#tiree outpost

[hum--hallelujah]

all ears and all scars - Danger Days/America's Suitehearts, Dr. Benzedrine & Horseshoe Crab character/relationship study & hurt/comfort

~

There's only so much a silent sandpup like him can do. Understanding only goes so far. In the end, it seems the others always turn to him, as if he has any idea what he's doing. All he knows is that he wants to make life better for them. It's the same thing they all want for each other, isn't it?

Benze wants to make life better by making it safer, offering help where it's needed, making something out of what he's lost. Sandman wants to make life mean something, be it by love or smuggling. Donnie wants to make the harm he's done mean something. Crab just wants to make his friends know that their lives do mean something, already, without any of that.

When Sandman and Donnie go to the races sometimes Crab stays behind. If they're not taking the van, there’s no point. They can’t all ride on Sandman’s bike, anyway. Half the time Crab and Benze stay back, do inventory, bicker silently and make each other crazy trying to read or talk. The fact that Crab’s shit at reading and Benze is shit at signing makes things difficult. But they make it work.

Crab will admit it can be frustrating. Not just that Benze never seems to be able to learn sign, that’s just the way his brain works, or doesn’t work; but that the other see him as someone solid, a fallback. He’s not too much of everything the way Sandman is, or trapped inside himself like Donnie. Benzedrine’s brain is broken. Crab is arguably the most steady of them, but they think he knows what he’s doing. They think it’s on purpose, instead of accidentally stumbling into exactly what he needs to do. He’s fumbling through everything and they don’t even see it.

It’s never bothered him as much as it should that he can’t talk anymore. The wound itself hurt like hell when it happened and it took a long time to get used to it, but it doesn’t cause him grief anymore. He thinks, sitting on a rusty stool in the garage while Benze flips through a medical journal one of their sources had slipped into a shipment as a bonus, humming something under his breath about surgeries and biometrics and cybernetic replacements, that it bothers the others more than it does him.

And oh, Sandman is chill about it. They knew each other as kids, though Crab was never as close with him as Donnie was, but meeting up again as they are now, one of them more jaded and one with vocal cords severed, never seemed to faze him. Most sandpups grow up at least vaguely versed in sign, anyway. But Donnie will never forgive himself, and Benze spent a week after they met trying to avoid him before asking, suddenly, if he could examine the wound. Crab had sat patiently, curiously, while the strange little guy’s hands had probed and pressed at his throat. Benze had apologized, said he wished they’d met sooner. Crab thinks he still regrets that by the time they knew each other it was too late for him to do anything. But Crab doesn’t care.

He waves a hand in the air for way too long before Benze registers the movement. That's how he knows it's bad. When Benze looks over, there's something faintly glazed in his eyes, like the blue has been mixed up in a sandstorm. He's not exactly focused. There's a wildness in his gaze. Not many people clock it, but Benze is a whirlwind. They see the soft roundness of his face, the wide eyes, the complete and utter lack of understanding of how life works in the Zones, the way he struggles with words and language, and think he's an easy target, something fragile. They don't know the heart that beats behind those soft clothes and sunburnt skin.

Benze might be crazy. His brain is definitely broken. He doesn't think the way anyone else does. He doesn't talk straight — tenses change a the time, his words come out in the wrong order, similar sounding words mixed up, syllables misspoken. There's times he gets confused about people's names. His own name, sometimes, even. The things inside his head just don't work right.

"Are you okay?" Crab signs slowly, concentrating on making the movements clear. He's known sign for most of his life but only had to speak in it for two years. His habits are sloppy, hands slurred.

Benze blinks a few times, quickly. "Am I... okay?" He checks, face forming into a quick flash of a frown. Crab nods. "Oh," Benze says. "I'm... thinking but fine?"

Crab doesn't think that's how he meant that sentence to sound. He forms his response off his best guess. Maybe they're always trying to translate each other. "Thinking about what?" There's about a half dozen phrases the two of them can bounce back and forth. They've had some version of his conversation, either out of concern or curiosity, enough times that this, at least, is easy to translate.

Benze takes a pause to process the question. There's an untidy stack of papers in his hand, pages torn from books, dictionaries, zines, anywhere Benze could find them. He looks like if he thinks much harder he's going to drop them. Crab huffs with a smile and leaves his stool behind with a hop, reaches out and takes the sheets from his friend before they slip and cut his hands. Benze might think Sandman is the careless one of the bunch, but Benze hurts himself more often than any other.

"You," Benzedrine mutters faintly, glazed-over eyes squinting upwards at Crab. "The... if I could... you... I want just..." he purses his lips the way he does when he realizes his words are getting all tangled up. "Maybe it's not too late?" he says shrilly, high pitched and hesitant and determined all mixed up.

Crab shakes his head. He sets the papers all down and snags Benze's hands in his own. Benze freezes, any small movement stalling completely as he jerks his eyes down to the contact. He'll let Crab know if it's too much. It always startles him but it isn't usually bad. It always startles Crab how warm his hands are, too. He always expects Benze's hands to be cold to the touch, but they're warm and soft and uncalloused. He wonders idly if Benze would let them paint his nails.

He's not gonna use any words for this. He's too much at a loss for that. He doesn't see his condition as something that needs fixed. But he's stopped being offended by Benzedrine's fixation on it. He's a doctor. He thinks he's supposed to fix things. Crab thinks it might be the only way he knows how to show love. He never knows what to say and he has to let his hands speak for him anyway. Sign isn't the only way to do that. If it all goes wrong they'll figure it out as they go.

He draws one of Benze's hands up and lets it go. Benzedrine's eyes become suddenly clearer as his hand hovers just over the thick, raised scar across his throat. His breathing hitches and his eyes flick to Crab's. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Crab isn't sure if he means for overstepping or for the wound itself. Crab shakes his head again either way.

Benze carefully runs soft fingers over the scar. The feather-light touch almost makes Crab flinch, but instead he leans into it, pressing his neck into Benzedrine's hand. It's an incredibly vulnerable position to be in. A doctor should know that. By the careful steadiness of Benze standing in front of him, straw-colored hair illuminated by ugly solar-rigged fluorescent lights, Benzedrine does.

Crab wonders if Benze can feel the fast, fluttery way his heart is beating. He's out of his depth, so far at a loss. He's trying to do the right thing and terrified it's wrong.

"Your pulse is fast," says Benze. His familiar fingers move from the pinkish scar to Crab's pulse point, pressing gently under his jaw. "Are you okay?" He asks, turning Crab's question back on him.

Crab lifts his hands up between them. "If you are," he signs, so wholeheartedly his hands shake. This whole thing scares him. Benzedrine's insanity, the mess in his head that drove him to shoot up just to get away from it. The fact that they'll never really understand each other. The way he's always offering reassurances but sometimes wants some for himself. If he can make others okay then maybe he can reassure himself next.

Benze stares at his hovering hands for a moment, then grabs them again, like he doesn't want to let go. "But you're shaking," he observes, almost clinically. "Your pulse is racing. You're nervous," he says. "You asked me if I'm okay but you're anxious." He says all this calmly and confidently, as a doctor, but then glances up at Crab with a question asking in his eyes.

Crab hesitates, but nods. He feels out of his depth, and he can't swim. Like the way it feels when you're falling asleep and jerk awake with the feeling that you're falling, losing your balance. Maybe that's it. He hasn't been sleeping well. Nightmares he can't tell anyone else about because they'd only make the life they've built worse. So he nods. And doesn't offer an explanation. He isn't sure he has one.

"Why?"

Crab shrugs. He suctions his tongue to the roof of his mouth, like sealing his mouth shut makes any difference. He shifts his weight, almost swaying back and forth on his feet.

Benze hums a few low notes, the way he does sometimes. They never have any particular melody. But Benzedrine has a beautiful voice. "Can I help?" He asks, half sing-song.

"I wish," Crab signs bitterly, pulling one hand away to form the words and mouthing them silently at the same time.

With unusual clarity, Benze peers up at him, before questioning, "You wish what?"

"You could help," signs Crab. He doesn't quite care if Benze gets it or not. Whatever strange nervous, feedback loop energy is hanging in the air says enough already. "I'm just tired," he adds. The doctor will accept that explanation even if Crab's own mind will not. He has no real reason to be bothered. He wasn't bothered a minute ago. He's supposed to be worrying about Benze, not the other way about.

Benze catches the last word, used enough in the station to be familiar to him. Maybe if the others used sign more, it would help him learn it better? Or maybe his brain just won't accept it, maybe things will always be stilted like this. "Tired?" He hums thoughtfully. "Are you sleeping enough?" He asks, his hands moving back to either side of Crab's neck. Much longer and he's going to start going through the motions of a checkup, lights flashed in eyes and all.

Crab nods. He's always some form of tired. Aren't they all? Sleep doesn't change it. Benze should know that by now. "Not always well," he admits, because he is a mostly honest person, unless you play cards against him.

Benze, after the cautious confusion of working out the words, nods, like he expected that. Maybe he did. Far be it from Crab to know what goes on in that cracked head of his. Far be it from Crab to know much of anything, maybe. He’s been operating on instinct for so long that paying attention starts to feel weird. Benze continues humming, a light sound that’s half thought, half music. It’s tense, like most things about him, but soothing.

His thumbs run over the scar over Crab’s throat again and he tips his head in a parody of a knowing shrug. “Bilateral vocal cord paralysis can lead to increased fatigue,” he says. It’s less cold, doctorish and more flowing into that continued subconscious hum he carries on. “You might not even notice it. The effort of even breathing takes more work due to the lack of function… here,” he says, pressing slightly on parallel spots at Crab’s throat. It makes Crab’s breath stutter outside his control, and his eyes lock onto Benze’s.

Benze is staring fixedly at Crab’s face, brows folded slightly, watching for his reaction. It’s unsettling. Still, despite instinct welling up inside him, he trusts that though Benze might be crazy, he’s still his best friend. He would never hurt him.

He forms one hand into the single letter 'Y' and his face into a question. Benze watches it intently, adds the two together. “When the vocal cords are paralyzed they usually fall into a default position that’s too close together to allow for perfect normal breathing. The remaining throat muscles have to pick up the slack, which requires more effort than simply the medulla oblongata and pons’ rhythms.”

Crab doesn’t know what much of that means. He doesn’t know much of anything, as a matter of fact. But when Benze moves his hands away, he knows he misses the touch. It’s a strange version of the kind of comfort Crab usually offers. He’s not used to being on the other side of it.

“Did you know you snore?” Benze hums quietly. He’s shuffling through his stack of papers again while Crab stands unsure of himself in the same place, and looking back over his shoulder. Crab shrugs. Makes sense, he guesses. Benze nods. “That’s why.”

Crab looks over Benze’s shoulder at the papers. He can read some of it, tentatively, uneasily. It’s all the things Benzedrine was muttering about earlier, he thinks. It unsettles him, but at the same time, this is how Benze cares about people. By caring for them. Maybe they’re a little bit alike in that way. He sets his hand on Benzedrine’s shoulder and reaches, fumbles more like, for a pen he’d seen him writing with earlier.

You don’t have to fix me, he writes next to the heading of a lone page of a heartless medical advertisement. It’s wobbly and spelled by sound, so probably not right, but Benze gets it right away. He stares from Crab’s shitty handwriting on the page and then into his eyes. Crab doesn’t know what’s going on in there, but does he ever?

“I know,” he says eventually. “But I still wish-“

Crab signs, “Wish what?”

“That I could help.”

Crab nods. He leans against the work table, stares down at the mess there. He taps one of Benze’s books. It’s one of the ones he goes back to when he’s trying to explain his practices. It’s old and soft around the edges and was written by a real human. Benze says it was one of the only things he had on his person when he broke for the Zones. The humanity is written in the pages. “Read to me?” He signs slowly, not because it’s something he thinks will help Benze. It might. Maybe even probably will. But it’s something he thinks will help him. Maybe even probably.

Benze’s eyes go wide and startled for a moment when he gets the gist of what Crab is saying. Crab thinks he pieces it together more from the gesture to the book and the asking in his eyes than by the actual words he spells with his hands. That doesn’t bother him. And Benze, after a few moments’ hesitation, leaves his stack of scavenged papers to reach for the book.

“Okay,” he says, not quite a question but nearly there. “…Inside?”

Crab huffs, the lift in his chest just brushing the edge of his lips. He nods, loops an arm around Benzedrine’s shoulders when he turns toward the door to the rest of the station. He starts to pull away when Benze tenses up, but he shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” Benze assures him. “It’s fine. You’re good,” he says, far more casual, loose even, than he’s seemed all day. Maybe the switch has flicked somewhere in that cracked brain of his, and the light is getting in. He glances sideways at Crab and offers a smile. His smile is always a little off. Too wide, not wide enough, too flat, something wrong in his eyes. But it’s genuine. He never smiles unless he means it.

They wind up settling on the ancient, worn-through couch in the lounge, where there’s a faint breeze pushing through the fabric covering a broken window. Crab taps the cover of the book again, drops his head onto Benzedrine’s shoulder and tilts it to look at him expectantly. Benze stares right back, like he always does. The sandstorm’s out of his eyes and now it’s more like that breeze.

Benze starts to read quietly, stilted at first before setting into that natural humming tone. It’s just the introduction, the most human part of the book, the part that talks about promises to be kept, lives to be saved. Crab’s head rests comfortably on the soft slope of Benze’s shoulder and the warmth of him beside him is comfortable, safe. His breathing rasps a little, but the doctor is right here. He’s asleep before Benze gets to the second chapter.

[captain-ultimat-doggo]

Humans entering space and realizing we are so small. We are mice compared to these giant races with their advanced machinery and technologies and experiences beyond us- except that we're humans. And our engineers dive into the new tech and once we learn the principles we also soon realize how Inefficient everything is. Their "microchips" are the size of cars, their storage drives are basically buildings, and they somehow store less data than ours. So, human companies take advantage, and tech starts rolling out. Massive and there's a lot of wasted space so that it can be managed with larger hands/pincers/claws/tentacles, but also so much more efficient than anything the galaxy has seen before.

Human technicians start hopping ships and upkeeping the general maintenance, the stuff that most aliens put off or don't notice because they never access the crevices of their ships. As human companies become more popular and lead the tech world in everything from warp cores to game stations ("it's so compact! How are the graphics so good?" Says a 60' tall grimbleback, holding a new VR headset that has all of its components included because it's so BIG by our tech standards), soon many things have accessibility ports for humans to be able to use as well. This means that these shiprats hoping ship to ship cause such a huge improvement in everything running smoothly, and there's a huge downtick in pests on ships because those "pests" are not only big enough and aggressive enough to bite a pitbull or a person in half, they're invasive to so many planets and humans hate nothing more than dog killing planet overrunning monsters.

All the while, from the Aliens perspective, humans are an elusive race that don't fraternize much with them. You almost never see a human as most places aren't exactly safe for the little things to run around in. They do export so much stuff though, and the custodial staff at the Central Galactic Outpost insists that there's more humans around than any other race if you just know where to look.

And sure it's somewhat known that some of the little daredevils hop ships and help out in exchange for room and board, usually without permission, but that can't be that common, can it?

Maybe your ship is running better this cycle ever since you stopped at the last station, that just means that tuneup was better than you thought. And maybe for some reason that program you were working on last night is finished when you wake up, but you're so tired maybe you finished it before you passed out. Somehow that faulty light in the galley has fixed itself as well, which is odd, but maybe the Engineer finally got to it. You'd know if there was someone else on your ship.

Right?

... You leave a little bowl of berries out as a thank you, just in case. You're not sure what humans like but you've heard they have a sweet tooth.

[notallthoseinheadspace]

The fact that Echo is known as The Responsible One, Killjoy, Tired Parent of The Bad Batch and yet without fail, every time there is absolute fucking chaos in the vicinity the first reaction of the band of madcap frat boys he’s attached himself to is ‘Did Echo do that?’

Echo was with the 501st - Anakin ‘How Many Ways Can This Go Sideways’ Skywalker’s troop, because he impressed Captain Rex and Commander Cody, who are used to riding herd on the craziest Jedi the Order can provide, because the day they met involved blowing up the outpost they were assigned to.

Echo was Rex’s favorite. Echo helped Rex develop plans so good that the enemy had to capture him and drill them out of his head in order to beat.

Echo is chaos incarnate, he’s just tactical about it.

[unsolicited-opinions]

Is Israel a Settler Colonialist State?

The claim is made so often that it's hard to fault people for believing it without much thought. 

Let's first look at what Settler Colonialism is, then look at the facts to see if Israel fits the definition.

What Is Settler Colonialism again…?

It’s a specific term used by historians and theorists (Patrick Wolfe and his whole "logic of elimination" thing). Features of Settler Colonialism include:

Expansionism, claiming land for its mother country/empire (monopole) and shipping natural resources back to the empire.

Foreign settlers move in to violently displace, erase, or replace the indigenous population.

Any other cultures in the land are suppressed or wiped out

Classic examples include: British Australia, French Algeria, Canada, and North America

Let’s see if the case of Israel demonstrates these features.

A Franchisee?

Settler colonialism is usually a franchise model. Some imperial HQ says, “Go forth and colonize!” and ships people over with guns, flags, and an expectation to reap wealth torn from the colonized.

The Zionist movement started as a grassroots effort by Jews who were tired of getting pogromed every other Tuesday. Sure, they got a nod from Britain in the form of the Balfour Declaration, but that’s a long way from imperial orchestration.

(While Britain controlled Palestine under the Mandate, it hardly coddled Zionist aims - especially after the 1939 White Paper, which locked Jews out even as the Holocaust raged. Zionists didn’t march under imperial flags; they were often clashing with them.)

Settler colonialism involves one imperial power shuttling in settlers from a single source. But Jewish immigration to Israel? It came from everywhere: Yemen, Iraq, Morocco, Poland, Russia, Ethiopia, Argentina, Brooklyn…everywhere in the Diaspora.

This wasn’t a colonial outpost of one empire. It was a chaotic, desperate, and diverse ingathering of people trying to survive and rebuild. Half the Jews in Israel today descend from communities that were literally kicked out of Middle Eastern and North African countries.

If it’s settler colonialism, it’s doing it very wrong.

Foreign Settlers?

Settler colonialism usually involves people showing up in a place they have zero connection to and declaring it theirs. Think: Europeans showing up in Australia and telling the Aboriginal peoples, “Nice continent—don’t mind if we do.”

Jews didn’t just randomly pick Israel from a drop-down menu. They’ve had a connection to that land for, oh, 3,000 years or so. Jerusalem isn’t just spiritually significant; it's central. They didn’t have to invent a historical claim—it’s literally baked into their religion, language, and identity. (Quick Hebrew lesson: “Zion” is kind of a giveaway.)

Jews have maintained a continuous presence in the Land of Israel for over 3,000 years, including communities in Jerusalem, Safed, Hebron, and Tiberias, long before modern Zionism emerged.

Calling Jewish return to Israel “settler colonialism” is like calling your grandma a squatter for moving back into her childhood home.

But What About Palestinian Displacement?

Let’s be clear: Yes, during the 1948 war, a large number of Arabs living in Palestine were displaced. That’s a fact, it's not disputable, and it’s not something to brush aside.

This wasn’t, however, some settler-colonial master plan with color-coded maps and a mission to erase or ethnically cleanse non-Jewish peoples.

The early Zionist movement was buying land legally (much of it from absentee Arab landlords) and building farms, schools, and towns. It was a messy nationalist project, like many others in the 20th century. The displacement of Palestinians came not from a blueprint for ethnic cleansing, but from a war. 

The war was launched by neighboring Arab states who made no secret of their goal: to destroy the brand-new Jewish state before it could take its first real breath.

Five Arab armies invaded in 1948, and local Arab leaders, along with the invading forces, told many Palestinian Arabs to temporarily evacuate, assuring them they could return after the Jews were wiped out. 

Things didn't go according to their plans, because Israel survived. 

Historians like Efraim Karsh and Benny Morris document cases where Arab leaders advised evacuation and cases where displacement occurred amid battle. War is brutal, and real people paid the price.

The tragedy is real, but so is the context. The war wasn’t started by Israel. It was a war of survival that Israel fought while vastly outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded.

And here’s a twist that is usually ignored in modern retellings:

The term Nakba - which today refers almost exclusively to Palestinian displacement, originally meant something else.

In 1948, Arab intellectuals like Constantin Zureiq used “Nakba,” meaning "catastrophe," not to mourn Palestinian suffering, but to describe the colossal failure of the Arab world to crush Israel. In his own words: “The defeat of the Arabs in Palestine is not a small downfall. It is a catastrophe in every sense of the word.”

The shame wasn’t just about lost land—it was about how a supposedly mighty Arab and Islamic world failed to destroy a state of Holocaust survivors and refugees.

The original "Nakba" was about that failure, not the displacement narrative that would emerge decades later.

History is a lot more complicated than hashtags suggest.

But Israel Sought to Wipe Out Local Culture, right?

If Zionism had been a settler colonial project, you'd expect to see that. Settler colonial regimes tend to come in hot with cultural carpet bombing: banning languages, crushing customs, bulldozing identities.

Israel? Not so much. Israel has official protections for Christian, Muslim, Druze, and Baháʼí religious sites. Ever heard of the “status quo” agreements? They govern holy sites like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Unlike classic settler-colonial cases like the US, Canada, or Australia where indigenous languages, religions, and identities were suppressed, Israel recognizes Arabic as an official language, protects Muslim and Christian holy sites, and integrates minorities into public life with equal legal rights for all citizens.

Is the situation always perfect? No. Does Israel have a Ministry of Culture Death? Also no.

But Israel stripped the land of its natural resources in the name of their imperial project and destroyed the ecology of the land!

First, there was no empire, no monopole to ship anything to because (again) Israel was not the outpost of a foreign empire - it was a desperate refuge for Jews fleeing pogroms, fascism, and a genocide which had wiped out a third of their people. 

Second, what natural resources could they have stripped the land of? Mandate Palestine was not known for its abundant natural treasures. Oil? Nope. Gold? Nada. Fertile, easily farmed land? Not much.

What Zionists did find was malaria, swamps, desert, and the occasional Ottoman tax ledger. The region was, in the words of Samuel Clemens (AKA Mark Twain), "a desolate country whose soil is rich enough, but is given over wholly to weeds."

Not exactly a paradise ripe for exploitation.

Here's a twist: rather than destroying the ecology, Israel has spent 75 years rebuilding it. The country has planted over 240 million trees, turning arid hills green and reversing desertification. Israel pioneered drip irrigation - watering crops with scientific precision to conserve every drop. It recycles nearly 90% of its wastewater (second place is Spain at about 30%). The Negev Desert is now home to solar farms, sustainable agriculture, and research centers where scientists grow cherry tomatoes in saltwater and build fish farms in sand.

Israel’s environmental stewardship of the land is so advanced that experts have come from Africa, South America, and India to partner with Israeli experts to tackle their own climate challenges. If this is what settler-colonial ecological destruction looks like, the planet could use a bit more of it.

So no, Israel isn’t extracting the land’s bounty and mailing it to a mythical European mothership. It’s been reclaiming wasteland, reforesting hills, and creating the most efficient water system in the world. And it did all that while fighting seven wars and inventing the USB stick. Not bad for a country the size of New Jersey.

It's a Colonial Struggle!!

It’s a nationalist conflict, not a colonial one. Two peoples - Jewish and Palestinian - with deep historic ties to the same land, both claiming national self-determination. That’s tragic, painful, and hard to resolve. But it’s not the same as a bunch of white Europeans setting up a Starbucks on someone else’s sacred mountain.

Trying to squeeze this conflict into the settler colonial box doesn’t make it clearer—it flattens it. It erases Jewish history and Palestinian suffering in one fell swoop.

History Deserves Better Than Hashtags

Calling Israel a "settler colonial state" might feel like a tidy moral label, but history is messier than slogans. The story is way more complex than “colonizer vs. colonized.” It’s about trauma, return, identity, nationalism, war, and a shitload of of mistakes along the way by all parties involved.

But if you want to understand it, really understand it, you’ve got to ditch the buzzwords and look at the footnotes, because the truth won’t always fit in a meme.

Aforementioned Footnotes:

Wolfe, Patrick. Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 2006.

https://www.kooriweb.org/foley/resources/pdfs/89.pdf

Veracini, Lorenzo. Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview. Palgrave Macmillan, 2010.

https://link.springer.com/book/10.1057/9780230299191

Bickerman, Elias. From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees. Schocken Books, 1962.

https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.59581

Biblical and archaeological records compiled in Israel

Finkelstein & Neil Asher Silberman, The Bible Unearthed, Free Press, 2001.

https://archive.org/details/bibleunearthedar0000fink/page/n5/mode/2up

Anita Shapira, Israel: A History (Harvard University Press): https://www.hup.harvard.edu/books/9780674047426

Jewish National Fund archives of land acquisition documents.

https://archives.cjh.org/repositories/3/resources/19702

Historical Aliyah data

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/total-immigration-to-israel-by-country-per-year

Protection of Holy Places Law, 1967

https://www.bu.edu/mzank/Jerusalem/tx/lawofholyplaces1967.htm

Shapira, Anita. Yosef Hayim Brenner: A Life. Stanford University Press, 2014.

(Documents Jewish labor ethos and rejection of exploitative structures)

https://archive.org/details/yosefhaimbrenner0000shap

On the Nakba

Benny Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited:

https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300126969/the-birth-of-the-palestinian-refugee-problem-revisited/

Efraim Karsh, Palestine Betrayed:

https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1npnkg

Efraim Karsh, 1948, Israel, and the Palestinians – the True Story, Middle East Quarterly (2008)

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/258996946_1948_Israel_and_the_Palestinians_-_The_True_Story

Constantin Zureiq, Ma'na al-Nakba (1948):

https://archive.org/details/zurayk-nakba

_____

If you want to argue with this in the replies, please do- but bring receipts.

[andorsdoll]

Like A Vow || Cassian Andor x Reader

Summary: You’re reckless. He pretends not to be. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But Cassian Andor notices everything—especially you.

Word Count: 2.8k || Warnings: coworkers to lovers, super soft angst, smut at the very end, cassian is so tired but so in love, rough sex, oral(f recieving), p-in-v(unprotected), creampie, etc.,

Author's Note: First ever smut in my 20 something years of living and of course I choose Cassian for this. Are there any Cass stans out there? 🥲 Feel like nobody ever talks about him but he's so important to me. After this fic, I'll probably take a breather as I don't really have much else planned besides a few messy drafts. Anyways, if there's a single Cassian lover out there who reads this and enjoys it, it'd make my heart absolutely soar. Thx 4 reading, everybody!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

You weren’t expecting a warm welcome.

The Rebellion didn’t deal in courtesies. Every outpost, every mission—it was about efficiency, survival, and who was still standing at the end of the day. But still, you were expecting something more than this.

Cassian Andor doesn’t even look at you when you step into the command tent, at first. He finishes reading whatever’s on the datapad in his hand, brows furrowed, jaw set tight. You wonder if this is just how he always looks—on edge and bracing for impact. When he does look up, it hits you like a punch to the stomach. He looks at you like you’re a problem. Like you’ve already made a mistake by being here.

It’s the first thing you notice. Not his sharp jawline, not the rough stubble shadowing his face, not even the way he stands—feet planted, arms crossed, every muscle taut with something unreadable.

No, the first thing you notice is the weight of his gaze. Suspicion. Guarded. Calculating.

They had sent you here with little explanation—assist Captain Andor, integrate into the missions, follow his orders—but no one warned you that he’d look at you like this. Like he’s waiting for you to prove him right. You press your lips together. You were clearly not the ally he was hoping for. Tightening your grip on the strap of your bag, you speak for the first time, "You think I'm a liability."

Cassian’s steady gaze stays on you. “I think I don’t know you.” His eyes sweep over you, assessing. “But you’re not easy to trust.”

You've heard that before, from officers who kept one hand on their blaster and the other one ready to push you out of the way. From commanders who never let you forget what you used to be before the Rebellion.

You take a step closer, letting the fire in you flare just a little. “Guess you’ll just have to keep an eye on me then.”

Cassian’s jaw tightens. But he doesn’t step back. Though he doesn’t say anything after that.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

Weeks later on a mission, your boots are soaked through and the wind cuts sharper than it has any right to. You’ve been through worse—nights sleeping under damp tarps, mornings where frost settled into your boots before you could even lace them. But something about tonight’s cold sinks straight to your bones.

Now you’re standing in the cold pretending it doesn’t bother you. And Cassian notices. Of course he does.

He shrugs off his coat and tosses it at you with a flick of his wrist. You blink down at it, then back up at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m—”

“Put it on.”

His voice is firm, but not unkind. Like he’s made a decision and arguing won’t change it. Annoyingly, that tone of his sends heat straight to your core, even as your breath fogs in the freezing air.

You stare at him a beat longer, breath puffing out white clouds, before exhaling sharply and sliding the coat over your shoulders. It smells like blaster oil and heat and the weight of him—sharp, worn, unmistakably Cassian.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

It takes a few days to make it to the next fallback point. The terrain is rough, the weather brutal, and morale is low. But it’s Cassian you’re watching. He’s quieter. He won’t look at you for long. He barely speaks unless it’s to give an order. And somehow that grates on you more than all the orders he’s ever given.

The fourth night, after yet another bare-bones meal for dinner, you slip away from the firepit and follow the faint sound of water. You find him standing knee-deep in the river, arms tense, shoulders bare under the moonlight. Cassian turns when he hears you. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says.

“So are you.”

He doesn’t argue. You glance at the bruises across his ribs. The streaks of ash on his jaw and the ripple of tension he always wears on it like armor. “You’re hurt,” you say softly.

His gaze flicks to your arm, still bandaged. “So are you.”

You step into the river without thinking. The water is cold, biting at your skin, but you keep going until you’re close enough to reach for him. Your fingers skim over his shoulder, across a bruise forming high on his chest.

Cassian exhales, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Then—soft, almost careful—“Don’t move.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t have to. His skin is warm under your palms, your gaze observes his face when he drags you a little closer. Your thumb traces a cut along his jaw. But, he catches your wrist. And then his lips brush the inside of your wrist, so lightly you could lie to yourself and say it was nothing.

“Cassian…” you whisper.

He stays quiet. He doesn't kiss you, even though deep down you want him to. Just presses in—closer than before—close enough to catch your breath, and stays there. And in the silence, only the night answers back.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The next mission isn’t long, but it’s long enough for you to notice the way Cassian's eyes feel on you when you’re not looking. Enough for you to realize what’s been holding him back isn’t doubt but worry. Not about you. For you.

You’re crouched behind a low ridge one night, surveying a mining compound, and you can feel the air between you charged and tight.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

“I’m thinking,” Cassian says.

“About?”

“Extraction routes.”

You glance at him. “Liar.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just says, “You’re not easy to ignore.”

You blink, then look back toward the compound. You don’t answer—just let the corner of your mouth lift, and hope he catches it.

“You’re reckless,” he says after a moment.

You huff a quiet breath. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but you’re new.”

“Yeah, but I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he says after a pause. “You’re not.”

You watch him from the side. “Are you always like this with new people?”

“I usually don’t care about new people.”

You go still. Cassian’s eyes flick toward you. “I notice everything. You should know that by now.”He stands up, lingering just a little bit closer.

That night, you patch up a graze on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush skin. He watches you with his jaw tense like always.

When you’re done, he says, “Thank you,” and your chest aches with the effort of pretending it means nothing. But you’re both pretending. And the cracks are starting to show.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The mission’s gone sideways in too many directions, and you're running out of clean shots and clean exits. But what gets under your skin isn’t the enemy fire, it’s the way Cassian keeps pushing ahead like you’re not right there beside him.

You cover him. Twice. He doesn’t acknowledge it. Just reloads and barks for you to move faster.

By the time you reach the rendezvous point, your heart’s hammering, your thigh’s bleeding, and your patience is gone. “I had that angle,” you snap as you duck behind a crate.

“No, you didn’t,” he fires back, checking the charge on his blaster. “You hesitated.”

“I was covering you.”

“I didn’t need covering.”

The tension crackles as loud as the blaster fire behind you. You don’t look at each other, you don’t have to. The frustration between you is too sharp, too close to something else.

Later, back at the safehouse, frustration follows you both in. He slams the door harder than necessary. You drop the intel onto the table harder than you should.

You don’t speak. But it’s all sitting there, tight in your chest, waiting to blow and the silence between the two of you gets heavier by the second.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The mission went to hell. Again.

Cassian’s bleeding from his lip, your boots are caked in dust, and the intel package you weren’t supposed to have is now sitting in your bag—because you grabbed it first. He didn’t.

“I had it handled,” he snaps as you storm into the safehouse. “You didn’t have to blow our cover.”

You rip off your gloves. “You were pinned with a blaster at your neck. Forgive me for improvising.”

“You didn’t listen,” Cassian growls, flinging his arm out like he’s one second from losing it. “I told you to wait for my signal!”

You toss your gloves to the floor, scoffing. “You would’ve been dead if I had, Captain.” Your voice cuts—sharp and aimed to hit.

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

You step in, a bit closer, voice steady. "No. I know I am.”

And then he breaks, finally. One second of silence and he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to shut you up, like it’s the only way left to speak or reason with you. It's everything that’s been coiled tight between you two breaking loose all at once.

His hand grabs the back of your neck, anchoring you just before you’re slammed against the wall, breath knocked from your lungs, his mouth crashing into yours like he’s done pretending. Fingers in your hair, body pressed tight to yours, his lips trailing fire down your jaw and neck, every inch of space, gone.

“You don’t think. You act," He reprimands while he keeps trailing down, suckling, "Like you’re not mine to worry about,” he mutters against your skin.

“I’m not yours—” A moan from your lips cuts you off before you can finish when his mouth finds the curve of your neck and lingers there, sucking slow and deep until the skin heats beneath his tongue and you know it’s going to mark.

“You’re just pissed,” you breathe, thinking maybe this is fury, maybe it’s impulse, maybe it’s everything all at once.

“I’m in love with you,” he bites out. “It’s the same thing.”

Cassian’s chest rises fast against yours. He doesn’t pull back. You try to say something. Anything. But your voice falters again, and all that comes out is breath.

He reads that like a signal. One second you’re standing, the next he grips your thighs and lifts you, carrying you across the room with staggering purpose. You barely register the room spinning around you before your back hits the cot, frame creaking beneath the weight of your bodies.

He’s hovering over you, the heat radiating off of him. His breath, hands, mouth, are all over you like he’s making up for every second he had to wait.

His hands are rough where they want to be, but loving where they linger. He shoves your shirt up, palms your breasts, thumbs working slow circles until you arch into him. He strips you down fast, dragging your pants off with a growl, and you can barely think while you undress him too.

His mouth trails along your stomach, down your thighs, and when you whimper, when your hips lift instantly for him—he presses you down with both hands.

Steady. In control. Maddening.

His eyes drop—and for a moment, he just stares. Like the sight alone took the breath from him. His mouth parts, jaw slack, eyes glazed with something close to awe. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost like it wasn’t meant to come out. “Look at you…”

He lowers himself again, breath warm against your thigh, lips ghosting over your skin as he settles between your legs. His tongue starts slow and focused. You gasp as his tongue begins to lap up every bit of your slick. And when you moan this time, it's his name. But it sounds like a plead and it only makes him hungrier.

He devours you like he’s starving. Like he hasn’t tasted anything real since the war started. Like you’re the first thing that’s made him feel full in a long time.

His tongue moves slow at first with long, deliberate strokes from bottom to top, savoring every drop like it’s keeping him alive. Then faster, more focused, the flat of his tongue dragging over your clit with maddening precision, again and again, until your hips jerk under his mouth. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks through your spine.

And when you're gasping, legs trembling, everything unraveling, you fist your hand in his hair and yank. His head lifts fast at that. He's looking at you with heavy lidded eyes, his lips glistening, chin wet. He’s drenched in you, mouth parted like he’s still tasting you. The look in his eyes is wrecked and ravished, like if you gave him one more second down there, he’d never come back up.

But you don’t give him the chance. You tug him higher, guide him with shaking hands. He groans when your fingers wrap around his length as you angle your hips and drag him toward where you need him most.

And then, he sinks in slow and deep.

When he finally bottoms out, his eyes are searching your face like he’s afraid he imagined it. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glazing over with pleasure—you look like everything he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

“Feels like..” he whispers, voice shaking. “Feels like you were made for me"

He pulls out slow—torturously slow—and then thrusts back in hard, with a sharp snap of his hips and you break open beneath him, undone and unfiltered.

Your breath’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, but you still manage to say his name—barely audible, but a tantric prayer. He says yours in return, like a vow, like it's the only thing grounding him.

The cot rocks beneath you with every thrust, steady and relentless. Cassian's hands stay locked onto your waist while he fucks into you like he’s making up for every second he had to pretend this wasn’t real. Every thrust gets rougher, deeper, like he wants to live inside you.

You’re already close, the pressure building fast. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath catching on every thrust. “Cassian—”

He groans when you say his name like that, desperate and broken. His hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit without hesitation, firm and focused. “I’ve got you,” he rasps. “Come for me.”

And this time, when he gives a command, it’s not like the others. Not barked out in the field, not clipped and tactical. This one’s just for you, just for now.

And you obey. It hits hard—your whole body arching, clenching around him, mouth open in a moan you can’t even bite back. He watches you fall apart like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. Like he’d die to make it happen again.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight" he mutters, voice unraveling. You grab his face and make him look at you. “Finish inside me.”

His jaw clenches, like he’s trying to hold it together. “You want me to?” He asks, looking down at you, so fucking beautiful, afraid that wanting it this much might break him.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. And that's all it takes for Cassian to let out a low, guttural groan while his rhythm falters. His hips snap forward once, twice, then he buries himself deep, gasping your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

He stays there, buried deep, breathing like he doesn’t want to leave this version of himself. One of your legs is still wrapped around his waist, trembling but holding him in place, like neither of you are ready to let go.

You can feel him still inside you—thick, spent, warm. His release already starting to leak out of you and around him, sticky and slow between your thighs.

“You’re reckless,” he mutters. Though it sounds like affection when he says it this time.

You hum against his skin. “So are you."

And still, he doesn’t move.

The room is quiet but the soft sounds of the cold night outside echo. The wind, the faint hum of crickets, and the distant rustle of leaves. It all feels far away. Like nothing exists outside this cot, this breath, this moment.

Afterward, when you’re trembling and tucked into his chest, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him. He feels solid, quiet, and safer than anywhere you’ve been in a long time.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, almost shy. “I didn’t mean that thing I said earlier… about not being yours.”

He kisses your temple. “I know.”

[thebubblesareevil]

Who’s the bad guy here, really?

(This is pretty rushed, but I completely forgot about this and didn't want to abandon it. Hope you like it)

Danny was tired.

It had been 3 months since he ran away from home and joined the league…well technically he joined the JR league. Apparently, once the league realized he was actually a 15 year old, they decided that MAYBE they shouldn't have him fighting Bizarro on his own.

Danny didn’t get it, but they got him enrolled in school and made sure he wouldn’t miss too many classes so that was a bonus.

That was about a month ago and Danny was certain the main team was mad at him for lying about being a half ghost. He thought he made some real friends before they moved him to the Jr squad, but no one was answering him.

Any hero that DID answer him always gave the same excuse.

“I’m sorry Danny, I’d love to hang out but we have to deal with this new villain duo!”

What’s worse is that any enquiry about the so-called villains was greeted with nervous glances and swift retreats.

(Danny was sure there were no new villain, the team would have heard about them by now)

The team did their best to cheer him after every evasion, but it really wasn't helping.

He did this to himself, but that was fine. His family was safe and that's all that mattered.

Three months ago, the GIW launched an all out war against phantom in amity park. Anyone that was suspected of having anything to do with ghosts was taken in for questioning and wouldn't come back for days. They even started to get aggressive towards his parents after they started advocating for Phantom.

So Danny did the only thing he could.

He left, as publicly as possible, Danny ran away from the only home he had ever known to protect his family.

And now his friends had ditched him because he lied.

Danny felt like shit.

---------

"This is the third attack on a League base in 2 weeks." Batman said sternly to the heroes surrounding the table. He pressed a button.

A holograph appeared over the table depicting 2 Villains carrying large weapons, destroying everything in their wake. The 2 were incredibly resilient. The larger of the two was taking hits from wildcat and the smaller tossed canary across the room, completely ignoring her screams.

Both had been stationed at the outpost to guard against these exact 2 villains, and both were still recovering.

Their threat level was raised, now it was their turn to step in.

-------

Danny dragged himself out of bed as he got up early for training. He heard a knock at the door.

"Come in." He shouted as he put on his shirt.

Conner walked in, scowling as he saw some of the scars littering Danny's chest.

"You ready? We're training with Batman today."

Danny scoffed. "Ready? No. No one's ready for Batman, I am excited though.

The two headed towards the dining room to eat before training when suddenly the alarms blared. They rushed to the comm room, meeting up with M'gann on the way.

"What's going on?!" She asked, bracing herself as the base shook.

"No idea, whatever it is its not good."

As they rushed into the comm room they greeted by the sight of a woman fighting hand to hand with Batman. Superman was on the floor covered in green goop while a large man was getting ready to toss Green Arrow across the room.

The teens stood in shock. Though only one spoke.

Well, maybe spoke wasn't the right word.

"MOM?!?!? DAD?!?!" Danny yelled.

The man spun around suddenly, casually tossing green arrow across the room.

"DANNO!!! MADDIE ITS DANNY!!!"

The man raced over, only to be cut off by the Flash blocking his path.

"Danny, run! We'll hold them off, just get out of here!"

Danny stood there dumbfounded.

His dad on the other hand, wasn't.

"You stay away from my son you damn creep!" He shouted as the Flash charged him, somehow not noticing the man pull out...a baseball bat?

Danny winced as flash got hit with the Fenton anti-creep stick.

"Dad! Stop! They're my friends!" He tried to placate his dad.

"Friends don't convince you to run away from home to join a cult!" He then noticed the other two teens. "Holy Fudge! MADDIE THERES MORE KIDS!!!" He shouted as his wife held off the creep from Gotham.

"Dad! The League didn't make me leave! And it isn't a cult!"

This made the man pause.

"I left to protect you guys! The GIW was gonna come for you, so I led them away! I only joined the league so I could keep helping people!" Danny yelled.

The orange-clad man stopped, giving his son a sad look.

"It's not your job to protect us son, it's our job to protect you." He said picking his son up and wrapping him in a bear hug.

Conner just stood there confused as M'gann clapped and grinned out the outcome.

"Now can you tell mom to stop trying to mace Batman?" Danny asked when his dad put him down. The two turned to the fighting duo.

"Let's give them 5 more minutes. Your mom hasn't had this much fun since she ditched that cult in Asia."

(Feel free to take this idea and run with it. I like the idea that the fentons are a force of nature that defies explanation..but Maddie definitely stole their early ecto samples from the lazarus pit)

[tallulah477]

Hunting the Tawtute

Kinktober Day 19: Threesome

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader x Lo’ak

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, AgedUp!Lo’ak, Dark!Neteyam, Dark!Lo’ak, ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Primal Kink (Hunter/Prey Kink), Oral (female receiving and male receiving), P in V, Fingering, Handjob, Breath Play, Dirty Talk, Size Difference, Belly Bulge, Alien Genitalia, Slight Knife Play, Multiple Orgasms, Bukkake, Hair Pulling, Slight Humiliation, Slight Thigh Riding, Knots/Knot Play (but no actual knotting), Marking Kink/Biting

Word Count: 5.4K (of pure self-indulgent fantasy)

A/N: I don’t even know what to say about this. This one kinda like so fucking much got away from me. It’s like I went crazy, blacked out, and this happened. Hopefully some of you guys will like it too as much as I liked writing it.

Summary: When the Omatikaya raid an RDA outpost, you just barely escape the carnage with your life. You're stumbling through the forest when they find you, and the dark grins on their faces make shivers run down your spine. You try to run, but they’ll catch you - they’re little beautiful prey. 

Extra: Pretty, But Not Stupid

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS - DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ**

Translations:

Tawtute -  Human

Mountain Banshee - Large, dragon-like aerial predators

Sevin - Pretty

Vrrtep - Demon

Paskalin - Sweet Berry (term of endearment)

The ground is shaking underneath you as you run, booming with the force of the explosions and gunfire racking the now nonexistent RDA outpost. You can still hear the screaming, both war cries and cries of terror, echoing through the forest as your tired legs carry you further and further away. 

You’re gasping for breath, heart feeling like it's going to pound out of your chest as you sob. You hated the RDA, they were mostly all power hungry assholes anyway, but some people in the outpost were good - innocent people who fled Earth just to get away from the horror there, only to be met with a fate possibly crueler here. All the cooks, cleaners, and medical professionals who just wanted a chance - all dead within minutes of the start of the emergency alarm that blared through the base. If not by the explosions, then currently being picked off without mercy by the Na’vi. 

You’re lucky to even be alive right now. 

You shake your head, trying to ignore how your heavy, panicked breathing is fogging up your mask and how you can barely see through your tears. You need to keep going. You can’t think about it now. Can’t think about the carnage you're running from and the people you’re leaving behind. You need to find safety. 

You run a little further, trying not to trip on any more upturned roots. You fell over one a little ways back, and your ankle protests the more weight you put on it, but the fear of being found and killed keeps you going. You quickly round another tree and stop, bracing your hand on the bark of the massive trunk and lifting your hurt ankle up a bit just to relieve the pressure for a moment. Your eyes hurriedly scan the area, trying to keep an eye out for danger you wouldn’t even be able to defend yourself against. Even if you did have some kind of a weapon (which you don’t, you barely had enough time to sprint away with your life as it was, let alone grab any kind of form of defense), you wouldn’t be able to win against the strength and prowess of one of the natives anyway.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips when your eye catches movement a few trees down from you. There’s a male Na’vi standing there, long braids still swinging around his shoulders from his abrupt movement, and he has an arrow notched and pulled back, strong muscles and chest bulging behind the bow as he steadies the arrow - the arrow that’s pointed directly at you. 

“Wait!” You yell, hands instinctively coming up to protect your face as if they could ever stop the Na’vi sized arrow. “Wait! Please, don’t shoot!”

The male stops, curious amber eyes locked on your trembling figure, and to your complete shock, he lowers the arrow. Why isn’t he killing you? The Na’vi kill humans on sight, they don’t hesitate. You should have been dead the second he saw you. But you’re not. He lowered his arrow, and for a brief moment relief and hope flood your chest. 

“I mean you no harm,” You call, voice shaking. “Please, don’t k-kill me,”

The male tilts his head at you and you watch cautiously as he puts his bow away, reattaching it to his back, before reaching up to touch his throat. From this distance you can just see the outline of a necklace. A throat comm, you think. He has his fingers pressed against the buttons and you can’t hear what he’s saying, but you see his lips moving as he talks to whoever is on the other line. 

A dark smirk curls at his lips as he speaks. He’s looking directly at you and whatever hope you had disappears as dread fills your entire being. 

You are going to die. 

You can’t stay here, staying still even as he’s watching you is a risk. If you’re going to die, you’re at least going to go down trying to live. 

You turn to run, making it just a few steps away from the tree before the canopy bursts above you, a roaring shriek piercing your ears as a large blue and purple mountain banshee descends down towards the forest floor. You scream, falling back on your ass as the dragon-like animal lands just feet from you, the wind from its strong wings beating over your body and making your hair whip around your face.

The banshee’s rider descends from its back, landing on the ground with a thud and disconnecting his neural queue from the animal. He stalks towards you, golden eyes gleaming behind a few loose braids falling in front of them, and he grins, long pointed canines biting into his bottom lip.

“Where you running to, sevin tawtute?”

With another terrified sob, you scramble to your feet. The second Na’vi’s low chuckle, despite being fairly quiet, rings loudly in your ears, and you can hear the footsteps of the first’s getting closer and closer to you each second. 

“Don’t do it,” The second warns, and you don’t even have the mental capacity to realize that he’s speaking to you in English. You’re already spinning and darting away in the opposite direction. 

You run as fast as you can through the dense Pandorian forest. They’re chasing you, you can hear their footsteps pounding against the forest floor behind you. They mock you, first just making quick yipping and whooping calls, communicating with each other in a way you would never even begin to understand. And then they switch to your language.

“Better run faster, human!”

“Getting tired already, baby?”

“Can you feel my breath on the back of your pretty neck?”

“We’re going to get you!”

Your sobs get louder, terrified as you try to push yourself harder. They sound so close, like they’re right behind you, like they could just reach out and grab you. But they don’t. They’re playing with you. They’re faster than you, their legs significantly longer than yours and more adept at running and navigating the forest terrain. They’re letting you keep going on purpose, finding glee in your terror and enjoyment in chasing their prey. 

Your ankle is aching, pain shooting from the twisted limb, and your running is quickly turning into panicked hobbling. You can’t do it anymore. Can’t do it - they’re going to get you. Without thinking, you dive under a slightly uprooted tree - the tilt of the base giving you just enough room to crawl under the trunk, thick roots caging you in and separating you from the two male Na’vi. 

The second you make it through, there’s a burst of movement as the long haired male slides in front of the opening, long arm sticking through the roots and reaching for you. You whimper when his fingers brush your mask and you try to scoot yourself further back against the dirt, but there isn’t much room. 

“Come out of there,” He says, voice soft like he’s trying to coax you out, but the underlining reverb of a growl taints the attempt. “It’s dangerous under there,”

“Yes, tawtute,” The other says, long legs visible from behind his brother’s upper body. “Much safer out here with us,”

You can’t help the anger and frustration that wells inside you as you hear the absolute lie they are trying to tell you. 

“Bullshit,” You spit.

The long haired male removes his reaching arm and peers at you through the roots, eyes alight with mirth. “Oh, you hear that, brother? Our little vrrtep has a mouth on her,”

The other male chuckles and squats down to peer at you through your self imposed cage. “And what a pretty mouth it is. Can’t wait to see what else it can do,”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. That sounded . . . suggestive. That couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like, right?

“What do you say, sevin? Want your gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock?” He asks, playful fingers lifting up the front of his loincloth slightly as if to tease you. And then, suddenly, there’s a new fear taking over. 

They don’t want to catch you to kill you - they want you. 

“My name is Lo’ak,” He continues, lifting his hand from his loincloth to wiggle his fingers at you in greeting. Five fingers, you notice. “You know, just so you know what to scream out later when I’m fucking you,”

More tears well up in your eyes, cascading down your flushed cheeks. “P-please. Don’t hurt m-me,” You beg, wide eyes pleading with the large blue men holding you hostage to show you mercy. “I’ll leave! I promise! You’ll never see me again,”

“She begs so beautifully already,” The other male says, nudging his brother’s arm. “She’s gonna sound so good when she’s crying in pleasure. Go ahead and try it out for me, paskalin. Let me hear you say it: Neteyam,”

Neteyam looks at her expectantly, golden green eyes dark from where his pupils have nearly completely taken over. 

“Fuck you,” You hiss. You try to put as much malice and ferocity in your words as you can muster, but Neteyam only grins at your curse.

“Yeah, tawtute. That’s the idea,”

Lo’ak suddenly moves, shifting over to the side of the tree and you panic at the abrupt movement, scrambling over and pressing your back against the roots on the opposite side just to be as far from him as possible. 

“Come on out, baby,” He purrs, eyes hooded as he stares at you. “Don’t you want to take a ride? Feel some big alien cock in your pretty, tiny pussy?”

You open your mouth again to shoot some more choice expletives at him, but all that comes out is a scream when the roots behind you rip and a large hand grips at your hair, dragging your body from its hiding spot and into the dimming light of the forest.

Neteyam hauls you up on your feet, fist tangled in your hair keeping you from running and grabs one of your swinging arms, pinning it behind your back. Lo’ak steps in front of you, tall and imposing at nearly twice your height, but you still try to fight, fight for your life and your freedom, and your hand smacks as hard as it can against his hip.

It doesn’t do anything to him obviously, you’re not even sure if he felt it, but all the fight leaves you in an instant when the large knife the size of your forearm waves in your face.

“You’re gonna be a good girl for us now, okay?” He says, tapping the glass of your mask with the tip of his knife as if he were trying to boop your nose. The tip of the knife travels down your neck, over your collarbone, and towards the center of your chest. If you were able to think correctly, you would be amazed at the control he has over the blade to not let it cut you despite your chest heaving with your frantic breathing. “Stay still now,”

The knife travels towards the valley between your breasts, taking the neck of your t-shirt with it and pulling it down and down until Lo’ak just cleanly slices through the whole front of it. Neteyam releases your arm now that you're not fighting against them anymore, but still keeps a firm grip on your hair. The ruined shirt slips from your shoulders and Lo’ak brings the knife back up to hook underneath the band of your bra, slicing through the material like it was paper and pushing the remnants of that off of your body as well. 

“Such a pretty little thing,” He muses, running the flat of the blade across one of your exposed breasts, the cool metal making you shiver as it presses against your heated skin. Lo’ak twists the knife and places the very tip of it at your nipple. The sharp edge makes you gasp, the bud starting to harden immediately at the feeling and you can’t help but feel mortified when you feel wetness pool in your panties. 

Lo’ak’s nose twitches, a wicked grin pulling at his lips as his large amber eyes catch yours, but it’s Neteyam that digs the metaphorical knife deeper, furthering your humiliation and making your face burn.

“Aw, is the cute little tawtute getting wet for us? We can smell you,” Neteyam laughs, dragging your head back further so he can get a good look at your face. “Look, brother. Look how flushed she’s getting,”

“You think that flush is going all the way down here?” Lo’ak asks, the tip of the knife leaving your nipple to tease your clit over your shorts.

“Rip them off and find out,” Neteyam suggests, and you start to wriggle again in his unrelenting grasp. 

“Wait!” You shout. Your neck is still craned up towards the sky, so you only feel rather than see Lo’ak undo your button and zipper. “Wait, please. I’ll do anything,”

“Yeah,” Neteyam agrees, looking down at your pleading face. His fingers latch onto one of your hard nipples and pulls on it, eliciting a sharp gasp from your plump lips. “You will,”

In an instant, Lo’ak yanks your shorts and panties down and Neteyam moves behind you to kneel on the forest floor, one knee pressing into the ground while the other acts as a stabilizer, foot flat against the ground. Neteyam’s grip on your hair is released as he grabs you by your hips instead, pulling you up to sit on his thigh, bare pussy pressing against the bulging muscles. 

The feeling of his muscles tensing under you makes more heat pool in your stomach, and your pussy is wet and sticky already as you squirm against him. Your legs fall on either side of his and even with him kneeling your feet still can’t touch the ground, toes just barely brush against the grass and only if you’re actually stretching to reach it. But the additional stretch just makes you push your cunt harder against his thigh and you whimper, not knowing what to do or how to move.

Neteyam wraps a restraining arm around your chest, trapping one of your arms under his and grabbing onto your other bicep, his large hand practically spanning the entirety of your upper arm and pinning it down. His other hand moves up to his mouth, long middle finger sliding between his lips, licking the long digit and pulling it out when it’s wet and glistening in the setting sunlight. He brings his wet finger to your core, dipping it between your folds and circling your clit. 

“So wet already, tawtute,” He whispers, lips brushing against the curve of your ear.

You whimper as he rubs you, dipping his finger down lower to gather more of your wetness and dragging it back up to tease small circles around your pulsing nub. When his fingers trail down again, it's to press at your entrance, and you can’t help the whiny moan that escapes you as his finger slips easily inside your leaking hole.

Lo’ak’s been watching you this whole time, crouching down to get a good, clear look at your glistening pink cunt, and the sight of his brother’s finger sliding inside of you prompts him to have some fun of his own. He stands, fingers moving quickly to untie his loincloth, the material loosening and sliding down his legs, flittering to the ground below him.  

You’re distracted, Neteyam’s finger is rubbing against your gummy walls, sliding in and out effortlessly while his thumb plays with your clit, so you don’t realize what’s so wrong with Lo’ak’s body until he’s directly in front of you - naked pelvis and even more naked center only a foot away from your face. 

Your eyes widen as you look at it, confusion written all over your face as you stare at the empty, flat space where his member should be. Lo’ak laughs at the bewildered look on your face and Neteyam mouths at your shoulder to hide his own grin. 

“Don’t worry, pretty girl,” Lo’ak says. “I’ve got plenty of cock for you. It’s just hidden. I’ll get it out for you since you're a little tied up.”

His fingers reach down to rub at the empty space and you watch in fascinated awe as he plays down there, fingers pressing in harder and sliding against the hidden slit you hadn’t seen before. His fingers dip inside, eyes closing in pleasure for a moment before they flick back open, sultry hooded orbs locked on your own. 

“What the f–ahh!” You cry, eyes squeezing shut, back arching in pleasure against Neteyam as another of his fingers pushes inside you. They’re long enough on their own, the combined thickness enough to feel like a cock inside you already. 

When your eyes open again, they lock immediately on what’s happening between Lo’ak’s legs. There’s something poking out from the slit and it takes your scared and pleasure hazed brain way too long to realize it’s his cock. It’s just the head peeking out, the mushroomed lavender tip like a bright, slick beacon between his dark blue thighs. He grins when your mouth falls open at the sight, fingers dipping back into his wet slit and pulling out another inch.

Every inch of his cock has your eyes widening, the long and hard length now fully unsheathed and bumping against his belly. Blue skin and even darker stripes litter the shaft, small bioluminescent freckles scatter towards the top and lead to the light purple tip. A fleeting thought has you thinking it's pretty, the colors blending in beautifully with one another, but when you see the textured bumps decorating the entire length, the panic hits you again.

“Let me go!” You scream, fighting against Neteyam’s hold, but hold is firm. “It won’t fit! You can’t! It won’t fit!”

“That’s why we have to stretch you out first,” Neteyam mutters, mouth pressed against your shoulder. His third finger nudges at your entrance and you stop breathing when it pushes against your already stuffed hole. The stretch is intense, your small body struggling to take the invasion as his long finger pushes in beside the others. His thumb rubs lovingly at your clit, distracting you from the stretch and working up the pressure starting to build in your belly. 

Lo’ak strokes at his cock, shuffling forward until the weeping tip of it is inches from your face. 

“You wanna taste it?” He asks, his other hand gripping onto the bottom of your mask. 

You whimper, terrified at the prospect of him pulling your mask off, but can’t get out anything more than a stuttering, “P-please,”

“Be a good girl and hold your breath for me,”

There’s a loud hiss of air as the seal around your face breaks, and then you can’t breathe. Can’t even make a sound when he pulls the mask halfway up your face to free your mouth, letting the bottom of it sit below your nose as he pushes his fingers into the hinges of your jaw to pry your mouth open. 

The lavender tip of his cock pushes between your lips, the underside dragging along your tongue. You can feel every bump and ridge as it pushes in further, the texture both unusual and intimidating as it slides against the warm wet muscle. 

And then it’s gone, your mask replaced and the burst of oxygen rushing into your lungs makes you feel even more lightheaded than without having any oxygen at all.

“Good girl,” Lo’ak coos, hand once again gripping the bottom of your mask and leaning down to press a sweet kiss against its glass. 

Neteyam’s fingers are still working themselves in and out of your stuffed pussy, and you see Lo’ak’s ears twitch a second before you even hear it: the horrible squelching sounds your pussy is making as it rocks against his three fingers.

“Such a good girl,” He grins. He stands up, holding his cock steady and pulling your mask up again, the hiss of air mingling with the wet sounds coming from your drenched cunt. “Let’s go again,”

His cock pushes inside of your mouth again, barbed length sliding against your tongue and nudging the back of your throat. You gag, choking from both lack of oxygen and Lo’ak’s thick cock, and you can barely register the light and strangely sweet taste of his precum as it coats your tastebuds. 

Neteyam’s fingers are ruthless inside of you, curling and dragging against your gummy walls with skilled expertise and his thumb is practically a blur on your clit. When Lo’ak replaces your mask and air once again fills your lungs, it's only there for a second before you’re screaming and gasping, the coil in your stomach almost too much to bear as it tightens, threatening to rip you apart when it snaps.

Your screaming is cut off again when Lo’ak lifts the mask away, shoving his cock harder and deeper into your mouth until the glass of your mask is pressing against his pelvis and his cock has slipped down your throat. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you take it, legs shaking against Neteyam’s thigh. When it's replaced this time and air is once again allowed into your lungs, Neteyam’s teeth latch onto your shoulder, sharp canines digging into the tender skin. The bite brings about a sharp pain immediately followed by a flood of intense pleasure - your body jerks in his hold, shaking violently as the coil in your belly snaps. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, gushing against his hand as your orgasm rips through you without mercy. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” Lo’ak grunts, fisting his cock with one hand while checking to make sure your mask is secure with the other.

You mumble a weak reply, but the words don’t make sense, they don’t even sound like real words to your own ears - and your ‘not words’ turn into a forlorn whine as Neteyam pulls his fingers from your still pulsing pussy. 

He tilts your upper body to the side, sliding most of you off of him except for your leg still draped over his thigh at the knee while your other foot presses onto the ground, leaving you spread wide. His free hand falls behind you, somewhere around his hip where you can’t see, and then something large and round shaped is nudging between your folds and prodding at your entrance.

“No,” You mewl. “Won’t fit,”

“Shh, be quiet, ma sevin tawtute,” He grunts, pressure pushing at your hole as he starts forwards. “It will fit,”

You take in gasping breaths as the pressure intensifies, dripping hole resisting the push as much as it can before relenting to the large male Na’vi’s wishes and the thick mushroom head of his cock pops inside. Neteyam groans when he breaches you, unwrapping his arm from your upper body and gripping both of your thighs with his large hands, hauling you up and in the air as he stands up.

Your back is pressed tightly against his chest, thighs spread open and vulnerable to Lo’ak’s hungry gaze as gravity pushes you down further on his brother’s cock. You whimper loudly, hands desperately gripping at Neteyam’s forearms as he impales you on him. The bumps on his cock drag without mercy against your sensitive walls, and your right leg shakes in his grip from the overwhelming intensity. 

It feels so good, so devastatingly good inside of you, the barbs and ridges sliding just right against your gummy walls and you toss your head back with a silent scream as he bottoms out, tip nudging against your cervix.

You’ve never felt so full before. It feels like he’s all the way in your stomach, cock barreling through your important organs and rearranging your guts just to make enough room for him to fit. You chance a look down, letting out a wailing cry that’s half pleasure, half horror when you see the large bulge protruding from your abdomen. 

“Fuck,” Neteyam moans. “She’s so tight,”

Lo’ak grins mischievously as Neteyam lowers his mouth to the side of your neck, pressing gentle kisses there as he starts to rock into you. One moment he’s in front of your face, sending you a cheeky wink when you gasp as the cock inside of you hits just the right angle to brush against your special spot, and then the next he’s crouching down, textured tongue lolling out of his mouth and licking against your swollen clit. 

You squeal at the feeling of his rough tongue, textured similarly to that of a cat’s, lapping at the sensitive nub. 

“T-too much!” You cry. You can’t close your legs, Neteyam’s hands holding them firmly open as he thrusts harder inside you, and your hands push against Lo’ak’s head, but he doesn’t budge - large head staying put while his tongue continues to swipe against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

When Lo’ak decides he’s had enough, he lifts his head, trailing kisses up your stomach starting just above the disappearing and reappearing bulge in your belly and up your chest, tongue laving over the swell of your breast and latching onto your nipple, sharp teeth nibbling on the hard bud as you yelp.

His lips wrap around it, suckling on it for a moment before pulling off with a pop. 

“You taste so good, baby,” He murmurs, reaching down to play with your clit. “Like the sweetest little treat,”

“Feel so good, paskalin,” Neteyam grunts, lifting your body up and slamming it back down on his cock to fuck into your harder. “Snug little pussy squeezing me so well. You were made to take Na’vi cock, weren’t you?”

“Oohh my goooooood,” You moan, eyes rolling back into your head from the overwhelming stimulation. “C-can’t t-take i-itt,”

“Sure you can,” Lo’ak teases, face so close to yours that in your haze all you can see is his bright golden eyes. “Didn’t you hear what he just said?”

Neteyam’s thrusts are getting sloppy, moans and grunts a constant source behind you, and he hisses a quick “Fuck, take her,” at his brother. Before you know what’s happening, you’re suddenly pressed against Lo’ak, chest pressed tightly against his and Neteyam releases one of your thighs in favor of gripping your hip. Lo’ak’s hand cradles your released thigh instead, keeping you steady against him as his brother uses his new found leverage to pound into your tight cunt. Your arms instinctively wrap around Lo’ak’s neck, holding on for dear life as you moan and whimper loudly with the cool glass of your mask pressed against his collarbone. 

You can feel the knot in your belly tightening again, and you can’t think about anything other than how impossibly full you feel and how good the ridges and bumps on his cock feel as they scrap and drag inside of you. Neteyam’s grip turns bruising, fingers digging into your hip and thigh as he fucks you harder. 

“Who’s pussy is this?” Neteyam growls, mushroomed tip pounding into your cervix. “Go on, tawtute. Say it!”

“Neteyaaamm,” You moan. “Please, please, please,”

Distantly, even through your hazy, fucked out brain, you can feel something thick and round prodding at your entrance, bumping and stretching you out even more with each thrust. You cum, sobbing as you contract tightly around him, body shaking in Lo’ak’s hold as his large hand rubs up and down your back soothingly. 

Neteyam pulls out of you with a tortured groan and your eyes flutter shut, pussy still contracting and squeezing and wanting - wanting his long, hard length inside of you again, wanting it splitting you open, and now that it's gone, you can’t believe how empty you feel.

Lo’ak lowers you gently to the ground, resting your exhausted body on the soft moss. You feel the way he pulls your thighs apart again, settling himself between them, what’s left of the setting sunlight filtering in behind your eyelids getting blocked as he hovers over you. 

“Stay awake, vrrtep,” He says, smacking your thigh lightly to wake you back up. Your heavy eyes peel themselves open, watching as Lo’ak braces one hand above your head while the other guides his cock to your core. You whimper as he drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds, teasing the tip against your clit before running it down your slit and lining it up with your entrance. “It’s my turn,”

The slide is easier this time as he pushes in, but still no less intense. Your tired and overstimulated body tenses at the intrusion, tightening around him as he spears you open with his thick girth. 

“Such a pretty demon,” He moans, pleasure shooting through his veins at the feel of your tiny body hugging his cock like it never wants to let him go. “Tempting us the way you did,”

His hips start up a gentle tempo, rocking inside you to help you get used to his size and letting you feel the pleasurable drag of his barbs against your oversensitive walls. 

You whine, denying his comment. “D-didn’t do anyth–”

He silences you with a sharp snap of his hips, upping the rhythm of his thrusts and leaning down further so his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. Already you can feel another orgasm barreling towards you, threatening to rip you apart the same way his cock is splitting you open. 

“Fuck!” You squeal, back arching as your pussy squelches between your bodies. “Oh my god, fuck!”

“Say my name, baby,” Lo’ak grunts. “Wanna hear you moan it,”

“Looo’aaaaak,” You moan, bliss clouding your judgment as your hips buck into his in return. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see Neteyam, standing just to the side, watching as his brother fucks your very soul from your body as his hand strokes along his raging length. Your eyes catch on something unusual towards the base of his cock -  a thick, round bulb that shouldn’t be there and he smirks as he sees you gaping at it, hand stroking down to the base and squeezing the thick engorged knot of tissue tightly, moaning at the sensation.

Lo’ak thrusts in you harder and you feel that same thick, round ball bumping at your entrance that you felt when Neteyam was fucking you. The same bulbish ball of tissue that must be the same as the one you're looking at right now.

“Great Mother,” Lo’ak groans, face scrunched up in pleasure. “I wanna knot you so fucking bad,”

“Don’t,” Neteyam growls, jerking forward as if to pull his brother away from you, but Lo’ak curls his body around yours protectively, a deep hiss of warning ripping from his throat as he bares his teeth at his brother. 

Neteyam freezes, hands up in surrender but he glares at the brother inside you all the same. “Don’t. We don’t know if her body can take it yet.”

Lo’ak grunts, resuming his thrusts. “I know. Just back off,”

His cock pounds you relentlessly, kissing your cervix and his hand reaches down to caress the bulge in your belly. He presses down on the bulging bump firmly at the same time that his teeth sink into the still unmarked side of your neck, making you scream, the blissful agonized cry echoing through the forest as you cream all over his cock.

He pulls out, groaning woefully like his brother did, and fists his cock furiously, aiming the leaking tip directly at your puffy, spent pussy. Neteyam does the same, crouching low and close, stroking his cock beside you as he aims for your chest. 

They cum within seconds of one another, shooting hot, thick stripes of pearly bioluminescent cum all over your body, covering your chest and lower half with their release. 

You can barely feel your body anymore, can’t move a single limb on your own, and, despite not having any use of anything, your body won’t stop shaking - oversensitive and overstimulated and completely satisfied in a way you never thought you could be. 

“Ready to head home, sevin tawtute?” Neteyam asks, breathing heavy as he recovers from his orgasm. He just came but his eyes are still dark and sinful, looking at you like he wants to eat you whole. Your exhausted eyes flick to Lo’ak only to see the same desirous expression. 

There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach as you close your eyes, listening to their dark chuckles as your body forces you to rest. The last thing you hear before you drift off to sleep is a low, deep voice say . . .

“You’re ours now,”

Extra>>>

**Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife

[yvesssssssss]

hi hi!! love your fanfics a lot!

i have a request, how would the nagumo, shishiba, gaku and shin react when they have to kill their s/o? would they actually do it or defend them? maybe even run away together? 🤭 likee, they find out she’s actually an enemy but didnt know she betrayed the organization for them? i would love how this goes, please take your time writing it and take a lot of rest you need! 🤍

The ones worth dying for

(nagumo, shishiba, gaku, shin)

Feel like i could've done better with this😭 but i hope you like it!!

Nagumo yoichi

They give him the mission with a smile.

“She’s betrayed the Order,” the handler says casually. “We need her gone, Nagumo.”

He flips through the file. Target details. Last known location.

Your name. Your face. The smile you gave him just three nights ago when you crawled into his lap with sleepy eyes and whispered “Don’t die tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure,” he says brightly, shutting the folder. “Easy.”

He walks out of the room whistling.

And vanishes off the grid.

He finds you in an abandoned metro station. You’ve already been hurt.

He crouches next to you, a grin painted on like always.

“You know, sweetheart,” he says, brushing blood from your face, “if you were gonna start betraying people, you could’ve given me a heads-up. I’d have worn my good shoes.”

“I didn’t betray you,” you whisper, choked. “I gave them classified intel to protect you. I didn’t think they’d find out—”

“I knew,” he says. “I knew the second you started deleting reports and lying about your whereabouts. I just didn’t care.”

You blink. “You… didn’t?”

“Of course not. I don’t fall in love just to lose you to paperwork.”

The Order sends more agents. They never return.

Nagumo disappears with you that night—laughing, bleeding, free.

He’s still smiling when he turns to you in the getaway car.

“You’re mine now,” he says. “Hope you weren’t planning on dying on me anytime soon.”

Shishiba

He’s silent as they assign the mission.

“Target: Y/N. Confirmed traitor. Eliminate on sight.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods once. No one dares say more.

The hammer feels heavy when he carries it toward your last known location. The same hammer you once traced with your fingers, teasing him: “You ever gonna name this thing?”

Now he has to choose between it and you.

When he finds you, you don’t run. You’re crouched beside a ruined outpost, wounds raw, gaze tired.

“I figured it’d be you,” you say quietly. “I told myself… if it was anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

He stands still.

You continue, softer, “I didn’t betray you. I just couldn’t keep killing for people who wanted you dead.”

Shishiba exhales slowly. “Dumbass.”

You look up, startled.

“You should’ve just told me. We could’ve left together.”

He slams the hammer down—not at you, but through the ground beside you, cracking the stone. His other hand reaches out to pull you to your feet.

“Come on,” he mutters. “I’m not gonna lose someone else to this sh*t.”

When the clean-up squad arrives, there’s no trace of you—or him.

Only a smashed comm and a hammer mark through the wall.

Gaku

Gaku laughs.

Then he stops laughing when he sees the evidence. Intel leaks. Tracker pings. Your voice distorted in comms.

But when he finds you—cornered in the old factory, blood at your lips—you don’t deny it.

“I gave them fake info,” you say, breath shaking. “To buy you time. I didn’t think it’d trace back—”

He grabs you by the collar and slams you into the wall.

“You lied to me,” he hisses.

You don’t cry. You don’t beg.

“I lied to everyone except you,” you murmur. “I did it so they wouldn’t go after you. So you wouldn’t end up another dead body in their files.”

Gaku’s expression twists. His hand is still at your collar… but his grip softens.

“…You’re really stupid,” he mumbles.

Then he pulls you close and hides his face in your neck.

“I’m gonna kill them,” he says. “All of them.”

They never find you. Never find him.

But they find the words “TRY AGAIN.” carved into the wall, scrawled in blood.

Shin asakura

He doesn’t need to be told. He hears it.

“She’s a traitor. Get rid of her.”

“I wonder if he’ll actually do it.”

“Poor kid. Must be hard being psychic.”

He’s already moving before they finish speaking.

When he finds you, you're sitting in the rain. No umbrella. Just waiting.

“I knew you’d come,” you say.

“You knew they wanted me to kill you?”

“I knew you’d hear it before anyone else said it.”

He walks toward you, fists clenched.

“I don’t believe it,” he says.

“I leaked intel, Shin.”

“For me,” he growls. “You did it for me. I read your mind before I even got here.”

You flinch.

“I read the part where you thought, ‘If I die, maybe he’ll live.’” His voice cracks.

He drops to his knees and wraps his arms around you like a shield.

“They think I’m weak because I care about people,” he whispers into your neck. “But I’ll show them what weakness really looks like. When you take away the one thing keeping me sane.”

They never hear from Shin again.

But someone keeps anonymously dropping dead around HQ—every person who signed your kill order.

Taglist: @shenwi @astronomyloveraster @yokaistirfry @shineinouzen15 @cjafjatkstke @starizzm @imightgoinsane @ilovewhattatops @takenbyacircle @istillremembermissamericana @elorajelaaa

Hey lovelies! Just a heads up—if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist, now's the time to let me know! I don't want to flood anyone's inbox unnecessarily. 🫶

Drop a comment or send me an ask if you'd like to be added/removed!

Thank you all so much for being here! You all are the best!🫶🫶

[b1eedthefreak]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Anniversary

⌇daryl dixon x reader

⌇summary: tracking time in the apocalypse is nearly impossible, but daryl has been counting to never never the anniversary of your love

⌇warnings: none! just fluff :)

⌇word count: 1.9k

a/n i haven’t written my own ideas in A WHILEEE i’ve been writing requests for weeks! so i hope this is good :)

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❀ ⋆｡˚ ˚｡⋆❀

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Inside of Alexandria’s walls, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor, cleaning Daryl’s arrows with care. He was due to leave in an hour, gone for a week long supply run to scout a few outposts, and you were trying your best to make sure he was ready for every possible scenario.

“You sure you got everything?” you asked without looking up, your voice light but focused.

“Yeah,” Daryl grunted from behind you. He was zipping up his pack, fingers working faster than his thoughts. “‘Preciate you cleanin’ those.”

“You always forget to,” you teased, tilting your head with a grin.

He made a low noise in his throat, something between an amused scoff and an affectionate grumble, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Just a little.

As you reached for the last arrow, it rolled slightly beneath the edge of the bed frame. Huffing, you leaned down to fish it out. That’s when your fingers grazed something else entirely.

Paper.

You paused, curiosity bubbling up as you slid the object into the light.

It was a sheet of paper. Aged, a little worn, but surprisingly intact.

Lines—tally marks?

Dozens upon dozens. Carefully etched little lines grouped in fives, stretching across the entire page. You furrowed your brow, turning it gently. What was he counting?

Before your thoughts could go deeper, Daryl’s voice cut in.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, shouldering his crossbow.

You startled and shook your head, slipping the paper back where you’d found it.

“Nope! Just a loose sock,” you lied quickly, standing and brushing your hands on your pants. “Here. You’re all set.”

He took the bundle of arrows from you with a quiet “thanks,” and leaned in to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Back in a week. Maybe sooner if m’scoutin’ goes good.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you said, smiling at him as he headed out the door.

And you meant it.

—

A week passed.

You tried not to count the days, but you did anyway. You told yourself it was fine, he always came back.

And then finally, the front door creaked open.

“Daryl?” you called, dropping the can you were holding. Your feet carried you fast, arms already open when you saw him.

He looked tired but alive, crossbow slung over one shoulder, dirt on his boots, and wildflowers—wildflowers?

Your heart just about exploded.

The other hand held a folded piece of paper.

You barely gave him a second to speak before you launched yourself at him, hugging him so tightly he made a soft grunt. “You’re back,” you whispered into his neck. “God, I missed you.”

“Missed you too, sweet girl,” he murmured into your hair, burying his nose there for a beat. He smelled like leather and woods and a little bit of dust.

You pulled back just enough to look at the flowers. “What are these?”

He shifted his weight and looked suddenly a little shy, gaze flickering away. “Uh. Anniversary.”

You blinked. “…Anniversary?”

“Yeah.” He reached behind his neck awkwardly, scratching there like he was embarrassed. “One year. Since the prison.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parted. “Wait, what? How do you know it’s been—how did you even keep track?”

Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek, then motioned for you to follow him.

He led you back to your room, and knelt beside the bed. Reaching under it, he pulled out the sheet of paper you’d found days ago.

Tally marks.

He held it up for you, tapping the page once. “Started countin’ when we got together. Thought maybe you’d wanna celebrate it if we made it this far.”

Your throat closed up instantly.

“You’ve been counting every single day?” you whispered, fingers trembling as you reached for the paper.

He nodded, jaw tight, like he was unsure if it was too much. “Didn’t wanna forget. Kept it where I knew I wouldn’t lose it.”

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, staring down at the lines. “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” you said, voice cracking with emotion.

Daryl looked at you, eyes soft and earnest. “I don’t got much. Ain’t good with… stuff like this. But I been thinkin’ about it for a while. Wrote you somethin’, too.”

He held out the folded paper, the letter. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, heart thudding in your chest.

Unfolding it, you found his handwriting, messy but careful, clearly written slowly, like he wanted every word to land the right way.

I ain’t never been good at sayin’ things. You know that.

But I wanted to try, ’cause it’s been a whole damn year and you’re still here. Still with me.

Didn’t think anyone would ever stick ’round this long.

Didn’t think I was the kinda man someone like you could love.

But you did.

And you do.

I been thinkin’ a lot while I’m out on the road. About how you laugh with your whole chest, how your hands always find mine when I’m feelin’ too far gone, how you talk to me like I’m worth somethin’. Like I matter.

No one ever made me feel like that.

You make the world feel soft again.

Safe, even when it ain’t.

I watch you sleep sometimes, hell, that sounds weird, but I do. Just to remind myself you’re real. That I got this lucky. That someone like you looks at someone like me and sees more than dirt and scars and bad habits.

You ain’t just my home.

You’re the only good thing I ever had that didn’t try to leave.

And I swear, if I gotta keep countin’ the days just to remember how far we’ve come, I will. I’ll fill up every damn piece of paper I find.

I love you.

More than I know how to say.

I ain’t lettin’ go.

—D.

By the time you finished, you were crying.

He sat next to you and, wordlessly, you leaned into his chest, pressing the note against your heart.

“I don’t need flowers or letters or tally marks,” you said softly, tears wetting his vest. “Just you, Daryl. Just you.”

“Still wanted to give it to you,” he said quietly, wrapping an arm around your waist.

You pulled back just enough to kiss him. Slow, sweet, deep.

When your lips finally parted, you rested your forehead to his. “One year.”

“One year,” he echoed, voice husky.

“And a hundred more.”

He gave the softest smile. “Better start another paper then.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❀ ⋆｡˚ ˚｡⋆❀

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[outpost51]

You know, I think if I would have read such disparaging things about colored text and graphics last week, I probably wouldn’t have bothered with writeblr anymore lol but I make things pretty because it’s fun to me, and if folks find that a turn off, well, they’re not my intended audience then, are they? Their loss.

This is really just a vent, I’m fine, I’m not looking for encouragement or advice. Wanted to get it off my chest and out of my brain. I’m gonna keep doing my pretty covers and colored text and if you ever want to add an image description to my stuff in a reblog, go ahead, I just don’t have the time, patience, or energy to figure them out.

I’ll catch up on everything eventually, but I have a deadline to finish BRHP for the WIP Big Bang by October 6th, so if you’re wondering where I’ve been — there you go lol I’ve been stalled on this chapter for a week bc I can’t figure out how to start it and I’m hoping that fucks off soon. Here’s to attempting to write ten chapters in a month 🥂

[hederasgarden]

The Price of Survival (2)

Summary: Rescued by a stranger from a dangerous situation, you quickly find yourself thrust into an even more perilous one, forced to depend on him for protection in a world where survival means trusting no one. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.4K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Modern zombie AU, references to attempted SA, overall dark/gritty themes. Not all themes will be tagged. A/N: Thank you to @ryebecca and @aninnai for looking this over! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Gladiator Masterlist

You follow behind Lucius, tethered to him by the short length of rope he holds. His steps are steady, his pace unhurried despite the darkness, but you can’t help checking over your shoulder. There hasn’t been a hint of the undead for hours, and the silence only makes you more uneasy.  

As you turn to glance behind you once more, your toe catches on a rock, and you stumble. But Lucius is quick, his hand steadying you before you can fall. It happens again moments later, and without a word, he closes the distance, slipping his hand between your arm and side to pull you closer. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, your fear coiling tighter with every step.

Now that the rush of adrenaline and fear has settled into a steady pulse of terror, the sting in your wrists grows unbearable. The skin is tight, itching as the blood dries. Your shoulders ache from the strain of your bound arms while your side throbs, bruised from your fall. Your feet feel almost numb from the cold water.

A hundred questions press against your tongue, but Lucius hasn’t spoken a word since he tied you up so you swallow them all. You know where he’s taking you, back to the settlement the other men mentioned. It’s not hard to guess what’s waiting ahead, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You think about running again even though you know it’s futile. Lucius has shown you what he’s capable of. 

You’re tired, your legs unsteady as you force yourself to keep moving. After a minute or two, the dense forest begins to thin, and the darkness lifts slightly to reveal a clearing ahead. A massive wooden wall looms in front of you, so high that you have to tilt your head back to see the top. Lucius steps forward, his voice cutting through the still air as he calls out to someone on the wall. A figure appears on top, a man with an arrow notched in his bow. He stares down at you, surprised by your presence. 

“That’s a strange looking deer,” he calls down, watching you with a curious, open smile. 

Lucius exhales sharply, irritation creeping into his tone. “Viggo and the others are bringing the game back. Open the gate.”

The man shakes his head, muttering something you can’t hear and then calls over his shoulder for the gate to be opened. You glance nervously behind you, the words Lucius and the man trade feeling painfully loud. Lucius seems to sense your unease, glancing back into the dark woods.

“There are no undead near the settlement,” he says. “We cull them when they get too close to make sure their numbers don’t grow too great.”

An opening appears in the wall, a door so small that you and Lucius must duck to pass through it. You can’t help but wonder how much longer the safety of this settlement will last or how long the culling will keep the dead at bay. There were rumors of places like this, outposts that managed to carve out some semblance of peace. But every one your group found had been abandoned, overrun by the undead, or collapsed under the weight of its own people.

As you enter, the man from the wall slides down a thick length of rope, his movements swift and practiced. He’s dressed in worn fatigues and lands with a muted thud. His eyes scan you briefly before settling on Lucius.

“Macrinus will want to see her. He’s in the canteen.” 

Lucius nods sharply and roughly jerks you forward. 

Torches line the path, their flickering flames casting a soft glow that illuminates the way ahead. You pass a dozen small cabins, each spaced evenly apart. There’s no sign of life as Lucius leads you forward, the stillness around you thick and unsettling. It’s only when you reach a large wooden lodge, standing apart from the row of smaller cabins on the other side, that Lucius finally slows. To your shock, artificial light spills out through the wide windows that line the front of the building. The sight is jarring, electricity was something you never thought you'd see again.

The porch creaks under your combined weight when you both climb the steps. Lucius pushes open a heavy set of double doors, and you’re hit with a rush of warm air and the rich scent of food. Your stomach growls painfully and your mouth salivates in response. The three long tables that dominate the center of the room are full of men, women, and a few small children. The murmur of their voices rises and falls in conversation, punctuated by the quiet clink of cutlery. No one notices you enter but as Lucius takes you deeper into the room, the chatter slowly begins to cease. 

It doesn’t escape your notice that there are nearly twice as many men as women here. The few women present watch you carefully, their expressions hard to define. You catch the eye of a woman seated near you. She rubs her swollen belly and exchanges a look with the woman beside her who subtly shakes her head, some silent warning passing between them.

Lucius comes to a stop before a small table set off to the side, where an older, strikingly beautiful blonde woman sits beside a bald man. She watches Lucius intently, the only sign of any emotion you see is the subtle tightening of her jaw. The man beside her seems oblivious to your presence, casually rifling through a bowl of fruit, his fingers moving leisurely from one piece to the next. Though there’s nothing overtly threatening about him, your heartbeat picks up when he looks at you. 

“Lucius, my boy,” he greets, leaning back and spreading his arms wide. “You’ve brought us a new guest.”

The man beside you nods, his tone neutral. “Macrinus.”

Macrinus chuckles, unbothered by the cool greeting he receives. He rounds the table and approaches you. “Come now, is the rope really necessary?” he asks, glancing at Lucius.

Lucius unties your arms, and the older man steps closer, his smile widening as he studies you with a calculating, almost predatory interest. It’s not the crude desire you felt from those men in the woods, no, it’s something far worse. It makes you feel small and insignificant, like an insect under a microscope. You rub your aching forearms, forcing yourself not to retreat. With Lucius standing so close, his shoulder brushing yours with every breath, you feel hemmed in.

“It’s been a while since we’ve found any survivors,” Macrinus says before introducing himself and the woman beside him as his wife, Lucilla. “You must be hungry,” he continues. “Come, let's feed you, and then perhaps we can get you some clean clothes. We have hot water for a shower, too.”

There’s something unsettling about the warm, friendly demeanor of the man in front of you. The veneer of his kindness feels thin in light of Lucius’s tense silence and the behavior of the women. There’s a trap here but you’re uncertain of what will spring it. 

"Am I...a prisoner?" you ask hesitantly.

Macrinus laughs, shaking his head. “Heavens no, but we must be careful about who we take into our settlement." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as if he's sharing a secret just for you. "Lucius is just the cautious sort," he adds.

Cautious. You think about the way Lucius killed those men in the woods to protect you, his brutal efficiency. You stare back at Macrinus, unsure what to say. He sighs and leans back on the table, crossing one foot over the other.

“You are free to leave if you wish but I hope you’ll hear me out. If you’re not satisfied you can go,” he promised solemnly. 

“Please, sit with us,” Lucilla says with a gracious smile. “If Lucius brought you to us, you must be special.”

“Very special,” Macrinus echos. 

You glance at Lucius but find him staring straight ahead. For a brief moment, his gaze sweeps to Lucilla before quickly shifting away. 

“Some food for our guest please,” Macrinus commands.

He snaps his fingers at a young man sitting nearby who springs into action. Lucius pulls out a wooden chair, his touch gentle as he guides you to sit. When he takes the seat beside you, Macrinus spares him a brief, displeased look. 

“We’ve set a place for you with your men. You should join them.”

“I’ll eat here, with my mother,” Lucius responds. 

You take in the newly revealed information with a surprised blink, looking between both pairs of blue eyes, their expressions carefully neutral, unreadable. Lucius takes a steaming bowl of soup from the young boy and places it in front of you, accompanied by a small piece of bread. You hesitate for a moment, fingers hovering over the food. The bread is soft, its yeasty scent warm and inviting, a comfort you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

Your stomach growls, reminding you just how hungry you are, though a sharp edge of nausea lingers. You take a bite, savoring the warmth that spreads through your belly. The stew is rich, hearty, and full of flavor. It’s been so long since you’ve had something like this, something that feels real and sustaining. It tastes like before. 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink rapidly, willing them back.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through out there,” Macrinus says, shaking his head. “The hardships you must have endured. It’s a miracle you found us.”

He pats the back of your hand, but this time you can't help the involuntary flinch that passes through your body. Too many hands have touched you tonight, unfamiliar and heavy with intent. The thought of another hand on you churns your stomach.

“Our rules here are simple. Everyone contributes to keeping the settlement running. If you stay, we’ll find you a suitable job based on your skill set,” he continues, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “We work hard here and in return you’ll never go hungry or cold.”

As you and Lucius eat, Macrinus explains the rules, most of them simple and easy to follow. By the time he finishes, your spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl, the last of the soup gone. You feel uncomfortably full, a heaviness settling in your stomach.

“There is one last rule.” He pauses, leaning closer and Lucius stiffens beside you. “We don’t allow unattached women in the settlement.”

Your brow furrows. You look from him to Lucius and his mother but their expressions offer no clarity. 

“I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s not anything personal,” he says. “It’s for the safety of the settlement. Women, unattached women…well, things can get complicated. Tensions can rise. Things...happen.”

Macrinus leans back, casually draping an arm over the back of Lucilla’s chair. His hand brushes lightly over her shoulder, a gesture that might have seemed comforting if not for the sharp, unsteady breath she takes in response. A faint shudder ripples through her, as if his touch stirs something deep within, something unsettling. She clears her throat and beside you Lucius’s fingers tighten around his spoon, his knuckles turning white.

“There were incidents when Macrinus first founded the settlement. Violence, discord. It almost didn’t survive.” She pauses, her eyes flicking briefly to her son, then back to you. “The rule was put in place after that, to keep things...stable.”

The spoon in your hand slips from your fingers, clattering against the bottom of your empty bowl. For a moment, you feel numb, frozen in place as the weight of their words sinks in. Unattached. The word echoes in your mind, a cold realization dawning. You remember the cryptic conversation between Lucius and Viggo earlier, the undercurrent of something unspoken that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“If you decide to stay, you’ll be given time to decide the right match for yourself,” Macrinus assures you. “And if, at the end of that time, you don’t feel this works for you, you’re welcome to leave.”

You swallow hard, struggling to keep the rising tide of horror from breaking free. Now that the truth is finally clear, you understand exactly what it was Lucius had tried to warn you about.

Macrinus stands smoothly, his voice rising above the conversation of the room. “Everyone in this settlement is here because they chose to be.” You don’t need to turn around to know every eye in the room is fixed on your table, waiting for your reaction. “Plenty of others have taken their chances outside. The choice is yours.”

What kind of choice was that? You want to ask, but the words die in your throat. Outside these walls, there’s nothing left but death and suffering. You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but the grief you haven’t even had time to process crashes over you like a wave. The handful of people you could rely on in this shattered world are gone, taken from you only hours ago. You are utterly alone now. The only thing you know for sure is that it’s not freedom that Macrinus offers.

You don’t even realize you’re standing until the sharp clatter of your upturned chair jolts you back to reality. Your progress is abruptly halted by Lucius, his hand closing around your wrist. His touch burns and a soft, pained sound escapes your lips. When you look up at him, you see that his gaze is fixed, not on you, but on his mother. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Lucilla murmurs softly, her voice sweet as she rises from her chair. She brushes her hand lightly over Macrinus' arm and watches him through her lashes. “Let me help her get settled for the night.”

Macrinus stares at her for a moment before he gives a small nod. Lucius releases your wrist as his mother rounds the table.

“Come,” she encourages you, offering you her hand. When you hesitate, her expression grows more brittle. “Please.”

After a brief moment, you place your hand in hers, allowing yourself to be gently pulled to her side. She leads you back the way you came, her steps slow and deliberate, guiding you past the row of tables and the silent onlookers.  As Lucilla ushers you into the cool night, the door closing softly behind you, you catch one last glimpse of Lucius. He stands motionless, his hands hanging loosely while his eyes burn bright with a storm of emotions you can’t decipher.  

[whencyclopedia]

Geronimo

Geronimo (Goyahkla, l. c. 1829-1909) was a medicine man and war chief of the Bedonkohe tribe of the Chiricahua Apache nation, best known for his resistance against the encroachment of Mexican and Euro-American settlers and armed forces into Apache territory and as one of the last Native American leaders to surrender to the United States government.

During the Apache Wars (1849-1886), he allied with other leaders such as Cochise (l. c. 1805-1874) and Victorio (l. c. 1825-1880) in attacks on US forces after Apache lands became part of US territories following the Mexican-American War (1846-1848). Between c. 1850 and 1886, Geronimo led raids against villages, outposts, and cattle trains in northern Mexico and southwest US territories, often striking with relatively small bands of warriors against superior numbers and slipping away into the mountains and then back to his homelands in the region of modern-day Arizona and New Mexico.

He surrendered to US authorities three times, but when the terms of his surrender were not honored, he escaped the reservation and returned to launching raids on settlements. He was finally talked into surrendering for good by First Lieutenant Charles B. Gatewood (l. 1853-1896), under the command of General Nelson A. Miles (l. 1839-1925), in 1886. None of the terms stipulated by Miles were honored, but by that time, Geronimo felt he was too old and too tired to continue running. Geronimo's surrender to Gatewood is told accurately, though with some poetic license, in the Hollywood movie Geronimo: An American Legend (1993).

Geronimo was imprisoned at Fort Pickens, Pensacola, Florida, before being moved to Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Toward the end of his life, he became a sensation at the St. Louis World's Fair (1904) and President Theodore Roosevelt's Inaugural Parade (1905) as well as other events. Although one of the stipulations of his surrender was his return to his homelands in Arizona, he was held as a prisoner elsewhere for 23 years before dying in 1909 of pneumonia at Fort Sill.

Name & Youth

His Apache name was Goyahkla ("One Who Yawns"), and, according to some scholars, he acquired the name Geronimo during his campaigns against Mexican troops, who would appeal to Saint Jerome (San Jeronimo in Spanish) for assistance. This was possibly Saint Jerome Emiliani (l. 1486-1537), patron of orphans and abandoned children, not the better-known Saint Jerome of Stridon (l. c. 342-420), translator of the Bible into the Vulgate and patron of translators, scholars, and librarians.

Geronimo was born near Turkey Creek near the Gila River in the region now known as Arizona and New Mexico c. 1825. He was the fourth of eight children and had three brothers and four sisters. In his autobiography, Geronimo: The True Story of America's Most Ferocious Warrior (1906), dictated to S. M. Barrett, Geronimo described his youth:

When a child, my mother taught me the legends of our people; taught me of the sun and sky, the moon and stars, the clouds, and storms. She also taught me to kneel and pray to Usen for strength, health, wisdom, and protection. We never prayed against any person, but if we had aught against any individual, we ourselves took vengeance. We were taught that Usen does not care for the petty quarrels of men. My father had often told me of the brave deeds of our warriors, of the pleasures of the chase, and the glories of the warpath. With my brothers and sisters, I played about my father's home. Sometimes we played at hide-and-seek among the rocks and pines; sometimes we loitered in the shade of the cottonwood trees…When we were old enough to be of real service, we went to the field with our parents; not to play, but to toil.

(12)

After his father died of illness, his mother did not remarry, and Geronimo took her under his care. In 1846, when he was around 17 years old, he was admitted to the Council of Warriors, which meant he could now join in war parties and also marry. He married Alope of the Nedni-Chiricahua tribe, and they would later have three children. Geronimo set up a home for his family near his mother's teepee, and as he says, "we followed the traditions of our fathers and were happy. Three children came to us – children that played, loitered, and worked as I had done" (Barrett, 25). This happy time in Geronimo's life would not last long, however.

Continue reading...

[vague-humanoid]

U.S. and allied forces have been attacked more than 170 times during the Gaza war: 102 times in Syria, 70 in Iraq, and once in Jordan. The latter assault, in January, ignited a round of escalatory U.S. counterattacks against Iranian-allied targets that led Iran to rein in its proxies. As Israel has widened the Gaza war in recent weeks, with more provocative attacks in Lebanon, Iran, and Yemen, Iran’s partners have resumed attacks on U.S. outposts across the region.

While America’s enemies have demonstrated, to lethal effect, their knowledge of the locations of U.S. bases in the region, the Pentagon’s public affairs office claims to have no list of such outposts. “I don’t have any inherent information,” Defense Department spokesperson Pete Nguyen told The Intercept earlier this year. CENTCOM refused to comment on the locations of its bases, citing several reasons, including partners’ reluctance to admit to the presence of U.S. troops in their countries. “[O]ur relationship with the host nations is one of the reasons why this information is not made public,” CENTCOM spokesperson Vail A. Forbeck told The Intercept.

Undeterred, The Intercept launched its own investigation and developed a list of more than 60 U.S. bases, garrisons, or shared foreign facilities in the Middle East. These sites range from small combat outposts to massive air bases in 13 countries: Bahrain, Egypt, Iraq, Israel, Jordan, Kuwait, Lebanon, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Syria, the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen. 

At least 14 of these bases have been attacked in recent years. Since October 17, 2023, alone, a mix of one-way attack drones, rockets, mortars, and close-range ballistic missiles have led to at least 145 U.S. casualties — troops and contractors — at regional outposts including three service members killed in a January drone attack on Tower 22, a facility in Jordan.

“The indefinite U.S. military presences in Iraq, Syria, and around the region have near-zero genuine strategic value for the American people, but D.C. national security elites still think the risk is well worth it. Those concerned with the well-being of our service members — such as their families — are likely less comfortable with these soldiers being sitting ducks for local militias,” said Erik Sperling of Just Foreign Policy, an advocacy group critical of mainstream Washington foreign policy. “Americans who are tired of Mideast war should be worried about how these unauthorized hostilities effectively empower regional militias to draw the U.S. into an escalation any time they desire.”

[shinyshade8026]

Buzzes and Biscuits

Requested by: @skull-pup

S comes home from an exhausting day of work and wants to relax. They find V wanting to do the same.

Word count: 1900

It was just a day like any other for the disassembler. Tireless work for hours into the night left S trudging up the stairs with a tired expression set on their visor. There was a downside when it came to helping the workers rebuild the city and get things running. They weren’t the only disassembly drone working on this, of course, the others would help as well, and even a few strangers. The process was slow, but Copper-9, or at least the city around Outpost-3, was starting to look livable again, but it was taking up a lot of time and energy. It felt tense and sluggish when it got home, but they felt a bit more awake upon seeing their housemates and family. 

As S slowly made its way up the carpeted steps, it used its delicate sensors to pick up the sounds of the others in the house. Asmi and Cosmo were playing a game in the living room, while E and J were pressed together on one side of the couch, watching the young drones while having quiet conversations. S couldn't find the sound of one drone in particular, making their chassis prick uneasily. Where was V?

S finally made it up the flight of stairs and ended up on the second floor, casting a lazy glance down the hall. The faintest rattle of chains gave away the sound of L remaining where she was, making a devilish grin part the blonde drone’s lips. It turned its attention to its bedroom, already itching to lay in bed and just relax. Their clawed hand found the doorknob, their other rubbing their optics. They quietly turned the knob, thinking gleefully at the fact they didn’t have to go help with the city the next night.

As it twisted the knob and pushed open the door, S largely expected to see nothing but a dark room and their neatly made bed. Instead, they saw a familiar jacket and scarf plopped on the bed, and a certain silver-haired drone creating a lump in the bed as she buried her face into the pillows. It smiled softly, seeing V turn her head just enough so it could see one of her half-open optics staring into their mismatched ones. 

The shorter drone made a sleepy noise, which S assumed to be a greeting, and their partner returned her greeting with a small wave. They quietly walked to the bed, rubbing their eyes while V sat up, her silver hair in a slightly tangled mess. The blanket fell from its point on her back as she waved them towards her with a slowed motion. It chuckled, thinking her sleepiness was cute. V noted their chuckle, which made her huff and puff her cheeks in a fake pout, causing S to giggle more. They loved it when she was herself. Not the psychopathic or strong mask she put up. Herself. The sweeter, softer, and sometimes playful, worker drone from when they were younger. 

They knew she was only this way around them. It somehow made them feel… special... 

It crawled onto the bed, taking off its jacket and tossing it to sit by V’s. Once they had settled in a sitting position, V draped herself over their lap, stretching out like a big cat and giving them a sleepy smile. The modified drone felt their core flare up and their tail rattled happily while they lovingly ran a hand through her hair, eliciting a quiet purr from her.

They kept running their hand through her hair, gently shifting apart the small tangles until they could freely run their hand through her hair with no issues. While they did this, V’s purrs increased, her tail slowly swaying with pure contentment. S tilted their head to the side as they continued what they were doing, noticing how her tail went and coiled around its leg as she stretched even more.

“You’re sleepy,” it noted without much thought, gently smiling. The disassembly drone’s only response at first was a half nod followed by a yawn. 

Once her yawn finished, V spoke, “Mph… very sleepy, but I need to do something before I sleep or else I’ll forget to do it by the time I have to leave tomorrow,”

S twirled a strand of her hair in their fingers, their tail nudging hers to try and get it to move from their leg to their tail, “You think I’d be able to help, Vivi?”

The sprawled-out drone lightly batted away S’s hand and deployed one of her wings, the one furthest from S. They flexed their wing before glancing at their partner. “I need to sharpen the blades of my wings, I keep forgetting to do it while I have the time, so they’ve ended up getting a bit duller than I’d like,”

It nodded, reaching for the bedside table drawer to grab the whetstone they shared for their wings. V stretched out more, flexing her wing before pulling it in so S could start. Her eyes closed while her arms crossed under her head to make her comfortable. Before starting, S ran their hand through her hair again and leaned to place a kiss on the arm of her wing. The gesture made her jolt slightly and she whirled her head to them, the expression she was met with was a gentle and sweet smile, making her core burn and flutter. How in the hell did she get so lucky?

She settled back into her previous position as S gently ran the whetstone along the edge of her longest feather blade. The sound was quiet and constant, letting both drones tune it out and focus on the other sounds.

Like V’s very noticeable purring as she tried not to fall into the comfortable haze of sleep.

S chuckled, the buzzy sound feeling like music to their ears. Once they had finished that blade, it moved to the next, slowly sharpening the shiny, slightly scratched, metal blades. During the process, the canister end of V’s tail started to sway in a slow wagging motion as her entire body relaxed, making S smile even more as their tail began to do the same, with an added quiet buzzing noise.

The blonde drone worked efficiently, sharpening her wings thoroughly while moving quickly so the two could rest sooner, but not fast enough to make things uncomfortable for V.

Within a short while, S had finished V’s left wing and was nudging her to turn so they could sharpen the other one. She obliged, of course, sitting up on their lap to turn and lay the other way, but not before kissing them for a moment. The sudden action made the taller drone blush profusely, making the yellow-eyed one snicker before laying down again and deploying her other wing. 

S blinked a few times to snap back into reality while their blush settled to a few ticks on their cheeks. It started applying the whetstone to V’s other wing blades, humming a song quietly while it worked on them. 

They delicately traced one of their claws over some of the deeper scratches in her wings, a thin frown settling on their lips. They knew it was just from normal usage, but seeing V hurt in any way made its core ping with sadness. 

The sprawled-out drone notices its pause in working, tilting their head to see its face before gently taking its hand into theirs and kissing the softly glowing triangle on the back. S jolted from the action, the sweet touch bringing them out of their sad stupor. No words were shared between them, only a loving stare before S smiled and rubbed the side of her hand with their thumb, returning to running the whetstone along the edges of V’s wings to continue the sharpening process.

It went a bit slower for this wing, the blades dulled from usage on her dominant side. At this point, it seemed like the smaller of the two was asleep by now, but the readjustments and shifts every few minutes told S that she was still awake. By the time S had finished both of her wings, they wanted to fall backward and rest. To which they obliged.

V made a chirping noise as they did so, sitting up to give them a blank look before taking the whetstone from their hands, placing it onto the bedside table, and draping herself over their front. She momentarily snuggled her face into their neck, hearing their purring begin again from her affection. When she sat up again, she heard a small grumbled sound from them, which she rolled her eyes at with a smile while grabbing their brush. 

S watched as V lay down, holding the blanket to the side so they could come and snuggle her, an offer they quickly gave in to. The taller drone lays on top of her, their head near her core and their body coming up from between her legs. Once they had settled down, V tugged off their beanie to get at their hair, chewing on her lip from the tangles she knew her hand couldn’t work through. Well, that was why she grabbed the brush.

She started to run the brush through their pale blonde hair, careful not to hurt them as she brushed it out. They soon were reduced to a purring mess, their tail wagging underneath the covers. V held the side of its face in her palm, her thumb rubbing its cheek while she brushed out the tangles. She kept this up, getting every inch of their fluffy hair while reassuring the blue sections stayed together.

Drones, workers specifically, often commented that the disassembly drones behaved like cats, which V couldn’t exactly disagree, not when she acted cat-like during moments. Especially around S. Speaking of the drone, their optics had closed a couple of minutes into the brushing, and their hands had settled into a spot on her chest, fingers curled slightly toward their palms. 

V focused on their hair, keeping it fluffy and soft as she went through it. She assumed that S would fall asleep while she did this, so she locked in on her task, her own optics drooping as her sleepiness began to get at her due to being surrounded by comfort. S was strangely a good weighted blanket.

However, something snapped her out of focus, making her blink a few times in surprise and look down. What she saw provided a smile to her, and even a small chuckle. 

S was half awake, gently kneading ‘biscuits’ on her tank top. She could feel their clawed fingertips slightly graze her metal as they moved, but it didn’t bother her. She could hear its purring increase as they did this, encouraging V to continue purring as well, filling the space of their bed with the sound of buzzy purrs, a sweet sound to both of their audinals. 

V finished brushing their hair, half haphazardly tossing the brush somewhere else onto the bed before locking her fingers together on S’s back, holding them close as she fell into a sleep-induced state, S inching themself up her chest to get closer to her face. Their kneading slowed, and eventually stopped, as they soon fell asleep alongside her, a sleepy smile etched onto their face.

[fandomlit]

gif cred belongs to @witchyplantmc

a/n i've been sitting on this lil blurb for a while and wanted to make it into something bigger but it never worked </3 so here's to what could've been

imagine technoblade casually flirting with you

you, philza, and technoblade had intercepted a pillager outposts raid plans and managed to get to the large trading village a week before they intended to raid it, offering help in building a wall and training the men who volunteered to fight.

as you and technoblade milled about, supervising the training men, you questioned, “no wall work today?”

“not for me, at least,” techno grumbled quietly. “’was gettin’ tired of all the attention.”

you let out a laugh at that. it was no secret that all eyes of the village women were on your strong friend--especially when he had discarded his shirt yesterday, and suddenly they all had lemonade and refreshments to offer him.

“yeah? i mean, i get it. there were a lot of eyes on you at all times.” you spared a glance around and corrected yourself, “are a lot of eyes on you.” the hybrid didn’t even bother looking around, just shrugging at you. “sorry. it’s gotta be annoying that you can’t avoid it.”

he just shrugged again. “yeah. but it’s only a few days. and they don’t approach me as much when i’m around you.”

you turned your eyes back to your friend with amusement. “they don’t?”

technoblade simply returned your amused gaze. “has anyone come up to me since i’ve been with you this morning?”

you let out a snicker. “i guess not. does that make me your scary, unapproachable dog?”

he let out a laugh at that and shook his head. “no. i think it makes you the one thing they know they can’t compete with.” he smirked when your jaw fell open in the slightest. red began to flush your cheeks, and you were just about to say something when one of the village leaders called out to you. you stuttered over words for a moment before giving techno a long look and stalking off toward the leader. he snickered when you were gone.

he'd never admit it, but flustering you was a past time that would always amuse him, no matter the situation.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Knight König who, after bravelly defending the castle alone and saving all the beautiful young maidens, is now *gasp* alone with them!! You and the rest of the young ladies are not even married yet and this whole horror of a siege came :(( you had to be locked inside the maiden tower with the other ladies, praying to the gods that someone strong would defend you, and here he was!! The giant knight from the north from whom you were always herded away 'because a brute like him has no business with fine young ladies like yourselves' :((

Imagine König who is for the time being the only male in the small castle, the foe has been defeated but any kind of help will take days to arrive :( During the fighting his mind was on slaying all the enemies to defend the flock of the frightened ladies but now...??

He's the only male among a dozen of maidens!! And these poor does are so scared in their tower on comfy beds of furs with all the supplies...so many warm, soft bodies to keep him warm and 'aid him to help his wounds', so many broad hips and breasts to grab and squeeze for comfort...oh and they are so ready to share all the supplies with him!!

I mean...who's to say that a war hero doesn't deserve something good too? :D

GFDFSSSS first I was like "gangbang medieval style yeehaw let's gooo" but then I had another quick idea (in all honesty writing gangbangs make me blush furiously lmao I'm weak!)

CW: Fear of SA, mention of blood, boners galore, dubcon groping, period typical attitudes, gender roles etc.

Knight!König asking you to wash him (because he was seated next to you at this one feast and now he's obsessed...)

König, who never had time for women because he was always on duty, whose best chances for a wife were an old widow or some soiled woman, whatever that meant... Probably some lowly lady, for a lowly knight like him. His family must hate him because they keep him from having even that: instead, he gets shipped off to this outpost of a castle that houses hundreds of soldiers and only a few women. Even they are kept under lock and key most of the time, and it's no wonder... A man like him shouldn't even be dreaming of dipping his dick in the pretty soft things of the Maiden’s tower.

König, who even to his own surprise, finds himself victorious after weeks of siege. Who's left completely unchecked and alone with a flock of scared fawns, poor does who are now gathering together for warmth and safety. They only have tiny daggers and iron scissors as their weapons against an armed knight, knowing they’re not always safe even from their own men – especially after a battle.

Even the strongest, most valiant knights get tired during a siege, turning into starved animals after a few weeks. A soldier fresh from war is the worst thing, having his cock up after bloodying his sword, they usually need to have a woman as soon as possible. A victorious knight, finding himself winning against all the odds, would surely prefer to fuck every single one of the soft cunts locked up in the women's tower...

So König, who batters the door and orders the frightened women to lift the baulk, only gets screams as an answer. They finally open it when he says he's tired after a fight and only wants to rest for a bit, puts on his most charming smile as the huge wooden door creaks open, and meets the ladies with a wide grin despite having blood all over him, stands proudly in his full height with his sword still drawn, a path of entrails and cut limbs behind him – why are they still screaming? He saved them! He should be given a royal welcome!

König, who finally gets the women to calm down a little when they notice he is not about to rape them on sight, who wipes his sword with one of their finest, freshly dyed wools (rude!). Who sheathes his weapon and smiles again, suggesting that they help him out of his plate and give him a wash – he’s earned that much, no?

König, who eats from their bowls as if he has never even seen food, who gawks at their tapestries with curiosity, who tries to stare down their necklines and catch a sight of those beautiful, round, plush tits. Most women quickly rush to heat the water to escape the possible groping about to ensue, while you are left with the task of getting him out of his armor.

The straps are small and endless, the armor consists of dozens of different parts, and he just keeps on grinning widely while you’re at it, giving you odd compliments and passages of courtly love with his mouth full of food. Some of his ramblings are straight out of a troubadour’s song, but you don’t believe a word he says, especially when his heated stare is fixed on your exposed neck, the collarbones so frail, the cascading wool that reveals your wrists as you try to pry your way under the heavy, bloodied pauldron.

Of course he remembers you, down to the minutest detail because he got to feed and take care of you at last winter's great feast... Someone had fucked up and seated you next to him in their error, and he heedily took advantage of the situation. He even managed to have a grope at you when the lords and ladies weren’t watching because they were so drunk.

He was drunk too, intoxicated by the strong ale and the shy stares you granted him. You didn’t do a thing when he pulled you closer and practically fed you some deer off your shared plate, tried if you'd fancy a date or a sip of wine while keeping you tightly tucked in his lap. He couldn’t get enough of you: your tiny gasp when you felt him grow hard, your whimper when he stole a soft squeeze of your tit… Your shy ghost of a smile as you demurely called him “Sir” and told him to stop before he gets you both into trouble. 

Ever since that night, he has dreamed of you when pulling out his leaking cock. Sinned until he felt embarrassed to go to the chapel and yet again confess that he has defiled himself with his hand and thoughts of you. Ever since that night, he has wondered whether you are giving those whimpers to someone else nowadays…

But here you are, in the tower, taking off his plates and using all your strength to get him out of his chainmail. Why haven’t you been married off yet? Why aren't you making blankets and throws at some fancy lord's castle by now? You have the perfect hips for delivery, it's practically a sin to keep a woman like you locked up in a military fortress…

And polite curtsies and shy, downcast eyes won't save you now, you know that.

How can you say no to a knight, ordering you to give him a wash? “Do him the honor,” he says, while anyone can see he’s already hard.

There’s nothing the others can do but put up a curtain and leave you two to your featherlight privacy. He doesn’t even bother to undress behind it, simply flaunts that monstrous thing between his legs for everyone to see before giving you the honor of strolling to the steaming bath. A soft silence fills the tower as the knight, tall as a legend, hairy as a beast, climbs into the small wooden tub with a grunted sigh.

You, the maiden he picked, can only look in horror as he grows even harder under the hot water. The thick erection soon juts above the surface, the dark curls framing the base of his cock now floating lusciously underwater, the dark hair covering his full balls, too. Either he's just big everywhere or then he's been too busy during the weeks of the siege... The amount of times you've seen him abstain from meat in this castle is ridiculous, and you always wondered if he ate fish because he liked it or because he had defiled himself in his lust.

He's an animal, but having a woman is not a sin as foul as throwing his seed on the ground... And here he is, strong thighs spreading as far as they can go to give room to the astounding erection he’s having just from the prospect of your touch.

The knight leans back in the tub, looks at you with a drowsy, soft smile, and tells you not to be afraid. The thick, throaty voice leaves your knees completely weak.

“Ach so... Have you ever touched one of these before?”