#Enforcement Tactical Vest

[historyofguns]

Veteran police officer Alan M. Rice reviews the Premier Body Armor Fortis Level III+ Loadout for its effectiveness against rifle threats in an article on The Armory Life. Highlighting the challenges faced by officers, particularly those in smaller, rural agencies where personal equipment purchases are common, Rice emphasizes the flexibility and protective capabilities of the Fortis system. The review details the benefits of Ultra-High-Molecular-Weight-Polyethylene (UHMWPE) plates, which offer significant protection with less weight than Level IV plates, making them suitable for prolonged use in training and active duty scenarios. Rice also underscores the convenience offered by the Fortis Alpha Carrier's multiple adjustment points, integrated trauma technology, and additional storage pouches for tactical gear, showing its practical applications for law enforcement officers.

[saywhat-politics]

PHILADELPHIA - Police are searching for a man who they say zip-tied a store employee and robbed the business while impersonating a law enforcement officer over the weekend.

Investigators say the suspect was wearing a tactical vest with "Security Enforcement Agent" on it when the robbery happened around 2 p.m. Sunday.

What we know:

Officers from the Philadelphia Police Department were called to a business on the 6400 block of Harbison Avenue around 5 p.m. Sunday for reports of a robbery.

Investigators learned that over two hours earlier, a suspect entered the business dressed as a law enforcement officer and zip tied a 50-year-old woman.

[arcane-fox]

The Warden.

GameWarden!Joel Miller x F!Reader Explicit 18+ MDNI | 3.8k WC | AO3

Summary: Your hike into the woods doesn’t go as planned when a depraved Game Warden catches you breaking the rules.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Power imbalance. DUBCON (could be considered NONCON). Reader is into it but she still doesn't have a choice. Reader is smaller than Joel and has hair he can grab. Explicit smut. Oral (male receiving). Fingering. Violence. Manipulation. Unprotected P in V. Cum talk. Creampies. Dark!Joel.

Notes: Please read the warnings. HUGE thanks to @joelmillerisapunk for beta'ing (love you, Odi!) Also FYI Game Wardens (also sometimes known as conservation / wildlife / DNR officer) can have broader authority than police and can even search your person / property without a warrant, are expert marksmen and usually work alone.

M A S T E R L I S T | A O 3 | N O T I F S

You saw the sign and ignored it, like you always did, as you walked down your favorite hiking trail. The one that few people knew about. The trail that was always peaceful and quiet and you rarely met another soul. Your hidden secret that you loved to escape to. The one that had been marked as “Trail Closed” for months now for reasons you could never quite figure out.  

As the forest thinned you finally reached the majestic bounty you sought. A quaint pond, nestled in the pines. The waters edge pebbled with rocks and ferns. Water lilies sparsely decorated the surface. What once was a sprawling picnic destination was now overgrown. Serene and abandoned to nature.  

You knelt down and ran your hands over the stones, picking up and admiring their unique beauty of the ones that caught your eye.

You were so preoccupied taking in the comforts of the world around you that you never heard him. Never even considered there were eyes on you, watching you from behind some overgrowth.

“Excuse me, miss,” his voice startles you as you stand quickly and turn around. “You’re in violation of State Park rules and regulations.”

“Huh?” Your words come out sounding dumb and caught off guard. You quickly scan for the source of the voice and see some movement in the bushes, revealing a man. 

He walks towards you, emerging from his hiding spot. A tall and broad man, head to toe in the standard olive green uniform that the wardens wore. A tactical belt and vest and a scoped rifle slung on his back. His toned physique mesmerizes you with each step forward.    

“It’s my sworn duty to enforce the law and enact justice as I see fit.” His words were robotic and rehearsed. 

As he got closer you could see he was an older man and incredibly handsome with some greys in his beard along his jawline. His hair was shorter with wavy curls, pushed back neatly with some silver catching in the sunlight. His skin weathered by the sun. His aquiline nose made his face look even more intense and powerful, matching his words. Broody and serious. This was a man who was in control.

“And you’re trespassing,” he lowers his voice, “in my territory.” 

You were trespassing. He wasn’t wrong. You felt your body flush with a wave of panic, with a hint of arousal crawling somewhere deep inside you. Lurking and waiting with intrigue and fear.  

“Area’s posted.” he says as he now stands in front of you. You are at a loss for words, caught doing what you thought was harmless.

He senses your panic and it rallies him to toy with you. 

“This is a protected wildlife conservation that you’re messin’ with, sweetheart.” He pauses and changes his tone to intimidate you as he leans in close. “And you see, I don’t like that.” 

You feel your heart race. Were you actually getting in trouble for taking an innocent hike in the woods?

“You know who I am?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest while he waits for you to speak. His veiny, chiseled forearms distract you. He looks so scrappy and dangerous. 

“The Game Warden?” You hesitate.

“That's right.” he nods with a cunning smirk. “Name’s Joel, but you’re gonna call me Sir.” He enunciates it firmly.

You feel your body overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. You were scared but also felt a pulsing go through you when he spoke. You didn’t want him to be upset with you. Everything about him was screaming: dangerous, do not piss off.  

“I’m sorry about trespassing. I didn’t know… Sir.” You added his title for good measure.

But you did know. You knew every time you walked past the sign at the entrance telling you not to. Bullshit was not going to fly here and only fueled him more. 

“Lying to an officer too?” He shakes his head as it hangs low. He circles you with intimidation, looking you up and down. Lecturing you with silence and waiting for your reparations to be determined.  

You can’t fight off that lukewarm feeling inside you that grows warmer. Slowly it gnaws away at your resolve. Seeing him with the tactical vest on that snuggly accented his chest and left his belly exposed with nothing but his green shirt covering it. The only spot that was vulnerable and soft. The rest of his body was strong, protected by his excessive gear, lean muscles and mean looks.   

You see his name badge embroidered with ‘MILLER’ and accidentally whisper his name out loud like it's a question. Wondering who this man is and what his intentions are. In the peaceful calm of the woods in the middle of nowhere, your whisper may have well been a shout.

“Officer Miller.” He corrects with authority in his tone as he leans over you. “And I’m gonna have to discipline that mouth of yours.”

You’ve never been in trouble with the law before, and certainly never had a run in with a Game Warden. You knew they were essentially lone wilderness cops with a god complex and few restrictions. Still, you knew this was far from acceptable behavior. Everything about how he was acting was wrong. You open your mouth to protest, but hesitate on his threats. He relishes in how you work it out in your head that talking back isn’t going to get you out of this. You can only bite your tongue so long.

“I’ll report you.” You threaten back, acting like you have some moral upper hand to hang over him. 

“Go ahead. Ain’t nothing you can do about your situation right now, sugar plum.” He scoffs. “Not to mention, s’your word against mine.” He stops circling and leans into your ear as his southern drawl makes the words sound smooth and buttery. Hot and melting on his breath as they drip out of his mouth. 

“Wanna take a guess who wins?” He says deviously and you can feel his patchy beard scrape against your jaw as he pulls away. A shiver pulses through you, right down to your pussy. Beating to his unsought touch. 

Why is this turning you on so much?

“You see darlin’, I’ve been watching you for a long, long time.” He circles again. “And you keep breaking the rules.”

Your heart races. This was getting serious. The realization hits that he can do whatever he wants and get away with it, and that is exactly his intention.

“On your knees, and hands where I can see ‘em.” he barks. 

You obey, folding under his commands. Hoping your obedience would lessen the blow. 

You drop down gently unsure of what exactly he was playing at, treating you like a violent criminal. You stretch your arms out to your sides with your palms up in submission. He stops just in front of you, scooching down so he is eye level. A tiny grunt as his knees bend. Tobacco and leather scents accompany him. 

“I’ll let you off with a warning… if you promise me you won’t be doing it again.” He offers. Sweet words coming out slow and sticky like honey.  

“I won’t. I promise. It won’t happen again.” You quickly plead. Foolishly hopeful this was it. Ignoring the conditional implication of his terms.   

He stands back up with his arms crossed before raking one of his hands through his hair, thinking. He wasn’t buying what you were selling. 

He paces in front of you. The obscene bulge in his pants was impossible not to notice as he parades it past your sightline. Back and forth, back and forth. He was packing more than just a firearm. 

He stops directly in front of you so your eyes are mere inches from it. You look all the way down to his feet in an attempt to hide the red that flushes your face. Trying to dismiss your own arousal that was getting louder and wetter. 

He reaches down to your chin and cranes your neck up to look at him with an urgency. 

“Gonna’ need some convincing, sugar plum.”

Fuck...

He releases you and walks to the nearby weathered picnic table and lays his rifle down. He unsnaps his utility belt that was strapped over his waist and leg and tosses it along with his handgun in tow. It made his broad shoulders look even wider with his waist unhindered by the bulky gear.

The uppercase “WARDEN” embroidered on the back of his green tactical vest serves to remind you that he is an officer of the law. It taunts you as he takes his sweet time laying out his things neatly on the table while you wait with anticipation for whatever was happening next.  

As he turns to walk back towards you, snatched in his vest, he tries to conceal the smirk pulling up from the corner of his mouth. You hate how good he looked, as if it could ever excuse how disgusting he was behaving.  

He stands coolly just a foot in front of you and unbuckles the modest leather belt. The metal clasps clank loudly as he lets it hang down and unzips. He clocks your reaction as he pulls up his shirt enough to show his messy thatch of hair trailing down his lower belly.   

He can’t be serious… 

Reaching a hand inside his boxers he pulls them down slowly as his cock peeks out. Big and fat and leaking. Aching to be touched. 

He is serious.

His eyes are focused intently on yours, watching them widen as you take in his cock. It's just in front of your nose as you look up and sit back on your haunches.

“Go on,” he growls and lowers his voice. “Convince me.”

He reaches his hand around his cock and pumps it. The broad head glistening in his precum as he drags his hand down his shaft. You wonder how long he had been watching you and if he had been stroking himself before he approached you. Maybe this interrogation was all foreplay for him. In fact, you were certain it was.   

The hot feeling surging in your core surprises you. You were actually turned on by this pig. Still, you knew this was beyond fucked up. You hesitate with what to do next, conflicted by his abuse of power and the inappropriate way your body was betraying you.     

“You gonna disobey a warden?” He threatens, getting impatient. 

You wonder what if you refused? What if you didn’t play his game? What would he actually do? It still didn’t feel like there was an option other than what was right in front of you, demanding your obedience. 

This was only ending one way. His way. 

“No, sir.” You swallow and fight back the tears. You place your palms and claw your fingers into his thighs as you sit up straight. You start to open your mouth and look up at him with glossy eyes. Conceding to him. 

You catch that spark of darkness igniting in his eyes. Burning hot and formidable as it spreads through him. Your misfortune was making him harder.

He parts your mouth open with the tip resting on your bottom lip. He teases it in and out, letting you feel the weight as the ridge catches on your lip. 

God he was big.

“Give it a kiss first and be real polite.” 

You close your lips over the tip and appease him with your gentle touch. Polite even. You suckle it delicately, drawing out beads of saltiness as it drips onto your taste buds. You can’t stop your natural impulse to flick his slit with your tongue and it makes him stiffen even more, twitching in response.

“Good girl.” he praises as he tangles his free hand in your hair. You wince as his firm grip pulls you closer to him. He pushes into your mouth. Inch by inch. The hand on his cock held it steady until you were adjusted to his size. He lets go and slides his hand above your nape, letting you take the full weight of his cock as you hollow your cheeks.

He was so thick. 

You decide to give him something he wants without asking, attempting to entice him to be kinder. His roughness was starting to hurt when he pulled at your hair and dug into your skin. Relaxing your mouth he pushed further in without your protest. Nestled tight in your warm and wet paradise. You notice his urgency shift.  

“Nice and slow. No need to rush.” He commands as you take him deeper. This order sounds more like it's for himself so he doesn’t cum too early. You can feel how close he is. He was ready to burst the moment you dropped to your knees. 

You gag as the head hits the back of your throat.   

“Oh, you sound pretty like that.” He moans as he closes his eyes and leans his head back. “Choking on my cock.” He makes a guttural sound as he nudges his cock even deeper into your throat. He was impossibly large as he fights to stuff you full.  

“Hold still.” He fucks into your mouth. Harder. Harder. Harder. Pulling your hair too tight and pushing your head too far onto him as he bucked into you.

With tears in your eyes making your nose run you can hardly breathe. Gasping and choking  and a cock stuffed in your mouth, bruising your throat with each plunge.

He snarls as he looks down to you, locking eyes. Blown out. Feral. Dark and desperate like he was giving in to his wildest, forbidden desires with no regard for you. It was a selfish need he was taking for himself and only himself. You were nothing. A wet hole for his cock to fuck.  

He was coming undone. His moaning and panting echoing across the serene pondscape and tainting your safe escape forever. Even that memory he was taking from you. 

You were waiting for it. Bracing for his hot spend to pour into you but instead he slowed. Thrusting deep into you with a grunt before dragging out his wet, dripping cock. He winced as it popped out of your mouth and you gasped for air.

This sick fuck was edging himself. 

He wanted more. Needed more. 

“Get up.” His haggard, breathy words bite at you.

He lifts you up by your hair. You quickly comply to relieve the pressure on your scalp as you stumble to your feet. A whine escapes you as he lets go roughly. 

“Gonna make sure you learn your lesson today.” He gestures to the picnic table just a few steps away and you shamefully go to it. 

He pushes you to lean over the bench and bends you in an ‘L’ shape. You press your arms against the seat to hold yourself up. He drags his hand down your back and around to your hips, admiring your delicate form laid out before him. He wanted to lose himself inside you.

He drags a hand between your legs and feels your cunt hot and wet against your shorts. He lets out a growl as his fingers get soaked along your seam. 

You hate how good it feels to have him touch you where you ache for friction.

“Mmm…” he groaned as he breathed in your arousal on his fingertips. “Knew you wanted this cock inside you.” He ruts his hardness against your ass. 

He slides his hands over your back. Over your hips. Down the sides of your legs until he stops abruptly. Fingering at something jagged in your pocket. Something you forgot was there. 

“What's this?” 

Your heart stops. You can tell from his tone that he knew exactly what it was.

He slips his hand in your pocket and pulls out two shiny stones you had collected from the waters edge.

Fuck.   

“Caught stealing from the cookie jar.” He clicks his tongue to scold you. He was stacking his case with further evidence to hang over your head.

“Oh, Darlin.” He fakes a sympathetic tone. “You’re in big trouble now.”

It was then you realized he knew all along. He was watching your every move. He was waiting for the right moment to manipulate you to his will. 

“Bad girl. Larceny is gonna cost you more than just an apology.” He drops the rocks carelessly and grabs your waistband, pulling your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one motion. You gasp as he makes you step out of them as he pushes you forward so your knees are on the bench seat. You catch yourself on the edge of the table. Half naked, exposed and totally fucked. 

“Spread 'em nice and wide for me.” He knocks your legs apart with his knee as he stands behind you, his cock notched against your entrance and it sparks an adrenaline surge inside you when you feel his tip press into you. 

“Please!” You beg him. “Please stop. I’m not letting you fuck me!” You spit out with an attitude. This was a line too far. A line he was intentionally pushing to see how far he could go before you fought back. 

Unsurprising to you, he liked playing with fire.  

He reaches out and grabs your neck with his wide grip, roughly pinning you prone against the table so you can’t move. He leans over, and hovers low to your ear as his shaft drags against your seam. 

“Ain’t making you do nothing, sugar plum.” He pauses and breathes in the sweet scent of your shampoo as he prods you gently with his nose. Tantric and hungry with his movements. 

“I can take you now and then we’ll be done with it, or I can take you in. S’your choice.” He loosens up his grip on your neck and sits back slightly. He feels the way you tremble under his touch, and the way your cunt throbs against his heat still pressing against it.

You feel it too. Something you can’t explain. A primal feeling of desire. Surrendering to your most basic human needs. That having him inside you might not be so bad. A rationalizing in your brain that you did wrong after all. It’s only sex. 

Only sex. You’ve certainly done worse with lesser men under the guise of alcohol. 

“I can promise you, they won’t be nearly this forgivin’ at the state prison.” He traces his finger down your spine, being delicate and gentle. Tracing until his finger runs into his belly pushed flush against you. He leans back and grabs his cock. Painfully hard and still soaked from earlier. He presses the head right against your swollen clit and rubs it against you. 

You let out a moan and he knows he has you.  

“Tell me you don’t want this. That you don’t want to cum all over my cock.” He strokes your clit with his head again and again. Knocking at your door and waiting for you to answer. 

“I’ll make it real good for you, sugar plum.” Your clit pulses on his cock. Needy and hedonic. Forsaking any restraint you have left to say no.

You take a deep breath and curse under your breath, curling your fingers around the edge of the table as you sit up and face forward.

“Get on with it.” You concede. 

He smiles wickedly. He was always going to get what he wanted in the end.

With you still sitting on your knees he locks his body against yours, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He pulls you up so your back is flush with his chest and wraps a hand around the front of you, rubbing and pinching at your clit with his rough fingers and dipping them into your hole. Spreading your slick. Stretching you open as he scissors his fingers.    

His body against yours was so much bigger. Broad and strong. You were the mouse and he was the lion about to pounce. His heat piercing through your skin. You felt him line up at your entrance, nudging you with his tip. 

There is no more patience or preparation. He needs to fuck you now. Needs to have that friction choking his cock that has been rock solid for too long. Without warning he thrusts into you again and again and again. Each time a little deeper and harder. His fat head catching on all your ridges as your pussy grabbed onto him.

It felt so fucking good and you hate it. You hate him.  

He stretches you more than you’ve ever felt before. The initial pain subsides as he rubs your clit fiercely with his fingers. The pleasure inside you builds. He kept his word that he would make it real good for you.  

He puts his leg up on the bench for leverage and bottoms out inside you with a grunt as he pulls you down on his cock. Fucking up into you and impaling you with his cock.   

Your moans run away from you, loudly filling the air with obscenities. You feel your climax building up inside you. You’ve never been fucked so hard in your life and you are soaking him. You know he won’t last much longer.

“Please..” you beg him between moans. 

“Please what?” he snarls as he fucks you harder, his cock ready to spill. 

“Please... Sir. Pull out,” you beg him.

He laughs at your ridiculous request and ignores you, wrapping his arms around you to pull you hard against his body. One hand wrapped around and splayed over your belly and the other curled around your breasts and pushing on the front of your throat. He had you held so tightly to him there was no way you could stop him. 

Your climax tears through you. 

“Carry in… Carry out.” He recites the most basic of park rules between grunts while you brace for it. “Leave nothing behind.”

He releases into you. His hot cum coating your deepest walls as he empties into your cunt with the loudest orgasm. He pushes you down prone and fucks it deep inside you before he starts to soften, making sure you know he was deliberately filling you up with his seed.

He collapses on you and you breathe together for a moment. He leaves an unexpected kiss on your shoulder and another on your neck, silently thanking you for letting him use your body. 

“Next time pay attention to the game cams, sugar plum.” he nods up at a nearby tree and he gives a side smile. Mocking your mistake. 

He withdraws his cock from you and lets you fall forward, his cum already running down your legs. He eyes your mess with a smirk, pleased with his conquest. 

“I’m always watching.” He says with a wink.

Tagging some cool people that I love very much and fellow Joel Hole comrades (please note if it’s too dark for your taste it’s totally ok to skip!)

@magpiepills @for-a-longlongtime @milla-frenchy @itwasntimethatdidit40 @youandmeand5bucks

@toxicanonymity @wethairjoel @evolnoomym @almostfoxglove @beardedjoel

@aurorawritestoescape @hellishjoel @lotusbxtch @murder-wife @joelstummy

@pearlessance @pedropeach @tonysopranosrobe @sawymredfox @macfrog

@slimybeth69 @whocaresstillthelouvre @joelsdagger @baronessvonglitter @covetyou

@chronically-ghosted @skbeaumont @yourcoolauntie @yopossum @beefrobeefcal

@sp00kymulderr @moonlitbirdie @wheresarizona @syd-djarin @punkshort

@sin-djarin @guiltyasdave @strang3lov3 @frannyzooey @tightjeansjavi

@cavillscurls @gasolinerainbowpuddles @pedgito @survivingandenduring

@ozarkthedog @mountainsandmayhem @schnarfer @pedrospatch @penvisions

[raekensluver]

lethal love

masterlist | main masterlist

description: a fight with an unsub takes a deathly turn...

pairing: fiancé!spencer x fem!agent!reader

contains: angst, established relationship, guns, typical criminal minds violence, reader is stabbed, reader dies in spencer's arms.

song rec: sign of the times by harry styles - "will we ever learn? we've been here before."

w.c: 4.0k

a/n: sorry :(

the weight of the bulletproof vest pressed down on your shoulders as you secured the last strap, each click echoing through the quiet room like the tick of a clock. it felt heavier than usual today, the fabric warm and stifling against your skin. you took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the faint scent of metal and the lingering odor of fear that clung to the air in moments like these. the vest was a constant reminder of the unpredictability of the job, a silent companion whispering tales of valor and sacrifice.

to your left, spencer, your fiancé of less than a week, was intently listening to emily's words. her sharp gaze was focused, her hands animated as she laid out the new details of the case that you had been working on for a week. the intensity of her briefing was palpable, the scene around her seemingly electrified by the urgency of the situation. spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving hers, his mind already racing through the labyrinth of facts and probabilities that would be his to navigate in the coming hours.

you grabbed his vest from the back of the van, the fabric whispering against your hands as you pulled it free. the weight of it in your grasp was a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. it was a piece of equipment that could mean the difference between life and death, and as you handed it to him, you felt a sudden, intense wave of love and protection for this man who had chosen you. the vest was placed into his hands and he looked at you, his eyes flickering with a mix of gratitude and determination. he knew what was at stake, not just for the case, but for the future that you had so recently promised each other.

the fbi's tactical unit was already set up, the stark contrast between their professional calmness and the chaotic anticipation in your heart was stark. they communicated in hushed tones, their faces a mask of concentration as they surveyed the warehouse that loomed in the distance, a silent sentinel of the horrors that might be waiting within. the air was thick with tension, the occasional snap of a radio the only sound breaking the silence. you could see the muscles in spencer's jaw tighten as he took in the scene, his mind racing to piece together the puzzle that was the unsub's motive.

emily, her voice a beacon of clarity in the tumult, turned to you both. her eyes searched yours briefly, a silent question, before she began to speak. "as you know, the unsub is highly intelligent, meticulous, and has shown a pattern of targeting law enforcement. he's elusive, but his mo suggests a vendetta that's personal. be ready for anything," she warned, her gaze flicking to the tactical gear you both wore. "he's known to use traps and misdirection, so stay sharp and trust your instincts. he's been two steps ahead of us at every turn, but we're going to change that today."

you nodded, the weight of her words sinking in, and reached for your earpiece. with a quick motion, you slid it into place, the sudden embrace of cold plastic against your skin jolting you to attention. you gave spencer a firm look, the kind that conveyed everything without saying a word. fear, excitement, determination - it all reflected in his eyes before he mirrored your actions, donning his own earpieces with a quiet resolve that sent a shiver down your spine.

together, you and spencer moved towards the warehouse, each step measured and silent. the concrete was slick beneath your boots from a recent rain, the water mixing with the grime to create a treacherous dance of shadows and light that played out under the flickering streetlamps. in the distance, you could hear the distant wail of a siren, a mournful cry that seemed to echo the anxiety building in your chest.

you paused at the edge of the building, the shadows playing tricks on your eyes as you peered around the corner. "i'll take the front," you murmured into the microphone, your voice low and steady. "you circle around back." you felt spencer's eyes on you, his hand reaching out to squeeze your arm reassuringly. "be careful," he said, the words barely audible, but the concern in his voice was clear as a bell.

you gave a curt nod and moved forward, your heart hammering in your chest with every step. the rain had picked up, the droplets pattering against your helmet like a thousand tiny drums. your hand gripped the butt of your gun, the cold metal a comforting presence. the warehouse loomed in front of you, a monolith of darkness that seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy. you could feel the eyes of the unsub on you, watching, waiting.

as you approached the entrance, you noticed the subtle signs of tampering - the door slightly ajar, the faint scent of something acrid in the air. your instincts screamed at you to be wary. you crouched low, your eyes scanning the area for any traps or booby-traps that could be lying in wait. the rain had washed away any potential footprints, leaving the scene eerily clean, as if the unsub had never been there at all.

spencer's voice crackled in your ear, "i'm in position at the rear. no signs of movement yet." his words were a comfort, a lifeline connecting you both in the darkness. the warehouse was vast, a labyrinth of corrugated metal and shadows that seemed to stretch on forever. the sirens grew louder, the sound bouncing off the buildings and echoing through the streets, a discordant symphony that only heightened the tension.

you took a deep breath, your heart racing as you pushed open the door. the sound of it squealing on its hinges was like a gunshot in the quiet night. the darkness inside was absolute, a stark contrast to the harsh reality outside. you flicked on your flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom and revealing a dance of dust motes in the air. the floor was slick, the smell of oil and decay permeating the space.

before you could respond to spencer, movement caught your eye. it was fast, a blur of shadow darting towards you from the corner of the room. your instincts took over, your hand rising in a fluid motion to aim at the threat. "i've got movement!" you barked into the mic, adrenaline flooding your veins. the figure was on you in a second, and suddenly, you were falling, your body slammed to the ground. the impact knocked the wind out of you, and for a moment, everything went fuzzy.

the unsub was on top of you, his hands scrabbling at your vest, trying to get to your weapon. you could feel the panic rising, a bubble in your chest that threatened to burst. but training kicked in, and you managed to keep your grip, pushing him off with a grunt. you rolled away, bringing your gun to bear, but the flashlight had been knocked from your hand, and you were momentarily blinded by the sudden darkness.

spencer's voice was in your ear, urgent and concerned. "are you okay? what's going on?" but the struggle was too intense to respond. your lungs burned as you tried to suck in air, the weight of the vest feeling like it would crush you. the unsub was quick, his movements erratic and unpredictable. you could feel the cold steel of his knife graze against your arm, and you bit back a cry of pain.

his voice was low and taunting, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "you think this makes you invincible?" the sound of the vest being torn away from your body was a mix of fabric tearing and your own panic. the sudden exposure to the cool air was a stark contrast to the warmth that had been trapped against your skin. "now, let's see if you're as brave without your little armor, shall we?"

you could hear the sneer in his voice, the malicious delight in his words, and you knew that you had to fight back. with every ounce of strength you had left, you threw your elbow into his gut, feeling a moment of satisfaction as he grunted in pain. he staggered back, giving you enough room to scramble to your feet. the pain in your nose was intense, a throbbing pulse that sent stars swirling before your eyes. you could taste the coppery tang of blood in your mouth, feel it dripping down your chin.

the world was a blur, the only thing in focus the glint of the knife in his hand. your training took over, pushing through the fog of pain and fear. you knew that you had to keep moving, to stay unpredictable. you darted to the side, trying to use the darkness to your advantage, but the unsub was fast. he was on you again, his grip like a vice around your arm. the cold steel of the knife was at your throat, the tip of it pressing into your skin, sending a fresh wave of panic crashing through your body.

and then, there was a sudden flash of light, and spencer was there. his eyes were wide with fear, his own gun trained on the unsub. "stop," he said, his voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos that was unfolding before him. "it's over. we know who you are. we know what you've done." his words were a beacon in the darkness, a promise that help had arrived, that you weren't alone.

the unsub's grip on you tightened, his eyes darting to spencer, then back to you. "you think this changes anything?" he spat, the knife digging deeper into your flesh. "you're all the same, playing god with your badges and your guns." spencer took a step closer, his eyes never leaving the unsub's. "i know you've had a vendetta against cops, but she's not just a cop." the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, a raw emotion that seemed to resonate through the warehouse.

you felt a warmth spread through you, the fear momentarily abating as you watched spencer. the tears in your eyes weren't just from the pain; they were for the love that was so palpable between you both, a love that had grown stronger through the years of working side by side, solving cases, and now, facing death together. the rain outside seemed to mimic the deluge of feelings within you, the droplets on your face mixing with the tears that slipped down your cheeks.

spencer's voice was a balm, his words a gentle reminder of who you were and why you were here. "she's a daughter, a fiancée. my fiancée. she's part of me," he continued, his voice unwavering. "she's more than just a target to you." but the unsub's eyes remained cold, his grip unyielding. "you think that means anything to me?" he sneered, his voice as sharp as the knife he weld. "you're all just numbers, statistics in the grand scheme of things."

you felt the knife at your throat twitch, a precursor to the horror that was about to unfold. your heart hammered in your chest, each beat echoing like a gunshot in the silence of the warehouse. spencer's eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you could see the fear, the love, and the resolve that burned within him. "please," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "please don't do this."

but the unsub's grip remained firm, his eyes glinting with a manic excitement that sent a shiver down your spine. "it's already done," he murmured, the knife's tip digging deeper into your flesh. "you can't stop what's coming." spencer's voice grew stronger, more assertive. "i know you're smarter than this," he said, his voice a lifeline in the sea of fear that threatened to drown you. "you're not just some mindless killer. you have a reason for this. tell me what it is."

his words hung in the air, a silent plea that seemed to resonate with the unsub. for a moment, you could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, a crack in the armor of his madness. "my reasons are my own," he said finally, his voice low and menacing. "you'll never understand." the knife at your throat twitched again, and you felt the warmth of blood trickle down your neck.

then, emily's voice crackled in your ear. "backup's on the way," she said, the words a lifeline thrown into the abyss of your fear. but before you could even begin to feel relief, spencer's voice cut through, loud and urgent. "no, emily, don't!" but it was too late. the sound of boots on the wet concrete grew louder, the shadows outside the warehouse door morphing into figures with guns drawn.

the unsub's eyes widened with glee, a twisted smile stretching across his face as he tightened his grip on the knife. "perfect," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "now, they'll watch you die." the knife pressed deeper, the pain so intense it was almost numbing. you could see spencer's expression change, the calm resolve replaced by a searing rage that seemed to set his eyes on fire.

the backup agents burst through the doors, their weapons sweeping the room in a deadly arc. but the unsub was ready for them, his own weapon now pointing directly at spencer. "drop it, reid, we got it from here," one of the agents shouted, but spencer didn't move, his gaze locked on yours. the unsub took the opportunity to press the knife even further, a sickening crunch filling the air as it pierced through the fragile barrier of your neck. the world began to dim around the edges, the pain giving way to a cold, empty numbness.

spencer's face was a mask of agony as he watched you, the love in his eyes turning to fury. he knew that the backup was there, that you were supposed to be safe, but in that moment, all he could see was the crimson river flowing from the gaping wound, the light in your eyes fading away. without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger, the bullet flying true. the unsub's smile froze on his face, his grip on the knife loosening as he stumbled backward, the life draining from his body.

you felt the world spin as darkness closed in, spencer's arms wrapping around you, catching you as you fell to the floor. the cold, hard concrete was a stark contrast to his warm embrace, the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. you could feel the warmth of his tears mixing with the rainwater on your cheeks, the tremble in his body as he held you tightly. "you're okay," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "you're going to be okay."

his hands were gentle as they moved over your neck, applying pressure to the wound. the pain was a distant throb, a reminder that you were still alive, still fighting. the sound of the unsub's body hitting the ground was a dull thud, lost to the symphony of rain and sirens that filled the air. spencer's breath was hot against your ear, his voice a whispered chant that seemed to keep the darkness at bay.

"stay with me," he pleaded, his voice tight with fear. "don't you dare leave me here alone." the warmth of his breath mixed with the metallic scent of blood, creating a potent cocktail of fear and love that washed over you like a wave. the rain continued to fall, the drops hitting the warehouse roof like a million tiny fists, a relentless rhythm that matched the erratic beating of your heart.

you tried to speak, to reassure him, but the words caught in your throat, a gurgle of blood escaping instead. your eyes searched his, finding the love that had grown stronger with every case you had faced together, every danger you had survived. "when did you know?" you managed to croak out, the question barely audible over the cacophony of the storm and the sirens that grew ever closer.

spencer's eyes searched yours, the question echoing in the tension that filled the space between you. "know what?" he murmured, his voice thick with fear and confusion.

you coughed, the pain in your throat searing. "that you wanted to marry me," you whispered, the words barely audible over the din of the rain and approaching sirens.

spencer's eyes searched yours, the fear slowly giving way to understanding. "the moment i realized i couldn't imagine a world without you in it," he replied, his voice choked with emotion. "you're the one who makes sense of the chaos, who brings light to the darkest of cases."

the sirens grew louder, the wail a cacophony that seemed to pierce the very core of your soul. you felt the warmth of spencer's hands on your neck, the pressure steady and reassuring. the world around you was a blur, the pain a distant throb that paled in comparison to the overwhelming love that filled you.

"you're not going anywhere," spencer murmured, his voice a lifeline in the storm of pain and fear. "not now, not ever." his eyes searched yours, desperation etched into every line of his face. "you're going to be fine," he said, the words a mantra that seemed to hold the darkness at bay.

you tried to nod, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. instead, you whispered the words that had been on the tip of your tongue for so long. "i love you," you said, your voice barely more than a breath. the rain outside seemed to pause, the world holding its breath as you made your confession.

spencer's eyes widened, a mix of shock and relief flooding his features. "i love you too," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything." his hand reached up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away the blood that was starting to pool beneath your chin. the warmth of his touch was like a beacon, guiding you through the darkness that threatened to swallow you whole.

the sirens grew louder, the wail of the emergency vehicles a crescendo that seemed to shake the very foundation of the warehouse. the sound was a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of your confession, a reminder of the chaos that was about to come crashing in on you both. spencer's grip on you tightened, his eyes never leaving yours as he whispered, "you're going to be okay. i'll make sure of it."

but the truth was, you didn't know if you would. the darkness was spreading, a cold embrace that seemed to suck the warmth from your body. your hand reached up, finding his, and you squeezed it tightly, the strength leaving your body in a rush. the world was spinning, the shadows swirling around you like a tornado of pain and fear.

spencer's voice grew distant, the sound of his panicked whispers a comfort that grew fainter with every passing second. the rain continued its relentless assault, the drops mixing with your tears to form a river that flowed into the abyss. you could feel yourself slipping away, the warmth of his touch growing colder, his voice a distant echo.

the world around you began to fade, the darkness closing in like the jaws of a predator eager to claim its prey. the sirens grew distant, the sounds of the approaching cavalry a muffled drumbeat that seemed to come from another world entirely. the pain in your neck was a dull throb, a heartbeat that grew slower with every passing moment.

you clung to consciousness with a fierce determination, desperate to hang onto the warmth of spencer's embrace. memories flooded your mind, a kaleidoscope of moments that had led you to this fateful night. you thought back to the first time you had met him, his shy smile and the way his eyes had lit up when you had talked about the case that had brought you together. the way his mind worked was like nothing you had ever seen, a whirlwind of brilliance that had both intimidated and intrigued you.

your first date had been simple, a quiet dinner in a restaurant that had been his favorite spot. you remembered the way his hands had trembled slightly as he reached for yours across the table, the gentle way he had looked at you, as if he had finally found something precious that he never wanted to let go of. it had been a moment of pure, unbridled joy, a spark that had set alight the flame of love that had burned steadily through the years.

his proposal had been unexpected, a sudden flash of vulnerability in the middle of a hectic case. you had been poring over files, your eyes burning with fatigue, when he had looked up at you, his own eyes filled with a hope and love that had taken your breath away. the way he had fumbled with the ring, his voice shaking with emotion, had been so utterly human, so utterly spencer.

you had stared at the ring, the diamond winking at you like a star that had fallen from the sky, and felt your heart swell with joy. "yes," you had said, the word a promise that seemed to echo through the room. "yes, i'll marry you." the moment had been perfect, a snapshot of happiness in a world that so often dealt in pain and suffering.

now, as you lay in his arms, the reality of your situation crashing down upon you, you couldn't help but feel a sense of regret. regret that you hadn't had the chance to explore that love more deeply, to build a life together outside of the shadow of your work. regret that you won't get the chance to walk down the aisle, to see the joy in his eyes as he watched you come toward him.

spencer's voice grew more urgent, his words a desperate plea that seemed to echo through the darkness. "don't go," he said, his grip on your hand tightening. "stay with me." the rain outside seemed to mirror your own tears, a mournful cry that echoed the pain in your heart.

you tried to smile, to reassure him, but the effort was too much. your eyes drifted shut, the darkness pulling you under like a relentless tide. you felt his hand squeeze yours one last time, a silent declaration of his love and his fear. "i'm here," he whispered, his voice a lifeline that you clung to with all your fading strength.

the warehouse was a cacophony of noise now, the sirens and the shouts of the approaching agents a dissonant symphony that seemed to grow louder with every passing second. the world was spinning, the cold seeping into your bones as the warmth of spencer's embrace began to fade.

spencer's voice grew more frantic, his whispers of love and reassurance now a desperate chant that seemed to hang in the air like a prayer. "stay with me," he repeated, his voice a ragged sob that tore at your heart. "you can't leave me now." but the darkness was relentless, its grip on you tightening like a noose.

the world grew quiet, the rain outside a muffled lullaby that seemed to sing you to sleep. spencer's breath grew ragged in your ear, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. the warmth of his hands was the last thing you felt as the cold claimed you, pulling you under like a relentless wave. your grip on his hand loosened, your fingers slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

the darkness was complete, the pain a distant memory as the embrace of oblivion wrapped around you. you could feel yourself floating, the weight of your body gone, the heaviness of the world no longer a burden. you were free, adrift in a sea of nothingness that was both terrifying and peaceful.

taglist: @maxsisly, @misatxox

[low-budget-korra]

Arcane Hot Takes

1. The hate on Jayce is mostly for no reason. He was a good guy, genuinely nice and with no toxic masculinity. He never created Hextec to be a weapon or to destroy the world. And only got really mad when Jinx stole his creation and honestly? He had the right to be mad at that. He ain't perfect, he made mistakes but c'mon guys.

2. If you hate on s2 Caitlyn but idolize Silco, you're a hypocrite. The difference is that Caitlyn did all blinded by grief while Silco did blinded by the thirst for power

And speaking of Silco…No, he is not this revolutionary man some of the fandom make him out to be. He was a Mafia boss who filled the streets with drugs, divided and weakened his own community and even used child work in his factories. Yeah, he was not some Che Guevara freedom fighter. All he had was beautiful speeches abt it.

And also not this perfect father figure for Jinx, as he kept filling her paranoias and manipulating her

3. The writers made a miracle managing to end the show in a nice way, but the truth is that Arcane needed at least one more season to be perfect. 

In s2 they rely too much on characters' micro expressions and subtext. Which is not a bad thing at all, but in a first view a lot of things get missed

I already saw s2 three times, so if you think things were poorly explained, try to watch a second time. Better, binge s1 and s2 and I guarantee that a lot of stuff you think was outta nowhere, will make sense.

4. Caitlyn had the best character arc in season 2. Experiencing the phases of grief, getting radicalized and manipulated, opening her eyes and realizing what she was doing, a subtle yet important redemption.

And I Say "subtle" bc even if for me it was obvious, I know for a lot of people, it wasn't.

Also, the haters don't want her to recognize what she did wrong bc she already did, just not with those on the nose dialogues. The haters wanted her to be punished, which she also was. Girl was stabbed in the abdomen, betrayed by her right hand, was almost executed in front of her men, got beat up with a knife still in her abdomen and lost an eye. Yeah, I think she was punished enough and if you wanted more, just admit that you are a bit sadistic and move on

5. Arcane is fiction. Sure, it takes insp in real life problems but is still fiction. Its cool to be able to recognize the themes but project our world problems, anger and frustration towards the characters is stupid and makes you miss a lot of good stuff in the show. If you act radical abt the show, you don't have the right to judge someone that goes radical after losing her mom to a terrorist attack.

It doesn't matter if her mother was rich or something. In fact, Cassandra was one of the few council members, maybe the only one, who actually did something good for the Zaunites as she was the one that created those air filters for people in Zaun, the workers, be able to breathe without getting cancer or smt.

Yes, I know it's the bare minimum but she was the only one doing something. Heimerdinger in his 200y never did something like that and only tried to help Zaun when he was expelled from the council.

6. Vi didn know Jinx was wanting to off herself. Jinx already tricked her a couple times before and “breaking the circle” , from Vi’s pov could mean a lot of things. From offing herself to explode things again. She doesn't watch Arcane guys, she doesn't know Jinx as well as we do.

7. Having Zaunites helping Piltover in the battle wasn't lazy writing or disrespectful. It was literally about the fate of their world, y'all thing Ambessa and Viktor would stop with just Piltover? Who y'all think would be the next target? 

They also used the enforcers uniform because it is a tactical one, useful in a situation like a battle. I can hate on the police all I want but in a situation like that, I would rather go to battle with that stupid uniform and bullet proof vest than go on a simple tank top, jeans and converse.

And this shows how better the Zaunites are compared to Piltover and it's enforcers. They were willing to shallow their hate, their pride and help their oppressors for the greater good. That's a good heart, maturity and emotional intelligence.

[juliussilver25]

The Silver Collective

It began like any routine stop—just another night patrol in Southend, where Officer Dane carried out his duties with calculated precision. He spotted the motorbike first, its rider exuding defiance. A street-hardened young man, draped in a slick, vinyl tracksuit with checkerboard stripes, glinting jewelry weighing heavy on his chest. Dane approached, hand steady, voice calm.

But as he laid a gloved hand on the young man’s shoulder, something stirred beneath his skin.

Dane didn’t know it yet, but he was already infected.

Earlier that week, he’d been called to a strange incident near the estuary—reports of a silver bubbling from a derelict shipping container. He remembered touching it, just briefly, while examining the scene. The material had clung momentarily to his glove and vanished. No trace. He logged the event and forgot it.

The silver hive hadn’t forgotten him.

Over the past days, subtle changes had crept in—his uniform began to feel restrictive, his mind unusually focused. His physique enhanced itself without effort, veins pulsing with an unidentifiable energy. His vest fit tighter. His thoughts sharpened… and narrowed.

By the time Dane confronted the chav, the silver hive had already bonded to his nervous system.

Their eyes met.

The young man—Jaxon—felt it immediately. A pulse. A vibration from the officer’s touch. Something chemical, invasive. “What’s this?” he muttered, as a cold, sleek sensation crawled up his arm and into his chest. The metal on his chains began to shimmer unnaturally. The stitching on his jacket twisted, reweaving itself in silver thread. The infection was spreading.

Dane stood still, watching. But it wasn’t concern in his eyes—it was awakening. He could feel the hive guiding him, instructing him. Assimilate. Convert. Refine.

Jaxon clutched his chest as the transformation deepened. His skin smoothed, hair styled itself more perfectly, the once-chaotic streetwear replaced by a sculpted silver jacket, lined with a blue "POLICE" badge. His trousers gleamed like liquid chrome.

Dane, now shirtless, displayed the full extent of the hive’s gift: an impossibly flawless torso plated in sleek muscle and adorned with ceremonial silver medallions. Tactical harnesses attached themselves to his body with biomechanical precision. The hive wanted beauty. Strength. Order.

By the time their minds were fully synchronized, they stood side by side—Officer Dane, enforcer of the Silver Code, and Cadet Jaxon, newly forged emissary of the Collective. Behind their eyes: unity, purpose, and the unrelenting drive to spread the silver purity to all.

The motorcycle revved behind them.

The silver glistened.

Their mission had begun.

[se-sissy-lina04]

What is Kix's fashion sense? He seems to be more cognizant of sartorial styles than some of his brothers...

Sissy’s Masterlist

Oh absolutely! If anyone in the GAR other than the Coruscant Guard has taste, it’s Kix. The man who can patch up a blaster wound and tell you your color palette is all wrong. Welcome to:

✨ The Clone Civilian Fashion Files: Expanded Edition

ft. Kix the Style Icon™ + Fashion Crimes + Sartorial Soul Discoveries

💉 Kix – The Fashion Medic

Style: Med-Core meets Space Chic

Palette: Navy, burgundy, black, deep greens. Subtle with intention.

Kix is the only one who knows how to layer. He has mastered the art of a clean, well-fitted button-down under a long-line coat. His sleeves are always rolled perfectly. His boots are always shining.

Signature look: Tailored pants, boots, minimalist accessories, rolled-up sleeves, and sometimes—a turtleneck.

Knows his angles. Knows your angles. Will give you unsolicited advice about your boots clashing with your coat.

Also Kix: “No Fives, tank tops do not count as high fashion just because the font is aggressive.”

Owns one (1) beret. Has never worn it. Fives knows and lives in fear.

💀 Echo – Space Goth, Soft Edition

Style: Comfortably brooding.

Loves monochrome looks. Black, gray, muted navy. Big coats, simple shirts, combat boots. Wears a lot of hoodies. Looks like he’s in a space rock band at all times.

Signature piece: One faded old hoodie that says “No Comment.” Refuses to elaborate.

Secretly owns fingerless gloves. Thinks no one knows. They all know.

Echo Mood: “This is my emotional support sweater. No, I’m not taking it off.”

🎧 Tech – The Practical Maximalist

Style: Techwear meets chaotic academia

Cargo pants. Tactical vests. Utility belts. Glasses. Layers. Always something with a million pockets.

Loves: Bright socks. Patterned button-downs under tactical vests. Jackets with 9 zippers.

Always has: A datapad holster, a satchel, and a second bag inside the first bag “just in case.”

Once wore: Crocs to a formal event. Claimed it was “efficiency-oriented.”

Is banned from dressing himself for formal occasions. Crosshair enforces this with threats.

🧼 Crosshair – Minimalist Murder Daddy

Style: Tactical Couture

All black. Always. Everything fits like it was tailored. Slim silhouettes, turtlenecks, fitted gloves, combat boots so polished they reflect disappointment.

Owns the same outfit in 6 variations. Hates clutter.

Signature Look: Black turtleneck + black slacks + trench coat + resting sniper face

Once wore: A deep wine-red shirt. Everyone gasped. He never did it again.

On Jesse’s wardrobe: “You look like a historical reenactment of bad decisions.”

🔥 Hunter – Soft Boy Outdoorsman

Style: Utility Core meets Camp Counselor Aesthetic

Neutral colors. Layers. Wool shirts. Soft cardigans. Henleys.

Wears a beanie unironically and pulls it over his ears. Has one jacket that smells like campfires.

Always has: A canvas backpack and herbal tea in a thermos.

Once said: “I think flannel is my personality now.”

His dream: To live in a cozy cabin. The reality: surrounded by chaotic clone brothers in tank tops.

💥 Hardcase – Neon Disaster

Style: Late-Night Holonet Thrift Gremlin

Neon. Clashing colors. Holo-reactive prints. LED strips??? He once wore pants that glowed.

Signature Piece: Sunglasses. Indoors. At night.

Thinks wearing mismatched shoes is “edgy.” Has no idea what a belt is.

Kix, at least once a week: “Hardcase, why are your pants metallic?”

Hardcase: “Because I’m shiny.”

Everyone else: sighs in fashion despair

🛡️ Bacara – Security But Make It Cozy

Style: Armored Lumberjack Dad

Flannel. Tactical boots. Thermal undershirts. Jeans. Wool jackets with reinforced elbows.

Big fan of jackets with hidden pockets. Has a mug that says “I’m Watching.”

You once called it: “Terrifyingly cozy chic.”

He blushed. Denied it. Wore that same flannel 3 days straight.

🧨 Wrecker – Confused Fashion Chaos

Style: Crisis Couture

Wants to do well. Tries really hard. Ends up wearing everything. Patterned pants, three scarves, a belt over his vest.

His mantra: “Too much is never enough if you balance it out with confidence.”

The Batch holds monthly votes: “Can we tell him?” — No. Never.

Kix cries weekly about Wrecker’s outfit choices but lets him be because the man deserves joy.

[adder24]

Vigilante

Pairing: Female Reader X John Nolan

Rating: R cause my god I did things i didn't think I could write, holy shit. Authors note: Okay I think I am getting the hang of writing utter filth, it's been a while so bit rusty but hey...enjoy. Summary: You're the new vigilante in town, taking the law into your own hands and doing the work of the local law enforcement. You always manage to avoid getting caught, until one night you cross paths with John Nolan.

Tagging: @untilthe12ofnever @captkatecastle @nuggsmum @alwayscaskett810 @hellostickerdoodle @nikki-rook @izhunny @imwithyoualways @superlc529 @happiness-in-the-dark @my-happy-corner @idiotdotdotdot @moviesaremylife @dilfbatch

Please do tag on, reblog, do what you must!!! Story below the cut and can be found here

Being a Vigilante was your choice, you were a victim to a crime that went unpunished, Law enforcement couldn’t find enough evidence to put the criminal in handcuffs and allowed them to walk free. You felt betrayed by the law that was designed to protect you, the victim, which led you down the path of being what you are now. 

You made sure that Karma was paid back to the criminal who made you a victim but you got the taste for it, the satisfaction from making sure a crime committed was dealt with swiftly and fairly. You never killed anyone, you only knocked them out or disabled them temporarily, long enough to hand deliver them to the police with a note that said “Another job done for you”

You dress up, wearing a skull mask to protect your identity, black beanie, Black cargo pants, T-shirt and a tactical vest filled with all the tricks of the trade.

You had your supporters and you had those who stood against you, determined to bring you in and make you pay for the crimes you committed in your pursuit to deliver justice fairly. Sure, you had a few close shaves but you always found a way to wriggle out of it but not tonight, tonight you slipped up, cornered as you chased down a petty criminal who snatched bags to fuel a habit.  Of all the criminals to slip up on, it had to be one that did a basic crime. You followed them down a dead end alley, knocked them out, took the bag back from them and got caught red handed by a cop.

“Put your hands above your head and face me. Slowly!” You hear him bark

You roll your eyes and slowly turn to face him, half expecting it to be some old crotechy officer close to retirement but what you got was a middle aged man over six foot in height, well built and easy on the eyes. He had an authoritative stance and a stern look on his face, clearly not in the mood for any shenanigans.

“When will you wannabe heroes learn not to take the law into your own hands?” He growled as he slowly approached you “Get on your knees”

“You say that to all the ladies you meet?” You ask sarcastically.

“Only the ones breaking the law” He replied as he approached, slowly releasing the handcuffs from their holder, gun still trained on you.

You were compliant, allowing him to grab your hands and put them behind your back before he helped you to your feet. You got a good look at him, mousy brown hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, firm grip and a little authority about him. It was a bit of a turn on, a man that was able to take charge and manhandle you in the right ways and you could sense this one could take charge in bed, just by the way he guided you to the car and the hold he had on you.

He got the door and eased you into the back of his Patrol car, an SUV of some description, one that had plenty of room in the back and was quite comfortable considering.

“The Illusive Skull Face, finally in the back of my truck” You hear him say as he starts the engine. “Wasn’t expecting you to be a woman though”

“Women can’t be badasses?” You ask him as you quietly work on undoing the cuffs, retrieving the small pin you had hidden in your gloves

“Of course they can, you’ve seen the women I have to work with right? They’d kick my ass” He says, keeping his eyes on the road.

You smile as you wiggle the pin in the lock, getting a quiet little click to signify their release, you keep them on your wrists for the time being while you work on an escape and your only viable solution was to feign travel sickness, knowing he would need to pull over to the side of the road or endure the stench of vomit in the back of the truck for the duration of the journey.

"Hey…you think you could pull over, I'm not feeling so good" You groan, feigning the sickness as best you can.

"Skull face is a little travel sick? That's a new one for me" He says.

"What's your name?" You ask him.

"Officer Nolan. What's yours skull face?" Nolan replied

"Skull Face. You want your car to reek of Vomit?" You ask him as you slump a little.

"Not really no," Nolan replied calmly.

"Then pull over and let me throw up" You demand as you begin to fake heave.

The action caused Nolan to drastically pull over his patrol car, near an abandoned warehouse. This was your chance to make a run for it, escape the clutches of the law and continue to do the job they can't. You waited for him to open the door, for him to help you out before you made your move.

You dropped the cuffs and made a run for it, sprinting towards the warehouse, aware he would follow. You manage to climb the wire fence and jump down on the opposite side, landing a little awkwardly but managing to get back on your feet again. Nolan in hot pursuit as he made light work of the fence. 

You keep running, trying to make decisions on the fly but not paying attention to your surroundings cost you, you don’t notice the discarded pole on the floor and consequently you trip over it, landing face first on the hard floor. Thankfully the mask takes the brunt but before you know it, Nolan took his chance, pouncing on you to stop you getting away. 

You end up wrestling with him,rolling onto your back to help you flip him, rolling him to the ground putting you on top and a chance to run, but he was quick, as soon as you got him down he had grabbed you and switched positions, wrestling with you to get you back in the cuffs but you was having none of it, you fought with him, wrestled for some time, you even managed to somehow turn off his body camera before he eventually had you pinned. He managed to remove your mask during the tussle and this was the first time he got to see you unmasked

He paused as he studied you, taking a mental photo of you. You should have used that moment to slip away, avoid getting caught but that wasn't what you wanted. The struggle had got you worked up, his firm hold stoking the fire in your stomach, causing you to bite your bottom lip as you studied him, liking the fact he was in a commanding position and you sensed there was a little heat in that gaze he held with you.

"Your move officer" you say invitingly 

A smirk spread across his lips before he leaned down and kissed you tenderly, his lips gently brushing against your own. You reciprocate the kiss, your hands snaking along his arms and up his shoulders while your lips fight for dominance. The kiss becomes more heated and it’s not long before you submit and part your lips, allowing his tongue to enter, tasting you and dancing with your tongue, causing small little moans to fall from your lips. You feel calloused fingers gently caress your cheek before he breaks off the kiss and puts his forehead to yours.

“I shouldn’t really be doing this” He whispered  as he ran his thumb along your jaw 

“I won’t tell and no one is going to know…managed to turn off your body cam” You purr as you start to unbutton a few buttons on his shirt “It can be our thing”

You feel him claim your lips once more, slipping in some tongue as his kiss becomes more heated, driven by a want and a need to punish you by other means. He breaks off the kiss and gets to his feet, pulling you up from the ground and leading you back to the car, looking around to see if anyone was watching but thankfully the location was quiet, no one walking around and there were hardly any cars driving by. It was a perfect spot.

He puts on a bit of a show just in case, making it look like he had arrested you and was putting you in the back before he then walked round to the other side and joined you in the back, closing the door behind him. You slide across the seats towards him and straddle his lap, your hands getting back to work on his shirt, making light work at unfastening the remaining buttons. You feel his hands slip under your top, his fingers tip toeing, slowly along your sides, reaching for your bra strap, grumbling when he realises you have one of them fiddly sports bras on, his reaction causing you to giggle a little.

“Need me to undo it?” You ask him playfully

“No…just tell me what it is, is it a zip at the front or Zip and hooks?” He asks huskily as he pushes your top up,studying the black sports bra that you have on underneath.

“It’s a zip and hooks” You reply as you remove your top and throw it on the seats next to you.

You feel him get to work, his fingers making light work of unfastening your bra, freeing your breasts from their material cage, He gently kisses down your cleavage, before his fingers start to gently tease and caress your hardened nipples. Your breath hitches in your throat, you can feel your nerves spark and spring into life, making you more responsive to his touch as you start to feel the bulge in his pants grow and become more hardened. You bite your lip and smirk a little.

“Officer Nolan, is that your Baton in your pants?” You ask playfully

“You wanna find out?” He asks in a seductive manner, guiding your hands down to his gun belt You grin and slowly unfasten his belt, carefully moving it to one side before you then unfasten his work pants, slowly pulling them down along with his boxers, giving you a good look at his impressive package in all its glory. You lick your lips in anticipation as you run your hands slowly along his inner thighs, pushing yourself between his legs, placing his hardened manhood in between your breasts. You then bend down and gently suck and lick the tip, giving you a taste of him while one of your hands works his shaft. It’s like music to your ears as you hear the little grunts and moans tumble from his mouth, his fingers running through your hair, tugging it a little, urging you to keep going.

You get him riled up, bringing the teasing to a halt, causing him to crave more from you. You run your hands over his toned body, feeling his skin erupt with goosebumps as he hums deep in his throat. You then start undoing your trousers, fumbling a little as you pull them off, somehow managing to remove them without taking off your boots, a skill that seemingly impressed Nolan before you straddle him once more, positioning yourself carefully as you kiss him deeply, letting your tongues dance before you lower yourself down, allowing him to enter, your silkened walls stretching to his size.

You let out a tiny gasp as you feel every inch of him inside of you. You feel his hands grip your hips, thumbs doing small circular movements while his long fingers grip your ass cheeks , urging you on. You bite your lip and begin to slowly rock your hips, a euphoric sense of pleasure slowly building as you move up and down his length. You can feel yourself start to clamp around him, drawing him deeper within you. You can feel your sweet nectar slowly begin to trickle from your core as he buries his head between your breasts. You can hear small little grunts fall from his lips as you place your hands on his shoulders using them to help build momentum.

You up your rhythm, pleasure consuming you as you feel him start to move in rhythm with you, the sensation causing you to moan in pleasure as you feel him begin to suck and lick one of your nipples. Your toes curl in ecstasy as you throw your head back, feeling one of his hands move up your spine, supporting you as the other hand gently spanks your ass. You yelp a little, the mix of pain and pleasure sending you into a frenzy.

“More” You pant

This time he spanks you harder, you cry out and then moan in pleasure as your body trembles under his touch. Your body feels electric as you feel yourself beginning to reach your climax, you can feel your juices oozing down his shaft, making it easier to ride his length, your tempo getting faster and faster as you become undone, your orgasm becoming similar to that of an inner, pleasurable explosion, causing you to cry out his name, your sweet nectar soaking him, listening to his loud guttural moans and groans as you become lost in a blissful haze while he rides out his own sexual high,

You have two, maybe three more orgasms after, each one more intense than the last. You’re spent and so is he as you both rest in each others arms, catching your breaths, skin glistening with sweat as you both enjoy the blissful state you are in, basking in the afterglow.

After a while, you find yourself claiming his lips momentarily before you gaze upon him in a seductive manner.

“So officer… Am I still under arrest?” You ask with a purr

“I think you’ve served your punishment.” He pants as he steals a kiss “You’re free to go Skull face”

“What you going to tell your boss?” you ask

“You overpowered me and got away” He says calmly, gently stroking your cheek.

You smile, stealing one more kiss as your carefully dismount him, grabbing your discarded clothes and hastily getting dressed, watching him do the same as you both steal a few more glances. You then open the door and slide out of the car, turning round to look at him, a cheeky grin on your lips

“Hope to bump into you again Officer Nolan, maybe next time you’ll overpower me” You say before giving him a playful wink.

You walk away from the car, confident and slightly cocky before you then disappear into the shadows once more.

[dertaglichedan]

Americans Are Preparing for When All Hell Breaks Loose

Once thought of as a fringe mind-set, the prepared citizen movement is gaining traction in a world shaped by war, the pandemic and extreme weather.

Ten men, some wearing camouflage, others in vests loaded with ammunition for their AR-15 rifles, gathered under the morning shade of oak trees in Central Florida last month. They were there to learn marksmanship tactics common among Special Operation forces and elite law enforcement units.

Their instructor, Christopher Eric Roscher, an Air Force veteran, introduced himself and then led the group in prayer.

“Lord, you would use them as assets, to be protectors in this world, in a world that’s full of evil,” he prayed.

The men gathered around him were not soldiers, police officers or right-wing militia members. They were mostly civilians, including two pilots, a nurse and a construction company executive. The class’s title — Full Contender Minuteman — even referred to the civilians turned soldiers of the American Revolution.

In a world shaped by war, a pandemic and extreme weather, more Americans are getting ready for crisis — whether it’s to fight a tyrannical government, repel an invading army or respond to a natural disaster.

They are known as prepared or professional citizens, part of a growing number of gun owners who are adapting their mind-set to uncertain and polarized times. And rather than being part of more fringe “prepper” culture, they are growing more mainstream, catered to by companies ready to offer them the tools and training to be ready.

The traditional aspects of gun ownership — such as simple target shooting — are increasingly being shelved in favor of topics like radio and medical training, night-vision shooting, drone reconnaissance, homesteading and military tactics.

“We are looking at a growing number of companies who are broadening the appeal and normalizing self preparedness and the tools needed to enable it,” said Kareem Shaya, the co-founder of Open Source Defense, a startup working to normalize gun culture in the United States and invest in new companies in the civilian defense industry. “Five or 10 years ago, we couldn’t have done what we’re doing because there just weren’t enough startups in the space. We’re seeing it accelerate in real time.”

*** full story in link

[spiralinghours]

“I’ll Be Seeing You” (1/?)

Fandom: Saw franchise

Characters/Pairing: Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm

Rating: PG-13? (for this installment at least)

Tags/Warnings: mild violence/blood mention, allusions to Strahm being a chubby chaser, and good ol’ 1990’s internalized homophobia

Summary: The Jigsaw case wasn’t the first time Hoffman and Strahm met. When they were tasked on an assignment in 1992 they got to know each other, but the lines between professional and personal started to blur…

Author’s Notes: Sorry if the grammar and wording is off, may go in and tighten it at some point.

2006

The creeping feeling was there, all the way on the ride from their field office up to the tip of the stairwell leading into the scene the Metropolitan PD was checking out. Peter Strahm knew he would be on the case. He just wasn’t sure how long it would be until they crossed paths.

And then there it was.

Perez was halfway through stating her title before Strahm even noticed who she was addressing.

“Detective Hoffman?”

God, he was just Officer Hoffman back then. Before. It was weird seeing him out of the starched, black uniform.

There was some chatter about Allison Kerry being their liaison and the information she had provided, but it bounced off Strahm, who was not at all absorbing the words. He just kept staring. ‘Fuck. This guy.’ Or more like Fuck this guy!

Strahm’s eyes scrunched and narrowed as he gave an annoyed exhale, which was saying a lot as his disposition was in a perpetual state of fixed glaring—wrinkles under his tear ducts crinkling and cutting across to his cheekbones. The surrounding officers milling about were probably wondering why he was leering, what his problem was. Perez, after all, had introduced themselves so courteously.

Detective Mark Hoffman’s face, meanwhile, had an equally curious slant. His eyes rolled up and down Peter’s physique, awestruck and indiscreet about it. He quickly resumed some semblance of a dignified, unfazed stance.

Despite taking in the physical differences that hadn’t quite sunken in (Hoffman’s field vest wasn’t quite covering all if his chubbier midsection the way it once did, and his hair was pushed to one side like a typical desk jockey), all Strahm’s vision could muster was a screen of the past overlaying the current space.

He remembered that night in front of the tavern…

AUGUST 1992

It started as a celebratory night with the majority of the precinct reveling at the nearby tavern—a regular spot for most of their off-the-clock activity. On this evening they were giving the metaphorical sigh of relief over closing the case on a killer that had been plaguing the city and surrounding areas for little over a year.

The FBI had been brought in, assigning a handful of agents from the nearest field location to assist in the efforts. One of them was Peter Strahm, all of 28-years-old and green in Bureau. It was only evident in his appearance—on-edge demeanor, mullet slick in the front but slightly unruly in back, button up a little long on the arms—that he was new. It was his intense cold gaze and to-the-point tactics that got him taken seriously and carried him far. Far enough to earn his shots at the Metropolitan law enforcement’s party.

Most of those wince-inducing whiskey shots were taken while glancing curiously across the bar at Officer Mark Hoffman. Marcus, the front desk’s woman had often doted on him with a little smile. Deservedly so, Strahm agreed. Mark’s brand of handsome was a blank smoldering model in a cologne ad. A tanned, blue-eyed shyness in some kind of sporting backdrop in a department store. But when his features were pried with a stupid joke or some out of pocket comment by a senior figure, he cackled a silly laugh, prominent nose scrunched, crooked, gapped smile on display.

It made Peter sigh, which sent him into a mild fit over feeling like a school girl.

Mark was only a couple of years younger than Peter, but had a good few years in the force on his side, which was what paired them up most times on the case. It meant hours turning into days in casing out places, taking turns driving from diner to drive thru just to stay awake with bland coffee. Some nights got more interesting than others, but each day they were tasked together was a new canvas.

Now that they were at the end of the line, Peter would resume business as usual at his office, maybe even have time to go back to Nevada for a while. Which seemed nice, except… something felt left undone. Unsaid.

He pushed his emptied tumbler to the edge of the bar and casually glided over to Mark’s barstool.

“Smoke?” he offered.

Mark’s glassy eyes did a little up-down over Peter’s taller form before sliding off to the back hallway that lead to the parking lot.

“Hey,” Mark paused, stopping their tracks in front of the restroom door. “I appreciate the help you’ve brought on the case.”

“Oh, knock it off,” Peter chuckled with a heavy-browed eye roll. “We did all the thank you’s already. We’re getting drunk now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mark shot back, working his lips into a sassy curl. “I was just trying to be nice.” He craned his head slightly forward, more as a punctuation to his rising sarcasm.

But Peter wasn’t laughing anymore. His face had dropped into something else, eyes dark and fluttering. Mark’s brows knitted into a mixture of intrigue and confusion, not breaking his stare.

Bam, bam, bam. One thing after another. Strahm occupied one palm against Hoffman’s chest, and the other clenching his uniform tie in his fist. With the motion their faces collided, some teeth cutting against lips and tongues. It pushed them into the restroom behind them, so blurred and intense that no one else had noticed.

Against the sticky floor tiles within, Mark tumbled onto his butt, gaze still transfixed with confusion on Peter. He darted out and into the lot before Peter could even offer him a hand up.

Outside in the dewey summer, Strahm darted after Hoffman, calling out “Hey! HEY!”

Mark ceased his stamping off and settled into place, squared up like a statue. “I’m not a fuckin’ queer.” His Jersey

drawl dripped out, lazy but threatening. Though on the defense, his words spilled out like a plea. Please, don’t tell the guys at the station. Don’t get me kicked off the force. Please don’t find me disgusting.

“Neither am I!” Peter lied without quite realizing. “Not that it matters. Just… I dunno. I like this. I like you.”

When Mark wouldn’t respond to the acknowledgment out loud, blue eyes drifting off sharp in the velvet shade of night, Peter pressed on.

“We kissed.”

“No, you kissed me!” Mark spat, face screwing up in a betraying twist. He was blushing. No, fuming. Peter knew exactly what he was masking. Because this wasn’t their first encounter of that sort.

“Fine. You know what? Fuck you. Try not to bite the curb when you’re drunkenly getting back to your patrol car. Fucking lush.” ‘You can’t even kiss me without getting drunk,’ Peter wanted to follow up with. But he had turned, resisting a glance back, only remembering the times before. Those times were a long different: alone in the car, behind a motel, at a gas pump somewhere deserted…

He didn’t want to leave Mark behind. He wanted a next time. Another time to see his goofy smile, his puppy-ish eyes.

It wasn’t meant to be.

Uncoordinated scuttling—rubber soles on crumbling tar—echoed in the lot. “Hey, don’t talk to me like that,” Mark called behind, anger cracking through his tone, deep from in his chest.

Peter tilted his glare so slightly over his shoulder, instantly meeting a dull, radiating impact.

Mark wrung his fist out as it recoiled from Peter’s cheek: minimally bruised, but marked with a ghastly-bright splatter across his knuckles. “That’s what you get,” he choked out.

Without a beat, Strahm was on him, writhing somewhat weakly over the officer on the pavement while still reeling from the punch. He tried throwing all the force he could behind rapid hits, but missed or occasionally caught some awkward angle on Mark.

In a blind reach, Mark went to grab whatever he could to regain some stability, hoping to dig his fingers into Peter’s shoulders. Instead his fingernails caught tacky, humid flesh with a hard impact, raking down a thin trail of blood.

“Fuuuuck!” Peter rasped, pausing to dab the pads of his fingers along a cut on his orbital bone. Thick red seeped alongside his nose, down his cheek.

Mark could feel his own face desperately tense with regret.

The last thing he would ever see of Peter Strahm was the visage of him sat atop his thighs and a tightly wound fist heading between his eyes.

2006

Peter pressed his fingertips down on the raised scar tissue just below his eye. It throbbed maliciously as he took every step through the precinct halls, watched every tiny movement Mark made as he lead them around.

Perez had remained close at Peter’s side through their whole investigative venture so far. But she had to take a call from Erickson before entering into the file room where Hoffman was going to set them up to work. It was fine. Apparently Officer Rigg was in there reviewing footage anyway. Hoffman and Strahm could just wait for the call to end and the room to clear as Rigg wrapped up with the interrogation tape.

Peter released a cartoonishly impatient sigh and pressed his stiff back against the wall.

That was enough.

“You suck on a lemon or something? This whole time you’ve been scowling like I fucking pissed in your coffee.” Hoffman grit his teeth like a junkyard dog, the first time he’d let himself slip with the absence of Perez beside them.

“You’re such a thick-skulled fuck.”

“Oh yeah? That’s rich coming from someone hittin’ the slopes too hard.”

“Wow, very harsh, Detective Bimbo.” Strahm was taken aback by his own sass.

Mark leaned in. “You know, you got real old and bitter. You look like you been chewin’ on nails.”

“You got old and fat.” Peter couldn’t say that it didn’t look appealing on Mark, though. The cockiness was very much still there, but slightly humbled by the rounded edges and layers of cushioning that had expanded his width.

Peter wanted to picture it was a result of comforting, indulgent cooking: a smile spreading on Mark’s idiotic lips at the person across the table from him—the person who had cooked for him. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Even in being strangers for over a decade, Strahm was aware of what had happened to Angelina—the story spread through the news. Hoffman’s appearance wasn’t just extra weight from night after night of spiraling binge drinking, followed by quelling the hunger with takeout; It was a sunken quality to his eyes, a void just under the lids, the line over his brows. He looked hollow behind his own face, which creased with laughter years ago.

‘I could’ve—’ Peter started with himself, quickly cutting it off. No. Whatever he was about to tell himself was a delusion. It wouldn’t matter, especially not once this case was done with.

“You know,” Mark mused on with that purr-like bass to his voice, “I get it. You’re just cranky. Take a nap, sweetheart.” He cupped a thick hand to the scarred side of Peter’s face, grazing a fat thumb over the deeply pink line.

The body reacted before the rest of Peter could catch up, leaning into the touch, but only slightly. Internally he was on the brink of mewing like a starved cat. No no no. NO. He slapped Mark’s hand away.

The flat clacking of Lindsey’s shoes resounded through the hall, subconsciously signaling for the two to behave. They straightened up, but not before Mark leaned into Peter’s ear for a final remark.

“Drinks this week, Special Agent Strahm?”

Peter sneered. The answer wasn’t no.

[thatstormygeek]

This is not a job anyone will take by accident. It’s on the news every day. Hundreds of thousands of people are in the streets protesting against it. This creates a self-selecting pool. It will attract only those who are not repulsed by it. Job applicants will consist of those who see pictures of dudes wearing tactical vests and face coverings jumping out of unmarked trucks and grabbing people and think to themselves, “that looks cool.”

How much does ICE stand to grow if this bill’s funding comes through? A lot. The all-in costs of deportation over the next decade could reach a trillion fucking dollars, according to this Cato analysis. That includes the border wall and a huge expansion of prisons for immigrants, to a size nearly on par with the federal prison system. Let’s focus on the most dangerous funding of all: the direct funding for law enforcement agencies. To level-set you here, understand that right now, before this bill passes, the combined funding of the FBI, DEA, ATF, Secret Service, and all other federal law enforcement is only half the size of the federal funding for immigration and border enforcement. So we are already pouring an inordinate amount of money into stalking immigrants. If the new bill passes, we will add $167 billion to immigration enforcement.

Part of this funding increase would go to hiring 10,000 new ICE agents, and more than 8,000 new Customs and Border Patrol agents. That would give ICE more agents than the FBI has in the field. It goes without saying that this would be a disaster for not only undocumented immigrants, who would be ruthlessly hunted down like fugitives, but also to any brown-skinned person in America, who can expect to be subjected to harassment by agents sent out to please Stephen Miller’s insatiable desire for public displays of racism at all costs. It’s even worse than that. Think about this expansion of ICE in the context of the entire arc of Trump’s rise to power. This man falsely claimed to win the 2020 election, tried to have his supporters overthrow the government to keep him in power, came back and won again, and pardoned the people who tried to overthrow the government on his behalf. The main thing he learned from his first term was to surround himself only with fanatical loyalists. The entire top level of the federal government is now staffed with a buffet of lunatics, incompetents, and extremists whose defining characteristic is their loyalty to Trump above the law. This includes the military and the federal law enforcement agencies. Within the ranks of the military and law enforcement, however, absolute loyalty cannot be achieved so quickly. Even though those constituencies are strongly Republican, there is also some significant level of anger at Trump as well. FBI agents have seen colleagues purged just for working on January 6 cases; Army soldiers were forced to march in Trump’s stupid parade; Marines, many of them from immigrant families, have been outrageously deployed to patrol Los Angeles. These things create dissatisfaction in the ranks that is hard to measure, but real. So how can Trump be sure that the absolute loyalty he demands extends all the way down to his foot soldiers? By hiring new ones. Who do you think those ten thousand fresh new ICE agents will be? Well, one thing we can say for sure is that they will be people who are okay with the proposition of taking a job with ICE as it is run under Donald Trump. This is not a job anyone will take by accident.

[mariacallous]

In the summer of 1857, lower Manhattan festered with riots. People took to the streets for many reasons, including rioting for its own sake, but chief among them was that some local residents were born in America and others were not. Near what is now Foley Square, the Dead Rabbits gang (immigrant, Irish) threw broken jars and bricks. The Bowery Boys (nativist, anti-Irish) chucked stones from rooftops. Even women and children joined in. The police were nowhere to be seen. One spectator asked, “Why don’t the authorities interfere?”

Last Wednesday night, near an Immigration and Customs Enforcement field office downtown, a police officer who gave his name as Charlie looked around and said, “If you think about it, in a hundred and fifty years, nothing’s really changed.” He was surveying a group of demonstrators who had gathered to protest President Trump’s immigration raids, which have been occurring with increasing ferocity—at meat-processing plants, outside courthouses and schools, even in church parking lots. A protester named Jessica Galeas, who had a Guatemalan flag wrapped around her shoulders, said that five people she knew had recently been deported. “Imagine you can’t go to the grocery store because they’re just waiting out there to grab you,” she said. “People are asking me for favors—‘Can you drop off my kid at school?’—because they’re afraid.”

Around a sculpture called “Triumph of the Human Spirit,” demonstrators held signs that read “DEAR ICE, GTFO. LOVE, NYC.” People carried balloons, cowbells, GoPros. A few had their faces obscured with balaclavas or KN-95 masks. Others had their parents’ phone numbers scribbled in Sharpie on their forearms. Protests the night before had been intense, with thousands of people in the street and dozens of arrests, so the N.Y.P.D. had turned out early. One officer, who immigrated from Trinidad when he was nine, said that he wasn’t wearing a riot helmet because tactical gear scared people. “It’s better to be approachable,” he said. Another officer, a beefy gent with a helmet in his hand, announced, “I’ve had seven cups of coffee today.”

At a nearby Starbucks, a cop in a bulletproof vest ordered a blueberry streusel muffin. The guy behind the counter said, “I’m not protesting, man. It doesn’t make a difference. Just to get beat up to say something—and no one’s gonna listen?” A customer in a floral dress shook her head and said, quietly, “I think it makes a difference.” Outside, the crowd chanted, “No hate / No fear / ICE is not welcome here.” One man who declined to join the chants said, “I came here when I was seven years old, and I did pretty much everything right—went to school, went to college, and finally got my citizenship.” He paused and added, “It’s a privilege for me to be here.” An N.Y.P.D. surveillance drone whirred overhead.

The demonstrations began in Los Angeles, where, after a small number of participants hurled concrete blocks at police cruisers and torched Waymo cars, Trump deployed the National Guard and the Marines, claiming that the protests amounted to an insurrection. At Foley Square, Anthony Swartz, a former officer for the Department of Homeland Security, came to check out the scene for himself. “I’m tired of the fake news,” he said. “All these A.I. videos of protesters throwing stuff, and I saw some A.I. videos of cops harassing people. With today’s technology, you never know.” Swartz showed off a Blue Lives Matter tattoo on his forearm. “I support what they’re doing,” he said, nodding at the protesters. “Just don’t start throwing rocks and shit!” A woman named Emily Worsley blew bubbles over the crowd. “If you blow bubbles, they can’t say it’s a riot,” she said.

Around eight o’clock, the demonstrators marched off toward another federal building, where immigration-court hearings are held. Some fifty officers followed. The vibe was confrontational but contained. A chef out for dinner with his wife shouted at a helmeted cop, “Pull your pants up!” The cop pulled his pants up. At a barricade, a protester dangled a toy doughnut in front of police, and a plainclothesman rubbed his belly and yelled, “I’m hungry!”

As the sun set pink and purple over the Hudson, more officers in tactical gear arrived, and something changed. A red-faced cop called a protester an “idiot,” and a demonstrator screamed in his face. Five people were arrested. The crowd chanted, “N.Y.P.D., K.K.K., I.C.E.—they’re all the same!” Across the street, a building superintendent named Mike Rodriguez smoked Newports and watched the action. “Look, there goes one,” he said, pulling out his phone to film an arrest. “They just tackled him!” The crowd chanted, “N.Y.P.D., suck my dick!” Rodriguez laughed. “They’re creative. I’ll give them that.”

Around them, the business of the city went on. A custodian pushed his way through chanting protesters (“Gaza! Gaza!”) to dump trash on the sidewalk. “They’re gonna be here all week, and I’m here all week,” he said, with a sigh. “But, you know, they have a right to be here.” 

[polliantics]

Injuries/deaths in Los Angeles 6/10/2025

Here’s what we know so far about injuries and fatalities linked to the LA anti-ICE protests, federal/military deployment, and LAPD/CHP tactics:

💀 Confirmed Deaths

Unidentified man found deceased early Tuesday near looted storefronts around 3rd and Broadway. Authorities are investigating but haven’t confirmed a direct link to the unrest

There are no confirmed protester or law enforcement deaths directly tied to the protests or response actions as of now.

🧑‍💼 Journalist/Media Injuries (≥ 20 reported)

Toby Canham, New York Post photographer, shot in the forehead with a rubber bullet by CHP on June 8; also sustained whiplash from a flash-bang

Lauren Tomasi, Australian Nine News reporter, hit in the leg by a rubber bullet amid live reporting

ABC camera operator, struck in the chest by a less-lethal round while covering the Little Tokyo area; protected only by a Kevlar vest

Sergio Olmos, CalMatters reporter, struck in the chest by a 40 mm sponge round; required hospital treatment

A British photojournalist (likely Nick Stern) required emergency surgery after being hit by a sponge bullet

CNN correspondent Jason Carroll and his crew were temporarily detained/escorted by LAPD though not arrested; raising First Amendment concerns

👣 Protester & Civilian Injuries

Jen Richards, trans activist, suffered flash-bang/rubber bullet injuries to her foot and described “rabid aggression” from LAPD

Independent reports (e.g. World Socialist Web Site) noted at least two injuries from flash-bangs and pepper balls.

Some protesters were injured by projectiles, such as thrown bricks; exact counts remain unclear

👮 Law Enforcement Injuries

LAPD reported 5 officers injured during weekend clashes—three treated on-site, two required minor hospital care

Two LAPD officers struck by motorcyclists near Alameda/Temple; injuries treated at the scene

Three sheriff’s deputies sustained minor injuries from a Molotov cocktail thrown by a protester

An ICE agent was injured when a rock shattered his vehicle’s windshield, cutting his hand

[mjonthetrack]

vice queen II

Chapter 88 — The Power Couple’s Play

The bunker was quieter now, the chaos settling, but Zilla and Courtney weren’t about to relax yet. The new threat was real, and they were the frontline.

Zilla stood over the maps, tracing the routes with his finger, eyes sharp like a hawk. His jaw was tight, muscles flexing beneath the sleeve of his black shirt.

Courtney leaned in beside him, one hand on the table, the other tapping her phone as she cross-checked intel with surveillance feeds. Her sharp gaze caught every detail.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing at a cluster of new faces trying to sneak product through a back alley off Fifth and Main. “They’re testing us—seeing what cracks we got.”

Zilla’s eyes flicked up to hers, and a slow grin pulled on his lips. “You see that?”

She nodded. “Yeah. But they don’t know we already planted eyes on that crew two days ago.”

He smirked, a flash of pride and respect. “I knew you’d be on it.”

The bunker phone buzzed. Courtney snatched it up—Jacob. Lo was already two steps ahead with him, cutting off another angle. Zilla rolled his shoulders and looked back at the map.

“We split the crew,” he said. “You take the north blocks, I’ll hit the docks. No screw-ups.”

Courtney’s eyes glinted with challenge. “You know I like when we move like this. I got the runners covered. They won’t even blink.”

Zilla chuckled darkly, voice low. “Same. When I hit, it’s like a storm nobody sees coming till it’s too late.”

They moved out fast—Zilla with his enforcer crew, Courtney coordinating on comms and logistics like a general. Every move synced like a dance born in the streets but sharpened in the bunker.

Hours later, back at the base, Courtney dropped a report. “We cut the supply lines clean. Those boys won’t be back for a minute.”

Zilla tossed her a sideways glance, admiration loud in his eyes. “You really came through. This whole crew is lucky you got the brains and the bite.”

Courtney smirked, stepping close enough to brush her shoulder against his. “Don’t forget the heart. That’s what makes this work.”

He caught her hand, squeezing it tight. “My rock.”

Meanwhile, Lo and Jacob’s teamwork was dismantling the opposing side’s tech surveillance, but it was clear Zilla and Courtney’s brand of ruthless was unmatched.

When the dust settled, Zilla and Courtney shared a rare quiet moment.

Courtney leaned her head on his chest. “We make a hell of a team.”

Zilla held her close, voice low and steady. “Always. You and me—we run this city.”

Chapter 89 – “Everything Straight?”

A week deep into the Alvarez mess and the tension in the city air was thick enough to chew through. West and Tenth had turned into a problem zone, and Courtney wasn’t about to send someone else to clock what she needed to see for herself.

She pulled up solo in her matte black Hummer, music low, vest already snug under her black cropped jacket. Her sleek tactical boots hit the gravel without a sound when she stepped out. Her 12-gauge was strapped tight across her back, and her curls were slicked into a low, neat bun. Business mode.

She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Courtney was there to watch—to see what the ledgers weren’t saying, what the crew on the street was too scared or too stupid to report.

From her position near the back of the loading zone, she leaned casually against a rusted container, sunglasses covering her eyes as she watched the drop unfold.

The pushers were there, alright. Three of them. Two runners standing by.

And then a man she didn’t recognize—tall, skinny, had that jumpy new-energy, like someone not used to doing dirt out in the open.

She squinted slightly, pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and hit record.

They popped the crate. That’s when she saw it.

Colombian powder. The good shit.

They were laughing, passing bricks like they were party favors. One of the pushers opened a duffle and pulled out prepackaged baggies, tossing them around like candy.

Courtney didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just filmed—slow and smooth—capturing every face, every movement, every careless laugh. When she stopped the recording, she slipped it into the encrypted crew group chat with one line:

"We got thieves. West & 10th. Come correct."

Then she tucked her phone away.

By the time they noticed the heavy hum of her engine cutting off and the low clack of boots on concrete, it was already too late.

Courtney stepped into view like a shadow turned flesh, the stock of her 12-gauge in her grip. She wore it like jewelry.

The crew tensed.

She tilted her head, voice light, sugar-sweet. “Yo! Y’all got everything straight?”

They stared at her.

One of the pushers nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “Y-Yeah… yeah boss. All straight. You ain’t have to pull up, we good.”

Courtney raised a brow behind her sunglasses. “Mm. That’s cute. Real cute.”

She walked closer, each step slow and deliberate, like a lion circling its prey.

“Funny how good things look when you know somebody watchin’. You boys got inventory for me? A number? A log? A full count? Or y’all just wingin’ this shit now?”

The unnamed guy stepped forward, trying to mask his nerves. “Look, we was just—“

Courtney pointed her shotgun dead at his knee.

“I ain’t ask you to speak.”

She looked at the crew. “I got about a dozen reasons why I should pop this whole fuckin’ operation off right here, right now. So unless one of you got a real good answer for why I just saw bricks being pocketed like fuckin’ lunch meat—you better start talking.”

Silence.

She cracked her neck, then smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

Courtney stepped up to the crate and scanned it with her own phone, confirming the weight. Five bricks light.

“Dumbasses,” she muttered under her breath. “Can’t even steal right.”

She turned, starting to walk off but paused mid-stride. “Oh. You got five minutes to put back every single gram you just touched. After that?”

She looked over her shoulder, expression cold. “Y’all better hope Zilla shows up first. ‘Cause if it’s me?”

She racked the 12-gauge once, loud enough to make one of them flinch. “I don’t shoot to scare.”

And with that, she walked back to her Hummer like a storm cloud rolling away—calm now, but promising thunder if the disrespect continued.

Chapter 90 – “They Shot Me”

The warehouse sat quiet for five minutes—just long enough for sweat to bead up under the traitors’ collars and for hope to sneak in.

They were stuffing bricks back into the crate, fumbling over each other like clowns in a panic, arguing over who took what, who should go, who should stay. One of the runners even tried hiding a baggie in his sock like Courtney didn’t already peep game from the jump.

And then… Click. Click. Click.

The sound of tactical boots returned. Measured. Angry.

Courtney stepped right back in like she never left, shotgun still in hand, but not raised yet. Blood still hadn’t hit the floor, but the tension? Thick like smoke before the fire.

She scanned the room, her voice cutting through the air like a scalpel. “So… y’all really thought I was bluffing?”

The dumbest one in the group—a pusher with a fade and too much mouth—rolled his eyes and let off a weak-ass laugh.

“Man, you just Jimmy’s little toy. What you gon’ do, princess? Bust another threat and walk off in them heels?”

The room went still.

Courtney’s head tilted. Her lips curled.

“Nah, baby. I think you got me confused with a bitch who won’t bleed for her family.”

She took one step forward, about to raise her gauge when—

CRACK—CRACK—CRACK—POP!

Gunfire exploded. A runner panicked and shot first.

Courtney’s body jerked back, the thick whumpf of impact slamming into her chest three times—saved by the vest—but the fourth bullet bit deep into her hip.

She stumbled, cursed loud as hell: “FUCK! Oh you dumb motherfuckers!”

That twelve-gauge roared like a dragon. She aired that bitch out with a vengeance.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

She was aiming wild but sharp—blasting the ground, the crates, the barrels stacked nearby, sending sparks and woodchips flying. One of the runners dove behind a crate, screaming. Another took a piece of a ricochet to the thigh and crawled for his life.

People were snatching bricks, bolting like roaches under a kitchen light. The place fell into chaos—shouts, boots slapping the floor, crates crashing.

Courtney dropped to one knee behind a rusted barrel, her hand shaking as she yanked out her phone. Her fingers fumbled, bloody and shaking, before she finally got to the group chat FaceTime.

[Incoming Group Call: Queen Bishop 👑💣]

Her face hit the screen—bloody at her temple, pale, sweat clinging to her brows. She gritted her teeth, voice rushed and pained as sirens and chaos howled in the background.

“Hurry the fuck up—” Her breath hitched, and she grit through it. “I’m hit! They shot me—hip! Got three in the vest but one went deep, I’m bleeding bad—” she blinked fast, trying to stay up, “pushers turned, they took bricks, ran like fuckin’ rats! Warehouse on West and Tenth!”

She panted, the phone shaking in her hand as she tried to keep the camera up.

“Z—” she gasped, coughing, a smear of red at her lips, “Tell Maya I’m comin’ back. Don’t let her see me like this.”

Then her eyes fluttered, and her body slumped to the side, half-conscious.

The screen went black for a second—then the sound of tires screeching lit up another part of the city.

Chapter 87 – “Blood in the Game” (Zilla’s POV)

The group chat ping hit his phone so fast it practically jumped off the counter. Zilla had just been reviewing updated Alvarez territory maps with Jimmy and Camille, when the screen lit up with a FaceTime call from Courtney. That alone had him reaching for it without thinking—but what he saw? Had his soul rip straight out his chest.

Her face was tight with pain, jaw clenched, blood already soaking through her vest, her other hand pressing against her hip.

“Hurry the fuck up, I’m hit!” “They shot me—my hip, three in the vest! I’m bleeding bad! Pushers hit me—” “They all grabbed bricks and ran!”

His vision went black at the edges.

The phone slipped off the counter. Jimmy caught it mid-fall, yelling for Camille to grab the keys.

Zilla was already moving. Fast. Wordless. Death in his eyes.

By the time they got to the West and Tenth warehouse, Zilla didn’t wait for backup protocol. He was out the moment the SUV skidded to a halt. Jimmy barely got out a “Z—!” before the youngest Fatu was already storming in, steel in both hands, vest already strapped, eyes sweeping every shadow like a man possessed.

And he was.

Because all Zilla could think of was her. His woman. His Courtney. Bleeding somewhere in that damn concrete box because his people thought they could touch what was his.

Inside, the air smelled like gunpowder and betrayal. Blood smeared the floor. Bullet shells glittered like bad omens.

Then he saw her.

Courtney had dragged herself against a crate, her 12 gauge still in her lap, jaw clenched. She looked like war incarnate—bloodied, bruised, and still ready to end whoever tried her. But her vest was cracked, and blood still ran warm down her side from the hip.

She looked up at him.

And all the noise, all the rage, all the goddamn fire inside him went silent.

“Z…” she breathed out, like she’d been waiting for him to breathe again.

Zilla was already kneeling, checking her pulse, ripping his own vest open to stuff pressure on her hip wound. “Why the fuck didn’t you wait for backup? You ain’t built like you bulletproof, Court!”

She actually smiled—barely, weakly, lips cracked. “Felt like I was.”

He growled low under his breath, voice sharp and trembling with fury and fear. “You think this funny? Getting shot cute to you?”

“No,” she rasped. “But your face when I said it kinda is.”

Zilla exhaled like he could scream or cry and didn’t know which would win. His hands were already slick with her blood.

Behind him, Jimmy and Camille moved fast. Camille was radioing a medic while Jimmy started yelling orders, getting footage of the pushers’ faces from the camera system, piecing shit together.

Zilla stayed locked on her.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he muttered. “You stay the fuck with me, Bishop. Don’t do that dumb movie shit.”

She cracked a smirk, one that looked more pain than amusement. “Why, scared you might miss me?”

His voice dipped, raw and soft, “You my whole fuckin’ world, Court. You don’t get to leave me.”

She blinked slow, touched his jaw even though her hand shook. “Then don’t let me.”

Zilla held her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead even as blood soaked into his knees.

“You safe now,” he whispered. “I got you, I got you.”

Outside, the med team loaded her into the SUV while Camille coordinated the chase. Zilla rode with Courtney, never letting her hand go. Not once. His blood was boiling and brain on fire—but all that mattered right now was the rise and fall of her chest.

Everything else could burn.

Chapter 88 – “Marked Men” (Zilla’s POV)

Zilla hadn’t moved from the bedroom chair in hours.

Courtney was resting, knocked out from the pain meds, her hip wrapped tight and stitched. Doc said the vest caught most of the heat, but the hip shot? That was the one that dug into him. That’s the one that made his knuckles stay cracked and raw from how hard he’d been clenching his fists.

He watched her sleep like the sound of her breathing was the only thing keeping his heart in rhythm.

But even as he sat there, body still, his mind wasn’t.

Nah, his mind was moving. Vicious. Tactical.

Every pusher on the West and Tenth route? They were already dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

He stood finally, brushing her curls from her cheek. She mumbled his name in her sleep—Z—soft, almost sweet. The same voice that used to scream bloody murder across war rooms. The same lips that used to kiss him quiet after a rage fit. His woman. His family.

“I’ll be back, baby,” he murmured low, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Promise.”

Then he left.

Bunker — Two hours later

“Where’s Jimmy?” Zilla asked, already storming past the first door.

Sefa, sitting back with Lo and Jey in the operations room, blinked slow. “What the hell got you wired like a landmine?”

Zilla didn’t stop walking.

“I want every name. Every route. Every runner who touched that warehouse. I want face IDs, phone pings, locations. You move slow, I’ll move without you.”

Camille walked in next, brows tight, pregnant belly leading but her energy calm and cutthroat. “Already on it. Facial recog is running. One of the pushers just popped on our grid.”

Jimmy finally caught up. “Z, listen—”

“I’m not listening,” Zilla snapped, his jaw clenched like stone. “I’m telling you. They shot her. My woman. While she was doing her job. Protecting our money. They knew who she was. They still pulled the trigger. That ain’t just disloyal. That’s treason.”

The silence that followed said it all.

Even Jey looked rattled.

Lo? She just whistled. “Aight. So, we on purge mode then.”

Zilla’s eyes went dark.

“No more questions. No more warnings. If they show face in our blocks again, their mama better be ready to bury ‘em.”

Jimmy gave him a hard look. “And Court?”

“She sleeps,” Zilla said quietly. “And when she wakes up, I want her to never question that her man kept her safe.”

One hour later — inside an abandoned complex on 12th Street

The first two pushers were found easy. They were too cocky. Thought they got away.

Zilla didn’t even speak before he swung.

One cracked jaw. One shattered kneecap. He moved like a damn ghost with purpose.

“You stole from her,” he said low. “You shot her. You laughed.”

They tried to talk. Plead. Cry.

He didn’t care.

By the time he left, one was unconscious, the other sobbing, his arm bent wrong. They weren’t dead—not yet. But everyone around them would see what happened.

This was just the prologue.

Back at the estate — midnight

Zilla walked into the bedroom again, clothes smelling like gunpowder, blood speckled on his boots.

Courtney stirred, eyes cracking open just enough to catch him slipping out of his vest.

“Z?” her voice was scratchy.

“I’m here, baby.”

She reached for his hand weakly. “You okay?”

He paused.

Then he lay beside her, gently wrapping her into his arms like she was made of glass. His lips pressed to her temple, and he whispered,

“I wasn’t. But I am now.”

Because she was safe. And every single soul who even thought of hurting her?

Was already marked for extinction.

Chapter 89 – “Let Me Take Care of You” (Courtney’s POV)

Her eyes cracked open slow, a dull throbbing in her hip reminding her of exactly why her body felt like it got dropped off a rooftop and spun in a cement mixer.

For a second, she forgot where she was.

Then the scent of him hit—cedarwood, gunpowder, and that expensive-ass cologne he only wore at home. Not the streets. Home.

Zilla’s estate.

Their estate now, she guessed.

And there he was.

Right by the edge of the bed, sitting on the floor with his head against the mattress, watching her in the dark like he hadn’t slept since she got hit. Big, thick hands gently holding her good thigh, his thumb moving in soft circles like muscle memory. Like she was his grounding wire.

Courtney blinked at him. “You... been there all night?”

“Since you got back,” he said hoarsely. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

“Z…”

“I just need to take care of you right now,” he said, low and serious, like this was sacred. “Please.”

Her chest squeezed at the sound of his voice—mean-ass Zilla Fatu, with that gravel edge cracked down to vulnerability.

“You don’t gotta ask,” she whispered, lifting her hand to cup his cheek. “I want you to.”

He stood slowly, crawling in beside her like his weight might break her—like he wasn’t all rage and war two hours ago. He pulled her into his lap, her legs draped awkwardly because of the wound, but he didn’t care. Held her like she wasn’t busted open. Like she was royalty.

“I ain’t know what to do when I saw your name come across that group chat like that,” he confessed, fingers brushing her curls back. “My heart stopped, ma. You—you’re it for me.”

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just stared at him. Then leaned in slow and kissed him, soft and lingering, resting her forehead to his.

“I know,” she said. “You showed me.”

Her hand found his—big, calloused, still trembling with all the things he hadn’t said—and laced their fingers together.

“You let me in,” he muttered, burying his face in her shoulder. “I ain’t used to that. You let me... have you. And now, this? This mine to protect. I swear on everything, they’ll never get close again.”

She smiled, eyes glossy. “Z, I trust you. I ain’t never let a man in like this... but you? You worth the risk.”

He kissed her like she was oxygen.

Not hungry. Not aggressive. Just grateful.

Held her till her pain meds knocked her back out again, his hand stroking her curls like a lullaby.

And for the first time in years, Courtney Bishop—chaos demon, logistics queen, mouth like a razor blade—slept like a woman in love.

Because she was.

And she let him love her back.

Chapter 89 – “Let Me Take Care of You” (Courtney’s POV)

Her eyes cracked open slow, a dull throbbing in her hip reminding her of exactly why her body felt like it got dropped off a rooftop and spun in a cement mixer.

For a second, she forgot where she was.

Then the scent of him hit—cedarwood, gunpowder, and that expensive-ass cologne he only wore at home. Not the streets. Home.

Zilla’s estate.

Their estate now, she guessed.

And there he was.

Right by the edge of the bed, sitting on the floor with his head against the mattress, watching her in the dark like he hadn’t slept since she got hit. Big, thick hands gently holding her good thigh, his thumb moving in soft circles like muscle memory. Like she was his grounding wire.

Courtney blinked at him. “You... been there all night?”

“Since you got back,” he said hoarsely. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

“Z…”

“I just need to take care of you right now,” he said, low and serious, like this was sacred. “Please.”

Her chest squeezed at the sound of his voice—mean-ass Zilla Fatu, with that gravel edge cracked down to vulnerability.

“You don’t gotta ask,” she whispered, lifting her hand to cup his cheek. “I want you to.”

He stood slowly, crawling in beside her like his weight might break her—like he wasn’t all rage and war two hours ago. He pulled her into his lap, her legs draped awkwardly because of the wound, but he didn’t care. Held her like she wasn’t busted open. Like she was royalty.

“I ain’t know what to do when I saw your name come across that group chat like that,” he confessed, fingers brushing her curls back. “My heart stopped, ma. You—you’re it for me.”

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just stared at him. Then leaned in slow and kissed him, soft and lingering, resting her forehead to his.

“I know,” she said. “You showed me.”

Her hand found his—big, calloused, still trembling with all the things he hadn’t said—and laced their fingers together.

“You let me in,” he muttered, burying his face in her shoulder. “I ain’t used to that. You let me... have you. And now, this? This mine to protect. I swear on everything, they’ll never get close again.”

She smiled, eyes glossy. “Z, I trust you. I ain’t never let a man in like this... but you? You worth the risk.”

He kissed her like she was oxygen.

Not hungry. Not aggressive. Just grateful.

Held her till her pain meds knocked her back out again, his hand stroking her curls like a lullaby.

And for the first time in years, Courtney Bishop—chaos demon, logistics queen, mouth like a razor blade—slept like a woman in love.

Because she was.

And she let him love her back.

Chapter 90 – “My People Are My Priority”

The warm water swirled in soft circles as Courtney poured one last rinse of shampoo through Maya’s wild curls. The little girl giggled, wriggling under the spray, the bubbles clinging to her cheeks like dandelion fluff.

“You got soap on your nose,” Courtney said, smiling as she swiped it off with the edge of a towel.

Maya grinned up at her, cheeks glowing. “Mommy, you do it better than Zilla.”

Courtney paused.

That word—mommy. It had slipped out so casually, like it was already real to Maya, and it melted her insides like heat to caramel.

“I do, huh?” she murmured, voice catching just a little.

Maya nodded, splashing the water. “Zilla be too fast. He don’t do the conditioner right.”

Courtney chuckled, pulling the toddler out of the tub and wrapping her in a big fluffy towel. “Well, we’ll make it our thing then. Every wash day, you and me.”

She helped Maya step into her fuzzy pajamas—ones with tiny Samoan tribal patterns and baby moons dancing along the legs—and brushed through her curls with steady fingers and all the patience in the world.

Courtney had taken three bullets, was stitched and sore and limping. But she didn’t miss a beat. Her body was hurting, but her heart?

Stronger than ever.

Once Maya was dried, dressed, and tucked into her bed with Peaches the bunny curled next to her, Courtney kissed her forehead. “Night-night, Coco Puff.”

“Night, Mommy.”

Again with that word.

Again with that warm flood through her chest.

She stood for a moment in the doorway, her hand on the frame, watching Maya drift off. Then she turned, moving slow down the hallway of Zilla’s estate—their estate now. She passed the kitchen, where her phone buzzed once with a message from Jey about the Alvarez fallout, but she ignored it for now.

Her family came first.

She pushed open the bedroom door gently.

Zilla was sprawled on their massive bed, one arm thrown over his face, one leg kicked off the edge like his body had given out from sheer tension. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since she’d gotten shot. Every whisper of pain she made, he’d jolted up like someone fired a gun.

Courtney moved carefully to the side of the bed, barefoot now, bandages under her silk robe. She leaned down, brushed his curls off his forehead, and kissed him softly.

“Rest, Z,” she whispered. “I got it from here tonight.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but his arm curled around her waist on instinct.

“C’mere, Bishop,” he muttered, voice raspy. “You still hurtin’. Lay down.”

She let him pull her in, gently, carefully, letting her body mold to his side. His hand traced over her hip like he had to remind himself she was still alive.

“I bathed our baby,” she murmured. “Brushed out her curls. She called me mommy again.”

That made his breath catch.

“She said it like she meant it,” she added, laying her head on his chest.

“She does,” he said quietly. “You’re hers now. Same way you’re mine.”

She closed her eyes.

God, this man. This mean-ass, war-headed kingpin of chaos who melted like sugar when it came to his daughter and his woman.

“I ain’t letting nobody touch y’all again,” he said suddenly, hand tightening at her hip. “Anybody who tries—they get dropped, Bishop. No mercy.”

“I know, baby,” she whispered. “But you need to rest too. You can’t protect us if you burn out.”

There was silence for a long beat.

Then he nodded. Pressed his lips to the top of her head.

And for the first time in days, he actually slept.

Because she had him. Just like she had Maya. And when she said my people are my priority—she meant it.

Even from a hospital bed. Even with a bullet still lodged in muscle. Even when it hurt to breathe.

Courtney Bishop was still the softest weapon in the Fatu arsenal.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Reflections

The suffocating and oppressive demonstration of May Day 2019 is now behind us. However, we should not simply move forward to the next day of action without analyzing what happened in the streets that day. If the leading procession is to reinvent itself and stay unpredictable, we must reflect on the events of the day and study the strategies and decisions made on the field. Otherwise, we will remain trapped in the role assigned by authorities, as well as of our own self-satisfied and ritualized form of superficial radicalism. As there is always room for improvement, we present several thoughts that we hope will contribute to refining our strategies for actions and riots to come.

The law enforcement strategy used by authorities during May Day 2019 made quite an impression. The massive—and almost unprecedented—police presence deployed all around the course of the traditional afternoon demonstration put the most terrifying dystopian novels to shame. All day long, numerous police checkpoints, searches, patrols, frontal attacks and incursions, and gratuitously brutal arrests confirmed the ruthlessness of the new law enforcement strategy. From now on, the authorities aim to crush social movements and political unrest by any means necessary, even if this means injuring even more demonstrators than they have already. They aim to establish a state of fear through intentional police brutality and intense legal repression, including new legislation to give law enforcement a free hand during demonstrations, such as the Loi “anti-casseurs”. All this already started before the yellow vest movement. The authoritarian shift of the French government is well under way and undeniable.

The authorities are willing to crush any form of rebellion and unrest—but to do so, they have had to adapt their modus operandi in accordance with the tactics and strategies of the cortège de tête. The intensification of police checkpoints and searches before demonstrations enables them to arrest potential rioters and to seize equipment of all kinds. They hope that, if they do this, these people won’t participate in street confrontations—which, if we follow their logic, should weaken the leading procession. Another aspect of the cortège de tête that the authorities have clearly understood is that one of its major assets is its mobility and speed. Therefore, what better way to control the offensive crowd than to lead it into a trap in which every single exit is blocked by police lines? Then the authorities will know our route and our potential objectives precisely. They can decide to kettle everyone whenever they choose, then engage in hand-to-hand combat and arrest more people. And if some people succeed in escaping from the kettle to start wildcat actions—as we saw during May Day 2019—the authorities can send their motorcycle brigades to disperse everyone.

All this confirms that we need to reconsider our tactics and strategies. Willingly entering the trap set by the authorities has prevented us from opening new breaches and unleashing our destructive creativity in joyful and spontaneous actions. In the end, on May Day, we were exactly where the police wanted us to be, inside their perimeter, and this enabled them to contain and brutally repress us.

The difficulty in preparing for events like May Day in Paris is that, as they attract thousands and thousands of individuals, it is not easy to plan secretly in a way that will reach most people. Once a crowd decides to play by the rules set by authorities, it faces tremendous disadvantages. Considering that authorities are willing to injure even more demonstrators if they have to, we should take this issue seriously.

On numerous occasions, participants in the yellow vest movement have demonstrated their capacity and determination by remaining outside police perimeters. This enabled everyone to engage in intense street confrontations and property destruction, sometimes without even seeing police for minutes or hours. Obviously, with the new Police Prefect and the new strategy of repression, the situation has evolved. However, we continue to believe that a strategy of decentralization is the most efficient solution, as police can’t hope to control many wildcat demonstrations of hundreds of demonstrators if they take place at the same time in many different locations. The question is—how do we deal with the new extremely mobile police units? So far, they are the ones that threaten spontaneous marches and actions.

As in any strategy, there is a weak point. The objective now must be to find this weak point in order to thwart the government’s new strategy of repression.

If nothing else, the sheer number of people in the streets for May Day proves that Macron’s political announcements did not pacify anyone or resolve the ongoing political crisis. Far from it. Despite the massive police presence, the trap set by authorities, and the clear warnings that the government broadcast before May Day, people’s determination and rage remains unbreakable. Thousands and thousands of yellow vesters answered the invitation sent by radicals to join a leading procession that comprised considerably more than half of the entire afternoon demonstration—confirming the decline of trade unions as a tool of political pacification. The trap set by authorities didn’t stop demonstrators from engaging in impressive and courageous street confrontations with police, nor from starting wildcat actions outside of the perimeter.

In the end, despite the fierce repression, anarchists and other autonomous rebels succeeded in putting their personal touch on this May Day. The fact that the French government claimed victory on May Day even as images of massive confrontations and property destruction circulated is itself revealing. It shows how desperately the current government needs to preserve the image that it maintains hegemony, as the political context remains explosive and all efforts to construct a new social peace have utterly failed.

Alongside the indomitable solidarity participants in the cortège de tête expressed in response to the cowardly attacks of the police, all this confirms that, against the odds, we can still remain ungovernable and open up new horizons.

[dnaamericaapp]

Jacksonville Shooter Is Identified: 21 Year Old Ryan Christopher Palmeter

Authorities on Sunday named the white gunman who fatally shot three Black people in a race-motivated attack in Jacksonville, Florida, as Ryan Palmeter, 21.

According to police, video shows Palmeter entering a Dollar General parking lot Saturday afternoon and killing a woman in her car before he enters the store and kills two other people. Officials believe the gunman died by suicide as police entered the store.

Officials also said Sunday that Palmeter was encountered at Edward Waters University, a historically Black college in Jacksonville, before the shooting. A campus security officer engaged with Palmeter, who refused to identify himself and then left the campus minutes before the shooting.

Palmeter, who wore a tactical vest and was armed with an AR-style rifle and a Glock handgun decorated with swastikas, according to authorities, had left messages for his parents, the media and federal law enforcement officials detailing racial hatred.

“This was, quite frankly, a maniac who decided he wanted to take lives,” Jacksonville Sheriff T.K. Waters said. “He targeted a certain group of people, and that’s Black people. That’s what he said he wanted to kill. And that’s very clear.”

The victims were identified as Angela Michelle Carr, 52; Jerrald Gallion, 29; and Anolt Joseph “AJ” Laguerre Jr., 19.

Sabrina Rozier, a relative of Gallion, described him as a fun, loving young man. He left behind a 4-year-old daughter.

Laguerre was an employee at the Dollar General store, the company said in a statement, adding it was sending its condolences to his family and loved ones of the two customers who were killed in the “senseless violence.”

“There is no place for hate at Dollar General or in the communities we serve,” the company said. “Right now, we are focused on providing support, counseling and resources to our teams and their loved ones, and we are evaluating how we can best support and stand with the greater Jacksonville community during this sad and difficult time.” -(source: nbc news/cnn)

DNA America

“It’s what we know, not what you want us to believe.”

#dna #dnaamerica #news #politics