickening crunch of bone and steel as he tossed the man aside, the fridge door busted open, the light inside flickering. 

Natasha was so not getting her safety deposit back.

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

You grab your gun, grunting with the effort of pulling yourself off the floor and move to the window. You peer down the fire escape, eyes searching for any sign of Rumlow.

You spot him, his eyes glowing in the dark with anger. You move to shoot, but a hand reaches out, stopping you from pulling the trigger. You flinch, eyes closing as you expect pain to follow. But it never comes. 

You crack your eyes open, blearily looking up to Bucky as he still holds your hand, his grip gentle around your fingers. 

“He’s too far,” he gives you a look, serious and concerned. “It’s not worth it.” 

You loosen your grip on the gun, allowing him to take it from you. 

You both stand there a moment, eyes locked, and for a second you think you see something familial flash in his eyes. Between the lines of the seriousness of his cold soldier persona and the concern of the kind lost man, you thought you saw something more. 

A flash of pained compassion, of hurt and guilt. His hand comes up, as if to wipe away the tears from your face, but he hesitates and drops his hand by his side again. The look was gone before you could fully register what you had seen and Bucky was already moving away from you. 

He hands you back the gun by its hilt, moving toward the closet of the bedroom, rifling through its contents. 

It finally hits you: Bucky is here. At Natasha’s apartment again. After four long months of separation, he was there.

“You came back.” Your voice was shaky, your chest heaving, adrenaline still coursing through your body. “I thought you said-”

“I know. I needed space. And I did” He pulls out a duffle bag, throwing it onto the bed, and begins pulling out clothes from the closet. “These are yours?”

“No, some are Nats. Why are you packing me?”

“You can’t stay here. HYDRA knows you’re here. When Rumlow turns up empty handed they’ll double down looking for you. Especially since they know I was here. ”

“So I have to leave.” “We have to leave.” We.

“It’s better if we part ways. Staying together is just an invitation for danger.”

You shuffle towards him, staying off your injured leg and pull your clothes from the closet. Simple basics you had carried the first time you ran away with him. Jeans, plain shirts, undergarments. 

“And you suddenly changed your mind now?” Bucky was silent, taking the folded clothes from your hand and placing them in the bag. He didn’t look at you.

“Why are you in New York? And why did you lie to me about the phone?” He closes his eyes, taking a breath. 

“I thought it was better to part ways, thought it would keep HYDRA off our tails. I stayed hidden pretty well; knew most of the tricks to avoiding their spies. I found an agent hiding outside of my camp not long ago. He had intel on you. Knew you were here.”

“And so you came back. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t exactly show up knocking and drop that bomb with Natasha here.” He looks away from you again. “Besides I didn’t know if you would want to see me. After that night…” 

Bucky shakes himself out of a trance, not allowing himself to zone out and moves towards your bathroom, the light turning on behind him with a thrumming buzz.

“So what, you just camped out spying on me?” “Something like that,” his voice was  muffled in the room. 

You wince as you move to the closet, pulling off your thin nightshirt and throwing on a more practical long sleeve thermal. 

How much of your sad private life had Bucky seen? Sleepless nights, long afternoons of reading books, sparring practice. Had he listened in on your conversations with Natasha? Had he watched over you as you slept?

Now that you think about it, you had seen a shadow pass by the window every so often. You’d simply cracked it up to the neighbors using the escape rather than the stairs on account of the broken elevator. But it had been Bucky, watching over you. 

Your heart pulled, and you tried your best not to think about what it meant.

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

Bucky entered the room again, your toiletries in his arms, safely enclosed in the floral patterned bag you had bought the first time you’d taken him out after a long stint of hiding. He paused, watching as you peeled the blood soaked pajama pants from your legs. 

He cursed quietly, throwing the toiletries and a few other accessories in the bag and zipping it up.

You wince. “I have to redo the stitches. I’m going to bleed out again.” Bucky shook his head, peeling off his own bag quickly, head swiveling from the window to the door observing. 

“We don’t have time. The longer we’re here, the more we’re at risk of being caught.”

He pulled out a long strip of gauze from a medical supply bag, his fingers working quickly to remove the soaked bandages of your thigh and replace them with a fresh and tighter bind. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to run. I can hardly walk as it is.” 

Bucky tied off the gauze, ripping the strip with his teeth. He stood, placing both your small duffel and his bag onto your back, sliding the straps over your arms and across your chest.

“I’ll carry you then,” he says with a small smile, a teasing glint in his blue eyes.

Bucky helped you put on a new pair of jeans, his eyes never leaving your face and never moving lower than your waist. Despite the violent life he had lived the past decades, he had still remained a gentleman at heart.

He helps you sit, pulling socks onto your feet and tying the laces of your hiking boots with nimble fingers.

“Bucky…” you began. He looks up to you, leaning in to listen, his body between your legs. You both were so close and it made your pulse hammer harder. You lick your lips. “Why did you keep the phone?”

He swallows, wiping his metal hand across the top of his lip.

“I thought about what you said. About being stronger together. After that night,” he pauses. That same look of pain flashes across his eyes. “After that night, when you almost died because of me, I went back for the phone. You were right.”

“But you never called.” “I just wanted to have it. To find you in case you were in danger.” 

“But you said it’s more dangerous to be together-”

“It is. But I couldn’t leave your safety up to chance.” 

“Hey, I’m a very skilled spy. And I’m friends with the Avengers.” He shook his head, pulling you off the bed gently. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but he closes it, his eyes clouding over. It’s the look he gets when he remembers something, something important. 

“James?”

The sound of his name snaps him out of the memory and he shakes his head. Bucky reaches over to his pack, pulling out the small black phone you had given him. He holds out his hand, waiting for you to give him something. You realize what he wants and you pull out your own phone, placing it in the palm of his hand. 

You let out a quiet gasp as he crushes both of them in his metal hand, the phone crumbling into bits, the sounds of sparks signifying their death. 

“But how will we-” you start but he cuts you off.

“We’re sticking together.” 

You smile. And before you have time to overthink, you lean closer, kissing the scruff of his cheek lightly. Your heart is hammering as you pull back, and for a second you’re worried you crossed the line. 

Bucky blinks, obviously shocked by your response. You frown, unnerved by his silence. But your worries are soon swept away as you notice the tinge of pink crawling up his cheeks and his ears. He clears his throat, hand gently patting your leg, his fingers lingering a moment too long. 

“We should go,” you whisper, saving him from fumbling a response. He may have been a flirt back in the day from what you read in the museum, but you knew affection had been lost on him for the past decades. But you were patient. You could wait.

He turns, squatting and helps you onto his back, his hands tight around your thighs, keeping you close to him. Your arms keep you steady on his back, gripping his chest.

He steps over the unconscious bodies of the HYDRA agents and you leave Natasha’s apartment, slipping away into the night. Together.

[sayruq]

THE WHITE HOUSE is worried that Iran might strike a U.S. target as part of a potential retaliation for Israel’s April 1 attack on its embassy in Damascus, Syria, according to notes from a meeting involving National Security Council officials earlier this week. Tehran has vowed that “Israel will be punished” for the Syria strike and the killing of Quds Force commander Mohammad Reza Zahedi. New concern about a potential Iranian strike comes even though the Biden administration has sought to distance itself from the Israeli airstrike, stressing that it had no advance knowledge of the operation. “I don’t have anything more to say about the strike in Damascus, except that we weren’t involved in any way whatsoever,” NSC spokesperson retired Adm. John Kirby said on Monday. On Monday night, Iran conveyed to the Biden administration that if it involved itself in defending Israel were Tehran to undertake a retaliatory strike, it would consider the United States a viable target as well. The issue was discussed at a Tuesday NSC meeting, according to notes reviewed by The Intercept. (The NSC did not respond to a request for comment.)

Since then, the U.S. has quietly conducted talks with Iranian officials to seek to avoid direct confrontation between the two countries’ armed forces, according to CNN and other media reports. On Sunday, Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer said that Biden and his team are working to prevent escalation with Iran in the Middle East. On Wednesday, Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei said that Israel “must be punished and it shall be.” That same day, Israeli Foreign Affairs Minister Israel Katz said his country would respond with a direct attack. “If Iran attacks from its own territory, Israel will respond and attack in Iran,” Katz posted on X. Since April 2023, the U.S. and Israel have been in close cooperation in sharing and building common Iran contingency plans.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Blue states should play “constitutional hardball”

NEXT WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

Nothing's more frustrating that watching the GOP smash norms and decency to advance policies that harm millions of Americas, unless it's that, plus Democratic officials stamping their feet and saying, "C'mon guys, play fair."

The GOP's game is called "constitutional hardball." Think: Mitch McConnell refusing to hold confirmation hearings on Obama's federal judiciary appointments, not never for Merrick Garland's Supreme Court seat – then filling the Federal judiciary with the least-qualified, most FedSoc-addled lunatics in US history, all for lifetime appointments.

As bad as this is at the federal level, it's even worse at in the states, especially the Republican "trifecta" states where the GOP holds the governorship and the state house and senate, where shameless gerrymandering and legislative attacks on hard-won ballot measures are the order of the day. GOP-held state governments engage in rampant interstate aggression, targeting out-of-state abortion providers, publishers, and journalists.

This is a one-sided Cold Civil War, because state Dems, for the most part, are unwilling to play hardball in return (the closest they come is when, say, California sets strict emissions controls and manufacturers adopt them nationwide, rather than making special cars for the giant California market). Republicans engage in constitutional hardball and Dems refuse to fight back, a phenomenon called "asymmetrical constitutional hardball":

https://columbialawreview.org/content/asymmetric-constitutional-hardball/

Writing for The American Prospect, Arkadi Gerney and Sarah Knight make the case for symmetrical constitutional hardball:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-10-18-playing-hardball/

The pair argue first, that the best way to get Republican state houses to play fair is to credibly threaten them with retaliatory action. They cite the recent attempt at a last-minute change the way that Nebraska's Electoral College votes are apportioned, which would have given all of five the state's EC votes to Trump. Maine threatened to effect the same change to its Electoral College system, which would have given all four of its EC votes to Harris. Nebraska surrendered.

But there's also a second advantage to playing Constitutional Hardball: it makes blue states better. For example, Minnesota gives free college tuition to exceptional low/middle-income students. Neighboring North Dakota got tired of losing all its smartest kids Minnesota schools and created its own subsidy. As Gerney and Knight point out, Minnesota (and other blue states) still has a huge advantage when it comes to attracting top talent, because attending university in a state with legal abortion is vastly preferable (and safer) than doing a degree in a forced-birth state.

Red states are bent on making life horrible for some really great people. The hardworking, talented Haitian migrants caught in the Springfield pogroms that Trump incited would be a fine addition to any blue state town – anyone who's got the gumption to haul ass out of a failed state and make their all the way to Springfield is gonna be a fantastic neighbor, citizen and worker, just like my refugee grandparents and father, who endured a million times more hardship than their neighbors ever did, getting to Toronto, finding jobs, and starting their family.

Influxes of young, hardworking immigrants are especially good for rural towns with dwindling populations. No wonder rural towns with above-average net migration swung for Biden in 2020.

All over America, families are despairing of their lives in red states. Whether you're worried that you or someone you love might need to terminate a pregnancy, or you're worried about gender-affirming care for you or a loved one, you can put your worries to rest in a blue state. Same goes for nurses and doctors who are worried they can't do medicine unless it accords with the imaginary dictates of Bronze Age prophets as claimed by pencil-neck Hitler wannabe Bible-thumper with a private jet and a face from Walmart. Fill the blue states with great schools, libraries and hospitals, and invite everyone who wants to do their job in a free country to come and work at 'em. Line every state border with abortion and mifepristone clinics, and set up billboards advertising the quality of life, the jobs, and the freedom in blue state America.

Every blue state public pension fund should ban investments in fossil fuels, and invest like crazy in renewables, especially in Texas, to hasten the bankrupting of the petro-kleptocracy that controls the state. Blue states should tack surcharges on goods imported from "right to work" states where unions are effectively banned, to compensate for the additional product testing needed to ensure that scab products are safe to use (ahem, Boeing).

Create joint occupational licensure rules across blue states: if you're certified as a teacher, nurse, hairdresser or auto-mechanic in New York, you should be able to carry that certification with you to Minnesota, California, or Maine. Create multi-state funding pools to build public housing. Offer med-school scholarships to the smartest red state kids, at universities where they'll learn evidence-based obstetrics rather than the Lysenokist nonsense taught at the Roy Moore College of Pediatrics and Obstetrics.

Dems have to get over their fear of "states' rights" and start playing state-level hardball. This doesn't mean escalating cruelty. Quite the contrary: every cruel measure enacted as red state red meat is a chance for blue states to extend a kindness, and capture even more of the best, brightest and kindest of the nation, creating a race to the top that Republicans can only win by abandoning their performative cruelty and corruption.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/18/states-rights/#cold-civil-war