#radio free monday

[copperbadge]

As someone who's very conscious of individual fundraising, between my job and my work with Radio Free Monday, I'm seeing an uptick lately in something that I want to talk about. But it's sensitive, so I'm asking you all to read this in the spirit of help, and understand that any negative tone you take away from this is not my intention.

We live in communities: neighborhood, friends groups, workplaces, fandoms. Part of the point of community is that we help others in that community. But there's an aversion to the idea of non-reciprocal aid, of accepting financial help that won't be repaid. And on the one hand I understand; nobody wants to be perceived as a freeloader. But I don't think we can move past the idea of transactive relationships, an ultimately capitalist idea of how we relate to others, until we stop stigmatizing it, even when we're the beneficiaries of it.

I see a lot of "normally I would never ask for help" and "I hate to ask for money" and "I'd rather die than accept charity but" and I'm sure that's true. But...you don't need to say it.

If someone is inclined to give, it doesn't matter. If someone isn't inclined to give, it doesn't help. Charitable giving on the individual level is not a sales situation. There is no magic combination of words that will induce someone to give if they weren't going to. And the more we protest that normally we wouldn't accept, the more we loudly imply that there is shame in asking, the longer it will take us to achieve a compassionate and supportive society.

And also, frankly, you're making other people feel like shit for asking too. Which I know is not something anyone wants.

If you need to ask for money that sucks and I'm sorry. I've been there and it's a real bind to be in. But I also know that in those situations energy is short, and this is one less thing to expend energy on -- instead of protesting your aversion to asking, put that energy into doing one thing to make it easier for folks to give -- make your payment app username a hyperlink or a QR code, or make a carrd with your giving options and link that.

Instead of "I would never ask for money normally" say "I know there are many kind people out there who will see this." Instead of "I hate to make this post" say "You all understand how difficult life can get." The nonprofit world has done a lot of studying of what makes people give, and positivity is a huge aspect of it. Opening with a negative, particularly a negative that people see constantly in other solicitations, is more likely to hurt your chances than to help.

Don't follow a script that continues to debase and abuse you. Mainly because it's not actually helping; there's no upside to prostrating yourself before an imaginary combative donor. Talk to the people who are actually likely to give, who recognize themselves in your words when you talk about kindness and compassion and who don't need you to shame yourself in order to be worthy of support. This is not to scold or shame anyone further, but to offer an alternative that is kinder to you and more helpful to the people who want to help.

Do yourselves and your fellow sufferers the kindness of dignity; lord knows you've had enough unkindness already.

[nivchara-yahel]

Please Help Two Queer, Disabled Siblings Stay Housed!!

Hey, y'all! We could really use help ... Our local synagogue was supposed to help us pay our January rent last week, but we found out five days later (Sunday night) that the board staged a coup against the treasurer instead, and they weren't going to help us after all. This was after our landlord had already waited past the date they normally start eviction proceedings, and we've been trying to raise what we need all week since then. We've raised some, but not enough.

Our landlord still hasn't filed, but our luck could run out at any time here. We still need $450 to get caught up and avoid eviction this month. If they file with the court, we'll have court costs and a much shorter time limit to get it done. Edit: My sibling had to go to the ER Friday because they were passing a kidney stone, and we had to spend money on cab fare, meds, and supplies. We now need to raise $530 to pay our rent.

My sibling and I are both disabled and chronically ill, we have no car, and our community doesn't have live-in shelters of any kind, so we'd literally be out on the streets if we get evicted. My sibling also had to go to the ED on Friday (1/19) with a kidney stone. We are too sick to be homeless.

If we could get 45 53 people to give $10, we'd be set. If you can only give $1, that still helps us get closer to our goal, and we'd really appreciate it. If you can give more, of course, that is also great. If you can't give anything, a repost on Tumblr or any of your other social media would also be so helpful.

Our pay apps are:

Paypal: nivcharayahel

Venmo: heathmarie31

CashApp: $heathmarie31

Thank you so much for your attention and help!

[dxppercxdxver]

day two of the tiny terror being missing. worried the coyotes got him, since they seem to be getting bolder and coming near the house more often. i don’t wanna give up Yet, ik cats can be gone way longer than this and ace has always been a temperamental little jerk but also. where is our cat :((

[levynite]

Scammers ahoy

Oh, I guess it's my turn to suddenly be contacted by a complete stranger (whose username I've never seen even silently reblogging or liking my reblogs, I know who y'all are, I give my stats a glance through regularly and I don't care about follower count so y'all keep doing what you like) where they suddenly start following me AND THEN send me ask to apologise for disturbing me but hey "click on the post about my dying dog?"

and when you hover over their name the bio literally just boils down to an illegible name in ornate gothic cursive font (tnlie???), 23, DM me. And you can just see a photo reblog of a big fluffy dog laying down but because the hover preview is sooooo small you can't tell whether it's a sick or sleeping dog, just enough to sprinkle little clues together to tug at the heartstrings of less jaded bitches than I.

(I smell spam scam spammy scammy bot)

Everything about this sounds precisely like a fucking scam OR a trojan virus that will infect my only computer as soon as I click on your handle to go "find the post about your supposedly dying dog" that I've never heard of nor come across.

Fuck off, reported, blocked.

*shuffles off crankily*

[thishazeleyeddemon]

Hi how are you? I hope everything is going alright, I'm sorry if I'm being annoying i just wanted to ask you if you could help me rb my post please? My life has beeb very rough and sad lately recovering is not easy 😞 sorry for bothering you and thanks, a rb helps a ton

I am going to direct you instead to @copperbadge's Radio Free Monday.

[willowingends]

Guys I'm a real adult. I'm getting wine for a Tuesday get together with coworkers to drag Met Gala outfits. 😭😭

[ourflagmeansbts]

Source (Season 2 - February 16th 2024)

filmstillsacademy: I love this image from Our Flag Means Death. It captures not only the joyful characters from the show, but also the essence of the actors themselves @davidfane_ and @sambaschutte - fun, open, and always up for a laugh. But it’s also not the whole story. What you don’t see is that an eel had nibbled Dave’s toe while setting up the shot! But the show must go on, as they say. “Our Flag Means Death is Taika Waititi and co at their best - we need more of it” is the headline from the Radio Times in the UK, where Season 2 is available to stream on BBC iPlayer. Meanwhile, the free Film Stills Launchpad intro series starts next week on Monday 19th at 8pm UK time - very excited to have so many of you signed up already! Jump into it on the link in the bio. Nicola

[mariacallous]

(JTA) — Vivian Silver, a Canadian-Israeli peace activist who had been presumed kidnapped by Hamas, was declared dead after her remains were found at her home.

Her death was confirmed to JTA by multiple activists who said they were in touch with Silver’s family. Shifra Bronznick, a prominent Jewish social justice activist and lifelong friend of Silver’s, learned from Silver’s son that her remains were identified via her DNA. 

“Vivian was always persistent in the pursuit of peace and justice,” Bronznick told JTA on Monday evening. “She was a lifelong feminist, a committed activist, a fearless leader, an exceptional friend and a loving mother, wife and grandmother.”

Until Monday, Silver, 74, was assumed to be among the more than 200 people held captive by Hamas. She is now among the approximately 1,200 people murdered by the terror group in its Oct. 7 attack. Hamas terrorists killed more than 100 people at Silver’s home community, Kibbutz Be’eri, in one of the day’s worst massacres. 

She is one of several peace activists to have been killed or captured by Hamas on Oct. 7. Hayim Katsman, 32, who worked with Palestinians in the southern West Bank, was killed in his home in another community on the Gaza border. Yocheved Lifschitz, who helped ferry Palestinians from Gaza to medical care in Israel, was taken captive by Hamas and released in late October; her husband Oded, also involved in peace work, remains missing.

“A woman of infinite, deep, ongoing compassion, humanity and dedication to Arab-Jewish partnership and peace. Yes. Peace,” Anat Saragusti, an Israeli writer and feminist activist, wrote on social media in a post announcing Silver’s death. John Lyndon, the executive director of the Alliance for Middle East Peace, wrote that “she wanted to be free & at peace. Rest in power, Vivian.”

Silver’s sons, like the family members of many of those presumed hostage, lobbied extensively for her release, traveling the country and speaking to journalists around the world to call attention to her story. One son, Yonatan Zeigen, stood out for his calls for a ceasefire, an unusual position in Israel. He said he had learned from his mother to seek peace above all else.

“I would tell her, ‘Israel is dead. It’s hopeless,’ and she would say, ‘Peace could come tomorrow,’” Yonatan, a social worker in Tel Aviv told the Washington Post in a story published last week.

Chen Zeigen, her other son, is a doctoral student in archaeology at the University of Connecticut. She is also survived by four grandchildren.

On the day of the massacre, according to the Washington Post story, Silver took a call with a radio station where she pushed back against the idea that the Palestinians were “insane.” In messages with Yonatan, she expressed fear, frustration and love. “I’m with you,” he wrote to her. Her last message back to him was, “I feel you.”

Born in Winnipeg, Canada, she was the longtime director of  the Arab Jewish Center For Empowerment, Equality, and Cooperation, which organized projects joining communities in Israel, the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. In 2014, after the last major war between Israel and Hamas, she helped found Women Wage Peace, which promotes peace-building actions among women from all communities and across the political spectrum.

Speaking to Forbes in 2021 for a series on women who assist the vulnerable, Silver said she remembered feeling relief after the government built bomb shelters in Kibbutz Be’eri, which had been subject to rocket fire from Gaza for more than a decade.

“In 2009, the [Israeli] government only built shelters for communities that were four kilometers from the border. The community I live in is four and a half kilometers from the border, so we didn’t have shelters then,” Silver told Forbes. “Now we do, so psychologically we feel better, and we feel safer, and in fact, we are safer, we’re a lot safer than the people in Gaza.”

At a 2018 Women Wage Peace event on the Gaza border in 2018, she said that the Israeli government needed to change its approach in order to bring peace to the area. “Show the required courage that will bring changes of policy that will bring us quiet and security,” she said then, addressing the government. “Returning to the routine is not an option.”

Appealing to women across the border, she said, “Terror does not make anything better for anyone, you too deserve quiet and peace.”

Bronznick first met Silver in the early 1970s when both were involved in organizing a national conference of Jewish women. They remained friends and, for a period of six years, took an annual trip together — the last one was to Santa Fe, New Mexico. When Silver would stay at Bronznick’s home, she would prepare an Israeli breakfast, Bronznick recalled. 

“She would be passionately advocating for peace right now,” Bronznick said, referring to Israel’s war against Hamas, launched following the Oct. 7 attack. “She never gave up on bridge-building. She never gave up on making change. She never gave up on people… She always focused on people, children, what motivated them, what meant something to them.”

Before Oct. 7, Silver was due for another stay at Bronznick’s home in New York City in early December. On top of each of the days in Bronznick’s calendar, she had written “Viv.”

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 10

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 10/? 4.6k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Progress report — subtle strides in secret and deals not forgotten.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: flirting, rule breaking, mild exploration through touch, cheating mention

Monday, November 11th 1985

The fog was lifting in you. 

You could tell when the laundry beckoned to be folded after weeks of neglect. When the act of folding it was something you wanted to do.

When the boxes that had become part of the scenery in your living room suddenly seemed like they didn’t belong there. When you wanted to cook more than just things you could put in a microwave. 

You would wake up on the weekend and ask yourself what you wanted to do with the little free time you had in the space between the chores, and the errands, and the papers you had to grade. You would ask yourself what records you wanted to listen to instead of just turning on the radio to fill the space with noise. Instead of exhausting them all without consideration.

You had been asking yourself a lot of questions over the last two weeks. The loudest of them all — What am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question every morning as you brushed on your makeup and felt more beautiful than you could remember, even since before your life came crashing down this summer. 

You would ask yourself again as you sifted through your closet, as the hangers screeched against the metal pole to dig out a dress from the back that you hadn’t worn in ages. Cream colored linen, tea length, with short puff sleeves, a square neckline, and buttons down the front. It tapered at the banded waist and flowed outward in an A line. 

The question would rattle like a pinball in your mind as you stamped your punch card in the main office. As the receptionist complimented the dress that you had on.

It would sit like a weight in your stomach as you made small talk with the other teachers. As you sat in one of the old scratchy chairs in the teachers’ lounge that suddenly bothered you less and opened the lunch you found the energy to pack again.

It would echo in your thoughts like the clicking of your footsteps down the hallway. 

What am I doing?

It was a question you didn’t know the answer to. 

All you knew was when the wind caught your dress from the haste you made toward your classroom, the smile you stole from him as you passed brought silence to it. That the way he looked at you made all noise, all else, cease. That it made you feel as timeless as he said you were. 

There was a change in him too. It was subtle, as all things were in your relationship with Eddie Munson, but ever since some force beyond yourself possessed you to utter even the barest inkling of your feelings, he was bolder.

He would sit very close to you, oftentimes with his shoulder angled behind you. An action equally as thrilling as it was terrifying. He had done this before on a few prior occasions but never like this. Never for this long. 

He always took his jacket off so you could feel his arm graze against yours as he reached to turn a page or grab a pencil. 

He would do these things so often that there was a quiet, secret part of you that wondered whether it was time to rearrange your classroom so that your desk was out of sight of the doorway. You shot the thought down the moment it intruded. As long as the desk was within eyeshot, you could ration that the possibility of being seen would hold you both accountable and encourage good behavior. That was what you told yourself anyway. 

The problem was that Eddie Munson wasn’t that concerned with good behavior.

Every time he sat beside you, your eyes, in the closeness of his proximity, would find another feature to admire. 

Today it was the rips in his jeans. The way you could see his skin straining against the slits in the fabric. How your eyes could gather the strong angles of his kneecaps and for some reason, this was doing things to you. You would steal glances at them, down and to your right, as he leaned forward in his seat next to you. 

It was always next to you. It had been for the past two weeks.

He pointed at a drawing of a humanoid demon looking creature with horns and a tail in the monster manual laid out in front of you on top of his history textbook. 

“So this is the tiefling race, which is what I played years ago before I took over as DM. I was a tiefling bard, which is like a sort of, uh, musician spellcaster.” 

That was another change — how frequently he would get off topic, and how often you would let him. 

“Very true to life then,” you said with a little chuckle.

His lips curled into a hardened smirk to smother a blinding grin. 

“You think so?” There was a whisper of pink in his cheeks. 

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” you said breathlessly.

Then he did something he hadn’t done before — he put his arm around the back of your chair.

The animal inside you preened. 

Heart racing, you turned your head ever so slightly, allowing your eyes to trace the barely there stubble that peppered his jaw before they wandered to his lips — soft, broad, and still smirking. You were close enough to feel the delicate hairs that strayed from his wild curls brush your cheek. Close enough to feel the warmth radiate from his arm against the linen of your back, like a bubble of protection, or some other magic found in the pages sprawled out before you.

It was hard to think of anything else but you managed. “What do you think I would play?”

“Mmm.” His hum was a warm vibration at your ear. It sent a ripple to your core. Ringed fingers drummed against the back of your seat. “Well, an elf, obviously,” he chuckled. “As for class, let’s see…” 

You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, scanning you as the gears turned in his head. It was quiet in the room, and in the hallway. Quiet enough to hear your heartbeat in your ears. You wondered if he could too.

“See I wanna say wizard because they get their magic from reading books, but…”

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “But?” 

“I think you’re more of a healing type."

“Oh yeah?” Your soft chuckle filled the silence and you allowed yourself, for just a moment, to relax a little bit. To lean into the warmth of his strong shoulder, enveloped in the safety of the secret you both shared. You could catch his scent from this position more than ever. The warm musk emanating from under his arm. The whisper of shampoo and cigarettes. That soft, indescribable scent of his skin. It almost made you dizzy. 

“Yeah, like a cleric, only they get their power from worshiping deities and… I don’t know if that’s really you either.”

You hummed. “Where do you think I get my power from then?”

His voice was soft but certain when he answered. “Within.”  

Flutters — straight to your core.

“Maybe that makes you more of a sorcerer then,” he pondered, tipping his head towards you. His breath feathered your cheeks, lids heavy over deep chocolate eyes. 

You met them with a breathy chuckle, feeling so girlish all of a sudden. As if suddenly you were not behind the big desk, but a much smaller one. 

The pads of his fingers brushed your arm. So delicately that at first you thought it was just a consequence of their proximity, but when they began to trace tentative, tickling circles, it was evidently intentional. 

You swallowed, your skin beneath his touch like a livewire. Every delicate hair on your arm picking up on the movements of his calloused pads, amplifying them like a radio signal straight to the animal part of you. 

He held you in his gaze, eyes wide like a question. But when the corners of your mouth gave way, gave their soft permission, the corners of his did as well. As did the corners of his eyes, crinkling in that way you loved so much. 

His fingers got braver. The circles widened into strokes. His thumb got involved. Still, you could feel his heart pounding into your shoulder. Feel the nerves emanating from under his touch. Feel the want, the care, the ache, the frustration. 

It might have been seconds. Minutes. A small, stolen eternity.

Until a voice echoed in the hallway. Suddenly there was that question again — triggered like a pinball machine, loud and intrusive as it rattled in your mind. Your eyes shot towards the door. His followed.

Eddie took his arm away, and you wondered if the strangled whine that left your chest was audible to him too.

Silence prickled the space between you, ears attuned to the noise coming closer. Eddie’s eyes were fixed on the door, his strong brows furrowed in what you could only interpret as annoyance. The voices grew louder, then passed, fading into distant echos.

The footsteps left behind an ache. Palpable, pervasive. Eddie sighed and looked at you, to which you could only respond with a resigned huff of your own. You must have looked as pitiful as you felt, because what he did next took you by surprise. It always did, even if this time it was something he had done before.

He reached under the desk and grabbed your hand.

It didn’t matter that he’d held your hand before. It didn’t matter even if he’d held it a hundred times. Your heart still leapt in your chest. The pinballs still fired off inside your head with lights and sound effects. 

But when his warm thumb rubbed circles over your icy knuckles, slow and deliberate, soothing and caring, the sounds got muffled. The flashing dimmed. Until there was nothing but a landscape of bones, and tendons, and the meat of his soft palm. Nothing but the valleys of the space between his fingers when they ventured further than they had ever gone before — in the spaces between yours.

Your back might have arched. Your eyes might have rolled back into your head if you hadn’t closed them so quickly. You wouldn’t know because the only thing you were aware of anymore was the velvet interior of the space between Eddie’s fingers. How they filled the space between yours in a warm, comfortable stretch. 

There was a line and both of you had crossed it. Held hands and jumped over it like a broom. You knew it, he knew it. There was no going back. And knowing this, there was another question you had been asking yourself for the past two weeks — how far would you go?

Would it stop at holding hands? Eddie wasn’t exactly the patient type. You’d spent enough time with him to know that much.  

You opened your eyes to the classroom. Your classroom. To the rows of desks lined up like soldiers. To the chalkboards, and bulletin boards, and concrete walls. To the big desk in front of you. To the open door.

Pinballs again. Ricocheting like thunder. Your pulse in your ears, your stomach in your seat.

You glanced down at your hands intertwined, hidden from sight in the shadow of the large, looming desk. You admired how the heel of his hand cradled yours. How perfectly they fit together. The way your forearm rested against his, warm and soft. How secure it made you feel. There was a tug in your heart, deep and thrumming. You squeezed his hand for one more precious second… and let it go.

“I— I think we should, um,” you swallowed and gingerly shut the monster manual. The ache was back, shooting through your chest like daggers. 

Eddie looked at you, the loss of your hand palpable in the subtle pain of his expression. “Right,” he said plainly. There was a knowing there too, an understanding that replaced it more quickly than you expected. 

He scratched behind his neck with the hand you could still feel the ghost of. “So it’s uh, progress report day.” You could tell by the look in his eyes that he was going somewhere with this.

You raised your eyebrows. “I’m well aware.”

He tipped his head towards you. “I believe we had an agreement.” 

“Oh?”

“You don’t remember?” 

“Remind me.”

Eddie reached into the pocket of the jacket that hung on his seat and procured a paper folded into thirds. “You told me that if I got a B in any of my classes that you would let me read one of your stories.”

Your eyes widened. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

He squinted smugly. “You did.”

You glanced toward your grading binder on the upper lefthand corner of the desk and grabbed it, “If I’m not mistaken though, you have B- in my class,” you said, thumbing through the pages to find fourth period. “Yeah, see?” you pointed to it. “Technically not a B, all those missed assignments from September still count I’m afraid,” your voice was playful.

Eddie’s mouth curled into mischievous little grin as he opened the paper in his hands, “Oh I’m not talking about your class. I believe the agreement was for one class. Any of my classes.” He pointed to a line on the page. “I got a B in shop class.” 

You leaned closer, honing in on the clearly printed B above his finger. “It’s — it’s still not the final report, just a progress report.”

“It’s still an official report,” he said smugly. 

It was almost as if he could see the gears turning in your head, the dread setting into your features.

“See, I’ve kept the promises I’ve made so far,” he brought a hand to his chest, “I think it’s only fair that you make good on yours,” he said, squinting again.

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll bring it in on Wednesday. But… it’s— it’s not totally finished. There’s still quite a bit of editing that needs to be done and—“

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. More than fine. Captivating, actually, if it’s anything like the author.” His smile was tinted with childish excitement. His eyes with a warmth made you shiver.

You tucked your hair behind your ear to distract from the heat creeping into your cheeks. “It’s been forever since I’ve even looked at it to be honest. Years actually.”

“Glad to give you an excuse then.”

______

It was a typical Tuesday night. 

A typical night of the flimsy windows in Gareth’s tidy garage trembling at the raw, unhinged, cranked-up-to-eleven power of Corroded Coffin.

“Hand of Doom” was cleaning up nicely. Dave’s bassline was solid. Gareth’s drums were neat and timely. Jeff was nailing the chord progression. Eddie’s vocals were well equipped to handle Ozzy’s range.

You’re having a good time baby

But that won’t last

Your mind’s all full of things

You’re living too fast

Go out and enjoy yourself

Don’t bottle it in

You need someone to help you

Stick the needle in

There was a perfect balance of space for his vocals to breathe over the walking bassline, then crescendo into pure instrumental power. 

A power he could feel as he attacked the strings. An agency at his fingertips as they tapped out a howling melody over the chugging chords laid out for him by Jeff and Dave, over Gareth’s thundering kick drum. 

A power that could sweep him up and away, carry him far from the crushing weight of the stares of his classmates, far from the looks of disappointment on the faces of the other teachers, far from the heaviness of his feelings.

Swept away in a wave of sound, there was only space in his hindbrain for the patterns his fingers made on the fretboard. For his breath to leave his chest in wailing song. 

The last chord of rung out through Gareth’s garage with a thunderous rattle. 

All four of them looked at each other with smiles and nods. Gareth banged out an extra drum fill. Jeff chugged out approving strums. 

They were ready to take it to the Hideout.

“Nice work, gentleman,” Eddie shouted into the mic, met with whoops and hollers. “I think we’re ready for another, whaddya say, boys?”

More hollers and drum fills.

“How ‘bout Ace of Spades?” offered Jeff.

“No, Symphony of Destruction,” countered Gareth.

Eddie noodled out a mindless melody. “I dunno I’m thinking War Pigs.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “We just did Sabbath, dude.”

“Yeah, we just did Sabbath well,” Eddie pressed.

“Why don’t we do something different, like a Rush song or something?” suggested Dave.

Gareth snorted. “Rush isn’t metal. We’re a metal band, dude.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “Whatever, you couldn’t handle a Rush song anyway.”

“Could too, asswipe. You know what, yeah, let’s do Rush. I wanna see those fat fingers of yours fingers of yours find their way around the bassline,” Gareth laughed.

“Shut up!” Eddie hollered. “Everyone just think about it and we can vote on Saturday. We’ve got like half an hour before we’ve gotta leave anyway.”

“I can’t Saturday, remember? Me and Cindy are going to a movie.”

A low ooh emanated from the guys. 

“What ‘cha end up picking?” asked Jeff.

“Back to the Future. Cindy still hasn’t seen it.” 

Dave balked. “Seriously? Does she live under a rock? It’s been out since like, July, dude.” 

Gareth rolled his eyes. “Yeah, seriously. Cindy doesn’t go to a lot of movies, she’s into like… books and stuff,” he said, a touch of pride colored his voice.

“Ooh so cultured,” Dave taunted.  

“Dude shut up, you’re just jealous ‘cause I have a date. I feel like that’s a good one though, right? I mean it’s got action and a sorta romance but it’s not too serious?”

Jeff shrugged, “Yeah I dunno, do girls like those kinds of movies?”

Gareth gave a puff of air through his nose. “Depends on the girl, they don’t have a hivemind, Jeff.”

Dave snorted. “Like you know anything about girls.”

“More than you!”

Dave rolled his eyes. “You got one date you haven’t even been on yet — doesn’t make you an expert.”

That’s when three of them turned to look at Eddie.

Eddie glanced around nervously, “What?”

“You’ve like… been with girls before, right?” asked Jeff.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah.”

Truthfully, Eddie would hardly consider himself an expert on women. But in a garage full of virgins, his few summer flings would render him one by default.

“Yeah, haven’t you like,” Dave raised his eyebrows suggestively, “Done it?” He gestured with his hands, his index finger moving in and out of the circle he made with his other.

The boys erupted in wheezing cackles.

Eddie snorted. “Yeah I’ve done it,” he said, heat creeping up his neck. 

“Ok then, so like, what should Gareth do on his date?” asked Jeff.

“Yeah what should Gareth do to… you know,” Dave chuckled lewdly.

Gareth scoffed. “Dude I’m not trying to score on the first date. Cindy’s not like that. Besides, I’m not a total sleazeball.”

By Gareth’s definition, Eddie certainly would be. He could count the number of actual dates he’d had on less than one hand. The number of girls he’d slept with on about the same. Actually, it was rare that a date coincided. There was the girl he met at a carnival the summer he turned 17. That was short-lived. Then there was another girl who spent July with her grandma at the trailer park. He was 19 then. They would fool around in the woods outside of Forest Hills before she moved on too. That winter he would meet another at the Hideout, just passing though. She never even called him back. Could he really consider any of them dates?

The boys quarreled amongst themselves and Eddie found his thoughts drifting as they always did — to you. The truth was he had no idea what he was doing. What he did know was how good it felt to be next to you. To touch you. To hear your thoughts on anything at all. To lace his fingers between yours and watch the sigh as it left your body. To pretend that you were his for one stolen moment.

What he did know was that he wanted to take you on a date. Like a real, proper date. He wanted to buy you flowers and open doors for you. He wanted to sit down across from you over dinner, to see your smile in a candlelit glow, to pay for it at the end. 

What he did know was that he’d never felt this way about anyone before. What he also knew was that he could do absolutely none of these things with you in public. 

But he did know what he wanted.

“I dunno, man. Just like, buy her a ticket, get her some popcorn, be a real person,” Eddie offered finally.

“And get a spot in the back of the theater so you can —” Dave turned around, moving his hands up and down his body like he was making out with his bass.

Gareth threw a drumstick at him.

______

It was a typical Tuesday night. 

A typical night of coming home later than you wanted after a pointless faculty meeting.

The breath you took in the crisp air outside the door to your apartment was deep and ragged as you turned the key. You could still feel the tacky chalk on your fingers as you pressed open the door. The echos of the questions you would answer over and over to raised hands still ringing in your mind. The adrenaline still coursing through your chest, tight and constricting. The mask that still weighed heavy on your face.

You shut the door behind you and removed your boots, and the mask.

The sun was going down already. Dim and quiet. Not a single sound for your tired voice to fight anymore.

It was nothing like your house in Indianapolis, the old craftsman bungalow that you had loved so dearly. A real house with character and charm. A kitchen with a big gas stove, and a dishwasher, and  actual counter space. A dining room with a table big enough to host Thanksgiving. 

It was a place would never have been able to afford on your own. Not on your meager teaching salary. Not in a city like that. 

You might have been able to afford something small here in Hawkins, if you’d saved for it long enough. One of those little one-story shoebox homes built in the 50s near the neighborhood you grew up in. But buying a house just felt so permanent. 

You hung your keys on the hook by the door. There was no character in the plain white walls of the entryway. None you could gather in the hall leading past the nook of your kitchen into the wood paneled confines of your living room. No space for a dining room table. 

But the carpet still cradled your aching feet. There were still your records, and posters, and television exactly where you left them. There were still your books overflowing on the meager shelves you were able to squeeze into your bedroom. You couldn’t take the built-in craftsman cabinets with you when you moved. There was a lot you couldn’t take with you, and other things you wished you could have left.

There was one box you hadn’t unpacked yet. It was sitting in your closet, pushed back into the corner under summer dresses and winter coats. It was a box you hadn’t even unpacked at your old place in Indianapolis. One of those boxes that traveled with you from place to place ever since you packed your dorm room up for the final time your senior year. 

Sliding open the slatted wood door, you reached under the clothing and dragged it out into your bedroom. It was not that big, but it was heavy.

You sat cross-legged on the carpet and hooked your fingers under the cardboard, folded in on itself to keep it shut without tape. It took a good tug to untuck one of the panels. Dust powdered the air as it sprung open. 

It was hard to remember the last time you’d opened it, let alone everything that was inside. You sifted through the contents as the memories returned to you.

There were a few notebooks, an old journal, a few Polaroid photos you had forgotten about. Just you and your roommate doing stupid poses, hanging off of the bunk bed you shared like children.

There were many things that were more or less junk. Things that at the time of packing you just couldn’t seem to part with, like an old party hat from your roommate’s 21st birthday — crumpled and creased under the weight of time. You remembered decorating it with her and your other friends at the table in the common room. You all looked ridiculous wearing them on the town, going from bar to bar, your bright colored hats standing out like beacons against the backdrop of the January snow. 

There were other things — a few postcards from friends brave enough to study abroad. A folded world map that once hung in the living room of your first apartment, the one you scrounged for with your best friend. In hindsight it was even smaller than the one you had now, and it had two bedrooms. It felt big to you then. 

That was before you met Dan. 

Before you settled into the craftsman he’d purchased in the historic part of town. Settled into routines and scheduled fancy date nights. Settled into planned family outings and weekends home in Hawkins where he would surprise your mother with news of his promotion at the law firm over dinner. News of the computer he’d purchased for you. News of your engagement.

Before you added more things to the box. Things that didn’t fit into you schedule anymore. Before you’d moved it here.

Before he left behind an ice in you.

There was one thing in the box that you expected to find. It was a black three-ring binder. Unassuming, but most important. 

You cracked it open and stared down at the first page of your novel, quietly bracing yourself for the contents. It had been ages since you’d looked at it. You wondered if the years of separation between the you of the present and the you who wrote it would determine whether it was actually any good or not. In your memory it was. 

You thumbed through the pages, silently critiquing your choice of verbs, your lack of variety in the dialogue tags, how tangibly painful it was for you to set scenes. 

The story was there though. That was the thing that mattered most. The verbs could be changed, better tags could be added, the scenes could be more fleshed out. But the story held water.

Most distinctly of all, you remembered the thrill of writing it. The rush of being flooded with ideas. The hours you would spend in the car that flew by in a vivid daydream on the weekends you visited Hawkins. How every song on the radio seemed to fit the telling of your story. 

There was a dreaming taking root in you again. Yesterday. Now. For the past two weeks. You felt it like the rush of wind that caught your dress as you glided down the hallway. The airy softness that pervaded your thoughts and made you want to dance.

You thought about the last time you felt this way.

The last time you did something for you and only you.

The last time you pursued what it was you really wanted.

______

A/N: You didn’t think I was going to leave Chekov’s unfinished novel sitting on the mantle did you?? ;)

A technical note — the tiefling race wasn’t introduced to the game until 1994 but we’re going to ignore that because I think it’s really fitting for Eddie. :)

As always, I deeply appreciate any and all comments -- keyboard smashing, theories, small novels, all of it. Hearing your reactions to my story fuels me in ways that I can only begin to tell you.

Please reblog and help others to find my precious creation! ✨

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @newlips @kasbite @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blue-mossbird @alottanothing @bebe0701 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @bibieddiesgf @alizztor @godcreatoreli @shotgunhallelujah @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @luna-munson83 @eddiemunsonsbitcch @tlclick73 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @quinnsfineline @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @emily-roberts @averagemisfit03

[coochiequeens]

A 22 year old woman who was about to graduate with a degree in engineering is now dead because her ex couldn't accept that the relationship was over.

Gino Cecchettin, hugging his daughter Elena, attends a torchlit procession in Vigonovo, near Venice, northern Italy, Sunday, Nov. 19, 2023, after the police found the body of his other daughter Giulia, reportedly with multiple stab wounds and wrapped in plastic on Saturday in a ditch near Venice. Police in Germany over the weekend arrested Filippo Turetta, 21, who had been on the run since Nov. 11, when he was last seen arguing with Giulia Cecchettin. (Lucrezia Granzetti/LaPresse via AP)

The Associated Press

ROME -- Italy has erupted in outrage over the death of a young woman, allegedly at the hands of her possessive ex-boyfriend, with the Italian premier vowing to crack down further on gender-based violence that has claimed the lives of more than 50 women so far this year.

Police in Germany over the weekend arrested Filippo Turetta, who had been on the run since Nov. 11, when he was last seen fighting with 22-year-old Giulia Cecchettin, hitting her in a physical attack that was captured by roadside video cameras.

Cecchettin's body, reportedly with multiple stab wounds, was found wrapped in plastic on Saturday in a ditch near Lake Barcis, in the province of Pordenone north of Venice.

Italian newspapers had been consumed with the search for them both, given multiple reports from friends and family that Turetta had refused to accept Cecchettin's decision to end the relationship. Cecchettin’s sister, Elena, said she had been concerned about Turetta’s possessiveness of her sister but never imagined he could hurt her.

Police in the eastern German city of Halle said Sunday that they had detained a 21-year-old Italian man who was wanted by police in Italy after his car broke down on the A9 highway in the south of the eastern state of Saxony-Anhalt.

Italian news reports said police road cameras had traced Turetta’s black Fiat Punto as he drove on mountain roads through northern Italy, into Austria and then Germany.

Italian state-run radio network RAI said Turetta had agreed to be extradited, and Italian Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani said he was expected back in Italy within days. Venice's chief prosecutor, Bruno Cherchi, suggested Monday it might take longer and urged patience so the investigation can complete its course without external pressure.

The fate of Cecchettin, who had been due to graduate university Thursday with a degree in engineering, had dominated news reports for a week and led to an outpouring of anger when her body was finally found. Even Turetta's parents attended a candlelit vigil for her, and RAI led its main evening news program Sunday with a backdrop made up of portraits of all the women killed in Italy this year.

Premier Giorgia Melon i expressed outrage at Italy’s long history of violence against women by their partners or ex-partners, saying it has appeared to be getting worse recently. She cited data from the Interior Ministry saying of the 102 women killed in Italy this year up to Nov. 12, 53 died at the hands of their partners or former partners.

“Every single woman killed because she is ‘guilty’ of being free is an aberration that cannot be tolerated and that drives me to continue on the path taken to stop this barbarity,” she said in a statement on social media.

A government-backed bill that has already passed the lower Chamber of Deputies and is coming to the Senate later this month would boost preventative measures to protect victims of gender-based violence.

In addition, the Interior Ministry urged all schools to hold a minute of silence on Tuesday in honor of Cecchettin “and all abused women and victims of violence.” An organization of Italian university rectors, meanwhile, vowed to launch initiatives to make students more aware of gender-based violence.

The aim, the group said, was to “promote respect of the person and halt violence against women” through education that fosters a culture of respect and responsibility.

[copperbadge]

I got an anon message recently about a Radio Free Monday listing, which I'm reposting redacted in order to make a point:

Did you know [redacted] is just a scammer? Their story has been inconsistant and out right farcical. Nobody with their living situation would have been able to [redacted]. Get real, they are a an obvious fraud.

My job, in operating Radio Free Monday, is to do my best to publicize the needs of people in our community, and to do so neutrally, with discernment but without judgement. I try to catch obvious scams when I can, but when there is no absolute evidence of disingenuous behavior, I err on the side of compassion. You, anon, will lead a much happier and kinder life if you can learn how to do the same.

I don't actively direct funds; my readers decide when and how to give, and how much, and why. Undoubtedly there are people whose fundraisers I've linked to who have been scammers, but that's a reflection on them, not on me or on my readers who choose to give. A scam at the level of a tumblr fundraiser has such a high effort to payout ratio, as scams go, that I find it difficult to even get irritated by the idea, let alone risk someone losing out on help they need. On occasion I've been duped, but so what? Are you so concerned with never being fooled that you prefer to send bitter messages to strangers about months-old posts? Seems a bit desperate, no?

When I have evidence of dishonest behavior, I disqualify the listing or I discontinue linking the request. Statements like "this would never happen" or "this is just obvious" are generally speaking the province of people too lazy to look for proof or too insecure to tolerate uncertainty. It's the way right-wing YouTube influencers make their points, because they have no bottom to back it up and are only interested in pandering to fear.

If you have genuine concerns based in first-hand knowledge, come to me under your own handle with it. If you're just going to say nasty things about people neither of us actually know under anon, get the fuck on out of here. Come back when you've learned to act like an adult.

[starry-inks-skies]

Two Cannibals go to a café ( Alastor x GN Reader Platonic )

—————————————

Some things I wanted to say. First I want to get some feedback on this. Second it’s in second pov so there’s so many yous. Tell me what you think about this one-shot!

—————————————

You sat down in your normal spot in the center point of cannibal town. Every Monday you wait at that bench, waiting for the one and only Alastor, the radio demon. Unfortunately for you for seven years, Alastor hasn’t shown up. Many of the citizen of cannibal town took pity on you, thinking Alastor abandon you or your dear friend had died. You still had hope that he would show up. You owe it to him. He helped put your business on the map, only took a little deal, not for your soul, but for some of the meat you sell. You look down at your hands on your lap. You were more of a monster than a demon. Some closer to you call you the lover of Frankenstein, knowing the book well you always remind everyone that it would be the lover of Frankenstein’s monster and not the doctor himself. Now wondering if all of this was a fruitless endeavor, you heard clink-clink-clink, you now associate with Alastor’s hooves. Looking up, you were met with the one and only Alastor. Smiling wide, you ran up to the deer man and gave him a hug, almost toppling the both of you. He hugs back and laughs and says with his signature smile, “It’s good to see you again (y/n). Say how about we go to a café together, me and you?”

You nod your head and the two of you went off to Alastor’ favorite café. As the two walked through cannibal town, you talked about the business and how your life is going. Alastor, open the door for you. You enter the café and wave to the owner, Alastor, entered after you and gave the owner a curt nod. You walked up to the owner and ordered your usual, Alastor looked at the menu in shock at how much it changed over the last seven years. Alastor thought for a moment before getting what you got. “Ok then, that would be out in a few minutes.” Said the owner, who walked away to make the drinks and food. You and Alastor sat down with the radio demon, looking confused. Before Alastor could ask, you answered him. “Oh right, I didn’t get the chance to say it, but I landed a deal with the shop and now I’m the only food provider at this café. I got free food because of the deal. All thanks to you.” Alastor chuckles and says with happiness, “I’m glad it worked out for you. No need to thank me though I saw your potential in you, and you cut the meats are perfect.” You blush at Alastor’s prizes, rarely have you given been giving it. “Well, we have been trying methods if you like to see them.” The owner of the small café place down yours and Alastor’s drinks and food. You sip on your blood tea with a finger and eyeball as Alastor shakes his head no and with a mellow tone says, “I would love, but I’m currently help the princess of hell with a hotel.” You till your head, Alastor having your full attention. “The princess of hell? Charlie Morningstar? What the hell are you doing in a hotel? Is that where you been in the past seven years?” You asked wanting to know more, Alastor answered all your questions. “She is trying to rehabilitate sinners. You know she reminds me of you when we first met years ago. Maybe you should come by one time.” You look down at the floor unsure what to say. First, he didn’t even answer why he’s gone, second the idea of rehabilitation sinners sounds next to impossible. You’re unsure what to say to your dear friend Alastor the radio demon.

—————————————

[inthelittlewood]

Hey Martyn, any recommendations for music to listen to for the next few days? NPO Radio 2 is kicking off their Top 2000 on Monday, so I need something to carry me through the last four days until that.

I listen to Jack Saunders Future Artists on Radio 1 all the time when I have a moment free or driving somewhere.

It has tons of artists I've never heard of AND Jack has such an intimate and eloquent relationship with music that he gushes about songs and dissects them in such a compelling way

[archangeldyke-all]

hello there... I'm super late to the party as I just binge watched Arcane like two days ago and I am FERAL for sevika, I have a problem honestly...anyways firefighter!sevika and nurse!reader or doctor!reader has been floating around my brain, like imagine how nervous you get when she gets called to a massive fire and how worked up she gets when you have to attend a really bad trauma scenario (something greys anatomy worthy) omggg the overprotective vibes are killing me

welcome to the sevika sphere!! i'm gonna change reader to an EMT because i know a bit more about that than i do nursing or doctoring, hope that's okay! also... this is not accurate at all to how any of these kinds of operations or protocols go but whatever

men and minors dni

you work on different sides of town so while you're always interacting with firefighters on calls, you don't meet sevika for a while.

but when a factory fire breaks out on sevika's side of town, all available units in the city are called over to help.

you meet her there, and it's like a movie scene.

she jogs out of the flames, a man slung over her shoulder, dramatically pulling her helmet off and shaking her hair out of her face. for a second, time slows down. then she's dropping the man on the gurney in front of you for you to start administering oxygen, and everything speeds back up again.

the two of you don't talk until the fire's out and all the injured have been shipped off to the hospital. the fire chief is chatting with the factory manager, your boss is talking through the radio to dispatch.

"haven't seen you around before." a voice speaks up beside where you're loading up the truck. you look up at sevika, free from her protective gear, in a form fitting t shirt and cargo pants, grime on her face. you smile.

"i work on the other side of town." you say, cracking open a water bottle and taking a sip.

"that's a shame. was hopin' i'd see you around more often." she says with a pout. you choke.

sevika gets your number after you stop sputtering.

you two click instantly. she takes you out for a casual coffee that weekend, but you talk for so long that coffee becomes dinner which becomes a hookup at sevika's place.

gossip travels fast, but it travels even faster among first responders, and you come into work on monday to cat calls and congratulations on your new 'figherfighter girlfriend'

when you ask sevika if she had used those specific words with her friends, she just shrugged and asked if that was okay.

since then the two of you have been inseparable.

it's usually you who wakes up in the middle of the night scared out of your mind that one day sevika just won't come home from work.

sevika's had several close calls and one near death miss since the two of you got together. (the near death miss inspired sevika to propose to you. she woke up from her coma asking for you and the second you arrived, she choked out the words, 'marry me?' you guys eloped the same week she was discharged from the hospital)

sometimes sevika will come home from work and you'll be so relieved to see her you burst into tears.

you often tune into the dispatch radio on your off days, listening for her engine number and their status. sometimes, if you're lucky, you can even hear her voice.

so usually, you're the worried spouse.

tonight it's different.

tonight you get called to an active hostage situation, on standby to treat the hostages when they are released, whether it be peacefully or with police fire. you hope it will be peaceful. gunshot wounds are a lot of work, and you've had a long shift already.

you don't have to worry about that for long, though, because when your truck pulls up as first on the scene, the three cop cars that arrived moments before you are riddled with bullets, all of the officers incapacitated inside.

lacy, your boss and driver, curses as she pulls up on the scene. Beside her in the passenger seat, toya is rambling codes into the radio, alerting dispatch of the scene you've driven up on. "i count five officers down." toya says.

a clear calm settles over you, the same calm that always guides you in these moments. your mind focuses on protocol, emotion secondary to your eyes flickering over the scene. "six." you say to toya. "six down. two dead, four severely injured. passenger and driver in five have abdomen wounds." you say, pointing to squad car five ahead of you. you move your finger to the left. "twenty two's driver is dead, shot in the head, but his passenger is alive. i can see her moving. can't make out any injuries." you point to the final car. "driver is alive in seventeen, but unconscious. his passenger's dead."

you move as you speak, grabbing your kit and tossing toya hers. you can't leave the vehicle until more police arrive, but the adrenaline is building in your body, your hands shaking and feet tingling, ready to hit the ground running.

somewhere down the street, sirens begin wailing. you and toya sigh in relief, only to scream when a gunshot rings out and the windsheild shatters.

another shot rings out, the back door lock of the ambulance pulverized by a bullet, and the doors swing open as you, lacy, and toya turn to face your attacker.

"out of the truck now!" the masked man screams. you gulp, following his directions with your hands in the air. the three of you jump out of the truck. "you!" the man points his gun at you. you freeze. "you want your friends to live?" he asks. you nod. he points toward the bank he'd just ran out from. "come on." he says, putting his hand on your shoulder and walking you toward the bank, keeping his gun aimed at lacy and toya.

you follow him. shock is the only thing keeping you calm. just as the door slams behind you, three squad cars come peeling up the street, arriving at the scene. you let out a breath of relief that lacy and toya are safe now.

"i got one!" the man behind you shouts into the bank, leading you to the back of the building and into a conference room. inside, you count twelve hostages, and three more gunman. one is on the floor, clutching his side, bleeding through his fingers. "i got one, boss." your captor says as he shoves you forward. you blink, gulp, then launch into action.

"i need space." you choke out as you crouch beside the bleeding man. you help him lay horizontially, slinging your bag off your shoulder. "i need an assistant." you say looking up at your captor. he nods. "do you want it to be one of your guys or one of the hostages?" you ask, trying to keep your voice level and calm. you focus on pulling on a clean pair of gloves. you don't think beyond that.

"one of my guys."

"are they gonna be able to keep their temper in check if i tell 'em what to do or are they gonna shoot me? 'cause if you shoot me your boss is shit out of luck." the man hovering above you considers this, then nods to the group of hostages on the ground. you address them.

"do any of you know any basic first aid?" an old man raises a shaky hand. you nod him over. "what's your name?" you ask him as he crawls over to you.

"j-j-j-jerry." he stutters out.

"okay jerry, put these gloves on." you hand him a pair of gloves. "and take a minute to take some deep breaths. you're okay. i need you focused--not shaky." you say. the man nods, pulling his gloves on and taking deep, meditative breath. you begin slicing open the man's shirt.

he's been shot through the stomach and from what you can make out, the bullet is still lodged inside. he's bleeding steadily, but not profusely enough for an artery wound, which is good.

"jerry, you're my hand-it guy, okay? when i need something, i'm gonna tell you what it looks like and where you can find it in my bag, and you're gonna hand it to me. got it?" you ask. he nods. you nod back at him. "good. main pocket in a white paper package there's some gauze. get that." you say to jerry. then you look down at the man beneath you.

"hello sir, me and my friend jerry here are going to be helping you out tonight. what's your name?" you ask the groaning man.

"i'm not giving you my name, you pig." he grunts out. you sigh. jerry presses the gauze in your hands.

"i'm not a cop." you grunt out as you begin sopping up blood from the man's stomach. he flips you off. "whatever. how long has it been since he was shot?" you ask the man standing behind you, still pointing a gun at your head. he falters.

"five minutes, maybe? since those cops got here." he says. you nod.

"alright. well, you got two options. if you think you guys are gonna be outta here soon, i recommend option one, which is me stuffing his wound and applying pressure. he'll bleed out eventually, but not if we get him to a hospital in time, which me and my friends can do with our ambulance." the man grunts at you to continue. you nod.

"option two is I take the bullet out and cauterize the wound. it's gonna hurt worse than getting shot, there's a chance he'll die of shock, but if we do it right we can buy him an hour or two." you say. the man above you curses. his masked friends anxiously titter. a phone on the wall rings.

"fuck!" he shouts, storming over to answer the phone.

"you need to give me an answer!" you call after him. "gauze." you say to jerry.

"give me a second!" he shouts. he answers the phone. "hello." he says. on the other line, a negotiator speaks. you soak up more blood with gauze.

"i need an answer!" you shout at the man.

"shut the fuck up!" he shouts at you. he heaves a breath, then speaks into the receiver. "unless you can promise us a getaway van and immunity, we're not fuckin leavin'!"

fuck. he's going rogue. the police are gonna come barging in, guns-a-blazing, and these stupid fuckers are dumb enough to try killing hostages. for a second, you break, an image of sevika waiting at home for you flashing through your mind. she's making her chili and corn bread tonight. what if you don't get to taste it?

"miss?" jerry asks, gently nudging your shoulder. you snap back to reality, taking the gauze from his hands and pressing it against the steadily bleeding wound. the man below you is delirious, fading in and out of consciousness as he loses more and more blood.

"fuckin' stitch him up. we're not leaving." your original captor says to you.

it takes four more captives to hold him down as you cauterize the wound. you do it with a thin metal rod and a blowtorch-- provided to you by your captors from their lock breaking kit. as the rod heats up, you sanatize the wound.

"the tiny in the inner pocket, the long pliers." you demand. jerry finds them in a flash, handing them over to you. "hold him down." you say to the four hostages.

when you fish the bullet out, he wakes up, groaning in pain.

"stop-- stooooop! please stooop!" he screams. a hostage still sitting against the wall vomits. you continue digging.

"sir focus on your breathing, we're doing this to keep you alive." you speak down at him calmly. he spits at you. you break a second time, anger and fear overpowering you for a flash as you dig your instrument against the tender torn flesh of his side. he passes out again. serves him right.

with the man unconscious, the process is much smoother. you pull the bullet out in one piece, tossing it beside you on the floor. the rod is red hot when you press it into his wound, a sizzling filling the air as his skin bubbles and burns. jerry leans over to throw up at the smell.

you've never done this before-- and this certainly isn't the proper way to do it. but with a gun to the back of your head you do the best you can guess with your preliminary medical knowledge and available resources.

it's a success... in the sense that the man is still breathing. the wound isn't bleeding nearly as profusely, but it's still sluggishly spurting from time to time. his chest is sweaty and pale. the hostages who were helping you are traumatized and shaking.

the phone rings again.

"you done?" your original captor--the new boss with the old one unconscious--asks you. you nod. he answers the phone.

"hello?" he asks. you can make out the muffled voice of the negotiator on the other line. a gunman moves you and your five hostage assistants to sit against the wall.

with nothing to do but sit, your focused haze begins to fade. you become aware of your body, no longer on autopilot. your mind starts thinking again, thoughts about what's going on outside, toya and lacy and if they're okay, and then sevika.

you choke. oh fuck, no, don't think of sev. don't think of sev or else you're gonna start crying. god is this what she feels like, trapped inside a burning building? this hopeless sense of dread? this debilitating desire to see your wife one more time?

jerry nudges you. "you good?" he whispers. you gasp, reaching out to grab his hand.

"i have a wife." you say to him. he squeezes your hand.

"she'll be happy to see you when this is all over." he says. you nod.

"how about you?"

"three kids. they're old enough to take care of themselves... hell, one of them's expecting their own baby in december," he says, laughing. "but i'm still not ready to leave 'em." he says.

"do i need to shoot a hostage!? what do you people not understand about FULL IMMUNITY?" the masked man on the phone screams. a woman beside you faints. "matter of fact-- i got one of your own in here? ain't that right officer?" the man asks, looking at you. you blink.

"i'm not a co--"

"you want another cop dead? i know i got at least two of 'em out front! you wanna make it three?" he asks. silence follows as the negotiator speaks. your heart is in your ass.

"listen. my wife's name is sevika. if this goes bad, you need to tell her i love her. you need to-- you need to tell her i'm never gonna leave her side. tell her i'll always love her and--"

"you're not gonna die, miss." jerry cuts you off.

"but if i do!" you say, pleading with the man beside you. "if i do you have to tell her--"

"i will." jerry says, nodding. "i will." he promises.

"they wanna talk to you." the masked man rasps out, looking at you. you blink.

"i'm not a cop." you say. he rolls his eyes.

"tell it to them." he says, gesturing you over to the landline. you stumble to your feet, shakily approaching him. his finger is on the trigger of his gun at his side, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. you look to jerry. he crosses his heart. you take the phone.

"hello?" you shakily speak into the receiver.

"is this lacy's missing crewmate?" a voice asks over the line. you take a shaky breath.

"yeah." you say.

"what's the situation inside?"

"twelve hostages, thirteen including me. one man down, gunshot to his chest. i patched him up best i could."

"he's one of the captors?"

"yes."

"and how many are there?"

"four." you say.

it's silent for a moment, the negotiator likely speaking to someone else. you can hear the faint chatter on the other side of the line, police barking instructions, sirens sounding, reporters demanding questions. "are any hostages hurt?" the voice asks suddenly.

"no. one just passed out, but i think it's just shock." you say. silence again. you take a breath, trying to focus on staying calm. over the line you hear people scream and tires screeching. there's a faint commotion, then, a distant voice.

where the fuck is she? where the fuck is she!? get off of me-- where is she??

you'd recognize that voice anywhere. it's sevika.

you burst into tears.

"are you alright ma'am?" the negotiator asks. when their voice quiets, you can make out various curses and threats sevika throws out as people try to subdue her. you choke. the masked man beside you scoffs, then turns to speak to his partners.

"can you put her on the phone?" you whisper, your voice wobbly.

"what?" the negotiator and gunman ask at the same time. you wave the gunman off, pointing at the receiver. when he turns around, you turn around too.

"that woman causing a scene-- that's my wife. sevika. can you put her on the phone? please?" you beg, your whispered voice shaking. it's silent on the other line. "please!" you squeak.

silence.

then... "b-baby?" a shaky voice comes through. you gasp.

"sev." you whimper.

"baby, oh my god." she cries into the phone. "oh my god, are you okay?" she sobs. you shake, your hand coming out to catch yourself on the wall beside you.

"i love you." you whisper. "i love you and i'll never stop loving you, honey, even when i'm gone." you whisper. sevika gasps on the other line.

"don't say that!" she shouts.

"they-- they're talkin' about killing a hostage. they think i'm a cop. i don't think i'm gonna--"

"shut the fuck up!" sevika growls. you stop your hushed rambling. "you're gonna be fine, baby, i'm gonna see you real soon, okay?"

"sev--"

"say it!" she begs, her voice cracking. you weep.

"i-i-i'll see you soon, baby." you choke out.

"who the fuck are you talkin' to?" the masked man behind you asks. you freeze.

then the wall caves in.

you wake up on a gurney, swat members and paramedics running past you. there's a ringing in your head.

you look to your left. toya is grinning down at you.

"knew you'd fuckin' make it!" she says, giddily. you smile. you're dizzy in a fun way-- likely concussed. you blink asleep.

you wake up again outside, lacy nudging you awake. "no sleepin', kid." she commands as she takes your vitals. you nod.

"what..." you try. your brain's still rattling around in your skull. words aren't as easy as they usually are. toya understands you, though.

"swat blew the wall in and took those goons down! you and all the hostages are safe. you got the most damage-- rubble hit your head pretty hard." she explains as she shoves an IV into your arm. you blink.

"sevika?" you ask. lacy chuckles at your feet.

"what'd i tell you? second thing she asks is where's her wife. ridiculous." lacy says. toya rolls her eyes.

"baby!" sevika's voice calls from across the parking lot. your head whips over to see her, sprinting at the three of you at full speed, pushing a few people out of her way. you giggle when she shoves the cheif of police to the side-- he stumbles on his feet as he tries to catch his balance.

she's by your side in a flash, grinning down at you, tears running down her cheeks. you recognize the comforting warmth of morphine beginning to flood your veins. or maybe it's just love. you giggle up at her.

"hi, pretty." you say, lifting a hand up to cup her cheek. she shoots down to kiss you, nipping on your lip, shoving her tongue into your mouth. you giggle.

"i'm right here!" lacy grunts out. toya wolf whistles.

"i told you you'd be okay, didn't i?" sevika asks as she pulls away, her eyes locked on yours. you nod dreamily up at her, unsure of what she's even talking about, in love with her all the same.

"you're my wife." you say, amazed. toya and lacy burst out in laughter. even sevika giggles. "what's funny?" you pout up at her. she kisses you again.

"you're the most beautiful, smartest, sexiest person in the world." she says. she gives you another kiss. "i'm never letting you leave the house ever again." she presses a third kiss against your lips. "i love you so fucking much." she says, tears running down her cheeks.

you grin, happy to have your wife kissing you so passionately. you gently brush her tears away. "come here." you demand, scooting over in your gurney to make room for sevika. she laughs, and crawls in beside you, despite the protests lacy and toya shout out at her. she wraps herself around you, kissing you firmly on the forehead. "love you." you whisper.

"love you." she says back to you.

toya and lacy load the two of you in the back of the truck.

they fake gag the whole way to the hospital as you and sevika make out in the back.

taglist

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay

[80s-music-tourney]

Polls list for the 80's music tourney

Round One

1. Walk This Way vs. Maniac

2. In The Air Tonight vs. Private Dancer

3. How Soon Is Now? vs. Never Ending Story

4. Just Like Heaven vs. Never Gonna Give You Up

5. Birthday vs. Holy Diver

6. With Or Without You vs. Fuck Tha Police

7. Karma Chameleon vs. Radio Ga Ga

8. Gold vs. Falling

9. Dancing In The Dark vs. Just A Friend

10. You Got It (The Right Stuff) vs. Ashes To Ashes

11. Eighties vs. Dear God

12. Hungry Like The Wolf vs. Jump

13. Love is a Battlefield vs. Once In A Lifetime

14. Rock The Casbah vs. Fast Car

15. Take On Me vs. You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)

16. 99 Luftballons vs. Nasty

17. Under The Milky Way vs. Ghost Town

18. Invisible Touch vs. One

19. Ghostbusters vs. Cloudbusting

20. John The Fisherman vs. Livin on a Prayer

21. Eye Of The Tiger vs. Head Like A Hole

22. You’re The Voice vs. Ace of Spades

23. Come On Eileen vs. Wrathchild

24. Beat It vs. Chariots of Fire

25. Walk Like An Egyptian vs. Personal Jesus

26. Money For Nothing vs. It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

27. We Didn’t Start The Fire vs. Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of These)

28. Never Tear Us Apart vs. Back In Black

29. Paradise City vs. Dead Man’s Party

30. Fight For Your Right vs. Whip It

31. Who Can It Be Now? Vs. Rebel Yell

32. Smooth Operator vs. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

33. Free Fallin’ vs Sledgehammer

34. Blue Monday vs. Blister In The Sun

35. Mickey vs. Everybody Wants To Rule The World

36. Call Me vs. Don’t You Want Me

37. Holding Out For A Hero vs. I Wanna Dance With Somebody

38. Can I Kick It? vs. Peace Sells

39. Raspberry Beret vs. Where Is My Mind?

40. Breaking The Law vs. Kickstart My Heart

41. I Melt With You vs. Epic

42. The Killing Moon vs. Cities In Dust

43. Teen Age Riot vs. Pour Some Sugar On Me

44. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun vs. Raining Blood

45. Don’t You (Forget About Me) vs. Push It

46. We Built This City vs. Relax

47. I Wanna Be Adored vs. Kokomo

48. Libertango (I've Seen That Face Before) vs. Dare To Be Stupid

49. Hip To Be Square vs. Every Breath You Take

50. Africa vs. Love Shack

51. Faith vs. Plastic Love

52. The Look vs. Self-Control

53. It’s Raining Men vs. Flashdance…What A Feeling

54. 9 To 5 vs. She Drives Me Crazy

55. This Corrosion vs. Nazi Punks Fuck Off

56. Valerie vs. Our House

57. Owner of A Lonely Heart vs. Heaven Is A Place On Earth

58. Like A Virgin vs. I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)

59. Ahora Te Puedes Marchar vs. I’m Coming Out

60. Out Of Touch vs. Sunglasses At Night

61. West End Girls vs. Every Little Step

62. Scarface vs. Simply Irresistible

Bonus Round 1

Bonus Round 2

[seoul-bros]

Six marvelous months with Park Jimin

January 2023

The year started with the announcement that Jimin had been appointed as the Global Brand Ambassador for Christian Dior (17/01). The occasion was marked with six Awesome magazine covers and the Dior Fashion Show in Paris (20/01). The fashion establishment was blown away by the response to Jimin's participation in the show.

The same month Jimin released Vibe (13/01) , a dream collaboration with his long time musical hero Taeyang from Big Bang.

This was both artists first solo hit on the Billboard Hot 100 at No. 76.

February 2023

Jimin did a live on 03/02 in which he confirmed that his solo music, although a little delayed, was likely to come out in March 2023.

On 21/02, Big Hit announced that FACE would be released on 24/03/23. The next day they published the countdown schedule and on the 23/02 the tracklist for the album.

March 2023

On 02/03, Jimin was named Ambassador for Tiffany & Co which he wore spectacularly in his photoshoot for Vogue that month.

On 06/03, Soundcloud super track Promise along with Jimin's yuletide gift to ARMY, Christmas Love were added to Jimin's Spotify profile. The era of streaming Jimin's profile had begun.

From then on, everything started speeding towards the release of FACE. The Hardware and Software images came out.

Set Me Free Pt 2 exploded into the world on 17/03. Nobody saw it coming and it caused a furore on social media. It was a clear statement of intent. I am here to stay and I am here to slay. It debuted at No.30 on the Billboard Hot 100.

FACE was released on 24/03 along with the Like Crazy MV. Speaking for myself Like Crazy blew me away. Jimin set out to make a statement with that song and I will always be proud to be the fan of such an honest and brave artist.

With the release of FACE we also discovered that hidden on the record was a very special song, Letter, in which Jungkook sings background vocals.

That last week of March saw Jimin appeared on the Jimmy Fallon Show with a live performance of Like Crazy.

In the next 9 days, he gave comeback performances on MCountdown, Music Bank and Inkiagayo. He came live to thank ARMY for turning up to his shows. He won awards. He appeared on the radio, on the entertainment shows Beat Coin, Ddeun Ddeun and Pixid. He even did fan meetings.

April 2023

On 01/04 Jimin gave an unforgettable acoustic rendition of Like Crazy live on Lee Mujin Service April Fools Edition.

And then on 03/04, Jimin made history. The first South Korean to ever make No.1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and the first Asian Artist to do so in 60 years. He came live in the early hours of the morning, clearly shellshocked but brimming over with gratitude to everyone who had supported the album and the song.

Then on 05/04 the promotions were over and Jimin once again expressed his happiness and thanks to ARMY for supporting FACE.

It had been a whirlwind and I think we, as well as Jimin, were caught off guard when the promotions ended so quickly. We had a beautiful album to savour but we wanted to continue to savour it with Jimin.

The focus returned to fashion when Jimin flew to New York at the end of April to attend the Tiffany & Co Landmark opening (28/04).

He attended Suga's concert in Newark on the 29/04 and headed back to South Korea later that week. But why didn't he fly straight back after the concert we wondered?

May 2023

It all soon became clear, he had been filming the MV for Angel Pt 1 from the Fast X movie. The song came out on the 19/05 and debuted at No. 65 on the Billboard Hot 100. This was Jimin's fourth chart entry in five months.

At the end of the month, Jimin made a short trip to London and we are still speculating on what that was all about. He posted photos of his trip to HP World as soon as he got back to South Korea on 27/05.

June 2023

Festa 2023 soaked Seoul in purple for nearly three weeks at the beginning of June in celebration of BTS's ten years since debut. Jimin gifted fans with a live performance of Dear.ARMY on 07/06 and....

,,,,,,on 13/06 BTS released this beautiful live version of Take Two with Jimin adding depth and colour to the song with his stunning vocals.

But there was still more to come, on 15/06 Jimin came live in high spirits and spent quality time with ARMY. It was the same day as the release of Angel Part 2.

On the 27/06 Jimin's solo profile appeared on Billboard and serves as a permanent reminder of everything that has happened in the short space of 6 months. It has been a roller coaster ride and I am still hopeful that we will still get more music from Jimin before he has to enlist. I wanted to make this post so that no one forgets what he has achieved and the permanent mark he has made on the global music industry since he took his first steps towards a solo career.

Post Date: 28/06/2023