#UN Rights Counsel

[news4dzhozhar]

[quasi-normalcy]

It's actually really frightening to see officially sanctioned genocide denial rise up in Western countries in real time. Like, I remember 20 years ago hearing about how it was illegal in Turkey to point out that the Armenian Genocide happened, and how I thought that that was fucking evil and oppressive. Now here we are, with a campaign in Gaza that experts have called 'a textbook case of genocide', for which the UN Human Rights counsel has determined there are "reasonable grounds" to call it genocide, and the US Congress is trying to make it illegal to criticize Israel. We have Hollywood agencies refusing to represent anyone who points out that a genocide is currently taking place. And it's just the same shit from a fresh asshole as we got from the Turkish government over what happened in Armenia in the 1920s, like "Oh yes, there were killings, but...calling it genocide? Ohhhh, you must be very hateful to our poor little nation to think that our people are capable of that 😢 😭!" Fuck off.

[ms-demeanor]

i’m curious what your opinion is on the finer points of the case mentioned in the JSTOR post you reblogged earlier. the two sources in the post say that JSTOR didn’t press charges against him and had already settled with him by the time he killed himself. from what i read on wikipedia, the concern seems to be that JSTOR complied with a subpoena, which i don’t believe they have a choice to ignore? if anything it seems like the us government had reason to want him dead for wikileaks and public court records reasons, so they took a terms of use violation and blew it up into a dozen federal crimes.

is there more context i should be aware of? i have no particular affection or malice for JSTOR but the sources i found don’t exactly implicate the database or its employees in murder.

That's from page 175 of this document. This line: "The activity noted is outright theft and may merit a call with university counsel, and even the local police, to ensure not only that the activity has stopped but that - e.g. the visiting scholar who left - isn't leaving with a hard drive containing our database" is where I think the culpability starts.

If someone is downloading 1000s of articles (what seems like reasonable threshold for us to take action), what's wrong with us - or the university in collaboration with us - alerting the cyber-crimes division of law enforcement and initiating an investigation, having cop search dorm room and try to retrieve any hard drive that contains our content, etc. Our content is extraordinarily valuable and hard to replicate by the sweat of one's brow, but can be duplicated by savvy hackers and who knows what they want to do with the content?

Page 379: "Does the university contact law enforcement? Would they be willing to do so in this instance?

From page 1296:

I think the important thing to note here is that JSTOR had worked with MIT and had plans in place to prevent future similar downloads, but remained focused on identifying the person responsible for the downloads and ensuring that their data was deleted.

"I might just be irked because I am up dealing with this person on a Sunday night, but I am starting to feel like they need to get a hold of this situation right away or we need to offer to send them some help (read FBI).

And there it is. Page 3093 of the document.

JSTOR can hem and haw about it all they want, but you can't un-call the cops.

MIT was working with JSTOR on preventing future incidents of pirating, but JSTOR repeatedly said that they weren't going to let it go, that it was unacceptable to drop the issue, that they were going to continue to pursue the pirate.

You can scroll through the document and see the JSTOR tech department and abuse team talking about Swartz as a script kiddie, and a hacker. You can see someone talking about how this was real theft - making the comparison to stealing books even while admitting that piracy doesn't close others out of access.

You can see the thread starts with a joke about punching someone in the face for hacking their system, and includes the tech team ominously considering whether they should threaten the MIT librarians with the FBI.

There's something really important to note here which I don't think that people who aren't PRETTY DEEP into hackery shit aren't aware of: US law enforcement is absolutely rabidly feral about prosecuting hackers. People may be more aware of this now because of Chelsea Manning and Edward Snowden (and perhaps a bit on tumblr because of maia arson crimew), but people who work in tech and who are in infosec - like the people joking about calling the FBI in these emails - would be aware of the bonkers disproportionate punishments faced by hackers. And knowing that, they kept pushing and pushing and pushing for identification of the hacker. They kept digging with MIT, they kept saying that simply preventing future incidents wasn't enough.

Early in the exchange someone from JSTOR asked "what's wrong with us - or the university in collaboration with us - alerting the cyber-crimes division of law enforcement and initiating an investigation, having cop search dorm room and try to retrieve any hard drive that contains our content, etc." and the answer is what happened to Aaron Swartz.

It is absolute bullshit for JSTOR to say "we arrived at a solution privately and didn't want to press charges" after law enforcement has gotten involved with a hacking case, especially one where they're talking about "real theft" and are attempting to quantify and emphasize the amount that was "stolen" from them.

The *public* may believe that private individuals or institutions are the ones who "press charges" but that's simply not the case. It's prosecutors who decide whether or not to go ahead with charges; they do it based on what cases they think they can win and what their office's perspective is on the crime. When you hear about people choosing to press charges it simply means that they decided to tell the prosecutor they wanted the case to go forward. It's up to the prosecutor whether or not that happens.

And the tech team at JSTOR had to know that law enforcement wasn't just going to wag a finger at an academic hacker.

There's a parallel here that happens sometimes when people have their identities stolen by their parents. If you mom takes out a credit card in your name, that's identity theft. That's fraud. That's illegal. If you reach the age of 25 and realize that your credit is ruined because your mom has been defaulting on cards in your name, you've got two choices to fix that: one is to accept the debt and pay it off and build up credit, and the other is to report the identity theft - which will end up with your mom in prison for a decade or so. Ruin your own personal finances, or your mom goes to jail for ruining your finances. So if you find out that your mom stole your identity you can't just call the cops to pressure her into transferring the debt to her name or something. That's not an option. The cops are not a threat to wave over people, they are not a way to get people to fall in line or act right. They aren't someone you can send to a college student's dorm room to retrieve a hard drive and have the matter drop.

When you call the cops on someone you are sending the full force of the law after them, and the full force of the law falls really heavily on hackers, and how heavy that blow can be is something that the JSTOR team must have been aware of when they were making snide comments about calling the FBI because they were frustrated with the noncommittal responses they were getting from librarians.

Ultimately it was the carceral state that killed Aaron Swartz, but they would not have been involved if JSTOR didn't think that what he did constituted theft.

Taking an *EVEN LARGER* step back from that, the idea that information can be owned and locked behind a paywall is what killed Aaron Swartz, someone who fought for information to be free.

Like. JSTOR is a licensing company. At the end of the day, cute social media posts and all, they're the same as the RIAA and ASCAB. They exist to extract a fee from people attempting to access information.

Aaron Swartz and all that he stood for are an existential threat to their core function.

Are JSTOR's hands as dirty as the federal prosecutors? Absolutely not. But they operate on a model that puts them in opposition to open information activists and it ended up with a hammer falling on Aaron Swartz that they dropped.

[charlesf1leclerc]

Summary- one day your whole world turns upside down and where will your lives go from here 

Warnings: childbirth, teen pregnancy 

A/N- this is inspired by the stab series bump. Not exactly the same but wanted to give a nod to my inspiration. Also I’m so inspired right now ahh!

Today started as a regular school day, I woke up , placed my uniform on , packed my lunch and left. Another day , final year, then I'm free , no more highschool. I worked hard, I got good grades , I had a small group of friends , my life is organized , put together and I know where I'm going. 

I walked down the sidewalk, down my usual route. Today we had an oral presentation. 25% of our final grade , I knew my points were thought out , I was prepared , I got this, I had no nerves. A cramping sensation fills my stomach again. This had been happening since I woke up sporadically, it would come and go for a few seconds but now they were getting further apart and more painful. I warped my hands around my lower body, the pain went away and I kept walking. Upon entering the gates , my ears were filled with the noise of highschool students like every morning. Girls gossiping, boys …. Being boys. The pain had gotten slightly worse on my way over , but again came and went. 

An arm wrapped around my shoulder. 

“ Morning girl” Madison enthused

“ Morning” 

“ Stop being so uptight you are going to smash this “ She nudged me 

“ I’m not , I just don’t feel well ok “ I shrugged back 

“ don’t tell me your nervous “ Mad’s smirked

“ no of course not” I shot back 

Maybe it was nerves, but I never get nervous , something was up. 

As I walked further to my locker the pain came back, it was like hell. I felt like I was going to die. This was not normal. The pain hit me so hard, I began to feel dizzy and then something built up in my throat. 

My locker door slammed closed and I ran to the nearest bathroom leaving Maddie and my locker very confused. 

Upon reaching the girls bathroom I ran into the nearest stall and slammed the door closed, kneeling down by the bowl and pouring out the vomit that rose from my throat. Something was wrong. The pain was intense, the vomit. This was not nerves.  

“ Y/N!” Madison yelled, hearing her footsteps come into the bathroom. 

I didn't reply. Vomiting again

“ I’m really worried, are you ok? “ 

I couldn’t reply so I left her un answered

“ I’m going to get someone!” 

That was best , I ‘m scared , this feels like death , something was not ok. 

Within moments a teacher had also entered the bathroom. Crawling under the bathroom stall door to get to me and seeing my state. 

Paramedics were called and before I knew it I was whisked away into the back of a ambulance, displayed to the whole school, I would be embarrassed later but right now I couldn’t take on anymore. 

Sweat dripped from my forehead and the pain was unbearable as we drove down the road. 

The paramedics tended to me , feeling my stomach, attached to wires. 

“ Ok y/n your baby is coming now im going to need you to push” He spoke 

Baby? Baby! BABY!

I was not pregnant. This was a mistake, people know when they are pregnant , I did and don’t know that I am pregnant , well was in a few moments time if a baby comes out. 

“ No I'm , I'm not having a baby!” 

“ I assure you , you are.. Did you not know?” he inquired 

“NO!” 

Did this seem like a person who knew they were having a baby, I don’t even look pregnant how can  a baby fit in there. 

“ you’re going to have to push anyway don’t focus on anything else” 

The pain was unbearable. He cut at the bottom of my skirt , to allow access and I pushed. I didn’t think I just did. 

Hours later 

“ A baby” my mum spoke from beside my bed in the hospital looking at the tiny creature next to me. “ Why didn’t you tell me y/n/n”

“ I didn’t know” I spoke emotionless

She sighed and looked away towards the door as the nurse walked in. 

‘ Everything looks good on both of your charts” she spoke chipley. “ Y/n there is some counseling we recommend to women who had a cryptic pregnancy, and to people of your age” 

I rolled my eyes and my mum took the paper. 

“ Thank you” my mum spoke up and the nurse left the room 

“ I don't want it” I looked to my mum

“ counseling would be good sweetie” 

“ No i don’t want the baby” 

My mum sighed “ Babies can be wonderful she may teach you some things, and shouldn’t this be a conversation we have with the father and his family first” 

“ I can’t raise a baby, I won’t “ 

And i didnt even want to start on the father talk I couldn’t think about that 

“ Who is the father? “ my mum asked

“ I don’t know” i bluntly replied

She wasn’t convinced but let me be for now. 

It later came that adoption can not happen until 30 days after the birth as the mother is not in a state to decide properly. 

“ 30 days , we have to take her home for 30 days!” I squeaked

“You can last sweetie get time to bond to see if this is what you really want” She smiled looking at the baby again, easy for her to say. I’m 17 and I can't raise a baby. 

How did I get here….

Dad Pov

It was just another day at school. My life was boring, karting, school back home with my siblings, dad and stepmom and repeat. At school I had it all but in life I had nothing. I wasn’t sure about where I was going to go after school, I didn’t even really want to continue school. 

It was currently later in the afternoon. I was sitting on the bench at lunch time as I waited for the others to join me. 

Lost in my thoughts. Leo came over and slammed himself down on the top of the table next to me snapping me out of my head.

“Sup,dude” we fist bumped my head still remaining straight ahead.

“You hear about that y/n girl?” He asked looking at me.

Y/n the one person I was not into talking about today. I had seen her being taken away in an ambulance today but had not yet heard what really went down.

“ yeah , crazy “ I mumbled 

“ yeah apparently she had a baby” 

What everything faded had I just heard him right

“ what?” I snapped to look at him

“ yeah  she hid it pretty well , she didn’t even know apparently” he nodded placing his food in his mouth.

She didn’t even look pregnant, how could she not of known. 

“ Wonder who the father is? You think it’s someone from here?” He intriguingly asked

I was just as curious, my hands began to sweat, surely one night could not have caused all this. It can’t be me!

A/N- ahhhh stay tuned and also vote on who you want the father to be 😉

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 14 - Un Coin Tout Bleu

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: None really... angst, make-ups, misunderstandings, confessions and a proposal.

Word Count: 1.9k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is the penultimate chapter, so everyone is starting to make peace. There is one more chapter that will have explicit content and an epilogue to go. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Aubrey Hall, UK, October 1939

Instinct has you up on your feet and chasing after, rounding into each room you pass, but you cannot find either of them. Your stride is definitely no match for Benedict’s; he is likely already far away. 

When you stumble up the stairs, you collide with Violet. She is taken aback at first but then sees your apparent distress and has you in a hug before you know what is happening. 

“Whatever is it, my dear?” she soothes into your hair.

“Eloise found Benedict and I asleep in an embrace and ran away in horror,” you stutter. “And then I let slip to Benedict you think he loves me, and then he ran. Oh god!! I have messed things up so horribly,” you lament.

Her motherly concern has you clinging to her, the sting of your mother’s recent rejection still a whiplash to your heart.

“Let us find my wilful daughter; she is likely just in shock, that is all.” she counsels calmly. “And then we will deal with your errant husband.”

Looping your arm with hers, Violet leads you to a few places where she knows Elose skulks when she wants to escape the world. You both eventually find her in the attic, where stacks of books and pillows are near an oval window that suggests this is often a refuge for her.

“Eloise Bridgerton, come and make amends with your friend,” is her stern greeting.

“Why should I?” Eloise sniffs, steadfastly refusing to turn around, staring out the small window at the grounds below. “She did the one thing - the ONE THING - I told her would make me disown her….” she adds bitterly, referencing the chat you had in Paris many weeks ago before Benedict arrived. “This was a choice she made.”

“Falling in love with your brother was not a choice, Eloise; it happened quite without me meaning to,” you implore, wanting her to believe it's true.

At that, her head whips around, surprise claiming her face. “Love?” she scoffs. “Please…” Looking to her mother for support in her derision, she frowns when she seems to find none. “Are you serious?”

“Yes…” you reply softly, taking a hesitant step forward, holding your palms open at your side—a conciliatory gesture. “I married Benedict to escape, yes, but even before then, I knew I felt something for him. That connection has only grown more profound since. We have spent a lot of time together in secret. I am truly sorry I, well, we, kept it from you. I was scared you would be angry and hurt. And you are. And you have every right to be.” 

“It's true, Eloise,” Violet, standing a few paces behind you, pipes up. “I saw it the minute they arrived here. And I can tell you right now, your brother feels exactly the same.”

You want to believe Violet’s assertion about that, but you feel a tightness in your chest as she says it, worrying that it may not be accurate.

“You are my friend,” she whines almost petulantly. 

“And I will always be your friend if you allow me,” you counter delicately. “No matter what happens with Benedict, and even I do not know now, you will always be dear to me and a part of my life.”

“What did that bloody idiot do now?” she inquires, sharp as a tack.

“After you left the room, I-I mentioned your mother thinks he loves me, and well, he ran out, you admit, hanging your head.

“That idiot…” she blusters, rolling her eyes.

“I'm very sorry if you see this as a betrayal. I wanted to keep it quiet because I love you so much as a friend. I truly never want or meant to hurt you….”

Eloise sighs, and you watch her shoulders slump. “You are just lucky I know some semblance of what you speak…” she offers wistfully, a glimmer of hope that has you inhaling sharply.

You know without asking that she is referring to Phillip, and you twist to smile at Violet briefly, who suddenly looks very invested. 

“I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive me. I know it may take some time,” you allow. Hope creeps into the edges of your heart that you can reconcile with one Bridgerton, at least. 

“It is just a shock that you kept it from me,” she sighs, finally admitting what upset her the most.

“I thought us terrible actors,” you giggle lightly, hoping humour will brighten your exchange.

A soft smile teases at the corner of her lips. “Are you suggesting I am not as sharp as I could be?” she jests gently.

“Heaven forfend!” you clutch your chest, feigning shock, then morphing into a smile you hope is an olive branch. 

“I think perhaps you saw what you wanted or rather didn't want to see, daughter dearest,” Violet interjects mildly. “Because I can confirm they are both utterly terrible actors,” she chuckles.

You bite your lip and hang your head in an act of contrition that seems to amuse Eloise greatly. Her hesitant huff of humour is the best noise you could possibly hear.

“Friends?” you query tentatively, hopeful.

“Friends,” she pouts, crossing her arms. “But there is still much to make up…” she adds.

“Understood.”

With this fragile peace brokered, Violet links her arm in Eloise’s and yours, leading you both back down into the house with a declaration that tea, the ultimate British elixir, is needed.

—

Ten minutes later, you are gathered in the small glass conservatory, partaking in said refreshments. Other Bridgerton children—Colin, Francesa, and Gregory—likely drawn by the biscuit smell have also materialised. The gathering is a peaceful balm to a dramatic day. A large part of you still aches that Benedict fled, but you try to force it from your mind and concentrate on the fact that Eloise may be willing to forgive… with time.

Just as you stand to refill your teacup, however, the calm is shattered. Benedict charges into the room, flustered and breathless. He drops an envelope he is holding onto a side table and marches right up to you, stride purpose-filled, completely ignoring the rest of his family.  

“There you are! I have been looking all over for you!” Relief palpable in his tone but still agitated and animated, grabbing your forearms. “Where on earth did you go?”

You splutter indignantly. “Where did I go?! Me? I think the more pertinent question is… where did you go?! You ran out of the room so fast!”

“I asked you to wait a moment,” he frowns.

“No, you didn't!” you state forthrightly.

He seems to falter, relinquishing his grip on your arms. “I… I didn't?”

“No…”

A look of doubt, then confusion, then finally understanding ripples over his face. “Oh…So you thought I… Oh…”

“Yes,” you reply quietly so the others gathered, who seem very invested now in your exchange, cannot hear. “I thought you walked out because of what I divulged.” Not wanting to go into detail with an audience.

“No! No!” he asserts candidly. “Nothing could be further from the truth!” His eyes soften as he realises what happened, looking genuinely contrite. “I am so sorry. I must’ve forgotten to say it out loud in my excitement.”

“Excitement!?” you are baffled. “You looked terrified!”

He grabs your hands this time, holding them in his, a look of earnest sincerity claiming his handsome features. “Yes, I was nervous and shocked that my mother knew and told you,” briefly glancing towards her over your shoulder. “But it spurred me to finally be brave enough to show you something. Something very important that I need your opinion on” 

He lets go of your hands to grab the envelope from the table. With a nervous mien, he opens it and hands you a pile of photos. They are of an idyllic-looking country home surrounded by a pretty garden and countryside beyond. It looks so beautiful and instantly captures your imagination. For some strange reason, it already feels familiar to you.

“What do you think?” Benedict seems super nervous, shuffling his weight between his feet, apparently anxious for your answer. 

“It's very pretty,” you opine neutrally, primarily confused. “I'm not sure why you are showing me, though?”

“I… I wanted to know if it was somewhere you could see yourself living?” he asks enigmatically with a small smile.

“Why?” you frown, unwilling to confess the truth - that you would live there in a heartbeat. It looks like the house you dreamed you would live in one day.

He takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. “Because… I would like to buy it. For you. Well, for us.”

There is no other word for it - you are floored. A loud buzzing sound is behind your ears, your knees feel oddly weak, and there is a tingle in your fingertips. 

“For us?” you stutter, disbelieving.

You could hear a pin drop in the room. You can’t see them, but you know his family behind you likely have gaping mouths, especially Eloise.

“Yes, to live in. Together,” Benedict answers, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And if you are willing to live with me, well, then I also have another question for you…”

Your lungs feel afire, and your brain is short-circuiting—almost unable to surmount the shock. Entirely confounded as your heart pounds hard in your ribcage.

“A-A-And if I am, what is your other question?” you ask breathlessly.

You gasp as he falls to one knee before you, and you hear a collective ripple of shock behind you as he produces a little velvet box from his pocket.

“I wanted you to wait so I could also go and get this,” he explains, a slight shake in his hand as he holds it open—an engagement ring with sapphires and diamonds nestled within. 

You can feel your eyes welling with tears as you gaze down upon him.

“Realising my mother knew the truth and accepted it was a wake-up call for me. I had to finally be brave and confess to you. We are already married, so some may think this pointless, but it is nothing less than you deserve: a proper, heartfelt, honest proposal.” 

His free hand reaches and grabs yours, lacing your fingers together. It feels like the anchor you need to stay upright. 

“Given the short time, it may seem reckless to others, but I do not care what anyone thinks but you. I know what my heart tells me, indeed, has told me from the moment we met—you are my home, my refuge, my present and my future. Y/n, I love you more than I ever thought possible. I would marry you a hundred times over, in whatever way you would have me. Please, please, will you be my wife?”

A sob escapes your lungs, and you fall to your knees with him, wanting to be at eye level.

“Yes, Benedict! A hundred times - yes!!!” 

Your answer is rendered through watery tears as he breaks into a breathtaking grin and pulls you both to your feet. He gathers you into his arms and seals the pact with a lingering but chaste kiss. His eyes are misty, too, as your lips break apart and exchange smiles.

Behind you, his family erupts into whoops and applause as he pushes the ring onto your left finger, fitting snugly over your wedding band. You twist to see Eloise, a begrudging tear in her eye; a burden lightens in your heart as she nods towards you as if bestowing her tacit approval.

Join my taglist here | See my fic masterlist here

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[mywritingonlyfans]

Thinking about Alex as a Vampire sounds good, it will be a good story and he really is a vampire in real life 👀

He really is, right? 😭 (Un)fortunately I gave context to the fic and it won't just focus on smut, but I tried to show it focused on their sexual tension in bites. I say this because I understand that it's possible that people won't like it or won't try to read it, but it's been nice for me to take some time for this ❤️ and honestly it's following a similar path as in Teacher's Pet and Freshness (I'm saying this cuz it's more than one part), the narrative style follows the same. Besides, I wrote parts of Alex writing in a diary every now and then, I'll leave a part of that here in case you want to read it and get familiar with the fic:

...

Brief Memories, Mr. Turner,

I find much delight in her focused gaze, the way her ponytail has stray locks of hair escaping, and the uniform of the café. The apron wraps perfectly around her waist, firmly in place, though she occasionally finds herself adjusting it even when it stays put. I must confess that my thoughts have ventured into more carnal realms regarding her, yet I also harbor the most innocent affections. I consider her most beautiful and charming; my dear human is ever so sweet with all the patrons, and I long for conversations with her, about anything at all.

Even though in the dark of night I am overcome by feelings of what it would be like to have her hands on me, the most delicate movements in her smaller, lighter fingertips; around my neck and veins devoid of life. I also disgrace my mind for finding myself thinking about her taste; even though being uncontrollable about it is no longer an issue. I feel allied in knowing that I would not hurt her, but I would not hold her close to me.

I have never viewed eternity as a blessing, and for years I have brooded over this nature of mine. I am well aware of my own faults and sins; however, the recent visits to see her at the café have made me yearn for the hours and days yet to come. My point is that it pains me to know she cannot reside in my thoughts, a place that, as far as I am conscious of, has no longer been so splendid (or even graceful as her). So far, I cannot ignore how alive she makes me feel (though I know I am not deserving of such significance). I intend to reflect more deeply on this matter and perhaps share my thoughts with Alexandra, who has wise counsel concerning humans and might aid me with mine.

Until we meet again.

...

Just some Dracula!Alex isnpo photos ❤️ tho I reaaally like the hair gel I also I feel like they're both great; I like the first two because of how mature and age-appropriate he is now with him (I say as a human, but my point is that because he resembles that famous painting of the guy with the 😠 expression and it reminds me of vampire figures somehow). Like the more accentuated triangle of sadness and I also really like that haircut on him 😭 hell blood kink and sharpy canines 😪

[celestialprincesse]

Support Palestine🇵🇸

Hello! I'd just like to jump on here to boost an idea I saw on tiktok of how to support those protesting for Palestine.

Obviously, not everyone has the ability to go out and protest, participate in the current encampments on local campuses etc, however, that doesn't mean that you can't help.

Protecting encampments not only supports the safety of those protesting, but also shows solidarity in numbers.

Check to see if any encampments near you have any sort of organised supply drop-off. Food, water, sunscreen and other essentials ensure the safety of those actively protesting, and allow protests to be longer and stronger.

Everyone can amplify the voices of those fighting for Palestine.

Catt Knarr - Communications Director at the U.S Campaign for Palestinian rights

Amnesty International - five Palestinian voices

Al Jazeera - digital apartheid and the silencing of Palestinian voices on social media

If you can, donate to a trusted source. I've linked a few below.

UN Crisis relief

UN Population fund - the United Nations sexual and reproductive health agency, aiming to support pregnant Palestinian women through supplying medicines and providing counselling services.

Medicins sans frontières - Work to supply medical essentials and humanitarian support to those in Gaza. They also provide frequent updates as to how they're responding to the ongoing crisis and how best to support the cause.

PCRF - Palestine Children's Relief Fund provides medical and humanitarian relief to children throughout Palestine, regardless of their nationality or religion.

Hirbawi is the only current active producer of Keffiyeh/Kufiya, a symbol of resistance against occupation, in Palestine.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Perrito Chapter 3: Position - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)

your first 24 hours on the job. you're starting to adjust to daily life as lalo's puppy, though there's a feeling of dread that you can't quite shake. tags/warnings: oral sex, vaginal sex, petplay, humiliation/degradation, exhibitionism, stalking, non-consensual body modification, gaslighting, psychological abuse, intoxication (weed and cocaine) anatomical terms: cunt/hole, t-dick word count: 9,139 (most normal lalo stan) ao3 link author's notes: we're so back (in all /srsness thank y'all for supporting me these past few months as i have been Going Through It. i promise the next chapter will not take this long) como siempre no soy un hablante nativo pero estoy aprendiendo. entonces por favor corríjame si se encuentra algo de errores :3

This was not the first morning you woke up feeling like a complete and utter dumbass.

And it probably wouldn’t be the last. 

Though as you prodded the bruise on the underside of your bicep, you struggled to think of a time that you’d fucked up even half this bad. 

The only thing that came close was the day you got arrested. You remember it in flashes. First, you were in the passenger seat of a car, nothing fancy. You couldn’t recall if it was a Honda or a Hyundai, but you were never much of a car person anyway. Whatever it was, it was blue, and parked in a seedy alleyway. You had your mouth on a cock, one of many you’d taken before, thinking about what you’d get for lunch after this. Anything that would get the taste of cherry-flavored condom out of your mouth. Suddenly, there was a knock on the window, and you and your client were dragged out of the car by two nosy officers. Handcuffed, bent over the hood, and trying your hardest not to cry, one of them patted you down, and reached into one of the small pockets in your denim booty shorts.

“Yep. Cocaine. So now we can add possession of a schedule two narcotic to your charges.”

Just your fucking luck. That morning, a client had given you an 8-ball in exchange for a discounted blowjob. It would’ve been cheaper to just pay your normal rate, but he said he was trying to kick the stuff and it was just collecting dust in his possession. You had no interest in trying coke for yourself, but you figured you could sell it pretty easily. After all, what’s one illegal trade versus another? Plus, the guy had said it was high quality. Allegedly, it was the good shit from Mexico. 

Mexico. 

Maybe it was Salamanca product. 

Maybe Lalo had been controlling your life for longer than you thought. 

The next thing you remember was crying in the interrogation room. 

You’d refused to talk to the pigs, as you should’ve. You weren’t that stupid. You knew nothing good would come of it. They could just lie and say whatever asinine thing they felt like to get you to snitch on yourself.

“We just want to know what happened, kid.” Bullshit. 

“We’re trying to help you.” No you’re not. 

“Cry all you want, but you got yourself into this mess. If you talk to us, we can find a way to get you out of it.” Fuck. You. 

Blubbering, choking on snot and tears, more scared than you’d ever been in your entire life, you stood your ground.

“I’m… *sniff* I’m invoke- invoking my… *sniff* right to remain s-silent and my right- *sniff* right to c-counsel… P-P-Please…” Breathe. Just breathe. In, then out. Innn, ouuut… Okay. You’re okay. You can do this. What’s the next line? “P-Please provide me with an attorney.”

To their credit, they did. The next person you spoke to was a public defender, a guy in his 40s who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. You remember what he said when he saw you.

“Oh jeez, you poor kid. Hey, hey. It’s gonna be okay. Please, please don’t cry. I, uh… I think I got some napkins you can use.” He’d opened his disheveled briefcase and handed you some thin fast-food napkins. As you mopped up your misery, he took out a pen and paper, and sat down across from you. He wanted you to be as comfortable as possible. Also, he was a sympathetic crier, so he didn’t want to make things harder for himself. “My name’s Jimmy. I’m gonna be your lawyer. Can you tell me your name, bud?” 

Jimmy tried. He really did. But the best deal he could get for you was 6 months. You remember the look of sadness on his face when he told you that you’d be going to prison. You broke down, sobbing violently into your palms. You heard his voice crack under your heavy burden. 

“I know… I know, kid. I’m sorry. Just let it out.”

“I’m gonna die in there… I’m gonna die…”

“No, no, no! No, you’re not! Keep your head up, okay? 6 months will be over before you know it.”

“No, you don’t understand…”

You came out to him, and his face contorted in horror when he realized what you’d be subjected to. Jimmy felt like the worst lawyer in the world; he somehow managed to get a client the death penalty for prostitution and a few grams of coke. He had never felt so fucking guilty. At least he gave great hugs. 

The cops who did your strip search did not. 

Your memory got hazy from this point. You dissociated through the entire intake process, mindlessly following directions. Stand here, turn, turn, face forward. Walk. Stand here. Take your clothes off, oh dear god. Run your fingers through your hair. Open your mouth. Squat. Cough. Put your new clothes on. Take your stuff. Go to your cell. You were lucky to not have a cellmate assigned yet. You could spend your first few hours of incarceration crying in your bed alone.

At lunch, you went to the shower, and the rest was history. 

And a few weeks later, you were laying in a luxurious bed, waking up well-rested from the amazing sex you were being paid $10,000 a week to have. 

And you had a microchip in your arm. 

This wasn’t post-nut clarity; this was post-nut psychosis. No, post-nut divine revelation, like God himself had come down from Heaven just to call you a braindead dipshit who should’ve seen this coming. Like the 2nd-generation cartel boss that paid you to live in his house and drain his balls wouldn’t find a way to track you wherever you went, dumbass? What were you thinking, huh? Are you fucking stupid? Huh? Are you? Are you stupid?

Probably.

You probably were stupid.

But you definitely were hungry, and hell, Lalo promised you breakfast once you woke up and came down to the kitchen. If there really was a microchip in your arm, it wasn’t exactly going anywhere. You might as well enjoy the perks of your situation, of which there were many. Maybe a full stomach would empty your head.

Having completed your morning routine in Lalo’s master bathroom, you threw on some casual clothes, stared at the dog collar your reflection wore, and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Lalo was eagerly waiting for you, with an apron tied taut around his slutty little waist. 

He gasped in delight when you finally graced him with your presence. “¡Buenos días, perrito! (Good morning, doggy!)” He ran up to you and gave you a warm, tight hug, one that could’ve lulled you right back to sleep if he kept it up for long enough, especially with such soothing puppytalk. “Ay, mi chiquito lindo, te quiero muuucho. Te quiero, te quiero. (Ay, my cute little boy, I love you so muuuch. I love you, I love you.)” But instead, he eventually broke the hug to kiss your forehead and pat you on the shoulder. “You sleep okay?”

You slept fine, but waking up was another story, a story that you didn’t tell. “Yeah, I’m good.” You yawned and stretched once he let you go. “That bed is super comfortable. Way better than what I’m used to.”

“Well, get used to it! It’s definitely a step up for you. Good for your back too.” Lalo laughed, patted you once more, and opened up some of the kitchen cabinets. He kept talking as he grabbed a frying pan and some mixing bowls. “Now that you’re up, I thought we could cook breakfast together. You down?”

“Yeah! Sure. I’d like that. I’m hungry.”

“Figured you would be. I gave you quite the workout last night, huh?” Lalo winked at you over his shoulder as he started to position everything on the counter. When he turned his back to you, you couldn’t help but ogle his ass in those insultingly tight jeans he always wore. “Can you do me a favor, actually? Can you grab the eggs and chorizo from the fridge? Should be on the second shelf.”

His question took a second to finish buffering in your distracted mind. “Hm? Oh, yeah! I gotcha.”

You walked over to the fridge and opened the double doors. It was bigger than the fridge you’d had at your apartment in Albuquerque. A lot bigger. Your eyes scanned the fully stocked second shelf, searching for what you had been instructed to find.

Your back to him was the perfect opportunity to strike. Lalo snuck up behind you, snaked his arms under your armpits, and clipped the leash to your collar. Thank god you hadn’t grabbed the eggs yet, because he yanked the leash back and knocked you off your balance.

“¡Siéntate! (Sit!)”

You turned around and dropped to your knees, looking up at Lalo with a face of pure confusion, which he found incredibly amusing.

“What? What are you looking so surprised for?” He reached over you to shut the fridge. “On-call means on-call, puppy! That means if I need you, you gotta be ready for me, yeah? Any time, any place.”

Right. That was what you signed up for. You just went expecting it to be so… sudden. “Okay, yeah, sorry, I just thought that-“

“Ch.”

What? What the fuck did he just do? It was like he shushed you, but it was a ch rather than a sh. Sharper, and with a more distinct bite to it, like a threat. It shocked you into silence, which is exactly what he wanted.

“Good boy.” Lalo balled the slack of the leash in his fist and crouched down to your eye level. “Now, you gonna be quiet? You gonna be a good doggy and do what you’re told?”

Son of a bitch. You really were his dog. The puppytalk, the headpats, the commands, the microchip. His commitment to the bit was honestly impressive. You nodded, ready to listen.

Lalo smiled and tousled your hair, recreating the bedhead you’d so carefully combed away. You would have been annoyed if it didn’t come with some intoxicating praise. “Good boy! Such a good boy! Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes you are! You’re a good boy!”

His sweet words soothed your mind. You could feel your thoughts, reason, your very humanity melting away with each strand of your hair curled around his fingers, each repetition of “good boy” that left his lips and emigrated to your ears. Degrading? Yes, but that was part of the fun. It was nice to not have to think for yourself. You could just close your eyes, sit back, relax, and let yourself be spoiled. Lalo would take very good care of his dog.

Lalo could see the transformation, the shift from person to puppy at the very second you stopped thinking. Having you exactly how he wanted you, he smoothed your hair out to something almost as tidy as you’d had it before. “That’s it… Good boy… Good doggy…” To snap you out of your daze, he snapped his fingers in front of your face. “¡Ay! Mírame. Look at me, puppy.”

You did as you were told, gazing up at Lalo as he stood upright and let the chain leash jingle as the excess fell from his hand.

“Good boy.” Lalo held his hand out for you. “Shake. Dame la pata.”

Assuming a dog wouldn’t have the same dexterity for a handshake as a human would, you laid your limp-wristed hand in his, and let him grab it and shake it.

That was the right move. “Perfect! Good boy!” He let go of your hand and you placed it back on your thighs alongside the other. “Habla. Speak.”

You’d learned your lesson last night, and told him what he wanted to hear. “Woof woof!”

“Ha! Aw man, I never get tired of hearing that.” Lalo’s hand found its way to your hair again and he asked, “Good boy! You want a treat? You want a treat, boy?”

You weren’t entirely sure what a treat would be in this context, but you guessed it’d be something good. You nodded once more, accepting whatever blessing he would bestow upon you.

Lalo’s smile dropped, “I need to hear you, puppy. I need to hear you if you want your treat. C’mon,” and pulled the leash hard enough to gag you a little, “Speak!”

“Woof! Woof, woof!”

“Gooood boy.” Lalo purred and slipped the leash’s handle onto his wrist. Now having both hands free, he went to untie the apron and unfasten his belt. 

Should’ve seen that coming. You thought to yourself, though your self-contained sarcasm went out the window once his cock was out. You’d seen it a bunch by now, but it never failed to make you drool. You licked your lips in preparation. 

Lalo slooowly pumped himself in front of you, watching you squirm anxiously. His foreskin retracted and slid back so easily, and the overhead kitchen lights illuminated the single drop of precum leaking from his slit. It felt like ages before he finally said to you, “Come get your treat, doggy.”

And your mouth was on him in a flash, an instinctual response to a simple command. You were so well trained. Such a good dog. You reached up to squeeze his ass and push him further down your throat. Even with your mouth plugged with cock, you found yourself moaning in pleasure. 

Your voice vibrating his shaft inspired Lalo to speak up, through a deep, rich groan. “Ooh, yeah, that’s it… That’s a good puppy. I almost think you enjoy this more than I do!”

Possibly, but with how obnoxiously loud he was moaning, you thought it was pretty balanced. You pulled his cock out of your mouth to spit all over the tip and spread it down. Once you’d soaked his entire length, you lifted it up to slurp on his balls. 

 “Yeah, yeah, there you go… Good doggy. Good-“ Lalo went still and unnaturally stiff for a second. Then, he started laughing. Hard. 

You pulled back to check on him. “Uh… you good?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Just…” Lalo braced himself against the fridge to catch his breath, “Just thought of something funny is all. Y’know… dog playing with a ball? Fetch, boy!”

As stupid as it was, you couldn’t help but laugh, too, though you only got 3 or 4 “ha”s out of your system before Lalo yanked the leash and impaled your mouth with his cock. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Lalo’s spontaneity was definitely something you’d have to get used to. His ability to make you laugh, drop your guard, and then sneak up on you meant that you could never truly relax around him. But hey, that’s what you’re getting paid for, right? Plus, it’s kind of a thrill to be taken by surprise. You continued to service him, wet and sloppy, spit seeping down your face, until another sound stalled the scene: your stomach growling. Loudly.

But Lalo didn’t mind. In fact, he thought it was cute. “Oh, pobrecito (poor thing), was that you? You’re hungry, huh, boy? Well the sooner you get me off, the sooner we can cook, okay? Here…” He held onto you tightly by your hair and began thrusting into your throat. “I’ll help you speed things up.”

You gripped his thighs to brace yourself, knowing exactly what he meant by that.

Lalo fucked your throat with reckless abandon, savoring all the obscene gawkgawkgawk type sounds it made. His breath shuddered as he neared his peak. “Ay, te pinche puto, oh… Oh, sí, como eso. Buen chico. Qué- ngh… Qué buen chico-oh, mierda, estoy… Estoy cerca… Voy a venir… Voy a venir en tu boca de puto… ¡Carajo! (Ay, you fucking slut, oh… Oh, yeah, like that. Good boy. What- ngh… What a good boy-oh, shit, I’m so… I’m so close… I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna cum in your whore mouth… Fuck!)”

And once more you were shoved all the way down. Your nose nestled into Lalo’s bush as he ejaculated down your throat. Without any options otherwise, you quickly swallowed it all. You didn’t get to taste his cum, but the feeling of his aching cock throbbing on your tongue was delicious in and of itself. 

When he was finally empty, Lalo sighed and pulled you off. You coughed as the oxygen rushed you, forcing down the last few drops of his cum. The both of you were disheveled, sweaty, flushed-face messes. What a way to start the day.

“There. Little snack to hold you over before we cook, right?” Lalo tucked himself back into place and unclipped the leash from your collar, signaling that your job was done. He gave you a warm smile and finger combed your hair back into place. “Good boy! Oh, that was good. C’mere. Lemme help you up.” He extended his hand for you to take, lifting you up onto two legs. You were a person once more. Now you could think rather than feel, and speak rather than bark. “You alright? You did great. As usual.”

You chuckled, the warm and fuzzy feeling of puppymode still lingering behind. You were in no rush to let it pass, anyway. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Thanks. Glad you liked it.”

“Good!” Lalo was back to his normal, energetic self. He grabbed his apron, clapped you on the shoulder, and said, “Now, go get me the eggs and chorizo.” 

And with that, he strutted back to the counter, business as usual.

You would definitely have to get used to his spontaneity.

…

Breakfast was delicious, so much so that you wondered why he bothered having Yolanda cook at all. Oh well, not your place to judge. His cooking was phenomenal, but maybe hers would have you exploring a different plane of consciousness. After breakfast, Lalo saw it fitting to give you a proper tour of the house.

“Okay, so, you’ve seen the living room, the kitchen, and the master bedroom. There’s a couple more bedrooms downstairs, at the other side of the house. One of them is Yolanda’s, and another is Cecilio’s. The rest are for guests. There’s 2 more bathrooms down that way, too.”

“Mm, okay, got it.” You nodded, making a mental map of where everyone was in the house, though you noticed a pretty substantial gap. “What about all the guards?”

“Oh, they kinda have their own base outside. Makes it easier for them cause they gotta wake each other up to switch shifts. I’ll show you in a bit.”

Honestly, for a cartel boss’s estate, you weren’t expecting it to feel so… homey. Your vision of a drug lord’s mansion was something akin to a fever dream that you’d have after bingewatching MTV Cribs. Everything either marble or gold-plated, 15 Lamborghinis in the garage, and a pet tiger that somehow has its own Lamborghini. But no, Lalo’s place was decorated like people actually lived here. Barring the concrete gate topped with barbed wire, it was like any other family hacienda. Though instead of multiple generations of one family, it was just Lalo and his staff: his cook, his gardener, his guards…

And of course, his dog.

You tried to ignore that nagging feeling under your bicep as Lalo walked you up to a bookshelf. “And so this, oh, you’re gonna love this, just watch.” 

One of the books caught your attention. It was bright red, and its spine said “Hiding in Plain Sight by S. P. Onaj”. How clever. Actually, it was clever, because he reached for a plain-looking blue book on the shelf below it. He pulled it back, and the bookshelf opened like a door, revealing a dimly lit staircase heading downward.

“By the way, pulling that red one sounds an alarm. Just in case any intruder thinks they’ve got me all figured out. Made it obvious on purpose.” Lalo winked at you. “So! Guess what’s down there.”

“Is it a sex dungeon?”

Lalo froze, his facial expression that of bewilderment. You’d got it in one. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed. “What gave it away?”

You shrugged. “I mean, you’re rich and kinky enough to hire a live-in sex puppy, I’m assuming you’d have your own dungeon. Plus, why else would you be showing it to me?”

“Fair point.” Lalo shook his head and chuckled. “Since you wanna be a smartass, though, I’m not taking you down there now.” He shut the bookshelf door, and the ominous staircase was gone, as if it was never there.

“Aw, boo.” You pouted. “Just cause I guessed it right, you’re not gonna show me?”

“No, I actually gotta run out in a little while, and I’m not gonna show you until I have enough time to give you an extensive tour.” Lalo smirked. “There’s a lot down there. Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait.” He leaned down and brushed your hair away from your ear, making sure his whispered words hit you dead-on. “There’s so many fun things I can do to you, puppy.”

Before you could even whine, grovel, bitch, or moan, Lalo slipped right past you and beckoned you forward. “Alright! Now, I’mma show you outside. C’mere, boy!”

What a fucking tease. You thought, rolling your eyes and following behind him. He held the backdoor open for you to step onto the patio, but before your other foot left the threshold, Lalo grabbed you.

“Hey! What the-”

You were stopped mid-sentence by the sound of jingling metal. 

The leash.

Lalo had clipped it to your collar again and led you onto the patio, like it was the most casual fucking thing in the world, and he didn’t just accost you into a near chokehold. No warning, no red flag, nothing. You didn’t even hear the damn leash before it was on you. You were stunned. “Were you just keeping that in your pocket this whole time?”

“Well, yeah. Where else would it be?” He stepped out in front of you and pulled the chain. “Sit. And don’t talk ‘til I say so.”

You let your snarky comments simmer on the backburner and did as you were told, dropping to your knees on the patio. You felt a slight tinge of embarrassment as you took in your surroundings: the golden midday sunlight, the warm air, the sounds of birds and a lawnmower running. Oh, god, is he gonna make you blow him out here? Out in the open? Well, you’d done worse. You’d even done worse with him, but the spontaneity was gonna stop your heart one day.

Lalo gave you more of those cloyingly sweet headpats. “Good boy. Good boy. There you go, that’s it. Just relax. Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. Be a good puppy. Be a good puppy for Don Eduardo.”

You gradually synced to his rhythm. He’d ambush you with the leash, then coax you into pupspace with petting and praise. Once you were warmed up, you’d do whatever he wanted. It was easier to adjust the second time around.

And as predicted, your master gave you a firm pull of the leash and an even firmer command. “Cuatro patas. All fours, c’mon.”

You shuffled onto your hands and knees, waiting for your next order. But it didn’t come. Instead, Lalo just started walking, expecting you to follow suit. But you didn’t. You were mortified by what he was implying. 

When you didn’t move with him, he turned around and glared down at you. “What? I can’t take my dog for a walk?” Lalo clicked his tongue and yanked the leash. “Come.”

What was usually your favorite command to hear was now suddenly your least favorite. Lalo was going to have you crawl on your hands and knees, through the grass and dirt, in broad daylight for anyone to see. You kept your head down, staring at the blades of grass that stained your palms and knees green. You weren’t listening to Lalo’s tour.

Knowing damn well he was talking to himself, Lalo still pointed out every landmark that you passed, the first one being right ahead of you. “Pool’s right here. It’s heated, just in case you were wondering. And at night, the lights change color. It’s really pretty. Been thinking about getting a bar out here, too.”

As you approached the perimeter of the pool, the cool grass turned to burning tile. You winced and hissed in pain as your bare palms touched the hot surface. “Ah! Shit…”

To your surprise, Lalo actually showed some concern for your situation. “Too hot?”

You grit your teeth and grimaced, still not looking up at him. “Mhm…”

“Here, c’mon, stand up,” He tugged the leash up, “Two legs.”

You hopped up onto your feet, grateful that you were allowed to keep your skin from melting off your hands. You went to brush yourself off, but Lalo grabbed your wrists.

“Let me see.” He checked your palms for any injuries, and finding that you were alright, released you. “Okay, good. Vamos (Let’s go).”

You walked like a person past the edge of the pool, yet once you stepped onto softer ground, you felt a pull of the leash.

“Cuatro patas (All fours).”

And you were back to walking like a dog, hanging your head in shame as you were paraded around the ranch. 

Lalo kept blabbing about whatever building you passed by, his garage, the guards’ house, the shed. You still weren’t listening. You barely even looked up. You were more intently focused on how the beads of sweat dripped off your face and onto the grass below you. And even though the sun wasn’t directly shining down on them, your cheeks had never felt hotter. This was a level of degradation that you did not expect to come with this job. What was he even getting out of this anyway? Did he like showing you off? Having you jump through hoops? Making you whore yourself out to him and debase yourself for his amusement? Was this even getting him off, or was it just for shits and giggles? And why so heavy on the dog motif? And why was there a fucking microchip in your arm?!

Your mind kept repeating one phrase, one sacred mantra that pushed the bad thoughts away and helped you keep going, one paw after another: $10,000 a week. $10,000 a week. $10,000 a week. 

As you kept internally chanting your mantra, a loud voice derailed your train of thought, and to your shock and horror, it wasn’t Lalo’s.

“¡Patrón! (Boss!)”

Your neck snapped up, shifting your gaze from the ground to the gardener, Cecilio. You hadn’t exchanged more than a wave when you met, and now here you were, being walked on all fours in front of this nice old man. You had never felt so thoroughly humiliated. All you wanted to do was dig yourself a nice little hole to die in, but that’d just make his job harder. It’d be rude of you to mess up his meticulous groundskeeping. Maybe if you asked him nicely, he’d simply bludgeon you to death with a shovel instead.

Lalo waved at him and shouted back. “¡Cecilio! ¿Qué tal? (What’s up?)” He dragged you behind him as he approached his landscaper. “Un buen día para dar una vueltecita, ¿verdad? (Nice day for a little walk, right?)” He knelt down on the grass and ruffled your hair with the same informality as petting an actual dog, one that didn’t understand the abstract concept of embarrassment. “¿Necesitas algo? (Need something?)”

Much to your surprise and relief, Cecilio didn’t seem at all fazed by the spectacle in front of him. He didn’t even acknowledge you. “Sólo tengo una preguntita. ¿Usted quería los arbustos altos como estos o más bien como los en frente? (I just have a quick question. Did you want the bushes tall like this or more like the ones out front?)” He asked, gesturing to a tall shrub that had a stepladder beside it. 

Lalo hummed and scratched behind your ears as he thought about it. “Hmm… Pienso que como ellos están ahora está bien. Déjalos altos. (Hmm… I think how they are now is fine. Leave them tall.)” 

You couldn’t understand much of the conservation; it had gone by too quickly for you to translate. What you could understand was how nice his hands felt, how they scratched every itch you didn’t even know you had. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Now knowing that Cecilio didn’t care, you were able to relax. You sighed and leaned into Lalo’s patronizing touch.

“Pero… ¿qué piensas, perrito? (But… what do you think, doggy?)” He yanked the chain leash hard to get your attention. “¡Habla! (Speak!)”

And your base instincts reacted quicker than your brain. He’d trained you well. “Woof!” you barked. Upon realizing what you just did, you blushed and pressed your face into him, attempting to hide from Cecilio.

“Oh, good boy. That’s my good boy.” He kissed your forehead before he stood up, and tugged the leash to get you on all fours again.”Come on, puppy. Let’s get you back inside.” And as he walked you toward the house, he called out behind him. “¡Bien hecho, Cecilio! ¡Sigue así! (Good job, Cecilio! Keep it up!)” 

Cecilio called back, “¡Sí, señor! ¡Gracias! (Yes, sir! Thank you!)”

Lalo took you back to the house, again letting you walk on two legs past the pool. You started to crouch down once you made it onto the grass, but he stopped you.

“Nah, that’s okay. You’re done for now.” He unclipped the leash from your collar and stuffed it back in his pocket. “How was that? You okay?”

“Yeah, uh… I’m fine.” You replied, brushing the grass off your knees and pondering what the fuck you just did. “Just, uh… Was that, like…” You didn’t even know where to begin, but your most pressing concern was the mental well-being of the innocent bystander. “That wasn’t weird for him, right?”

“What, Cecilio? Nah.” Lalo waved off your concerns. “He’s fine. Listen, everybody here just does their job and minds their own business. No one’s gonna say anything about you doing yours. And if they do, you tell me. Okay?” 

That was actually reassuring. After all, it was just a job. You were just doing what you get paid for, same as everyone else. “Okay.”

“Good!” Lalo smiled, “So, I gotta run out for a while. Gotta handle some business stuff with a few of my guys. You remember Tuco?”

Thinking back to that one time he broke a dude’s nose in the prison cafeteria for spilling a soda on him, you answered, “How could I forget?” 

“Yeah, so it’s gonna be him and his buddy Ignacio. He’s cool. I’ll have to introduce you sometime.” Lalo went to grab his going out essentials that he left on the counter: his phone, his wallet, his keys, and a 9mm handgun. “You’ll probably be asleep by the time I get back, but if you’re not, I’ll be outside on the patio. Just in case you get lonely. Oh, and feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” Having everything he needed, he gave you a tight hug and a smooch goodbye on your forehead. “Be a good puppy while I’m gone, okay?”

You giggled playfully. “I will. See ya!”

…

The rest of your day was uneventful without Lalo around. You wandered around the house looking for ways to keep yourself entertained. Part of you thought about sneaking down into the alleged sex dungeon he had, but you decided against it. You didn’t want to 1.) spoil the surprise, and 2.) trip any unexpected alarms or booby traps without him to guide you through them. Instead, you went for a dip in his pool, made yourself something to eat, and took a shower before bed.

During your shower, you dragged the soap across the underside of your bruised arm, wincing when you felt the skin roll over the microchip like how a tire does to a speed bump. There was definitely something under there. There had to be. You could feel it. It was a tiny stick, about an inch long. You could even jostle it around with your fingers. No bruise or vaccination moved like that. And it all made sense, too. Why else would the doctor have to numb you? Why else would he make sure you had your eyes closed when he stuck you? “This is how we do it in Mexico.” Bullshit.

Unfortunately, Lalo did not have any medical books in his possession, nothing that would reveal his tricks. So, all you had to go on was the injection site. All you could do is poke and prod at it helplessly as you laid in his bed, wide awake.

At least the bed was comfortable.

If you had to be kept prisoner somewhere, this was definitely a step up from MDC Albuquerque.

That’s what he was doing, right? Keeping you prisoner. Why microchip you if not? You could rationalize that this was a job; you’d be free to quit any time you want. But that was wishful thinking. As if you’d ever be allowed back to civilian life knowing what you know. Putting in your 2 weeks notice would probably result in Lalo calling in the doctor to put you down. That’s what happens when dogs bite.

No. No. Stop thinking like that. Stop thinking in general. Just go to sleep! Just go to sleep. It’s not that difficult, right? You do it every night! Here, let’s count some sheep. Maybe that’ll do the trick. 

A sheep jumps over the fence. Baa! One. 

Another sheep jumps over the fence. Baa! Two. 

Another sheep jumps over the fence. There’s a microchip in your arm. 

“Goddamnit!” You grabbed one of the spare pillows by your head, screamed into it, and tossed it onto the floor. Having finished with your brief temper tantrum, you stared up at the ceiling, tense, wide-eyed, and fully cognizant. You sighed. You weren’t going to sleep anytime soon. 

Though you probably knew someone who was in the same boat. Someone who you knew would be good company. 

No. No, no, no. Do not go out to him. You cannot be dependent on him emotionally, too. Physically and financially is more than enough. You catch feelings, and that’s how Stockholm syndrome starts.

…

Then again, does anyone know when they have Stockholm syndrome? Is it like anxiety or depression, where you’re aware of your symptoms and yet they persist no matter how many times some asshole tells you to just try yoga? Or is it more like addiction, where you can rationalize anything to avoid facing the problem that you refuse to accept? 

…

Fuck it.

You tiptoed downstairs and out the back door, and sure enough, Lalo was outside on the patio, right where he said he’d be, sitting by the firepit. On the table next to him was a rolling tray, and on the tray you saw a jar, a lighter, and a hemp wrapper. Next to the rolling tray was an ashtray, a tiny golden tool that looked like a shovel for ants, and a baggie of white powder. In his hands, he was twisting a grinder. When he saw you out of the corner of his eye, he perked up. 

“Hey, puppy. What’re you doing up? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep…” You rubbed your eyes and yawned. “Can I join you?”

Lalo’s smile radiated the same warmth as the fire pit. “I’d like that. Could probably use the company.” 

You approached the chair adjacent to him, when Lalo raised his hand to stop you. 

“No, no, no.” He slapped his thigh and wiggled his eyebrows. “Right here. Best place for a lapdog, right?”

Unable to argue with that airtight logic, you sat down on his lap and settled in. Lalo hooked his arms around you, kissed your temple, and said “See? You fit right in. Good boy.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned back against his chest as he continued to grind what you hoped was weed. You glanced over at the table and asked, “You rolling a blunt?”

“Yep. You want some? It’s indica. Helps me relax.”

“Sure, thanks.” You sat in silence for a moment until he reached towards the table. He took the jar and lighter off the tray and set them aside, next to the bag of what was probably cocaine. No harm in asking, right? He must have had it out for a reason. “So, uh… is that coke?”

“Yeah. I’m not letting you have any, though, so don’t ask. Especially if you’re trying to sleep. It’s the last thing you need.” Lalo’s voice was tender, but firm. You knew better than to question him on that. It seemed like a hard rule. 

“That’s fine. Wasn’t gonna anyway.” There was a drop in the conversation, until you thought of a way to pick it back up. “So, like… do you do it often?”

Lalo unscrewed the second chamber to the grinder and dumped the weed on the rolling tray. “I guess you could say I do it more than most people, but I don’t always use it to get high. Most of the time, I just do little bumps to keep me awake.”

Granted, you didn’t have any experience with actually trying coke, but you didn’t think you could do it so casually. You’d always thought of it as an extreme thing, something you do lines upon lines of and have either the best or worst night of your life. But no, Lalo was calm and collected, as usual. You never would have guessed if it wasn’t just chilling on the table next to you. Next to that weird little shovel. “What’s that for?”

“What, the spoon? Oh, it just measures a bump for you. Here, watch.” He set the grinder down and picked up the coke and the spoon. He cracked open the baggie and dug the spoon in, retrieving a tiny little pile of coke. “See? Just a little bit.” He brought it up to his nostril and sniffed up the powder. His face crinkled up, and then he exhaled. “And that’s it!” He closed the bag and set it and the spoon aside, sniffling up the trace amounts stuck inside his nose. “That’s all you need to keep you up.”

“Interesting…” You pondered, having gained a new perspective on cocaine. Still, that couldn’t be healthy, right? Why not just, y’know, go the fuck to sleep? “Why, uh… Why do you wanna stay awake?”

“Couple of reasons.” Lalo replied, leaning over you to roll the blunt. “First, sleeping is a waste of time. I got more important things I could be doing. You’re supposed to sleep, what, like 8 hours a day? That’s one third of your life you miss out on. ‘S too much.” His calloused fingers curled the hemp wrapper around the weed so dexterously, like a true professional. You’d expect nothing less from a cartel boss. He probably had decades of practice. “I’m lucky, though. I don’t really need much sleep. I’m good with just an hour or two.”

“Mm.” You concurred in as few words as possible. None, actually. You weren’t cosigning the delusional things he said, just acknowledging that you were listening.

“Second, sleeping means you’re vulnerable. That’s something my tío taught me. People can ambush you in your sleep, and you won’t see it coming. They got a head start if you’re knocked out. That’s why you wanna be up as much as possible. Don’t let them get you.”

The most normal advice to give your nephew. You didn’t want to think about what his childhood must have been like, growing up with lessons like that. You answered with a noncommittal “Ah, gotcha.”

Lalo licked the edge of the blunt to seal it, then flicked the lighter. He singed the tip and took a big puff, blowing out a pretty decent cloud. He sighed, then said, “Your turn,” and the blunt was passed to you.

“Thanks.” You graciously accepted the blunt and took one puff, then another, and passed it back to him. Having both hands free, you scratched your neck absentmindedly, just above your collar. 

You didn’t notice what you were doing, but Lalo did. After taking his hit, he set the blunt down on the ashtray. “Let me get that for you.” Before you could ask what he was getting for you, he unhooked your collar and set it on the table. It wasn’t asphyxiating you by any means, but the fresh air on your neck was a shock to your system. You’d forgotten you were wearing it. It just felt so natural.

“Wait, but… aren’t I supposed to keep it on?”

Lalo’s voice was rich and sweet, honey sticking to the sides of your brain. “I tell you when to have it on, I can tell you when to take it off, can’t I?” One of his hands caressed your bare neck, and you whimpered at the feeling of something besides leather. “And besides… not everything has to be about work, right?”

“Right, yeah… Thanks…”

“Of course. I care about you, y’know.” He picked up the blunt and brought it to your lips. “Take another hit for me.”

You wrapped your lips around the blunt and inhaled until Lalo pulled it away. You coughed, just a tiny bit, and he was there to pat you on the back.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, puppy. You’re okay.” He cooed, gently stroking your hair. He then brought the blunt to his own lips, took a hit, and blew out the smoke. “Sooo, how was your first day? You like it here?”

The weed was starting to cloud your mind. It took you a moment to realize you were just asked a question. “Huh? Oh! Yeah! Yeah, it was…” Your mind stalled, trying to string some words together as you relaxed into his body. “Mmm, it was good…”

“Yeah?” Lalo chuckled. “I’m glad to hear that.” He reached over you to ash the blunt. “What was your favorite part?” He relit the blunt, took a quick puff, and passed the baton to you. 

You didn’t even have to think about your answer. It was instantaneous. “Blowing you in the kitchen, obviously.” You took your hit and handed it back to him. 

“Ah, yeah, I figured. I can tell you really put your heart and soul into it.” He tousled your hair for the 400th time today, and said “Such a good little slut.” He took a long drag and let the smoke drift lazily out of his mouth. “Did you like being walked?”

Looking back on it through hotboxed windows, you did enjoy the exhibition. How vulnerable and open you felt, How Lalo, no, your master Don Eduardo, clicked his tongue at you and told you to walk, and you crawled through dirt to please him. It was kinda hot in retrospect. “Yeah… Hm…” You tapped the unlit end of the blunt against your lips and thought it over, trying to do your duty as a sub and give feedback. “I think, like… I was a bit nervous at first, ‘cause I was worried about getting caught. But I mean, if Cecilio didn’t care, it’s not really a big deal, then, I guess.” You gave the blunt to your boss. 

He took a hit, and asked “Would you do it again?” 

You took your hit, “I think so.”

“Okay, good. Good to know.” Lalo put the blunt out in the tray and squeezed you tight against him. “You feel high yet? This is strong stuff, baby boy.” 

He was right. It was some strong stuff. A drug lord wouldn’t half ass his weed. None of that pussy bullshit from a medical dispensary that gives you the most limp-wristed handjob of a high so you can fall asleep without nightmares for once. This was a heavy, soul-crushing indica, the kind that has you couchlocked for hours and makes a Crunchwrap Supreme taste like the pinnacle of humanity’s achievements. Taking the time to pause between hits meant that you could actually feel yourself getting high, as if the weed was somehow catching up to you. As if for the past 5 minutes, you two had just been pumping a balloon full of helium, and now you could watch it fly away. Half the blunt was left, but your brain cells were already sizzling away one by one. His big, strong hands rubbed your shoulders, jiggling your limp body around.

And his pinky finger nudged your microchip bruise. 

You locked up. Going from warm and fuzzy to tense and cold at the drop of a hat. You had no words you could use. You were an animal, reduced to base instinct. Panic. Panic. Panic. 

Lalo could feel it. “Hey. You okay?”

Now having been asked another question, you switched from animal instinct to robot programming. What just happened? What did you feel just now? How do we approach this question? You came up with this as a plausible response: “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

Feel what? What did he feel? What was it that triggered your rigid demeanor? You stared off into the distance, dissociating into the program, and lifted your arm. “There’s a stick in my arm.”

“A stick?” 

His tone was unclockable. 

No need to panic. Just tell him what happened. “There’s a stick. In my arm. I just felt you move it.”

“What… right here?” His thumb tapped the bruise dead-on. Bullseye. 

“Yes. Right there. I can feel it moving. Push down on it.”

Lalo did as you requested, digging his thumb into your inflamed skin. He nudged it back and forth, jostling the microchip around. 

“There.” You said, no humanity or warmth to your tone. Purely indicative facts. “It’s moving.” And a simple question. “Do you feel that?”

Lalo pulled his thumb away and sighed. “Honey, I don’t feel anything moving. It just feels like a normal bruise to me.” He hugged you close and gave you a tender kiss, just above your ear. “Maybe… Maybe just give it a few days for the swelling to go down? If it’s still bothering you in a few days, we can call Dr. Cruz to look at it.” He caressed your shoulder. “You’ll be okay. I wouldn’t worry about it, baby…”

“Okay…” You sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was just swelling. Maybe it was just a normal tetanus shot. Maybe the stick you thought you felt was just your latent regret manifesting into somatic delusions. Maybe your body was trying to trick you. Maybe it couldn’t accept how lucky you were, and it was trying to give you a reason to doubt this whole arrangement. 

Or, maybe there really was a microchip in your arm. 

You tried not to think about it. You didn’t have to try very hard. The weed made it easy to forget.

And besides, Lalo’s touch was giving you plenty to focus on. 

“You smell so nice, puppy…” He dotted kisses along your now accessible neck. “I was hoping you’d come out here… Share this blunt with me…” He snuck his hands up your shirt and pinched your nipples. “It’s such a great body high, isn’t it?” 

“Yeahhh…” You mewed softly as he rolled the sensitive buds between his fingers.

“You want more?”

“Mhm…” 

“More what?” Another kiss was planted on your neck. “More of the blunt, or more of me?”

“...B-Both.”

“Both? Aww, haha… So needy…” Lalo slid one of his hands out of your shirt to grab the blunt and the lighter for you. When he gave them to you, he said, “My kinda man…” 

Your clumsy fingers fiddled with the lighter, taking a few tries to get a good burn going. When you had it, you inhaled it, and Lalo started sucking marks into your neck. You choked on a moan and coughed out smoke. “Ahck! *cough* *cough* Oh… oh, fuuuck…”

“You’re okay, puppy. You’re okay.” He took the blunt from you. You whined, but he shut that down quickly. “No, no. You can have it back in a second. Take your clothes off first.”

You panted and nodded, trying to translate his direction into action. “Ah… Okay… okay…” He helped you tug your shirt off over your head and toss it aside. Now, you just had your pajama shorts.

“Can you stand up?”

“I… I think so… Lemme…”

Considering that you stumbled the second your feet touched the patio tile, no you could not. Thankfully, Lalo was there to catch you.

“I gotcha, I gotcha.” He held you up by your waist and slid your shorts down to your ankles, and you stepped out of them with his guidance. “Good boy.” He kissed you again on your temple as he undid his belt. “You wanna ride me?”

And here you were again, a warm, fuzzy, happy, high, dumb little puppy. No need for thoughts. No need for words. Just instinct. Just do what you feel. And right now, you felt like that was the best fucking idea anyone had ever come up with. Your stupid little doggybrain responded with “Uh huh…”

“Good boy…” You heard the telltale sound of denim bunching up as Lalo tugged his jeans down below his cock. He quickly stroked himself up with one hand, keeping you steady with the other. “I’m gonna sit down. Then you get on my lap with your back to me, just like before, okay?”

“Okayyy…”

Lalo took his seat and spread his legs. “That’s a good doggy.”

Without looking behind you, you backed yourself up into his lap, holding your lips open to find him. Eventually, his tip poked your hole. Jackpot. And with that, you sunk down, letting him fill you to the brim. “Ohhh, oh my gahh-ah!” 

He held you in place, shushing you and talking you through it. “Shh, shh shh shh, take it. Take it. Take it.”

And you did, you took it so well. He bottomed out, and you babbled, “Mmmm, iss so deeeep…” 

“I know, right? You’re so tight, baby boy. You always are.” He grabbed the blunt, lit it, and hit it as you purred nonsensically, squeaking when his cock would throb and send a pulse through your whole body.

“Mmm… ah! Ngh…”

“Take your time, puppy. I’ll follow your lead.” He put the blunt between your fingers and kissed your hand. “You’re in control.”

What? You’re in control? Since when? Wasn’t the whole point of this arrangement that you were not in control? Oh well, you weren’t one to squander an opportunity like this. You took a puff for courage and held it between your teeth. With all the strength you could muster, you gripped the sides of the lounge chair, hoisted yourself up, and then slammed back down. You did it again, and again, establishing a rough, relentless pace. You were gonna take him for a ride.

And although you were in control this time, you were still the whiny little bitch you always were, especially when Lalo grabbed your hips and began guiding your movements. You took the blunt out of your mouth to let your moans . “Mm! Ah! Ah, gah! Oh my g-god! F-Fuck! Fuck me! Fuck me-e-e!”

Lalo growled some words of encouragement. “Goooood boy. Oh, you’re doing so good. C’mon. Just like that.”

Having a flashback to the night before, you remembered what you were supposed to call him at times like this: his title.“Ohhh, Don Eduardooo-oh!”

“No, no. Just Lalo. Just Lalo. You’re not-ngh…” He grunted. “You’re not working, baby. Just call me Lalo.”

You were grateful for that. It was certainly easier to say over and over again. It rolled off your tongue so nicely, though the rest of your words were starting to slur. “Lalo! Lalo! Lalo! Ohhh, fuuuck, La-lo… I’m… I’m’onna cuuum… I’m’onna cum, Lalooo…”

Lalo nuzzled his face into your neck, humming and kissing your bare skin as he pleased. “Mmmm, that’s okay, puppy. Go ahead. You can cum.”

Now more motivated and more riled up than you had ever been before, you frantically bounced on his cock, determined to find and feel your release.

“Yesyesyesyes, fuck! Fuck!!!”

You squirted hard enough to push him out of you, completely drenching both your laps and even seeping through the lounge chair. A noticeable puddle had formed on the tile below you, but neither of you cared. 

Well, neither of you cared about that, at least. Lalo had other concerns. “Aww, you kickin’ me out, baby?” He asked teasingly as he lined his cock up with your unacceptably empty cunt. “That’s not nice.”

You started to apologize, but the words got caught in your throat as he sunk you back down onto his shaft. “I’m s-sorry… I’m so-ohhh, fuuuu-ah, y-yesss…”

“Shh, sh, sh, don’t worry. Oh, there we go...” He grabbed your hips and stroked his cock with your person, now chasing his own climax. “You’re being so good for me, baby…”

“Mmm, thank youuu…” You whined. 

“I’m-mm, I’m getting close, baby boy. Hah… ah… You want it inside? All nice and warm for you, yeah? You want me to fill you up?”

“Y-Yeeeah, f-fucking fill me uuup… fuuuck…”

“Okay, baby. I got you. I’ll fill you up.” Digging his nails into your handlebar hips, Lalo huffed and gasped as he thrust up into you. His balls slapped against your t-dick, making you scream as his hips moved faster, rougher, meaner, until they went still. He let out a primal groan and slid his arms up to your chest, pressing your body to his as he unloaded inside, rambling some sweet nonsense in his native tongue. “Mmm, buen chico… Qué buen chico… Mi chiquito lindooo… (Mmm, good boy... What a good boy… My little boy’s so cuuute…)”

It was serene. Peaceful. The most gorgeous night one could ask for. The fire pit was crackling. The crickets were chirping. The cum inside you was warm and fulfilling. It was honestly breathtaking. Sure, some strong weed and an even stronger orgasm could make any night seem beautiful, but no matter. It was beautiful nonetheless. A perfect end to your first full day. And if every day were to end like this, you’d be more than happy to keep them coming.

You both panted heavily as you gazed up at the stars in reverie, high out of your minds. It felt like eons before one of you broke the silence, and it wasn’t you.

“Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

[thislovintime]

Some more Ask Peter Tork selections...

"Hello Peter, OK, it's hard to actually type anything here, because it is hard to believe this could be you. Remember me, the crazy lady in the 4th row at the concert in NJ, in the 80's holding a big sign that read, ‘I LOVE PETER.’ Of course you couldn't have noticed with that huge crowd, but I do want to say; thanks for the FUN! My question to you now is, about today's young people, and their strong dependence on their parents. I've seen other people my age (54) going through the same thing, and wonder if our peace, rock & roll, drugs, drinking, and party days, have contributed to their actions and behaviors now. My 25 year old son still lives home; he has things like, a TV, cell phone, guitar, drums, and some other smaller instruments. He over the years, had thoughts of being a rock star, had and has, drug, and depression issues. And like many other young men, loves beer, concerts, parties, clothing, girls, and sports; all just the same. There is no real motivation for much else, hence the still living at home. At least after the 60's/70's hullabaloos, our generation eventually went to work, moved out, and learned to be independent. Unless maybe today, things (even music) are just so expensive, it seems un-comprehensible. Are we as parents giving up, giving material items, and giving in, not wanting to be the same as our own parents? Are we way too cool to be more aggressive in how we talk to them? Are we still living our own "Hippie" care free life through them? Also, have you yourself ever actually witnessed what I'm talking about? Oh yeah, one more thing, is it easier for some parents to be able to kick them out 'For their own good,' than other parents? Yours Truly, Shell New Jersey"

"Dear Shell, I remember you well. You were awfully cute there in the 4th row. But on to important matters. First of all, I'm pretty sure there is no blanket statement about your question that would cover the situation. For instance, of course some parents find it easier to kick out their kids than others. That's just natural. But as to the general average of kids today staying more with their parents than in days of yore, well, I partly blame those who let the economy go to hell in a hand basket...or perhaps actively took it there is a better description. It's tougher now than it used to be to find a job, and there is less of a spirit that finding one will give one a real chance to come up in the world. It's therefore understandable that 25-year-olds and some even well older would be discouraged, and have very little incentive to go forth and make their way. Still, I am pretty sure that wanting to work rather than lay about is a preference in human nature, as long as no major roadblocks stand in the way. As to whether it was our hippie lifestyle that led us to treat our kids in ways that made them lazy, well, I wouldn't know for sure. But I do know that every generation is formed by the previous generation's reactions to their parents' generation, etc., etc., since time immemorial. We did the best we could with what we had, and if we don't like what we see, I'm not sure we can do much for the next generation anymore. I believe that my kids appreciate that I am still working on my own life, and that gives them encouragement not to give up, whatever else they may think of me. I don't have much to say about the way they live their lives. Of course, they aren't encamped in my basement, either. Meanwhile, I counsel patience and love, of course. Best of luck, Peter" - Ask Peter Tork, July 2010

"Dear Peter, My name is Mary and I’m in tenth grade. I’ve been struggling recently because all of my friends and teachers think that I should have a 'direction' to my life. They tell me that I need to have my future planned out right now. What college am I going to? What career field will I try to get into? I don’t know how to answer any of their questions. Should I know what I want to do with my life even though I’m only fifteen? Thank you, Mary C."

"Dear Mary, 'Should'? I don’t know from should anymore. I once heard someone say 'Don’t "should" on yourself.' I eventually worked it out to where the word 'should' requires the phrase 'in order to.' You 'should' turn left here 'in order to' get to the grocery store. Like that. So, the question becomes, 'in order to'… what? Check out the letter and answer beforehand. Do you know what you want to be when you grow up? No? Well, perhaps a little investigation is in order. When you were little, what did you dream of becoming? Airline pilot? Doctor, nurse, veterinarian or horse trainer? Wonder Woman? Rock star? Newspaper reporter? Or did you imagine that a life of marriage and kids plus a bit of a trade as, say, a hair stylist was heaven on earth? Go back to your early daydreams and see whether any of them still holds a charge. Be careful here: if you don’t know instantly what your dreams were, then it’s possible that you were discouraged from holding on to them. If that’s true, then that discouragement will get in the way of your trying to access those dreams now. Be extremely gentle with yourself, even to the point of sickeningly coddling yourself (for a little while anyway, heheheh). If your childhood dream comes to the fore, you will have all you need to decide whether and where to go to college, or whatever else you may need. One note: it’s wonderful to decide to, say, become a musician, but if “famous musician” is your goal, you may be in for more trouble than you want. If you pursue your dream for what it gives you and let it take you where it will, you will have a pretty cool life almost no matter what. I’m really sure about this. Get back to me if it’s not working out. Best of luck, Peter" - Ask Peter Tork, July 2010

[mariacallous]

If Donald Trump returns to the White House, close allies want to dramatically change the government's interpretation of Civil Rights-era laws to focus on "anti-white racism" rather than discrimination against people of color.

Why it matters: Trump's Justice Department would push to eliminate or upend programs in government and corporate America that are designed to counter racism that has favored whites.

Targets would range from decades-old policies aimed at giving minorities economic opportunities, to more recent programs that began in response to the pandemic and the killing of George Floyd.

Trump campaign spokesperson Steven Cheung told Axios: "As President Trump has said, all staff, offices, and initiatives connected to Biden's un-American policy will be immediately terminated."

Driving the news: Longtime aides and allies preparing for a potential second Trump administration have been laying legal groundwork with a flurry of lawsuits and legal complaints — some of which have been successful.

A central vehicle for the effort has been America First Legal, founded by former Trump aide Stephen Miller, who has called the group conservatives' "long-awaited answer to the ACLU."

America First cited the Civil Rights Act of 1964 in February in a lawsuit against CBS and Paramount Global for what the group argued was discrimination against a white, straight man who was a writer for the show "Seal Team" in 2017.

In February, the group filed a civil rights complaint against the NFL over its "Rooney Rule."

The rule — named for Dan Rooney, late owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers — was instituted in 2003 and expanded in 2022. It requires NFL teams to interview at least two minority candidates for vacant general manager, head coach and coordinator positions.

American First argued that "given the limited time frame to hire executives and coaches after the season, this results in fewer opportunities for similarly situated, well-qualified candidates who are not minorities."

In 2021, Miller's group successfully sued to block the implementation of a $29 billion pandemic-era program for women- and minority-owned restaurants, saying it discriminated against white-owned businesses.

"This ruling is the first, but crucial, step towards ending government-sponsored racial discrimination," Miller said then.

Zoom in: Other Trump-aligned groups are preparing for a future Trump Justice Department to implement — or challenge — policies on a broader scale.

The Heritage Foundation's well-funded "Project 2025" envisions a second Trump administration ending what it calls "affirmative discrimination."

Part of the plan, written by former Trump Justice Department official Gene Hamilton, argues that "advancing the interests of certain segments of American society ... comes at the expense of other Americans — and in nearly all cases violates longstanding federal law."

Hamilton is America First Legal's general counsel.

Such groups have gained momentum with the Supreme Court's turn to the right — most notably its recent rejection of affirmative action in college admissions. The court ruled that programs designed to benefit people of color and address past injustices discriminate against white and Asian Americans.

In 2021, a federal judge blocked a $4 billion program to help Black farmers.

Earlier this month, another federal judge ruled that the Commerce Department's Minority Business Development Agency was discriminating against white people and that the program had to be open to everyone.

What they're saying: The Trump campaign directed Axios to the candidate's already stated positions bashing Biden's policies promoting equity.

"Every institution in America is under attack from this Marxist concept of 'equity,' " Trump said in 2023. "I will get this extremism out of the White House, out of the military, out of the Justice Department, and out of our government."

The Trump campaign's Steven Cheung added: "President Trump is committed to weeding out discriminatory programs and racist ideology across the federal government."

The NFL and Miller declined to comment. CBS didn't respond to a request for comment.

Between the lines: A CBS poll last November found that 58% of Trump voters believe that people of color were advantaged over white people — just 9% of Biden voters said the same.

Polls also show, however, that Trump is gaining support among Black and Latino voters.

Zoom out: Trump has portrayed himself as the victim of racism amid his legal troubles.

He repeatedly has said Black women prosecutors in Georgia and New York are "racist."

His political career really began in 2011 as the chief Birther-agitator, questioning Barack Obama's eligibility to be president.

When Trump jumped into the presidential race in 2015, he accused Mexico of dumping criminals and rapists into the U.S.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

BY: DAVID LITMAN

Earlier this week, several United Nations “experts” issued a statement claiming there were “credible allegations” of Israeli forces committing sexual violence against Palestinian women. As CAMERA has already noted, among the authors of the statement were individuals with histories of antisemitism and anti-Israel bias. Moreover, the statement was noticeably devoid of any evidence. Similarly absent was any information to assess the credibility of the allegations, such as dates, times, locations, or identities. All readers had to go on was the word of the hardly impartial authors.

CAMERA was not alone in noticing the curious lack of details. At least one journalist, who asked not to be named, corresponded with the UN “experts,” asking if they could provide any details and sources for their allegations. The response from one of them, Reem Alsalem, was to say that she could not provide any details or sources. In fact, she even appeared to suggest that they’re not even sure where the alleged victims are.

The only source for the allegations they were willing to point to, after repeated requests by the journalist, was a public report by an organization called Women’s Centre for Legal Aid and Counseling (WCLAC). Given that this is all the public has to go on to scrutinize the allegations, it is worth examining WCLAC’s report. After all, if the UN “experts” consider the report credible, that gives some insight into the quality and nature of the undetailed allegations they have made themselves.

Knowingly Attempting to Create a False Equivalence

The WCLAC report begins with a curious argument. To provide some context, the report was sent to the UN Special Representative on Sexual Violence in Conflict, Pramila Patten, who had visited Israel in January to probe the use of sexual violence by Hamas during the October 7 massacre.

In the letter to which the WCLAC report is attached, the organization expresses concern that the allegations they are raising against Israeli forces do not rise to the level of gravity that Ms. Patten’s mandate requires. The letter “raises a significant concern regarding the mandate” Ms. Patten apparently presented to WCLAC, which “limits sexual violence to acts of a grave nature, such as rape and trafficking” for purposes of her mandate. Apparently concerned that none of their allegations rise to that level of gravity, the organization calls for her to “reinforce” her mandate to “amplify” vague concepts such as “humanitarian work, upstream prevention, justice and accountability…” The letter than raises a “demand to consider Israeli’s (sic) violations of different forms of violence including sexual and reproductive rights and in your upcoming report on OPT” (an acronym for “occupied Palestinian territories”).

Put more simply, WCLAC wants the UN representative to change her mandate so as to create an equivalence between Hamas’s systematic use of horrific sexual violence on October 7 with the allegations WCLAC makes in its attached report against Israeli forces.

[beautiful-basque-country]

UN Committee against Torture urges Spain to investigate +5,000 cases in Hegoalde

Recently the UN Committee against Torture analyzed the Spanish State. It is a periodic work but until now the 5,379 cases of torture and ill-treatment registered in Euskal Herria between 1960 and 2014 had not been on the table. This Friday [July 28], the Committee against Torture has made public the report of the study.

In a fourteen-page document - which also discusses other issues such as the Melilla fence or gender violence - it literally reads as follows: "The Spanish State should adopt the necessary measures to guarantee the effective investigation of the alleged acts of torture and ill-treatment referred to in the numerous documented testimonies handed over to the authorities of the Basque Country and Navarre, and inform the Committee of the results of these investigations".

The UN Committee reiterates its previous recommendations and urges the Spanish State to "review and amend its criminal legislation in order to ensure that all forms of torture are prohibited, and to establish penalties for the crime of torture that are proportionate to the gravity of the crime. Furthermore, the State party should ensure that the crime of torture is imprescriptible, in order to exclude any possibility of impunity with regard to the investigation of acts of torture and the prosecution and punishment of its perpetrators".

It also urges the Spanish State to consider abolishing the regime of isolated detention and to ensure that all detained persons - and in particular juveniles - benefit from all fundamental legal safeguards from the outset of deprivation of liberty, including the rights to legal counsel of their choice at all stages of the criminal proceedings, to communicate with their legal representative in confidence, and to promptly inform a relative or third party of their detention.

The Committee recalls that in its previous observations it asked Spain to provide information on "the follow-up given to the recommendations concerning isolated detention and solitary confinement and excessive use of force by law enforcement officials" since these recommendations have not yet been fully implemented.

Source

Spain, that friendly country! 😩

[beardedmrbean]

A White history teacher accused a California teachers union of discriminating against him on the basis of his skin color and called the move "disgusting."

Isaac Newman, a teacher in the Elk Grove School District, on Friday filed a federal lawsuit against his local National Education Association affiliate for allegedly violating his Title VII civil rights. The suit alleged that the Elk Grove Education Association formed a seat on its executive board that was only available to candidates of color, meaning Newman wasn't eligible.

"It's disgusting, and that's why I'm suing," he told Fox News Digital in an interview.

"My union barred me from a leadership position simply because of the color of my skin," he said, discussing the suit. "I'm prohibited from running for a leadership position simply because of my race. This kind of racial litmus test is illegal, and it's un-American, and that's why I'm taking them to court." 

In 2023, Elk Grove Education Association officials voted to create a "BIPOC At-Large" seat on its executive board, a position limited only to people who "self-identify" as "African American (Black), Native American, Alaska Native, Native Hawai’ian, Pacific Islander, Latino (including Puerto Rican), Asian, Arab, and Middle Eastern," according to the suit. 

"Plaintiff Isaac Newman is a white [EGEA] member who wants to run for union office to address the District’s recent adoption of what he believes to be aggressive and unnecessary Diversity, Equity & Inclusion (DEI) policies," reads the lawsuit, filed by The Fairness Center, a legal group focused on representing "those hurt by public-sector union officials."

The suit asked the court to "declare the BIPOC Position unlawful" and prevent the union "from creating any similar positions in the future where candidate eligibility is, in whole or in part, based on race." 

Newman said the alleged discrimination was "frightening," as was the prevalence of critical race theory in society's culture. 

"I'm actually really frightened for my children," he said, "when we look to a future where people are being taught [critical race theory]."

Newman believes that DEI ideology pushes hostile messages that focus on a person's skin color as opposed to their expertise and knowledge.

"The message there is that as a White teacher in a district that is very diverse, my students can't learn from me," he said. "It's abhorrent, and it's flatly wrong."

Newman told Fox News Digital that after disagreeing with the union pushing "aggressive" DEI agendas in the district, he decided to run for an executive seat to challenge the status quo. 

"I'm looking to see my district and union back away from this fantastically toxic ideology, back away from DEI and embrace merit and individuality," he said. "I'm hoping to see that other teachers, other people in similar organizations, will stand up." 

Newman said he was not alone in his opposition to DEI in school districts. 

"Most people who think like me are unwilling to speak up," he said. "There are a lot of teachers [who are silent], and it's not really a conservative or liberal thing."

"There are a lot of teachers who recognize that meritocracy, colorblindness are at the core of good teaching," Newman added. "What's shocking is in these DEI trainings, they actually call out colorblindness and meritocracy as racist myths. And of course, if you're dedicated to that, well, then you're going to have division, and you're going to have mediocrity." 

Fox News Digital reached out to the Elk Grove union for comment. 

"Teachers’ unions don’t get a pass from laws that prohibit racial discrimination," said Fairness Center President and general counsel Nathan McGrath. "The Civil Rights Act explicitly forbids unions from discriminating based on race, color, religion, sex or national origin and from segregating members based on these attributes." 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Peter Wehner at The Atlantic:

On the morning of august 8, 2022, 30 FBI agents and two federal prosecutors conducted a court-authorized search of Mar-a-Lago, Donald Trump’s Palm Beach, Florida, estate. The reason for the search, according to a 38-count indictment, was that after leaving office Trump mishandled classified documents, including some involving sensitive nuclear programs, and then obstructed the government’s efforts to reclaim them. On the day before the FBI obtained the search warrant, one of the agents on the case sent an email to his bosses, according to The New York Times. “The F.B.I. intends for the execution of the warrant to be handled in a professional, low key manner,” he wrote, “and to be mindful of the optics of the search.” It was, and they were. Over the course of 10 hours, the Times reported, “there was little drama as [agents] hauled away a trove of boxes containing highly sensitive state secrets in three vans and a rented Ryder box truck.”

On the day of the search, Trump was out of the state. The club at Mar-a-Lago was closed. Agents alerted one of Trump’s lawyers in advance of the search. And before the search, the FBI communicated with the Secret Service “to make sure we could get into Mar-a-Lago with no issues,” according to the testimony of former Assistant FBI Director Steven D’Antuono. It wasn’t a “show of force,” he said. “I was adamant about that, and that was something we all agreed on.”

The search warrant itself included a standard statement from the Department of Justice’s policy on the use of deadly force. There was nothing exceptional about it. But that didn’t prevent Trump or his supporters from claiming that President Joe Biden and federal law-enforcement agents had been involved in a plot to assassinate the former president. In a fundraising appeal, Trump wrote, "biden’s doj was authorized to shoot me! it’s just been revealed that biden’s doj was authorized to use deadly force for their despicable raid in mar-a-lago. you know they’re just itching to do the unthinkable … joe biden was locked & loaded ready to take me out & put my family in danger." On May 23, Trump publicly claimed that the Department of Justice “authorized the use of ‘deadly force’ in their Illegal, UnConstitutional, and Un-American RAID of Mar-a-Lago, and that would include against our Great Secret Service, who they thought might be ‘in the line of fire.’”

Trump supporters echoed those claims, as he knew they would. Steve Bannon, one of the architects of the MAGA movement, said, “This was an attempted assassination attempt on Donald John Trump or people associated with him. They wanted a gunfight.” Right-wing radio hosts stoked one another’s fury, claiming that there’s nothing Trump critics won’t do to stop him, up to and including attempting to assassinate him and putting the lives of his Secret Service detail in danger. The statement by Trump went beyond inflaming his supporters; it created a mindset that moved them closer to violence, the very same mindset that led thousands of them to attack the Capitol on January 6 and threaten to hang Vice President Mike Pence. Which is why Special Counsel Jack Smith filed a motion asking the judge overseeing Trump’s classified-documents case to block him from making public statements that could put law enforcement in danger. “Those deceptive and inflammatory assertions irresponsibly put a target on the backs of the FBI agents involved in this case, as Trump well knows,” he wrote.

Motivated ignorance refers to willfully blinding oneself to facts. It’s choosing not to know. In many cases, for many people, knowing the truth is simply too costly, too psychologically painful, too threatening to their core identity. Nescience is therefore incentivized; people actively decide to remain in a state of ignorance. If they are presented with strong arguments against a position they hold, or compelling evidence that disproves the narrative they embrace, they will reject them. Doing so fends off the psychological distress of the realization that they’ve been lying to themselves and to others. Motivated ignorance is a widespread phenomenon; most people, to one degree or another, employ it. What matters is the degree to which one embraces it, and the consequences of doing so. In the case of MAGA world, the lies that Trump supporters believe, or say they believe, are obviously untrue and obviously destructive. Since 2016 there’s been a ratchet effect, each conspiracy theory getting more preposterous and more malicious. Things that Trump supporters wouldn’t believe or accept in the past have since become loyalty tests. Election denialism is one example. The claim that Trump is the target of “lawfare,” victim to the weaponization of the justice system, is another.

I have struggled to understand how to view individuals who have not just voted for Trump but who celebrate him, who don’t merely tolerate him but who constantly defend his lawlessness and undisguised cruelty. How should I think about people who, in other domains of their lives, are admirable human beings and yet provide oxygen to his malicious movement? How complicit are people who live in an epistemic hall of mirrors and have sincerely—or half-sincerely—convinced themselves they are on the side of the angels?

Throughout my career I’ve tried to resist the temptation to make unwarranted judgments about the character of people based on their political views. For one thing, it’s quite possible my views on politics are misguided or distorted, so I exercise a degree of humility in assessing the views of others. For another, I know full well that politics forms only a part of our lives, and not the most important part. People can be personally upstanding and still be wrong on politics. But something has changed for me in the Trump era. I struggle more than I once did to wall off a person’s character from their politics when their politics is binding them to an unusually—and I would say undeniably—destructive person. The lies that MAGA world parrots are so manifestly untrue, and the Trump ethic is so manifestly cruel, that they are difficult to set aside.

If a person insists, despite the overwhelming evidence, that Trump was the target of an assassination plot hatched by Biden and carried out by the FBI, this is more than an intellectual failure; it is a moral failure, and a serious one at that. It’s only reasonable to conclude that such Trump supporters have not made a good-faith effort to understand what is really and truly happening. They are choosing to live within the lie, to invoke the words of the former Czech dissident and playwright Václav Havel.

One of the criteria that need to be taken into account in assessing the moral culpability of people is how absurd the lies are that they are espousing; a second is how intentionally they are avoiding evidence that exposes the lies because they are deeply invested in the lie; and a third is is how consequential the lie is. It’s one thing to embrace a conspiracy theory that is relevant only to you and your tiny corner of the world. It’s an entirely different matter if the falsehood you’re embracing and promoting is venomous, harming others, and eroding cherished principles, promoting violence and subverting American democracy.

[...] This doesn’t mean those in MAGA world can’t be impressive people in other domains of life, just like critics of Trump may act reprehensibly in their personal lives and at their jobs. I’ve never argued, and I wouldn’t argue today, that politics tells us the most important things about a person’s life. Trump supporters and Trump critics alike can brighten the lives of others, encourage those who are suffering, and demonstrate moments of kindness and grandeur. I understand, too, if their moral convictions keep them from voting for Joe Biden. But it would be an affectation for me, at least, to pretend that in this particular circumstance otherwise good people, in joining the MAGA movement, in actively advocating on its behalf, and in planning to cast a vote for Trump, haven’t—given all we know—done something grievously wrong.

Some of them are cynical and know better; others are blind to the cultlike world to which they belong. Still others have convinced themselves that Trump, although flawed, is the best of bad options. It’s a “binary choice,” they say, and so they have talked themselves into supporting arguably the most comprehensively corrupt man in the history of American politics, certainly in presidential politics. Whichever justification applies, they are giving not just their vote but their allegiance to a man and movement that have done great harm to our country and its ideals, and which seek to inflict even deeper wounds in the years ahead. Many of them are self-proclaimed evangelicals and fundamentalists, and they are also doing inestimable damage to the Christian faith they claim is central to their lives. That collaboration needs to be named. A generation from now, and probably sooner, it will be obvious to everyone that Trump supporters can’t claim they didn’t know.

Peter Wehner wrote in The Atlantic about the deliberate ignorance to the truth by MAGA cultists.

Wehner is spot-on here: “It’s one thing to embrace a conspiracy theory that is relevant only to you and your tiny corner of the world. It’s an entirely different matter if the falsehood you’re embracing and promoting is venomous, harming others, and eroding cherished principles, promoting violence and subverting American democracy.”

[tastytoastz]

Hi Toast, I hope you’re doing well!

I’ve been enjoying your fics so much (especially with how things ended in canon).

I saw a post a while ago (I don’t know if it was from you or someone else but it was before Fitpac was official) that was talking about having Ramón and Richas in a Parent Trap style situation in an attempt to bring Fit and Pac together.

Do you have any headcanons about what that kind of au could look like?

I could see Ramón and Richas looking almost identical (even though I don’t imagine them as identical in other aus) and maybe finding out that their parents were together before a big misunderstanding (I don’t think Fitpac could have been married nor would they actually have biological twins, I always felt that it was a bit fucked up for the parents to divorce and move to different continents and not tell their kids that they are a twin).

But I do think that the parent trap shenanigans fit Richas and Ramón so well down to the summer camp run by El Quackity and Quackity (who would try sending Chayanne to the isolation cabin multiple times) with the other eggs as campers (who may or may not get involved in helping plan this plot). The camp could be a desert island themed survival camp based in Florida (most central location for people from the US, Mexico, France, Brazil to feasibly send their kids, particularly if the parents are already friends with the Quackities).

I could see Fit as a famous fight choreographer/stuntman (hence he would live in California) and in a weird relationship with Spreen (he could fit the Meredith character as he is not a kid person and would be after the money and it would be cathartic for Ramón and Richas to do the pranks on him later on haha).

Pac would be an inventor with multiple parents living in Brazil with the other members of the Favela Five, and Ramón would totally nerd over the inventions when he goes undercover as Richas (but he would have to hide the nerding out bc Richas would not be as into the mechanics as Ramón is).

It could be an example of right person wrong time for them; maybe Fit and Pac met at the camp as camp counsellors in university and Ramón and Richas come across a old picture of them being all couple-like in one of the old camp albums!

With the knowledge that their parents are not currently happy and getting the tea from Phil (who has been one of the head counsellers at the camp for ages) they plot to learn more about each others lives and do the nesserary disguises (for example they both would have to wear pants the whole time to hide the fact that their legs are different if Richas has a prosthetic leg in this universe) and switch with each other so that they would have to be un-switched eventually. I could see this au as primarily the idea of Ramón and Richas, but I love the idea of the other campers/counsellers (who are friends with Fit and Pac) helping them plan out this/lie for them bc they also want Fit and Pac to get back together haha

Anyways sorry for the long post, I felt bad for asking you for any headcanons relating to this without offering some ideas of my own haha

Hope you have a great day,

@tilin-forever

Hello!!! Good! I hope you're doing well as well!! :D

This might be a bit of a disepointing answer....But I have never seen the parent trap 😬 I legit know next to nothing about that movie lmao, so thinking up headcannons for an AU based on it is a bit hard XD

Sounds like there would be a lot of funny shenanigans especially if Philza starts to like, give Ramon and Richas ideas and hints about stuff. Like the always wearing pant's thing, like it gets overly hot and Richas/Ramon has to just keep saying he's fine and 100% dosen't have to change to shorts while they are pretty much burning up. Or Ramon getting stuck having to paint something and not knowing how do that while Richas is trying to make a machine without it blowing up in his face.

I hope you have an amazing day as well!!! <3

[lilacsupernova]

Follow the (legal) money

The [trans] industry's game plan is clearly laid out in a very revealing strategy document published by the world's largest law firm, Denton, and the news conglomerate Thomson Reuters Foundation, with support from the Eu and LGBTQ organisation IGLYO (The International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer and Intersex (LGBTQI) Youth & Student Organisation). The document is entitled 'Only adults? Good practice in legal gender recognition' and begins by explaining that "there are certain techniques that emerge as being effective in progressing trans rights in 'good practice' countries."

They recommend linking the issue to human rights, as detractors will then experience "the political stigma of a human rights violation." References to the "right to health" in UN declarations should be interpreted to include gender reassignment procedures, the "right to respect for private and family life" to encompass a right to gender self-identification and the phrase "best interests of the child" should be interpreted to mean that the child has the right to decide about undergoing treatment. Changes in the law should now come across as being in the interests of pharmaceutical companies and clinics, but as young people's right to not have to "be ashamed of who they are." Thus, it is not a child's right to safe and evidence-based care but the right to receive gender reassignment without parental consent that is being advocated. Parents are considered an obstacle: "It is recognised that the requirement for parental consent or the consent of a legal guardian can be restrictive and problematic for minors." The report further counsels that the word 'surgery' is best avoided, as it can sound alarming. Instead, operations should be referred to as "the right to be yourself." The key to success is to tie campaigns to more popular reforms, such as the campaign for marriage equality, since they provide "a veil of protection, particularly in Ireland, where marriage equality was strongly supported, but gender identity remained a more difficult issue to win public support for." The most effective practice is to directly lobby young politicians, though public debate about the issues is best avoided.

– Kajsa Ekis Ekman (2023) On the Meaning of Sex: Thoughts on the New Definition of Woman, pp. 162-3.