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excalculus · 25 days

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I saw some mentions of rabies going around again and have no clue what's set it off this time, but given recent scientific developments I want to revisit the idea of curing symptomatic rabies.

First things first: there is still no practical way to do this. The famous Milwaukee Protocol fails far more frequently than it succeeds, and even the successes are not making it out in anything like a normal state. It's been argued that it should no longer be considered a valid treatment [1] due to these issues; any continued use is because there's literally nothing else on the table.

However. There are now two separate studies showing it's possible to cure rabies in mice after the onset of symptoms. The lengths you have to go to in order to pull this off are drastic, to put it mildly, and couldn't really be adapted to humans even if you wanted to. But proof of concept is now on the board.

long post under the cut, warnings for animal experimentation and animal death. full bibliography at the end and first mention of each source links to paper.

Quick recap - rabies is a viral disease of mammals usually transmitted through the saliva of an infected animal. From a contaminated bite wound, it propagates slowly for anywhere from days to months until it reaches the central nervous system (CNS). Post-exposure vaccination can head it off during this phase, but once it reaches the CNS and neurological symptoms appear it's game over. There will typically be a prodromal phase where the animal doesn't act right - out at the wrong time of day, disoriented, abnormally friendly, etc. This will then progress to the furious (stereotypical "mad dog" disease) and/or paralytic phases, with death eventually caused by either seizures or paralysis of the muscles needed for breathing.

That's the course we're familiar with in larger animals. Mice, though, are fragile little creatures with fast metabolisms.

In the first study's rabies infection model, lab mice show rabies virus in the spinal cord by day 4 after infection and in the brain by day 5. Weight loss and slower movement start by day 7, paralysis starting from the hind limbs from day 8 on, and if not euthanized first they're dead by day 10-13. [2]

This study (fittingly conducted at the Institut Pasteur) had two human monoclonal antibodies, and wanted to see if there was any possibility they could be used to cure rabies after what we think of as the point of no return.

Injecting the antibodies into muscle saved some mice if done at days 2 or 4, and none if done later, even at high doses of 20 milligrams per kilogram of body weight of each. Conclusion: targeting the virus out in the rest of the body is no use if it's already replicating in the CNS.

Getting a drug past the blood-brain barrier is, to use a highly technical term, really fucking hard. It's the sort of problem that even the best-funded labs and biggest companies in the world routinely fail at. And that's for small molecule drugs, which are puny compared to antibodies.

But this isn't drug development for a clinical trial. This is a very, very early proof-of-concept attempt, which means you're willing to ignore practicality to see if this idea is even remotely workable. So you can do things like brute force the issue by cutting through the skull to implant a microinfusion pump, which lets you deliver the antibodies directly into the normally-protected space around the brain. Combine this with the normal injections, and you can treat both the CNS and the rest of the body at the same time. Here's a survival graph of treated mice. X axis is days, Y axis is percentage of mice in that group still alive.

Figure 2A from reference 2, accessed February 2024

The fact that the blue, green, and purple lines did anything other than sink horribly to zero is unheard of. When the combination treatment was started at day 6, 100% of the mice survived. Started at day 7 (prodromal phase), 5 out of 9 mice recovered and survived. Started at day 8 (solidly symptomatic, paralysis already starting to set in), 5 of 15 mice recovered and survived. And when they say "survived", they kept these mice all the way to day 100 to make sure. Some of them had permanent minor paralysis but largely they were back to being normal mice doing normal mouse things. So, success, but by pretty extreme means.

Enter the second paper [3]. This was a different approach using a single human monoclonal antibody against Australian bat lyssavirus (ABLV - closely related to rabies, similar symptoms in humans) to try for a cure without needing to deliver treatments directly into the CNS. They also made a luminescent version of ABLV that let them directly image viral activity, so they could see both where the virus was replicating and how much there was in a live mouse.

Figure 1 from reference 3, accessed February 2024

Mice infected with ABLV start showing symptoms around day 8. You can see in the figure that at day 3 there's viral replication in the foot at the site of infection, which has shifted into the spine and brain by day 10. So what happens if you give one of these doomed mice one single injection of the antibody into the body?

Done at day 3, the virus doesn't make it to the brain until day 14, and while disease does set in after that around 30% of the mice survive. Days 5 and 7 are much more interesting. Those mice still develop symptoms at day 8, but the imaging shows the amount of virus in their spines and brains never gets anywhere near the levels seen in untreated controls, and within days it starts to decrease. Around 80% of day 5 and 100% of day 7 mice survive.

Okay, sure, you can stop another lyssavirus, but technically you did start treatment before symptoms appeared. What about symptomatic rabies?

The rodent-adapted rabies strain CVS-11 starts causing symptoms as early as day 3 after infection, and untreated mice die between days 8 and 11. The same single dose of antibody saved 67% of mice treated on day 5 and 50% of mice treated on day 7. Without making the luminescent version of the virus there's no real-time imaging of the infection, but you can still track symptoms.

Figure 2 from reference 3, accessed February 2024. CVS-11 is the name of the rodent rabies strain and F11 is the name of the antibody.

Disease score is a combination of several metrics including things like whether the mice are behaving normally and whether they show signs of paralysis. In untreated mice it goes up and up, and then they die. If one of those lines starts coming back down and continues past day 10 or so, that's a mouse that recovered. The success rate isn't as good as against ABLV, but again, this is a rabies strain specifically adapted to rodents and treatment wasn't started until it was well-established in the CNS.

So how on earth is this happening? The antibody neutralizes both ABLV and rabies really well in a test tube, but we've already established that there's no way a huge lumbering antibody is making it past the blood-brain barrier without serious help. Something about the immune response is clearly making it in there though. And it turns out that if you start trying this cure in mice missing various parts of their immune systems, mice without CD4+ T cells don't survive even with the treatment. By contrast mice without CD8+ T cells take longer to work through the infection, but they eventually manage it and are immune to reinfection afterwards.

To grossly oversimplify the immune system here, CD4+ are mature helper T cells, which work mostly by activating other immune cells like macrophages (white blood cells) and CD8+ T cells (killer T cells) against a threat.

Normally, T cells are also kept out by the blood-brain barrier, but we know that in certain specific cases including viral infection they can pass it to migrate into the brain. In the brains of the infected mice for which antibody treatment either wasn't given or didn't work, you can find a roughly even mix of CD8+ and CD4+ T cells along with a whole lot of viral RNA. But in the brains of those successfully fighting off the infection, there's less viral RNA and the cells are almost exclusively CD4+. So the antibody doesn't work by neutralizing the virus directly - something about it is activating the animal's own immune system in a way that gives it a fighting chance.

Again, neither of these proof of concept treatments is really workable yet as a real world cure. The first one is almost hilariously overkill and still has a pretty good chance of failure. The second is less invasive but careful sequencing still shows both low-level viral replication and signs of immune response in the brains of the survivors even at day 139, so it may not be truly clearing the virus so much as trading a death sentence for life with a low-level chronic infection. But now we know that 1. curing rabies after symptoms begin is at least theoretically possible, and 2. we have some clues as to mechanisms to investigate further.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But maybe not never, either.

References:

Zeiler, F. A., & Jackson, A. C. (2016). Critical appraisal of the Milwaukee protocol for rabies: this failed approach should be abandoned. Canadian Journal of Neurological Sciences, 43(1), 44-51.

de Melo, G. D., Sonthonnax, F., Lepousez, G., Jouvion, G., Minola, A., Zatta, F., ... & Bourhy, H. (2020). A combination of two human monoclonal antibodies cures symptomatic rabies. EMBO molecular medicine, 12(11), e12628.

Mastraccio, K. E., Huaman, C., Coggins, S. A. A., Clouse, C., Rader, M., Yan, L., ... & Schaefer, B. C. (2023). mAb therapy controls CNS‐resident lyssavirus infection via a CD4 T cell‐dependent mechanism. EMBO Molecular Medicine, 15(10), e16394.

#rabies #biology #long post #animal death #medicine #original content

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kiwisbell · 7 months

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The Impaler

Chief Detective Tim Rockford makes a breakthrough in New York City’s latest serial killer case. The mysterious culprit is in the mood to share more than information.

my masterlist!

pairing: tim rockford x f!reader x max phillips

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: vampires, gothic architecture, slightly dubious consent, implied mind alteration/control, murder, death, blood, threesome, lots of biting, spanking, spitroasting, masturbation, DVP, fingering, unprotected PIV (wrap ur vampire dicks pls), wife sharing, free use kink, oral sex (f and m receiving), exchanging fluids, spitting, disgusting and filthy, max using cringey nicknames for reader’s pussy but it’s charming bc it’s max, handcuffs, light bondage, hair pulling

word count: ~ 7.2k

read on ao3!

a/n: hello, my loves!! i wanted to do something special for halloween, so i decided to slap together a short, silly, unpolished one-shot inspired by dracula! this one is dedicated to my vampire obsession and tim rockford's shoulder holsters. anyway, please mind the tags, and enjoy!!

PREFACE

“No one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart." — Bram Stoker, Dracula

“I swear to God, Ron, I’m two seconds away from taking up smoking again.”

Chief Detective Tim Rockford pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling his eye twitch minutely with every pass he makes of the cork board.

The seventh victim in two weeks, and he’s no closer to an answer. Last night, thirty-two-year-old Dean Madison was found by the harbour, a couple shades paler than his family insisted he usually was and with two small puncture wounds in his neck. Otherwise, the coroners didn’t find a single wound on him. Before Madison, it was a couple in Central Park, and before that, a college football player. Their bodies were all found in virtually the same condition, but not one of them is related.

Random. Unplanned acts of violence carried out exclusively at night, predicated on nothing but the apparent desire to kill. The culprit left no fingerprints, no murder weapon, no footprints. There's no motivation.

Groaning as he stands, elder Detective Ron Lauder hands Tim a manila folder. “List of the boats going in and out last night, if you fancy makin’ your eyes cross. I gotta call it here, man. You should go home, too, get some sleep.”

Tim claps Ron on the back. “Nah, man, I gotta file these away first. You go on home.”

“Don’t come cryin’ to me when you fall asleep in your Cheerios tomorrow.” Ron leaves yawning, and Tim hears the door gently click shut in the distance, signalling a familiar solitude in the bullpen.

The other cops know about the case. They all have bets running. Will the chief get it right? Will he get himself killed? When’s the next victim going to show? Tim indulges their morbid little fantasy pool by devoting most of his waking—and sleeping—hours to the task.

He decides to settle in with the logs from the docks. Scanning every line item, he feels his eyelids pulling down, and takes another sip of coffee to stay awake.

One name catches his eye. Demeter.

Tim narrows his eyes, his gaze travelling across the page. The logs only account for the past twenty-four hours, but he's seen that name before. He sets down the file and hurries to his desk, rifling through the top drawer, setting aside his pocket knife and his gun, to produce another file labelled ????

Not very creative, but it’s not like he’s going to label a file My Latest Failure. He opens the folder and scours the paperwork inside for witness statements.

There.

Fuck—here it is. His first goddamn lead.

On the 14th of October, a dock worker watched the Demeter stroll up to the harbour through the water and a man saunter inside, exchanging cash with the driver. The man left with a box. Because the Demeter was listed as a private vessel, the dock worker had reason for concern if the boat was conducting business without a license. He reported this to the police.

Tim eyes the cork board, following the red thread that connect each victim. He curses.

The next day, the boat’s driver was found dead in a Soho alleyway. Two puncture wounds in his neck.

Jesus Christ. Tim’s fingers tremble as he turns the page to continue reading.

If the Demeter is conducting frequent illegal business from that harbour and the client doesn't want anyone finding out, it’s likely that client is exactly who Tim is looking for. And it's even likelier poor Dean Madison was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Give me something. A wire transfer pattern. A paper trail. A benevolent benefactor who keeps the engine running.

Outside, the wind whistles, and Tim blinks away sleep. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a shape pass by the window, and his head jerks up.

There's a bat hanging from the tree outside. The creature stares for a long while, near-incisive, as if telling Tim to go the fuck to sleep. He checks his watch. It’s two o’clock.

More than enough time to head down to the docks.

The next night, just after nine o’clock, Tim knocks on the door of a hulking mansion in Soho.

The Gothic spires of the home stretch to the wispy clouds, the moon taking up a vigil over the grand roof. Arched windows glare down at him. You are a trespasser, they hiss. You do not belong here. The door knocker is shaped like a pair of bat wings, and the ancient, ornate doors creak under the force of his pounding. Overhead, clouds continue to roll in, signalling some fall storm. A shiver racks his body.

A woman opens the door, and Tim’s heartbeat stutters.

You’re beautiful. Your smile is so radiant it infects your eyes, your body draped in a tiny white slip, skin so soft it seems to glow in the light. You briefly assess Tim with those keen eyes.

“Good evening, sir,” you say. Tim licks his lips. Your voice is soft as water.

“Good… uh, good evening, ma'am.” He forgets that he is supposed to remain suspicious and clasps his hands together in front of him. “Chief Detective Tim Rockford. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Oh,” you purr, demurely folding your hands together in a mirror action to Tim, “of course. Would you like some coffee?”

In the movement, he catches a glimmer of the golden band around your ring finger. “No. Thank you.”

Amusement twinkles in your eyes. “That’s good, because we don’t have any.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he says good-naturedly. “What’s your husband’s name?”

“Phillips,” you reply dutifully, nibbling your bottom lip. “Max Phillips.”

Fuck.

He has the right person. He just can't help but wonder if you're a part of it, too.

There’s not a chance. You’re too good. Too beautiful. Your eyes pull him in, waves swallowing the shore, your pupils shrinking and dilating as if speaking to him.

“Have you seen this man?” Tim asks, presenting a picture of Dean Madison, drained of blood and neck punctured.

You frown, but he finds no glimmer of recognition in your eyes, no evidence of an increased heart rate. “Oh, gosh, no. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” says Tim. He doesn't know why he bothers, but he hides the gruesome image. He doesn't want to see you upset.

“Am I in trouble for something, Detective?”

Your breasts sit so nicely in that little nightgown, the line of your thighs so tempting under the hem, your skin so fucking dewy he could lick all the nectar from it. Tim blinks hard. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“No,” he says tightly. “Just here to ask some questions. Does the name Demeter mean anything to you?”

Sheepishly, you shrug. “She's a Greek goddess.”

“She’s also a boat,” says Tim. “It’s connected to two incidents by the docks in the past couple weeks.”

“Incidents?”

The curve of your throat would fit his mouth so nicely. You’re beautiful in the way a marble statue is—elegant and poised, carefully arranged, silk dripping like honey off your perfect fucking body.

Tim clears his throat. His head feels foggy.

“Do you mind if I speak to your husband?”

“Maxie?” your sweet voice calls. The sound echoes off the polished walls, petering gently to a lullaby, and Tim wants to rescue you from such a cruel place. “Maxie, there's a man at the door, and he wants to speak with you.”

A man descends the grand spiral staircase, dressed in a suit even though it’s nighttime, adjusting his cufflinks and grinning like a real schmoozer. He’s got the same dark eyes and nose and mouth as Tim, but marked by signs of youth the detective doesn't have. He’s clean-shaven, bright-eyed, lively.

“Evening, Detective,” says Max Phillips. “Hope you haven't been giving my wife any trouble. Hi, baby.”

You beam at him, holding out your hand. Max threads his fingers through yours and pushes himself into your space, playfully nipping your earlobe. Your giggle is intoxicating. Tim wants to be the one making you smile this way.

“Mr. Phillips, have you seen this man?”

Phillips takes a break from crushing his nose in your throat to examine the picture. “Haven’t seen him,” he says, “but it looks like he isn’t seeing anyone.”

“Last night,” says Tim, tucking the picture away, “I went down to the docks and took a look around. You know what I found, Mr. Phillips?”

“This isn't a very fun game, Detective.” Phillips is busying himself with your hair, twirling a lock of it around his finger. You stare up at your husband like he hung the fucking moon and Tim wants to know what it feels like to earn that look.

“I found blood,” says Tim. “Bags of blood from St. Clare’s Mercy in St. John’s. What kind of sick bastard steals blood from a hospital? I wondered. Then I checked the registration and found a name. Phillips.”

The revelation doesn't seem to faze Phillips the way it did Tim. His lips curve in a frown against your temple. “Looks like the detective knows how to do his job.”

You play with your husband’s fingers as if coaxing him to use them on you. “Didn’t mean to,” you whisper.

“Shh, sweetheart, I know.” Max tucks your hair behind your ear, his voice so gentle. “I know you didn't mean to, baby. We all get hungry.”

Tim's nostrils flare. You’re both so indifferent to all you've done—you don't care one bit that you've killed, that you’ve left Tim and all his inferiors scratching their heads and losing sleep for weeks.

He’s got his culprits, all right.

What the fuck do they want with bags of blood?

His lip curls. “Just tell me the truth. We can all work together here.”

“About that man by the docks,” you say softly, stepping forward with a placating smile on your face. “I got carried away, Detective. I never wanted to—”

Tim has heard enough. He withdraws his gun from its holster and points the barrel between your eyes. “Do not. Move.”

Your lower lip juts out in a pout, but Phillips’s eyes darken, playful veneer crumbling fast, at the sight of a gun pointed at his wife. “Now, Detective,” he says good-naturedly, though his rigid posture betrays any sense of camaraderie. “If you're gonna point that gun at anyone, it should be me.”

“That so?” Tim’s eyes don't stray from you. Your eyes are wide as a doe’s, your glossy lips parted in vague shock, your silky nightgown contoured so deliciously to your shape. You smell fresh, roses and perfume, and his head goes fuzzy. Your skin looks so soft, glowing under the orange firelight…

He wonders how you would taste.

His finger trembles near the trigger.

Phillips presses closer to you, his hand sliding around your waist, his fingers splaying over your ribs. Possessive. His eyes are on Tim, and that look—it peels him apart. Tim may be holding a weapon, but he feels powerless to do anything at all.

Fear strikes him true. He should not have knocked on this door tonight.

“You know what I like about people?” says Phillips, idly circling his thumb over your waist while his eyes fall to your pretty face, his other hand twisting your hair around his finger. “I like that they're so… hmm, supple. It's like plucking all the petals off a flower. Can see all the stuff inside with one little pull.”

Phillips suddenly ducks his head and Tim jolts, pointing the gun his way, but the killer only places an open-mouthed kiss on your throat, just beneath your ear.

Tim watches your eyes flutter, a sedated little smile growing on your face, and he wants to know. He needs to know what you taste like.

“That’s more like it, Detective,” says Phillips, playfully nipping your throat before he pulls back. Tim sees a flash of glistening white as the killer bares his teeth and presumes a man as well-off as Max Phillips knows something about veneers. “I know what you want. You don't want to point that gun at my wife, do you?”

Tim’s jaw ticks. He doesn't. He doesn't want to hurt you at all. He wants to make you smile. He wants to slip his hand inside that nightgown and tear it all away to see what's beneath. He wants to put his mouth on you, touch you, do whatever you fucking want him to do.

Phillips chuckles, and a tremor oozes down Tim’s spine. He isn't safe here—he knew this straight away—but there's more to the couple in front of him than they’re letting him know. “Mmm, she has that effect on lots of people,” says Phillips. “Can’t tell you how many men I’ve had to kill just because they decided to touch.” He pinches your ass for effect and you laugh, hiding your face in Max’s neck.

“Is that a confession?” says Tim, gritting his teeth as another wave of your perfume pervades reason.

“Sure,” says Phillips, “it's a confession. But I don't think you want to leave. I think you want to stay here and fuck my wife. Do I get the cash prize, Detective?”

Tim wavers. The door is… It’s right there. He’s standing just inside, could turn around and bolt the hell out of here now, could radio for backup and cuff both of these freaks in two seconds.

He lowers the gun.

“Thaaat’s it,” coos Phillips. “I’ll offer you a deal now. Make her feel good, and I’ll forget about you pointing that gun at her.”

Tim’s cock is stiff in his pants, blood surging downward and away from his brain, his body calling to the siren song emitting from you. He’ll drown in it. There's no turning back. Behind him, the door swings closed, untouched.

You grin at Tim, biting your bottom lip and threading your fingers through Max’s hair. This way, you keep your husband fixed to you, nipping playfully at your throat.

“Do you want to touch me, sir?” you ask him, your voice dripping nectar.

Tim’s jaw ticks. His head inclines in a nod.

“No, no, no, Detective, that's no fun,” tuts Max. “Is it, baby?”

“Mmm, no fun,” you echo, the sound of it melodic, enchanting. “Want you to want it, Detective. Want you to show me you want it.”

Tim nods again, stepping closer, his eyes raking over your body in that little white slip, held in place by Phillips’ hands.

“You're not going to touch my wife with a gun in your hand,” says Phillips darkly. “You’re going to drop it, and then you’ll clean off your dirty fingers in her pretty cunt.”

Tim flicks on the safety and sets the gun on the table just inside the foyer, shucking off his jacket. He doesn't care about the goddamn case anymore. He’s bone-tired, sick of all the overtime he's putting in with no return on investment, and so lonely that it aches. He needs a body to bury himself inside, a sweet, pretty girl to taste. He didn't expect he’d pick the woman he's been chasing for weeks.

He approaches you slowly, taking in the entire length of your body, wondering about the texture of your hair, the softness of your skin. He gets to explore it tonight. He won't waste the chance.

The first touch electrifies his nerves. Your skin is velvet under his rough palms, your head tilting idly to the side as your husband continues to kiss your neck. Tim caresses your arms, memorising the feel of you beneath his fingers, and lets your eyes swallow him.

“Can I kiss you?”

His voice scrapes over your skin and lifts goosebumps, some echo of the bodily instincts you once had in life. You practically purr as you hook your fingers in the holsters straining under his broad shoulders and tug him closer.

“Please kiss me, sir.”

The scent of roses washes down his throat as he cups your face and slants his mouth over yours. Max occupies himself in the junction of your throat and shoulder, canines gently grazing what used to be your pulse point. You moan softly into Tim’s mouth, and his cock reacts accordingly, twitching in his pants as he presses his body against yours to deepen the kiss.

“Tastes so sweet, doesn't she?” Max muses, his hand squeezing your hip. “She’s picky, too. Must like you a lot.”

Tim groans as he pulls you closer, his hand warming the small of your back over the flimsy silk slip. His tongue slides along yours, his fingers threading in your hair, and he grinds his clothed cock into your hip. He eagerly swallows down your whines, consumed by how fucking good you feel against him.

Max’s fangs begin to protrude from his gums as his tongue lavishes your throat, lapping up the sweetness rolling off your body, your hormones, the way you radiate need even though your heart does not beat. His cock prods your ass, confined in his pants, straining to find the friction he needs. You're melting, hands grasping greedily at Tim’s holsters, his button-up, trying to absolve him of his clothes.

He’s so dizzy he can barely stay upright. He belongs right here in your shadow, kissing his way across your jaw, so caught up in the fervour of pleasing you that he doesn't notice the way your pulse does not flutter under his lips.

“Does it feel good, baby?” says Max, his fangs close to puncturing your skin. “Is he doing his job?”

“Yes,” you whisper, lashes fluttering as Tim’s moustache scratches the sensitive skin below your ear. Your fingers curl in his tousled hair, dark and streaked with grey, signifiers of age your Max will never show. Your Max, who wants to taste you even though it doesn’t sustain him, who indulges in the sublime sweetness of your blood just because he loves it.

Tim’s big hands trail down your body at the same time his mouth does, shifting the silk nightgown in his feverish need to feel more of you, bringing the entire thing down to the floor with him in one aggressive tug. You gasp, your nipples stiff as they're exposed to the cool air, your thighs squeezing together instinctively, watching Tim sink to his knees in front of you as if in a trance.

“Don’t be shy, baby.” Max’s hand trails across your belly, palming at your thigh. Tim is crushing his nose into your skin as he kisses the spot where your hip meets your thigh. “You want him to taste your pretty pussy?”

“Yes, Max,” you whimper. “Yes, please.”

His lips ghost across your temple. “Don’t beg me. Beg him.”

Your eyes dip below your body to find Tim staring expectantly at you as he scatters kisses along your belly, your thighs. His pupils eclipse those warm brown irises. “Please, Detective.” You comb his soft hair away from his forehead and bite your lip at the way his taut expression telegraphs unaltered desire. He needs this. He needs you. “Please taste me.”

It's all he wants. His big, broad shoulders ease your thighs open while Max moves to your back, letting you balance against his hard chest. The scrape of the leather holsters on the back of your thigh makes you shiver as Tim guides your leg up onto his shoulder. You’re fucking dripping for him, your pussy glistening with your own arousal, clinging to your inner thighs. Tim’s eyes shudder as he slowly licks your juices clean off your skin, his fingers dimpling flesh.

“How’s she taste?” says Max, his hand fixing around your throat. Your hand overlaps his for a grip on reality, your other firmly wedged in the dreamworld, grasping Tim’s messy hair.

“So fucking sweet,” growls Tim, his teeth sinking into your inner thigh, over your femoral artery.

“Oh,” you moan, your head lolling against Max’s shoulder. “He likes to bite, Maxie.”

“A thorough detective,” purrs Max, his thumb caressing your jaw. “Hard to find that kind of dedication these days. Don’t make her wait, Rockford. She wants you; I can smell it.”

Tim’s nostrils flare—one last breath of air before he sinks wholly under the water. His tongue darts out to part your folds, sliding languorously through your wet slit. You bite your lip at the sight of his strong shoulders wedged between your thighs, his nose pressed hard against your clit as he circles his tongue around your hole. You’re fucking nectar. It's euphoria, the indelible high he will always be searching to replicate.

“Detective,” you sigh.

Tim groans into your cunt, his hand coming down in a hard smack to your thigh. The sudden shock of the slap pools arousal in your core, a pitiful yelp leaving your mouth.

“Sir!”

“The detective knows what this pretty little kitty wants,” says Max, grinning against your cheek. He punctuates his words with a playful thrust into your backside. “He knows you like it rough, honey. You like that?”

“Yes! Yes! More, please, I’ll do anything.”

Max considers this, humming ponderously into your throat. “Anything?”

Tim places an open-mouthed kiss on your needy clit, and you gasp, “Anything!”

“You got a pair of handcuffs on you, Rockford?”

It's a flurry of activity. You're transported efficiently to the couch in the living room, a gigantic jewel-green sectional, your hands bound behind you by two cold metal cuffs. Bent over the arm of the sofa, your thighs are spread, your cheek pressed into the cushion as you're shamelessly bared for the pair of them. Whining, you wiggle your hips, standing on your toes and presenting yourself for someone to make you feel good, already.

“My poor baby.” Max is gently caressing the curve of your spine. “You said you'd do anything. You wanna break your promise?”

“No, no, I’ll be good,” you beg. “I’ll behave, please!”

“Hear that, Rockford?” says Max, still smiling fondly down at you. “She’ll be good.”

Hands grasp your thighs and wrench them farther apart, warm breath—living breath—blowing on your cunt. “Sir,” you gasp, writhing under his big hands, “are you gonna be nice to me?”

Tim licks a bold path through your slit and hums, his head spinning, inebriated from a taste alone. He’s keeping you spread open, lapping up your sweet juices, fixing for his next hit. Making you moan is victory alone. He’ll be more than nice to you.

He fixes his mouth to your clit and you cry out, your hands flexing uselessly in the handcuffs. He suckles at your pearl, every sensation heightened by the fact that you can't move, buried under the weight of all the hands and metal links and pleasure. Max watches, pleased with your behaviour, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. “You’ve been bad, honey. Got a little reckless. We’re gonna teach you how to be good.”

Tim nips your clit, Max’s silent partner-in-crime, and you mewl.

“Like you… know anything… about good.”

“Mmm, and so rude.” Max clicks his tongue in reproach. “Detective, I think you should show my wife what happens when she's rude.”

The tongue licking through your cunt stops, and a garbled sound of protest escapes your throat, your eyes bleeding mascara into the cushion. You pulse frantically around nothing, desperate to be filled somehow, anywhere. You whimper for Tim, Maxie, someone, please—

A hot, wet glob of saliva lands on your puckered asshole, and a gurgled moan leaves your lips as Tim cleans off his own spit with his tongue.

As he swirls the wet muscle around your hole, his hand comes down in a hard slap on your ass, and you squeal, your arousal splattering on his clean white shirt. Apparently pleased, Tim groans, two thick fingers parting your folds.

“Ah! Oh, fuck, sir, please…”

Kneading the flesh of your ass in one hand, the other occupies itself by playing with your pussy, and for the first time, the detective gives you an order.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands, sinking two fingers into your tight cunt. His voice sounds like the shroud of night, like he knows exactly how illicit this is and fucking delights in it.

The feeling of his tongue on your asshole and his fingers curling up against your spongy walls has you drooling, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. “It’s… ah, fuck… it’s so good, Detective. Fuck, I’m… I’m gonna—”

Max tucks your hair behind your ear so he can see the wrecked, dazed expression on your face. “We’re going to fill you up, honey. Let you prove that you're a nice girl. That sound like fun?”

“Yes,” you moan, trying to maintain eye contact with Max even as your vision blurs with tears, “s’good. Need to come, Detective. Please.”

Tim spanks your ass again, his mouth slurping indecently at your backside, his fingers coaxing you to a high you don’t see coming. Your thighs shake uncontrollably as he rubs up against your g-spot, your mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your entire body seizes.

“There she is,” purrs Max, “such a nice girl, asking before she comes. How does your pretty kitty feel, baby?”

“Mmmsogood.” It's all a jumble in your mouth as your tension dissolves. Behind you, Tim is so gentle, licking up the release that has dripped down your thighs and tastefully avoiding your pussy.

Max caresses your cheek. “Check in with me, honey. You want to keep going?”

You nod vigorously, flexing your fingers. Max intertwines his hand with yours, squeezing. “I want you in my mouth, Max. Wanna make you feel good.”

He grins crookedly, making eye contact with the detective behind you. Tim’s eyes are black, bright as a moonlit lake, his cock tenting his pants. Max isn't much better off. Your body will do that to a man. A woman. Fucking anyone.

He’s just better at controlling himself. He’s had seventy years of practice.

Max’s eyes don't waver from Tim as he speaks to you. “Want our nice detective inside you, baby?”

“Oh, please,” you gasp. “Please fill me up, sir.”

Max cocks his head toward Tim. “I think she's been good enough. Don’t you?”

Tim nods. You have. You’ve been so good. He’ll give you any goddamn thing you want. He’ll throw himself at your feet time and time again if it means you’ll look at him this way. Over your shoulder, you meet his eye, smiling sweetly enough to give him a toothache.

“I’ll be a good girl, Detective.”

The glint of the metal cuffs reflects in his eyes, and he looks like an animal.

Both he and Max shuck down their zippers, but it’s Tim’s hands that grab for you, hauling you backward by your hips and wrapping one large hand around the chain between your cuffs. Pulling hard, he forces your body upright as Max settles in front of you.

You look up through your lashes at your husband, who tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back. You’re effectively suspended in the air by both men, your hips sorely rubbing against the arm of the sofa. It’s intoxicating.

Between your kiss-bruised lips, Max watches your fangs protrude, and he tuts.

“Gonna have to learn to control yourself, baby. Otherwise, this is gonna hurt for me.”

You swallow hard, retracting the sharp points of your teeth back into your gums. Max sings his praises by pulling out his hard cock and slapping it playfully against your cheek. Moaning his name, you begin to drool, the need to please igniting your body into action, your fuse lit from both ends.

Behind you, a warm, hard length rests between your asscheeks, and your back arches as best it can with Tim pulling at your cuffs. “Mmm, you’re so big, Detective,” you croon. “Is it gonna fit?”

Tim tugs roughly at the cuffs, a deep noise like a growl leaving his lips. “Gonna fuckin’ make it fit.”

“Open up,” says Max, guiding his cock to the seam of your mouth. “Open, and he’ll stuff your pretty little cunt.”

You part your lips and stick out your tongue, eager to take your husband’s big cock into your mouth. He’s long, thick, ridged with veins that you could trace with your eyes closed. But he doesn't like it when you close your eyes. He wants to watch you take him.

He pushes the tip into your hot, wet mouth, lip curling to reveal sharp teeth glinting white in the firelight. Your skin is pleasantly sticky with warmth, your mascara smudged beneath your eyes. Tim grasps the base of his cock, smearing his precum through your folds and catching on your clit. You moan around Max’s cock, letting him slide deeper down your throat at the same time the detective’s cock notches inside your cunt and begins to sink inside you.

Tim’s free hand grabs your hip to steady himself. Fuck, you're goddamn tight—warm and wet, your greedy pussy sucks him in, wrenching open around his length. His nostrils flare with self-restraint, the Herculean task of maintaining some composure even as his entire body thrums with the need to take you, to use you like a pretty doll and relieve all his stress.

What the fuck is happening to me?

“She’ll let you,” says Max, and Tim has to blink hard to see the man across from him. “She’ll let you use her. She likes being treated like a cumslut. Right, honey?”

Your fingers flex, locking around Tim’s wrist, and you bob your head around Max’s cock. “Shit, that’s right,” growls your husband. “Feel that, Detective? She’s fuckin’ begging to be filled up. Don’t go easy on her; she won’t be happy.”

Tim feels the rest of you give, and his hips bump into your ass. “Fuck,” he sighs. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

The fire's embers crackle against his back. He’s where he belongs.

His first thrust is experimental, watching the way your ass jiggles and your nails dig into his wrist, your throat contracting around Max’s cock. His second is indulgence: a slow drag out, back in, savouring the way your walls suffocate him. By the third, he’s lost control.

He begins to fuck you hard, the momentum of his thrusts forcing Max’s cock down your throat. “Je—fuck,” spits Max, fisting your hair, transfixed by the tears brimming in your waterline, the delicious slide of his length along the walls of your hot throat. “Such a fuckin’ pro. Gonna turn me into a two-pump chump. Gonna fuckin’ embarrass me in front of our guest.”

Tim grits his teeth as he pounds you, relishing his total control over your body, bending it to his will. You're so fucking good, so sweet, and he doesn't know why he ever suspected you.

He should turn in his badge for pointing a gun at you.

You whine around Max’s cock when Tim grinds deep, the head of his dick kissing your cervix, your eyes rolling back in your head. He feels you shudder underneath him and does it all over again, fucking you hard, deep, mercilessly.

You swallow Max down to the base, wiggling your tongue along the vein on his length. “Gonna fuckin’ come if you keep doing that,” he groans, but you're undeterred. You hum, the vibrations coursing through his body, and his balls pull up, emptying his cum down your throat in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck.” Max pulls out of your mouth just to spill the last of his cum on your bruised lips, painting you white. “That’s my fucking girl. Show me.”

You open your mouth again, tongue lolling out to proudly display his release. He rubs his thumb over your chin and spits into your mouth.

“Now swallow.”

You do, gulping down his cum and showing him your clean tongue when you're done. Max smirks, too damn proud for his own good. “Made you cry.”

You have little room left in your head to bask in his praise. Tim is taking charge, engulfed in the ecstasy of fucking you, his hips punching hard into your ass and forcing your back to bow with the grip he maintains on the handcuffs. Your next orgasm is approaching, your clit rubbing against the arm of the sofa and sending electrical tremors to your core.

But Max is still steel-hard despite his orgasm, watching the way your ass bounces with the force of Tim’s thrusts, your bound hands collected in a useless pile at your back, the breathy moans that leave your mouth. “Gonna need to take a break from breaking her, Detective. I want in, too.”

Some territorial part of him snaps and claws, too consumed by your body to let another man near it. Max clicks his tongue, giving Tim a dangerous smile. “Be careful, Rockford. Don’t get greedy with your treat.”

A strangled “unh” is your input, eyes shuttering as Tim reaches deep inside you again, mounting your orgasm to a foregone conclusion. Max sees the glaze drip down over your eyes, and decides to watch you come apart under a different man’s cock. “Spoiled, honey,” he mutters. “You’re spoiled.”

You come hard, joints locking and thighs squeezing Tim’s where they keep you spread apart. Your entire body jolts with electrical pulses, the pleasure coursing white-hot through your useless veins. He holds you in place, impaled on his dick, writhing around to get as much of him inside you as you possibly can. Tim grits his teeth, a faint whimper escaping his throat. The feeling of your pussy contracting around him, soaking his length, has him dizzy, close to keeling over—the scent of you, the warmth of your tight cunt, the way you coo his name and call him sir. Thank you for letting me come, sir. Fuck, sir, you feel so good inside me. Don’t leave me, sir.

He doesn't ever want to leave this fucking house.

Max slides his palm over your spine and you melt under it. “Come on, honey, let’s get you up. I’m in the mood to share some more.”

You whine as Tim reluctantly pulls out, weeping precum into your used hole. He’s going to fucking die if he doesn't come soon.

He helps you upright, kissing all the way up your spine and enjoying the soft hums of pleasure that emit from your lips. He wants to stay forever. He wants to bury himself inside you and never pull away.

“Mmm, Detective,” you purr. “So strong.”

“Yours,” he grumbles, his plush, wet mouth feverishly tracing a path along your jaw. “‘m yours.”

“Hear that, Maxie?” You beam at your husband, threading your fingers through Tim’s behind your back. “He’s mine.”

Max grins. “Let him prove it. C’mere, honey.”

Tim walks you to the couch and helps you kneel, settling behind you. Sitting in his lap, his mouth on your throat, you watch Max approach, slowly fisting himself. He kneels, too, rubbing the head of his cock against your clit. You gasp his name, your back arching, and Tim uses the opportunity to slot himself at your entrance, sinking you down on his cock with none of the care he took the first time around.

He’s deeper at this angle, grinding up against your front wall, absconding with any attention he had for staving off his orgasm. His teeth nip your earlobe, your jaw, one arm banding around your waist and squeezing your breast.

In front of you, Max grips himself and continues to rub your clit with the head of his cock. You mewl like a cat, and Tim groans, burying his face in your neck.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he hisses, his hips bucking up into you. “Jesus, baby.”

“He’s a blasphemer,” teases Max.

“Good,” you sigh, your head falling back onto Tim’s shoulder. The scent of leather and sweat engulfs your heightened senses, and the erratic thrum of his pulse echoes in your ears. His blood is warm, thick, rich—

Just a taste, you think, your eyes drooping at the very thought. Just one taste. I’ll be good…

Max coaxes you to another high with the pressure at your clit, but when he sees your mouth drop, he takes it away from you. You pout, petulant as ever, and Max mirrors it mockingly.

“One dick inside you isn't good enough?” He shuffles closer, yanking your head back by your hair and kissing you hard. His tongue dips into your mouth, and your fangs begin to descend, catching his lip before he breaks away.

Max prods his lip with his thumb and watches the blood bead, reaching out to smear the small crimson stain onto your lips. Hungrily, you lick it up, the cat with the cream, staring up at him with those faux-innocent eyes.

He snarls, fitting the head of his cock at your already-filled entrance. “Relax.” It’s Tim's raspy voice, mouth still fixed to your throat. You sink into him, letting Max open you up wide.

“That’s fuckin’ it, baby,” says your husband, smoothing his hand over your belly and wrenching open your hole to fit himself next to the detective. “Feel us in here?”

“Unnghhh.” Your mouth is open, your pearly fangs glinting in the dim light. Tim drags his nose up your throat and opens his eyes to study your face in the moment of pleasure.

He barely registers the too-sharp teeth, the blackened veins crawling from your eyes. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's all he knows as he begins to fuck you in tandem with your husband. His body vibrates with desire. His head is static. He belongs to you.

You’re so full. You're going to burst, and they're relentless, uncaring, caught up in the list and pheromones and perhaps the competition of seeing who can get you there first. You can only manage faint squeaks as they repeatedly take you, your body suspended, a pretty toy they get to use as they like. It’s so erotic that your cheeks burn, your core building with the pressure of another orgasm.

So fuckin’ tight.

Such a pretty fuckin’ doll, letting us use your body.

Gonna take our cum, baby? You gonna keep it all safe inside you?

She’s coming. Looks so pretty when she comes.

Come, pretty girl, and we’ll fill you up. Give you a nice treat.

You no longer know who’s speaking. It's all rolling around in your head, the smell of blood pounding in your skull, the temptation to turn your head to the side and taste the nectar from his throat. Your orgasm devastates you, your body quivering, both men lavishing their tongues and mouths over your skin as they continue to wreck your cunt.

Fingers flex against your ribcage, your wrist, and Tim is coming, his teeth bared against your temple and the leather holsters on his shoulders scraping wetly against your back as he grinds into you and stays there. His hot cum pumps into you, splattering your walls and Max’s cock. His balls continue to empty inside you as your husband reaches his peak, nudging your chin upward so he can sink his teeth into your throat, gulping down your blood.

Max’s head goes fuzzy with your taste, sweet and soft as velvet as it slides down his tongue. You moan at the feeling of his cum filling you up at the same time he depletes you of blood you don't need. They both empty themselves inside you and let your body slump against him. You hear the rustle of a key in your handcuffs and feel them release, falling to the floor.

Max and Tim ease out of you, and you turn around to lower yourself onto Tim’s hard chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. Behind you, Max scoops up globs of cum that have slipped out of your used hole and stuffs it back inside.

Tim’s eyes are fixed to you, dark and gentle, his hand gently squeezing your wrists. “Did I hurt you?”

“You couldn't hurt me,” you purr, sliding your hands under his collar and threading your fingers through his tousled hair. “You're so sweet to me, Detective. So big and strong.”

He trails his fingers up your back until he can cup your face in his hands, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb. “Your teeth…,” he murmurs, a vague expression of puzzlement on his face.

“You aren’t going to take me down to the station, are you, Detective?” You curl your finger around a lock of silver hair, pouting down at him.

“No, baby.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “I’m not gonna do anything to hurt you. I’d never. You’re safe. Safe with me.”

You beam at him and playfully nip his nose. “You’re a good detective, Mr. Rockford. You’ll find the killer soon.”

He nods vigorously. “I will.”

“And you’ll put them away,” you say, biting your lip as you slowly unbutton his shirt. “Because you're so good.”

“I’m good,” he echoes, unable to tear his eyes from yours. His body feels limp, calm, satiated, when he's touching you this way. The job disappears. The stress disappears, the exhaustion and the malaise. Humankind is a pathology, and you are his cure.

“Max,” you coo, resting your cheek on Tim’s chest and listening to his strong heartbeat. “I like him.”

Max hums, his knuckles gently dragging up and down your spine. “I know, baby. You wanna keep him?”

Quietly, you nod, littering kisses from his chest to his neck. You indulge in the fluttering pulse beneath his jaw. Tim smiles, sedated, tucking your hair behind your ear.

Max nods, giving your ass a playful squeeze. “Okay, honey. Go on—ask him.”

You prop yourself up on Tim’s chest and trail your fingers through his beard. “Do you wanna stay with me?”

Tim’s brows crease. “You want me to stay?”

“Forever,” you whisper conspiratorially, your fingers drumming an eager little dance on his chest. “I’ll make you real happy. I promise.”

Tim sees the points of your canines, the veins bleeding from your darkening eyes, and feels no fear. He lets you tip his head back, baring his throat, and he lets you lick a bold stripe up his neck. My answer is yes, he thinks, and he hopes you can hear him, crawling happily down into a hell that will warm his body for eternity.

Peace overcomes him as your eyes meet his, and your fangs sink in deep, the light slowly dimming to a faint memory.

CASE CLOSED.

#kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #tim rockford x reader #merge mansion #tim rockford #tim rockford x you #tim rockford x f!reader #max phillips #bloodsucking bastards #max phillips x you #max phillips x reader #max phillips x f!reader #max phillips x reader x tim rockford #max phillips fanfiction #tim rockford fanfiction

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sixth-light · 1 year

Note

*slides you money* I heard you were three seconds from a treatise on David Lange and Mururoa and the Rainbow Warrior?

BY POPULAR DEMAND (ok you and like three other people asked)...

The core fact that you gotta know if you want to talk about New Zealand and nuclear weapons is that campaigning for nuclear disarmament and maintaining a legal nuclear-free zone in our territorial waters has been the core of our independent foreign policy as a country for nearly forty years, since the mid-1980s. This developed over the 60s and 70s from a popular groundswell of anti-nuclear sentiment focused around continued atmospheric nuclear testing in the Pacific by France as well as visits from nuclear-powered (and potentially nuclear-armed) American warships. It evolved into government action; left-wing governments took France to court to demand an end to testing and sent naval frigates to the nuclear test area to protest with Government ministers on board.

This was crystallised in 1985 when a photographer was killed in the state-sponsored terrorist bombing of the Rainbow Warrior, a Greenpeace ship conducting protests at the French nuclear test site of Mururoa. The bombing was carried out by French spies who were decorated when they returned to France (after France promised they would be jailed) and led to a prolonged diplomatic rift between New Zealand and France. The subsequent passing of nuclear-free legislation in 1987, banning nuclear-powered or armed ships visiting our waters, led to New Zealand's suspension from the ANZUS (Australia, New Zealand, and the United States) military alliance. David Lange, the Prime Minister at the time, opined famously that "The only thing worse than being incinerated by your enemies, is being incinerated by your friends." The ban still has such wide bipartisan support that it's simply not on the table now for even our right-wing parties; infamously, in the early 2000s one Leader of the Opposition told an American congressional delegation that the ban would be 'gone by lunchtime' if he became Prime Minister. This wasn't the DIRECT cause of his eventual toppling but it certainly didn't help. Nobody else has gone near it since.

I am, however, excrutiatingly aware that while our nuclear-free stance is viewed internally by New Zealanders as central to our national identity - there's a well-known song and it was even controversially used this year in a beer ad as a signifier of national pride - nobody else remembers. Particularly the Americans and the French. Seared into my brain is Scott Brown (yes that one) arriving here as the new US Ambassador in 2016 and going on the radio to talk earnestly about how Kiwis didn't realise that nuclear fallout wasn't restricted by national borders, c.f. North Korea, as if anti-nuclear campaigning wasn't...well...see all of the above. READ YOUR GODDAMN BRIEFING PACKETS ON THE PLANE, SCOTT, IT'S A FOURTEEN-HOUR FLIGHT.

So what does that mean for the Locked Tomb books?

As the linked article about the beer ad notes, anti-nuclear protesting has been a site not only of national identity formation but specifically Indigenous protest in the Pacific. It is Pasifika peoples who have borne the brunt of nuclear testing and much of the early anti-nuclear movement in Aotearoa was led by Māori and Pasifika, and closely tied to the anti-apartheid movement which focused on the removal or restriction of Māori and Pasifika rugby players on tours to apartheid South Africa.

In Nona the Ninth, it becomes clear that John (a Māori man) and G- (whose ethnicity is not specified but 'reads' as most likely Māori or Pasifika in context), as well as their friends, blackmailed the US government for a suitcase nuke and eventually used it to bomb Melbourne, with John then causing nuclear armageddon around the world. This is, uh, emphatically not the same thing as "Twitch streamers [John & co] nuking New Zealand", as chill as I generally am with the eliding of detail for joke posts. This is a Māori man from and in New Zealand nuking first Australia and then the rest of the world.

This is, obviously, if you're coming from the historical context, hugely transgressive in a way I can only describe as a...horror of agency? The horror of saying, what if we were willing to do the thing that we identify ourselves as a nation as being against under all circumstances? What if instead of standing nobly against nuclear weapons, for reasons of moral indefensibility, we were the ones to pull the trigger? What if our culture and our people survived the apocalypse because one of us started it, instead of us surviving by virtue of being so small, so on the edge of the world, so carelessly left off world maps?

And as to why it matters that it's Melbourne - New Zealand has a...complicated relationship with Australia that's hard to directly parallel to anywhere else (it's sort of like Canada and the US but also not like Canada and the US in any way that Canadians or Americans ever interpret that statement in my experience). In particular, there is huge anxiety in Australia about New Zealand as a source of non-white (and specifically Māori and Pasifika) emigration to Australia. Australian immigration policy, while technically retaining free movement between the two nations, has grown more and more restrictive over the last twenty years. Right now the central point of conflict is a policy of deporting mostly Māori and Pasifika New Zealand-born prisoners back to New Zealand on completion of their sentences, regardless of how old they were when they came to Australia, resulting in a large body of traumatised people with zero community ties being dumped back here and - no surprises! - frequently turning to crime. There's A Lot Going On There. Added to which the Christchurch mosque shooter deliberately travelled here from Australia to carry out his terrorism. And yet also, hundreds of thousands of us live there and many more have relatives and friends there.

And Melbourne? Melbourne is like....the cool Australian city, if you're a New Zealander. Sydney is too big (the same population as our whole country!) and too...everything, Brisbane and the Gold Coast are tropical and so kinda weird, Adelaide and Perth? we don't know them, but Melbourne is aspirational. Melbourne is the kind of city Wellington and Auckland would like to be when they grow up, maybe. They have laneways and culture and a working tram system. But it's also a very...white kind of cool. The kind enjoyed by rich Pākehā who can afford to go on weekend shopping holidays there.

So yeah. John and G- and the crew nuke Melbourne and it's a nexus of all these tensions old and new, of who we think we are as people and as a nation, of how we relate to Australia which is our friend and nearest neighbour and our rival and our scapegoat (because they're the really racist ones, aren't they? If we say that loud enough, does it drown out the sounds of our own sins?)

It's a fantasy of power and a horror of it at the same time. I hope someone right now is writing a monograph on this, there's so much to dig into. But it deserves to be framed as what it is, as a response from a Kiwi author to our own history and identity. It deserves to be understood in context.

#the locked tomb #ntn spoilers #new zealand #history #nuclear disarmament

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alexbkrieger13 · 1 month

Text

Double vision

Partners on and off the pitch, Bayern pair Pernille Harder and Magdalena Eriksson have firm convictions on all the big topics facing women’s football in an era of exciting growth and mounting pressures

In a room at Bayern München’s training ground, Magdalena Eriksson and Pernille Harder are talking bicycles. One of their favourite things about Munich, the place they have both called home since making the switch last summer from Chelsea to Bayern, is the ease of travel for cyclists in the Bavarian capital.

Eriksson: “Now we live quite centrally so we can use our bikes to get anywhere.”

Harder: “It is a bit easier to bike here in Munich than in London.”

Magda: “We even took our bikes to Oktoberfest once.”

Pernille (laughs): “We were biking straight!”

This is the beauty of an interview with the pair (even one conducted over Zoom, as this one is): you raise a subject and they bounce it around between them, their insights and reflections interspersed with lighter moments and laughter. And, as arguably their sport’s highest-profile couple – Harder is a two-time UEFA Women’s Player of the Year, Eriksson a Sweden stalwart – they have plenty to say.

Both care deeply about matters on and off the football pitch. They are members of UEFA’s Football Board (of which more later), they support the Common Goal project – pledging one per cent of their salaries to support football charities – and on top of that they are advocates for the LGBTQ+ community.

But, first, back to finding their feet in Munich, where the duo bring serious know-how to a Bayern side with big ambitions, despite an early exit from the Champions League in January. In Harder’s case, the Denmark forward knew German football already from her three years with Wolfsburg between 2017 and 2020. For Eriksson, after six seasons in England with Chelsea, this is an entirely new experience – which is exactly what she was hoping for.

“I think that’s how we are as people,” says the former Blues captain. “A reason why we moved is I am really curious about a new culture and a new environment.” From the sounds of things, that decision is paying off too. Away from the pitch, she is enamoured of the local coffee shops; on it, she has been impressed by the way “a lot of the girls take responsibility around the dressing room and with how things should work around the team. There’s quite a clear structure of different responsibilities, and the players take ownership of that. That’s something more like how it was in Sweden, and not at all in England. It makes us take responsibility and it’s something I appreciate.”

As for Harder, she elaborates on the unique culture of Germany’s biggest football club – one which attempts to marry sustained success with humility. “It really is a club where you have to work hard, be humble but also know your worth,” she says. “It’s a bit weird. There is no arrogance: we know we’re good, we know we are a big club, but we know we also have to work hard. There’s a lot of respect for each other, and it’s not only in our team. When we go to the campus and meet the academy boys or some of the other staff, you have the respect. You treat others the way you want to be treated, and that’s a really good value which aligns with my values.”

Now both in their thirties – Eriksson is 30, Harder 31 – they knew the women’s game before its lift-off moments of recent years. Thus, they bring a helpful sense of perspective to any discussion of its development, and how it might evolve in years to come.

If female footballers today have opportunities beyond the dreams of previous generations, they face pressures unknown by their predecessors too, as Eriksson explains. “I think there are two sides to every story. Maybe, when we grew up, there wasn’t that much pressure, but with a growing platform [and how] the women’s game is growing, there is also growing pressure. The fans are growing, social media is growing, so there are two sides to it.

“We can really help the younger generation of today to deal with that kind of pressure, which you have to be able to manage as a footballer,” she adds. “You have to find what you need to focus on and what you should really just shut off and not focus on. You need to find the people that you talk football with and the people’s opinions you shouldn’t care about.”

Harder picks up the thread: “When we were younger, there was only one focus and that was football – to get better and to win. It was just football: that was the thing we played for. Now, there is so much more and, with social media, it’s also about a lot of individual awards, individual recognition, when the focus should be on the team. And I think it’s easier to be distracted [from] having that right focus. That’s something important to think about…”

“And to remind yourself about on a daily basis,” Eriksson cuts in. “And also to spread that within the team – that it’s a team sport and the team wins, the team loses, the team scores, the team concedes. All of those things.”

“Except when Magda scores!” adds Harder with a laugh, teasing her partner over a goal she scored in the week of this interview.

Jokes aside, the pair obviously think a lot about the game, which makes them natural choices to sit on UEFA’s Football Board, the body set up last year to draw on the knowledge of current and former players and elite coaches in the shaping of women’s football. For Eriksson, it’s “inspiring to know you get a direct line to some really big decision-makers”, and the welfare of players – “the football calendar and making football sustainable” – is something both women are keen to highlight.

“We all want a long career, but sometimes if you have to play all the time and have no break, that will shorten it,” says Harder. “Often, we have tournaments in the middle of summer or late summer, so we have four or five weeks before the tournament for our summer holiday, but then we don’t really have that time off because you train to prepare for the World Cup. And then, after the World Cup, [Magda] had ten days and I had two weeks off, and then you just go straight back into it. So, you have to put the tournaments earlier so you have at least four weeks after when you can really, medically, relax and be ready for the new season. Everything else is just too hard mentally and for the body.”

“It was the same last year with the EURO and the amount of injuries we saw after,” says Eriksson, who, ironically, just days after our interview, suffered a metatarsal fracture in her left foot. “Again, [it was] a couple of weeks off for a few, even less for others, and then you are straight back into a high-performance environment where you immediately have to play games. Finding a balance in the calendar where you get the breaks at the right time and don’t have too many games in short spaces of time is the most important thing.

“The fact we are starting now to do research on women’s bodies and women’s players is the first step. With the way we train, the way we train conditioning, everything is based on research on men’s football players, men’s athletes. We don’t know if it’s the same for us. Should we train more or less, or in a different way?”

From Harder comes further food for thought. “When you think about it, we use the same football as the men. It isn’t that I want to change it, but it’s also the same size of pitch and we don’t have the same body; we don’t have the same strength in the muscles. I don’t know the impact from every time I shoot or make a pass, if that’s actually a bigger impact on my muscles than it is on a man’s. That’s something I think it would be quite interesting to look at. I don’t know if it’s something we want to change and have a lighter ball. Maybe it’s just small percentages of how heavy the ball is that could change it.”

“There is rivalry in women’s football, but respect, love and joy always come first”

It’s fascinating to hear this to and fro on the physical side of the game they love, and it’s not the only challenge they see. We talk too about misogyny and what Harder describes as “a mindset of some people who don’t want to change [and see] that women can also play football, women can also be commentating on men’s football, that they also have knowledge about football. They have their mindset and their values about it and it’s really difficult for them to change.”

What is not in question is that women’s football has taken giant steps already in terms of status and recognition. As the commercial opportunities grow, however, neither woman wants to lose the things that make it different from the men’s game. Eriksson recalls the celebratory atmosphere in Australia and New Zealand during the last Women’s World Cup; she cites too the friendly fan dynamics in the club realm.

“We are coming off the back of a fantastic World Cup where there were only positive emotions connected to the games. Of course, some teams win, some teams lose – that’s part of football – but the way the tournament was held and the fan culture, that was amazing. So much positivity, so much joy, and that’s everywhere in women’s football fan culture right at the moment. That is what we want to keep. In women’s football, that rivalry is still there, but the respect, the love and the joy is always what comes first.”

The last word comes from Harder, ever the finisher. “It won’t be easy to keep it like that, but that at least is the aim.”

#great interview #magdalena eriksson #pernille harder #woso #fc bayern frauen #fcb frauen #swewnt #denwnt #hardersson #wlw #swewnt article

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theculturedmarxist · 15 days

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Conor here: The following post goes into the ins and outs of the case ahead of the April 23 beginning of the case, the outcome of which seems to be a foregone conclusion and will be a major blow to labor.>New York Times labor reporter Noam Scheiber noted back in January when the Supremes agreed to hear the case that the very fact that they did so meant they would likely rule so that it’s harder to unionize. The reasoning behind that belief isn’t just the conservative majority on the court but also that the courtdeclined to hear a similar case in 2014 (back before the current conservative majority).

By Michael Z. Green, professor of law and the director of the Workplace Law Program at Texas A&M University. Originally published at The Conversation.

What factors must a court consider when the National Labor Relations Board requests an order requiring an employer to rehire terminated workers before the completion of unfair labor practice proceedings?

That’s the central question that the Supreme Court will consider on April 23, 2024, during oral arguments in the Starbucks Corp. v. McKinney case. The global coffee shop chain is challenging the NLRB, the federal agency responsible for enforcing U.S. workers’ rights to organize, saying that the agency used the more labor-friendly of two available standards when it asked a federal court to order the company to reinstate workers at a Memphis, Tennessee, store who lost their jobs in 2022 amid a nationwide unionizing campaign.

The Conversation U.S. asked Texas A&M law professor Michael Z. Green to explain what’s behind this case and how the court’s eventual decision, expected by the end of June, could affect the right to organize unions in the United States.

What Is This Case About?

Seven baristas who were attempting to organize a union at a Starbucks shop in Memphis, Tennessee, were fired in February 2022. Starbucks justified their dismissal by asserting that the employees, sometimes called the “Memphis 7,” had broken company rules by reopening their store after closing time and inviting people who weren’t employees, including a television crew, to go inside.

In June of that year, the shop became one of more than 400 Starbucks locations since 2021 that have voted in favor of joining Workers United, an affiliate of the Service Employees International Union.

While a complaint over the mass dismissal was pending with the NLRB, Kathleen McKinney, the NLRB director for the region that includes Memphis, sought an injunction in a federal district court to force Starbucks to give the Memphis 7 their jobs back while the case proceeded. The company must “cease its unlawful conduct immediately so that all Starbucks workers can fully and freely exercise their labor rights,” she said.

By August 2022, a judge had ordered Starbucks to do that, and in September the baristas were back on staff.

Although the seven baristas got their jobs back and the union vote prevailed, the company has appealed the case all the way to the Supreme Court because it believes the court should not have ordered the company to reinstate the workers while NLRB proceedings were still pending.

But the NLRB argues, and the lower courts agreed, that the terminations chilled further union activities at the store even after the election.

Nevertheless, Starbucks argues that firing the seven workers had no effect because employees at that coffeehouse still voted in favor of unionization.

What’s Being Challenged?

The justices will have to decide which approach federal courts should use when they consider requests for injunctions like this one.

Currently, five appeals courts, including the one where this case arose, base their decision on a two-part test.

First, the courts determine whether there is “reasonable cause” to believe an unfair labor practice has occurred. Second, they determine whether granting an injunction would be “just and proper.”

Four other appeals courts use a four-part test.

First, the courts ask whether the unfair labor practice case is likely to succeed on the merits in establishing that labor violations occurred. Second, they look to see if the workers the NLRB is attempting to protect will face irreparable harm without an injunction. Third, after showing likelihood of success and irreparable harm, they ask whether those factors outweigh any hardships the employer is likely to face due to compliance with the court’s order. Fourth, they ask whether issuing the injunction serves the public interest.

Two other appeals courts use a hybrid test that appears to have components of both of the tests. They ask whether issuing an injunction would be “just and proper” by considering the elements of the four-part test.

In its Supreme Court brief, Starbucks argues that having to give workers their jobs back in these circumstances can cause “irreparable injury” and that it’s an “extraordinary remedy.”

The NLRB, in its Supreme Court brief, says that the injunction was proper in this case because Starbucks terminated 80% of the union organizing committee at the Memphis store and the evidence showed the chilling effect this action had on the “lone remaining union activist.” According to the NLRB, this chilling effect “harmed the union campaign in ways that a subsequent Board ruling could not repair.”

A labor reporter discussing Starbucks’ unfair labor practice cases, including the one involving the Memphis 7, determined that NLRB administrative law judges had found labor violations in 48 out of 49 cases.

What’s the Potential Impact of the Court’s Eventual Ruling on This Case?

While the case may sound like it’s only about seven people employed at a single coffee shop, the scope is wider than that.

Although the NLRB issues hundreds of unfair labor practice complaints against employers every year, it usually doesn’t turn to the courts to force the rehiring of employees. It only sought these types of injunctions 17 times in 2023, for example.

And seven of those efforts involved Starbucks. Despite the small number of overall injunctions, the large number of unfair labor practice complaints – and the eventual 48 out of 49 findings of violations – might support the rare use of injunctions in this case.

If the Supreme Court rules in favor of Starbucks, the overall impact seems unclear.

For one thing, the court will have picked one test over another without any proof that one is more likely to result in an injunction or not. In addition, the underlying unfair labor practice case has been resolved, since the workers have gotten their jobs back and their workplace has joined a union.

What’s more, Starbucks has agreed to negotiate a collective bargaining agreement with the union – which has continued to make inroads at the company’s coffee shops.

Because the NLRB rarely seeks injunctions, the fact that this issue has obtained enough importance for consideration by the Supreme Court seems odd considering its valuable time and the limited number of cases it can consider each year. But let’s see what the court’s majority decides.

#nlrb #union busting #starbucks #supreme court #biden administration #labor rights #naked capitalism

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mariacallous · 2 months

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Two weeks after the revelation that the Russian Red Cross (RRC) has close ties to the Kremlin’s war and propaganda machinery, pressure is mounting on the International Federation of the Red Cross (IFRC) as several top donors and key governments publicly voice concern about the findings.

Meanwhile, new evidence highlights how the RRC entered an official partnership with an organization that is under Western sanctions for “re-educating” children that Russia has deported from occupied Ukraine. The RRC also routinely engages with Russia’s patriotic military camps, which teach children as young as 8 how to fire Kalashnikov automatic rifles and participate in close-combat.

At the end of February, VSquare and our international partners revealed Vladimir Putin plans to oust the International Red Cross from the occupied territories in Ukraine and replace it with Russian offshoots loyal to the Kremlin.

Our “Kremlin Leaks” investigation also uncovered that several board members of the RRC openly support the war against Ukraine. The supposedly neutral aid organization honored arms companies and, at least up until he was asked about it by “Kremlin Leaks” reporters in February, RRC president Pavel Savchuk was actively working with several sanctioned propaganda organizations, all of which support soldiers on the frontline with weapons, equipment, and money.

Savchuk, who also sits on the governing board of the IFRC, is a member of the “central staff” of the All-Russian People’s Front. This organization, sanctioned for its propaganda efforts, was established by Russian President Vladimir Putin. It is known for various activities, including holding the trademark rights to the “Z,” a symbol associated with Russia’s war of aggression against Ukraine.

A US State Department spokesperson characterized the “Kremlin Leaks” findings as “extremely concerning” and said the State Department has been in touch with the IFRC regarding the issues we reported on through the US mission to the United Nations.

The Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs – another key donor to the International Federation of the Red Cross – said in a statement that it has been in contact with the IFRC since the publication of the “Kremlin Leaks” revelation “to discuss the issues raised together with other donors.”

“Full clarity on these issues is now needed. We expect the IFRC to take swift action in accordance with its constitution, which includes measures such as suspension or expulsion [of the RRC],” a Swedish ministry spokesperson said.

The British government is also following developments after the revelation. “We have been assured that none of our aid has been channeled to [the Russian Red Cross] in 2022, or at any point since Russia’s illegal invasion of Ukraine,” a UK Foreign Office spokesperson said, adding that the office awaits the outcome of the Red Cross Movement’s investigations into these allegations.

The IFRC, at the same time, has opted to keep a low profile on this issue. So far, it has said only that it is reviewing the claims against the RRC and its president, Savchuk, but the IFRC has not elaborated as to what that review will mean. The IFRC has also stressed that a review is not an official investigation, which would be conducted by the organization’s compliance and mediation committee.

While the IFRC continues its review of the connections and official cooperation between the Russian Red Cross and several Russian organizations that are actively engaged in promoting Putin’s war efforts against Ukraine, VSquare and its partners – including Delfi (Estonia), Expressen (Sweden), Der Spiegel, ZDF and Paper Trail Media (Germany), Der Standard (Austria), Tamedia group publications (Switzerland), YLE (Finland) and the Guardian (UK) – can now reveal new information that shows the connection between the RRC and Russia’s war and propaganda network go even deeper than previously thought. These new revelations raise additional concerns about the organization’s compliance with the principles of neutrality and impartiality.

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blueiskewl · 1 year

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2000-Year-Old Roman Silver Coins Discovered in Sweden

ARCHAEOLOGISTS FROM SÖDERTÖRN UNIVERSITY HAVE DISCOVERED TWO ROMAN COINS DURING A RESEARCH PROJECT ON GOTSKA SANDÖN, AN UNINHABITED ISLAND IN GOTLAND COUNTY, SWEDEN.

During the Roman Period, Svealand (“land of the Swedes”) in central Sweden, was inhabited by a North Germanic tribe. Contact with the Romans was limited, however, archaeological evidence does indicate an emerging trading network in Svealand for the latest Roman fashions.

Archaeologists from the Södertörn University have been conducting excavations on Gotska Sandön as part of a joint project with Campus Gotland and the Gotland Museum.

Excavations revealed silver denarii from the Roman period, including one that depicts the emperor Trajan (AD 98 – 117), and the other, emperor Antoninus Pius (AD 86 – 161).

“These are exciting finds that raise several questions,” says Johan Rönnby, professor of marine archaeology at Södertörn University.

Although the Romans sailed as far as Scotland and documented the Baltic area, there are no historical records of their voyages that describes the island, making it uncertain whether they were the ones who brought the coins there.

The team suggests that the coins could be from a shipwreck on the Sandön coast, where many hearths and remnants of ancient fireplaces have been located. Whether the hearths are associated with a period of settlement on the island or ancient production of seal oil is unknown, but the team plans to return later in the year to investigate further.

“Finds of Roman silver coins are not unusual on Gotland, but they are on Gotska Sandön. This find is interesting because of its location,” adds Daniel Langhammer, officer at the County Administrative Board of Gotland.

#2000-Year-Old Roman Silver Coins Discovered in Sweden #silver denarii #collectable coins #emperor Trajan #emperor Antoninus #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire

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irithnova · 8 months

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I actually have more questions.

What is Mongolia's human name?

And what was his first experience with a European like?

I call him Baatar Batbayar because I think it's cute haha.

And uh. Well. LMAO it wasn't exactly the friendliest to put that way.

When the Mongols travelled Westward, they didn't even really know where they were heading. Historian Morris Rossabi noted that the Mongols' entry into Europe wasn't a deliberate invasion; they lacked precise knowledge of their destination.

Europeans had limited awareness of the Mongols until their arrival, and it wasn't exactly a welcome one.

There's a pretty famous, pretty gruesome story relating to the battle of Kalka River (located in Modern Ukraine)

After the Mongol invasion in Central Asia and the fall of the Khwarezmian Empire, Jebe and Subutai led a force into Iraq-i Ajam. They asked Chinggis Khan for permission to keep conquering for a few years before rejoining the main army. While waiting for Chinggis' reply, they raided the Kingdom of Georgia.

Their plan was approved, and they passed through the Caucasus, defeating Caucasian tribes and the Cumans. The Cuman Khan sought help from Prince Mstislav the Bold of Halych, who formed an alliance with Rus' princes, including Mstislav III of Kiev, against the Mongols.

The battle was the Mongols against the allied forces of the Principality of Kiev, the Principality of Galicia-Volhynia, the Principality of Chernigov, the Principality of Smolensk and the Cumans (I'll call them the alliance for brevity.)

What happened (extremely brief)

At the battle of the Kalka River, the Mongol forces employed strategic withdrawal to lure the alliance into a dispersed pursuit.

When the Mongols made their stand, they positioned skilled archers on horseback at the front.

The alliance , misjudging the Mongols' retreat as disarray, charged prematurely, leading to chaos in their ranks.

Mongol archers on horseback skillfully disrupted the advance with precise arrow fire.

Mongol heavy cavalry, well-armed and equipped, crushed the isolated vanguard.

The combined Mongol forces, including mounted archers, routed the remaining troops, resulting in significant casualties and the capture of Mstislav the Daring

Here's the gruesome part

Jebe and Subutai ordered the suffocation of Mstislav the Daring and two other princes beneath boards during a victory celebration. They essentially sat on top of the boards celebrating as the princes suffocated to death

This is actually in Mongol custom - no, not necessarily crushing people to death while you party on top of them. But it was forbidden to spill royal blood, so when Mongols would kill royalty, they'd go for bloodless deaths.

So. Definitely not the friendliest introduction to Europeans haha! He definitely built a pretty bad reputation throughout Europe, especially after this stunt. Not that he particularly cared, in fact he probably actually enjoyed inciting fear in people.

Being feared meant people would surrender more often and more easily so it's less of a hassle if they do so rather than conducting a full-scale invasion.

He certainly would have had contact with some of the Europeans conquered under him or at least was aware of them. Lots of hate filled letters sent to him or sent to golden horde that he then read (he's nosy) from the likes of Hungary and Poland for example and on the special occasions he'd meet them himself (I think Golden Horde/Jochi ulus would be dealing with them a lot of the time) there was a lot of gritted teeth and that eras equivalent of middle fingers being launched at him from behind his back, hah!

Some more lovely interactions with Europe:

In 1236, they beat the Bulghars, and in 1237, they crossed the frozen Volga River with a massive army, causing destruction in what is now modern Russia. They destroyed cities like Moscow and Vladimir by 1238.

Then, they rested in the Don steppe while gathering more information about Europe.

After taking Kiev and Chernigov in Ukraine, the Mongols took a break to regroup and get more soldiers. In Europe, rumours of the "Devil's Horsemen" and a "Storm from the East" started spreading.

In Poland, the Mongols lured Polish troops into a trap near Kraków and plundered the city

On Palm Sunday.

Mongolia was definitely hated but it's not like that was anything new. His first experience is... Hard to say exactly but I can imagine again, receiving angry letters at first as he would accompany Chinggis and after Chinggis, whoever was the great Khan/overlord essentially and would aid in the great Khan's conquests so wasn't always present during those invasions in Europe.

First experience with a European nation was most likely during a visit to check in on how things were going and I'd put a finger on Poland potentially being one of the first Euro nations Mongolia met face to face during a visit (probably came after Krakow was razed to see uh what happened himself but ofc there were also previous visits Mongolia made to see the progress or to pretend to be a good father for a few days) and he probably tried to spit at him or something considering 🗿

I don't think Mongolia thought much of the appearance of the Europeans or was particularly perplexed by it, maybe a little curious but he just cared really if they complied and and how much progress was being made lol. He probably found the hate mail from those nations and small acts of defiance (like being spat at) somewhat amusing too but did make sorta try to make sure that it wasn't too much for golden horde or smth (woaw being a normal father for once 😍)

Ik I made him sound like an asshole and he was but in a boyboss way 👆

Btw I think Poland and Mongolia actually get along now LMAOO

#hetalia #aph mongolia #hws mongolia #hetalia world stars #hetalia world series #hetalia world twinkle #historical hetalia #Hetalia Mongolia #Aph Poland #hws poland #Hetalia Poland #Aph golden horde #Hws golden horde #Hetalia golden horde #Hetalia headcanons #Hetalia hc #Hetalia Asia #Hws asia #Aph Asia

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roguedarkscribe · 10 months

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Hitsuhina Week 2023 - Day 7: Future / Fairy tales

Rating: T

Summary: The Women's Association run a special article 😏

AN: Originally posted on AO3. I probably had about 20 half-baked ideas for today but didn’t get very far into writing them. So probably just going to share some of my already posted stories.

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

There had once been a time when the Soul Reaper Women’s Association had been one of the best funded and most influential organizations in the entirety of the Seireitei. But after the end of the Quincy War, much of their power had diminished greatly. The funds that had once been designated for the group had to be reinvested towards repairs and the time the members once reserved for the various activities they sponsored, had been redirected to be more usefully spent supporting the reconstruction efforts. The meeting room hidden in the Kuchiki Manor, which had been the group’s favorite headquarters, was left for dust to slowly build up where lively meetings and laughter had once persisted.

For four years the Seireitei remained in a state of limbo waiting to see what sort of enemy would emerge. For four years they worked tirelessly on rebuilding their strength and repairing their world that had been nearly destroyed by the Quincies. But now it felt as though there was true calm and peace in the Seireitei and it was time to take care of the smaller things that they had all but forgotten about. Central 46 and the bodies that be had loosened the strict budgeting that had been in place and now allocations allowed for spending towards groups and clubs once again. The Seireitei Bulletin was the first to be green lit, releasing the news through their New Years Edition and calling for new and old article writers to submit their work for the next edition. The Women’s Association jumped at the chance and were among the first to be allotted a two page spread for the next release.

Nanao Ise spread the word among the former members quickly and arranged for all of them to meet in their old meeting room. Excitement buzzed as the time of the meeting drew closer and Momo Hinamori was looking forward to it more than she thought she would. She had never been a frequent member of the group not having much interest in some of the topics or events that were conducted, nor did she always prove of the more… questionable means by which the group got its funding. But it was always a good time to spend with her female friends whenever she could go to a meeting.

Entering the old meeting room, Hinamori found herself to be among the first to arrive. Nanao and Kiyone were already there, dusting the old tables and chairs and preparing for the meeting. Momo joined in cleaning with the others while they all waited for everyone to arrive. One by one, the old members of the group filed in and once everyone had arrived and taken seats, they all found themselves looking around the room taking stock of how the faces had changed and the faces that weren’t there. Other than Captain Isane Kotetsu who was bogged down at the Fourth Division, and Rangiku Matsumoto who was in the World of the Living on a mission, Captain Unohana, Yachiru and Nemu, were all gone. Lost to the war.

Nanao walked to the head of the table where a blank board stood. Adjusting her glasses, she cleared her throat and began the meeting. “Welcome everyone to the First Soul Reaper’s Women’s Association Meeting,” She announced. “As you are all aware, funding has been approved for all clubs and associations through the end of the second quarter. Which leaves us with three major topics on the agenda today.” She turned to the board and wrote out the first item to be taken care of. “With the Presidency and Supervising Chairwoman positions, empty, we need to establish who will take on those roles.” A sad silence filled the room, no one wanting to voice possible replacements for the members who were gone. But eventually, in hushed tones, nominations were uttered and discussed thoroughly. By the end, the decisions were made. Nanao would become the President, with Rukia Kuchiki serving as the Vice-President and the Supervising Chairwoman would remain empty out of respect (and fear) for the former Fourth Division Captain who held the position.

With the hardest part of the meeting out of the way, the group moved on to the main topic that everyone was eager to discuss. The Seireitei Bulletin. With a full two page spread, they had the opportunity to come up with something great that would bolster interest in their group and potentially earn them profit for a future event they could plan. Ideas were quick to be formed in the group ranging from interesting to impossible, and from decent to horrible. A photo set of stealthily acquired images of Yoruichi, How to Turn a Closet into a Home, Health and Wellness Tips, Fending Off Unwanted Advances… Momo had little interest in any of the topics and everyone seemed to be quite polarized about which direction to go. The board filled up with ideas quickly and hastily scribbled notes kept track of the major points for and against each one.

As arguments were starting to get out of hand, Nanao called the group to a vote when the door to the room slammed open and Rangiku Matsumoto charged in. “Hold everything!” She shouted, holding a folder over her head and slamming it down hard on the table.

“I thought you and Toshiro were in the world of the living,” Momo said looking up in surprise at the late addition. She hadn’t expected her to be back for another day at least.

Rangiku smiled, “We finished early,” She said, waving off any other questions. “Normally, I’d still be there, shopping until the Captain dragged me back; but I have found the perfect article for our little group.” Opening the folder, she revealed what had to be at least 100 pictures all of Toshiro. The women huddled around the pictures and looked at them with curiosity.

“The captain seems to have a knack for football,” Rangiku said, “And he’s grown quite a bit since the war ended.” The women quietly gave a murmur of agreement because he really had grown, now standing about a head taller than Momo. But that clearly wasn’t what Rangiku was referring to. Flipping through the pictures, the shots got closer together in time especially after one image of Toshiro making a clean slide tackle that split the left side of his shirt up to his third rib and leaving little to the imagination of what the rest of his torso looked like.

A few images later, Rangiku had somehow managed to get a rather… impressive frame by frame set of him pulling the tattered shirt off. The smooth way in which he pulled it off by tugging at the back of the collar, the way the tattered hemline slowly rose up, revealing the sculpted muscles of the man who had the distinction of being the youngest Captain in the Soul Society. Momo felt her cheeks burn red as the other women looked through the images with similar looks of appreciation.

How did she get these pictures without him freezing her fingers off? There was even a series of photos of him drinking from a water bottle that made the simple act look… seductive.

“When did you take these?” Momo asked, diverting her focus to the images after the water bottle when he returned to the game shirtless.

“Yesterday,” Rangiku answered. “And this was after we’d eliminated that hive of hollows in the area. To be honest, if he hadn’t come across that game, we’d probably have been back last night.”

“Uh huh…” Ignoring the older woman’s attempt to practically sell her captain’s ‘sex appeal’, the photos did manage to capture a side of him that she had only seen glimpses of every once in awhile in the past few decades. The child-like side of him that he’d repressed since becoming a soul reaper. He’d always been competitive, but for him to be competitive and… happy at the same time was something she’d only seen fully on display when he’d been the undefeated champion in top spinning when they were kids.

Momo smiled as she looked at one of the last few images on the table. The ball was undisturbed halfway between him and the goalkeeper. He stood relaxed with his hands in his pockets as he stared straight ahead as if the keeper wasn’t even in the way. To someone who didn’t know him well, the smirk on his face could have been described as either confident or cocky. But she knew better than to just look at his lips to read his expression. The answer was always clear in his eyes. Even if he wanted to hide something, those turquoise eyes of his could never hide the depth of his feelings. His eyes were relaxed and almost half-lidded in the picture with the color closer to a blue-green. He was having fun.

After everyone had gotten a glimpse of the photos, Nanao brought the group back to order and after a quick review of options, brought the group to a vote.

———

A month had passed since the Women’s Association had decided on their article and, as with all activities within the group, were sworn to secrecy. Momo had mixed feelings about hiding it from her best friend but reluctantly complied. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to withhold this kind of stuff from him and as much as he hated it, he at the very least tolerated the group’s need for secrets. Besides, it couldn’t possibly be any worse than the other times Rangiku published articles about him, or the previous run of trading cards the Women’s Association had sponsored. And the last thing the Soul Society needed was Toshiro (literally) freezing the magazine for eternity.

As the publication date drew near, Rangiku made herself more scarce than usual around the Tenth Division. She had made the precautionary decision to remain in the Women’s Association room in Kuchiki Manor knowing there was no way her captain could reach her behind the walls of the imposing home of the noble. She had urged Momo to join her since, in her own words, Toshiro was horrible company when he was angry. Which was true, but Momo had known him her whole life so he wasn’t nearly as ‘horrible’ with her as he was with everyone else. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d be one of his targets. She hadn’t even voted for that article and had tried to convince the group that it was a bad idea. Unfortunately, the potential sale of prints and posters won out.

The day the monthly bulletin went out had started out fairly normal but as the day went on and people sat down to read it and talk about it, the entire place was abuzz with talk about the article submitted by the Women’s Association. Knowing her best friend, he probably hadn’t even read it yet, too absorbed with extra work left behind by his missing lieutenant. Abandoning her own work for the day, she made her way to the Tenth, taking the long way to get an idea of how bad the whole situation was getting. Momo spied several groups huddled over issues of the magazine, pointing, giggling, and sighing while whispering among themselves. This was bad.

Fortunately, it seemed his own division had some idea about how angry their captain would be once he got wind of the whole thing. She saw a few issues floating around the Tenth’s offices but the owners were quite secretive as they glanced at the infamous article when they thought no one was looking. Momo approached the Captain’s office and knocked, announcing herself before entering. As expected, Toshiro was at his desk sifting through several piles of paperwork, muttering to himself. “Have you seen the fourth seat? I’m missing their incident report,” He asked, not even sparing her a glance as he leafed through a report.

“I don’t even think I know who your fourth seat is,” Momo said, walking up to the desk and resting the palms of her hands on the wooden surface.

It was only then, he seemed to register he wasn’t talking to one of his men. He looked up, his eyes reflected his surprise but only for a moment before he hardened his eyes again. “Oh, it’s you.”

“You could sound a little more happy to see me, Shiro.”

“It’s Captain Hitsugaya,” He corrected, a little harsher than usual. Clearly it wasn’t a good day for him. And it would only get worse once he saw the article. “And I am glad to see you. I’m just… busy,” He said, tossing the pile of papers onto his desk. “I can’t find Matsumoto anywhere, and for some reason people around here are either avoiding me, or in a rush to leave as quickly as possible.” He frowned and folded his arms over his chest, thinking. “Maybe I was too rough on them yesterday with training…” A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he immediately sat tall in his chair. “Enter.”

A young girl who looked to be fresh from the academy stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed red, and holding a folder close to her chest. Toshiro cocked his eyebrow up, and the girl dropped her head down, hiding a girlish smile. “S-sorry, sir.”

“Did you need something, Shuyama?

The girl giggled, and blushed even more. Toshiro exchanged a look with Momo as though she might have some female insight into the girl’s behavior. And oh did she. The girl cleared her throat, “S-sorry. I-I have… here,” She held out the folder but she was still standing in the doorway. Momo could see the girl sweating from across the room as she slowly walked forward, her hand still awkwardly extended as she approached her captain’s desk.

Toshiro accepted the folder from her and his gaze softened a little. “You alright, Shuyama?”

“Uh, y-yes, sir! I’m perfectly fine.”

He didn’t seem to believe her but shrugged, and sent her on her way with orders to find the fourth seat and the missing report. Momo shook her head as the girl fled and he gestured at the door with his hands, “See what I mean?” He asked. “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on, would you?”

She shrugged, “What makes you think I know?” She asked.

“Because it’s mostly the women acting weird. The men just look at me funny.” He opened the folder and began reading the first few lines of the report.

Momo pursed her lips as she leaned her hip against his desk. “I’m sure it’s just… something in the air today. It’ll pass.”

He looked up from the report and focused his intense gaze on her. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Bedwetter,” He said. “What is it?”

“I’m not lying—“

“You’re not telling the truth either.” Momo pouted, realizing her mistake. Toshiro always knew when she was hiding something. His fingers tapped on his desk as he waited, “Well?”

With a sigh, she walked out of his office and into another office nearby that was shared by four officers.

All four of them were working diligently, only looking up when she entered and kept their eyes on her as she walked over to the only woman working in the office. Momo ignored her as she looked under the report she was currently working on and pulled out today’s edition of the bulletin. Without saying a single word to anyone, she left and returned to Toshiro who had been waiting patiently for her to come back. His brow was arched as she held the magazine and handed it over to him.

He looked at her questioningly, “You’ll know when you see it,” She said.

His brow knit tightly as he flipped through it, coming to a stop near the centerfold of the magazine. The color in his face paled and she knew he had found it. Taking a small step back, she braced herself for what was to come.

“What. The. Hell!?” The windows in the office shattered and the temperature dropped as he slammed the magazine onto his desk, sending the stacks of paperwork flying into the air. “‘These shots of the Winter Lion will keep you warm through the winter’?

“‘Despite being a late bloomer’—” He growled as he read the few lines of text that accompanied the pictures, his fists clenching the magazine, ripping the ends of the pages. “Who wrote this shi—“ The room got colder and ice started to climb up the walls. Momo gently increased her own reiatsu to counter the cold as realization set in for him. “Matsumoto.” He said her name with such venom. “I thought I sensed her lurking around Kuchiki’s manor. Now it makes sense why,” He muttered. Looking up, he met her gaze, then glanced back down at the magazine, focusing on the prominent banner printed just above the title. “You…you knew about this?”

Momo sighed, “Unfortunately.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I couldn’t! You know how secretive the Women’s Association is!”

Toshiro pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, “Right, of course,” He muttered, shaking his head. “They just had to pick me again, didn’t they,” He muttered.

His reiatsu dissipated slightly, allowing Momo to come stand closer to him again. Walking up to his desk, she stood in front of it with her hands folded, “Rangiku was very persuasive. Er, rather… the pictures were persuasive.”

His cheeks were a little red and he looked away, torn between anger and embarassment. “Is… is that really how people see me?”

“Hm?”

“This,” He gestured at the magazine again. “The trading cards, pictures of me sleeping, that calendar from a few years back;” He listed off several of the Women’s Association’s past ventures that had featured him as the main subject matter, his brow knit tightly as he cleared his throat. “What… what exactly is it about me that makes me a target for… this?”

Momo shrugged, “Well, you’re a prominent figure in the Sereitei—“

“—That’s not what I mean,” He said, his jaw was tight as he grit his teeth forcing the clarifying question out. “How… how physically attractive am I?”

Her hand on his desk faltered as she nearly slammed her face into the wood surface. “Eh? What?” She could feel her cheeks burning as she replayed his question over in her head again, making sure she had heard him right to begin with.

Toshiro sighed and held a hand up, making a calming gesture, “I’m not asking what you think. I need an objective opinion. And you’re the only girl I can have this conversation with.”

“Oh…” Momo relaxed a bit, taking a moment to think about the question and how to answer it. As his friend, she didn’t like him for the same reason everyone else did. Her personal opinion was very biased and based more on the traits no one else could see. But, as a woman, she wasn’t blind to the superficial layer of physical appeal he definitely had. The only problem was he was completely oblivious to all of it.

“Well… See…” Her lips pursed as she looked down at the magazine, pointing at the picture of him drinking from the water bottle. The light perfectly highlighted the lines between his abs, and the sheen of sweat on his chest practically made him shine with an almost god-like glow.

“What?” His brow slanted, and he tiled his head sideways, still not seeing what she meant.

Momo sighed, wondering how he could be a genius and an idiot at the same time. “The answer to your question is… yes.”

“Huh?”

Rolling her eyes, she continued. “Women find you attractive,” She said. “More so now that you don’t really look like a cute little boy anymore.”

His eye twitched a bit in annoyance, still a bit stingy about having been so short for so long. “…That doesn’t tell me why, though.”

“Well…” Her lips pursed as she thought about how to explain it. “To start, you have really nice hair.”

“I always thought it creeped people out.”

She shrugged, “Well, maybe in the Rukon Districts, yes. But, you’ve been here a long time, and the color makes sense given your reiatsu and zanpakuto. So people are able to look beyond the color and… appreciate its other characteristics.” His hair had always been quite thick, but it became more noticeable after he stopped spiking it and let it fall more naturally around his face. It looked nice, giving him this almost rugged appearance that unintentionally added another notch to his physical appeal.

He gave her a blank expression, showing he really had no idea what the big deal was about hair. Sighing, she moved on. “Um… Your eyes are nice too.” Much like his hair, the color was unusual and the kids in the Rukon Districts found them unnerving. Momo never understood why. His eyes were probably his most beautiful feature. When the light hit them just right, they could look like deep pools of water, or dusty emeralds. And to be the focus of those eyes, it could be the most terrifying moment, or the most wonderful thing ever.

She cleared her throat, noticing he was waiting for her to continue. “And then there’s… that,” She pointed at one of the many shirtless photos of him. “It’s, er… nice… very nice.”

He blushed again and shook his head. “Madness,” He muttered. Grabbing the magazine, he tore it in half, tossing it in the trash before turning to face the broken window. A light breeze blew through, ruffling his hair and robes.

Momo closed the distance between them, coming to stand next to him. His arms were folded in his sleeves as he glared outside. There were a few groups on the streets below and some were looking through the magazine as they walked. Sighing, Momo wrapped her arm around his back, pressing herself into his side. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did argue against publishing it. And I really did want to tell you about it, but…”

“I know.” He craned his head back and closed his eyes in an attempt to try and relax.

“Thank you, Momo.”

“Hm? For what?” She pulled back enough to look up at him.

Toshiro met her eye and shrugged, “For being honest,” He said. “Though I can’t say I completely understand… any of it. Girls are crazy.”

She pouted, poking him hard in the ribs, eliciting a loud “ouch!” From him as he shifted away from her.

“The Hell was that for?” He asked, guarding his ribs from her fingers still trying to jab at him.

“For calling me crazy.”

He scoffed, “I didn’t call you crazy.”

She crossed her arms, her eyebrow arching accusingly, “You just said girls are crazy.”

“You don’t count,” He said. Momo felt a small pang at the simple statement, though she wasn’t sure why. He sighed, adding, “You’re… different.” He returned his focus to the streets below the window, his body tense and indicating that he wasn’t going to elaborate further.

She smiled and turned to look outside with him, somewhat understanding what he was trying to say. She knew that words were not something he was particularly good with. From the corner of her eye, she caught the small scowl on his lips as he spied the two guards standing out front of the gates being sucked into a conversation as they giggled girlishly, pointing at a picture or two in the magazine.

Momo could only imagine the punishments he was thinking of putting the guards through for what he was sure to document as ‘neglecting duties’ in his reports. It made her wonder what he’d do once Rangiku surfaced again… it inspired a little idea. It was perhaps a little risky, given the secrecy of the Women’s Association, but one that, if played out right, would greatly improve her friend’s mood at the small expense of his lieutenant and maybe a bit of property damage. Besides, it wasn’t like any of it could lead back to her. Looking over at Toshiro, she smiled, confident that once she told him, he would never share where the secret entrance to Kuchiki Manor was located.

#hitsuhina week 2023 #hitsuhina #Toshiro Hitsugaya #momo hinamori #Bleach #mywriting

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icontherecord · 7 months

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ODNI Releases 25th and 26th Joint Assessments of FISA Section 702 Compliance

September 29, 2023

In accordance with the Principles of Intelligence Transparency for the Intelligence Community, the Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI), in consultation with the Department of Justice (DOJ), is making publicly available, with redactions, the 25th and 26th Semiannual Assessments of Compliance with Procedures and Guidelines Issued Pursuant to Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (“Joint Assessments”) submitted by the Attorney General and the Director of National Intelligence (DNI). These Joint Assessments cover the periods of 1 June 2020 through 31 May 2021.

About the Joint Assessments

Section 702(m) of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978, as amended, requires the Attorney General and the DNI to assess the Government’s compliance with the Section 702 targeting, minimization, and querying procedures, as well as the Attorney General’s Section 702 Acquisition Guidelines, at least once every six months. A joint team of experts from the DOJ National Security Division and ODNI conduct regular assessments to review compliance and evaluate how agencies that receive unminimized Section 702 collection implement the authority. DOJ and ODNI submit their assessments to the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court (FISC), relevant congressional committees, and the Privacy and Civil Liberties Oversight Board semi-annually through the Joint Assessments. The Joint Assessments describe how those agencies that receive unminimized information acquired under Section 702—the National Security Agency (NSA), Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), and National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC)—implement their authority under Section 702, including agencies’ internal compliance efforts, training efforts, and responsive actions to prevent recurrence of compliance issues. The Joint Assessments also include metrics and narratives describing the Government’s compliance with Attorney General Guidelines and with FISC-approved targeting, minimization, and querying procedures.

Key Findings of the 25th and 26th Joint Assessments

DOJ and ODNI assessed that NSA, FBI, CIA, and NCTC continued to implement the Section 702 procedures and follow the relevant guidelines in a manner that generally reflects a focused and concerted effort by agency personnel to comply with the requirements of Section 702.

Due to the effects of the coronavirus pandemic, DOJ and ODNI note that caution is warranted when drawing conclusions regarding some of the compliance trends from the 25th and 26th Joint Assessments. While the total number of reported compliance incidents decreased significantly, the joint oversight team was not able to determine to what extent the decrease reflects changes in the number of compliance incidents that occurred—whether as a result of the coronavirus pandemic or other factors—as opposed to difficulties in discovering and reporting compliance incidents as a result of the pandemic. For example, while the number of NSA targeting compliance incidents fell sharply, most of the NSA targeting decisions covered by the 25th and 26th Joint Assessments occurred during the pandemic. If a Section 702 target travels to the United States, NSA must detask—or stop collection on—that target while the target is in the United States. Reduced travel during the pandemic likely resulted in fewer Section 702 targets traveling to the United States, thus reducing the likelihood that detasking delays would occur as a result of such travel.

Similarly, while the number of FBI querying incidents reported in the 25th and 26th Joint Assessments was significantly lower than pre-pandemic, the decline may be attributable to difficulties in discovering and reporting querying compliance incidents. FBI field office reviews have been responsible for discovering a significant portion of FBI querying incidents. DOJ suspended its reviews at FBI field offices for eight of the 12 months covered by the 25th and 26th Joint Assessments and was able to conduct only four query audits of FBI field offices during this time. By contrast, DOJ conducted query audits of 27 FBI field offices in 2019 and 29 FBI field offices in 2018. Additionally, the FBI querying compliance incidents discussed in these Joint Assessments occurred prior to the corrective measures FBI implemented in mid-2021 and 2022. Thus, these Joint Assessments do not reflect the effects of FBI’s corrective measures.

Additional Information

The 25th and 26th Joint Assessments are posted in full-text searchable format on Intel.gov.

25th Joint Assessment (dated April 2022): Reporting Period 01 June 2020 - 30 November 2020

26th Joint Assessment (dated August 2022): Reporting Period 01 December 2020 - 31 May 2021

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aperrywilliams · 2 years

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Green Card - Ch1: Two Strangers in Need (Spencer Reid x Fem!OC)

Author Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Next chapter >

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!OC (Ana María González)

Series summary: What reason leads two complete strangers to marry? For Spencer, the chance of his mom being admitted into a new medical trial. For Ana María González is to get the elusive green card.

Word Count: 4.6 k

CW: Mental illness is discussed (Diana Reid); Ana’s mom’s death is mentioned. Sligh sexual interpretation (coworkers talking); some strong words and curses. If I forgot anything, let me know.

A/N: Maybe you are too young, but Green Card is actually a movie from the ’90s. I took the film’s central idea to write this for Spencer Reid. It’s a self-indulgent series just because I wanted to write some Spanish, and I love the movie. Do you want to be added to the taglist? Go HERE

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Spencer Reid was nervous. He didn’t know why exactly, but something made him uneasy.

Seated in an uncomfortable chair, Spencer couldn’t stop bouncing his leg and inadvertently wiping his sweating hands on his slacks.

When someone opened the door office from which he expected to be called, Spencer stood immediately. An older man peeked out from inside. He had a manila folder in hand and looked at Spencer.

“Doctor Reid?” the man asked, taking a quick look at his folder.

“Yes,” Spencer replied, clearing his throat. He hadn’t realized how raspy his voice was after not saying a word for the past hour and a half.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m doctor Sharar Fogarty. Please, come in,” the man said, gesturing for Spencer to join him in the office. Grabbing his satchel, Spencer did so. Dr. Fogarty shut the door and signaled Spencer the chair where he could sit.

Spencer took a glimpse at Fogarty’s office. The place had very classic decor, large windows that let in natural light, and a vast built-in bookcase just behind the desk. He spotted several books about neuroscience, cognitive development, and mental illness. He also noticed a decent number of awards hanging on the walls. Fogarty was undoubtedly a very reputable doctor. Thus, he was the man Diana Reid needed.

When Spencer’s mom started to get worse with her schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s, he knew he had to do something to help her.

After much research, Spencer learned that Dr. Fogarty was conducting a new clinical trial with people with the same condition as Diana Reid. Spencer didn’t think twice and applied for a spot for his mom. That’s the reason he was sitting across from Dr. Fogarty. This was the last stage before informing him if she was accepted or not.

“So. Doctor Reid. I very much appreciate your willingness to meet with me so quickly. You’ll see, I like to interact with my potential patients’ families, you know, to learn a bit more than a dossier could say,” Fogarty explained.

“Of course. Has the board made a decision yet?” Spencer asked, trying not to sound so eager, but with no success. Fogarty chuckled.

“Direct to the point. I like that.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t want to be rude,” Spencer apologized.

“Not at all. And even if I really want to give you good news, I’m afraid there is a problem regarding your mother’s application.”

Spencer’s heart stopped. He filled in all the required information. What could it be wrong?

“A problem? How is that?”

“You’ll see. This center has a strict policy regarding our patients’ families. We truly believe that family members are essential in any treatment. And from the information you gave us, your current activity and family status are not in sync with this policy,” Fogarty clarified.

“I’m sorry, but I’m confused here. For years I have been my mother’s only support, which has never negatively impacted her adherence to any medical treatment. I have ensured she always has the necessary clinical and pharmacological support; why should it be different now?”

Spencer questioned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Fogarty looked unperturbed, and that only fueled Spencer’s distress.

“I understand your confusion. But this is not a traditional treatment. We need total family commitment in this. And since you are the only family Diana has, this jeopardizes the intervention’s success.”

And as rude as it sounded, it was true. Diana only had him. But that was never a problem until now.

Still, Spencer wasn’t about to give up just yet.

“And that is written where? What scientific research supports this?” he asked, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his incredulity. Fogarty wasn’t amused with the inquiry.

“Are you questioning my expertise, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer shooked his head and, still frowning, added.

“No. I don’t doubt that. It just seems excessive to me. My mother cannot access treatment because I am an only child?”

This time Fogarty shooked his head.

“That is not all, Dr. Reid. It’s the job you have and Diana’s limited support network. Because being the only child, if something happens to you, which family member is left? Are you married? You have children?”

Spencer exhaled sharply. He knew what Fogarty’s point was. And that put him at a complete disadvantage.

“No. I’m not married. And I don’t have kids,” Spencer muttered. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t-“ Fogarty cut him off.

“Dr. Reid, you are an FBI agent; you will understand an institutional policy better than I do.”

Yes. Spencer knew that. Not that he would be okay with it.

“Does that mean my mom cannot get into the experimental treatment?”

“No. Unless your work and family situation changes in the short term,” Fogarty replied ceremoniously, folding his hands over the desk. “Well, if you currently have a girlfriend and plan on settling down, it might be a good time to do it,” he added.

Spencer looked at him incredulously. Was he suggesting something or mocking him for his current position?

Whatever the reason was, it was not worth staying there. After contemplating his options, Spencer thanked Fogarty for his time and left his office.

Defeated, he walked outside, thinking about his next step. Nothing came up in his mind. God, what could he do to help his mom now?

Spencer could have returned to the BAU after the meeting, but he had already asked Emily for the afternoon off. Instead, he found himself in his regular coffee shop, just a few blocks from his apartment complex.

Spencer likes that place because it’s located on a low-traffic street and usually is open late. Plus, they have the best black coffee and pumpkin pie in DC.

“What can I do for you?” the waitress asked Spencer once he was settled in his favorite corner booth.

“A cup of black coffee, please.”

“Sure, honey. Anything else?”

“No. I’m good. Thank you.”

The girl nodded and then headed behind the counter. Spencer dug into his satchel to fish out a book. Next to it, he found the manila folder containing the documents he discussed with Fogarty earlier in the meeting. Sighing, he took out both items and placed them on the table. A not-friendly reminder that he needed to figure out what to do.

Not two minutes later, another waitress came back with Spencer’s order.

“Here you go,” the girl announced, placing the coffee on the table.

“Thank you,” Spencer mumbled. The girl smiled at him and left.

As a regular patron at the coffee shop, the attendants knew Spencer. Not by name, but they were used to having him there, usually at unholy hours on weekdays. Some of them have bets on what he does for a living.

“The pumpkin-pie guy only ordered a coffee?” Ana asked Sarah once she returned to the kitchen with her empty tray.

“Yeah. Maybe he’s having a rough day?” Sarah hypothesized, pulling clean glasses and cups from the sink.

“Maybe. And it’s weird he’s here at this hour,” Ana added, cleaning the tray she had before placing it on a pile full of them.

“Robin says the guy is a college teacher for his clothing, but a teacher has a regular schedule. This man has everything but that,” Sarah pipped.

“My guess? He’s a cop. I’m sure I saw the shape of a gun under his vest one day,” Ana informed as she dried some cups with a kitchen towel.

“Are you sure it was a gun, hon?” Sarah teased. The girl turned bright red when she realized what Sarah had implied.

“Sarah! Come on,” Ana huffed at her coworker’s laugh.

“And why were you looking at the guy’s belt anyway?”

“It wasn’t on purpose, okay?” Ana groaned.

The two girls kept working in the kitchen. When a new patron arrived, they took turns taking orders and fixing them.

That is how work was at the coffee shop. Ana usually paired with Sarah on shifts, although sometimes she was paired with Robin or Collin.

Ana had already gotten used to that dynamic after a month of working there. Now, after five months, it was a mastered routine for her.

But the fear that everything could come crashing down in the blink of an eye taunted her every day.

Ana came to DC a year ago from South America.

Her childhood dream was always to study in the US. Growing up, she got fond of studying at Georgetown, precisely at the School of Foreign Service as an international student. Still, coming from a low-income family, she only managed to finish secondary school and had to start working. After seeing that her ambition would never come true, Ana wanted to have at least the experience of being in her dream city. She had even promised that to her mother on her deathbed.

Thus, after years of working and saving every penny she could, Ana bought a plane ticket to DC.

And although coming to the US was already tough, trying to stay has been even harder. Her tourist visa has expired; for months, she has been trying to get a green card to keep her job and remain on American soil.

But her request was already rejected once. These days, Ana is waiting for a response to her appeal, which keeps her highly nervous. Sarah knows that, and she can sense the fear in her coworker.

“Any news?” Sarah asked as she helped Ana to clean some vacant tables. Ana sighed.

“Nothing yet. It’s been weeks by now,” she complained, moving to another table. Sarah followed suit.

“That could mean good news, right? Bad news comes faster,” the girl tried to reassure her.

“Hope you are right. I don’t know what I would do if I get rejected again,” Ana shooked her head, now moving to another table. Coincidentally, a table behind Spencer’s one.

“For the green card? Do you know what you should do if you get rejected again? Marry an American,” Sarah suggested.

Ana laughed while she put some empty cups and plates on the tray. But that didn’t stop Sarah from voicing her idea.

“Yeah! Marry an American guy. As soon as you do that, the green card is yours. Easy!”

Ana shook her head and started to wipe the table surface after settling the cutlery and crockery on the tray.

“Nice joke, Sarah.”

“I’m not joking! It happens all the time! And I’m sure you can catch a very handsome guy in this city,” Sarah assured, grabbing the loaded tray. Ana stopped wiping the table and looked at Sarah with her hands on her hips.

“Oh, you are saying this for real. I’m just gonna tell you something we say where I come from: ‘estás cagando fuera del tiesto,’ hon.”

Sarah giggled.

“Hope you’re not messing with my mom saying that.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It only means you’re delusional,” Ana explained, quickly moving to the other table she needed to clean up.

Spencer didn’t want to eavesdrop on Sarah and Ana’s conversation, but he couldn’t help it when he heard about Ana’s current problem.

He didn’t know them, but after being a regular in the coffee shop, it was like he did in some way. They always have been kind to him—especially Ana, who knows his fixation with pumpkin pie. There have been times when he has come much later in the evening. At hours when the stock of cakes and pies must have run out. But even then, Ana had gotten him a piece of pie along with his coffee.

Spencer felt bad knowing Ana has problems with her residence papers. It was unfair that people couldn’t have the chance to decide if they wanted to start a life in another country, he thought. But was getting the green card a reasonable justification to do what Sarah suggested?

He knew things like that happened all the time. In his line of work, Spencer has seen some cases involving marriages of convenience, unfortunately, with no good outcomes.

He just hoped Ana wouldn’t have any problem if she decided to do something like that.

Sipping his remaining coffee, Spencer’s eyes shifted to the folder with his mom’s papers to apply to the new clinical trial. That’s when his stomach sunk, remembering how badly the meeting with Fogarty went. His hopes were crushed due to a stupid requirement. How having a formal family could help his mom in this context? He has been enough for her since his dad left them many years ago. And now? Fuck them.

If only he could prove that no other support group was needed for her. But how could he do that before having his mom on the medical trial?

He was lonely. No married, no kids. Not even a girlfriend. Okay, maybe he has one, but Spencer would say what he has with Maeve doesn’t count as a formal relationship. They see each other when she is in town. They have fun for a couple of days, and then she leaves. Barely a phone call or a text. Spencer even doesn’t know if they are exclusive.

Sighing, Spencer opened his book again. But he couldn’t concentrate on the pages; his mind was still working, gears turning so fast that Spencer gasped when THE idea hit him.

No. It’s a bad Idea. By any means, it’s a bad idea.

Spencer chastised himself, forcing his concentration on the book again. But after several minutes of trying, it was futile.

It’s a bad idea, he repeated to himself.

But if it was a bad idea, why he couldn’t brush it off?

On cue, Ana approached to ask him if he wanted another cup of coffee. Spencer stuttered as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

“Oh. Yes - uh. Thank you.”

Was that a sign?

Maybe he was going crazy, but they say that in times of despair, only desperate measures remain.

Thinking about it, Spencer felt like he was drowning. Is there another thing he could do?

From the corner of his eye, he scanned the counter where Ana was pouring coffee into a cup. His cup. The girl seemed focused on her task although the frown on her face. Was she thinking about her predicament as well? Spencer wanted any excuse to entertain his idea. It was funny and pathetic at the same time. What could he say? ‘Hey, I heard you must marry to get your green card. And I need to marry someone to get my mom treated for her illness. Will you marry me?’

Ana returned to Spencer with his coffee. Spencer’s heart started to beat faster. Would he get the courage?

“Here you go. Sarah didn’t offer you a piece of pie? I have one in the kitchen if you want it,” she commented. Spencer looked at her with a shy smile.

“Uh. Thank you, but I’m not really hungry,” he apologized.

“It’s okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Two hours passed, and dinner time was around the corner. Ana’s shift was about to end.

Spencer saw as she said her goodbyes to her coworkers, leaving her apron in a hook and grabbing her purse and jacket. He was deciding if he would indeed approach Ana. Will she think he’s a freak or, worst, a perv? She has been so kind to him. Maybe she would understand. And perhaps it could be an actual solution for her. Both could be benefited. Right?

Ana left the coffee shop, and Spencer needed to make a decision quickly. Without any other thought, he grabbed his satchel, leaving some dollars on the table to pay for the coffee. Passing the glass door, he was hit by the cold outside. Looking to his right, he saw Ana walking down the street.

“Ana?” Spencer called. Loud enough for the girl to hear.

A confused Ana halted and turned to see Spencer outside the coffee shop looking at her.

The pumpkin pie guy knew her name? That was new. And why was he calling her anyway?

Seeing that the girl didn’t move from her spot, Spencer strolled to where she was.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you,” Spencer said.

Ana’s puzzlement didn’t subside, but she used her natural mechanism to deal with awkward situations: joking.

“It’s a little bit late if you want the pie now.”

Spencer chuckled.

“I should have guessed. But the truth is that I want to talk to you about something else. Do you have to be somewhere else now? If I’m holding you up, I can come another day,” Spencer retracted.

Maybe he couldn’t do this.

“Uh, not really. And I’m curious about what you might want to talk to me about, considering I don’t even know your name, and you know mine?” Ana pointed.

“Oh. I’m sorry. You are right. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid. I have been frequenting your coffee shop for a while. Uh, well, about your name, I noticed your tag on your apron. Like the one Sarah has. And Robin and Collin,” Spencer explained. Ana raised a brow. He noticed them. That’s a change from the things she knows about her job.

“So, Spencer. I guess it’s true you’re a clever guy. And you indeed pay attention. For the time I have been working here, no one has memorized my name. I guess it is easier to call me honey, sweetheart, princess, or whatever pet name people could think of,” Ana commented, not very amused about that fact. Spencer frowned.

“I have always thought it’s better to call people by their names.”

“I totally agree. But I’m still curious because I don’t think you want to talk to me about memorizing names or how impolite it could be to use pet names with strangers.”

“Yes. You’re correct.”

“So?”

Spencer cleared his throat.

“Uh. Well. It’s not easy to say without sounding crazy or- I don’t know. First, I guess I need to apologize?”

“Apologize? Why?”

“For eavesdropping. I’m sorry, I heard you talking with Sarah some hours ago.”

“Okay. I want to say I understand what you are talking about, but I don’t,” Ana pointed.

“The green card,” Spencer blurted. Ana’s eyes widened. Spencer hastened to explain.

“Again. I know it was wrong, but I heard it. And I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

Spencer didn’t miss the change in Ana’s demeanor. No wonder why: she got a reminder of her current problem.

“Uhm. Well, thank you for your empathy, I guess?” She mumbled.

Nobody knew about her issues with the residence except for Sarah and her boss, Logan. It felt odd a patron mentioned something about it. It was her fault, though; she didn’t act very discrete talking to Sarah.

Spencer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Now he needed to say what he wanted for real.

“Maybe I can help you?” Spencer’s words sounded more like a question than an affirmation. Ana’s confused expression didn’t help his nerves.

“What? Help me with- how?” Ana asked. Spencer gulped hard. Now or never.

“Your coworker said you – you should marry an American guy for the green card. I - I can be that American guy,” Spencer stuttered.

Ana started to giggle. Her first thought was that Spencer was joking. Maybe a weird way to flirt with her. But seeing he didn’t laugh in return, she got worried.

“Wait. Are you being serious about this?”

Ana’s arms crossed protectively over her chest. The situation was getting bizarre, and she didn’t know how to react.

“I know how it sounds. Crazy. Nutter. All of that. But maybe we can help each other. I mean, I can help you with the green card, and you can help me-” Spencer couldn’t finish the sentence because the girl cut him off.

“Hey, hey. Stop. Wait a minute. What on earth are you talking about? How so my problem has to do with you?”

“Please, let me explain. I - uh - I need to get married to get a position for my mom in a medical trial. They - the people who decide admissions will not give a spot to my mom because I’m single- and – and I won’t get a chance unless I can marry.”

There were a lot of details that Spencer was leaving out, but the idea was basically that. Would it be enough for Ana?

“Are you aware that you are proposing to a total stranger? Do you know how you sound? I think ‘crazy’ falls short,” Ana scoffed.

“Yes. Total nonsense, I give you that. But I’m desperate. And when I heard you-”

She cut him off again.

“So you want to take advantage of my problem to solve yours? Great!”

“No! It’s not like that. I don’t want to take advantage of that. I only pictured a way for both to get what we need?”

Spencer knew it sounded insane, but he was already sailing these waters. He couldn’t back down.

“You are fucking crazy. Or- wait. Are you trying to set me up? Are you a cop? You are with Immigration!” She deduced, her face changing from confusion to horror. This was worse than she imagined. This man had been spying on her to lure her into this trap.

Spencer’s face twisted as he understood the conclusion Ana was drawing. His words to clarify the truth couldn’t come out any faster just because of the constraints of physics.

“No, no, no. I’m not an immigration cop. I’m with the FBI-”

“Jesus! Even worse!” Ana yelled in desbielief.

“But no! Not like that. I’m a profiler in the Behavioral Analysis Unit; I work using psychology to catch criminals. I don’t have anything to do with Immigration or anything like it.”

Spencer quickly reached into his jacket pockets to pull out his business card and hand it to Ana. The girl hesitated for a second to take it but did so anyway. Ana read the information but still frowned.

“I know this may not help my cause, but I don’t have many friends. The only ones are my coworkers, who, for obvious reasons, I can’t say this to. I don’t have a girlfriend, and I’m socially inept; you may have noticed that by now. I don’t know what else to do, and please forgive me if I sounded insensitive. It’s not my intention to disrespect you or objectify your problem. I’m serious.”

Spencer looked noticeably stressed and embarrassed. It’s not something he would have imagined doing in his wildest dreams. However, here he was, in front of a girl, trying to convince her to do something illegal and morally questionable. If that didn’t mean an eternity in prison or hell, he didn’t know what else it could be.

“I can’t believe an FBI agent is offering me a marriage of convenience. It’s the last thing I thought I would see here. And I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound rude, but you are fucking crazy if you thought I would say yes in a bit. Maybe I‘m desperate, but not to do something like that.”

Ana told Spencer, handing his card back. Spencer shook his head for her to keep it. Ana rolled her eyes and, without much thought, put it in her bag. It would be something she would burn once she got to her place.

“I - uh. I’m not offended, and I fully understand your suspicions. But I swear I’m not trying to take advantage of you. I’m not that type of person. I know we don’t know each other, but I give you my word that I’m only thinking of a pact that could be useful for both of us. We don’t even have to see each other or be together in any form. After you get your green card and I get the acceptance for my mom, we can start the divorce papers-”

Spencer didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore; now he was fiddling with the end of his tie, looking puppy-dog eyes at Ana. She thought - for a second - that the guy looked adorable, all nervous like that. But she pushed the idea out of her head as soon as the words left his mouth again.

“Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable. I shouldn’t have said anything to Sarah in the coffee shop,” Ana lamented.

“Maybe it was-”

“Don’t say it was destiny. I don’t believe in that bullshit,” the girl spat.

“Uh. I was going to say that maybe it was a convenient coincidence?” Spencer suggested. Ana huffed, tightly clutching her purse strap.

“No. It’s not. And if you didn’t notice, my answer still is no. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go,” Ana prompted, walking past Spencer and trying not to look at him. It was embarrassing for her to see her problems exposed like that. At the same time, it made her angry that a man thought he could ask for something as out of place as that, even if he was a cute and seemingly nice guy. No one had the right, no matter how vulnerable she was.

Spencer sighed, seeing her walking away. He didn’t do anything to stop her this time. Ana was right in her reluctance. What else could be expected if a guy you barely know suddenly proposes? Not a regular guy, by the way: an FBI agent. Fucking crazy.

When Ana got to her place, she took a deep breath as if she had just run a marathon.

Since she left Spencer in the street, she didn’t look back and kept walking fast. Mind wandering in what just happened.

The cold room wasn’t too inviting, but at least it meant calm to Ana. After long shifts in the coffee shop, the quiet was welcomed at this hour.

Sitting in bed, she discarded her shoes, moving her feet to release some of the tension of standing all day. With a deep sigh, her eyes focused on the picture frame over the nightstand. It showed a young Ana with her mom on Ana’s twelve birthday. The last one they could celebrate. Ana’s mom passed away months after that picture was taken.

“Jeez, mami. I swear I’m trying, but I don’t know if I can make it. No matter what I do or how hard I work, there is no chance for me here.”

Ana’s eyes went glossy, and she tried to stop the tears from pricking to get out.

Her mom’s memory is something she appreciates having—more since she left her home country to try her luck in the US. Usually, it brings her comfort and encourages her to continue. But now that things were looking uphill, a feeling of failure began to settle in Ana.

To stop her thoughts, Ana started to get ready for bed. When she fished her phone from her purse, her eyes landed on something that fell from there. The business card that Spencer had given her.

That was a reminder that what happened outside the coffee shop was true. A total stranger offered her a marriage of convenience.

Doesn’t that only happen in the movies?

The guy looked really desperate. Ana didn’t know if she felt bad for him. Clearly, he was willing to do anything for his mom - in case the story he told her was true-.

Was she that desperate?

The thought crossed her mind for a second, but she quickly shook it off. No, it is a bad idea by any means. The guy is crazy, no doubt.

Tossing the card into the trash can, Ana continued preparing for bed so she could end this weird day once and for all.

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Spencer Reid’s Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @tvandfanfic @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @thebloomingeagle @pauline5525mgg

Green Card Series Taglist: @maltamurdock @disaster-in-waiting

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#spencer reid series #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!oc #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds #dr. spencer reid #green card #two strangers in need #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst

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wrathzy · 1 year

Text

Joel Guy Jr. & His Book of Premeditation:

On November 24, 2016, Thanksgiving Day, 61-year-old Joel Guy Sr. and his wife, 55-year-old Lisa Guy, were in their Knoxville, Tennessee home having a long-awaited feast with their children. Joel Sr. had three older daughters, Chandise, Michelle, and Angela, from a previous marriage. Joel and Lisa eventually did have a son of their own. 28-year-old Joel Guy Jr., or Joel "Michael," as the family called him, was born on March 13, 1988. He had always been with his parents, even after graduating from the Louisiana School for Math, Science, and the Arts in 2006.

With the family together after spending time apart, Joel Sr. and Lisa gathered up their four children and announced that they were retiring. Joel Sr. worked as an Engineering Designer, while Lisa was a full-time mother before becoming an Accounting Administrator as their children grew into adulthood. Together, they would collect their earnings, sell off the family home, and move into a house Joel Sr.'s mother owned until she passed away a few years prior.

The children were on board with their parent's decision, as they were all adults. While the three daughters still lived in the state, Joel Jr. resided in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The family continued with their night and even made plans to spend Christmas together. The daughters left home on Friday, November 25, but Joel Jr. chose to stay for a couple more days before returning home to Baton Rouge on November 27, the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Then it was the following day that everything quickly began turning upside down.

On Monday, November 28, Lisa failed to show up for her shift at work. Her boss, Jennifer Whited, contacted the police after being reasonably suspicious, as Lisa never missed work like this. Shortly after, the police arrived at 11434 Goldenview Lane to conduct a welfare check. The police first noticed a "For Sale" sign in the front garden. There were also two parked vehicles in front of the garage, one with its lights on inside, and it was a seemingly empty house despite knocking on the front door and ringing the buzzer a few times.

As all these small anomalous details accumulated during the search, they requested for a detective to participate in the welfare check. Once the detective arrived, they began investigating the home's exterior and discovered the back door's knob was extracted. While glancing through the windows, the police found groceries scattered in the internal entry of the home. They felt a scorching heat through a pet entrance in the back door, and a peculiar odor flowed through it. They also heard the faint sounds of a dog barking from inside.

The overall feeling stemming from the home grew more unsettling as time passed. One of the officers entered one of the homeowner's vehicles and pressed the button of a garage door opener, finally allowing access through the garage and into the residence. Immediately, they couldn't help but feel something was out of place upon entering the home's central area. They first noticed the intense heat, as the temperature was well above 90 degrees, and a solid chemical odor was traveling throughout the house.

Propped on the dining room table were two wallets, a cell phone, money, and a hammer. Cleaning supplies would lay on the floor in the kitchen, and a pot on the stove was boiling at high heat. From there, the officers would continue their search towards the second floor. The officers kept hearing a dog barking from somewhere on the second floor. They advanced upstairs, finding traces of reddish-brown stains along the floor and walls on the way up. Then there was an open door down the hall, where officers discovered a pair of dismembered hands.

After entering the master bedroom, the officers noticed the bed was neatly made, and an even more pungent chemical odor was coming from the en suite. Inside it, there was plastic sheeting laid out on the floor, and a garden hose was attached to the shower. There was a knife in the sink, and two massive tubs were on the floor next to each other. Inside the tubs were the dissolving remains of two individuals. Authorities presumed it was the remains of Joel Guy Sr. and Lisa's bubbling away in the tubs of acid-based solution.

The authorities continued to locate vast amounts of crime scene evidence throughout the residence. Unopened trash bags were discovered in the home's back area, along with containers of bleach, muriatic acid, baking soda, and a sprayer on the kitchen floor. Firearms and ammunition were on the dining room table, along with recently purchased beer and perishable items scattered on the main hall's floor. Cut-up pieces of clothing were also found next to a bloody pair of scissors, and there was blood almost everywhere officers searched.

After taking two days to canvass the entire crime scene, detectives came up with an idea of what had occurred: It was Joel Sr. that was killed first while Lisa was out at Walmart, presumably around the morning of Saturday, November 26, inside the upstairs exercise room. It's believed Joel Guy Sr. suffered over 40 stab wounds to his body; it was difficult for the medical examiner to tell how many injuries Joel Sr. truly sustained due to his dismemberment. Though, at least 34 were lacerations on his back, indicating he was alive during the attack.

Joel Sr. had sharp forced injuries to his lungs, kidneys, liver, and ribs and had several defensive wounds on his hands. His hands were then severed and placed on the exercise room floor, the same pair of hands that detectives would later find after searching the second floor. After returning home from Walmart, Lisa was ambushed with groceries in hand while entering the main hall. She suffered from over 20 sharp forced injuries, though, like Joel Sr., it was difficult for the examiner to determine how many there were due to the state of her remains.

The killer began the dismemberment process after murdering Joel Sr. and Lisa. Joel Sr's arms were removed, both legs cut from the hip, and his right ankle was disconnected from the rest of his leg before being tossed into one of the chemical tubs. Most of his skin was liquefied. Lisa's arms were removed from the shoulders and her legs from the knees. She was decapitated, and all her body parts were found inside the chemical bath except her head. Officers later found Lisa's head inside the pot downstairs, which had been simmering for two days straight.

The authorities commenced a full-on homicide investigation. It wasn't long before they came across CCTV surveillance footage of 28-year-old Joel Guy Jr. with bandaged hands at a local Walmart shopping for the same supplies that were eventually found at the crime scene. Joel Jr. primarily used cash for every transaction and self-checkout he made. He purchased supplies for the murders as early as November 7, including muriatic acid and hydrogen peroxide. A week and a half later, Joel was also seen at a sports store buying a Ka-Bar knife.

On Tuesday, November 29, Joel Guy Jr. was arrested in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He had cuts all over his hands, perhaps due to Joel Sr. and Lisa fighting while being stabbed. Then while searching Joel Jr's vehicle, officers found a meat grinder and gasoline canister in the trunk. Joel Jr's initial plan was to use the cleaning supplies he had purchased to dispose of all the evidence to cover his tracks. However, after murdering his parents and getting his hands cut up, Joel Jr. left the scene and returned to Baton Rouge to take care of his hands.

Why would a person like Joel Guy Jr. plan on murdering his parents, especially in a horrendous manner? Well, we won't have to look very far for the answer because he wrote his entire plan in ink, a 5-page journal dubbed "The Book of Premeditation," to be precise. Authorities found Joel Jr's "Book of Premeditation" while searching through his backpack that was left inside the home of Goldenview Lane. This journal contained meticulous notations summarizing his strategy to butcher and obliterate the remains of his parents. One of these pages includes the following:

*get carving knives

Get killing knives - quiet - multiple to make small pieces

Get sledgehammer - crush bones

Bring blender and food grinder - grind meat

get bleach - denature proteins

get plastic bin for denaturation process

does not matter where they're killed

just get rid of bloody spots to prevent evidence of time of death (not the mattress or couches)

get rid of bodies inside house - their and

my DNA already there

open up doggie door to provide entryway he needs to be blamed,

flush chunks down toilet (not garbage not intruder

disposal)

get plastic sheeting for disposal process

get hollow point bullets just in case will

be seen buying bullets; just use computer room gun →

check to make sure there are bullets (last resort

He's not alive to claim her half of the insurance

money → all mine ($500,000)

flood the house, covers up forensic evidence

turn heater up as high as it goes → speeds decomposition.

bleach reacts with luminol just like blood → douse area

with bleach

big sprayer

lye

trash compactor?

Body gives times of death → alibi

Don't have to get rid of body if there is no forensic evidence

on the body.

HIS FINGERPRINTS AND DNA

The entire motivation behind Joel Jr.'s actions was out of bitterness and greed. Both Joel Sr. and Lisa, who had taken care of him all his life, were finally going to cut off all resources from him. Joel Jr., of course, wasn't hip to the idea, so he created the "ultimate" plan to annihilate his parents. Lisa also had a $500,000 life insurance policy, and Joel wanted it, meaning he had to kill both her and his father to retrieve the money, and both of their homes, for himself. However, the reason behind why he butchered them in such a brutal manner remains unknown.

According to family testimonies, Joel Guy Jr. was always an outcast. Joel never appeared to keep in close contact with his family. Everyone seemed to follow suit except his mother, who contacted him daily, sent him money, and paid the rent for his apartment in Baton Rouge while he did absolutely nothing. The trial commenced on Sep 28, 2020, and the final decision was made after four days. Joel Guy Jr. requested the death penalty, but instead, the jury found him guilty on two counts of first-degree murder, felony murder while committing theft, and abuse of a corpse. He was ordered two consecutive life sentences on October 2, 2020.

#joel guy jr #true crime research #true crime community #parricide #dismemberment #monstruosity #true crime #morbid curiosities #wrathzy

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