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themultifanshipper · 14 days ago

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Oscar was frozen to the spot. It took him a few seconds for his brain to catch up with what he was seeing, but as soon as it did, he saw red.

Warnings: this is a heavy one guys, army!oscar and army!reader, non descriptive sexual assault!!!, I tried to describe it as vaguely as I could so no details, I feel like this is obvious but just in case the SA is not with Oscar, angst, kinda hurt/comfort, then some pretty freaky smut, I despise the very concept of the military but I'm a whore for a man in uniform so… here we are, vaguely based on that one episode of ‘Lie to me'

You and Oscar were very competitive. Everything from punctuality to training exercices were a chance to one up each other.

He was taller and stronger than you so it made physical challenges his area of expertise.

But you were more agile, more analytical, and a definite asset to the team.

You loved a man in uniform, but Oscar was just so insufferable not even the way his broad physique filled out his fatigues could save your opinion of him.

He was cocky, arrogant, and hated being wrong.

You bickered constantly, and the only reason your fights never got physical is because neither of you wanted a dishonourable discharge on your records.

You were always out on missions with your squad, and right now you were in Afghanistan.

Your sergeant was a different kind of man.

Nice, but a little bit creepy, would sometimes walk into the female locker rooms without announcing himself…

But he was always sweet to you. He was exceedingly polite, and never made any passes at you. He never made you drive the front convoy car, even though everyone was supposed to take turns doing it.

Which in a way you were grateful for, given that it was the most dangerous position to be in, even though it was a bit unfair to the others. You’d heard rumours, but he never did anything to you.

Until today.

Your last day before returning home.

The temperature in your tent was stifling that afternoon, so you'd gone off to a local spring that was surrounded by walls of rough rock to cool off and relax after a stressful few weeks.

You were in shorts and a sports bra, nothing indecent in case one of your fellow privates came along.

And the sergeant had apparently followed you there, because as soon as your outer layers were off, he sidled up next to you and put his hands on your hips from behind, making you jump.

“Hello, beautiful”

“Wha-” You tried to turn around and push him off, but he was too strong and pinned you against the rock face.

You struggled, but he quickly insured you couldn't call for help by putting a hand over your mouth.

“I think it's time to repay me for my generosity over these past few weeks, no?”

You were stuck, body pressed between him and the rocks, and you felt utterly helpless against his tall muscular frame.

…

Oscar was looking for you. He wanted to apologise to you after your brief argument earlier. He'd been a bit of a dick and you called him out, nothing out of the ordinary.

He was rehearsing what he wanted to say in his head, because despite the two of you always being on the verge of hating each other's guts, you pushed each other to become better, and he wasn't going to lie, he did have a bit of a soft spot for you.

Which is why when he turned the corner and saw you and the sergeant pressed together, the first thing he felt was intense jealousy.

But the way you seemed to be squirming in his hold, and the way he was holding you down sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body.

He didn't even think twice, he sprinted over and dragged the other man off you, throwing him on the ground easily.

The half-second glance he spared you told him everything he needed to know. You were on the verge of tears, and there were a couple of scrapes and bruises forming on your skin.

He turned and stalked towards the man on the floor.

You were so shocked at the sudden turn of events your legs gave out and you tumbled to the floor with relief.

Your eyes filled with tears and you turned away to get your clothes, but your body didn't respond.

You were forced to watch as Oscar straddled the sergeants waist and landed a well aimed blow to his nose, breaking it instantly.

“What the fuck do you think you were doing to her?!” he hissed, anger seeping from him in waves.

“None of your business, Piastri” the other man said, earning him another hit.

“Don't you ever touch her again, you hear me?”

The sergeant tried to spit at him but Oscar just landed another, much harder punch, this time knocking him out.

He stood up with a snarl, landing a hard kick to the man's ribs for good measure, and made his way over to you.

You were curled up with your knees tucked under your chin and tears still blurring your vision.

“Are you okay?” he asked tentatively, crouching down in front of you, a hand hovering somewhere near your arm, unsure if you were okay with being touched right now.

You didn't want to appear weak, and you didn't trust your voice so you simply gave him a swift nod.

Unfortunately the movement dislodged a few tears, which fell down your cheeks.

His heart broke.

“I'm sorry, that was a stupid question, really” he sighed at himself “Let's find your clothes and get you back to camp, then I’ll contact-”

He was looking around for your clothes and you couldn't help it, you surged forwards to wrap around him in a tight hug, almost knocking him off balance.

He took that as a sign that he could touch you, and held you in his arms, cradling you gently as you sobbed into his shirt.

You don't know how long you stayed like that, but it was long enough for the air temperature to drop as the evening rolled around, and a chill ran down your back.

You shivered and he helped you grab your clothes before heading back together, leaving the sergeant unconscious on the ground.

He stuck by your side all through dinner, keeping an eye on you as you ate your meal in relative silence while the others chatted away about their excitement of getting back home, not noticing that the mood was very different at the other end of the table.

You looked so downtrodden, Oscar didn't think twice before asking “Do you want to stay in my tent tonight?”

It was a bit of a risky question when he thought about it, but to his surprise, you nodded immediately and smiled at him sheepishly.

“If you don’t mind… I don't want to be alone in case… well…”

He smiled and put an arm around your shoulder. “I understand, don't worry”

…

His tent was the same as yours, but somehow it seemed much smaller because of the mess that was in it.

Clothes (uniforms) and bags were strewn everywhere, and for some reason he had two sleeping bags.

“I get cold easily!” he whined defensively when you asked him about it.

You smirked. “Aw does little Osc need a hot water bottle to keep him warm at night?” you cooed mockingly.

He rolled his eyes at you and slipped into his sleeping bag to take his pants off without you watching him.

You raised an eyebrow at him questionningly. “Since when are you shy about getting undressed?”

He chuckled “I wouldn't want you to get a glimpse of my banging bod and fall in love with me” he joked.

You scoffed. You'd seen him in his swimwear before and he knew that.

You took your over clothes off in front of him nonchalantly, not bothering to hide yourself given that he had also seen you in swimwear, and he sucked in a breath and quickly looked away.

For a dick, he was being quite a gentleman, and something stirred inside you at that fact. You didn’t know he was capable of being a gentleman.

You slid into your own sleeping bag and sighed in relief, your body fully relaxing for the first time since this afternoon.

You were both lying there, in slightly awkward silence.

You thought back to how quickly Oscar had reacted, and shuddered at the thought of “What if? What if Oscar hadn't been out there at that moment?”

The distress must have shown on your face because Oscar asked “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing” you replied a bit too quickly, avoiding his gaze that was burning into the side of your face.

“You're a bad liar” he muttered softly, not a hint of joking in his tone.

“You know you're probably going to get a court-martialed when we get back?” your voice trembled as you realised that the thought of not having Oscar around made you sad.

“I doubt that, I was protecting a fellow officer. If anything he's the one who should be getting court-martialed.”

You sighed. In a perfect world.

“That's generally not how these things go, you know? They'll probably find a way to blame me and then I’ll be the one in trouble…”

Oscar rolled over onto his side and stared at you with a serious expression.

“Look at me” he ordered. You turned your head to see a stormy look in his eyes “I will do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen. And if it does I will quit the army altogether.”

You blinked at him.

“You don't have to do that”

“Of course I do.” He glanced down briefly at your lips. “If I don't who will?”

You felt tears prickle at your eyes again and you gulped down the emotions threatening to spill out.

“Thank you, Oscar” you breathed.

He smiled “No problem”

“No. I mean thank you for earlier… not every man I know would have done what you did”

His eyes softened as he looked at you.

He didn't need to say anything, you both knew it to be true.

You fell into a comfortable silence and you almost drifted off, if it weren’t for the slight movement next to you.

“You okay?” you asked, seeing that Oscar was searching around for his disguarded shirt.

“Yeah, I’m a bit cold so I’m going to put my clothes back on”

You watched him put his shirt on, and you felt sorry for stealing his sleeping bag.

“Well… you know the most effective way to maintain body heat?”

That made him freeze. Of course he knew, it was basic training. The best way to warm up was to share body heat with someone.

“You…” he gulped “You wanna do that?” his eyes met yours. “For me?”

You smiled at him “Sure. It’s the least I can do”

He frowned at that. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything, that’s not why I-”

You shushed him by pressing a finger to his lips. “I know, but I feel bad that you’re cold because of me so I want to help you get warm, simple as that”

Without another word you unzipped your sleeping bag, then his, and zipped them together to essentially form a big sleeping bag for two.

Oscar was a bit red in the face at your sudden proximity to him but he looked mildly impressed. “Ingenious”

You rolled your eyes and lay down on your side with your back to him. “Whatever, now shut up and get over here”

He grumbled something you couldn’t hear and shuffled over to you, his arm hovering awkwardly.

“Can I, uhh- you know, touch you?”

Thank god he couldn’t see your face or he would have seen how you blushed furiously at his words.

You had to scold yourself for your unholy thoughts.

“Of course”

His arm was draped over your middle, and you could feel the heat of his chest almost touching your back, but for some reason he seemed reluctant to press his body to yours, which was the whole point of this.

“Oscar, you do know the concept of spooning, yes?” you giggled, trying to lighten the mood. He mumbled out a ‘yes’.

“Then you know your body needs to be touching mine, yeah? Not just your arm.”

“I uh- I don’t think that’s a good idea right now” he whispered, and his breath on the back of your neck made you shiver.

“Why not? I told you it’s fine, we’re just sharing body heat”

He sighed. “I can’t. I have- uhh, a problem.”

“What problem?”

“You know... A problem that would make it very uncomfortable for both of us to spoon right now”

Your breath hitched. “You mean…”

The silence stretched on and he didn’t say anything.

“You mean you’re… you've got- uhh…”

“Yeah” he breathed. “I’m sorry. I usually … you know, before I go to bed but you’re here, so… yeah”

Your face was burning now. You now had the image of Oscar getting rid of his problem swimming around your head.

“You can deal with it… if you want. I don’t mind. This is your tent.”

His arm twitched where it was lying against you. “No I’m not doing that while you’re here!”

“Why not?” you were feeling emboldened by the obvious stutter in his breathing “It’s a natural bodily response. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Oscar had to thoroughly recompose himself, before saying something he’d regret.

“No it’s fine, it’ll go away in a minute.”

“Okay, suit yourself” you sighed, closing your eyes and your brain unhelpfully supplied the image of you helping him with his problem.

Neither of you said a word after that, you were both too busy trying to think of something else, anything else, rather than the ache between your respective legs.

It had been a while since you'd been in this close a proximity to a man, especially one as fucking fit as him.

And he was fucking hard. And probably big as well, if the size of his ego was anything to go by.

You felt him shiver behind you.

“Oscar” you turned around so that you were facing him. “It’s not going to go away is it? So either accept it, or get rid of it, but I don’t want you to be cold!”

His eyes were wide as he met your challenging gaze. You didn't know where this brazenness was coming from, maybe it was pure adrenaline, but you turned over again and huffed. “Now get on with it”

A beat passed without a sound, before he started shuffling around.

“You sure you're okay with this?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah go ahead, pretend I'm not here”

Oscar sighed and reached a hand down over his underwear, giving himself the lightest squeeze. Damn, he was really hard.

“Shit, okay” he said, talking to himself more than anything.

He slid his boxers down enough to free his cock and wrap a hand around his girth.

He bit back a moan.

He was determined to do this quietly, for your sake.

You'd told him to ‘pretend you weren't there’ but that wasn't possible for Oscar in that moment. Firstly because the heat radiating from your body was impossible to ignore, secondly because when he closed his eyes all he could see was you, and all the past dirty fantasies Oscar had had about you when he got himself off.

He'd thought of what it would be like to see you on your knees for him, begging for his cock, or how you'd look bouncing on top of him while he sucked your tits.

He was just a man after all.

And he was so hard it hurt, and he was trying his best to not let any noises slip.

But you could hear the slight movement of his hand against the sleeping bag, and the way his ragged breathing was getting heavier, and then his almost silent whimpers.

And now you were getting turned on.

It's not like he was being loud. By any account it should have been easy to ignore him, but all of your senses seemed to have tuned in to him, and only him.

You could almost see him in yoir mind, lips bitten raw and eyes squeezed shut as he worked his cock frantically, trying to come as fast as possible while you were inches away from him.

The heat between your own legs was becoming unbearable, you needed some kind of relief, so you didn't think twice before sliding a hand into your own underwear.

The first touch against your clit sent an instant wave of relief over your body, so you carried on, sliding a finger through your folds, which were so wet it slipped right in with no resistance.

You flexed your wrist, careful to not make any movements that might alert Oscar to what you were doing.

It was filthy, rubbing one off to your friends sounds, but you couldn't help yourself. You were getting wetter by the minute and the pressure of your palm against your clit just felt so good.

You were biting your lip in an effort to stop the noises coming out of your mouth, and you were doing a better job of it than Oscar, because he was letting out pathetic little whimpers.

“Fuck” he let out a quiet breath, and you almost would have missed it had you not been listening intently.

You clenched involuntarily around your fingers at the sound, and let out a high pitched noise of your own.

He froze, worried that he'd somehow gone too far.

“Shit- sorry… I'll stay quiet I promise”

You let out a breath, not stopping the movement of your hand.

“Oscar”

“Yeah?” he sounded breathless as his head whipped up to look at you.

“Don't stop, fuck-” you were so fucking needy you could feel yourself slowly creeping towards an orgasm.

Oscar's brain stalled as he realised exactly what you were doing, and his cock throbbed at the thought of you getting off to his noises.

“Are you…?” he asked, hand picking up the rhythm, aided by the steady drip of precome leaking from his tip. “Are you touching yourself as well?”

“Yeah… I'm sorry” you whined “You just sound so hot, Osc, couldn't help myself…”

His brain melted at the nickname, and at how fucked-out you sounded already.

“You have no idea how fucking hard I am right now” he groaned in frustration.

“fuck- I need you” you were trembling, you just needed a little extra push to get over the edge.

“Jesus” he gasped “What do you need?”

“Need you inside me, please” you begged so prettily, how could he refuse such a request.

His body finally made contact with yours, and you could feel him against the curve of your ass.

He reached around your body and replaced your hand with his.

“Fucking hell, you're soaked” he grunted as you quickly slid your underwear off and hooked your leg over his hips to pull him closer to you.

You took his cock in your hand and for the first time felt exactly how big he was.

“Fucking hell Oscar” you gasped.

He chuckled and lined himself up with your dripping cunt, rubbing himself through your folds.

“Fuck me Osc, please” he swiftly pushed inside, and the way he stretched you out so perfectly made your brain turn to static as he wasted no time, thrusting in and out of you shallowly.

You turned your head to the side and grabbed his face to join your lips in a messy kiss, panting as he buried himself in you to the base.

You shuddered as his cock kissed your cervix over and over, all the while rubbing your clit in fast tight circles in an effort to make you come before him, both of you being already so close to the edge you could taste it.

Neither of you lasted very long. As soon as you started clenching around him he was a goner, and he came inside you with a punched-out groan of your name while you whined into his mouth.

You were too exhausted to move, so he kept his softening cock inside you, and wrapped his arms around you to hold you tighter.

“Well, I'm not cold anymore, that's for sure…”

You giggled and slapped his arm playfully.

He responded by leaning over you and pressing his lips to yours in a passionate display of emotion that you were too tired to unpack right now, so you just enjoyed the moment, smiling into kiss.

You fell asleep like that, in each other's arms.

When you got back, you discovered that several complaints had been made about your Sergeant, and there was some kind of investigation involving lie detector tests.

He did end up getting arrested, and you were promoted for your troubles, and because you deserved it, of course.

Apparently he was the one that had been preventing you from getting that promotion, on the grounds that you were better off under his supervision, as he put it in his reports.

So you sued, and won, and Oscar was so proud of you he bought you an engagement ring, which he gave to you in Paris, on the Seine, while a accordionist played Careless Whisper behind you.

It was raining fucking buckets, and the accordion sounded dreadful, but to you it was absolutely perfect.

Oscar found it incredibly hot that you were now his superior, and often called you Sir to rile you up.

So naturally, you regularly had sex in your uniforms, because you were both absolute freaks about it.

#my thots #oscar thots #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri smut #f1 #formula 1 #op81

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probablyasocialecologist · 4 months ago

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The World Food Programme (WFP) announced on Wednesday a pause in the movement of its employees in Gaza until further notice following an attack on a team returning from an aid delivery mission on Tuesday evening, just metres from an Israeli-controlled checkpoint. “This is totally unacceptable and the latest in a series of unnecessary security incidents that have endangered the lives of WFP’s team in Gaza,” said the UN agency’s Executive Director Cindy McCain, calling on the Israeli authorities and all parties to the conflict to act immediately to ensure the safety and security of all aid workers in Gaza. Thankfully, no one was injured in the attack, WFP said. “As last night’s events show, the current deconfliction system is failing and this cannot go on any longer,” Ms. McCain added. A “clearly marked UN humanitarian vehicle – part of a convoy that had been fully coordinated with the [Israeli Defense Forces] IDF – was struck 10 times by IDF gunfire, including with bullets targeting front windows,” UN Spokesperson Stéphane Dujarric told reporters at a briefing at UN Headquarters on Wednesday.

28 August 2024

#israel #palestine #gaza #zionism #world food programme

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 2 months ago

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The Committee of Public Safety being a totally healthy work environment with no issues whatsoever compilation

First, some statistics:

Leaving in the middle of a session due to fighting: Collot (1 time), Robespierre (3 times), Saint-Just (4 times), Lindet (1 time)

Starting to cry during a session: Carnot (1 time), Robespierre (1 time)

Threatening your co-workers: Robespierre (2 times), Saint-Just (2 times, one of them a death threat), Couthon (1 time)

Calling your co-workers traitors/scroundrels/ counter-revolutionaries/aristocrats/conspirators/foreign agents: Billaud (1 time), Saint-Just (3 times), Robespierre (5 times), Collot (2 times), Barère (1 time)

Accusing your co-workers of aspiring towards dictatorship: Carnot, Billaud, Barère, Collot, Lindet (1 time)

Accusing your co-workers of wishing to destroy patriots: Robespierre, Collot (1 time)

Using physical violence against your co-workers: Collot (2 times?)

Defending your co-worker against another co-worker in a way that doesn’t at all make it seem like you’re into him: Saint-Just (3 times) Barère (1 time)

Saint-Just had such indifference that, about this time (return from Fleurus), he came one evening to propose to the committee a strange means of promptly ending the struggle of the revolution against the suspected and imprisoned nobles. These were his words: ”For a thousand years the nobility have been oppressing the French nation with exactions and feudal vexations of every kind, feudalism and nobihty exist no longer, if you want to repair all the frontier roads for the passage of the artillery, convoys, and transports of our army, order the imprisoned nobles to go to work daily and mend the highways.” […] When Saint-Just had finished there was a movement of silent indignation amongst us all, succeeded by a unanimous demand for the order of the day. I thought I ought to stipulate for the national character by saying to Samt-Just and the committee that we should be opposed to such a kind of punishment for prisoners even if the law pronounced it, that the nobility could be abolished by wise laws, but that the nobles always preserved in the mass of the people a rank, a distinction due to education, which prevented us from acting at Paris as Manus did at Rome. ”Ah,” exclaimed Samt-Just, “Marius was more politic and a greater statesman than you will ever be. I wished to try the strength, the temperament, and the opinion of the Committee of Pubhc Safety. You are not fit to combat nobility, since you cannot destroy it, it will devour the Revolution and the revolutionists. I retire from the committee.” He quickly withdrew, and set out for the army, until the moment when he thought himself capable of executing vaster projects with Robespierre, Couthon, and Lebas, his associates. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 139-140.

It is the inherent vice of bad laws, and, above all, of penal laws devoid of motive, which attack a great number of innocent people, to nullify themselves. Saint-Just did not understand that. He attacked me, and accused me of having put under requisition the relatives of several emigrants whilst the law punished them in their property. The committee appeared struck by this accusation, and asked him to explain himself and name some of the relations. He named several, but they were all unknown to us. He afterwards named Mademoiselle d’Avisard, of Toulouse, whose father was abroad. Here I replied that the fate of this innocent girl, who was but sixteen years of age, and obliged by the terrible laws against emigrants to subsist at Paris by manual labour, for she was then engaged in making gaiters for our soldiers, was in the highest degree worthy of compassion and interest. […] The Committee of Public Safety thought this explanation sufficient. It saw that it was only a wicked recrimination by Saint-Just, supported by the presence of Robespierre. Memoirs Of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 147-148.

Robespierre murmured a lot about the forms that we had established in Lyon for the execution of decrees: he constantly repeated that there was no reason to judge the guilty when they are outlawed. He exclaimed that we had let the families of the condemned go free; and when the commission sent the Convention and the committee the list of its judgments, he was not in control of his anger as he cast his eyes on the column where the names of the citizens who had been acquitted were written. Unable to change anything in the forms of judgment, regulated according to the decrees and approved by the committee, he imagined another system; he questioned whether the patriots of Commune-Affranchie were not vexed and under oppression. They were, he said, because the property of the condemned being specially intended, by article IV of the decree of July 12, to become their patrimony, we had greatly reduced their claims, not only by not judging only a quarter of the number of conspirators identified by Dubois-Crancé on 23 Vendémiare, or designated by previous decrees, but also by establishing a commission which appeared willing to acquit two thirds, as it happened. Through these declamations Robespierre wanted to entertain the patriots of whom he spoke, with the most violent ideas, to throw into their minds a framework of extraordinary measures, and to put them in opposition with the representatives of the people and their closest cooperators: he made them understand that they could count on him, he emboldened them to form all kinds of obstacles, to only follow his indications which he presented as being the intentions of the Committee of Public Safety. Défense de J-M. Collot, répresentant du peuple. Éclaircissemens nécessaires sur ce qui s’est passé à Lyon (alors Commune-Affranchie), l’année dernière; pour faire suite aux rapports des Répresentants du peuple, envoyés vers cette commune, avant, pendant et après le siège (1794)

Billaud Varennes: […] The first time I denounced Danton to the committee, Robespierre rose like a madman and declared that he saw my intentions, that I wanted to lose the best patriots. Billaud-Varennes accuses Robespierre during the session of 9 Thermidor

Why should I not say that [the dantonist purge] was a meditated assassination, prepared for a long time, when two days after this session where the crime was taking place (March 30 1794), the representative Vadier told me that Saint-Just, through his stubbornness, had almost caused the downfall of the members of the two committees, because he had wanted the accused be present when he read the report at the National Convention; and such was his obstinacy that, seeing our formal opposition, he threw his hat into the fire in rage, and left us there. Robespierre was also of this opinion; he believed that by having these deputies arrested beforehand, this approach would sooner or later be reprehensible; but, as fear was an irresistible argument with him, I used this weapon to fight him: You can take the chance of being guillotined, if that is what you want; For my part, I want to avoid this danger by having them arrested immediately, because we must not have any illusions about the course we must take; everything is reduced to these bits: If we do not have them guillotined, we will be that ourselves. À Maximilien Robespierre aux enfers (1794) by Taschereau de Fargues and Paul-Auguste-Jacques.

In the beginning of floréal (somewhere between April 20 and 30) during an evening session (at the Committee of Public Safety), a brusque fight erupted between Saint-Just and Carnot, on the subject of the administration of portable weapons, of which it wasn’t Carnot, but Prieur de la Côte-d’Or, who was in charge. Saint-Just put big interest in the brother-in-law of Sijas, Luxembourg workshop accounting officer, that one thought had been oppressed and threatened with arbitrary arrest, because he had experienced some difficulties for the purpose of his service with the weapon administration. In this quarrel caused unexpectedly by Saint-Just, one saw clearly his goal, which was to attack the members of the committee who occupied themselves with arms, and to lose their cooperators. He also tried to include our colleague Prieur in the inculpation, by accusing him of wanting to lose and imprison this agent. But Prieur denied these malicious claims so well, that Saint-Just didn’t dare to insist on it more. Instead, he turned again towards Carnot, whom he attacked with cruelty; several members of the Committee of General Security assisted. Niou was present for this scandalous scene: dismayed, he retired and feared to accept a pouder mission, a mission that could become, he said, a subject of accusation, since the patriots were busy destroying themselves in this way. We undoubtedly complained about this indecent attack, but was it necessary, at a time when there was not a grain of powder manufactured in Paris, to proclaim a division within the Committee of Public Safety, rather than to make known this fatal secret? In the midst of the most vague indictments and the most atrocious expressions uttered by Saint-Just, Carnot was obliged to repel them by treating him and his friends as aspiring to dictatorship and successively attacking all patriots to remain alone and gain supreme power with his supporters. It was then that Saint-Just showed an excessive fury; he cried out that the Republic was lost if the men in charge of defending it were treated like dictators; that yesterday he saw the project to attack him but that he defended himself.

”It’s you,” he added, ”who is allied with the enemies of the patriots. And understand that I only need a few lines to write for an act of accusation and have you guillotined in two days.” ”I invite you, said Carnot with the firmness that only appartient to virtue: I provoke all your severity against me, I do not fear you, you are ridiculous dictators.” The other members of the Committee insisted in vain several times to extinguish this ferment of disorder in the committee, to remind Saint-Just of the fairer ideas of his colleague and of more decency in the committee; they wanted to call people back to public affairs, but everything was useless: Saint-Just went out as if enraged, flying into a rage and threatening his colleagues. Saint-Just probably had nothing more urgent than to go and warn Robespierre the next day of the scene that had just happened, because we saw them return together the next day to the committee, around one o'clock: barely had they entered when Saint-Just, taking Robespierre by the hand, addressed Carnot saying:

”Well, here you have my friends, here are the ones you attacked yesterday!”

Robespierre tried to speak of the respective wrongs with a very hypocritical tone: Saint-Just wanted to speak again and excite his colleagues to take his side. The coldness which reigned in this session, disheartened them, and they left the committee very early and in a good mood. It was at this time that the division became pronounced in a very noticeable manner, and soon after we saw it claimed in the English papers that the Committee of Public Safety was divided. For some time now we had been distrusting each other, we were observing each other, we were no longer deliberating with them with this abandonment of trust. Until then Robespierre had done little; he constantly brought us his concerns, his suspicions, his shady expressions and his political bile; he only concerned himself with personal measures; he only drafted arrest warrants, he only dealt with factions, newspapers, the revolutionary tribunal. Nothing about the Government, nothing about the war, never having either views to propose or a report to make, he spent his time destroying our courage, despairing of the salvation of the country and speaking of its slanderers and its assassins; his favorite expressions were, everything is lost, there are no more resources. I no longer see anyone to save it, he always cried. When news of victory were brought by a courier, he spoke of upcoming betrayals, he tarnished our joy or attacked the representatives of the people near the victorious army. The more triumphant the Northern army was, the more strongly he denounced Richard and Choudieu; when the troops besieged Ypres, a stronghold and the key to West Flanders, a capture which, according to the decrees of the committee, was to open and ensure the campaign; Robespierre shouted against the representatives of the People near this army and had complaints written that the troops had not taken Ostend sooner. He seemed to us to be pursued by victories as well as by furies, and he often reproached the committee's rapporteur for the length and exaltation of his reports on the triumphs of the armies. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûreté générale (Barère, Collot, Billaud, Vadier), aux imputations renouvellées contre eux, par Laurent Lecointre et declarées calomnieuses par décret du 13 fructidor dernier; à la Convention Nationale (1795), page 103-105.

Robespierre, supported by the Jacobins, was the most influential member of the Committees without being the most wicked. His supporters were, however, in the minority; the plan to adjourn the sessions of the Convention had not obtained theor approval. One thought it necessary to oppose Robespierre with the masculine structure of Collot d’Herbois. A quarrel caused by the proposal of a proscription list to which Robespierre was precisely opposed (it involved the arrest of 14 deputies and citizens); this list, put up for discussion by the majority, passed to each member who added names to it, when it reached Robespierre, it had 32 deputies on it. Robespierre said: “I see five or six deputies unworthy of the character with which they are invested: it will be easy to induce them to resign: but I will lend neither my vote nor my signature to the revenge that you want to exercise.” Two friends of Robespierre were of his opinion: heads became heated, quarrels ensued: Robespierre was reminded of the fact he had voted against the Danton faction. The three opponents were treated as moderates. Robespierre, getting up angrily, said to them: “You are killing the Republic, you are the faithful agents of the foreigner who fears the system of moderation that we should adopt.” The session became so stormy that Collot used acts of violence against Robespierre. He threw himself at him and seized him by the flanks. He was about to throw Robespierre through the window when the latter's friends rescued him. Robespierre then declared that he was leaving the committee, that he could not honorably sit with executioners, that he would report this to the Convention. One saw the danger of publicizing this scene, blamed Collot's patriotic anger, and begged Robespierre, after having torn up the disastrous list, not to give the enemies of the Republic new means of attacking it. Robespierre seemed to calm down, but when Collot approached him to embrace him he refused and despite being urged not to he left. Mémoires de Barras, membre du Directoire (1895) page 349-350. In a footnote, there is to read: This argument between Robespierre and Collot is recounted in more detail in another autobiographic note by Barras: Robespierre having opposed a new measure of proscription, saying: “You are decimating the National Convention, you are arresting citizens whose republican energy you fear,” the boor Collot d'Herbois threw himself at him and, having seized him by the flanks, he was about to throw Robespierre through the window when the latter's friends freed him. This scene was followed by explanations. Robespierre observed that he could no longer sit with executioners, that he was withdrawing and that he would report to the Convention. The Committee which predicted his fall then opposed Robespierre's exit. The proscription list was torn up in his presence. The hypocrite Carnot and the honeyed Couthon told him that Collot's angry outburst was disavowed by the Committee, that the publicity of what had just happened would ruin the Government Committees and the Republic. He was implored to make the sacrifice of all resentment, and that this proof of patriotism was expected of him. Collot furiously addressed the two mediators, complained about the weakness of his colleagues and left the session. Robespierre, very affected, alternately observed his adversaries. He said to them as he left: “You would have made me look crazy if the abortive plan to throw me through the window had taken place. I see here beings more atrocious than the one who tried to execute that plan. He left ashamed of having accepted this assassination.” Robespierre withdrew and did not appear again for two months at the Committee.

At a time when the Convention was already in a high state of alarm [Robespierre] had circulated a list of five or six deputies. It was rumored that Robespierre intended to have them arrested as a little treat to himself, alleging their immortality as the motive of this proposed act of severity. Robespierre, informed of what was being imputed to him, asserted that such an idea was foreign to him, and, desirous of hurling it back at its authors, he maintained that it had originated with the majority of the committee, which, he alleged, had pushed its cruelty so far as to seek to include 32 deputies in its latest proscription-list. In vain did those who spoke in defence of Robespierre’s innocence of the idea and his humanity protest that it was he who had opposed this more than rigorous measure, that he had torn up the list with his own hands, and apostrophizing the Committee, had said: ”You are seeking to still further decimate the Convention; I will not give my support to such action.” Robespierre had indeed spoken these words just as, making an attempt to leave the committee, he had opened the door with the intention of being heard by the deputies and a large number of citizens who, attracted by the noise of a quarrel in the bosom of the committee, were waiting in the antechamber for the purpose of gratifying their curiosity thus aroused. Collot d’Herbois, furious at such hypocrisy, had sprung after Robespierre, seized him by his coat, and, dragging him towards him in order to bring him back into the room, exclaimed in his resounding voice, which, the door remaining ajar, was heard by all, both the committee and the people outside: ”Robespierre is an infamous scroundrel, a hypocrite; he seeks to impute us that of which he alone is capable. We love all our colleagues; we carry all patriots in our hearts. There stands the man who seeks to butcher them one and all!” Thus vociferating, Collot d’Herbois still remained his hold on Robespierre’s coat-collar. As I had at that very moment left the Convention on my way to the committee, I became a chance spectator of this fearful scene, whose violence was still not the greatest crime in my eyes. Behind it stood revealed the plot of premeditated vengeance, far worse than a mere outburst of anger. I was among those who compelled Collot d’Herbois to release his hold on Robespierre, who thereupon declared that he could no longer sit with his enemies, styling them a party of septemvirs, whom he would unmask and fight in the body of the Convention. He then took his departure, in spite of the entreaties of the entreaties of the committee, which, having been unable to conquer, sought to retain him in its midst. ”Let him go his way,” I said to those surrounding him. All my interest in him lay in the fact that I did not wish to see him strangled on the spot by a stronger man, and one perhaps as wicked as himself. I followed him for a short distance in order to see him safely home; he was trembling as he walked alone. Memoirs of Barras, Member of the Directorate (1895), volume 1, page 196-198. A variation of the anecdote found in the French memoirs?

Lindet has recounted that Collot d'Herbois had thrown himself on Robespierre and that he, helped by Carnot and Prieur de la Côte-d'Or, had to separate them. Councilor Carnot affirms that one day his brother threw a writing case at Robespierre’s head. Le Grand Carnot (1952) by Marcel Reinhard, volume 2, page 145. Reinhard cites ”family archives” as the source for this anecdote. Thank you for sharing @aedesluminis !

On 19 Prairial (June 7 1794), I was in the council chamber with Dumas and several jurors. I heard the president speak of a new law which was being prepared and which was to reduce the number of jurors to seven and nine per sitting. That evening I went to the Committee of Public Safety. There I found Robespierre, Billaud, Collot, Barère and Carnot. I told them that the Tribunal having hitherto enjoyed public confidence, this reduction, if it took place, would infallibly cause it to lose it. Robespierre, who was standing in front of the fireplace, answered me with sudden rage, and ended by saying that only aristocrats could talk like that. None of the other members present said a word. So I withdrew. Réponse d'Antoine-Quentin Fouquier, ex-accusateur-public près le Tribunal révolutionnaire de Paris (1795) page 52-53.

The day after the one on which the [law of 22 prairial] was issued, (June 11 1794) […] there was such a stormy scene at the Committee of Public Safety that Robespierre cried out of rage, since that time he only came two times to the Committee of Public Safety, and it was agreed that the Committee of Public Safety would hold its sessions one floor higher so that the people would not witness the storms that were agitating us. Billaud-Varennes at the Convention, August 30 1794. In fact, Robespierre is proven to have continuously signed CPS decrees up until June 30 1794.

At the morning session of 22 floréal [sic, prairial] (June 10 1794), Billaud-Varennes openly accused Robespierre, as soon as he entered the committee, and reproached him and Couthon for alone having brought to the Convention the abominable decree which frightened the patriots. It is contrary, he said, to all the principles and to the constant progress of the committee to present a draft of a decree without first communicating it to the committee. Robespierre replied coldly that, having trusted each other up to this point in the committee, he had thought he could act alone with Couthon. The members of the committee replied that we have never acted in isolation, especially for serious matters, and that this decree was too important to be passed in this way without the will of the committee. ”The day when a member of the committee,” added Billaud, ”allows himself to present a decree to the Convention alone, there is no longer any liberty, but the will of a single person to propose legislation.” ”I see well that I am alone and that no one supports me,” said Robespierre, and immediately he flies into a rage, he declaims violently against the members of the committee who have conspired, he says, against him. His cries were so loud that on the terraces of the Tuileries several citizens gathered, the window was closed and the discussion continued with the same passion. ”I know,” said Robespierre, ”that there exists within the Convention a faction that wants to lose me, and you’re defending Ruamps here.” ”It must be said,” Billaud rebutted, ”that with this decree you wish to guillotine the National Convention.” Robespierre responds with agitation, ”you are all witnesses that I am not saying that I want to have the National Convention guillotined.” He added, “I know you now,” addressing Billaud. ”And I too, know you as a counter-revolutionary,” responded the latter. Robespierre became agitated as he paced around the committee; and then speaking again with more calm, he carried his hypocrisy to the point of shedding tears. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 108-109. This very much sounds like the same session Billaud is describing above, that here got wrongly dated twice.

When Robespierre, dissatisfied with his colleagues, left the Committee – four décades before 9 Thermidor – he exclaimed while leaving: “Save the homeland without me!” ”The homeland is not a man!” R. Lindet would have replied. R. Lindet would also have energetically opposed the proposal of Saint-Just and Le Bas trying to have dictatorship given to Robespierre. He would have replied: “We did not make the Revolution for the benefit of just one person. Tell your master that I oppose this decree,” and he would have left. (Papers of R. Lindet kept in his family). Robert Lindet, député à l'Assemblée législative et à la Convention, membre du Comité de salut public, ministre des finances : notice biographique (1899). Thank you for sharing @saintjustitude !

It was agreed that the reform of the law of 22 Floréal [sic, prairial] was to be proposed in consultation with the Committee of General Security and that the internal divisions would be kept a secret as they were seen as capable of serving the enemies of the Convention and the revolutionary government. Robespierre became more of an enemy of his colleagues, isolated himself from the committee and took refuge with the Jacobins where he prepared to sharpen public opinion against what he called the known conspirators and against the operations of the committee. Only a few days he was seen reappearing at the committee, one evening it was to accuse Richard and Choudieu of the slow and uneven march of the Northern army, and of allowing Ostend to be evacuated during the siege of Ypres. He was told that Choudieu was very ill, that Richard’s conduct had always been good, that they had the confidence of the committee and that the general was carrying out the orders of the committee by securing Ypres. Robespierre affected great concerns about the operations of the armies of the North, he announced to us upcoming betrayals or even double inertia, he proposed to Billaud-Varennes to go to the North, to excite the energy and activity of the operations, but the members of the committee, being few in number and feeling the need to be reunited, opposed this dangerous measure, and Billaud remained. He had done the same thing some time earlier after a big fight (une alteration très-vive) with Collot d'Herbois, who reproached him with the fact he seemed to want to destroy the patriots, in his way of constantly denouncing them. The next day, Robespierre suggested that he go to Commune-Affranchie where royalism was regaining, he said, a frightening consistency. But this tactic of Robespierre was foiled both these two times by the very strong wish of the Committee of General Security which saw itself just as threatened as us by the maneuvers and denunciations of Robespierre. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 109-110. Note that on July 3 1794 we also find a CPS decree signed by Collot, Carnot, Saint-Just, Barère, Billaud and C-A Prieur ordering Couthon to go to the army of the Midi, an order that he never followed through with, indicating Robespierre might not have been the only one to try this tactic…

How many nights have not been fruitfully devoted to preparing everything that could strengthen the brilliant destiny of the Republic? How many battles have not been fought against the despotism of Robespierre? He had come to reject, either out of jealousy or malice, the most obviously salutary ideas. He once wanted to declare me a traitor and conspirator, because I had strongly supported the useful and wise proposal that Lindet made, to require horses and carriages in each section of Paris, in order to provide for the supplies of the armies. Défense particulière de J-M. Collot, représentant du peuple (March 1 1795)

At several times, we had seen from afar the plan to attack the National Representation, intending to resect it; sometimes Couthon, and more often Robespierre, denounced deputies to the Jacobins. One day, we read letters and information sent to the Committee of General Security: Robespierre demanded immediate arrest for the two deputies denounced in these letters: the arrest of Dubois-Crancé was discussed and rejected: that of Alquier was strongly advocated by Robespierre who accused us of softening against the culprits and thus losing the public sake; but that he would denounce these facts to the Jacobins. An arrest warrent was drafted against this Representative; but by a unanimous wish of the two Committees, without hearing Robespierre, the execution was postponed indefinitely and was never carried out. Robespierre returned to the Committee a few days later to denounce new conspiracies in the Convention, saying that, within a short time, these conspirators who had lined up and frequently dined together would succeed in destroying public liberty, if their maneuvers were allowed to continue unpunished. The committee refused to take any further measures, citing the necessity of not weakening and attacking the Convention, which was the target of all the enemies of the Republic. Robespierre did not lose sight of his project: he only saw conspiracies and plots: he asked that Saint-Just returned from the Army of the North and that one write to him so that he may come and strengthen the committee. Having arrived, Saint-Just asked Robespierre one day the purpose of his return in the presence of the other members of the Committee; Robespierre told him that he was to make a report on the new factions which threatened to destroy the National Convention; Robespierre was the only speaker during this session. He was met by the deepest silence from the Committee, and he left with horrible anger. Soon after, Saint-Just returned to the Army of the North, since called Sambre-et-Mouse. Some time passes; Robespierre calls for Saint-Just to return in vain: finally, he returns, no doubt after his instigations; he returned at the moment when he was most needed by the army and when he was least expected: he returned the day after the battle of Fleurus. From that moment, it was no longer possible to get him to leave, although Gillet, representative of the people to the army, continued to ask for him. Saint-Just awaited in Paris the determination that matters would take. In the morning he took care of the police bureau, and decided on arrests or correspondence to be signed; in the evening, he dealt with the detained persons to be judged, together with the public prosecutor, or made violent motions to the committee; he would often speak twenty times in an evening session, and would only speak out of sentence or out of anger when he was not subjecting himself to an affected and painful silence, or rather he would spy on the committee. Most often, he spoke to us about the conspiracies that were being formed in the prisons, he insinuated ideas on this point to the committee's rapporteur, and above all wanted us to refuse the help requested in the prisons. One day he wanted to reduce it to 15 sousand called us defenders of counter-revolutionaries, because we were arguing for the rights of humanity. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795) page 101-103.

Finally one day during the meeting of the Convention [sic, Committee?], Robespierre asked if one wanted to decide to attack the new factions or to perish by their maneuvers; he attacks and indicts several deputies in turn. An impatient member of the committee, oppressed by this ever-reviving project, stood up and said to him with violent severity: “Robespierre, for a long time you have been trying to lure us with terror into the project of striking our colleagues. You keep complaining about them, attacking them, gathering grievances and denouncing them. This is what the Hébertists and other punished counter-revolutionaries did. There are six of us here who profess the dogma of the integrity of national representation: if you want more, I declare to you, in my own name and in that of my colleagues who work with me and whose feelings I know, that you will only achieve national representation through our bloody corpses. These are the obstacles that we oppose to every ambitious person.” The same member of the committee has since repeated these words to the National Convention while speaking to Robespierre himself on 8 Thermidor. (Billaud) Robespierre felt the force of this unanimous response, bit his brakes, accused us of being defenders of the factions and threatened us with denunciation to the People and to the Convention, he moved away from the committee for some time and never stopped accusing us at the Jacobins, while he was preparing the speech he read on 8 thermidor. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795) page 103

On 10 messidor (June 28) I was at the Committee of Public Safety. There, I witnessed those who one accuses today (Billaud-Varenne, Barère, Collot-d'Herbois, Vadier, Vouland, Amar and David) treat Robespierre like a dictator. Robespierre flew into an incredible fury. The other members of the Committee looked on with contempt. Saint-Just went out with him. Levasseur at the Convention, August 30 1794. If this scene actually took place, it must have done so one day later, 11 messidor (June 29), considering Saint-Just was still away on a mission on the tenth.

In several evening sittings the two committees united to devise a means of revoking the law of 22 Prairial. After several conferences during the month of Messidor, they called Robespierre and Saint-Just into their midst to force them to revoke this law, which was the result of a combination unknown to all the members of the government. The meeting was very stormy. Vadier and Moise Bayle were the members of the Committee of General Surety who attacked the law and its authors with the greatest force and indignation. As to the Committee of Public Safety, it declared that it had no part in it, and plainly disowned it. All were agreed to repeal it next day. After this decision Robespierre and Saint-Just declared that they would appeal to public opinion, that they saw that a party was formed to assure immunity to the enemies of the people, and thus to destroy the most ardent friends of liberty , but they could warn good citizens against the united manoeuvres of the governing committees. They retired uttering threats against the members of the committees. Saint-Just called Carnot, amongst others, an aristocrat, and threatened to denounce him to the Assembly. This was like a declaration of war between the two committees and the triumvirate. Seeing Carnot, the most indispensable worker in the committee, thus attacked on account of his courageous honesty and great military talent, I rose up against Saint-Just. Carnot seemed astonished at these threats of denunciation — terrible indeed from a man who two months before had denounced and destroyed Danton. On behalf of my attacked colleague, I said to this little dictator: ”I do not fear you, I have always defended our country openly and without personal interest I will answer you in the tribune if you lay the blame on Carnot. You know that I make reports that are favourably heard by the Assembly, I will make one of those reports in favour of Carnot and against you.” From this moment Robespierre and his friends acted with hostility against us, and especially against me. One day they even sent Robespierre the younger to me, whom they had recalled from the Basses Alpes. This lunatic entered the committee under pretext of giving an account of his mission to Nice; but instead of fulfilling this duty, he addressed me in a furious tone: ”You have maltreated my brother. We missed you on the 31st of May, 1793, but we shall not miss you on the 31st of May, 1794.” He left still threatening us. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 167-169.

I obtained from Barère the following fact: During a session of the Committee of Public Safety, Saint-Just and Robespierre reproached Carnot for being an aristocrat (the latter was frightened and shed tears, Barère said) and threatened to denounce him as such at the Convention. Then Barère said: In that case I will make public that you are angry with the man who organized the victory. Testimony of Filippo Buonarroti, cited in Études robespierristes; La corruption parlementaire sous la Terreur (1917) by Albert Mathiez. This sounds very much like the same incident Barère is describing above.

Having come to the Committee of General Security three or four days before 9 Thermidor (July 23), I was told that the two committees of public safety and general security would meet between noon and one o'clock in the place where the first held its sessions, and that I had to go there. Having asked what the reason for this meeting was, I was further told that it was to mutually explain the division which, according to what Robespierre had claimed on different occasions to the Jacobins, existed between the government committees. As I did not have the slightest knowledge of this alleged division, and as I was completely ignorant of what Robespierre had said to the Jacobins, I went to the Committee of Public Safety where I found several of my colleagues who had preceded me, and above all Robespierre, walking with long strides, glasses on his nose and throwing at everyone, from the height of his grandeur, looks which marked the deepest contempt. After a few minutes of silence, Saint-Just spoke and said in his exordium that although the youngest among us, he spoke first since we had often seen young people open opinions which enlightened those who were older; he then spoke on the necessity of organizing a constitution and ended up making a pompous eulogy of Robespierre, calling him the martyr of the liberty of his country and assuring him of all his esteem. This praise having been applauded and confirmed by Le Bas, Robespierre believed that it was time to burst out and first complained in general about his numerous enemies, whom he said were too cowardly to ever allow themselves to persecute him; he then indicted Amar, Vadier, Jagot, Carnot, Collot and Billaud, reproaching them for the fierceness with which they tore each other apart, which, having given rise to explanations, was the cause of Carnot telling him to his face that he did not like him, and Billaud and Collot repulsed his attacks with so much vehemence, energy and noise, that I more than once invited Collot to speak more quietly. Now, in the heat of this explanation, I heard for the first time that Robespierre was also criticized for having intended to put on trial the 72 of our colleagues who were still incarcerated; I also heard him being told that he had complained that one had not yet made use of this infinity of denunciations which were in the Committee of General Security against others of our colleagues, that nothing had been done so as not to provoke new troubles and to maintain concord and peace between us. This storm having passed and Robespierre having seemed to calm down, one agreed on ending the session, and that Saint-Just would make a report on behalf of the two Committees to inform the National Convention that they were not divided. Philippe Rühl in a speech held March 23 1795

Robespierre bitterly reproached us, at the committee, on 5 Thermidor (July 23), for having had the statue of superstition, erected on the Tuileries basin, brought down during the night. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 96.

You (Dubois-Crancé) say that Robespierre being absent the other members of the committee therefore agreed to lose you. It was rather to save you. Twice at the end of Messidor and on 7 Thermidor (July 25 1794) Couthon wanted to have the committee adopt the draft of the act of accusation against you; twice he was rejected. The last time especially, seeing himself rejected by us with a sort of cold and firm indignation, he went so far as to request from the committee the refusal that we made to deliberate on these serious denunciations which he brought against Dubois-Crancé. We opposed him in political principle the integrity of the legislative body and the danger of supporting the liberticidal projects of the aristocrats and tyrants in coalition; in public consideration, his reconciliation with you at the Jacobins, and in principle of justice the lack of legitimate evidence. Couthon left the committee furious, and threatened to denounce or silence our refusal to the people and the Convention. B. Barère à Dubois Crancé: Réponse (1795), page 29

This decisive scene, to unmask the conspirators, happened at half past midnight, from the 8th to the 9th of Thermidor (July 26 to 27). Several members of the two committees were gathered. We worked on the ordinary operations of the committees, but we worked with that sad impatience accompanies a terrible outcome, which all circumstances told us would be imminent. Saint-Just kept a profound silence, observed from time to time the members of the committees, and showed neither concern nor rest. He had just sent to Tuilier, his creature, the first 18 pages of the report he was to make the next day; and he then told us that he could not read the report to the committee, of which he only had the last pages. Collot d'Herbois come over from the Jacobins, where he had just been insulted, threatened, proscribed, so to speak, he seemed very agitated. Collot-d'Herbois had barely entered when his colleagues ask him why people left the Jacobins so late? Saint-Just asks him coldly, ”what's new at the Jacobins?”

”You’re asking me what's new? Are you the one who ignores it? You, who are in league with the main author of all these political quarrels, and who only wants to lead us to civil war: you are a coward and a traitor: it is you who deceives us, with your hypocritical air; you're just a box of apothegms, and you're spying on us in the committee. I have just convinced myself of this by everything I have heard; you are three scoundrels, who believe you are blindly leading us to the loss of our homeland, but liberty will survive your horrible plots.”

Here Elie Lacoste rose in fury and said: “there is a triumvirate of knaves, it is Robespierre, Couthon and Saint-Just, who are plotting against the homeland.”

Barère adds: ”who are you then? Insolent Pygines? Who wants to see the spoils of the homeland split between a cripple, a child and a scoundrel; I wouldn’t give you a barnyard to govern.”

Collot-d’Herbois continues: “I know that perhaps you will have us assassinated this night, perhaps we will be hit, by your plots, tomorrow morning, but we are determined to perish at our posts; and before then, perhaps, we will be able to unmask you. Among us, you are making plans against the committees. You have, I am sure, in your pockets calumnies leveled against us; you are a domestic enemy and a conspirator.”

Saint-Just was struck by this speech; he turned pale, and he did not know what to answer. He opened one of his pockets, stammering, and placed some papers on the table; no one came to read them.

Collot-d’Herbois continues and says to him: “You are preparing a report; but from the way I know you, you have undoubtedly written our act of accusation? So what hope do you have? What lasting success can you expect from these horrible betrayals? You can, perhaps take our lives, have us murdered, but you will not deceive the virtue of the people. Do you believe that when it sees itself deprived of its defenders, of men who sacrificed themselves for it, it will not tear you to pieces? Do you believe that it will sit tight tomorrow, a quiet spectator of your crimes? No, there will be no unpunished usurpation when it comes to the rights of the people.”

Saint-Just then fell back on his report, and said that he would join the committee the next day and that if it did not approve it, he would not read it. Collot continued to unmask Saint-Just; but as he focused more on depicting the dangers praying on the fatherland than on attacking the perfesy of Saint-Just and his accomplices, he gradually reassured himself of his confusion; he listened with composure, returning to his honeyed and hypocritical tone. Some time later, he told Collot d'Herbois that he could be reproached for having made some remarks against Robespierre in a café, and establishing this assertion as a positive fact, he admitted that he had made it the basis of an indictment against Collot, in the speech he had prepared. Saint-Just, during that night, prolonged his allegations and his remarks so much, that it was quite obvious that he only dragged on in this way, in order to prevent us from taking measures against their conspiracy. Several members of the committees, impatient to so much falsehood, went into the next room and deliberated whether they would have him arrested immediately, but they thought it was wiser to refer it the next day to the National Convention, after having known the intentions of Saint-Just, in the report he was to make. It is even worth noting that when we drew up a picture of the unfortunate circumstances in which public affairs found itself, each of us looked for measures and proposed means; Saint-Just stopped us, acting astonished, as if not being in the confidence of these dangers, and complained that all hearts were closed, that he knew nothing, that he could not conceive this quick way of improvising lightning at every moment, and he conjured us, in the name of the republic, to return to fairer ideas, to wiser measures. This was how the traitor kept us in check, paralyzed all our measures and cooled our zeal. At five o'clock in the morning, Saint-Just fled and the members of the committee sought means to paralyze the armed force of Paris, which the scoundrels had in their hands. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûrété générale… (1795) page 105-107.

#Carnot: I DON’T LIKE YOU!!!#Collot: let’s get PHYSICAL PHYSICAL #SJ: within 48 hours I can have your head seperated from your shoulders #robespierre: why won’t you guys just let me DO WHAT I WANT!?! 😭#Billaud: bc you’re a COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY #Couthon: no u also i’m reporting you guys to the convention #Barère: don’t worry carnot i will save you from this little dictator saint-just! 🤓#prieur prieur lindet saint-andré: just chilling in the corner hoping to survive another session #or if anyone knows any drama with them too please share!#robespierre #saint-just #collot d’herbois #barère #carnot #billaud-varennes #frev #frev compilation #toxicmeter *explodes*#french revolution

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zvaigzdelasas · 8 months ago

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A helicopter carrying Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi has suffered a “hard landing”, state television reported, as officials said search operations were under way but were being impeded by poor weather conditions.

Iranian state media said the incident occurred on Sunday near Jolfa in Iran’s East Azerbaijan province.[...]

Raisi was returning from a visit to neighbouring Azerbaijan, where he had travelled to inaugurate a dam alongside the country’s President Ilham Aliyev.

State-linked media said three helicopters were in the Iranian president’s convoy, and the two others made it back safely. [...]

It remains unclear exactly what caused the “hard landing”, or whether any of the passengers in the helicopter have been hurt.[...]

Many of the military aircraft currently in service in Iran date back to before the country’s 1979 revolution.

19 May 24

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meldy-writes · 4 months ago

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Stupid Games

Summary: Takes place during S2 You’re the eldest of the Greene sisters (about 10 years older than Maggie). You’re mean, overprotective of your family, and overall just kind of a mythic bitch. Daryl can’t seem to keep his eyes from wandering over you whenever you’re around. One day you run into each other in the woods while hunting down the same deer and Daryl finds himself being toyed with. Maybe you’re not as cold and forbidding as you let on, but then again, maybe you’re just luring him into playing a stupid little game with you.

A/N: This is an excerpt from a fic I want to post to AO3 but don’t have anything substantial enough to post a full chapter yet so I wanted to post this here and see if it was good enough to keep working on. Might post another part I have written as a companion piece if people like this enough.

The first time Daryl laid eyes on you, you were just a distant figure on the roof of the Greene family farmhouse as he rode in at the head of the convoy on his bike. You were sitting on the porch overhang, looking out over your father's land with the vigilance of a grizzled soldier on the front lines. He watched you stand up as they drove up your gravel path. You put out a cigarette you'd been smoking in an ashtray resting on an open window ledge before climbing into the house. He and the rest of the members of his group that had stayed behind at the highway the night previous had made it up to the path and met up with the people who were already working on something judging by the pile of rocks they were collecting in a wheelbarrow by the time you reemerged on the porch. You surveyed him and the others with a set and piercing stare, arms crossed defensively over your chest as if daring one of them to cause trouble and give you a reason to beat their ass. You were followed out of the house by an older man in his seventies and the rest of Daryl’s group. You took stock of the new arrivals, starting with him and working your way over everyone, scanning them like you could see everything there was to know about them on their skin and didn't like it. When you were done you fixed your gaze back onto Daryl as if you'd identified him as the biggest threat. He hated the feel of your suspicious stare, though he told himself it was typical of people to see him as nothing but trouble and to treat him like dirt so he should be used to it. The way you tilted your head from your elevated position on the raised porch—like you were looking down at an ant and trying to decide whether it was worth the energy to squash it—made him fidget.

“How is he?” Dale asked after Carl when Rick and Lori came out of the house looking like they’d just been through hell and hadn't slept a wink.

“He'll pull through,” Lori responded, relief clear in her voice, “Thanks to Hershel and his daughter, (y/n),” She said motioning towards you, “and their people, and–”

“and Shane,” Rick added, “We'd have lost Carl if not for him.”

Daryl watched your already cold eyes darken and a snarl twist across your face at the statement, failing to suppress an eye roll before you yanked your head away from the group and the conversation like it disgusted you, choosing instead to stare off towards a barn at a distant end of the property. He wondered what your problem was, but he wasn't wondering long. It was revealed soon after the group arrived that someone had gone with Shane when he went to retrieve medical supplies for Carl and that that person did not return with him. Someone you and your family cared for.

If it wasn't made clear by the way Lori recognized those living at the farm house as not just your father's people but yours as well that you were the oldest child, it would have become obvious by the way your sisters looked to you for comfort at Otis's funeral. The little blonde one bawled her eyes out and clung to you like a child clings to their mother while Maggie, the woman who'd rode up to them on a horse the other day, leaned down to your height to rest her head on your shoulder. You tucked the sniffling teenager under your arm protectively, rubbing at her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her forehead and then turned to bump your head softly against Maggie’s in a comforting way. Your lips pursed like you were sucking on a lemon as you tried your best to stay strong and not start crying like your sisters, pinning Shane with a frigid and accusatory glare that he expertly ignored as he told the story of how he and Otis were ambushed by a group of walkers while retrieving the medical supplies for Carl and that Otis had valiantly stayed behind to cover his retreat, shooting into the herd with a pistol before ultimately being swallowed up by the swarm and getting torn to shreds. Daryl found it miraculous that Shane managed to recover the gun but not the man that had supposedly been firing it in his daring escape—and by miraculous he meant shady. You didn't seem to be buying Shane’s story, either.

After the service your father motioned toward you and told you to show the guests where to set up their camp, as he graciously agreed to let them stay until Carl recovered and they had located Sophia. You nodded dutifly with a muttered “Yessir,” motioning to Rick with your head, beckoning him to follow as you untangled yourself from your siblings and began marching off in a direction with purpose, not looking back to check if anyone was following you. If the group couldn't keep up with your quick gait that was just too damn bad. They did their best to match your pace, some, like Daryl, breaking off to fetch the vehicles and bring them over to where they were meant to stay. When you got to a spot under some particularly shady trees a good distance from your house you stopped, looking around as you waited for the group to congregate. When everyone was grouped up again you addressed them directly for the first time that morning. Your voice was down to business and detached as you pointed out where the boundaries of the camp would be and where the well they could use for water was. “One more thing,” You said with the same rural twang as your sisters, your tone changing to one of warning as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, jutting out your hip and resting your hand against it. Daryl followed the movement, your curves drawing his eyes in a way that made him itch and blush. “My daddy believes we should be good christians—help our fellow men and give ‘em the benefit of the doubt, but I don't share his blind faith. I don't know you people and I don't trust you. I can’t afford to, I have a baby sister to protect. Beth is sixteen, you understand? She's a child. If I catch any of your men lookin’ at her, talkin’ to her—sniffin’ around her in any way, I will rip their balls off like I'm takin’ a part off a Mr. Potato Head.” You made a popping sound with your lips that had Daryl's stare fixing on them instead of your hips, and gave a motion with your hand as if grabbing at something and yanking it down. “Clean off,” you reiterated, staring Glen down who swallowed thickly and tried to give you a friendly and disarming smile that did not change your attitude in the slightest. “Maggie can take care of herself but still, if someone upsets her, with God as my witness there will be hell to pay.”

There was a loud silence from the group after your blatant threats of bodily harm that was broken by Dale, ever the peacekeeper. “We understand where you're coming from, you have nothing to worry from us. We're good people, you'll see. Thank you for letting us stay on your beautiful property while Carl recovers and we look for Sophia.”

You scoffed, “You're only here because we shot your boy,” you reminded bluntly as you turned to leave for your house, “don't thank us.”

Daryl’s first impression of you: You were a bitch, but a bitch who loved her family. The only times he ever caught you cracking a smile or being anywhere close to kind during those first few days was when you were with them. You seemed to disagree with your dad on a lot of things, but it was clear you both respected and loved each other and that you had a bond that had been worked on and cultivated to be strong enough for you to argue and debate and still look at each other with love. After every tiff he’d catch you having in the windows of the front room, spitting and pinching the bridge of your nose and tossing your hands up while your dad calmly spoke back you would sigh, relax your gaze, and kiss his cheek or his forehead before stomping off with a storm cloud over your head. You’d grin wolfishly as you and Maggie laughed conspiratorially on the porch in the afternoon, teasing each other as you ate cherries together, trying to hit each other with the pits you spat out. Your whole face would soften when you looked at Beth, practically glowing with unconditional adoration as you played on the guitar Dale had originally found for Glen and accompanied the little blonde girl as she sang her heart out. Your voice was low, bluesy, raw, and filled with vibrato. There was an untrained authenticity to it that was almost hypnotic. It paired well with your sister who sang like a songbird, pretty and light as if she’d been taught by actual birds. You were happy to let her take the center stage, supporting her through harmony while your fingers strummed frets with a clumsy sort of charm, like you were taught to play at one point but never practiced, and were now making all sorts of mistakes that were going to become bad habits without a proper teacher. It was later revealed that Otis had taught you the basics a few years back and you’d only bothered to pick it back up now that he was gone and Beth needed someone new to perform with. You softened for Patricia, as well, helping her in the kitchen and going out of your way to assist her with her chores on the farm despite having plenty of your own responsibilities to fulfill.

Daryl’s group, however, you continued to treat like shit on your shoe. You made no effort to hide that you wanted them off your property as soon as possible, only showing a hint of compassion when it came to Lori and Carol, the mothers of the group who were distraught over the perils of their children. They were the ones you supplied the group’s meals to, giving them bushels of produce and bottles of milk and sending your sisters over to hand them baskets of eggs, even going so far as to offer Carl some of your late step-brother’s hand-me-downs to wear, but you still had a cold sneer on your face when you handed things over and you didn’t speak to them unless it was to ask how Carl was recovering or if they were making any progress finding Sophia. You were only asking to try and gauge how much longer you’d have to wait before kicking them out, and you grew more and more agitated the more the group settled in. Every time Rick or Dale or anyone tried to appeal to you or your dad about staying longer or staying permanently you’d bristle like a cat being pet the wrong way. You made a point to avoid them most of the time, which was just fine with Daryl because every interaction he did have with you pissed him off, and only fueled his own frustration when it became harder and harder to ignore you or look away.

For instance, the first one on one conversation he ever had with you was out in the woods while he was looking for Sophia. He was about to give up the search for the day and head back when he picked up the trail of a deer. He stalked it through the woods, thinking it’d be better to provide the farm with some venison than to return empty handed again. When he finally found it, he took aim and shot it at an angle that had it sprinting off with a limp in the direction of the farm. That’s when he heard a startled gasp and watched as you rushed out of the nearby foliage with a rifle, taking aim at the retreating deer before realizing you couldn’t get a clear shot on it. You then turned to where he was, gun dropping in your arms as you pinned him with a furious look. “Congratulations, Numb-Nuts, it got away.”

“The hell are you doing out here?” Daryl snapped, face red at the way you were treating him like a dullard with no idea what he was doing.

You seemed flustered by the question, looking down and kicking at the dirt with your horse-riding boot. “Came out to hunt and figured I’d look around for the missing little girl while I was at it,” you said with a casual shrug, avoiding his eyes until you seemed to remember you were pissed at him at which point your head snapped up and that signature sneer of yours was back. “Saw the deer and was gonna take it out but somebody went and scared it off.”

“I shot it in the leg on purpose,” Daryl explained defensively, getting angry and up in your face, “see that trail it left? It’s carryin’ itself back to the farm, less effort this way.” He looked you up and down and scoffed, nodding towards your gun. “What's with the rifle, Annie Oakley? You shoot that thing, every walker in a five mile radius is gonna come here to tear you and that deer apart.”

You slung your weapon over your shoulder and crossed your arms defiantly, “It takes a buck down in one clean, quick shot. The animal feels little to no pain if you know what you’re doin’ so it’s not suffering with an arrow in its ass for half a mile. Plus, I woulda been outta here with the buck slung over my shoulder long before anything came over to check out the noise.” You were confident, clearly convinced you knew better and that your methods were best. Daryl couldn’t have that. He had a good decade’s worth of experience on you and he hadn't had his hand held the whole time he was taught to track the way you probably had. He licked his lips ready to knock you down a peg.

“Yeah, but you’d be so exhausted from caryin’ it the whole way that if a walker came up on you, you’d be too tired to fight it off. Maybe you’d be able to drop the deer and fumble for your rifle, but that’s as far as you’d get. It’d be on you in a second. Would a little thing like you be able to fight it off? You even got a weapon other than that big ol’ Elmer Fudd gun?” As he was talking he saw your expression shift. You tilted your head like something had just occurred to you and you were sizing him up.

Suddenly, you brought your right leg up, bent at the knee so you could lift a jack knife from your boot, and flicked the blade out so it pointed at his chest. That shut him up for a second. He really hadn’t expected the quickness with which you had it drawn on him. “Believe me,” you let out a bored, breathy sigh, a smirk on your face like you knew you had the upper hand, “I’ve got some experience dealing with ravenous things that want to pin me down and devour me, I can handle myself just fine.” …were you still talking about walkers? You were, right? The way you poked the tip of your knife against the skin of his chest peeking out from under his open collar and gently dragged it down until it caught on the button of his shirt had him feeling goosebumps on his flesh and hearing innuendo in your words. You took a step towards him, looking up at him through long lashes with your chest puffed—either in pride or in an attempt to get him to look at your breasts. Regardless of the reason, It was working. “What about you? You sure you can catch up to that deer before somethin’ else does? You said it yourself, it’s hurt and slowing down—a biter could take it down in a matter of moments. Then what, tough guy?” Daryl had nothing to say in defense of that. Partly because your slightly seductive shift in demeanor had his mouth going dry and partly because you had a point and he knew it. He remembered the last time he’d hunted a deer like this, it’d carried itself all the way back to the quarry camp before getting caught on the fishing line of the perimeter alarms they put up and then it’s stomach was ripped apart and it’s innards devoured by a walker that followed the sound of a wounded, frightened animal and jingling cans. You must have seen in his eyes that you’d caught him because your slight smile spread into a full-on Cheshire cat grin. You retracted your knife and returned it to your boot, turning and sauntering off in the direction the deer had run off in. “guess we’d better go find it, huh?”

Daryl stalled for a second, stunned by your behavior. One second you’re spitting venom at him and making him feel like he’s two feet tall, the next you’re purring like a kitten and being the biggest fucking tease he’d ever had to endure. He mentally smacked himself when he realized he’d been so focused on the sway of your hips as you walked away that he wasn’t following you like he should be. He began jogging to catch up with you, falling into step easily as you both picked up the deer’s trail again. “You even know how to track?” He couldn't help but keep trying to pick a fight with you—he didn’t even know why, but as much as bickering with you pissed him off, he also found it fun. You didn’t treat his meanness like something you had to quell or cry about like his group did, you stood your ground and tossed your own barbs right back at him. It was like a game. A game he seemed to be losing, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop playing.

You looked over to him, a brow raised as you scanned him up and down. “Yes, I do. Do you own a shirt you haven’t ripped the sleeves off of?” You nodded to the button down he was wearing. He’d torn the sleeves off a few days ago because it was too hot to wear them and he needed the fabric to tie markers off on trees to denote what parts of the woods he’d already searched through in case the others ever decided to get off their asses and help look for Sophia. He had a few other shirts that had sleeves at some point but no longer did that he wore in a common rotation. He must have had a sour look on his face at your retaliating comment because you shook your head and chuckled under your breath, “don’t play stupid games if you don’t wanna win stupid prizes.”

You walked through the woods mostly in silence after that, not wanting to make an abundance of noise and end up accidentally spooking the deer. That became a competition as well, with you both smirking in triumph every time the other stepped on a twig or kicked up a bit of dirt in your effort to leave as little evidence of a trail as possible. Eventually, as you were coming up on a clearing near the edge of your property where the tall grass almost completely covered the view of your home in the distance, Daryl stuck his hand out to stop you and put a finger to his lips, pointing towards the buck you’d both been after peeking out through the foliage, whining softly and doing its best to lick at the wound in its back leg. You took cover behind a honeysuckle bush and Daryl nodded at you and your gun, “I got the last shot, your turn.”

You hesitated a second, scanning the woods and warily looking towards your farm. “Too close to home to use the gun now, it’d attract the dead to our property. Lemme borrow that crossbow of yours.” You held your hand out for it and Daryl clutched it away from your grasp. You looked at him first confused by his reluctance then annoyed, “please?” you said petulantly. After a beat of studying your face he eventually relented, but only after you’d started pouting a little. The second it was in your grip you hefted it up, remarking that it was heavier than you expected.

Daryl watched you handle it a bit clumsily as you got used to holding it and his fingers itched to show you how to aim it right. In the end, he couldn’t help himself. He came up behind you and put his hands on your hips, angling them the right way so you had a solid stance. He felt you stiffen under his hands and could hear your breath catching in your throat. “You wanna stand like this,” he coached, his arms coming around you to adjust your elbows and help you aim the weapon straight. You leaned back against his chest a little, maybe unconsciously, maybe on purpose. “Then just use the arrow tip like a sight and pull the trigger.” He could feel you shift as his breath brushed against the skin of your neck. The way you acted made you so big and imposing, but actually having you in his arms made you feel so small and demure; like he could envelop you entirely and keep you all to himself if he wanted. The way you’d been acting the past half hour made him feel like you might want that, too. The idea sort of excited him a little—made his pants and his chest feel tight. There was a quiet moment where he expected you to aim and fire, but it passed and the arrow still hadn’t been shot. He turned to look at you and see what the hold up was. Surley, you weren’t that unsure of your aim. He flinched back a bit when he moved his head in your direction and almost brushed noses with you, as you were not looking at the deer and had instead shifted to look back at him, a look on your face reminiscent of a cat playing with a cornered mouse.

“You really are just like any other man, aren’t you?” you crooned out in a teasing tone.

“What?” his mind went blank in his dumbfoundedness and that was all he could manage to utter.

“In my experience, I’ve found that any man who’s attracted to a woman is always willing to believe two things about her: One, that she doesn’t know anything about anything and needs him to help her, and two, that she’s just as attracted to him as he is to her.” Daryl’s mouth opened and closed like a fish at that statement, unsure what you meant or how he was supposed to respond. In that time you yanked yourself out of his grip, redid your stance, took aim with perfect form, and let loose an arrow with absolutely no hesitation. The deer let out a sad bleat as it was shot in the eye and then it crumpled into the grass, dead as a doornail. You handed his crossbow back to him with a nasty, shit-eating grin. “Do I really strike you as the type of person who’d ask to borrow somethin’ I didn’t know how to use? Honestly now, all I had to do was bat my lashes and push up my tits and you were all ‘here, let me get up close behind you and show you how to hold this big heavy tool’.” You said those last three words in an erotic and over dramatic moan, getting close to press your breasts against him as you ran your hand up his chest.

He pushed you away, a heavy blush heating his face while you began to cackle maniacally at him. “How the hell was I supposed to know you knew how to use it when you were fumbling with it like a toddler?” he barked out angrily as you stepped out from behind the bush you’d both been hiding behind and began walking towards the farm, still laughing. “Hey! Ain’t you gonna take the deer? It’s your kill!”

You turned around with mirth dancing in your eyes and a wide happy grin on your face. The light of the setting sun bounced off your hair making it look so shiny as the light summer breeze ran through it, making it float and sway around you in such a pretty way. Daryl felt his heart pound hard in his chest as he glared over your retreating figure. You were walking backwards, tucking a few strands of hair that had flown into your face back behind your ear as you said, “Who, me? But I'm just a ‘little thing’ who’d get tired if I carried it all the way back. You’re the big strong man—use those big strong muscles to carry it back for me. Oh, and since you’re the big strong provider, you can go ahead and string it up, drain it, and skin it, too. Thanks for your help,” you sing-songed sarcastically, “I just don’t know how I ever woulda done it without you!” Daryl began to huff, storming towards you for a second, unsure of what he’d even do if he caught you, but he felt like you’d just tricked him and he didn’t like it. You held your hands up in your defense as you saw him coming. “Stupid games, stupid prizes,” you reiterated with a shrug as you giggled and turned, running back towards the farm and leaving him in the thicket with the dead buck.

Daryl got the sudden sense as he watched you slow your pace to a jog then a brisk walk once you’d gotten far enough away that this had all been a test of some kind. He couldn’t tell if he passed or failed, but you certainly seemed pleased about the results either way. He kicked at the ground, a clump of dirt launching into the air as he did so, and moved to heft the buck over his shoulder. He didn’t know if or when you’d ever come looking to play again, but if you did, he’d make sure he won.

As he strung up the deer in a tree a little ways away from the group’s makeshift camp later that afternoon, cutting at its arteries and letting the blood drain out of it, he imagined what you might look like when he got the upper hand on you. What would you look like when the sneers and the smirks were wiped away and you were pinned down, completely at his mercy—all flustered with your cheeks flushed, trying to squirm your way out from under him. He bet you’d still have bite. He bet you would still spit venom, but maybe he could get you to purr for him, too. Maybe he could get you to look at him the way you looked at your family, all sweet smiles and gentle touches. The thought made him eager to play another one of your stupid little games.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x female reader #twd fic

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northgazaupdates · 7 months ago

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13 June 2024

Journalist Mohamed/Hamoda Shahen documents hundreds of children queuing in line to receive a ration of broth. After a brief period of allowing the entrance of a few aid convoys, the occupation has once again forbidden nearly all food imports into north Gaza, and starvation is spreading rapidly. Instagram user mydxb2024 provides a full English translation below. Please read the translation, as it is very informative.

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Hamoda: The days of famine have returned, as you can see…what are these children queueing for? For a meal, or anything that they can eat. Israeli has prohibited all basic essential food items from entering Northern Gaza…meats, fruits, vegetables, etc. for nearly 100 days now. They did on one occasion allow some food to enter for a short period of 10 days, but then completely prohibited anything after that. As we are seeing here, all these children running and racing just to be able to get their daily sustenance… (asking a boy) Why are you here today?

Boy 1: So I can get a cooked meal.

Hamoda: You don't have any no food?

Boy 1: There is nothing at all.

Hamoda: Of any kind?

Boy 1: There is no kind of (food), nothing!

Hamoda: Alright, and what will you do if you don't get anything today?

Boy 1: We have some flour, so we'll just eat plain bread!

Hamoda: How many of you are there at home?

Boy 1: We're more than 20 people!

Hamoda: Alright the sun is very hot. You don't feel hot standing out here?'

Boy 1: By Allah, I'm burning up but what else can we do?

Hamoda: How long have you been out here?

Boy 1: By Allah, I've been here more than 2.5 hours!

Hamoda: Standing in the sun? So you can feed your family?

Boy 1: Yes, so I can feed my family. And many members of my family have been martyred!

Hamoda: May Allah Grant you safety and well being. (Walking toward another boy) And why are you standing in the sun?

Boy 2: So we can eat a morsel of bread!

Hamoda: Alright, and if you end up not getting anything and have to go home (empty-handed), what will you do?

Boy 2: Then (I'll eat) anything! A loaf of bread, even half a loaf!

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gingerteawrites · 6 months ago

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BY THE HEARTH: Prologue

A/N: Hey guys, I’m finally working on a longer piece! I’m so excited to share this with you. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you stick around for the rest!

Content: Royalty!AU, Nanami x female reader, king Nanami, Princess Y/N, Widower Nanami, kid Yuuji, hurt, angst.

Next part here

banner from @cafekitsune

ACT I:

You had always thought that your wedding would be a joyous occasion, with flowers fluttering in the air, cries of joy, warm smiles, and cheering from onlookers. But as you trudged slowly to the altar, the clicking of your shoes echoed in the quiet church. The pews were filled to the brim with silent gazes that lingered on you, holding pity, sadness, and even disgust.

Thunder struck outside, and you squeezed your father’s arm, your steps almost faltering as he led you down the aisle. He squeezed back, but continued his steady pace, pulling you along. You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The pale blue light from the stained-glass window behind the altar caught your attention, depicting a woman with her arms wide open. Thick drops of rain rolled down her pristine face like tears, and you felt your chest tighten despite your efforts to calm down.

You reached the altar, your head pounding and breath growing shallower. The groom stood in front of you, his blonde hair slicked back elegantly, and his posture straight. The priest started reciting the ceremonial words, his droning voice lost in the background of your thoughts. You stole another glance at your husband-to-be, only to find the brown of his eyes almost dulled as his expression remained impassable, and your gaze fell to the floor in defeat.

So when a smooth but gravelly voice resounded in the room, you were deeply startled, only to find that it came from the man standing in front of you, the life seemingly returning to him "In the name of God, I, King Nanami Kento, take you, Princess Y/N L/N, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…” His eyes bore into yours, tension evident in his brow as he paused slightly. “...until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow."

You shivered, unsettled, but proceeded to recite the same words with a resolve you were not sure you could muster.

The moving candlelight cast soft shadows on your face as a fleet of servants escorted you through the hallways. The ceremony had ended uneventfully, and the wedding banquet after was marked by the absence of your now husband and the quick departure of your convoy. You sighed deeply.

Maybe his indifference is a good thing, you mused.

There were worse fates than indifferent husbands. But that did not help the ache in your heart. The rain had also grown more intense, as if the earth mirrored your sorrow, flashes of white lighting occasionally illuminating the dark stone of the castle. Marrying into a foreign kingdom was not going to be an easy thing. Your ladies-in-waiting had warned you, but you had tried to be optimistic. Now, you shivered in these cold hallways, devoid of decoration except for the occasional white Lily bouquets.

After what felt like an eternity in your thoughts, you finally reached the door to your wedding chamber. You inhaled deeply, trying to calm your racing heart. You had read enough romance novels to know what could happen tonight, but the thought did not bring the excitement that your heroines often described. Bracing yourself physically and mentally, you watched as the servants pushed the door open and urged you in.

Flush to the northern wall of the room was a massive bed, complete with a thick velvet green canopy and emerald-colored sheets. You did not have time to appreciate the beauty of the intricately woven carpet and carved furniture when the head maid called you over, trying to muster a small smile. You quickly refocused your attention on her, and along with the other servants, they helped remove the heavy white wedding dress. You watched the opulent material and accompanying corset where they lay it in a case for storage, feeling nothing at the sight of the embroidered flowers and the encrusted crystals.

You changed into a silk night dress, lace trimming delicately laying against your collarbone, and the maids started to leave quietly, but the head maid lingered behind. You sat at the edge of the bed, and turned towards her, her tired features seeming more prominent in the dim lighting.

“Do not fret, your majesty,” she said tentatively “The king is not a bad man.”

“Thank you.” You nodded, smiling gently at her attempt to reassure you “Pray tell, what is your name?” You asked, quickly getting up as she was about to leave.

“Alma, your majesty.” She paused

“Good night, Alma. And thank you”, you repeated, and she bowed softly as she closed the door.

You returned to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the now closed door.

Is he going to come in soon? Your mind spiraled It’s okay, Y/N, it’s okay. He doesn’t seem like an aggressive person, that’s already a win. I just need to try. Breathe, breathe. You repeated in your mind a mantra against the sounds of rain hitting the large windows. The thick curtains stopped you from seeing the outside, but you imagined angry bolts of thunder striking the ground, causing everyone to cower in the warmth of their homes.

The thought caused you to shiver again. This castle was way too cold. You pulled your feet from the ground, burying them in the bed’s heavy covers. You gently ran your fingers over the velvety material, and sat up against the headboard, and waited, staring right at the door. And you waited and waited. Until the insistent lullaby of the pouring rain carried your mind into the world of dreams. Dreams of a smiling groom, floating petals and happy first dances.

A/N: Please comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

#jjk nanami #husband nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen #yuji itadori #angst #anime #royalty au

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syndrossi · 9 days ago

Note

Any verse Rhaegar and Jon talking about the fact that he was Jon's biological father? If possible or Daemon seeing Restoration Jon with the twins for the first time Happy New Year

Opted to go for the latter, though it stops a little short of the reunion you were probably hoping for!

This is not necessarily how it will go in Restoration proper, but it's "a" possible reunion.

x~x~x

The yard was utterly silent as the dragon made its landing, the air still choked with smoke and the sickly sweet aroma of cooked pork that Jon knew was the scent of flesh cooked within melted armor. The surviving wagons of the king’s traveling party sat unmoving by the wall, and his father’s men stood at tense alert, but made no move to brandish their weapons at the man atop the dragon.

There was a girl with him near Jon’s age, with silver-blond hair that matched the man’s—and his brother Raymar’s. House Targaryen, he thought numbly. With their dragons of old.

What do they want? They had stopped after their overwhelming assault on the king’s company, and the man seemed to be waiting. Jon’s heart lurched in his chest as his father stepped forward, and the dragonrider’s gaze locked upon him.

“Where are my sons?” the man demanded, the rage in his voice accompanied by a low rumble from his great red dragon, powerful enough to make the ground shake.

His father’s head turned to Jon, and he squeezed his brothers’ hands reflexively. He means them.

The man’s gaze followed, rapidly shifting from Jon to his brothers and back with raw relief. “You will return them to me.”

It felt as though every stare in the yard was fixed upon them now.

“First I would have the name of the man who slayed our king,” his father responded, with a calm in his eyes that told Jon he already knew.

“I am Daemon Targaryen,” the man said, his own eyes narrowing in challenge. “And such is the fate that awaits usurpers and all others who would call themselves enemies of House Targaryen. How declares the North?”

His father looked toward the charred remnants of the king’s convoy, where low moans could still be heard of men not yet finished dying. “Do you lay claim to the Iron Throne, then?”

“Claim?” Daemon Targaryen echoed, seeming to scoff at the suggestion. “It is mine by blood—and fire, if need be. Who else would the North call king?”

Joffrey Baratheon was cowering with the rest of King Robert’s children, while the queen stared at Daemon Targaryen with a wildness that verged on wonder. His father studied them, and Jon realized that he did not know what he would do. He had yet to comprehend what it even meant that his brothers might be the stolen children of a Targaryen prince, claimed by his father instead.

“What of the king’s family?” his father asked.

The dragon gave another low growl. “I will not have his wife raped and his children slaughtered,” Daemon Targaryen said, hand coming to rest upon the hilt of his sword. “Which is a mercy that was not afforded my own kin when Robert Baratheon stormed the Red Keep.”

His father’s mouth tightened, and then he bent his knee. “The North welcomes you, King Daemon.”

#resonant nye2025 ask game #up next: wedding of vet!jon to laena

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immortalbumblebee · 17 days ago

Text

Chapter 22: Weakest Link

Happy Christmas Eve to all!!

I’m actually writing this on my phone because I left my laptop at home while visiting family…but inspiration hits!

I hope you all enjoy, and have an excellent holiday season, no matter what you celebrate!

Masterlist

One of the traders, a stout man from Shurima, leaned forward, speaking through clenched teeth, a lit cigar dangling from his mouth. Each word was punctuated by a puff of acrid smoke curling around his face like a dragon. “We’re the ones risking our necks here, gents. Sneaking supplies past Piltover’s checkpoints? It ain’t just dangerous—it’s suicidal.” He twisted the cigar to the other side of his mouth, a fresh plume of smoke spilling into the air. “We need more coin up front, or the shipments stop. End of story.”

Sevika was on her feet before anyone else could react, the dull thud of her fist hitting the table echoing in the dimly lit room. “And what? You think we’re swimming in cogs down here?” she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.

You couldn’t help but groan quietly, the weight of hours spent in this stalemate grinding against your patience. Exhaustion tugged at every muscle, but what else was new? From your spot at the table, you watched the scene unfold, arms crossed, eyes boring into the line of traders opposite you. Next to you, Benzo’s posture was tense, his weariness written as plainly on his face as on his rumpled shirt—usually crisp and professional, now missing a button and sporting deep wrinkles. You move to speak, but Benzo motions for you to stay back.

“Enough,” Benzo snapped, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had been in these trenches too long. Sevika froze, her hand still planted on the table, fingers twitching as if daring someone to challenge her.

Benzo leaned forward, the dim light catching the early creases forming on his forehead. “We all know what’s at stake. If this deal collapses, Zaun suffers—everyone suffers. Your risk is real, Urhak, no one’s denying that. But don’t act like your supply chain doesn’t depend on us just as much as we depend on you. We all bleed when Piltover milks us dry.”

Urhak, the Shuriman trader, removed the cigar from his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion, his narrowed eyes glinting like polished amber. “And we’re just supposed to bleed a little more for your rebellion? Hah.”

“Rebellion?” Another trader, a wiry man from Bilgewater, cut in with a bark of laughter. “We don’ give two shites about yer rebellion. It don’t feed our men. And wit’ Enforcers blockin’ every dock in Piltover, we’re startin’ to wonder if yer deals’r worth the trouble.”

Benzo didn’t flinch, his tone steady but urgent. “We need compromise. Protection for your shipments—more bodies on the ground to make sure they get through. In return, you cut back on the money demands and prioritize essentials: food, medicine, guns. The bare necessities.”

Another trader, a green-haired woman, scoffs. “Protection? Against Piltover? That’s a death sentence.”

“That’s what this revolution’s all about.” Felicia stepped forward, her voice calm but firm, the glint of determination in her eyes unmistakable. “We know what we’re doing. Smaller convoys. Decoys to draw the Enforcers away. It works—we’ve done it before, and you’ve seen the results.”

The Bilgewater trader snorted. “Aye, and look how far it’s gotten ya. Vander and Silco’ve been eatin’ Stillwater slop for what—two years now? Is that the kind of security you’re sellin’ us?”

Alright, you’d had enough.

Before anyone could react, you flicked your wrist, sending a razor-thin shard of metal slicing through the air. Urhak’s cigar split cleanly in two, the lit end tumbling to the floor in a hiss of ash. A tense silence followed as some of the traders instinctively reached for their weapons, but you were faster. A wave of your hands, and their firearms clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach.

You stood, your presence commanding, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “My associate has been incredibly patient,” you said, the words slow and deliberate. “But I’m done wasting time. Let’s be real—Zaun makes up two-thirds of your trade profits, even with the dock blockades. If you think you can do better elsewhere, go ahead. Pack up your mediocre goods and hawk them to some backwater village. We’ll find traders who don’t waste our gods-damned time.”

The weight of your words settled over the room like a storm cloud. One by one, the traders hesitated, their bravado dimming under your glare.

Benzo turns to you, his movements measured, his eyes narrowing as he leans ever so slightly in your direction. “I thought I told you I had this,” he mutters, voice just loud enough for you to catch.

You meet his gaze briefly and roll your shoulders, the gesture as nonchalant as it was deliberate.

“Urhak breaks the lingering tension, his voice rumbling through the room like distant thunder. “We’ll need guarantees,” he says, his words deliberate. His gaze flickers to his colleagues, who murmur in low tones, their unease palpable. “If the patrols catch us, there won’t be a second chance. No excuses, no do-overs.”

Benzo exhales sharply, but his frustration is aimed squarely at you before he turns back to the table. His composure is a mask, slipping on just long enough to face the traders. “We’ll rotate our people to guard the shipments,” he says, his voice steady. “Small teams, low-profile. No risks we don’t need to take. You hold up your end, and we’ll hold up ours.”

The traders fall into another bout of quiet deliberation, voices hushed but sharp. The Bilgewater representative eventually shrugs. “Don’t be expectin’ miracles. You don’ give us what we need, don’ blame us when it all falls apart.”

Sevika finally lifts her fist from the table, the faint outline of her knuckles still imprinted in the wood. Benzo straightens his shoulders, reclaiming his usual air of authority, and folds his hands in front of him. “Nobody’s blaming anyone,” he says firmly, his businessman tone smooth but grounded. “We’re all in this together. That’s the point.”

The meeting concluded with a fragile patchwork of strained agreements, punctuated by supplementary deals to placate the traders’ endless demands. As they filed out, heading toward the ships that awaited them at the docks, your inner circle lingered. Quiet murmurs filled the air, the tension from the negotiation still simmering in their voices.

You sat apart from the others, your focus buried in your worn notebook. The faint scratch of pencil against paper was a welcome distraction as you tallied the promised inventory of firearms, mentally accounting for time and resources. They’d need inspections, repairs, and modifications—because they never arrived in workable condition.

With a sharp snap, you closed the book and rubbed a hand over your face, dragging your palm down to stifle the mounting frustration. Your new bandana lay limp around your neck, black and distinctly free of bloodstains. You were nearly 25 now… Two years. Two years since they were gone, and it already felt like a lifetime. In their absence, the weight of Zaun had pressed heavier on you than ever.

Piltover’s interference had worsened tenfold. No crossing the bridge without papers. Mandated curfews. Power outages that choked entire districts in darkness. The blockade at the docks was a vice on your trade, tightening every day. And the promenade? A ghost of its former self, crawling with Enforcers. The fighting rings were shut down. Businesses folded under the strain.

Zaunites had always been resilient, but now they were desperate. And desperate people fought back—often recklessly. Without resources, without backup, rebellion wasn’t a fire—it was a spark struggling to catch in the damp.

You adjusted the oversized vest draped over your shoulders. It hung loose, three sizes too big, and though his scent had long since faded, you still found comfort in wearing it. A small fragment of the past. A piece of a world that no longer existed.

“I told you I had this.” Benzo’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp with annoyance. His frustration lanced through your skull, worsening the pounding ache that had been building all evening. You really needed coffee.

“Do you have any idea how sideways that could’ve gone?” he continued, his tone rising just enough to set your teeth on edge.

You snapped your gaze to him, already irritated. “They still think they can push us around,” you shot back, stepping closer, your voice rising to match his. “And you let them!”

Benzo’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. “We don’t have the luxury of throwing our weight around without consequences,” he said, his voice low and hard. “And we can’t afford another enemy right now.” He turned abruptly, his eyes landing on Sevika. “Go keep an eye on them. Run security on their ships if you have to.”

Sevika lingered, her gaze flicking between the two of you, as though calculating whether to push back. After a moment, she sighed and turned toward the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m with Min.”

“I don’t recall asking,” Benzo shot after her. His voice was sharper than necessary, and it drew a pointed look from both you and Felicia.

Before tempers could flare further, Connol stepped in, his calm, even tone cutting through the tension. “Fighting between ourselves isn’t fixing a damn thing,” he said firmly, stepping between you and Benzo. His broad hands rested lightly on your shoulders, as if grounding both of you. “In case anyone’s forgotten, we don’t have the manpower to be a divided force right now.”

Benzo exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping as his anger softened into resignation. He looked at you again, and you met his gaze.

For a long, silent moment, the two of you simply stared at each other. His exhaustion mirrored yours, the weight of Zaun evident in every line of his face. His eyes, usually sharp with purpose, were dull—drained beyond recognition. You understood the feeling all too well.

Neither of you was Vander. Neither of you was Silco. They had been an unstoppable force, even when they were at each other’s throats. You hadn’t fully understood the weight of their positions until they were gone, ripped from Zaun and sent to rot in Piltover’s cells. Now it was on you and Benzo to pick up the pieces, to hold together the tattered remnants of a revolution that sometimes felt like it was bleeding out faster than you could save it.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, until Benzo finally looked away. He turned to the others, quietly issuing instructions as Felicia stepped forward to lend her voice to the plan.

And you? You tightened the vest around you again, steeling yourself for what came next. Because there was always something.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly once the others have filtered out, leaving just the two of you. The room feels heavier without the murmured discussions to fill the space. You glance at Benzo, guilt threading through your voice. “You’re right. I was reckless. Stupid.”

Benzo doesn’t respond immediately. He leans against the table, his arms crossed, staring at a spot somewhere past your shoulder. Finally, he exhales and shrugs. “You got the job done,” he says simply, though there’s no accusation in his tone. After a moment, he unfolds his arms and extends a hand toward you. “I know you miss him. I do too.”

“I miss them both,” you admit, your voice cracking as you clasp his hand. But instead of the firm handshake he seems to expect, you use the gesture to pull him into a tight hug.

Benzo doesn’t hesitate. His broad, stocky arms envelop you, grounding you in a way that words never could. He’s thinner now than he used to be, you knew you were too, the stress of the past two years carving its toll into both of you, but his hugs still feel like home. They always had, since that first day in the dump.

You press your face into his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this without them, Benz…”

His arms tighten around you, a protective squeeze that’s equal parts comfort and reassurance. “I know, Fishie,” he murmurs.

***

One might imagine that living in a warring nation would be a constant thrill, every day a unique and dangerous adventure. And in some ways, they’d be right. But when every waking moment is consumed by survival, by the relentless grind of uncertainty and danger, the days begin to blur together.

Nights are spent patrolling the crumbling streets, ducking under shadows to avoid the cold, watchful eyes of curfew enforcers. By day, there’s the ceaseless clatter of tools as you work on gun engineering and mechanics in the dim light of your makeshift livingroom workshop. Taking care of your parents took considerable time, even with Mikaels improving health. Not to mention actual shift work at the factories you were still employed at. The bridge barriers made it impossible to continue working at Morichi’s, but you still had to make a living. So you took what you could on this side of the bridge, toiling in the suffocating heat and deafening noise of the factories, each shift bleeding into the next.

The loss of Vander and Silco’s leadership wasn’t the only major impact of their incarceration. The loss of income was a huge hit to your day-to-day lives. You managed to scrape by Mikael’s treatments, but food was steadily more expensive, funds were running dry. Numbers were already tight, but now you almost felt strangled.

And then there was the tunnel.

The one project that felt like you were finally doing something that mattered, something right. In a world that seemed to be crumbling at the seams, the tunnel was your proof that not everything had to fall apart.

Engineering the damn thing had been an endeavour. You and Connol had spent countless sleepless nights over that past 24 months slogging through its damp, claustrophobic depths. Every leak you patched, every weak point you reinforced, felt like a small victory.

The leaks were relentless at first. Water seeped in from all sides, turning the tunnel into a slick, treacherous path. You and Connor worked in knee-deep muck, sealing crack after crack until your arms ached and your fingers felt raw. And then there were the weak points—entire sections that seemed one heavy step away from collapse. You reinforced them with steel sheets that you bent and shaped with your own hands.

Months turned into years as the project evolved. It started as a desperate plan to bypass Piltover’s stranglehold, but it became something greater. A lifeline. A sanctuary. It was Felicia who had the brilliant idea of connecting the tunnel to a long-abandoned mining cavern nearby. She and a few of the older minors had mapped the area, their experience with the mines proving invaluable. The cavern was vast, its winding corridors a maze that could confuse even the most determined enforcer. With the connection established, the tunnel transformed into a network—a hidden artery for Zaun. Connected to the mines, but far enough away as to allow for passage without much air corruption.

Slipping into the manhole that led to the tunnel, the muffled sounds of labor greeted you before your boots even hit the ground. The faint echo of crates scraping against the floor, grunts of effort, and low conversations filled the air. It didn’t surprise you to find Felicia already there, gesturing sharply as she directed a small group maneuvering heavy-looking crates toward the mining hub.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, sliding down the ladder and brushing the grime from your hands. Your eyes quickly scanned the wooden crates stacked against the damp tunnel walls.

Felicia turned to face you, her expression softening the moment she saw you. In her arms, a familiar blue-haired toddler bounced excitedly, letting out a piercing screech when her wide, blue-grey eyes landed on you. Powder squirmed and made grabbing motions with her chubby hands, her little braids bobbing wildly.

“Everything’s going smooth so far,” Felicia replied, her voice heavy with skepticism. She shifted Powder on her hip with practiced ease. “Although, little miss over here has been trying to make mischief. As usual.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Mischief? Her? Nah, not my Pow-Pow,” you said, holding your hands out. Powder immediately launched herself at you with an excited squeal, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around your neck as if she hadn’t seen you in months. You pressed a kiss into her hair, the faint smell of damp tunnel and baby soap filling your nose. “Perfect little angel, you are,” you murmured, gently swaying her in your arms.

Felicia scoffed and rubbed a hand over her face, exhaustion carving lines into her features. “Easy for you to say. She’s been trying to climb the crates all morning. Nearly toppled a stack of rations.”

You chuckled, the sound dry. Powder babbled in your arms, reaching for the pen you always kept tucked into your pocket. You let her grab at it, her tiny fingers closing around the object with triumph. She brought it to her mouth, and you caught her hand before she could start chewing.

“How’s the moving going?” you asked, shifting Powder’s weight onto your hip while you glanced back at the crates.

“The firearms are heading to the mining hub, like you wanted,” Felicia said, motioning to the group lugging the heaviest crates. “I’m splitting the rations and water supply—half near the residential opening so they’re easier to access if things get tight.”

“Smart,” you said, pulling out your notebook one-handed. You jotted a quick note, using Powder’s squirming form as a makeshift desk. Her hand reached for the page, and you tilted it out of her grasp just in time. “And you? How are you holding up?”

Felicia sighed, her shoulders slumping as though the question alone carried weight. “The chem-barons are brutal, Min. You should see the factories down there. People are working longer hours for less pay—and those are the lucky ones who still have jobs.” She ran a tired hand through her hair, her thumb brushing over Powder’s cheek. “It’s hard. Really hard.”

Your chest tightened. You glanced down at Powder, who had abandoned the pen and was now tugging at the frayed edge of your vest. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re not alone in that. If you need a break, come by for meals. Seriously, Fel, we’ll make it work.”

Felicia let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-scoff. “Oh, sure. And when exactly are you finding time to cook for me, Nanny Min? When was the last time you had a proper meal? Or some sleep? No offense, sweetheart, but you look like death.”

You shrugged, the motion heavier than you intended. “What else is new?” you muttered. The exhaustion was bone-deep, clinging to you like the dampness in the air. You weren’t sure you even remembered what it felt like to wake up rested.

Felicia placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Min, I mean it. You can’t keep burning yourself out like this. We need you. Zaun needs you. But you’re no use to anyone if you collapse. After Niya…we can’t lose you too.”

“I’m handling it,” you said, the response automatic and hollow.

“Are you?”

You hesitated, your grip tightening slightly on Powder. The toddler hummed, oblivious to the tension, and grabbed at your face with sticky fingers. Her palm landed on your nose, making you sigh and shake your head.

“Trust me, Fel. You’re not going to say anything I haven’t already heard from Benzo, Sevika, Mikael, Babette, or my mother,” you said, flicking the pen from Powder’s grasp and sliding it back into your pocket. “I’m handling it.”

Felicia didn’t look convinced, but she let out a low sigh and dropped her hand from your shoulder. “Just… don’t let it break you, Min,” she said. Her tone softened, but the concern in her eyes remained sharp.

You didn’t respond, instead watching as she turned back to the crates and started issuing instructions again. The room settled into a familiar rhythm: the scrape of crates, the shuffle of boots, and Powder’s soft babbling filling the space. But Felicia’s words lingered, heavy in the air.

When had you last eaten a real meal? Or slept more than a few hours? The question tugged at the edges of your mind, but you pushed it away. There wasn’t time for that. There was never time.

“Come on, Pow-Pow,” you murmured, brushing a hand over the toddler’s braids. She looked up at you with a toothy grin, and for a moment, her laughter broke through the weight pressing on your chest.

The echoes of shuffling crates and the rhythmic commands of Felicia's voice faded as you continued to sway Powder in your arms, the hum of the tunnel now a steady background. For a fleeting moment, everything felt almost... normal. As if this could be a day not haunted by the weight of survival or the ghosts of lost leaders. But the crackling tension in the air wouldn’t let it last long.

You glance over at Felicia, her tired yet determined expression etched into your memory. As she coordinates the laborers, directing them with a precision that only comes from years of doing what’s needed to keep Zaun's pulse alive, you feel a surge of admiration. She was right—we need to do this, but at what cost?

Suddenly, the muffled clatter of boots approaching breaks the fragile silence. A figure steps into the tunnel’s dim light, the shadows catching on his messenger uniform–like the one Silco used to wear. You recognize him as a regular, one good at his job. His presence shatters the illusion of calm.

“Min,” his eyes lock onto yours and immediately, you set Powder down, although she stays latched onto your leg. “Been trying to track you down for ages.”

You cross your arms, straightening your shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“New notice from Topside, get a load of this.” He reached into his vest, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment that he thrust toward you without hesitation.

You took the note, unfolding it with a quick snap of your fingers. The seal was unmistakable—Piltover. Your stomach churned as you scanned the words.

“In light of the escalating unrest within the Undercity, Piltover’s High Council has decided to implement a tax on all businesses operating in the lower sectors of Zaun. The tax will be enforced immediately. Failure to comply will result in fines, asset seizures, and the possibility of further punitive actions. Tax rates will be determined based on business size and output. Enforcers will begin inspections at once.”

“For fuck’s sake!” The words tore out of you, raw and jagged. You hadn’t meant for the rage to bubble over so violently, but once it started, there was no stopping it. The crumpled parchment landed on the ground with a dull thud as you hurled it, your chest heaving.

Your hands shot up, threading through your short-cropped hair, pulling lightly at the strands as if the pain might somehow ground you. You clenched your jaw, trying desperately to keep the flood of frustration from overwhelming you completely. But it wasn’t working. Every breath felt sharp, shallow, like it wasn’t enough to fill your lungs. The metallic hum of the tunnel around you—normally a distant comfort—felt suffocating, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Why does it feel like everything is falling apart?

Your thoughts spiraled, one after another, crashing like waves in a storm. The tax, the factory work, the constant surveillance, the dwindling resources—it was relentless. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how much you sacrificed, it was never enough. Zaun was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece.

Then you felt it—a tiny hand resting gently on your thigh. It was a touch so light, so soft, that it pulled you out of your storm like a lifeline.

You looked down to find Powder gazing up at you, her big, round eyes shimmering with concern. Her expression was earnest, her little brows slightly furrowed as if she could feel the weight pressing on you, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

“Min-Min,” she cooed, her voice soft, almost like a dove’s call. She stretched her arms up toward you, her small fingers opening and closing in that familiar “grabby hands” motion. It was a plea for comfort, but it felt more like she was offering it.

Your heart cracked at the sight. The tightness in your chest, the pounding in your head—all of it eased, just a little, under her gaze. Powder had always had this uncanny ability to cut through the noise, to remind you of the parts of the world still worth fighting for. Still worth protecting.

You glanced at Felicia, who was now carefully unfolding the paper you had crumpled and tossed in frustration. She scanned the words, her lips moving slightly as she read them to herself. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the weight of the decree sank in.

“Can they do this?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“They’re Pilties,” you spat, the venom in your tone sharp enough to cut. “They think they can do whatever they damn well please.”

Felicia shook her head, slipping the paper into her pocket with a grim expression. “Nobody’s going to be happy about this. The businesses are barely hanging on as it is.”

You turned to the messenger, who shifted nervously under your gaze. “Who knows about this so far?”

The young man shrugged, his wiry frame taut with unease. “Notices are being sent out all over as we speak. Won’t be long before everyone hears.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, exhaling sharply. Your hand instinctively found Powder’s head, your fingers ruffling her messy blue-tinted strands. She babbled contentedly, oblivious to the tension simmering around her.

Your eyes stayed on Felicia and the messenger. “Alright. Time to play crowd control. Spread the word that I’ll be on the Promenade if anyone needs to talk. And tell folks that if anyone’s going hungry tonight, I’ll have a soup on by dusk. Empty bellies are welcome.”

You made a move to leave, already thinking ahead, but the messenger stepped forward, his words rushed and urgent. “There’s something else, ma’am.”

You froze, your stomach tightening. “What is it?”

“A barge,” he said quickly. “Big one. Seen docking from Stillwater.”

The mention of the prison made your heart leap into your throat, your mind racing to places you didn’t want it to go.

“Dropping off or receiving?” you asked, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Not sure,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Didn’t get close enough to see.”

You clenched your jaw, nodding sharply. “One emergency at a time,” you muttered to yourself before addressing him again. “Keep me updated. The moment you hear anything more, you come find me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the messenger said, giving a quick nod.

Without wasting another second, you turned and headed off. There was no time to dwell on the possibilities—not with a city on the verge of uproar and lives that needed saving. Your boots echoed against the damp tunnel floor as you strode forward, determination hardening your expression. Zaun had always been a place of resilience, and no decree from Piltover—or mysterious barge from Stillwater—was going to change that.

***

“I’m not cut out for this, Benz,” you mumbled, sliding down the door until you were sitting on the floor, your head resting against the cool surface.

The weight of the night pressed down on you as you shut the door behind you, the muffled sounds of the city outside faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment. It was almost dawn, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. People had filtered in and out all night, seeking reassurance, venting frustrations, or just looking for a hot meal. Now, a kitchen full of dirty soup bowls and spoons awaited you, each one feeling like another hit to your dwindling energy.

Benzo, sprawled out on the worn couch, was mid-way through unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric hung loose around his frame as he glanced at you, his expression heavy with his own exhaustion. “I know, Fishie,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “But what are you going to do?”

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “…Cry?” The word came out half-serious, half-desperate as you stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty carpet. The coffee table—your makeshift workshop—rattled slightly, its surface cluttered with dismantled trinkets and half-repaired pistols. You curled up on your side, feeling the sting of your aching muscles as they protested the movement.

Benzo let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Nah, not you,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint grin breaking through his exhaustion. “You’re too damn stubborn for that.”

You let out a low groan, flipping over onto your back. The musty ceiling above you stared back, a blank canvas for your frayed thoughts. You didn’t even have the energy for a half-decent clap back. “Says you, asshole,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a grumble.

“Hey.” His tone shifted, drawing your attention. You lifted your head slightly to meet his eyes, finding his expression unexpectedly serious. “You’re doing just fine, Fishie. Honest. We’ve got this. The guys would be proud of you—of us.”

His words hung in the air, filling the silence that followed. You stared at him for a long moment before letting out a loud sigh, letting your head fall back against the floor. The ache in your body felt heavier, but his words planted something small—a flicker of hope you didn’t have the energy to acknowledge just yet.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the ceiling, letting the stillness settle over you both. You didn’t respond, but Benzo didn’t push. The quiet understanding between you spoke louder than words ever could.

“You ever wonder,” you begin, your voice uncertain, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “What would’ve happened if we hadn’t met that day? Back in the trash pit?”

Benzo pauses, his hand instinctively digging into his pocket for a cigar. “Not really,” he says, voice casual as he fishes it out. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest as you sit on the carpet. “I mean…it completely changed my life. I was a nobody, some Bilgewater rat fresh off the boat. And now…”

The soft click of his lighter cuts through the stillness as he lights the cigar, the faint glow flickering in the dim room. He takes a long drag, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily into the air. The familiar scent fills the space, oddly comforting.

“You’re on our island of misfit toys. Closest thing our people have to a council.” His voice is steady, almost teasing, but there’s a weight behind it. He hums thoughtfully, the cigar bobbing slightly between his fingers. “You should be proud, Fishie. This revolution wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You frown, resting your chin on your knees. “I don’t know about that,” you murmur.

Benzo’s gaze sharpens as he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re the smartest out of all of us, Fishie,” he says firmly. “Even with my charm and Silco’s head for strategy. You think any of us have anything close to that engineering brain of yours?”

“I’m good with gears,” you reply, shrugging again. “But…I don’t think I’m supposed to be a leader. All this responsibility? Everyone relying on me, looking to me for answers…I don’t know how Vander and Silco do it. They make it look so…effortless.”

Benzo leans back again, taking another drag from his cigar. He watches the smoke swirl for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Then, he reaches out, extending the cigar to you.

“Well then,” he hums, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I guess it’s a good thing you’ll always have one of us to help you along the way, right? We’re in this together, Min. I can promise you that much.”

You stare at the offered cigar for a moment before taking it, holding it delicately between your fingers. The warmth of the ember radiates against your skin, grounding you. You look at him, his steady presence like a lifeline in the chaos, and for the first time that night, you allow yourself to breathe.

“Thanks, Benz,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he nods anyway. It’s a quiet understanding, a bond that doesn’t need words to be felt. In this crumbling world, you weren’t alone. And for now, that was enough.

The apartment was silent, save for the faint crackle of Benzo’s cigar and the occasional groan of the pipes in the walls. The world outside was stirring—Zaun never really slept—but for a moment, here in this little bubble of exhaustion and cigarette smoke, everything felt still.

Benzo stretched out on the couch, head tipped back, his eyes half-closed as he murmured, “You’re gonna burn out that brain of yours, Fishie, if you don’t sleep soon.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” you replied automatically, the corner of your mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

“Don’t tempt fate,” he muttered, a hint of humor slipping into his voice.

Just as the quiet began to settle in again, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t hesitant or unsure like the knocks you’d been getting all night—it was firm, deliberate, almost impatient.

Benzo glanced toward the door, his brow furrowing. “Someone’s got timing, I’ll give them that.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the floor with a groan. “It’s probably someone from the Promenade,” you said, brushing off the dust from your trousers. “Maybe they didn’t get the memo I’m done playing soup kitchen for the night.”

Benzo waved a lazy hand, settling deeper into the couch. “Your circus, your monkeys.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the door, rubbing at your tired eyes. “Alright, alright,” you called as you turned the latch. “I’m here, I’m here—”

The door swung open, and your words caught in your throat.

Standing in the doorway were two figures you thought you’d never see again, not outside of Stillwater’s cold, suffocating grip. Vander, towering and solid as ever, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. And Silco, sharp and composed, his eyes glinting with that calculating gleam you’d never forgotten.

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. They weren’t supposed to be here. They couldn’t be here.

“Minerva,” Silco said smoothly, his voice a razor’s edge of familiarity. His lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile as if he was amused by your stunned silence.

But it was Vander who drew your attention, his warm, familiar presence anchoring you to the moment. He stepped forward, just enough for the dim light of the apartment to catch the edges of his worn face. His gaze softened as it met yours, and he smiled down at you, that same reassuring, unshakable smile you’d longed to see for two years.

“Hello, Minnie,” he said, his voice rumbling low and steady like the earth itself. “Miss me?”

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