#press morocco

[ahmed25646]

PLF-2023: 46 amendments accepted for the first part

PLF-2023: 46 amendments accepted for the first part

Among the 210 amendments presented under the first part of the Finance Bill (PLF) 2023, 46 were accepted and 41 others withdrawn, indicated, Thursday in Rabat, the Minister Delegate to the Minister of Economy and Finance, Fouzi Lekjaa. Speaking during a plenary session in the House of Representatives dedicated to the examination and vote of PLF N° 50.22 for the 2023 budget year, Mr. Lekjaa…

[uwmspeccoll]

Marbled Monday

This week's Marbled Monday post is A Study of the Illuminated Books of William Blake: Poet, Printer, and Prophet. It was written by British surgeon and author Geoffrey Keynes and published by the Trianon Press in 1964. The Trianon Press was a Paris-based publisher of fine art books founded in 1947 by Arnold Fawcus. The book includes an essay on Blake's illuminated books and reproductions of some of his illustrations. They are printed on paper specially made to reproduce the tint of the paper used by Blake.

The slipcase and binding are covered in the same marbled paper—a red field with green, chartreuse, and lighter red veining. The book is quarter-bound in brown Morocco leather and features the title gold-stamped on the spine and a gold-tooled line where the leather and marbled paper meet on the front and back covers. It is signed by Geoffrey Keynes.

View more Marbled Monday posts.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[layavert-sarl]

#preaklypear #

[randompiggy]

listen that was an unfun half, but hearing a darbuka in the stands at a women’s world cup was amazing. SWANA teams at the wwc forever

[epuiseeparmedia]

Given my neighbourhood I won’t be able to tell who is scoring tonight.

Proud to apparently be the only Frenchwoman who boycotted the diffusion when all the hypocrites are watching because we might win. Though the journalists who wrote editorials upon editorials of how horrible those poor workers died didn’t let me ignore the score and Deschamps feelings when I just want to read the other news and took the ads money.

Talk about having no principles.

Though to be honest , I found international competition to be riffed with referee malpractice and political manipulation. So I wasn’t planning on watching even if Iceland was organising.

[archaeologicalnews]

90,000-year-old human footprints found on a Moroccan beach are some of the oldest and best preserved in the world

Two trails of ancient human footprints pressed into a beach in Morocco form one of the largest and best-preserved trackways in the world.

Researchers happened upon the footprint site near the northern tip of North Africa in 2022 while studying boulders at a nearby pocket beach, according to a study published Jan. 23 in the journal Scientific Reports.

"Between tides, I said to my team that we should go north to explore another beach," study lead author Mouncef Sedrati, an associate professor of coastal dynamics and geomorphology at the University of Southern Brittany in France, told Live Science. "We were surprised to find the first print. At first, we weren't convinced it was a footprint, but then we found more of the trackway." Read more.

[sissa-arrows]

I was asked for ressources on Western Sahara so here is a list.

Context: Western Sahara was colonized by Spain. In 1975 Spain was about to leave and they somehow decided that it was their right to fucking give the land despite the fact that the people did not want it. So Spain kinda agreed to give the land to Morocco (2/3) and Mauritania (1/3). Except they had no right to. Morocco then organized the “Green March” a march during which Moroccan colonizers marched to Western Sahara and settled there. Becoming settlers in a land that did not belong to them. Morocco claims that Western Sahara belongs to them because once a long time ago (in like 1040) the chiefs of multiple Sahrawi tribes allegedly swore allegiance to the Sultan of Morocco. It makes no freaking sense. On top of it the founder of the dynasty to which Western Sahara allegedly swore allegiance was an Amazigh man from Mauritania not from Morocco. Anyway after Morocco colonized Western Sahara in 1975, a war broke. In 1979, Mauritania gave back the land Spain had given them but Morocco still refused to give back their land to the Sahrawi people. They actually decided that if Mauritania didn’t want that piece of Western Sahara then it would also belong to Morocco and they colonized it too. In 1991 a ceasefire was signed under the condition that a vote would be organized for the independence of Western Sahara. Except they never voted… Morocco refuses to. In 2020, the Polisario (the name of the Sahrawi resistance) blocked a bunch of trucks between the border of Western Sahara and Mauritania. Morocco considered that it was a declaration of war and the ceasefire ended.

(If people wanna know how Algeria is involved in all this just tell me I’ll make a post)

Now the ressources to learn more about what’s happening!!

Sons of the clouds, the last (colony of Africa) a documentary in Spanish and Hassania (Sahrawi language) about Western Sahara. The link included subtitles in French.

An article from Amnesty international regarding how a Sahrawia activist, Sultana Khaya, was abused by Moroccans authorities.

The book “Sáhara occidental: un viaje a la libertad” by Taleb Alisalem a sahrawi activist. Only available in Spanish but if you have Twitter you should really really follow him. He shares a lot of information past and current on the subject with sources.

A human rights watch article from 2022 about the situation in Western Sahara (the article mention the Human rights situation in Morocco too)

Because listening to local journalists is very very important here is a Sahrawi newspaper in multiple languages: in Arabic in English in French and in Spanish

The APS (Algeria Press Service) is also a good ressource BUT I wouldn’t suggest to quote it when you’re debating with someone who is pro colonialism. Algeria is 100% pro Western Sahara so people against the independence of Western Sahara don’t consider that Algeria is a reliable source on the subject.

A friend suggested the Book “Sahara occidental: conflit oublié, population en mouvement” by Sébastien Boulay (Western Sahara: forgotten conflit, displaced population) to my knowledge its only available in French maybe in Spanish too as the co-author is Spanish. I personally haven’t read this one yet but I 100% trust the person who recommended me the book.

[pedge-stuff]

I just had the worst and saddest possible day ever and all I wished was someone here, just to hug me under my cold covers. Can you please make something up with pedro and reader please?

I'm so sorry you are going through this?? I hope things have improved since you submitted this. Sending love your way.

—————————————————————————

okay (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.

a little, plotless shorty for your troubles.

thanks, as always, for everything.

TW: a very brief mention of disordered eating

summary: sometimes, you just need to be held.

—————————————————————————

"I'm okay," you whisper. "It's okay, really. I just need a little bit."

Less than convincing.

There is a dip in the mattress behind you. Even with your eyes closed, covers pulled over your head, turned away from him entirely, you can tell he is settling against the headboard, atop the duvet.

Pedro doesn't speak. Doesn't touch you, either, but you're not really sure if you're grateful for that; sometimes, being touched when you're like this feels so intolerable, it takes your breath away. Other times, a soft touch feels like the only thing that can hold you together. Trial and error, involving a lot of shitty and unfair antagonisms, has taught Pedro to give you space before he gives you love.

This is why you suck, your brain supplies. Nothing more— your mind is too fucking tired to even dissect your insecurities properly. You just feel bad.

Not without reason; at least, not today. Three missed calls from your mother, with whom you are barely speaking to, anyways. (It turns out being engaged to Oberyn Martell is about the only thing that could cure her passive aggressive homophobia. A bit too late to be water under the bridge, at any rate.)

Three missed calls, and some really shit news.

So, you're in bed. Under the covers, hiding, as if 8:30 is a totally normal bedtime.

And things are decidedly not good.

The tears come, silent and steady.

A warm press of lips to the back of your neck startles you; hot puffs of breath where his nose is buries into the hair curled at your nape, just a moment, before pulling back. It does not feel as bad as you'd feared.

"Sorry," you croak, blindly reaching behind you; squeeze what feels like his knee, in what you hope is a marginally reassuring gesture. "I'm fine, baby, you don't have to sit here with me." Pedro is early to bed— neither of you are really night owls— but not this early.

He makes no effort to move. "Can I..." A tentative hand, between your shoulder blades.

You can't help the thin whine that accompanies your shaky exhale. Fucking pathetic. But you turn, slowly, rolling over to face him. You'd assumed he was up against the headboard, but he's shifted down now, head on the pillow beside you.

Smiling, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Wordlessly, he tucks an arm over your waist. He's always been strong, biceps as thick and sturdy as tree limbs, but the Gladiator training has added a layer of muscle just about everywhere. (Including his stomach. Abs are slowly stealing the small belly there, and while you're proud of the work he's putting in, you secretly miss the softness.)

"I don't know what you're thinking," Pedro whispers, mouth brushing against the top of your head. "But I'm so sorry, honey." He rubs the length of your spine, brow furrowing at the feeling of unfamiliar protrusions. Stress and an irregular schedule has sent good eating habits by the wayside; your body is shrinking, while his grows.

It's been the shittiest fucking month. He's been gone, you've been busy, and neither of you have gotten enough of the other. Back in New York three days now, but this is the first night you've been able to stay in together— and, of course, you've ruined it.

"Just happy to be with you," Pedro says, as if reading your mind. "Maybe this strike'll last forever, and I'll never need to go back to Morocco. Sorry, Paul Mescal."

You laugh, despite yourself, thick with tears. "I'm gonna miss the fan selfies, I think. What're they calling you? Pee-paw?"

Pedro groans, punishing you by pulling you tighter against him. Your face is squashed against his chest. Not a hardship. He smells clean, spiced. Familiar. Comfortably, and safe.

"You're engaged to the oldest man on the internet," he laments. "In Twitter years, I'm dead."

The squished hug is short-lived, breaking as he rolls back, gently, to get a better look at you. Cups your face, puffy and wet and gross; brushes twin thumbs over your cheeks, with a fond smile.

"There you are," Pedro whispers.

"I'm okay." Another sniff, but the threat of tears seems to have subsided. Today was shit, but it's over now; you're here, together, with nothing but time and sleep ahead of you.

"It's okay that you're not, sweetheart."

But you are. You're with him.

[softpascalito]

Pedro Pascal x Reader - Here with me

Summary: During his time in Morrocco, Pedro finds himself in need of reassurance. You are happy to help.

Relationships: Pedro Pascal x Reader

WC: ~1200

Tags/Warnings: RPF, Gender-Neutral Reader, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Pedro is a softie in this, the morroco pics made me do it, pedro pascals cream-colored hat, age differene (not specified), insecurities

AO3 LINK

Notes:

i hope yall like this! it is my first time posting a pedro work so id love to hear your thoughts on it <3 also watch me settle the six pack debate through the power of fanfiction.

_________________________________________________________

“I look stupid.” He muttered under his breath as he stood in front of the mirror. You weren't sure if he was talking to you or to himself. Still, you had caught every word.

“You do not look stupid.” “Fine, then I look- I don't know - bad.”

You sighed, finally turning your full attention towards the man you adored so much.

“You do not-” You crossed the bedroom in a few strides until you were behind him and could gently brush your hand over his back:” look stupid or bad-” He opened his mouth to protest but you immediately cut him off:” or whatever other similar attributes you have prepared.”

Pedro grumbled but it soon turned into a soft sigh as you carefully brushed the wrinkles out of his white tee and stood on your tiptoes to look over his shoulder, glancing at him in the mirror. He looked more than good, in your opinion. His skin was sunkissed, the colorful trunks went well with the basic shirt, he had put on some comfy sneakers and the light fedora he'd brought from Los Angeles. His hair was still a little messy after the shower you had shared and bits of it stuck out below his hat, making him all the more adorable.

You pressed a small kiss to his shoulder, just below his neck. The skin was soft and warm, having absorbed the sun throughout the long day you had spent exploring the streets of Morocco.

“You were so excited about bringing the hat when we packed, baby.” You mumbled to him, searching for his gaze through the mirror in front of you. He still didn't look at you, his eyes instead wandering over his body once more. Your lips were still on his skin and the vibrations of your voice carried into it as you spoke:” What's going on?” Pedro let out another small sigh:” Its nothing, I'm sorry. Just a long week.”

You knew shooting had been draining, the long hours combined with the physicality of the role and the heat- you admired how well he coped with it. Then again, maybe he didn't. Very gently, you stepped back and lowered your heels to the floor, returning to your normal height. You placed a hand on either side of his hips and slowly nudged him to turn around until he was fully facing you. Your left hand stayed on his hip while your right one wandered up to cup his face. He hadn't shaved in a while and you ran your thumb over his beard.

“What's going on?” You asked again, gazing up at him. You both knew he couldn't resist opening up to you. Not when you were looking at him like that. The words almost tumbled out of his mouth.“I just want to go somewhere without it ending up on social media. I want to go out with unwashed hair and a stained shirt and not worry about repeating an outfit or looking stupid or old or-” You shushed him gently, your hand still caressing his cheek.

“Baby, you can. Noone will mind, I promise.” He still looked doubtful. You didn't want to push him but at the same time you felt like you wanted to get to the bottom of this. You knew he needed the reassurance.

“You're afraid you'll look old?” He shrugged a little but it was accompanied by a small nod. So, that was it. “Can I ask something?” Your thumb had begun to draw circles on his cheek and he gave another silent nod.

“Are you scared that someone will think you're old?” You paused for a moment:” Or are you scared I will?”

His large brown eyes finally met yours and-

Oh.

Pedro barely had time to react as you leaned up and pressed a desperate kiss to his lips, trying to convey how much you adored him, making up for the words you couldn't find. He wrapped his arms around you, almost protectively and it suddenly occurred to you that he must've had that thought for a while.

“Pedrito, I- I don't think that.” You mumbled:” What makes you think I do? And don't say it was the stupid hat, you've worn that before.” He kissed you again, buying some time before he had to reply. “When we were at the beach a few weeks ago and I didn't have my reading glasses with me.” You knew exactly what he meant. And you immediately felt guilty. It had been a rare day off for the two of you and you'd decided to pack up some towels, books and snacks and spend the day at the beach. And then he had realized that he'd forgotten his reading glasses. And you had teased him about it.

“Baby, I didn't mean- Why didn't you say anything?” You asked quietly. You had pulled back a little more, to properly study his face. Just like you, he seemed to struggle with finding the right words. “I didn't want to make a whole deal about it. And I didn't- I didn't mind it. At first.” He explained gently. His voice was low and his gaze kept flickering away from your face:” I don't want you to miss out on things just because I, well, just because I'm older.” You couldn't help but let out a small giggle at that. Pedro stared at you like you had gone crazy:” What's so funny about that?” He demanded. You grinned up at him, your thumb still rubbing circles into his skin:” I'm not some rich Hollywood guy with a fancy yacht. I'm not going to trade you in for some young hunk with a six pack.”

You could tell he still tried to look a little mad but the corners of his lips curled a little as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his smile. That earned him another small laugh from you. “With this role, I might have a six pack soon, you know.” He teased as he finally looked down at you again. Your hand that had rested on his hips slowly moved under his shirt, finding his small, soft belly.

”As long as it makes for a comfortable pillow, I don't mind either.”

That elicited a small smile from Pedro. He watched your expression closely as you shifted, turning a little more serious. “I knew how old you were when we started dating. In fact, I'm pretty sure I knew before that.” You said gently:” I don't mind. I want to be with you. Siempre.” Your thumb had found the small, bald spot in his beard and rested in it for a moment. They fit perfectly. “Okay.” He whispered. And then it was his turn to try and convey an emotion he couldn't quite grasp with a kiss.

You understood.

After a while, you pulled back and studied his face for a moment, the way his eyes seemed a little watery, the shape of his nose, his slightly reddened lips. You smiled.

“If you wear the hat, I'll wear the dress.” It took him only a second to catch on:” The yellow one?” He asked, his face lighting up at the idea. ”The yellow one.” You confirmed.

You'd never seen him wear a hat with more pride.

[sunshine-theseus]

El Viaje | Sam Kerr x Reader

Words: 2.3k Summary: Sam’s done her ACL and the journey proves to be tough

“Sam? It’s 12:30 in the morning, what’s wrong?” my voice is groggy and hoarse as I pick up the phone.

Nothing is said in reply but a small shuttering gasp trickles through the speaker. I was very familiar with that sound. The one of Sam trying not to cry. It alarms me, so I scurry to sit up against the hotel headboard and turn on the lamp, as if it will make me concentrate better on the conversation.

“Chicka? What happened? Shouldn’t you be in training?” the Chelsea team had travelled to Morocco for some hot weather training, leaving them only 1 hour ahead of London but 9 hours behind Brisbane, so the timing was odd.

“I-” she chokes on her words and my heart clenches, as if I could feel whatever pain and sadness she was feeling.

“I won’t be going back to training. Not for a while.” my fiancé’s usual candour isn’t anywhere to be seen as she drags out the admission.

“Sam what are you going on about?”

Another one of those almost silent cries escapes her mouth.

“Sam please telling me what the fuck is going on or I’ll call Emma.” I grow even more worried as I flick through all the possibilities of what could have happened in my mind.

“Can we facetime? I want to see your face, it’ll make me feel better.” I’m requesting the facetime call before she can even finish, and it takes no time at all for me to be met with her face.

Her solemn, tear stained, lip quivering face. I nearly start crying just looking at her. I’ve only seen her look so defeated a small number of times, but it never gets easier. I desperately want to magically transport to Morocco and just hold her.

“Oh Sam, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I did my ACL.” The words don’t process in my head for a moment. She can’t possibly have said what I think she said.

“What?” it’s a whisper of disbelief but her face shows me everything I need to know. I feel sick as I stare into her eyes. Eyes that are usually so full of light and joy, dark and sullen in pain.

“I’m flying to Morocco. Next flight out.”

“No, we leave the day after tomorrow, it’d be a waste.”

“Sam-”

“You’re spending time with Sharn and Tameka, I’ll be okay.” The mention of my best friend and our Matildas teammate nearly makes me want to laugh.

“I’ve been here for 5 days; I went to their game last night, they’ll understand. Sharn’s coming to England in a couple months anyway. Say the word and I’ll fly out, whenever you want.” I can see the fight on her face.

“Please fly home, to England. I need you.” Tears well up in her eyes and I can feel them fighting on my waterline as well.

“Of course chicka.”

-

My flight gets in an hour before the team’s is supposed to. I sit in the secluded hallway I know they’ll eventually make their way down, leg bouncing non-stop and hands sweating. I’ve seen Sam injured, I’ve nursed her back to health, I’ve done everything you can imagine, but an ACL is different. Worse in every way.

Soon I begin to hear the chatter and footsteps often associated with the Chelsea team and rapidly stand up to greet them. Emma is the first one around the corner, closely followed by Jessie and Zećira. Each of them greet me and pass on a sorrowful smile before continuing down the hall.

It takes a little longer for Sam to make her way around, surrounded by Millie, Guro, and Erin; all of them are laughing and smiling at something Erin said. It takes me a few seconds but I’m taking off down the hall to meet the group who don’t notice me until I’m right in front of them. Where I usually would pick Sam up and spin her around, I have to stop myself, the crutches serving as a reminder to why I’m back early.

“Chickadee!” she smiles at me with that beautiful, joyful smile I’m used to, and I can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to both her cheeks. Eventually she presses her own lips to mine, clearly sick of waiting.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam rolls her eyes, knowing I’m going to start fussing over her, and the girls around us laugh.

“I’m good. Millie’s been nursing me.” The friendly giant blonde grins proudly at us at the comment.

“Good, but now you have an actual nurse to look after you.” I grab Sam’s bag that Erin has a hold of, and the backpack that’s in Guro’s hand.

-

When we get home, I heave both lots of our bags through the house before cautiously trailing behind Sam who makes her way to our bedroom. She drops down onto the bed and I get nervous at the way her leg bounces as it absorbs the shock. I kneel down to start untying her shoes as she peels off her Chelsea travel jacket.

“I can do it you know?” Sam was ever the stubborn individual, and rarely wanted to accept help.

“Let me look after you.” I press a soft kiss to her injured knee before I continue taking off her shoes and socks.

I grab one of her oversized sweaters and shorts for her to slip into then head into our bathroom, running the warm water into the tub. I light some candles and turn off the lights, knowing she prefers the mellow light in times like these, before I hear her making her way on her crutches. It takes a little adjusting but I eventually help her slip into to sudsy water, then leave her to relax as I order some food for dinner.

Not long after I exit the room, I hear a splash and a groan of frustration, and race to see what’s happened. Sam’s body is still deep beneath the surface of the water but there’s a large puddle that slowly disperses at the base of the tub.

“What happened?” I pull my towel off the rack and begin to clean up the mess.

“I tried to get out.” the defeat is clear on Sam’s face, and it helps dampen the flame of anger that bubbled in my chest.

“Sammy-”

“I can’t do that, I know. I just… I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”

“Darl, I know it’s hard, and it will be hard for the next 9 months, but I’m here for you. I want to help you. You’re not alone.” Gently, I run a hand through her drying hair, occasionally massaging her scalp.

I can see the cogs turning in her head as I wait for an answer. The only thing I get is her leaning over and resting her head on my shoulder. It’s not comfortable for either of us but it’s the gesture that matters.

~~~~~

A few days later Sam has to go in for surgery. I have a shift at the hospital, so I drive her in, and take a goofy photo of her before she gets prepped, before I start my rounds. I find it hard, lacking my usual charm and overly-kind demeaner as I visit Carl, a 63 year old Irish man who came to spend a few years in England after retiring from teaching history in Australia, before going home to Ireland. He doesn’t stop talking. I don’t mind though; his stories never disappoint. He came in for a hip surgery but due to some complications he’s had to stay a little longer, and come in for regular stays every few months.

“You’re worried about something.” He likes to study me as I move around.

“Not when I’ve got you, hey Carl?”

“You’re pouring yourself a cup of tea. You don’t like tea. Which is appalling by the way.” I relax my shoulders and take in a deep breath. He knows me too well.

“It’s my fiancé-”

“Sam! Oh how is she!? I love young love.” A warm and reminiscent smile flitters across his face.

“Yes, well, she tore her ACL during training in Morocco. She has surgery today.”

“Bloody hell the poor thing! She’ll be okay love.” Carl pats my arm in reassurance, and I hate to admit I feel much more at peace.

-

Around 4 hours into my shift, I get called to take over a new patient for one of the other nurses who had to leave after their surgery. I walk down the fluorescently lit hallways, my shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Sam should just about be finished surgery too.

I pushed open the dark wood door but come to a stop when I see who’s snoring in the bed. My fiancé, ever so peaceful and beautiful, yet still looking so tired. There are band-aids over different points of her knee, barely propped up with a roll of cloth.

I check her vitals, not yet giving her more pain meds, and take a seat beside her. I take her hand in mine, rubbing my thumb back and forth over the dark vein, and admire her. Despite the hospital attire and the ruffled hair that falls out of her hair-tie, she looks so handsome.

-

I get paged to visit a few other patients before Sam gets the chance to wake up, but by the time I get back, basically the whole Chelsea team is sitting around her room or in the hall.

Jessie’s the one talking Sam when I walk back through the door, vials and food in hand.

“Time for lunch and meds!” I scoot in beside Emma and LJ to have access to her IV after she finishes the food, the girls around us greeting me.

“Chickadee! You’re here.” Sam reaches a hand out for me and puckers her lips but I stand back.

“Nuh uh. Here we’re nurse and patient, not fiancés. Now I need you to eat some food so I can give you your medication.” I can see her desire to fight back on her face, but I know she won’t ignore the orders when I’m actually on the clock.

When she finishes the horrid food, I put clean gloves on and fill the new needle with morphine, then turn back to her. I have to fiddle with the IV for a moment but eventually manage to inject the medicine.

“You might get sleepy; I’ll be back soon to see how you’re doing and adjust the dose if need be, okay? There’s the emergency button if you need me sooner.” I bid her and the team adieu.

~~~~~

I don’t get to take Sam home with me after my shift, instead having to pick her up the next day.

While she’s wheeled out to the car, crutches resting on her lap, I carry her brace and compression bands and whatever else she’s been given. Sam sits across the backseat, making sure to keep her knee elevated, and I make sure to drive as safely as possible.

-

When we get home, we find ourselves in bed, Sam’s head resting on my chest as I play with her hair, Derry Girls playing on the TV.

“I love you so much, thank you for being my nurse.” A kiss is pressed lightly to my collar bone and I smile.

“I’ll always look after you, my beautiful girl.” She looks up at me with those big chocolate brown eyes and I think I fall in love with her all over again.

I lean down and attach my lips to her’s but as we pull away, she turns serious.

“You owe me a lot of kisses for refusing to kiss me in the hospital.”

“Of course darling.” I simply kiss her again. Anything for my beautiful girl.

~~~~~

“You don’t have to baby me Y/N for fuck sake!” so much for ‘thanks for looking after me’.

“I’m not babying you Sam! I’m making sure you don’t push yourself too far!”

“I can lift things without you hovering over me!”

“You were trying to lift boxes that I can barely lift at full health!” she was really getting on my last nerve.

“I just want you to leave me alone for 5 fucking minutes! God I’m so sick of you!” that makes me pause, pain encapsulates my heart and tears floor my waterline.

My mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say to that? So I turn around, picking Helen up on my way, and head to our bedroom. The door slams shut behind me, rattling the walls, the artwork threatening to drop and shatter to the floor. Not dissimilar to my heart.

I hear Sam groan but nothing else echoes down the hall for a while. Until I hear a crash. Without a thought I’m opening the door and rushing across the wood floors to find the girl I’m angry at.

All I find is her sitting on the ground, surrounded by piles of wood. She’s untouched.

“Sam…” it’s more of a sigh of relief than anything else.

“I just- I wanted to make it myself to apologise. And also to prove myself right.”

“You don’t need to make a whole fucking bookshelf for me. You shouldn’t. Your words hurt, but I don’t want you hurt.” I slowly help her get up, although it’s a struggle.

“I’m really really sorry. I didn’t mean it, that I’m sick of you. I could never be sick of you. You’re too kind.” A kiss is pressed to my cheek.

“And pretty.” Another to my opposite cheek.

“And perfect.” She kisses my lips, love flowing between us as I kiss back.

“I don’t deserve you. You’ve done nothing but take care of me and I’ve been all ‘Oscar the Grouch’ on you.” I lead her over to the couch and pull her against me.

“You could turn into Oscar the Grouch and I’d still love and take care of you. I will find you in every lifetime, and love you endlessly.”

[ahmed25646]

What promotes well-being at work?

What promotes well-being at work?

Since the health crisis has upset the world of work, the question of quality of life at work has gone from a logic that is no longer limited to simple compliance with legal obligations to a logic of strategic choice and social responsibility. The desire to go to work in the morning, having the feeling of mastering your workload or even maintaining good relations at work… these are some of the…

[chelseachilly]

serenity

pairing: reader x ben chilwell a/n: just a quick little fic bc i needed to write something after ben's photo dump yesterday lol, and to get the writing juices flowing after way too long! i have a much longer fic that's almost done which i can't wait to share with you all soon 🤍 warnings: none, just fluff! word count: 1k

-

benchilwell via stories

yourusername via stories

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been so content as you are right now.

You’ve always loved summer holidays, but never more than since you started dating Ben. He’s so busy throughout the year that you often get very little time together, so when the season ends, you’re more than ready for some uninterrupted relaxation with your boyfriend. 

You know it’s bittersweet this year, as you were both hoping that Ben would make the Euros squad after a somewhat disappointing season and more injuries. You truly believe he deserved to be there, but you’ve decided there’s no point in dwelling on what could’ve been. So despite the letdown of Ben missing out on another major tournament, you’ve both made the most of your holiday so far.

After he went to the F1 in Monaco with the boys, you met up with him and a few of his mates in the Caribbean for the week. You’re all staying at a gorgeous private villa that took your breath away when you first saw it. It’s now your last night here before Ben flies to Marrakech for some time with his family and you have to go back to London for work, which you’re absolutely dreading after the most perfect week with him. 

You’re currently curled up with Ben on a lounge chair, just the two of you alone on the gorgeous terrace with an infinity pool overlooking the ocean. The sun is setting, and you’ve never felt more at peace. 

“I don’t wanna leave this place,” you sigh, burying your face in his neck. 

After a long day of swimming and snorkelling off the boat provided by the villa, you’re both tired and enjoying the tranquility of this moment. The rest of your group is inside watching the day’s Euros highlights, and you know Ben would’ve done the same and ended up lost in his own bad thoughts if you let him. Instead, you grabbed him by the hand after dinner and dragged him out here, receiving no complaints from him as you laid down almost completely on top of him with your legs intertwined and your arm around his waist.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Ben counters, and you know what argument he’s going to make. “Come with me to Morocco. Alex and my mum would love it if you came.”

“Babe, you know I would if I could,” you tell him sincerely. “But I can’t take any more time off right now. I’m sorry.”

Ben already knows this, so he doesn’t argue you further, though you know he wants to. He just tugs you slightly closer to him and drops a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“Promise you’ll call me every day, though? I want to live vicariously through you while I’m back to the boring office life,” you murmur, your cheek pressed to his chest. 

What you really mean is that you want to check in on him every day, to make sure he’s not going down the rabbit hole of regret and self-loathing like he has in the past. You hate that you can’t be there with him in person for the entire summer break, but you’ll be damned if you don’t do everything in your power to make sure he’s okay, even from afar. 

“I will,” Ben agrees, slipping his hand under the t-shirt of his that you’re wearing and gently rubbing the skin of your lower back. “You don’t have to worry about me, baby.”

You know he can see it in your furrowed brow when someone talks about football and your overly clingy behaviour this week that you’re concerned about him.

“I love you too much to not worry, Ben,” you say, a slight shiver running up your spine as he continues to caress your skin. 

“I know,” Ben says with another kiss to your head. “And that’s why I’m the luckiest man alive. But I swear I’m okay. It was a bit tough to take at first, but I can’t really complain when I’m in paradise with my best mates and my girl.”

“I’m glad you’ve had a good holiday, you deserve it,” you smile. “What was your favourite bit?”

“Hmm…convincing Tom we saw a shark while we were swimming today was up there,” he chuckles, making you laugh as remember the sheer look of terror on your friend’s face. “I think he might’ve pissed himself.”

“I think he’s still mad at us,” you laugh. “Worth it, though.”

“But mostly just being here with you,” Ben says softly, running a hand through your hair as you pull back and rest your head on his chest to look at him properly. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

You cup his face with one hand, running your thumb across the beard he’s grown out a bit and staring into his eyes. There’s a stunning view of the sun setting over the shimmering blue sea just to your right, but you think you prefer this one. 

“I love you, too.”

Ben smiles before leaning in and kissing you, your lips meeting gently. It’s a slow, drawn-out kiss, neither of you wanting this moment to end. 

“We should go inside and pack,” you mutter when you pull away, painfully aware of your early flight tomorrow. 

“In a few minutes,” Ben says, wrapping his arms around you completely and pulling you back into his chest. “Let’s enjoy this a little while longer.”

You allow yourself to relax into his embrace, humming in contentment as he continues to stroke your hair. 

Your real life and responsibilities may be awaiting you back in London, but for tonight, you’re going to soak up every last second of this serenity with your boyfriend.

yourusername

liked by benchilwell, masonmount and others yourusername Perfect week, missing this place (and this boy) already 🤍🌴 view all comments benchilwell Love you ❤️ sophiaaemelia looks like paradise! miss you 🫶🏼

benchilwell

liked by yourusername, madders and others benchilwell Serenity. view all comments yourusername 😍🥰❤️ masonmount Love it mate!

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a/n: please let me know if you liked this, all comments/feedback appreciated 😊

[layavert-sarl]

[bijoumikhawal]

I mentioned this in the tags of a post the other day, but since NK is high profile and getting a lot of videos shared, and I saw someone today decry a short speech one of their rabbis gave as "extremist", I guess I'll make a post too

Neturei Karta is a Litvish Ultra-Orthodox/Haredi antizionist group. In my experience, they are the most high profile antizionist group that ties that stance to their religious practice within Judaism, but they are not the only group (the Satmar are also generally antizionist, and they're a larger group, but they don't like NK).

As I mentioned yesterday, there was an incident with Iran- one of two, actually, but this one gets brought up more- where NK sent speakers to a conference specifically for the purposes of defending the existence of the Holocaust, as several Holocaust deniers were in attendance. The speaker specifically chosen had his grandparents die in the Holocaust. However, he also was blunt in stating his opinion that Zionists used the Holocaust to oppress others, Zionists had been collaborators and thwarted efforts to save Jewish lives. This prompted the Chief Ashkenazi Rabbi to call for their excommunication, essentially, and for the Satmar and broader Haredi movement to tell people to stay away from them. These remarks are complicated; many incidents one could classify as collaboration were Zionists trying to move Jews out of Europe, to save lives. However, when the speaker said the third statement, I'm fairly certain he was genuinely expressing his own intergenerational trauma. Early Zionists did indeed, have a fair amount of animosity towards Orthodox Jews. At one point Theodore Herzl (a founder of the modern Zionist movement) did express the opinion that Jews should convert en masse to Christianity, and the feeling was that the Orthodox who refused should be left to their fate. This accusation is a response to a very real tension among Jews that existed at the time. And the collaborationism was not always about saving lives; the Lehi gang, which committed the Deir Yassin massacre, sought out an alliance with the Nazis on several occasions, and expressed a desire for a totalitarian nationalist state.

Another incident was one where NK met with heads of state in early 2006, particularly Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, after criticizing other Jews for referring to remarks he made as antisemitic, and did an interview with Iranian press where they stated the Holocaust was used as a political tool by Zionists, that Zionism is "not Jewish, but political", and that not all Jews are Zionists. They also clearly stated that when they say they are not Zionists, they do not mean withdrawal to 67 borders, but a full dissolution of state, where Jews still can live with Palestinians. Later on in 2006, Ahmadinejad made comments about the reality of the Holocaust that prompted Haroun Yashayaei, one of the most prominent members of the Iranian Jewish community, to publicly speak put against him (and no, he didn't get arrested over that. He actually is also a movie producer and got an award in 2008).

It should be noted that in West Asia and North Africa, Iran is one of only a few countries that still has a significant Jewish population. The others are Turkey (14,500), Azerbaijan (7,200), Morocco (2,100), and Tunisia (1,000). For those unaware, this is significant because during the 1920s and 30s, many colonial governments stripped WANA Jews of citizenship, and in the 40s-60s, many post colonial WANA countries forcibly expelled local Jews. As a result, the centuries long presence of Jews in countries such as Egypt or Syria is down a hundred or fewer individuals in many cases. Ideologically, I do not support Iran's government because it's a theocratic state that treats Kurds like shit, but all of NK's interactions with Iran must be contextualized in light of this. This is not me using WANA Jews as a rhetorical device either: my paternal country, Egypt, which I wish I could so much as visit, is such a country. The 2016 Iranian census puts the country's Jewish population at 9,826. That's a number that I would weep to see reported in Egypt, and the second highest of any West Asia or North African country.

Personally while I hold no serious ideological disagreement with NK over antizionism, I do not wholly support them for other reasons (gender/sexuality politics reasons primarily). I bring up these incidents with Iran because in the past I've seen people claim they are Holocaust deniers, or that they think Jewish people brought the Holocaust on themselves. I have never seen a NK member say ANYTHING of that sort, and the idea that Jews bring antisemitism in any form on themselves is in fact an actual belief Herzl held. The closest I've heard is when NK distributed leaflets after a Chabad was attacked in Mumbai where they criticized Chabad for being in bed with Zionists. I'll be linking some articles in the replies of this post about this, including the text of the actual speech given at the Tehran conference so it can be read in full.

[carolmunson]

eddie munson x fem!reader | steve harrington x fem!reader

COMING SOON TO THEATERS. A FANFICTION ADAPTION OF ACADEMY AWARD WINNING FILM 'TITANIC' WRITTEN BY:

@loveshotzz @newlips and @carolmunson

ORIGINAL SCREEN PLAY + FILM WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY JAMES CAMERON. ALL OF THOSE ICONIC SCENES AND LINES ARE, OF COURSE, CREDITED TO WHOM CREDIT IS DUE: JAMES CAMERON

PREVIEW:

Wednesday, April 10th, 1912 Southampton, London

The blare of the fog horn is unmissable, rattling the conversations in a small pub off the White Star Dock. Even through the dusty windows she was clear as day, big as anything anyone had ever seen. Large black body met with a red base, multiple decks, and four large smoke stacks. The ship seemed to go on forever, her beauty unmatched to anyone who had seen it – a behemoth on the seas. A glory – a masterpiece.

The doors of the pub fluttered open and closed all morning as it edged closer and closer to noon. Pints poured by the dozens, the hundreds – half the country coming to the piers to see off the Ship of Dreams and its passengers. The bar was alight with chatter, mixing in with the roar of people from outside — hundreds of people halfway to boarding, waving and kissing goodbye. Beer glasses clinked and people cheered while they watched a long line of high end cars gleam in the spring sun as they rolled down the dock. Precious cargo full of Europe and America’s elite. 

Reporters and bellhops alike flock to them like flies, pub patrons ogling through the dusty windows while they exit their buggies.

Among the commotion, the endless chatter and screeching of pub seats, sat four men oblivious to the spectacle. They’re sitting around a small table with sweat on their brows as the April sun pours golden over them. Eyes burning over their cards as cigarette smoke wafts over their heads — the players lost in the fog during an intense round of poker.

The pot was mostly meager — a few pounds and swaths of change, a pocket watch, a penknife. But in the center was the crown jewel, a prize that would change the winner’s life forever. Two pieces of pressed parchment reading: 

The men leer over their hands, not a friendly face between them — the tickets were not the dealer’s, but two of the players who had bet the wrong guys. Guys who had been beyond the break and back again, meeting in Morocco, then Paris, and traveling together back to London — guys who had never lost a game of poker. 

Eddie places his bet, pulling a small silver ring off of his right ring finger and tossing it in the center. 

“Are you kidding?” Jeff asks from his left, “That’s everything we have.” 

Eddie grins at him, taking a drag of his cigarette. The sun dances in his big brown eyes like he knows something the rest of them don’t, “When you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.” 

The two other players speak to each other heatedly in Swedish after one of them hits for a new card. The outburst makes it clear that things aren’t looking good for the Swedes — it makes Eddie’s heart leap. Maybe this is it, maybe he’s finally gonna get back to the states. “Sven?” he asks the man next to him. “Hit,” he replies, putting down a card and taking another. Eddie follows suit, furrowing his brow while his bangs meet his eyelashes. Sweat collects on the nape of his neck where his dark curls are twisted up in a graphite drawing pencil – a trick he picked up from women he met in France. He puffs the smoke from his mouth, eyes meeting the Swede across from him who looks like he couldn’t be having a worse day. 

“Alright,” he says, putting his cigarette down on the ashtray between then, “Moment of truth. Somebody’s life’s about to change.” 

He leans back in his chair and looks at his friend, sweat beading at the edge of his hairline and glinting off of his deep skin, “Jefferey?” 

Jeff throws his cards down with a roll of his eyes. “Nothing,” Eddie nods. 

“Nothing,” Jeff says curtly through a grit in his teeth. His heart pounds in his chest while he looks at the last of their money on the table – they can’t afford to lose. 

“Olaf?” Eddie asks, the Swede throws down his cards in a huff, “Nothin’.” 

“Sven?” 

Sven puts down his cards and Eddie frowns, “Oh…two pair.” 

His shoulders droop while he looks at his own cards, eyes lingering on the silver ring in the middle of the table, “I’m sorry, Jeff.” 

“What do you mean ‘sorry’?” You idiot! You bet all of our bloody money! You imbecile, you–”

“I’m sorry, you’re not going to be able to visit your cousins in Paris again for a long time,” Eddie says with a serious edge. Jeff quirks his brow, triggering Eddie’s winning smile behind plush pink lips. 

“‘Cause we’re goin’ to America!” he exclaims, slamming his cards down on the table, “FULL HOUSE, BOYS!” 

Jeff leaps from his chair in the back of the pub, reaching for the tickets on the on the table, “WE’RE GOIN’ TO BACK TO AMERICA!” 

“I’m goin’ home!” Ed exclaims while the boys hug tightly. The pub cheers for them, pints still flowing — men and women with red cheeks having no idea what they’re cheering for until a fight breaks out between the Swedes. 

Eddie laughs, hoisting his bag up over his shoulder and Jeff does the same — their white shirts dirtied with the stains of the day before.

“I can’t believe it,” Jeff says, teeth shining in a grin across his face, “Goin’ back to America!” 

“Titanic’s going back to America, boys,” the barkeep says, pointing at the clock, “In five minutes!” 

[geeoharee]

I posted about this last year a bit, but it's now officially time to Post About It

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

This is the FIRST PAGE of the book. Fucking strap in (and then take that tourniquet off before you lose the arm)

There's a much better post somewhere about how intravenous morphine use (Watson only mentions morphine once, I personally don't think there's solid evidence of him using it, but that's debated - anyway) was considered effeminate. Syringes were for girls. Men smoked opium. So that's already setting Holmes up as suspiciously unmanly within the culture, but it's the penetration imagery here that absolutely kills me. It's SO unsubtle. Was it necessary to say 'thrust', Watson

He does also make a point of describing the syringe as tiny, every time it shows up. Do with that what you will...

Oh, yeah, and 'fingers' with three adjectives. Three is too many, Watson. We know you like his long fingers, you've said.