#theft is a form of violence

[subiysu-chan]

The more I know

The more I study history, the more I just...Cringe at how much the thought of "teenagers care about peer perseption because they are spoiled and shallow" rings false.

Because, historically, people cared about their honor to an obsessive degree. Until the day that thanks to a scammer, I ended up unable to eat enough ! That was the only period I was borderline obsessed with dignity, and cared about how I'm perceived. It was emotionally easier for me to skip meals than to beg, so I skipped meals.

Food for thought.

[mvshortcut]

Curtain: As you see, children, you may be my greatest adversaries to date, but your childish naivete is no match for my formidable mental prowess. I, alone, have the power to predict every permutation, every possible outcome -

Constance: 867-39-0215

Curtain: - in order to thwart your efforts before they came to fruitio - hold up. Was that my fucking social security number

Constance:😇

[bunnys-kisses]

the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

[timetravellingkitty]

KASHMIR MASTERLIST

Background

History of Kashmir from 250 BC to 1947 [to understand Kashmir's multi religious history and how we got to 1947]

Broad timeline of events from 1947 to the abrogation of Article 370 of the Indian Constitution in 2019 (BBC) [yes, BBC. hang on just this once]

Human Rights Watch report based on a visit to Indian controlled Kashmir in 1998 [has a summary, background, human rights abuses and recommendations]

Another concise summary of the issue

Sites to check out

Kashmir Action - news and readings

The Kashmiriyat - independent news site about ongoings in Kashmir

FreePressKashmir - same thing as previous

Kashmir Law and Justice Project - analysis of international law as it applies to Kashmir

Stand with Kashmir - awareness, run by diaspora Kashmiris (both Pandit and Muslim)

These two for more readings and resources on Kashmir: note that the petitions and donation links are from 2019 and also has explainers on the background (x) (x)

To read

Do You Remember Kunan Poshpora? - about women in the Kashmiri resistance movement and the 1991 mass rape of Kashmiri women in the twin villages of Kunan and Poshpora by Indian armed forces

Until My Freedom Has Come: The New Intifada in Kashmir - a compliation of writings about the lives of Kashmiris under Indian domination

Colonizing Kashmir: State Building under Indian Occupation - how Kashmir was made "integral" to the Indian state and examines state-building policies (excerpt)

Resisting Occupation in Kashmir - about the social and legal dimensions of India's occupation

On India's scapegoating of Kashmiri Pandits, both by Kashmiri Pandits (x) (x)

Of Gardens and Graves - translations of Kashmiri poems

Social media

kashiirkoor

museumofkashmir

kashmirpopart

posh_baahar

readingkashmir

standwithkashmir and their backup account standwithkashmir2 (main account is banned in India wonder why)

kashmirlawjustice

kashmirawareness

jammugenocide (awareness about the 1947 genocide abetted by Maharaja Hari Singh and the RSS)

To watch

Jashn-e-Azadi: How We Celebrate Freedom parts 1 and 2 - a documentary about the Kashmiri freedom struggle (filmed by a Kashmiri Pandit)

Paradise Lost - BBC documentary about how India and Pakistan's dispute over the valley has affected the people

Kashmir - Valley of Tears - the exhaustion with the conflict in the post nineties

In the Shade of Fallen Chinar - art as a form of Kashmiri resistance

Human rights violations (x) (x) (x) (x) (x)

Land theft and dispossession (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x)

A note: I know annoying Desis are going to see this and go "Oh but Kashmir is Pakistan's because-" and "Kashmir is an integral part of India because-". I must make my stance clear: Kashmir belongs to the Kashmiris, the natives, no matter what religion they belong to. Neither Pakistan nor India get to decide the matter of Kashmiri sovereignty. The reasons given by both parties as to why Kashmir should be a part of either nation are bullshit. The United Nations itself recognises Kashmir as a disputed region, so I will not entertain dumbfuckery. I highly encourage fellow Indians especially to take the time to go through and properly understand the violence the government enacts on Kashmiris. I've also included links to learn more about Kashmiri culture because really, what do the rest of us know about it? Culturally and linguistically Kashmir differs so much from the rest of India and Pakistan (also the amount of fetishization of Kashmiri women...yikes). This is not just a bilateral issue between these two nations over land, this actually affects the people of Kashmir. And if you're still here, thank you for reading

[wathanism]

Even a bunch of white people moving to a non white country, wouldn't be settler colonialism. It would be if they form settlements exclusive only to them and started displacing natives and taking away resources. Them just migrating to let's say Sri Lanka and living along with rest of the people there would just be that...living in a country.

yup. it's exactly what i mean about the importance of distinguishing immigration and colonization. white people Existing isn't what makes something a settler colony lol. settler colonialism is about theft, power, & violence on mass scales.

[pandorascripts]

Familiar By Thy Side

author yapping: here is part one to the Salem AU! I've decided to make this multi-chaptered because I don't want to rush the bonding that needs to take place. But, for you readers, I have a question.. do I make it Agathario/Reader? It's at a point right now where it totally could be and it would develop naturally, maybe even better. It's up to y'all though! The second chapter is almost done :) Pairings: Agatha Harkness/Reader Warnings: kidnapping, violence, agatha being agatha

Disclaimer: this is the 1700s. THEY WILL SPEAK AS SUCH. no use of thy and it's other forms because I'm too lazy to learn how to use them and they're strictly used in an informal sense. Let me know thoughts, opinions, and if you'd like to be tagged from this point on for this series :) ----------------------------------------------

Agatha’s calloused hands run along Nicky’s sleeping face, her pointer finger gently gliding down his nose. Her time with him is borrowed, she knows, but even if the knowledge is supposed to find her comfort in the inevitability, she can’t deal with it. Death, her lover, will take the one thing that’s truly ever mattered to her – her baby boy. The denial is strong, Agatha needs to stop Rio from doing her job, no matter the cost. It’s why she’s forced to bring Nicky into her scams – why she’s forced to kill so many witches. Agatha needs power to defeat such a vile eldritch horror – to accomplish something no one has ever done. Even now, she’s managed to stall death when no one else could. If Agatha could trade her spot for Nicky’s, she would.

It’s another one of their scams in the morning, Agatha sweeping some dirt out of her temporary home and through the threshold. Nicky comes bolting in, Agatha’s face holding bewilderment as a witch yells out he’s stolen from her. “You dare shame your mother with theft?” she barks out, setting her broom down whilst Nicky darts out of the house and through the back. Agatha makes sure that he’s out of sight before starting to rile up the witches, a shocked gasp leaving her lips when their magick hits her earlier than she expected. Nonetheless, the power rips through her and settles in her bones, a low groan echoing out of her lips. 

When her eyes are open again, Agatha makes eye contact with a young witch, one who hadn’t blasted her with magick. Wordlessly, you stand and watch in horror and confusion at the scene before you. All you had done was try to chase the thief down with a co-worker of yours, not at all expecting this. 

“What is this?” you gasp out, stuttering a couple steps back from Agatha. 

Her hands wrap around the wooden broom once more, jaw tight and lips clenched. You're visible to Nicky in the doorway now, his eyes darting around to take a good look at you. 

Agatha swings the broom down with a yell, forcing as much impact into the swing so it knocks you out. A hard thud echoes across the house, Nicholas barreling to stop Agatha from hurting you again. 

“Mama, wait,” he says quickly, Agatha’s hands immediately dropping the broom before she herself even realizes Nicky’s in front of her. 

“What are you doing, boy?” 

Despite his mother’s hard tone, Nicky feels something – something like his growing magick. There’s a sense he gets about you – your strength, bubbling just under the surface like his is. He can feel it. You’re powerful and you can aid them to stop Death. 

“She’s – she’s powerful, Mama. You can help her like you’ve helped me – then she can help us stop mo – that lady.” 

Agatha clenches her jaw harder, but tries not to show her frustration with him. He’s a sweet boy, curious and full of a zest for life, but he’s naïve. Too naïve. “No, she cannot help. She’s but a young woman – hardly a witch, Nicky. We’d be best to cover tracks and leave this village. Go back outside now.” 

Nicky shakes his head again, holding his mother’s hand when she grabs for the broom again. “Mama, she can. Please, trust in me.” 

Agatha stares down her boy, lips pursed into a thin line, her hand slack on the broom. It falls to the floor as she turns her head, huffing out. “You’ll be fetching that food for her then, and not complaining when she’s given your sleeping arrangements.” 

Agatha couldn’t say why she agreed to this. You’ll harbor a resentment for her, a hatred, and Agatha’s sure that you’ll need to be killed within your first night so there’s no betrayal. When Nicholas smiles that toothy grin of his, face buried in her stomach a moment later, she knows then why she agreed. Of course, Agatha won’t be giving you his sleeping arrangements or forcing him to fetch you food – you’ll do all of those on your own and Agatha will refuse to look out for you. If you die, you die. If you try to leave, she’ll kill you. If you try to hurt her or Nicky, you’ll be killed as well. 

Your first couple nights with the odd duo finds you quietly nursing a migraine, too timid to speak to either one of them – despite Nicky’s attempts to get you to converse with his never-ending chatter. That innocent boy keeps asking to know from where you come from, why you were alone in that village, what type of witch you are, how strong you are – everything is on the table. His mother – the ever-growing infamous witch-killer – is the exact opposite. The glances she gives you tells you she’s watching you, but she’s comfortable enough in either her own skill or in your lack of, that you're not needed to be constantly watched. She’s yet to introduce herself, as you are to them both too, but Nicholas wasn’t shy about it. He seemingly can’t understand how dangerous of a position you’re in – to be this close to a witch-killer, a traitor, a murder, because he can only see his ever-doting mother, Agatha. 

You shift on the leaves under your dirty dress, the woods doing work on the fabrics. You’re not sure when you’ll have access to more clothes again – hell, you’re not even sure when you’ll have access to the world again. 

“Mama, what is it you’ve made for supper?” Nicky asks, drinking out from a small flask that he then hands to his mother again. 

Agatha watches him, her eyes darting over at you with a mean glare before going back to Nicky. “Bread, some turkey too. You must eat the turkey quickly, I lifted it from the last village and am not sure how much longer it may last.” 

Nicky nods his head, murmuring a “thank you” before diving in. Agatha eats her portion, not sparing you a glance. You’ve expected this – even been able to realize Agatha has no care for you being here. This wasn't her idea, but you’re unaware of the circumstances that require you to be imprisoned by her. Regardless, Nicky’s complete innocence and unawareness of this tension between you and his mother results in him splitting off his food to share with you. 

Agatha glares at you from next to Nicky, your stomach growling and begging you to grab the food offered. Simply, Agatha’s mean glare sends shivers up your spine and stops you from even considering grabbing it for another second. You shake your head at the young boy, fiddling with your hands as you stare down in your lap. The sun is starting to set by now, the light-source mainly coming from the campfire Agatha lit with her magic. Your head turns to watch the hues mix in the sky, so akin to the palettes you used to paint on just days ago. Never in your life had you ever thought you’d miss something that used to be so routinely ingrained in your day-to-day life. 

Nicky looks at his mom before back down at his food, eyebrows pressed together and lips thinned – an expression you’ve seen his mother do countless times over these past couple days. It’s been some time now and she’s yet to introduce herself, which is the least she could do considering the situation she’s forced you into. With a slow blink, fighting a yawn and tears, you stand up and walk over to a tree just a few feet out. Your small shawl is used as a pillow, legs scrunched together so your body is like a ball, and you keep your back to them. The thought that this doesn’t suit your preservation is fleeting, being replaced by a hope that maybe the witch killer will live up to her name with you. 

The night passes and you do actually wake up, waking up in fact to Nicky’s mother watching you. Your head turns to look for the boy, oddly enough, but you can’t spot him at all. Tightening your jaw for a moment, you search again within your immediate vision – nothing. The words leave your lips before you can even think about the repercussions. 

“Where’s Nicky?” 

Agatha shifts from a couple feet away, a blank look on her face. “Nicholas.” 

“What?” You give her an incredulous look, blinking a quick couple times as you watch her fix up her hair. 

“His name is Nicholas to you.” 

Silence suffocates you, just as much as confusion. Why was it such a big deal to her? It was a stupid name, in fact, if names mattered so much to her then why hadn’t she asked for yours yet. Alongside that, why hadn’t she introduced herself to you either? Shrugging mentally, which was definitely paired with an outward huff, you look at the dirt beneath your fingertips. They reach into the soil, your body tingling as you feel connection to the Earth around you. You keep them buried in the dirt, enjoying the warmth it provides before she speaks up. 

“Agatha.” 

Your head snaps. “Excuse me?” “My name. That’s what it is, since you’ve been complaining about your lack of knowing.” 

There’s a nod of your head, face red with embarrassment. Telepathic abilities, alongside siphoning? What else is she harboring? 

“Nothing you’ll find out. You’re not going to be with us for long.” 

Again, your head shoots over to look at her, a sneer on your face. “Out of my mind, witch.” 

“Using the term, but are you not also one?” “I am not a traitor, though.” 

“And what? That simply makes you better? How? You’ve no prior knowledge of what’s led me down this road – what’s led me to take action how I have. You judge without knowing, that is a crime truly more damaging than killing some odd hundreds of mediocre witches.” If her tone is anything to indicate, she’s pissed. You know this, your mind trying to fortify itself from her invasions. 

“You may relax, I don’t tend to dive into the minds of those who are inadequate. There’s nothing there they won’t speak – bigotry, fallacies, and lies.” 

Agatha, as you now know, is brutal in describing her picture of you. There’s not enough time for you to respond even if you had planned to, Nicky – Nicholas jogging into the small clearing. 

“Boy, you were gone too long.” 

“I am sorry, mama, but look at what I’ve made for you,” he says happily, completely missing how his mother is on the brink of homicide. In his hands is a delicate, messy, chunky crown crafted from daisies and other sorts of flowers. They do not go with Agatha’s outfit, her eyes, her glowing skin, or even her deep hair. Agatha looks at it as if it’s a crown fit for the queen. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Oh, Nicky, my love, it is divine. How is it you’ve managed to craft this beauty from such dainty flowers?” 

“Mama, you’re quite the jester this day,” he laughs out, sitting down to rest the back of his head in Agatha’s lap. 

You watch from a bit out, eyes flickering between the son and his mother. At one point, you and your mother had been like that – inseparable, bonded, attached. You can’t really remember the fine points of her face now. 

The conversation and laughs are muffled by your loud heartbeat, which has started to echo in your ears. It’s all-consuming, taking you hostage as you focus on it. With it come memories from before this, your life you lived happily and contently. The one that Agatha ripped away from you. Technically, yes, it was the boy’s fault, but he knew no better. There was nothing but pure child's optimism for his future, the truth about his mother’s treatment of witches slipping his mind. You hadn’t eaten in days now, your body angry and fatigued. 

“Girl, are you listening?” Agatha snaps out, your head moving to face her just as fast as lightning. 

“Apologies?” 

“Good lord.” She pauses to groan softly, Nicky scolds her as her flower crown tips off her head when it drops. “We leave at sundown and travel to the next road in the night. Day time is too popular an opportunity, so we’ll make haste for the river, hours before the next town.”

“What is the town?”

“Salem.”

Your jaw is tightly wound together, wide eyes glaring at Agatha. With a soft shake of your head, which metaphorically shakes off the memories of your brief time in Salem, you speak up. “No, I refuse to travel to that wretched town. Salem will kill us all, how do you not see?” “I’ve lived and breathed Salem many years, you’ll do fine. Long as you stick with the boy and I without speaking your insipid mind,” Agatha spits out, annoyed by you making this more complicated. “We are doing nothing but passing through for a few days. The trials have mainly migrated out of Salem and went southern.” 

“The risk is not worth wherever you long to be. I will not journey with you.” 

You’re sure you’ll be killed by Agatha, right here and right now for your clear disobedience. Alongside that sure reality, you’re positively aware that you’ll die trying to get back to your town. The way is lost on you, completely unfamiliar with the route Agatha has stuck you and Nicholas on. Your thoughts are losing volume, an awkward haze taking over you. Surrounding your vision is a small cloud of purple, one that mimics the colors in Agatha’s usually blue eyes.

[lemidvet]

i will never understand the fandom‘s obsession to make Michael an unreasonable, deadbeat and violent angel, who can‘t even wrap his head around the idea of consent EVEN THO IT’S CANON THAT HE‘S NOT FOND OF ANY FORM OF VIOLENCE AND EVEN SIMEON STILL CALLS HIM A GOOD ANGEL

i don‘t think Simeon would lie to us about his perception of Michael, considering Raphael even insulted Mike without consequences following up.

Nor do i think Raphael would stay with an absolute piss–stain of an angel during the celestial war because he didn’t want him to be alone.

Michael IS very questionable and has very petty motives as well as having committed to identity theft to see the brothers, but you can still see the reasoning behind his actions and dig into his character. Villainous Michael is a baller idea, it’s brilliant even, but there needs to be a level of sticking to what the game gives us about him.

it’s so weird and infuriating, it doesn’t make sense.

[weemietime]

Let's not devolve into right-wing extremism whilst advocating for basic human rights over here. I see a lot of Jews who are angry at the double standards levied at them from organizations like the United Nations. The UN has a big corruption problem, we all know this.

But we cannot let the perfect get in the way of the good, either. Refusing to have a global international organization like the United Nations as a whole is anti-democratic and illiberal. Whether you advocate for the UN to be replaced by a less corrupted international system or whether you advocate for the UN itself to evolve into this system: we want international cooperation. We want international law.

How the UN is doing things is very flawed, I agree. It accuses Israel of being uniquely and specially evil whilst giving Maduro and Jinping a seat at the table. Nevertheless, we want Palestine to focus on genuine state-building. If they did that, they would improve the lives of their citizens who would be less influenced by radical ideology. If they did that they would have robust social programs aimed at educating their populace and integrating with their neighbors as opposed to fighting them all.

Palestinians having a country of their own is a good thing. Gaza being a country is a good thing. Palestinians being prosperous and peaceful is a good thing. Dissolving the West Bank settlements is understandably a complicated issue, because these settlements do provide insulation in the form of security against terrorism.

But they're illegal for a good reason, because there is an extremely unequal systemic institutional governance there and because the settlers are emboldened by extremists in the government to perpetuate violence, theft and dehumanization. It's obviously strange to see an anarchist advocating for these systems, but I understand the world we live in. I don't claim to be a real, true-blue anarchist. I believe in mutual aid, cooperation, voluntary immigration, and close-knit communities.

I don't believe in policing as it is now. It is possible for us to have loosely-networked communities of people who are provided resources and protection by elected leadership, who still maintain their individual autonomy.

It's not black and white, it's never been black and white. International organization is important, it's how we progress socially and technologically. Land, citizenship is different than a state apparatus, but we can't ignore that right now, state-building and government is a part of international organization.

[fairuzfan]

Leifer’s core justification for refusing to renounce Zionism parades itself as a kind of sober pragmatism, as if an “adult in the room” has faced the facts of Israel’s existence and can finally discipline misguided Jewish anti-Zionists. As he writes, “by 2050, most Jews will live in a sovereign Jewish state.” This means, he suggests, American Jews must contend with a future where “Jewish existence” will be “increasingly dominated by Israel as the author of the collective Jewish fate.” And, he argues, this apparently neutral fact necessitates American Jewish allegiance—albeit, qualified—with the Israeli nation-state. “The locus of the Jewish people’s historical drama is now there, in Israel, whether we like it or not,” he asserts. An apparently incontrovertible future where the “Israeli Jew, raised to live by the sword, his Jewishness taken for granted, will become the norm” is something American Jews must simply resign themselves to. He even goes as far as to state that Israel’s forthcoming eclipse of the diaspora as home to a majority of the world’s Jews means that “there can no longer be a meaningfully autonomous Jewish politics outside of [Israel].” Despite Leifer’s breezy, matter-of-fact tone, there are a number of disturbing implications about this assertion of Israel’s “demographic reality.” That Israel has “become the homeland of the majority of the world’s Jews,” (soon-to-outpace even the US Jewish population) has not simply just “emerg[ed].” Rather, it has been catastrophically produced through the relentless slaughter, displacement, and dehumanization of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians and made possible by shoehorning a once definitionally diasporic Judaism into a ghastly experiment in settler colonialism. In other words, Leifer’s demography-as-destiny analysis willfully obscures the ongoing colonial violence, racial segregation, and aggressive land theft that makes the growth of Israel’s Jewish population possible. Indeed, Leifer’s analysis is perhaps better understood as a form of demography-as-race-science: by spuriously presenting Israel’s emergence as “the global Jewish center of gravity” as a spontaneous process divorced from Israel’s history of Palestinian dispossession and occupation, Leifer helps legitimize and depoliticize an ethnonationalist project premised, as Fayez Sayegh identified in 1965, on “statehood in all of Palestine…completely emptied of its Arabs.”10 One might expect a self-proclaimed “anti-occupation Jew” to consider such matters in an argument directly related to questions of Israel’s “demographic reality.”11 Yet Leifer’s discussion of Israel’s population dominance omits any consideration of Palestinians whatsoever. As a result, he shrouds his discussion of Israeli Jewish population growth in a false sense of politically neutral inexorability, while willfully enabling the ongoing suppression of Palestinian history and experience under Zionist colonialism. Indeed, Leifer’s vision of Palestinians’ role in Israel’s “demographic reality” as homeland to a majority of the world’s Jews is unclear—a glaring oversight for an author who purportedly detests Israel’s racist and eliminatory stance towards Palestinians. For example, nowhere in his discussion of Israel’s growing Jewish population does Leifer mention or endorse the Palestinian right to return—a right that Israel still denies Palestinians displaced by the 1948 Nakba in open violation of international law. Nor does he discuss the repeal of Israel’s heinous Jewish Nation-State Law of 2018, which, as Lana Tatour argues, “simply affirms reality” in its codification of the Jewish supremacy, apartheid governance, and ongoing occupation that had long constituted Palestinians’ lived reality in a “Jewish State.”12 No matter Leifer’s stated convictions, his consciously decontextualized and statistical appeal to Israel’s impending Jewish majority can only be read as a callous whitewashing of Zionism’s colonial origins and a tacit endorsement of Israel’s ongoing fascistic debasement of Palestinian life.

—"Acting Jewishly During a Genocide: On Joshua Leifer’s Tablets Shattered" by Charlotte Rosen

[etz-ashashiyot]

I'm sorry, but actually I'm not over that comment whining about how several of the JVP ritual, uh, practices and bastardization of Judaism are being excluded and how we can't police people's identities.

Actually yes we absolutely can.

[Rant incoming]

Listen, I hate exclusion, alright? Inclusion is always the answer when it comes to people knowing who they are. Every obnoxious identity policing thing in the queer community that has divided us and ripped apart communities has been cruel, counterproductive, given platform to bigots, a distraction from the real issues bearing down on us, and honestly just dumb as a box of rocks. Okay? Okay.

But Jewish identity works differently, because it isn't about YOU. Becoming Jewish is about taking on Jewish culture and religion, a closed ethnoreligious culture, through the narrow path consented to by the collective Jewish people. There IS a path, but it is a highly supervised one. Otherwise it's just appropriation and cultural theft; something Jews have been subjected to for millennia. And if you do legitimately convert you do so because you love the Jewish people - the whole Jewish people - and want passionately to be a Jew for its own sake. You want to join our nation-tribe. You want to join our family.

And the crazy thing to me, the thing that still blows my mind, is that this is allowed! Even after millennia of appropriation, oppression, violence, expulsions, and genocides, Am Yisrael still accepts genuine gerim. It would be so understandable if they had closed the path entirely and tried to shut out outsiders who might bring in danger on their heels even if they themselves were not dangerous.

But they didn't. We didn't. To me this is a miracle, a blessing, and sign of true faith and hope. It is a privilege to be here.

Yet in the same turn, you gotta respect the process! You can't just declare yourself a Jew simply because you feel like it — it doesn't work like that. You can't just declare yourself an Argentinian one morning either without becoming a citizen first, even if you have Argentinian ancestry. And sure, if you do have some of that ancestry, you are connected to the nation, but that's different from being given a vote y'know?

Using a totally unsupervised, totally unsanctioned, brand-new neo-pagan ritual to unilaterally declare your membership in a tribe does not make you one of us. If anything, it proves why you never will be.

Now! Let's assume for a moment that we are referring only to the provably halachic Jews whose connection and backgrounds are beyond reasonable questioning.

You can never really leave the tribe, but you absolutely can apostasize. Plenty of Jews do it. There are plenty of Jews who find that Judaism is not spiritually fulfilling for them but something else is, and they convert out. There are halachic Jews who have walked away from Judaism in order to practice any other number of religions: Christianity, Islam, Neo-paganism, Hinduism, etc.

That is their prerogative, but by doing so they turn away from their people in a serious way and cannot be said to be practicing Judaism. There is of course room for many different types of Jewish practice, but conversely, there are practices that are too far removed from Judaism to meaningfully be considered as such. Otherwise, it's no longer a coherent group identity. And because Judaism is a collective identity, that actually matters.

The Jews as a people have decided that worshipping gods that are not Hashem is not within the realm of Judaism, which is why messianic "Jews" are not practicing a valid form of Judaism even if they are halachicly Jewish and/or have Jewish ancestry. Worshipping Jesus makes you a Christian or at least adjacent. That is a hard boundary.

And yeah — if you change the basic meaning of holidays, if you bring in lots of practices that are brand new and have no halachic or even historical basis, are often highly individualistic, and would not be accepted as Judaism by the vast majority of Jews, then it absolutely falls outside it. If I started practicing a religion that made little icons of Muhammad to pray to once a day and celebrated my ingenuity with pork roast and a nice glass of wine, I don't get to say that I'm practicing Islam.

These people are doing the Jewish equivalent. It is something else entirely. Especially because so many of these practices spit in the face of major tenets of Judaism and go against Jewish values.

To treat it otherwise is to treat it as an absolutely meaningless aesthetic rather than a living breathing ethnoreligious tribe of people who get to decide our own community's boundaries and practices collectively.

And for the naysayers who still disrespect Judaism and Jewish identity and peoplehood so much that they think that they get to define Judaism more than actual rabbis? Look, we can't physically stop you from calling yourself Jewish, but by the same turn, YOU can't force US to recognize you as one of us. You can be mad, but that's the thing about group cultural identities — that cultural group gets to decide whether they claim you or not.

[To be clear: this is not about politics — there are plenty of Jewish non-Zionists and anti-Zionists who are 100% Jewish. This is about this one specific shitty organization and this particular type of behavior.]

[delicatebarness]

good graces: a cry baby story | chapter one

Summary: Delving into the shadowy world of a notorious biker gang, you begin navigating the tension between their duties and the gang's influence.

Warning: Corruption and Unethical Behavior. Criminal Activity and Violence. Suspense and Intimidation. Implied Threats. Emotional Tension.

Word Count: 1646

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: It's weird not writing as Cry Baby. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Cry Baby: @buckys0whore | @thezombieprostitute | @lanabuckybarnes | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @softieekayy | @noonespecial90 | @hello-therree | @randomawesomeperson102 | @whoreforbarnes | @thejutvtsupport | @somnorvos | @cjand10 | @plasticbottleholder | @birdenthusiastez | @am-3-thyst

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @mrsnikstan

You sat at your new desk, in your new office– the laminate chipped and worn from the years of service. It mirrored the experiences of the precinct itself. Casting a harsh, cold glow, the fluorescent lights made everything seem more stark and unforgiving. You were currently in your first week taking over from Fury, a man whose retirement still left a sour taste in your mouth. He left a murky legacy behind, filled with unspoken truths and shadows that clung to the corners of the station like cobwebs. 

The paper was rough under your fingertips as you sifted through a pile of old case files. The scent of ink and aged paper filled your nostrils. One file stood out among the usual fare of petty theft, domestic disputes, and minor assaults. The file was thick, bursting at the seams, as though it had been fed a diet of steady statements, reports, and evidence over the years. The label read: “The Avengers.” 

Intrigued, you began to read the bulky file. The Avengers’ dossier is a detailed chronicle, each page a testament to their cunning audacity. Countless reports, dozens of names and dates, each one hinted at crimes far more severe than the paperwork let on. Yet, despite the mountain of documentation against each member, there hadn’t been a single arrest, and not one charge had ever stuck. And, the deeper you dived, the more glaring the gaps became. 

It was clear now, that the corruption ran deep. You marveled at the arrogance of it all. The notes from your predecessor, Fury, peppered throughout the files, they were vague and non-committal. They often led investigations into dead ends– he was their shield, their unseen ally. 

Pushing away from your desk, you made your way to the station’s bullpen. The usual chatter, ringing phones, and officers exchanging the latest gossip buzzed in the air. You caught the eye of your new partner, Officier Maria Hill, who raised her eyebrow at the file in your hand. 

“Rogers?” she asked, her voice low, almost whispered as it carried a mix of curiosity and caution. 

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steady. “Look at this, something's off.” Handing her the file, you watched her eyes widen with each passing page. 

“I always knew Fury was dirty, but this…” Hill trailed off, shaking her head. “Rogers’ and his gang have a lot of power and friends in low places… I’d tread carefully if I were you.” 

You nodded. “I’ll play this one smart. No tipping my hand until I have something solid.” 

~

One evening, as you poured yourself into the files yet again, you noticed a pattern emerging. A name that keeps appearing, seemingly insignificant at first but, you grew more suspicious with each mention. It was the seemingly younger member of the gang. Unlike the others, her involvement was minimal, almost as if she had been deliberately kept in the background. Your mind formed a hunch, a gut feeling boiled– she might be the key to unraveling their web of deceit. 

The next morning, you stake out the art gallery that she works at. The gallery seemed like a stark contrast to the gritty world of the Avengers. It was bright with an airy interior, filled with natural light that danced off the polished floors. Colorful paintings and sketches adorned the white walls. You blended in with a small crowd of art enthusiasts, watching the younger girl move gracefully through the space. She wore a quiet confidence as she interacted with the visitors.

She seemed genuinely passionate about her work as you noted her routine. Observing how she spoke to patrons and carefully arranged the pieces on displays. Her world seemed different from the criminal world her brother and friends inhabited. 

Finally, as the gallery began to empty, you saw your chance. Approaching her, your heart pounded with the weight of the task ahead. “These pieces are incredible,” you say, stopping in front of one of her sketches. “Do you have any favorites?” 

She smiled, her demeanor warm and welcoming. “Thank you. It’s hard to pick a favorite, but this one,” she gestured to a sketch of a man, he seemed familiar to you but you couldn’t quite place his face. “This one is definitely special to me.” 

“It’s beautiful,” you replied, nodding appreciatively. “It seems like you put a lot of yourself into your work.” 

Her eyes sparkled with genuine pride as she nodded. “Art is my escape. I express things I can’t always put into words.” 

“It’s nice to have an escape,” you paused, taking a deep breath before deciding to ease into the topic. “I’ve heard your brother runs the tattoo studio downtown too, it seems like the art runs in your family.”

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, yet she recovered quickly. Her eyes never lost their warmth. “Yeah, Steve is quite the artist himself. He’s very talented.” 

“It’s impressive,” you continued, trying to keep your tone casual. “I’ve um, I’ve seen some of his designs… and he’s got quite the reputation.” 

Glancing around the gallery, she chuckled softly. “Steve’s work is… intense. He puts as much passion into his tattoos as I do into my sketches, if not more.” 

You nodded, feeling the sense of opportunity to learn more. “It must be challenging, balancing such different worlds. Your art here and his studio, not to mention his, um, other activities.” 

Her expression tightened slightly, but she maintained her composite. “Our paths are very different, but we have always been close. He does what he thinks is right, and I focus on my art. We support each other.” 

The answer was careful and measured. So, you tried another angle. “It must be difficult though, with everything that’s been going on lately. The Avengers have been getting a lot of attention.” 

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at you sharply before she forced a smile. “I try not to get involved in that side of things. I keep my head down and focus on my work and my relationship.” 

You felt the resistance and did not want to push too hard. Nodding, you sent her a genuine smile. “That’s probably for the best. You have a lot of talent and a bright future ahead. Your brother must be very proud.” 

For a moment, the tension eased and a genuine smile touched her lips. “He is. Ever since we were children, he has told me to follow my dreams, no matter what.” 

Sensing the conversation had reached its limit, you couldn’t help but ask one more question. “Out of curiosity, do you get visitors from his world here? People who come to see your work?” 

Laughing softly, she shook her head. “Unless you count my boyfriend, the gallery isn’t exactly their scene. They know about my art, and usually come to my opening nights but other than that, they keep their distance.” 

Appreciating her openness, you smiled, even if she was guarded. “Well, I’m glad I stopped by. Your art is truly… something special.” 

“Thank you,” she replied, another genuine smile gracing her face. “I appreciate you taking the time to look.” 

As you left the gallery, you replayed the conversation in your mind. The younger Rogers had been careful, but her responses confirm what you already suspected. She knew more than she let on and was deeply intertwined with her brother’s world. She might have been different from the rest of the Avengers, with her sweet demeanor and unproblematic passion, but she was still a part of their story.

~

After a few days stuck in your office after visiting the art gallery, you decided to try a more direct approach. The next destination you wanted to try was the bar where the Avengers were regulars. 

After entering the bar, you ordered a drink and took a seat, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Long shadows were cast in the dim light, making it easier to observe without drawing attention. Sitting in a corner booth, the Avengers gathered. Steve Rogers’ presence was commanding, and he seemed to exude an air of calculated vigilance. 

Sipping your drink, you engaged in idle conversation with the bartender, casually observing Steve and the gang. Then, despite your attempts to stay low-key, you could feel Steve’s eyes on you, sharp and calculating. A steady gaze, as if he was trying to read you and figure out what you’re up to. 

As the evening progressed, two more gang members joined the booth, and you recognized one of them as his sister, from the art gallery. It became clear that Steve’s attention on you had caused tension within the group, as they all began watching you. You decided it was time to leave before things escalated. After finishing your drink, you nod a polite goodbye to the bartender and make your way out of the bar.

As you walk back to your car, the cool night air hits you and the city’s distant noises create a backdrop of uneasy tranquility. Mentally, you review the encounter, noting Steve’s wariness and the tension from their booth. You headed back to your office, with a feeling of relief and anticipation. 

You looked forward to officially reviewing the evening’s findings and plotting your next steps when you reached the station. But yet, as you unlocked the door to your office, you stopped dead in your tracks. 

Casually sitting at your desk, leaning back in the chair was Steve Rogers– dressed in his signature leather jacket, looking every bit the part of the imposing figure you had been watching. His eyes locked onto yours as you entered, and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. 

“So,” he began, calm and steady, but it carried an unmistakable edge, “you’re Fury’s replacement?” The question was straightforward, but he made it clear he’d already made up his mind about you.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[satellitebroadcast]

Palestinian Territory – Israel’s massive military operation in the northern occupied West Bank is a part of the widespread and dangerous aggression that it has been waging against the Palestinian people for decades. The current Israeli violence in the West Bank also includes the violence of armed settler groups and an expansion of the ongoing genocide that has occurring in the Gaza Strip since 7 October 2023. In the last few months, the West Bank-based Euro-Med Monitor field team has observed an increase in both the number and severity of the Israeli army’s killings and crimes of storming and destruction against Palestinians there. Members of the field team also note that Israel is allowing and supporting its settlers’ attacks and violent crimes against Palestinians in different parts of the West Bank, including crimes of murder, threats, and destruction of private and immovable property, as well as the destruction and theft of agricultural crops. With the Israeli army’s recent announcement of the start of a massive military operation known as “Summer Camps” that targets the northern West Bank, the attacks have taken on an increasingly severe form. To date, the Israeli army has killed nine Palestinians and injured at least eighteen more during the “Summer Camps” operation, according to an initial toll. The operations have been concentrated in Jenin, Tubas, and Tulkarem.

At midnight on Tuesday and early on Wednesday, Israeli forces began storming the cities and camps of Jenin, Tubas, and Tulkarem from several axes, imposing a tight siege on them. The forces were supported by a large number of vehicles and bulldozers, and were also under the cover of Israeli helicopters and drones. Large numbers of Israeli occupation army forces stormed Jenin, breaking through Al-Jalameh military checkpoint. They surrounded the Jenin Government Hospital and the Ibn Sina Hospital, causing violent clashes that resulted in the deaths of two young men, Qassam Muhammad Jabarin (25 years old) and Asim Walid Dabaya (39 years old), as well as numerous injuries. Three additional young men were killed when an Israeli drone bombed a car between the villages of Seir and Masiliya, south of Jenin. This attack is part of Israel’s return, since last October, to using warplanes, helicopters, and drones of all kinds to launch air raids on Palestinian homes, cars, and gatherings in the West Bank. No less than 47 raids have been carried out by Israel since October 2023, resulting in numerous Palestinian deaths and injuries. In Tubas, the Euro-Med Monitor team documented an Israeli drone attack on a gathering of people in the Fara’a camp, south of the city. Israeli forces established a strict siege on the Fara'a camp and stopped ambulance services from accessing the targeted area. The Israeli attack resulted in the killing of four young Palestinians, including two children: Murad (13 years old; last name unknown), Muhammad Masoud Ja’aysah (17 years old), Ibrahim Abdul Qader Ghanimi (22 years old), and Ahmed Saleh Nabrisi (23 years old). Immediately after entering the West Bank, the Israeli army began besieging hospitals, ambulances, and emergency centres, replicating its horrifying and systematic policy of breaching and taking control of health institutions that it has employed in the Gaza Strip. Director of Jenin Government Hospital Dr Wissam Bakr stated that he received a notification from the Palestinian Liaison Office about the Israeli army’s intention to storm the hospital, which is now under siege. Under heavy drone attacks, Israeli army forces stormed Tulkarem from its western axis, broke into in its neighbourhoods, and stationed infantry and sniper teams in the farms and forests that surround the camp. In the Nour Shams camp, an Israeli drone bombed Al-Manshiya neighbourhood, injuring several Palestinians. Along with besieging Al-Israa Specialised Hospital in the western neighbourhood and the Thabet Thabet Governmental Hospital, Israeli forces also stopped ambulances and seized one of them right in front of the Governmental Hospital before searching it.

In all areas it invaded, the Israeli army forces destroyed property, infrastructure, and streets. Simultaneously, with the storming of these areas, raid and arrest campaigns were carried out in most cities in the West Bank amidst gunfire that resulted in the injury of many Palestinians. Since last October, 660 Palestinians in the West Bank have been killed as a result of the Israeli military’s systematic, large-scale, premeditated killings. Israel is planning to carry out the crime of forced displacement in the West Bank, as it has against thousands of Palestinians in the Gaza Strip. This is particularly evident in the public statements and incitements made by ministers within the Israeli government, such as Israeli Foreign Minister Israel Katz, who stated that Israel must treat the West Bank “just as we deal with the infrastructure in Gaza, including temporary evacuation of residents and any steps that may be required”. According to Israeli newspaper Yedioth Ahronoth, “an organised evacuation of the Palestinian civilian population will be carried out according to the…combat centres” during the ongoing military operation. This is a clear indication of Israel’s intention to commit genocide against Palestinians in the West Bank, just as it has done against those in the Gaza Strip. The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs said that between 7 October 2023 and 19 August 2024, Israeli authorities demolished, confiscated, or forced the demolition of 1,416 Palestinian structures across the West Bank, including in East Jerusalem, displacing more than 3,200 Palestinians, including 1,400 children, which is more than double compared to the same period of time before 7 October 2023, which saw 1,299 Palestinians displaced, including 606 children. The demolitions after last October include over 500 inhabited structures, 100 uninhabited residential structures, more than 300 agricultural structures, more than 100 water and sanitation (WASH) structures, 200 livelihood structures, and about 100 infrastructure and other structures. Some 28 incidents of demolition and destruction of infrastructure, mostly in Tulkarem and Jenin, constitute the majority of the targeted structures. In its advisory opinion on 19 July 2024, the International Court of Justice ruled that Israel’s planning policy regarding Palestinian construction, particularly its practice of demolishing Palestinian property and homes differently than settlers’ property and homes and without justification, constitutes prohibited discrimination and violates Article 2, paragraph 1, and 26 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights; Article 2, paragraph 2 of the International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights; and Article 2 of the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination. As a result, it represents one of Israel’s aspects of the Palestinian people’s right to self-determination.

Without the cover and cooperation of the United States and some European countries, and amid near silence from the international community, Israel’s crime of genocide could not have occurred and escalated in the Gaza Strip and now be extended to the West Bank. The majority of the world’s nations must accept their responsibilities and take concrete action to protect Palestinian civilians, halt the mass killings, and stop the genocide from being completed. As part of their international obligations, all nations must impose strong sanctions on Israel and halt all forms of military, political, and financial assistance. This includes immediately cutting off all arms transfers to Israel, including export permits and military aid; otherwise, these nations will be complicit in and partners in the Israeli crimes committed in the Gaza Strip, including the crime of genocide. Since the crimes committed by Israel in the Gaza Strip are international crimes under the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court, it is imperative that the Court move forward with its investigation into all crimes committed by Israel in the Gaza Strip, plus broaden its investigation into individual criminal responsibility for these crimes, in order to hold all perpetrators accountable, and issue arrest warrants against them. Along with putting an immediate stop to Israel’s illegal occupation and settler-colonisation of Palestinian land, including the Gaza Strip, the international community must also work to remove the apartheid regime that is currently imposed on all Palestinians; lift the illegal blockade that has been placed on the Gaza Strip and its inhabitants for 17 years now; and take decisive action to support the path of Palestinian liberation and Palestinians’ right to self-determination.

[chion3spid3r]

will love prevail ?

pairings : e1610!miles x blackcat!fem!reader

warnings : violence, mention of injuries and blood, gun, abduction and coercion, emotional distress, crime and theft.

summary : miles morales, the brooklyn spider-man, encounters black cat, a skilled thief who turns out to be a girl from his class...

word count : 2.9k

a/n : this is a story I wanted to do for a while, thats why i took long to write the first chapter but dw more to comeee ! enjoy your reading !

pt1 -> pt2

The moon hung low over Brooklyn, bathing the cityscape in an eerie glow and casting long, distorted shadows across the rooftops. The bustling city, usually vibrant and full of life, now seemed like a ghost town under the spectral light. Miles Morales, the new Spider-Man, swung silently between the buildings, his senses heightened and on high alert. Whispers of a high-profile theft had reached his ears, and a tingling sensation at the back of his neck told him that tonight would bring a confrontation he had been anticipating for days.

His premonition proved to be correct. As he perched atop a water tower, his keen eyes spotted a lithe figure moving with feline grace in the glow of a nearby rooftop skylight. Your sleek black suit hugged your form, accentuating every curve, while the white fur trim added a touch of elegance to your ensemble. Despite the mask obscuring your face, it was clear that your focus was solely on the task at hand – stealing a priceless diamond.

"Black Cat," Miles murmured under his breath, recognizing the notorious cat burglar. The name was whispered with a mix of respect and wariness, for he knew of your reputation all too well.

Without a sound, he dropped down behind you, his voice firm but calm as he announced his presence. "Planning a heist, are we?"

You whirled around, your eyes narrowing behind the mask as you took in the sight of the web-slinger. "Spider-Man. Didn't anyone teach you not to sneak up on a lady?"

"Didn't anyone teach you it's wrong to steal?" he retorted, taking a step closer, his body tense and ready for action. The air between them crackled with tension, each sizing the other up, anticipating the next move.

A smirk played across your lips, the expression almost feline in its quality. "It's not always black and white, hero." Your voice was smooth, carrying an undertone of amusement, as if the entire situation was just a game to you.

Before Miles could react, you turned on your heel and fled, your movements as graceful as a dancer's. Without hesitation, he shot a web at you, but you dodged it effortlessly, your agility matching his own. The chase was on.

You leapt across the rooftops, each movement a dance of agility and precision as you traded blows and taunts. The city below seemed to fade away, leaving only the thrill of the pursuit.

You led him through a gauntlet of urban obstacles. You vaulted over air conditioning units, slid under clotheslines, and even used the hanging fire escapes to swing yourself around tight corners. Your movements were fluid and precise, displaying a level of athleticism and agility that impressed even Miles.

"Too slow, Spider," you taunted, glancing back with a mischievous grin.

Miles responded with a burst of speed, launching himself off a rooftop and flipping through the air. He shot a web at your feet, trying to trip you up, but you saw it coming and flipped gracefully over the sticky strand. Landing on the next rooftop, you immediately spun and hurled a small metal disc at him.

Instinctively, Miles dodged to the side, but the disc exploded mid-air, releasing a blinding flash of light. He winced, his vision momentarily blurred, but his spider-sense kept him alert. He sensed you closing the distance, your silhouette barely visible against the afterimage of the flash.

You struck first, a rapid series of kicks aimed at his torso and head. Miles blocked and parried, countering with a punch that you deftly avoided. You were quick, almost impossibly so, and every movement was calculated to keep him off-balance.

"You're good," he admitted, ducking under a sweeping kick and attempting to web your feet again.

"Better than you," you retorted, catching his wrist mid-web and twisting it, forcing him to flip to avoid a dislocation. Using the momentum, you aimed a palm strike at his chest, sending him stumbling back.

He recovered quickly, launching himself into a spinning kick that connected with your side. You grunted, but rolled with the blow, using the momentum to spring backward and gain some distance. You paused for a moment, both breathing heavily, your eyes locked in a silent challenge.

"Not bad, Spider," you said, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of your mouth. "But let's see how you handle this."

You pulled out a whip-like weapon, cracking it in the air with a sharp snap. The end glinted with some kind of metallic filament, and Miles knew it would be dangerous to get tangled up in it. He dodged the first strike, but you were relentless, your attacks coming faster and faster. He weaved and ducked, looking for an opening.

Finally, he saw his chance. As you brought the whip down in a wide arc, he rolled forward, coming up inside your guard. He grabbed your wrist, twisting it just enough to make you drop the whip, and then swept your legs out from under you. You hit the ground but immediately rolled to your feet, your eyes flashing with determination.

You clashed again, a flurry of blows and counters that left you both gasping for breath. Miles could feel his muscles burning, but he pushed through the fatigue, knowing he had to end this. In a final, desperate move, he managed to catch you off-guard, yanking off your mask with a swift, precise motion.

He froze, his heart skipping a beat as the face staring back at him was all too familiar. A girl from his freaking class.

Your eyes widened with recognition, but you quickly composed yourself, a confident smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "Surprised, Spider-Man?" Your voice was a blend of challenge and familiarity, a reminder of the person you once were and the thief you had become.

Before he could respond or even process the shocking revelation, you dropped a smoke bomb, disappearing into the night and leaving Miles with more questions than answers. The smoke dissipated slowly, but the confusion in Miles's mind lingered, the image of your face etched into his memory.

The next day at school, Miles spotted you in class, but he acted as if nothing had happened, his mind still reeling from the previous night's encounter. He couldn't risk revealing his identity, not even to someone he had known and trusted. The weight of your secret identity as the elusive Black Cat hung heavily upon him, and he knew that your paths would inevitably cross again in the never-ending game of cat and mouse between hero and thief.

As he sat in class, he couldn't help but steal glances at you, wondering what had led you down this path. Each glance brought more questions: Why had you turned to a life of crime? How long had you been hiding this secret? And most importantly, what would he do when they met again? Miles knew that your relationship had forever changed, and the line between friend and foe had become dangerously blurred.

As the school day dragged on, Miles kept a watchful eye on you. You seemed normal, but he knew better. Something was off. During a particularly dull lecture, a faint buzzing caught his attention. Your watch was ringing. You glanced at it, your expression shifting to one of alarm, and quickly excused yourself from the classroom. Miles didn't waste a second. He slipped out, changed into his Spider-Man suit, and followed you.

He found you in an alley, nervously looking around as your watch projected an image of Kingpin, the infamous crime lord. "You're late," Kingpin's deep voice rumbled. "I don't tolerate delays."

"I had to be careful," you replied, your voice trembling slightly. "Spider-Man is onto me."

"Then deal with him," Kingpin growled. "Or I'll deal with you."

Before you could respond, Spider-Man swung down, landing between you and the projection. "I don't think so, Kingpin."

The hologram flickered and vanished. You looked both relieved and terrified. "Spider-Man, you shouldn't have—"

Miles cut you off, his voice stern and unwavering. "Why are you talking to Kingpin? What's going on?"

Miles tightened his grip, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. "Start talking. Now."

Your eyes darted around, searching for an escape, but there was none. "Listen Spidey, let me go or I'll get killed, I'm not laughing now."

He looked at you with a worried look on his face; he wasn't going to let you go.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I didn't have a choice, Spider-Man. My father worked for Kingpin. He's dead because of him, and now he's threatening to kill me if I don't do what he says."

"Why didn't you come to me?" Miles asked, his voice softer now. "I could have helped you."

"You don't understand," you whispered. "Kingpin has eyes everywhere. He said if I tried to get help, he'd kill my father and everyone I care about. I couldn't risk it!"

Kingpin's voice boomed from the watch again, "Black Cat, I'll give you one minute."

"No no wait!" you yelled, your voice desperate. "Please, you have to believe me."

Miles looked at you, his mind racing. "I believe you. But we need a plan to take him down. Together."

Your eyes filled with hope and fear. "I…I don't know if we can. He's too powerful."

"We have to try," Miles insisted. "But first, you need to tell me everything. What has he asked you to do?"

You took a deep breath. "I've been gathering information on you, and giving it to him. He's been planning something big, but I don't know what. He keeps everything compartmentalized."

Miles nodded. "Okay. We need to get you somewhere safe, and then we'll figure out how to use this information against him."

"Please, Spider-Man," you begged, tears welling up in your eyes. "If he finds out I've betrayed him—"

"You're not alone in this anymore," Miles said firmly. "We'll take him down together."

Suddenly, the watch's projection flickered and died. Silence hung in the air, thick with tension and fear. Heavy footsteps echoed from the shadows. Kingpin stepped into the alley, his massive frame blocking the exit. His presence was menacing, his eyes cold and calculating. "I don't have time for this," he snarled, his gun aimed directly at you. "You're a traitor, collaborating with the enemy, and traitors pay with their lives."

"I'm not! I swear—" you started to say, but Spider-Man's grip loosened in shock. You took the chance and pulled away, but you were too slow. Kingpin's gun fired with a deafening crack. Miles leapt forward, but not in time to prevent the bullet from grazing your abdomen. You collapsed in his arms, blood staining your suit.

"Spider-Man," you whispered, your voice weak and full of pain. "Please, you have to go, he'll kill you."

"I can't do that," he said, his voice trembling. "You're not dying on my watch."

Kingpin growled and lunged at Spider-Man, who quickly placed you down gently. A fierce battle ensued, with Miles dodging and countering Kingpin's powerful blows. Despite his size, Kingpin was fast, but Spider-Man's agility and determination gave him the edge. After a few intense minutes, Miles managed to web Kingpin to a wall, incapacitating him for the moment.

Panting and bruised, Spider-Man rushed back to you. "Hold on," he said, his voice filled with urgency. He scooped you up and swung to a nearby rooftop, placing you down gently.

You were pale, your breath shallow. You coughed often, it was bad. "Miles," you whispered, your eyes fluttering. "I've always wanted love, I'll die before even having my first kiss, what an irony…"

"That's bullshit," he replied, tears welling up in his eyes. "Y-you're not dying on me."

With determination, he lifted his mask just enough to press his lips to yours. The kiss was tender, desperate, and tinged with the metallic taste of blood. Your eyes fluttered shut during the kiss, and you passed out.

"No…no no no no, stay with me, stay here!" he murmured, his voice breaking. He quickly swung towards the nearest hospital, landing at the entrance as people gathered, whispering and pointing. The sight of Spider-Man, blood smeared on his lips and yours, was striking.

He rushed you inside, shouting for help. Nurses and doctors quickly took you from his arms, and he watched as they wheeled you away. The crowd outside grew larger, murmuring about the blood-stained kiss. Miles stood there, his heart pounding, hoping with every fiber of his being that you would survive.

The minutes felt like hours as he paced the waiting room, the images of the day replaying in his mind. The nurses and doctors rushed past him, their faces set in determined lines. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of concerned looks thrown his way.

Finally, a doctor approached him, her face a mask of professional calm. "Spider-Man," she said, "we've stabilized her, but she lost a lot of blood. She's going to need time to recover, but she'll make it."

Relief washed over Miles like a wave. "Thank you," he breathed, feeling the tension drain from his body.

As he stood there, he overheard snippets of conversations around him. People were talking about the kiss, about how Spider-Man had saved you, and the blood that had smeared between you both. It was a scene that would not be forgotten easily.

Miles found a quiet corner and sank into a chair, his thoughts a whirlwind. He replayed the moment of the kiss in his mind, the desperation in your voice, and the look in your eyes. He knew that they still had much to discuss, and that your connection to Kingpin needed to be unraveled. But for now, he was just grateful that you were alive.

Miles visited the hospital every day, waiting for news. Every time he approached your room, his heart pounded with a mix of hope and fear. He brought flowers, books, and sometimes just his presence, sitting silently by your side, holding your hand as you lay unconscious. The doctors told him it would take time, and he clung to their words, hoping for a miracle. When you finally woke up, a wave of relief washed over him so powerful he had to hold back tears. It took a month, but you were strong enough to be discharged.

He waited outside the hospital, his heart racing as he paced back and forth. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden hue over the city. He wore his Spider-Man suit, the mask securely in place, concealing his emotions. When you finally emerged, your steps were slow and cautious, but your smile was weak yet genuine when you saw him.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft.

"Hey yourself," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of the old spark.

"Ready for a swing?" he asked, extending his hand.

You looked at his hand, then back at him, and nodded. "Yeah, I think I am."

With a gentle swoop, he wrapped an arm around your waist and shot a web to a nearby building. You soared through the sky, the cool evening breeze rustling your hair. The city below you was alive with lights and sounds, a stark contrast to the serenity you felt in each other's presence. You landed on the highest rooftop, where you often found solace. The view was breathtaking, the city lights twinkling like stars below.

Miles sat beside you on the rooftop, the city sprawled out below you like a glittering maze of lights. The cool night air whispered around you, but his concern for your wound weighed heavily on his mind. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked gently, his voice betraying the worry etched on his face.

You nodded, a faint smile touching your lips. "I'm alright. The doctors did a good job. It's healing."

He exhaled softly, his fingers tracing over where the wound had been, now concealed beneath your suit. "I'm sorry you had to go through all of this. None of it should have happened."

You looked at him, your eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and sadness. "It's not your fault. I chose this path, even if it wasn't really a choice at all."

"Why did you work for Kingpin?" he asked quietly, his gaze searching yours.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to reveal the truth you had carried alone for so long. "My father… he was a thief. Always was, since I can remember. He taught me everything, how to be quick, how to be silent. I thought it was just a game, a way to bond with him. But he was working with Kingpin long before I was even born, and even promised me to him to be the next Black Cat. And then, when he grew too old to keep up, Kingpin… he killed him."

Miles felt a pang in his chest, hearing the pain in your voice. "And then he took you in," he murmured, more statement than question.

You nodded, tears shimmering in your eyes. "He took me, trained me. He made me into Black Cat. Promised my father's skills and my loyalty before I even knew what was happening. All I ever wanted was to be a hero, to do good."

"You are a hero," Miles insisted, his voice firm with conviction. "Despite everything, you've saved lives. You've helped people."

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "At what cost? How many lies have I lived? How many people have suffered because of me?"

He reached out, gently cupping your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. "You're not alone in this anymore. We'll find a way to make things right, together."

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes briefly. "I'm scared, I don't know if I can face him again."

"You don't have to face him alone," he whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way."

You sat in silence for a moment, the weight of your shared burdens hanging between you. Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes searching his. "…Can I trust you?"

He met your gaze unwaveringly. "With everything."

You hesitated for a moment, then reached up to unfasten the mask that concealed your face. As it slipped off, your features softened, vulnerability shining through. "I'm y/n," you said softly, your voice barely a whisper.

He swallowed, his heart racing as he reached up to remove his own mask, revealing his face to you for the first time. "I'm Miles," he replied, his voice gentle yet resolute.

You stared at each other, your masks now discarded, laying bare your true selves. You reached out, taking his hand in yours. "Thank you, Miles. For everything."

He squeezed your hand, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you, y/n. For trusting me."

You sat close together, your shoulders touching as you watched the city below, the night sky stretching endlessly above you. In that moment, you weren't superheroes burdened by duty or past mistakes. You were just two people, finding solace and understanding in each other's presence.

"I never thought I'd find someone who understands," you murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.

"You're not alone anymore," Miles said softly. "We'll figure this out together. And we'll make sure Kingpin pays for everything he's done."

You nodded, determination flickering in your eyes. "Together," you echoed, a sense of hope blooming within you.

As you sat there, wrapped in each other's warmth and acceptance, you knew that your journey ahead wouldn't be easy. But as long as you faced it together, you were ready to rewrite your story, to carve out a future where you could be the heroes you had always dreamed of becoming.

Over the next few weeks, you and Miles formulated a plan. Using the information you had gathered for Kingpin, you were able to uncover his major operations and weaknesses. It was a risky gambit, but you were determined to bring him down once and for all.

The night before the big confrontation, you met Miles on that same rooftop overlooking the city. The air was thick with anticipation and apprehension.

"Are you ready for this?" Miles asked, his voice laced with concern as he took your hand.

You squeezed his hand, steadying your nerves. "As ready as I'll ever be. We have to do this, Miles. For my father…for everyone Kingpin has hurt."

He nodded solemnly. "I'll be right by your side. No matter what happens."

Leaning in, you pressed your forehead to his, drawing strength from his presence. "Thank you," you whispered. "For everything."

The next night, you infiltrated Kingpin's compound, slipping through the shadows like the skilled thief you were. Miles provided support, taking out guards and clearing a path for you to reach Kingpin's inner sanctum.

The confrontation was intense, a clash of wits and brawn as you faced your former master. Kingpin was a formidable foe, his bulk and strength almost overwhelming. But you fought with a ferocity born of years of pain and oppression, determined to break free from his grasp once and for all.

In the end, it was Miles who landed the decisive blow, webbing Kingpin and leaving him vulnerable. As the authorities swarmed in to arrest the crime lord, you stood there, chest heaving, a mixture of triumph and disbelief washing over you.

"It's over," Miles said, his voice quiet yet filled with wonder. "You're free, y/n."

Tears streamed down your face as the weight of those words sank in. You turned to him, throwing your arms around his neck and holding him tight. "Thank you," you whispered fiercely. "I couldn't have done this without you."

He returned the embrace, his arms enveloping you with a sense of safety and belonging. "You were the brave one," he murmured. "I was just here to support you."

As you pulled back, your eyes met his, a lifetime of understanding passing between you. Without hesitation, you leaned in and kissed him, pouring every ounce of gratitude and affection into that single moment.

When you finally parted, breathless and grinning, you saw the city stretched out before you, a tapestry of lights and possibilities...

*to be continued*

Ⓡ chion3spid3r all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

[storyscribeforthesentiment]

The Detective & The Dark Knight - Chapter 1

Summary: Detective Marie Manning, investigating a series of brutal murders in Gotham, crosses paths with the mysterious Batman. As they work together, their mutual respect turns into a deep, passionate bond. Amidst danger and corruption, their unlikely partnership evolves into a profound love, forever changing their lives in Gotham’s dark corners.

Pairing: Batman/Bruce Wayne x f! main character

Author’s note: Just a heads-up, the first chapter is all about getting to know Marie better. I know it can be a bit of a wait to see the fun stuff, but hang tight! I promise the upcoming chapters will be filled with lots of adorable Bruce moments, sweet romance, and plenty of action. Stay tuned for all the fluff and excitement!

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings/tags: mentions of murder (what can you expect in Gotham!!), gun violence, mentions of police bribes

Marie Manning awoke to the harsh beep of her alarm clock, jolting her from a restless sleep. With a groan, she swung her legs off the bed and moved through her well-practiced morning routine.

She lazily pulled on her work clothes, speaking to her cat who watched from the bed, “Remind me to get my clothes ready the night before next time,” Marie muttered, frustration evident in her voice.

The chill in the air greeted her as she stepped out of her small, one-bedroom apartment in a rough neighborhood of Gotham. Her modest, compact apartment reflected her preference for practicality over luxury.

Her long, dark hair had been pulled back into a neat bun, and she wore a simple, dark coat over her work attire—a no-nonsense look that matched her professional demeanor.

Though her colleagues at the Gotham City Police Department would never let her forget the rough area she lived in, she kept it a secret, opting for the lower rent despite the risks.

Marie’s shift at the precinct started at 6 AM. Her shoulders and biceps were still sore from the previous night’s kickboxing session—a small price to pay for staying in top form.

Despite the demanding hours and exhaustion, Marie was determined to stay fit and ready for anything that comes her way on the job. Her physical presence—tall, with a lean yet muscular build—spoke of her commitment to her job and the physical demands it entailed.

At the precinct, she walked with purpose, her weariness masked by a confident stride. Harvey Bullock, sitting at his desk and munching on a sandwich, looked up and directed her to Gordon’s office. “Manning, Gordon needs you in his office ASAP,” he said through a mouthful of food.

Marie nodded and left her coat and bag at her desk. She opted against getting coffee—Gordon’s temper, especially with the recent string of homicides, was notoriously short. Coffee could wait; keeping on Gordon’s good side was more crucial.

Gordon’s office, as always, was a chaotic mess. Papers and files were scattered across every surface, and the grime on the floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the state of Gotham itself.

Gordon, buried in a case file, looked up as Marie entered.

“Manning, sit,” he said, his voice even but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. Marie complied, sitting in the seat across from his paper-covered desk.

“I’m assigning you to the Southside homicides,” Gordon announced. His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Marie’s eyes widened. She had never been tasked with a homicide case before; her experience had been limited to thefts, robberies, and the occasional carjacking.

“Gordon, I—” She began, but stopped herself, unwilling to show self-doubt. In her experience as one of the few women in GCPD, displaying uncertainty only served to fuel skepticism about her abilities.

Gordon’s gaze softened as he looked at Marie. He remembered when she first joined the GCPD; he had been a lieutenant at the time, determinedly vying for the commissioner position. Marie was one of his early supporters, a rarity in the often-turbulent environment of Gotham’s police force.

Their paths had crossed on a few smaller cases—occasional carjackings and gas station robberies scattered across Gotham’s metropolitan area. Those experiences had given Gordon valuable insights into Marie’s character.

He had always admired her dedication and skill, even when she was new to the force. But more than that, Gordon understood her underlying struggles.

Marie was good at her job, but she grappled with deep-seated insecurities about her role and her place within the department. Gordon had seen the way she hesitated, the way she carried herself with a blend of determination and self-doubt.

Sensing her unease, Gordon removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had always believed in Marie’s potential, but now, as he faced her in his cluttered office, he felt a profound sense of responsibility to affirm his trust in her.

“I know you’re the right one for this case,” he said, his voice low and sincere. His words were not just a reassurance but an acknowledgment of the hard work and dedication Marie had shown over the years.

Marie met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and gratitude. A small, appreciative smile that crossed her face. It was a moment that spoke volumes about the respect and understanding that had developed between them over time.

His expression grew more serious as he turned to look out the window, his back to Marie. “You’re one of the few I can trust,” he said quietly. “Falcone has paid for 70% of the cops in the precinct. Maroni’s likely got a few on his payroll too. I’d be a fool to think my force is untarnished. That it’s not incorruptible.”

Marie absorbed his words, feeling the weight of his trust and the burden of the responsibility he was placing on her shoulders. Gordon’s fatigue was evident, a reflection of the strain the case and the corruption in the city were putting on him.

“You’re one of the only detectives I can say with absolute certainty hasn’t been bought out. I know you’re good,” Gordon continued, leaning back in his chair.

“Thank you,��� Marie said, the gravity of his trust settling heavily on her.

Gordon briefed her on the case: bodies found across Southside Gotham, each bearing the same distinctive red lotus tattoo on their left shoulder. The bodies varied in condition—some drowned, others burned, a few shot. The pattern was chilling and complex.

After their discussion, Marie returned to her desk, feeling the weight of the case files. Her new assignment was daunting.

As she flipped through the gruesome crime scene photos and case details, she tried to piece together the disturbing puzzle.

The cases were unsettling. Each victim bore the red lotus tattoo, linking the murders in a pattern that was both precise and ominous. The varying methods of execution suggested a calculated and sadistic approach, adding layers of complexity to the investigation.

Her eyes grew heavy as she studied the evidence. The fluorescent lights in the precinct seemed harsher with each passing hour, casting an unflattering glare on the photos and documents.

Her thoughts were foggy, struggling to make sense of the chaos. Despite the exhaustion gnawing at her, she needed clarity.

The docks, a known haven for criminal activities, were mentioned in several case details, so she decided to investigate them tonight. Marie decided to investigate the docks that evening.

It was a logical next step, given the pattern she’d observed. She hoped that a closer look at the area might reveal additional clues or connections to the ongoing murders.

By late evening, after hours of relentless work at the precinct, Marie headed to the Gotham docks. The chill in the air was a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the precinct. As Marie approached, the distant hum of the city became a gentle murmur.

The sky was a dark canvas dotted with stars, and the streetlamps cast long shadows on the wooden planks. The air was crisp, carrying the faint aroma of the nearby seafood restaurants. She took a deep breath, feeling the cool air ease the tension in her shoulders.

Her moment of solitude was abruptly interrupted by a commotion.

Her instincts, honed from years of police work, kicked in. She quickened her pace toward the source of the noise��cries and grunts, a struggle unfolding in the darkness.

Rounding a corner, Marie saw a figure in dark attire grappling with a masked assailant under the dim light of a streetlamp. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the silhouette—it was Batman. The caped crusader, often a shadow in her investigations, was now front and center.

Batman’s movements were precise, almost poetic in their efficiency. He engaged the assailant with calculated strikes, each motion deliberate. The masked attacker was formidable, but Batman’s superior skill was evident. The struggle was intense, the shadows dancing around them as they fought.

Marie watched from a safe distance, her heart pounding. She knew better than to intervene directly but was trying to process the situation.

The male victim, bound and barely conscious, lay on the ground with a red lotus tattoo on his shoulder visible under the streetlamp. The tattoo was a grim link to the murders she was investigating.

With a final decisive blow to the chest, Batman subdued the attacker. He moved to the victim, checking their condition with practiced efficiency. The victim was barely coherent, mumbling about being taken, but their memories were fragmented.

Marie approached cautiously. “Batman,” she called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline. “I’m Detective Marie Manning. I’m the lead detective on this case. We need to get him to safety. I can help.” She gestured to the victim.

Batman’s gaze, obscured by his cowl, was intense. He studied her, assessing the sincerity of her words.

After a brief pause, he nodded, acknowledging her presence. “The victim is critical,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Get him to a hospital immediately.”

Marie quickly activated her radio, requesting an ambulance. With Batman's silent agreement, they both carefully helped the victim into her car.

After laying him down in the backseat, she turned to thank Batman, before realizing he was gone.

Once the victim was in capable hands at the hospital, Marie took a moment to collect her thoughts. During Marie's brief interview while he was being treated, he mentioned that he didn't recall being taken or how he had ended up at the docks.

She retreated to her car, pulling out her phone to dial Commissioner Gordon’s number.

“Gordon, it’s Manning. I’ve just had an encounter with Batman at the docks. He was involved in subduing a suspect connected to our case. The victim had the red lotus tattoo, and Batman seemed to be working to protect them.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Manning, I’m glad you’re safe." He signed loudly before continuing, "Batman’s involvement is not surprising. I’ve been working with him, in secret."

Marie was taken aback. “You’ve been working with Batman?"

"He’s someone I trust deeply. You can trust him too. He has a reputation for protecting Gotham’s interests and he’s helped the department before.”

"Why wasn’t I ever informed?”

Gordon’s voice was firm but reassuring. “Because Batman operates outside the system. I’ve kept his involvement quiet to protect his methods and to avoid any potential conflict. He’s an ally in our fight against Gotham’s corruption and crime.

He was met with silence as Marie processed the information.

"If he’s involved, it’s because there’s something significant at play. Keep him in mind as you continue your investigation. He’s someone who knows how to get results.”

Marie absorbed Gordon’s words. The realization that Batman was an ally rather than an enigmatic outsider was a significant shift in her understanding of the situation.

“Understood, Gordon. I’ll keep you updated on any further developments.”

"Marie, I'd appreciate your discretion here. No one else at GCPD knows about Batman's involvement."

[auroravictorium]

unraveling (k.b.)

"My head is clearly muddied, and I'm so sick of coming undone." - Aeroplane Bathroom by Gordi

Summary: when a plague claims reader's sister's life, the news is delivered in the form of a letter; when she distances herself from everyone and hides the news, kaz fears that something serious is going on until she confesses what happened. Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (established relationship - they've been together for a while, so kaz feels comfortable being somewhat close to her) Word Count: ~2.6k Warnings: loss of a sister, heavy mentions of grief, mentions of a plague, brief violence (reader strangles someone) Genre: hurt/comfort Request? Yes (@morrigan-crowmwell)

Author's Note: i'm baaaaaaack and FINALLY on break!! i hope you all enjoy this (not so) little hurt/comfort work - i promise i'm following up with a fluffy one soon :))

It started with a letter a low-level Dreg delivered while the Crows gathered to plan a job.

He passed it to you with a murmur in your ear, and with furrowed brows, you flipped it over to see the return address. It was scrawled in the corner, a few letters missing or blurred together in the author's haste to send the missive, whatever it was. Kaz knew from the surprised look on your face that you recognized the address, but the expression disappeared before the rest of the Crows could notice or Kaz could evaluate it further. 

"I'll be right back," you said quietly, rising from your seat next to Kaz and disappearing into the relative privacy of his room. Had you known its contents, you would have gone to your room a floor down and opened it privately.

When you returned, you seemed unaffected to everyone but Kaz. He noticed the troubled purse of your lips, the way you fought to keep a neutral mask in place. You avoided his gaze as you sat back down, and you hardly contributed to the rest of the meeting, your eyes on the now-crumpled envelope in your hand.

In the two weeks since the letter arrived, you had withdrawn. You didn't visit Kaz in his office, you didn't take shots with Jesper at the Club, and you weren't seen outside your room unless necessary.

When the day for the next job came, you were uncharacteristically sloppy. What should have been an easy in-and-out theft of bank information on a close potential associate of the Dime Lions was nearly botched; knocking the guards unconscious took you longer than it should have, and you almost missed the correct papers in the target's desk. When you found them, the guards were beginning to stir again, and the Stadtwatch were en route.

"What happened today?" Kaz hissed, shutting his bedroom door behind him with a firm click. He leaned his cane against the wall and shed his coat and hat, hanging them on a hook haphazardly nailed into the wall.

You didn't respond, dropping the rolls of parchment onto the crooked table in the corner. The letters of your parents' note to you swam in your vision, and you could still feel the guards' pulses slowing beneath your fingertips as you choked them into unconsciousness. Your eyes burned, and you refused to face Kaz, instead crossing to his window and sitting on the bench beneath it. You wanted to be anywhere else.

If you didn't look at him, you wouldn't have to see or bear his disappointment and anger. And if you didn't see it, you could indulge in the numbness that was easier to feel than grief. It settled over you like a coat soaked by rain: heavy, but at least it protected you from the worst of the weather.

The consequences of your indifference would rip your temporary armor from you and push you into a cold, harsh reality. Your sister was gone, a life taken by a plague brought by an unwelcome merchant to your small town. It was a truth you weren't willing to face yet. So numbness it was, even as Kaz and the letter burning in your pocket urged you to confront your grief.

"Y/N," Kaz said, watching as you seemed to go somewhere else right in front of him. What happened? What did that letter contain? His anger about the job dissipated, and worry rose in its place as you refused to even look at him. 

He dragged a chair away from the crooked table and settled beside you, stretching out his right leg to ease the ache. You didn't acknowledge him moving closer, your eyes locked on the crows pecking outside Kaz's window. 

Some said crows were messengers from beyond, intermediaries between the lost and the living. You scoffed at the notion once, the same way you brushed off the idea of Saints looking over you.

That was before you lost someone. Now, a tiny part of you hoped it was true so you could say goodbye to something. Even a damned bird.

Kaz brushed your knuckles with his gloved hand to get your attention. His eyes scanned your face, so carefully arranged in a facade of neutrality. But there were cracks in it; the wobbling of your bottom lip, how your eyes seemed to shimmer as tears brimmed in them.

Sick and selfish as it was, Kaz wondered if that letter had something to do with him. Was it a warning for her to get away? Was it a threat to her life? Was it a detailed list of every awful, heartless thing Kaz had ever done, making her fear him and regret joining the Dregs?

"What's going on?" Kaz said quietly. His earlier anger was gone, replaced by a worry that ripped away the cloak of numbness you'd shrouded yourself in. Just as you suspected would happen.

His concern left you unshielded and exposed to the tempest of grief you'd tried so desperately to ignore, to push away until it left you alone. Now, your numbness was darkening, like storm clouds rolling over the harbor and promising havoc on the city. It twisted and roiled until it was no longer numbness but the all-consuming feeling of loss.

You wished you could hide from Kaz just so he couldn't see the tears beginning to slide down your cheeks. They were hot and salty and dripped down your neck, and you wiped them away as if you could conceal them. "Don't," you said hoarsely. "Don't ask me that." Maybe he would leave it be, and you could hide again for a while longer.

But it was Kaz. He watched you unravel before him and knew he couldn't leave it be. He wouldn't.

"What did the letter say?" he pressed. Usually, he didn't push you to share your secrets. Saints knew he had his own that he refused to reveal. But he couldn't watch you fracture before him and not know what was happening, especially if he could do something to fix it.

You knew Kaz wouldn't relent until you answered. Numbly, you took the letter from your pocket and held it out, still looking out the window at the crows. They were hopping around one another, picking at the remnants of seeds Kaz had thrown out for them the day prior. 

Kaz took the letter from your fingers and looked down at it, taking in the tear stains blurring the scribbles across the page. Still, the short message was decipherable, and Kaz suddenly understood. As he read those words, he was nine years old again, grieving the loss of his brother and watching birds pick up scraps of food and trash from the streets. Kaz knew precisely what you were feeling, down to the weight on your chest that threatened to crush your lungs.

"I'm sorry," Kaz said quietly. He took your hand and brushed his thumb over the back of your knuckles. This was one of the times when Kaz wished to be close to you. He longed to hug and hold you until sleep came, so you could get a short respite from the grief and know you weren't alone. "I'm so sorry, Bluebird."

His words broke your composure completely. The tender nickname ripped a sob from your throat, and you covered your mouth with your free hand to muffle the sound. You hunched over and hid your face in your knees, losing sight of Kaz and the birds and the world around you as the currents swept you away. You broke your hand free from his, curling in on yourself as you finally let yourself cry before him.

Hesitantly, Kaz moved from his chair to the open side of the bench. He swallowed, forcing away the nagging terror that rose as he gently pulled you into him. Kaz wrapped his arms around your shoulders and held you against his chest, letting you hear his racing heartbeat. It wasn't the smoothest or most confident hug, and he fought hard to battle the discomfort of having you pressed against him like this. But he was trying. If it eased your pain for even a moment, he'd bear the cold harbor lapping at his flesh and the memories of floating bodies tugging at his mind.

It meant more to you than you could tell him, and you couldn't bring yourself to question whether he was sure about this. Instead, you threw your arms around his torso and buried your face in his chest. He was warm and here and alive, and he was everything you needed right then as the dam exploded and any semblance of being okay disappeared. You sobbed into his vest as the truth came crashing down on you, crushing your lungs and making your head throb from the pain of trying to process it.

You weren't sure how long you cried. Somewhere between those initial moments of Kaz's arms around you and when you could finally catch your breath, the sun disappeared, and the stars emerged from behind the clouds. Turning your head to rest your ear against Kaz's heart, you blearily looked out the dirty window; above the clocktower in the distance was the brightest star in the sky. In your exhausted mind, you imagined it was your sister. That brought you more comfort than the legend about crows. She would've hated being a bird.

Somehow, in the warmth of Kaz's arms and with those words in your mind, you drifted into an uneasy sleep. Everywhere your dreams turned, there were crows. Sometimes your sister's laughter replaced their squawking. They dropped bright tulips on a fresh grave before flying away, their wings beating against the cloudy sky.

Kaz thought you had to be uncomfortable with the windowsill pressing into your back and your legs curled up at a strange angle. He carefully shifted, sliding one of his arms under your knees and the other around your shoulders. Then, Kaz stood and carried you over to his tiny bed. You stirred as he set you down and tucked his threadbare blanket around you. He held his breath, hoping you wouldn't wake, and he slowly let it out once you lapsed into stillness once more.

He stayed nearby as you slept, settling on the bench and looking over the city. When his eyes started drooping, he shook himself awake. When that didn't work, he grabbed a book and forced himself to read about Kerch's history.

As the night reached its darkest point and the East Stave reached its most raucous, you stirred into consciousness again. Your eyes were swollen from crying, and your head pounded. Yet the smell of Kaz, all smoke and rum and something rich, enveloped you and soothed you enough that you weren't severely bothered by your physical discomfort. 

You slowly sat up and scooted back against the wall, trying to shake off some of the heaviness lingering over you. Kaz lifted his head from where it was bent over the book in his hands and straightened up when he saw you were awake.

"Hi," he said softly. He closed his book and swung his legs off the bench. "How did you sleep?"

"Poorly." You crossed your legs and looked everywhere but at his face. This was what you'd hoped to avoid. This tense air between the two of you, the result of your inability to keep your shit together until you got to the privacy of your own room. You felt weak, unworthy of being a Crow. You wished the numbness would overtake you again.

Guilt joined the lineup of emotions, and you looked down at your hands. You were lucky they weren't stained with your friends' blood.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Though Kaz's tone wasn't accusatory, you flinched away from it. 

"I didn't want to burden you." You thought you'd be able to grieve in private without worrying the Crows or disrupting a job. Clearly, that wasn't the case; everything reminded you of your sister.

"You're not a burden to me," he said firmly. He understood your words and reasoning all too well, and he hated that he did. But you weren't a burden on him, the same way you never treated him or his failures in your relationship as such. To you, his struggle to touch you wasn't a failure. To him, your grief wasn't a burden. 

Kaz wished you would treat yourself with the same kindness you gave to him.

You kept your gaze fixed on your hands, even as his words caused your cheeks to flush. It took all your self-control to keep tears from brimming in your eyes; you couldn't tell whether they were from sadness or how he said the words as if they weren't up for debate. Like he didn't question the truth in them.

"When I was young, I lost my brother," Kaz admitted. His voice was quiet and suddenly seemed very far away. Your head lifted, and you looked at him in surprise. Kaz didn't notice, and his eyes focused on the Dekappel portrait across the room.

"He died of the Queen's Lady Plague. I got it soon after." He shuddered. He could still remember the feeling of the fever as it immobilized him, weakened him until he couldn't swim and had to use Jordie to get to shore. "There was nothing I could do, and I was alone in the city after that." His gaze finally turned to yours. "But you aren't alone. You have people who understand." I understand. "And you aren't a burden on me, so talk to me. The Crows, the Club, the Dime Lions, they can wait." 

Kaz hoped that you understood the words he wanted to say. You're more important than all of them.

Your bottom lip wobbled, and you slid out of his bed and crossed over to him. You sat beside him and took his hand, though you longed to throw your arms around him again. That was a level of physical contact he needed to initiate.

"Thank you," you whispered. Your eyes shimmered in the moonlight with more tears, and you wiped them away before resting your head on his shoulder to hide your face. You clasped his hand in both of yours and felt him lace his fingers with yours to comfort you. "I want to throw a tulip in the harbor for her tomorrow." Your voice cracked, and you swallowed before continuing. "It was her favorite flower."

"As soon as the sun rises," Kaz promised. He wished he had a gesture to offer for his brother, but Kaz Brekker wasn't known for sentimentality. It wasn't his style.

You lifted your head and wiped away a traitorous tear with the palm of your hand. "We'll bring a flower for your brother, too," you said quietly, watching Kaz's face. Was it too much to suggest? It felt wrong to not offer after he opened up to you.

Kaz's throat tightened, and he turned to look down at you. "That sounds nice." His eyes softened at the earnestness on your face, and he gently squeezed your hand to thank you.

Your shoulders loosened in relief, and you rested your head on his shoulder again, turning your eyes toward the Dekappel on the wall and watching as the moon's rays darkened the rich oil paint. The room was silent, but there was no need to fill it. Instead, you let yourself think of your sister and her tulips.

You'd start to knit yourself back together come morning.

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yodaa, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3, @statsvitenskap, @sapphiccloud, @casualladyinternet, @d34drapunzel, @noctemys, @whitejxsmine, @so6, @franzelt

[virginsexgod69]

7| Revenge Kill

pairing Daryl Dixon x F!Reader

summary As you search the pharmacy, you run into a familiar face.

cw violence, murder, mention of infidelity, mentions of child death, vague description of children as walkers, injuries, profanity, attempted theft, shitty ex husbands, i think that's it?

note i've never written fighting before but i figured it'd be like writing smut, but violent? idk man, it was a challenge. lmk your thoughts and any feedback, if you have it, would be appreciated!

2.3k words

Series Masterlist

The severity of the situation did little to strike fear into your heart. It was the end of the world, the dead were rising, and there were already so many other worries that held your focus that this felt like a huge inconvenience, rather than a life or death dilemma. A frustrated sigh left your lips as your turned to face the owner of the gun with your hands raised in surrender. The gun holder was a shabby, malnourished looking man whose hair was matted and overgrown. He looked to be in such an awful state that you almost wanted to hand him the medicines out of sheer pity. That was until a familiar voice, a voice you’d never forget, said your name in the form of a question. 

“I-is that really you?” He asked, his aim faltering for a split second. The pity you had felt at first morphed into hurt, which was quickly washed away by a wave of rage. 

“Trent?” You spat the name of your ex husband. While you were technically not divorced, you still referred to him as an ex husband and since the world ended, there were no laws to keep you from doing so. He still kept the gun pointing at you, which boiled your blood even more. 

“What the fuck are you doing out here? I thought you left!” Your voiced dripped with pure hatred and venom for the man that abandoned his family in the midst of the apocalypse. 

“I.. I did, b-but I came back.” 

“There’s nothing for you here. Leave,” you demanded. He cocked the gun and moved his finger to the trigger, fixing his aim on your head, but you didn’t falter. 

“I’m not leaving, not without that medicine.” You reached into the bag and pulled out the allergy pills and chucked it at his head, causing him to flinch and fumble to catch it. 

“That’s all I’m giving you, now get out of my fucking way!” You slung your bag over your shoulders and picked up your hammer, but his firm grasp on your arm stopped you. 

“Baby, please. I don’t wanna hurt you, but I need that medicine.” You tore your arm from his hold and swung at him, your fist colliding with his hollow cheek. He stumbled backward, almost tripping over his feet, but he caught himself on one of the shelves. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you lifted your hammer over his head and brought it down with full force, but he caught the wooden handle just before the metal end could greet his skull. His arms shook as he fought against your hold. 

“I’m s-sorry! Please! Don’t k-kill me. I have a family,” he begged. All you could see was red. How dare he use the family he chose to leave as a bargaining chip for his worthless life. 

“You had a family and you chose to leave them,” you growled as you yanked the hammer from him. 

“N-no, you don’t underst–” his own pained scream cut him off after you slammed the hammer into his shoulder, causing him to drop the gun. It slid across the floor and under the shelf. Shoving him out of the way, you lunged for the gun, blindly feeling for it underneath the shelf. Your fingers curled around the handle and you pulled it from its hiding place. 

“No. You don’t understand. You have no family because your kids are fucking dead!” You pointed the gun at him now as he cowered in fear, clutching his shoulder in pain. 

“Dead?” He whimpered. Tears fell from his eyes, leaving clean streaks on his dirty face. 

“Killed by the dead all because,” your voice shook as the memory of that day brought angry tears to your eyes, “because you ran away to screw my best friend when you should’ve been being their fucking father!” You screamed. You couldn’t see his own grief stricken face through your tears as you pushed down on the trigger. The gun was jammed and nothing came out. You screamed in frustration and tossed the useless weapon aside before reaching for your own gun. He tackled you to the ground before you could unholster it. He, too, was seething with anger. 

“Why are you putting the blame on me, when you’re their fucking mother!” His filthy hands encircled your throat, cutting off your airways as he sobbed. Your vision blurred, not only from your inability to breathe, but from hitting your head on the ground when he tackled you. 

“I have a baby on the way, and I know for a fact that Sierra will be a far better mother than you could ever dream of being! So give me my medications so I can make sure she’ll live to see that day.” His biting words were only background noise to the ringing in your ears. You thrashed beneath him as you tried to pull his hands from your throat. When they wouldn’t budge, you sank your nails into his flesh, slowly dragging them up his hand. As his skin tore, warm blood flowed from the wounds while he screamed in pain and reflexively pulled his hands away. You took advantage of the opening shoved him off of you, knocking him to the ground. Your sledgehammer wasn’t too far out of reach, so you grabbed it and used it as a support to help you stand through your dizzy spell. 

“She can be a good mother on her own, just like I was, because you’re not going home to your new family.” You swung the hammer at his head, but he just barely dodged the deadly hit. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t say anything that would convince you to spare his life. He deserved to die, in your opinion. Whenever you sat and reflected on your life, almost every bad thing could be traced back to him. By some odd stroke of luck he didn’t deserve, he kept dodging your hits and you were starting to become tired. You already weren’t on your A game after having taken a few hits.

“Y-you’re fucking crazy, you know that!” He hissed as he struggled to his feet. Fed up with his entire existence, you tossed the hammer aside and successfully unholstered your gun. He lunged at you at the same time you fired the the gun. The bullet only grazed him as you collided with the wall behind you. It was true that evil never dies. You ducked just in time to avoid the punch he threw at your face. You threw your entire body weight onto him, sending him back to the ground. He let out a pained grunt once his head slammed against the cold tile.  His state of disorientation served as the perfect opportunity to land a punch across his face, then another, and another. He writhed in pain beneath you as he tried to fight you off of him. The pain of his face against your fists didn’t phase you because the revenge felt too great. He deserved every bit of this pain, yet it still would never compare to the pain your kids probably felt when the dead ate them alive, the pain you felt when you came back home from a run and found their half-eaten, living-dead bodies stumbling  around around with him nowhere to be seen. His scratched up hands blindly clawed at you as he begged for his life between sobs of anguish. Those sobs were nothing but music to your ears, so melodious to you that your own sobs didn’t register to you as your own. 

“Please,” he croaked through his swollen, bloodied mouth, “let me at least be there for one of my kids,” he begged. His words gave you pause, freezing you in your position with your fists balled as you straddled his waist. Sparing him hadn’t once crossed your mind, but in that moment, you almost considered it. Almost. But that thought quickly flew out the window when he mustered up enough strength to toss you off of him, leaving you face down on the cold, dirtied tile. He roughly gripped the back of your head in his big hand, lifting it up before slamming it to the floor and holding you down as you struggled to get up. His grip released as he quickly stood up, trying to speedily limp away with your bag of medicine and medical supplies tossed over his shoulder. Dizzy and with your nose and mouth stinging in pain, you grabbed onto his ankle at the very last second, causing him to stumble. He didn’t fall, though, and instead continued to drag his beaten body toward the door, with you slowing him down. 

 You felt defeated. All this effort you put up just to lose to the same man you’ve already lost to so many times. Seeing him again dredged up so many painful memories, reopening recently inflicted wounds and scratching at old scars. Giving up would be so easy. The pain and dizziness that surged throughout your head and the coppery taste in your mouth were compelling cases on why you should. But your hatred overpowered your exhaustion. 

Finding a hammer in that boutique felt like striking gold. Daryl had found it in a random drawer behind the register’s counter, along with other clutter that was left over from a construction project of some sorts. He grabbed it and made quick work of using the claw to pry the nails from the wooden boards. Once he removed what he deemed to be enough wood, he looked around, expecting to see you standing by. You not being there sent his alarm bells ringing. There were plenty of things you could have been doing other than looking for a hammer and he knew you could handle yourself, but he’d still preferred to be safe than sorry. 

He unsheathed his knife to have it ready lest he run into any trouble. His walk increased into a slight jog when he heard the cacophony of shouts and crashes coming from the pharmacy. With his knife held out in front of him, he crept inside the building at the same he heard the thud of a body colliding with the ground. At his feet, a man holding a bag laid face down on the floor with his hands held out, clawing at the tile. You -with blood leaking down your nose and from your mouth- crawled up toward the stranger and sat on his lower back, earning a pained groan from him since you knocked the wind out of him.

“Daryl, give me the knife!” You frantically screamed with your arm reached out for the weapon. Daryl was confused as all hell, but that didn’t stop him from handing you the weapon- handle first. You muttered a thanks as you accepted it. You grabbed a fistful of the man’s ratty hair and lifted his battered face from the ground before slicing the knife across his throat. Daryl watched the life drain from the man’s eyes as the blood poured from his throat, oozing toward his feet. You let out a sigh of relief and handed him back his knife. You struggled to your feet and snatched the bag from the dead man’s hands. 

“Didn’t find a hammer,” you hunched over to catch your breath, “but I found a shit ton of medical supplies!” 

“Wha’ happened back there?” He asked as the two of you left the building. 

“Asshole tried to rob me…then kill me,” you replied, omitting most of the story.

“You okay?” He looked at your face with concern, but you waved him off and wiped the blood from your face with the back of your hand and walked ahead of him. Your head and face hurt and you were slightly dizzy, but other than that, you felt fine. Daryl was already doing enough by staying behind and helping out with your cabin, burdening him with something small like this would be too much. He didn’t seem to believe you, but didn’t press any further. 

“Found a hammer and got the wood off the door. This outta be enough to patch that hole up,” he told you once the two of you returned to the outside of the boutique where he left the wood when he went to find you. 

“Oh. Nice,” you dismissively replied. You truly were grateful, but the pain and dizziness you were experiencing made it hard to focus on anything. You set the bag down before gently lowering yourself to a sitting position on the curb. You closed your eyes and rested your head in your hands. 

“Hey. You sure you alright?” 

“Uh huh, just need to sit down for a bit before we get goin’.” 

Daryl looked around at the surrounding area to make sure there were no walkers nearby. There was a few hours of sunlight left, just enough to get back to your cabin before nightfall, but only if you left now. As for walkers, other than the odd straggler, the area was relatively clear.

“If we wanna make it back ‘fore nightfall, we should probably get goin’.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you agreed, despite not feeling any better. You stood up, the throbbing pain and dizzy spell making it difficult. Daryl dropped the wood and caught you when you stumbled. Had you not been injured, you’d have been internally squealing and giggling because he caught you and held you upright in his arms. 

“Nah, somethin’s wrong,” he commented as he examined your face. 

You weakly swatted his hands away, but they didn’t go anywhere. “I’m fine, I just hit my head once or twice,” you admitted a little too nonchalantly for his liking. 

“Think you got a concussion or somethin’,” he hypothesized. You gently removed his hands from your shoulders and picked your bag up off from the floor. 

“We should stay here ’til mornin’ so you can get some rest.” As much as you wanted to push back , to disagree and keep going, you knew you needed the rest. He took the bag from you and picked up the wood boards before leading you into the boutique.

note hi, it's me again. with finals and graduation season coming, updates are gonna be a little slower (not that they were very frequent before lmao). i thank you all for your patience <3. also i have my AP Lit test tmr, so wish me luck =[

THANKS FOR READING!

Join the taglist?

Taglist @eternalrose81, @the-dixon-effect, @millybabyy, @daryldixmedown, @theoraekenslover, @aeriean, @lesbian-horror-fan, @paintlavillered, @zhannamustdie, @thegeorgiahuntsman, @bigbaldheadname, @Lumi362, @lettersfromyourlover-blog, @princesssparkel2024, @tiny-marie