#rage brigade

[dracosiwa]

no thalia grace does NOT listen to “hayloft” and “sweater weather”

she is PUNK and ROCK she probably criticizes you for not knowing 3 songs of a band’s shirt you’re wearing

she listen to green day, sex pistols, rage against the machine, youth brigade and the exploited

also i’m sick of looking for character playlists on spotify and it’s the same songs all over again (yes im talking about 505 and do i wanna know)

[fawnuh]

BISEXUAL BABY BRIGADE!!!!!

[aparticularbandit]

and another chapter of the dr/haruhi crossover in the backlog.

i should probably something else re: mukuro before going into the movie arc but. the first chapter of the movie arc is what i've got.

[novelistwriter]

Unforgiving Twin

DP x DC Prompt (Taking a break from Pride Month prompts for agnst)

Danyal has always wanted to have a normal family dynamic ever since he saw other families on missions he was given. But all he has is a grandfather who cares nothing for family, a mother who loves pleasing her father more than loving her sons, and a twin who always wants the approval of their grandfather.

The fight to the death happens between Danyal and Damian, with Damian winning. It is not Talia or Damian who revived Danyal in the Pits, it is Slade who revives him. The man thought he could manipulate the twin who lost to be a weapon for him. What he did not account for was the body being consumed by the Lazarus Pit.

In truth, Danyal was transported to the Infinite Realms and spat out near Amity, where the Fentons adopt him. He gets what he had wanted, a normal family with the Fentons, at least until he became a Halfa.

When the Fentons had accepted him as Phantom, he was truly happy again. That is until he is captured by the GIW and experimented on.

The GIW make him watch the deaths of his family and friends. This causes Danny to lose control temporarily to break free and slaughter all the GIW in the facility because of his rage.

He won't rest until the GIW is permanently dealt with, which means destroying the main facility and killing all of the members of the GIW. The only problem is that the GIW's main base is located near Gotham, the one place he wanted to avoid because Damian is there. He'll just quickly deal with the GIW main base and find Dani, the only one he wants to add to his family.

Danny is in the process of killing the GIW and destroying the base. He gets attacked by a familiar face, his twin. And then the rest of Bat brigade arrived at the location while he and his twin were talking.

Danny is about to kill another GIW member when Bruce stops him and uses a commanding tone on him. He did not like that. So he used quite a bit of force to knock his so-called "father" away and let all his pent-up emotions and thoughts out.

"Just because you are my sperm donor doesn't mean you can boss me around! You are not my dad! My dad was taken from me by these xenophobic assholes who don't like what isn't human! I wanted a normal family that loved me, but I couldn't have that!"

Before he vanished to continue killing the GIW, he says one last thing to Bruce and Damian.

"If this is how you treat your children, then I don't want to be your son. And I won't forgive you for killing me, ahki. You had your chance when we were in the League."

[siriussimon]

no warnings: kinda a prompt i’m working on. 141 x reader, price x reader. john’s controlling and has a raging daddy kink.

john price always knows. of course, he knows what’s best for his team. he oozes authority, carries himself with ease, all tasks made with precision. everything’s calculated in his head, he knows exactly what he wants— what you need. can see it as clear as day. ever since you joined his brigade, he could see it written over your face. you needed guidance and he gave you just that.

you’re different than everyone else but that doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re an astounding addition to the team, the missing piece to their puzzle, the cherry on top.

you’re quite like simon. quiet, trouble with social cues, sensitivity to certain textures or noises. just like his simon, he knows exactly what you need to ease your anxious mind. he’s just gotta take it slow, ease his way into your space, not only as your captain— but more.

john has to know the whereabouts of his team so he makes it a habit of learning your schedule to a t. right about this time when hours were winding down he’d see you in the mess hall. a snack set off to the side untouched as you fiddled with a hand gun, dismantling it piece by piece to clean it throughly.

“It’s late, sergeant. PT is at 0500.” His voice echoed throughout the empty room. You flinched a bit but your shoulders relaxed when you registered who was speaking to you.

“I’m almost done..” You murmured, lost in thought, fingers connecting pieces together now.

Hm. That won’t do.

He takes a couple steps forward, peering over your shoulder, hands still at work. You’d never disobey him but sometimes your mind gets fixated on one thing— he understands, you have no idea how much. Sometimes you need a little nudge in the right direction. That’s what he’s for, right?

His right hand comes up to gently grasp the nape of your neck, almost like scuffing a dog, and you instantly halted.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” His thumb gently caressing your pulse point, a shiver running up your spine. You looked at the table, realizing you got so caught up on cleaning your hand gun you never ate like you were supposed to. Making it so tedious that you completely forgot about the time. It’s like your brain woke up from his touch. Your face felt warm and you thanked the low lighting in the cafeteria.

“N-No, Captain.”

Still a shy thing. He’ll break you in, just like he did with the rest of the boys. Make you his at last. Make it known that you belong here, that you deserve to feel taken care of. That you’re right where you’re supposed to be. And he’ll lead you just as he’s done these past couple of months. He’ll make it stick.

His hand released your neck, fingers lightly grazing down your pony tail, before it backs in his front pocket. You immediately stand, holstering your gun, and bagging away your uneaten food. Now fully turned, facing him, his eyes trained on your every move. You stood still for a moment, waiting for dismal, waiting for another command. Something you always relied on, deep down, your body buzzed with every order given to you,

“You’re dismissed, love. And good job on your field strip.” He said, a small smirk gracing his face, eyes crinkling, the pit of your stomach felt warm at the praise.

“Yes, Captain. Thank you..” Voice perked up, a curt nod and you were on your way.

One of these days he’d like to finally hear you say John. But he knows he’s got to take his time with you.

When you got back to your room, Johnny was up still, the light of his phone illuminating his face.

You sighed, feeling your body relax as you sat down on your bed. Your hands clasping to your face, the palms of your hands feeling cool on top of your cheeks. You body couldn’t help reacting this way with him. It always happened—

“Yer blushin’ like a wee school girl, dove.” Johnny laughed, which made you throw a pillow at his face.

“If you say a word to anyone I’ll stab you.” You grumble, which only made him chuckle again.

“Och Relax. Yer naught the first person to git the hots for the Captain. Trust meh.” He smiled, and you don’t know if that’s supposed to make you feel better or just intrigued on who else feels the same about him the way you do.

[diamonddeputy]

Why [DELTARUNE CHAPTER 4 SPOILERS] is an effective villain: a premature analysis

Y’all I’m literally posting this and then disappearing from the Internet for however long to avoid the spoiler brigade. I haven’t even finished Chapter 4 yet, there could be more I don’t even know. I just cannot sleep and am so wracked with autistic mania that I HAVE to get my thoughts in order or I will explode

Character creation and analysis have always been some of my greatest passions. I still have my Ceroba Ketsukane analysis sitting on the backburner, 24 pages and counting, that exists purely for my own enjoyment. Storytelling fundamentals are things I keep in mind for everything I consume, especially in the context of characters. That being said, known character development strategies can be attributed to Carol Holiday, and why she works SO WELL as a villain imo

Back when J.K. Rowling wasn’t a piece of shit, I watched an interesting video commenting on how Voldemort could have been made more effective as a villain. Which essentially compared him to Umbridge who usually provokes more vitriol within the community and pitched the idea of him casting some sort of life-altering spell on Hermione. I can’t remember the exact details, but it was something to the effect of memory alteration or brain function suppression, to take away the one thing that mattered most to her in life, which was her academic success and pursuit of knowledge, which we see her strive so passionately for throughout the whole series. And then the reader would have to watch her slog through life with no sense of purpose, a husk of her former self, and allow that rage to fester. He then tied this back to why Umbridge is remembered (ironically, less) fondly, because the slights she commits are targeted specifically on known flaws and vulnerabilities of the main characters

It’s something that I’ve carried with me since because it really does make sense if you stop and think about it. Being like 13 at the time I initially clicked on that video with more curiosity than anything because I thought he worked pretty effectively. But by the end I was like holy shit yeah that would’ve worked SO much better. And the more I think about it, the more it’s really on full display here

The reveal that Carol is a central antagonist made me feel things, sure, but the thing that REALLY got me was seeing her for the first time, even before we knew just how connected she was. When Susie commented on the temperature seeming to fall when she entered, I FELT that. Because the previous chapters made SUCH a big deal about NEVER letting us see her. She was always cooped up in her office with hordes of cronies blocking any entrances commenting on how busy she is, even when confronted with our teenaged protagonist wishing to report a serious danger that not even the police is taking seriously. Within our centralized view, that paints a cold, scheming picture right off the bat

We were given ample time to create a caricature in our minds, shaping itself to whatever bounds it would allow itself to stretch. This is a common practice seen in comic book theory, with the idea that a scene that takes place in a gutter (the space between panels, or in other words, not shown) is infinitely more shocking, gruesome, terrifying, whatever you want it to be than anything that could be shown. Because it allows the viewer to fill in the blanks for themselves, and the human mind has the tendency to jump to the very worst. So seeing her pale fur, sunken eyes, stony glare, frigid colour palette, just HIT because it reinforced EVERYTHING that had been festering in our minds for the past however long. For me, it’s barely even been a year. I can’t even begin to imagine those who have been holding it for upwards of six

We’re already starting off with a bang, but the fact she’s so mysterious is then just used to make the small things we DO learn about her even MORE effective. Noelle is scared to tell her she’s locked out of the house. She doesn’t keep keys of important documents anywhere but home. Rudy is spending what could be his last moments terrified of what will happen to Noelle after he isn’t there to “balance Carol out”, in his words. Noelle explains the feeling of seeking out things that scare her just so she can feel comforted. Speaking as someone else with a poor emotional relationship with her parents, the portrayal of Carol as such is not only harrowing, but very REAL. It’s severe enough to push all the right buttons, but not SO much so that she becomes harder to take seriously because a sense of immersion is lost. THAT is just as important, and it’s what really sells the effectiveness

The fact she wants to bring calamity upon the world is awful, sure. But that’s not why I hate her. I hate her because she’s a shitty mother. I hate her because Noelle has gone through so much because of her. And most of all, I hate her because of the implication that she’s using Dess to get her way, if I’m not going batshit crazy and Dess is the Roaring Knight like is seeming to be implied. Hell, she may have even staged her disappearance to be rid of her, as we know Dess wanted to leave home as soon as possible and take Noelle with her, and also that she was a contrarian to her mother’s strict beliefs and did things she never would have approved of. The reveal that, in her words, “I am always welcome in her home” would only have ever intrigued me if I didn’t know what I do about her. Perhaps she has more sympathetic motives than are being shown to me presently! But because these careful steps were taken to establish her not only as an antagonist, but as a VILLAIN, I felt pure unadulterated disgust. And the desire to be anywhere else and do anything else and listen to anyone else and never do what she wants me to do ever

What truly makes a good villain is the combination between narrative stakes and personal investment. And, more importantly than that, the effort to make it believably, groundely REAL, as opposed to overly blunt or performative. I’ve hated Carol from literally Chapter 1, assuming that she was gonna be an invisible driving force for Noelle’s character development and not much more, and now I just have a vessel to fuel all that rage into because the careful work behind the curtain is being unveiled masterfully. The fact there’s even more to know upcoming has my head spinning because I’m already reeling from just how much I HATE Carol, and just how GOOD that is for the story

If you’ve somehow survived my word salad the size of Mars, please please please leave tour thoughts or whatever else. I’ll see it when I eventually finish everything

[osmanthusoolong]

In addition to the obvious ways to demonize, sexually harass and badjacket any convenient trans person (lbr almost always trans women, but occasional exceptions occur), it seems to me that there is a strong element of sexual entitlement at play in the actions of anti-kink people.

I’ve thought this for a very long time, honestly, especially way back when I was doing more reading about the anti-kink feminism of the 70s/80s. Reading between the lines, then as now, there’s a strong undercurrent of “what do you mean, your interests make us sexually incompatible? I think you simply must have something deeply wrong with you”. It sucks, of course, to be interested in someone and to find out that your interests don’t overlap, that their favourite things are your hard limits, and vice versa. For those of us who can accept that the world is full of people who don’t actually exist solely as sexual partners for us, that there are in fact people who aren’t just waiting to have our desires projected onto them, this is not world-shaking stuff.

This entitlement weighs the most on the people who are positioned socially to be sexual objects for the more powerful. The idea of such people as sexual subjects, with desires and interests that could preclude many/most, enrages the entitled. Even the basic idea that the bodies and lives of the people involved do not require the approval of people not fucking invited to what consenting grownups get up to together seems unimaginable to some people. (even if it grosses you/me out. Especially then.) From the groyper types who demand virginal tradwives and rage about roasties with their tattoos and previous partners, to the people who call themselves leftists on here absolutely losing their shit at the idea that any given trans woman could be wholly uninterested in them and their approval. (Not to mention the sexual attitudes towards WOC, fat people, other kinds of trans people, the ways all of these intersect and more!) The anti-kink brigade remain blissfully unaware that they are echoing every incel manifesto.

[thefingerfuckingfemalefury]

Notoriously transphobic social media account, Libs of TikTok, which is run by Chaya Raichik, shared a clip of the rally, calling it “absolutely sickening.”

I wish to personally assure the brainless fucking pestilence upon the planet that is "Libs of TikTok" that not only do I not give a fuck what dog-raping nazi gutter-scum like them "think" or "feel"?

I actively take pleasure in knowing they are miserable because garbage like these ozygen thieving goose-stepping wastes of organs deserve to be miserable and to suffer

And I personally wish terminal bone cancer on every last one of them :D

"These are disgraceful people with no respect for anything,”

My kind of people

The only kind of people I want to see more of in the world <3

“God will not be mocked.”

Really?

Seems to me like the cunt totally can be

[thethingsiwouldvedone]

Reader iskaid into the body of a healing princess whos sent off to war and who's death starts the begining scene of the graphic novel. Fortunately she doesn't end up dying and discovers new forms of magic, healing, mixing those with the media she was exposed to in her own world for new and deadly combat techniques. She and her brigade that was sent to the most dangerous hot spots in the war (thanks to the kings evil advisers plotting for the throne) surprisingly survive under her guidance.

As the last war raged the battle filled began to still as the returning party counted heads the Commander was thought to be dead. When returning to the capital, the news spread quickly. All have different reactions to it. The same goes for when she makes her way to the capital traveling at night under the shadows of the darkness with five of her most trusted comrades. Arriving at her own memorial service cover in dried blood, scars peaking through torn leather, and as she walked up to the king many of the palace guards shivered in fear. They heard the story's of their friends and family coming back home, heard the maids whisper, and most of all they saw the sight in front of them now seemingly confirming all of it. Some even were said to leave their post completely or soiled themselves on the spot as she headed for where the king and the rest of her sibling stood. She stopped on the other side of the empty casket. She exchanged a few and I mean VERY few words with her father before returning to her chambers.

Now the real story begins.

How will the time at war change the peoples opinions of the second princess? How would it change the reader herself? How will the interaction with her sibling play out now that they've been served the cold reality that she could have very well died? How will they react to finding out she almost did on multiple occasions? How will the Male Leads react to the princess's change in behavior towards them and everyone else as well?

ANNNDDD OOOOOOHHHHiiiiiEEEE I'm so excited. But I'm still going back and forth on a lot of things. But tell me what you think, so far, please. And don't be too harsh please this isn't a prologue or it's just a mind dump I've shared so I can come back to later while also getting some helpful opinions in some cases. Are they're any other questions you can think that you might want to see answered. Tbh I'll probably be doing this a lot just because I'm so fucking forgetful and indecisive. The top is also heavily unedited.

[thepixelelf]

superhero cheol x tech whiz reader warnings: coarse language, death threats, manipulation, injury, gunfire. wc: 1.7k

read part 1 & part 2 first

[anonymous nights 3] Seungcheol didn’t burn down the entire building. Minghao wouldn’t let him.

In fact, despite the urgent need find you within the maze that was the old seafood packaging factory and warehouse, now known as the sketchiest place in northern uptown, Minghao’s focus was completely on damage control. Seungcheol could feel Minghao constantly at the back of his mind, keeping him in check when all he wanted to do was burn the stupid place to the ground — after finding you of course. While Seungcheol barged through each and every door in his search, Minghao made sure he didn’t kill anyone in his way, and Seokmin lagged behind, healing said people with his rejuvenation and slapping them in zipties to deal with later. 

No one else was with them. Seungcheol had rushed out too quickly for anyone to call for backup, and only Minghao had the foresight to grab three masks before dashing from headquarters. That was why they were running so haphazardly through the warehouse — they had no one to guide them. None of them even stopped running to put on their masks, each fitting perfectly to their faces thanks to your latest invention in the supersuit department. 

It was when Seungcheol busted through a door roughly labeled “Storage Unit 3″, flames and all, that he finally froze.

“No sudden movements, hothead.”

You were in the middle of the empty unit, tied to a chair with your head hung limp. A man, the one who spoke, stood next to you, the tip of his gun a mere inch from your temple.

Seungcheol felt blindingly hot rage flow through his blood, but although every nerve in his body screamed at him to rush forward, he stayed frozen. His fingers couldn’t even twitch.

No sudden movements, Minghao reminded him in his head. Normally, Seungcheol would try anything to block Minghao out of his mind, but he had to get his priorities straight. He tried to clench his teeth, but couldn’t.

They’re alive. Let’s try to keep it that way.

I get it, I get it! Seungcheol barked back in his thoughts, hoping Minghao could hear him. He felt the hold on his control loosen.

Seokmin’s still back there, we need to—

“What, nothing to say, dear heroes?” the man interrupted without knowing, his voice reverberating off the cold stone walls. “I must say, when I found out that idiot lackey of mine let this little bitch get a phone call, I expected the cops.” He waved his free hand as he spoke, gesturing towards Seungcheol. “But who would’ve guessed this twerp was all cozy with the hero brigade?”

The man’s laugh rang hollow, and it sent a shiver down Seungcheol’s spine. He never shivered.

Can you get in his head?

He’s a goddamn psychopath, Minghao complained.

But can you?

It’ll take a minute. Keep him talking.

“Ignoring me now?!” the man yelled. His finger twitched on the trigger, the sight causing Seungcheol to dig his nails into his palms. “Maybe I’ll just shoot them right now, just for pissing me off.”

“Touch one fucking hair on their head and I'll turn you to ash!” Seungcheol bellowed, his restraint finally lost. Minghao’s hold on him had completely let go once he started focusing on getting into the motherfucker’s head.

“Oh, he has a voice,” he teased. “Solar Flare, isn’t it? Everyone’s favourite fiery hero. Well I have news for you, wonderboy—” his jaw tensed “—I’m already dead.”

Flame erupted from Seungcheol’s hands, but he stayed still. The man laughed again, dry and cynical.

“So why don’t you just let it happen, huh? Neither of us—” he waved the gun at your head “—are getting out of here alive. You could let me end it quickly and painlessly, or…” Seungcheol bit his lip as he watched the man’s disgusting smirk grow wider. The man spun your chair so that Seungcheol could only see your side, and he stuck the barrel of his gun in the dip of your eye socket. “…I could rain so much hell, you’d have to bury a faceless body. You decide.”

“Just let them go.”

“I could,” he said casually, “but a deal like that needs a trade, don’t you think?”

“What kind of trade?”

He laughed. “For their life, I want mine in return. All you have to do,” he explained through a smirk, “is let me walk away.”

“Fine.” It didn’t matter what Seungcheol agreed or didn’t agree to as long as Minghao could stop him. (Though he was taking his damn time.)

“And.” The man paused, cocking his head to the side with an air of confidence. “I want a plane.”

“I’m not fucking SWAT. I don’t have that kind of power.”

“Well then we don’t have a deal, do we?”

You used to tell him about the books you would read as a kid, and the strange things that would happen in them. One thing you would always complain about was the “slowing down time thing” that you claimed people used too much in both books and movies. “That doesn’t happen in real life,” you’d said. “Unless we find a time-controlling superhero. You know what? That’s a great idea actually, remind me to write that down.”

But Seungcheol felt it now, the way time slowed as he watched the man’s finger tighten over the trigger, and he felt as if the fire burning in his hands no longer had the power he's feared his entire life. His voice couldn’t come out in time. The step forward he tried wasn’t fast enough.

He lost.

A thundering gunshot echoed throughout the room, and Seungcheol barely registered that he had closed his eyes. He battled with himself over whether to look, to finish that bastard off right then, but a strangled scream forced his eyes open to watch as the man collapsed to the ground, the gun clattering to the floor as his eyes bulged. He thrashed and squirmed on the ground before falling still, his eyes turning blank.

“Shit,” Minghao breathed out behind Seungcheol. He fell to his knees, clutching at his own hair with eyes screwed shut — evidence of overworking his mental powers. “Fuck.”

Seungcheol took a shaky step towards you, his feet slow as everything began to settle. The room was silent save for Minghao’s uneven breaths and the distant sound of Seokmin’s footsteps. He wanted to ask Minghao if you were alive, to check with his power because he was too scared to get close without knowing, but he could tell Minghao was in no condition to get up, much less get a read.

So he stumbled your way, uncertainty driving him.

Minghao had to have saved you. That was what they did. Save people.

You had to be okay.

You had to.

The adrenaline seeped from him, leaking out so that he could finally hear the pounding of his own heart. He fell to his knees at your feet, first looking at the floor, then slowly raising his head. Cupping your face in his hands and lifting it up, Seungcheol let out a breath of relief when he saw nothing on your slack face other than a few scrapes.

He’d never cried in front of you before, but today, now, he allowed himself to let go, dropping his face into your lap. You were still unconscious anyways.

After a while, he dimly registered voices whispering behind him, and when he lifted his head again, Seokmin had his hand on the back of your neck, his eyes closed as he focused on healing you. It wasn’t as simple as that, but Seungcheol felt solace knowing that you’d live to see tomorrow.

Once Seokmin finished, you began to stir, and Minghao clapped Seungcheol on the shoulder. “We’ll be outside,” he said. “Seokmin, grab the guy on the ground. He’s not dead yet, but I don’t want him waking up before backup gets here.”

Seungcheol watched as they left and dragged the lump of a man with them, then focused on you as your eyes scrunched tight. You let out a pained groan.

“Hey,” he said softly, untying your restraints. With you freed, he gently guided you to the floor with him so that you sat on your knees, your top half slack against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, one landing on your back where his thumb rubbed in circles. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s me.”

You tensed in his hold for a second but relaxed after another few, soothed by his quiet assurances. A small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you, and Seungcheol shut his mouth.

“A fucking cult,” you mumbled into his shirt. The words were so quiet that Seungcheol barely heard them.

“What?”

You laughed again, and while ten minutes ago, Seungcheol had been begging any god he could think of to hear your laugh again, he didn’t want this. You sounded so… sad. Defeated.

“A cult, Solar Flare,” you said louder this time, though he could tell your throat was dry. His heart panged at the use of his alias, recalling how real his actual name had sounded during that phone call. He wondered if you would ever call him that again. You clutched your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, which was starting to get soaked by the tears he hadn’t noticed before. “That son of a bitch was sacrificing kids to some fucking moon god and I — fuck, I don’t know. I just wanted to get a closer look. I didn’t think… I didn’t…”

You took a deep, ragged inhale, the breath shaking your entire body in Seungcheol’s arms, which only made his grip tighten. Another bout of laughter escaped your lips, but he knew it was to cover up your crying. Though Seungcheol was the superhero, you were always the one wearing a mask — one to cover up how you actually felt.

“Fuck, Solar, I was so fucking scared.”

He gave you a few pats on the back. Then, quietly, “Well maybe don’t get any ‘closer looks’ from now on.”

Nothing sounded better than your real laugh.

“You’re probably right,” you admitted.

“Of course I’m right. You may be the brains of the operation, but you can be a real dumbass sometimes.”

As you giggled into his shoulder, Seungcheol closed his eyes as the world aligned itself once more. You were alive, You were laughing.

“That was really smart of you,” he said after a short while. He didn’t know how long you needed to recover, but he also didn’t want to stay in the storage unit for long. It already had bad memories. “You know, the tracking chip thing.”

“Oh, that?” You raised your head, meeting his eyes with a small smile. “Yeah, I’ll have to disable it and install a new one for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Well—”

He gave you a look -- the one you tended to give him.

“Fine. There won’t be a next time. I’m still installing a new one though.” Slowly, you stood, shaky on your legs with Seungcheol to steady yourself on. You kept your hands on his shoulders. “And Seungcheol?”

He paused, hands on your upper arms in his attempt to help you stand.

“Sorry about what I must've said. You know, on the phone. I know I probably made you uncomfortable, but I’ve kinda had that scenario written down for six years, so I didn’t really have a choice. I didn’t mean to weird you out with all the gushy first date stuff… Sorry, I’m making it awkward again.”

Dropping your head, you sighed and moved to go, but Seungcheol held you still, making you look up at him with question.

“So the things you said,” he began to ask, his words slow with doubt as he licked his lips. “You didn’t mean any of it?”

“No?” Your brows furrowed. “What? Did I say something weird?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really… The guy knocked me out, and before that I only remember one of his followers letting me have a phone call. But you’re here, so I must’ve told my cover story. What did I say?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened. “Um, you said… uh.”

“Uh…?” You gestured for him to go on.

“Forget it!” Seungcheol gulped down whatever he wanted to say and dropped his hands from your arms, swiftly turning and walking to the exit.

“What?!” you exclaimed, following after him and catching up at his side. You turned your head as you walked, but Seungcheol kept his eyes forward. “What do you mean forget it? I’m trying to remember what I said to you. C’mon!”

“No. It was stupid.”

“Well now I really wanna know,” you whined. “What did I say? Did I confess to stealing your chips because if I did I was lying. That definitely wasn’t me. Or was it that I have two stray cats in my apartment that I need you to take care of because I promise you, now that I’m alive, I can take care of them by myself. Wait, I didn’t tell you where I live, did I? Because that’s against company policy and I really don’t want boss finding out that—”

“You said you love me!”

At his outburst, the both of you froze in the middle of the hall. Seungcheol’s hand rose to cover his mouth, but the damage was already done, he’d already said everything. A terrible few seconds passed where nothing happened, and Seungcheol wished he could just steal Minghao's powers and snap his fingers to make you forget any of this ever happened.

Your face twisted with a playful smile, eyes lit with your classic mischief. You began to laugh, your own hand coming up to your face.

Fuck. Obviously that was part of the script. No one could love him. All he did was burn things. All he could do was destroy.

You couldn’t love him, not in a million years.

“Seungcheol.”

His name again. Hearing it in your voice (for, what, the fourth time?) brought pause to his melancholy thoughts. You stepped closer, leaning in to take his hands in your own and hold them between you.

“Of course I love you. I love you in a way I’ve never loved anyone before. And I choose to feel that way. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“And you care about me too, Seungcheol. I know that. We might not be like that high school couple I talked about on the phone, but we’re a team. We have each other’s backs. I trust you with almost everything I have, and you? You came all the way to this shithole just to save your tech assistant.” You squeezed his hands, not minding the heat that seemed to rush through them, nor the red on Seungcheol’s cheeks. “We’re partners in crime. Or I guess, partners in fighting crime, and we’re here for each other. If that’s not some type of love, I don’t know what is.”

Seungcheol trembled, unsure of what to ask out of the hundreds of questions he had on the tip of his tongue.

“C’mere,” you said, pulling him into a hug.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding tight because if he let go again, he wouldn’t know what to say. In his head, he whispered, I love you, over and over again.

I love you I love you I love you.

One day, he thought as you brought him outside by the hand, your features outlined — illuminated — with the red and blue lights of the police car sirens. One day, he’ll tell you out loud.

part 1 | part 2

[sayruq]

So, how's Israel's ground invasion of Gaza going so far? First, some establishing facts

Now on to the actual war (Once again tweets posted in chronological order)

[Note: whenever you see IDF death count, know that the real number is much higher. The IDF has a problem of soldiers deserting and the leadership doesn't want morale to sink any lower than it already has]

If that's not enough proof that the ground invasion is going poorly (I mean how could it not? It's guerilla warfare and urban warfare against a group of inexperienced cops. They're using tanks y'all), here are a few more indicators.

It's no surprise that they hit Jabalia refugee camp after a day of taking heavy losses and being forced to retreat and they hit Jabalia again a few hours ago after yet another day of heavy losses and retreating. It's all impotent rage as they can't strike hard against Hamas.

Iran has been involved in this from the very beginning. They've been Hamas' main backers for years and Iran affliated groups have been attacking American bases in Iraq and Syria. So if the Iranian Foreign Minister says the ground invasion is going poorly for Israel, he's telling the truth

Israel would not be negotiating if it was winning or making meaningful progress. In fact, it's the pro Palestine side that is controlling the negotiations as you can see above. Israel has been backed into a corner and that's why the Iranian FM feels confident we will see an end to the boardbardment of Gaza

So Yemen declared war on Israel. A lot of people seem to think it's a symbolic act but no, they're very serious

And finally

[stygiansun-totaleclipse]

Howdy Fen, glad you're getting love brigaded, the game is fantastic so far. Very well written, pacing's awesome, brilliant piece of writing without even bringing simping into it. Two things: first, thank you so much for splitting imposing and confrontational. My favorite edgelord archetype is playing an irascible grumpass whose desire to protect people has been warped into rage issues that they know are toxic but don't really have any other coping skills, and I cannot wait until my inability to process properly starts sabotaging all my relationships. Peak drama. My MC even inadvertently took after Aurora down to her favorite tea, so I guess I had a role model :(. Two (and my ask) please give us plenty of opportunities to intimidate with gravity magic. Any game with PK has my immediate, full investment, and being a grumpass, it gives me so many ways to scare the absolute pants off of people. Wanna gossip about ichor cannibalism within earshot? Don't mind those floating rocks grinding themselves into gravel near where I'm staring daggers at you, it happens sometimes. Wanna insult Samira in my presence? I'm not incrementally increasing gravity while I politely interrogate you on how, exactly I'm bewitched, get outta here. Oh, and if MC gets injured in some sort of assault, don't worry. Standing there glowing while the blood from their wound runs up their body and falls into the sky is what they do while they think of everyone they've lost and what kinda smear their attacker will leave on the moon. So many opportunities. God I love playing a walled-off prick with a heart of gold, maybe MC can meet someone (or two) who'll tear those boundaries down a bit. P.S. Kieran's gonna love me

Thank you so much!! I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the story so far and the personality stats!! :D💗💖❤️💕 Self sabotage is chefs kiss 👌

I’ll definitely include options for mc to use their magic for intimidation purposes >:3 👍 those will mostly come into play in Celestyl but there might be one in the next public update too.

Really like the image of an mc just slowly crushing some huge object in the background while maintaining a polite condescending and very quickly faltering conversation with someone who has pissed them off :)

[booksandchainmail]

She was no petty warlord, to take trophies from her foes. Song was a daughter of the Republics and a watchwoman besides, she must hold herself to a higher standard. Even though Ai had been foul every step of the way, even though she had made the Yellow Earth the tool of some rampant god and plotted with nobles and threatened Song’s family and her brigade and- She hacked into the hated face with her sword, again and again until her arms ached and her throat was raw from the screaming, until she was looking down at red pulp and there was nothing left at all of her enemy. Song blinked, looked down at the blade she did not remember unsheathing and the blood spray all over her hands and arms. “Oh,” she said, swallowing. This was fine. This wasn’t rage, and she was not unhappy at how things had ended with Evander or terrified that she might be the only one of the Thirteenth left it was fine. She had just had a… very long day. And she could dispose of the corpse before anyone saw. They might misunderstand.

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 5 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Rain fell in sheets, a relentless drumbeat on steel and mud. The swordsman’s fingers tightened on Viola’s reins as the supply carts groaned behind her, wheels sinking deeper into the mire with every labored rotation. It was taking longer to get to the backlines of the battle and she realized she’d been benched again.

It was a faux truth he had her follow while he knew full well by the time the end of the brigade reached battlegrounds, there would only be the aftermath of scattered bodies and smoke. Griffith’s orders rang in her skull like a taunt. As if she were some green recruit trembling at their first taste of blood. The wound at her side itched beneath her armor, an overzealous echo of his overprotectiveness. Griffith had told her to remain quiet about the prospect of Zodd waiting for them across enemy lines. At first, she believed it was because speculation brewed fear in the face of combat- a consequence that would be ultimately profligate. Though now, it appeared there was something more to conjecture than what was originally surmised.

Ahead, the distant clash of steel climaxed into a roar. They’re already engaged.

Her stomach dropped. Through the downpour, she could just make out the jagged silhouette of the fortress, a fang of black stone jutting from the mountainside. Lightning split the sky, illuminating figures swarming the battlements. Far too many for a routine skirmish.

“Move!” she barked at the cart drivers, heels digging into Viola’s flanks. The grey mare surged forward, leaving the sluggish convoy behind. Let Griffith rage later. Let him chain her to his tent. She’d carve her apology into the ribs of her enemies if it meant proving she wasn’t some fragile thing to be coddled.

Being under his orders, being under his watch, under his becking, under his call. Following that captain into what could’ve been her death felt like a gasp of fresh air because it was for her. It was for no one else, not for Griffith or the band. It wasn’t for some distant responsibility that felt that she should be doing it instead of wanting to. Battle grounds were already littered with the dead. The signs of life left were the band huddling at a choke point to a vault.

The captains were already missing as the band pushed themselves into the dungeon, their armor scraping at the jagged edges of the entrance trying to fit themselves in all at once. The roar that followed rattled their iron and will as they falter. The swordsman ignored heed.

Stench hit her first- coppery and thick, cut through with the acrid tang of charred flesh. The battlefield was a writhing mass of bodies, Hawks and enemy soldiers locked in a death dance. But at the center…

Gods.

A giant cleaved through the fray. Nine feet tall, maybe more, muscles coiled like serpents beneath scarred flesh. Not a man. Some horned thing. His eyes glowed hellfire-red through the storm, locked on a flash of silver hair.

Griffith.

Her blood turned to ice. The Falcon danced around Zodd’s strikes, his own blade a silver blur. Elegant. Precise. Each parry sent shockwaves up his arms, his boots skid stone. Guts was there, the Dragon Slayer hacking through the monster’s flank, but Zodd barely flinched. A backhand sent Guts sprawling, his armor screeching against the ground. Griffith skipped to Guts in a few strides, slinging a bloodied arm over his shoulder. A sudden swipe of Zodd's tail against Griffith's diaphram whipped him to a pillar that splintered under the impact.

The maiden’s sword left its sheath with a snarl. She drove herself into chaos ignoring the frustrated calls of the band, her pulse a war drum in her ears. Let the others gawk. Let them freeze. She’d seen demons before- in the ashes of her village, in the hollows of men’s eyes when they realized their throats were already slit.

The maiden ran towards Zodd, her sword swiping for the tendons in his hoof. Warm blood scattered itself over cold stone and he stumbled back, swiping at the dueler before she dodged from the lunge and darted again for him. Relentlessly, her sword went cuffing through the heavy fur coat and flesh of the beast before his hand wrapped around the blade and flung it into the nethers of darkness. Sharp pain rattled her wrists as it snagged from the grip on the handle making her teeth grit. Claws wrapped around her damaged waist and threw her, sending her sword clattering. Like a feline, she flipped onto her feet, soles skidding on cracked ground. Biting on her side, be damned.

She was some butterfly with a sword, her body skidding on the ground to miss claws swiping at a pillar, the roof breaking above with a layer of dust and debris. Griffith’s teeth bared as he glared at her through silver tresses messily splayed over his face.

“Looks like you’re a big, slow bastard, aren’t you?” She teased, flagging for Zodd’s attention with the use of her words. Cobblestone lifted into brittle crumbs as a hoof slammed into the ground, tripping her while she was beelining for her sword. She quickly slipped back onto her feet before a shadow drowned her.

“And you are a pathetic flea with teeth.” He sneered, breaths audibly sprouting from his snout.

The sword maiden smirked, feeling cozy with jeopardy before Griffith wrenched her by her armor with such strength, she yelped when she landed beside him. He silently held onto her; his eyes wide in some catatonic stare. Face wild with irritation while he held his abdomen that hid a broken rib. Though she didn’t care how livid he was. She kept her knuckles tight around her hilt, pinning a vision on Zodd’s taurus figure with a side glance. She kept herself as a shield in front of Griffith. Ready for what was to come. Staring death in the face only for that very monster to freeze in its resolve.

“You…” The apostle’s voice trembled. His eyes narrow at some point behind her, where Griffith had struggled to stand. “A cub… carry the egg of the king?”

Griffith’s face betrayed nothing. The Behelit’s eye stared, unblinking.

“Mark my words,” Zodd rose, his gaze lingering on the crimson orb. “Your path is drenched in blood. The sacrifices will be many…” With a roar that shook the mountains, he leapt- not at Griffith, but into the storm. Wings of sinew and shadow erupted from his back, carrying him skyward until he vanished in the rolling clouds.

Silence.

Griffith loosened his hold over the swordswoman’s wrist. Then, men stumbled back, crossing themselves, vomiting into bloodied, pebbled cobblestone. Casca stood rigid, her sword dangling from limp fingers before she quickly sprinted to Griffith only for his risen hand to stop her. Even Guts looked shaken, his knuckles white around the Dragon Slayer’s hilt.

Only Griffith remained untouched by the panic, some faint wash of irritation instead. His thumb stroked the Behelit once, thoughtful, before tucking it back beneath his armor. When his eyes found the swordswoman’s, they were winter lakes- beautiful, impenetrable, and fathoms deep.

“What was that?” The swordswoman breathed.

He ignored her question, pulling her by her gauntlet but grimaced at the pain shooting over his rib and leg. The bite to his words died down in favor of trying to reel himself from the shooting at his ribs. Her balance faltered trying to steady his weight.

“Hey,” She murmured bracing herself to take more of his weight while her arm braced behind him,”don’t go ignoring me now” The pain made him too exhausted to argue, leaning against her more in some retaliation but she scoffed at it. “You can bicker at me after you’re huddled in one of infirmary tents, hm?” A smile at him and he reluctantly looked at her before sighing. She took him to the very supply carts she guarded for him. Ironic really.

The cart’s wooden slats groaned under Griffith’s weight as swordswoman heaved him onto stained burlap sacks. Rainwater pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, catching the fractured light of torches as surviving Hawks staggered past. Casca’s voice cut through the din- “Medic! The captain’s bleeding through his gambeson!” -but Griffith’s gaze remained fixed on the swordswoman. His fingers brushed the Behelit beneath his armor, its surface fever warm.

“You court death like a lover,” he said, voice stripped of its usual silk. Blood speckled his lips.

The swordsman tore a strip from her cloak, pressing it to the gash on his ribs. The fabric bloomed crimson in mirror to her own when he tended to her.

“You lecture like a nun.” Her grin faltered at a guttural voice behind her. Guts limped into view with a spare clutch from the supply carts, his face a mosaic of bruises. She turned to give a sympathetic smile seeing the dented armor over his chest.

“How are you holding up?” She asked, her fingers trembling with careful resolve not to press into broken bones.

“I’m alive.” He muttered, “You did good, better insults would’ve made it great.”

The swordswoman scoffed, pulling back. “And when exactly have I heard you make a better bark in battle? You were always a better bite.”

“I survived off bite alone, you survive off of both.” He gruffed with a tilted smile.

“and being stubborn.” Griffith added.

Ah, yes- don’t forget being stubborn.

“Stubbornness keeps blades sharp,” The swordswoman shot back at Griffith, though her hands gentled as she peeled Griffith’s gambeson from the wound. Muscle and bone glistened beneath torchlight. Three ribs fractured, the skin above purpling like rotten fruit.

Guts snorted, leaning against the cart’s splintered edge. “Sharp blades snap fastest.”

“Yet here we stand.” Her retort died as Griffith’s hand closed over hers, halting the pressure on his ribs. His touch burned… always did, even through gloves gone stiff with dried blood.

“Enough,” Griffith murmured. Not to her. To himself.

A whimpering man hoisted over mercenary shoulders was lunged onto the cart, arrows stuck out of him like a wooden target. The maiden shifted her weight giving space to the writhing man, brushing against the falcon captain without realizing. Griffith’s gasp lodged in the swordsman throat like a blade. She braced him instinctively, her free arm circling his waist. For a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to her temple, silver strands mingling with hers. The scent of him drowned the stench of death.

Then he stiffened and snapped to lean on the wooden plank on the cart.

“Casca.” Griffith’s voice cracked, “Status report.”

The lieutenant froze after yelling orders to hall more bandages from the supply cart, sharp tips of her short hair sprouted bulbs of rainwater. “Seventy dead. Twice that wounded.” She placed a crate down next to the maiden, her gaze resting over her and Griffith under a hidden expression.

“I see.” Griffith murmured to himself.

“Majority of it was from Zodd.” Guts replied, his dark gaze at a distant point over the marked battlefield.

Casca nodded, then another group of men barraged her with boxes of supplies for the injured. The sword maiden watched as she directed them to the wounded strewn over a ditch. Griffith recovered from the fleeting touch he had with the swordswoman. Shoulders squaring, chin lifting, the mask of the Falcon slotting into place. Only his fingers betrayed him, tracing the Behelit’s grooves in a rhythm too frantic for calculation.

And you court kingdoms like a penitent, she thought , kneeling at ambition’s altar.

Guts limped after Casca, following the commotion by its coattails. Alone now, but for rain casting the band’s cries in a veil of pelting. Griffith’s gaze flickered to her.

“You shouldn’t have followed.” He murmured.

“You shouldn’t have fallen.” She retorted.

Thunder growled between them. His glove brushed her bandaged side, feather-light. “Does it pain you?”

“Only when you’re-”

Near.

“-being insufferable.” She continued.

His thumb grazed the linen, tracing the wound beneath. A general’s touch assessing troop readiness. A touch remembering shared bedrolls and stolen apples when they were both young.

“Zodd’s words…” the swordswoman hesitated, watching the Behelit drink the storm’s light. “Sacrifices. What did he mean?”

Griffith’s face closed like a gate.

“Poetry for madmen.”

Liar.

But his hand lingered on her bandage, and for once, she let the lie stand. Too confused to go after it, his touch meddling with her logic. She stirred away from his touch when it drilled itself far enough to have her only thoughts be about his fingers tracing over her side.

Three days thawed by. There was a celebration for them when they headed back to Midland, the king allowed them to stay nearby after their victory. It was a noble lodge that seemed like a few paces from Windham. Casca was brooding for the last three days after the battle about Guts throwing himself out to Zodd. The swordswoman instead saw something different under the veneer of time.

The night of celebration occurred outside. Midland’s festival lanterns bobbed like drunken fireflies above the marketplace, their golden light smearing the cobblestones where ale pooled between cracks. The Band of the Hawk sprawled across merchant stalls repurposed as banquet tables, their laughter sharpened by relief. Judeau juggled stolen apples for a cluster of giggling laundresses. Pippin sat statue-still as children clambered over his shoulders to snatch ribbons strung from the gallows. Even Casca had shed her armor, her rare smile glinting as she traded war stories with knights whose gazes lingered too long.

The swordsman leaned against a splintered pillory, watching.

And Griffith stood at the heart of it all, of course.

The moonlight caught the argent threads embroidering his borrowed doublet- Midland’s colors, not the Hawk’s. Princess Charlotte’s gloved hand rested on his forearm, her laughter trilling like a songbird’s as he bent to murmur in her ear. The crutch propped under his other arm and a bruised cheek from Julius’ fist should’ve made him look diminished. Instead, it lent him the air of a wounded prince from ballads, noble even in ruin.

He met her three hours ago, the swordwoman thought, crunching a honeyed almond between her teeth. Three hours, and already she’s blushing.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Guts huffed beside her reeking of black powder and resentment. His own crutch bore toothmarks.

“The way they’re all fawning?” She nodded to where Rickert tripped over himself refilling Griffith’s wine. “Or the fact we’re celebrating in a graveyard?”

“The way you’re pretending not to watch.” Fireworks exploded overhead, painting Guts’ scars violet and gold. The swordswoman studied the princess instead-the way Charlotte’s pearl-stitched hood slipped to reveal brunette hair, how her doe eyes widened at Griffith’s every word. A perfect porcelain doll.

“He needs her,” The swordswoman said flatly.

“He needs a crown.” Another burst of fireworks and this time, Griffith glanced up- not at the sky, but at the swordswoman. His eyes held hers as he raised Charlotte’s hand to his lips. The almond snapped between the swordswoman’s molars.

Guts snorted, “Casca used to look at me like that when Griffith and I would train.”

“Like what?”

“Like she wanted to carve my lungs out through my ribs.” He jabbed his crutch at Charlotte. “We both got punched today. Looking at you made me realize why."

It came out like a rant from him than intended. For a heartbeat, the swordswoman let herself imagine crossing the square- spinning under paper lanterns until the world blurred. Until her problems melted under celebration.

“Why are you here, Guts? Shouldn’t you be brooding by the ale casks?”

“Waiting for him to stop playing dress-up.” As if summoned, Griffith disentangled himself from Charlotte with a courtier’s grace. The swordswoman tracked his progress- the subtle hitch in his step, the way his free hand brushed sword pommels as passing soldiers bowed.

“You could leave,” Guts said suddenly.

“What?”

“The band. The wars. All of it. You look like you want to.” His jaw worked.

She laughed, “And do what? Take up embroidery?”

“Live.”

The word hung between them, fragile as a soap bubble. Her fingers found the scar beneath her tunic-raised flesh mirroring Griffith’s wound. I need you alive, he’d said in the cart. Not I need you. Never that.

A drunk stumbled into their shadows, vomiting saffron stew. When the swordsman looked away from him, Griffith was gone.

“Aren’t I already?” She murmured as her eyes flicked around for Griffith only to give up when Guts lingered his observation too long.

“No- You act like you’re being held back.” He said bluntly and it was enough to hold her breath.

Thoughts churned while she processed his words. Why? This was the spearhead of living, wasn’t it? She’s been stifled by Griffith but that never stopped her. There were curfews she fought against, orders that she stomped on. Her frustration spiked at a raw feeling that felt too close to comfort.

“When did you become so insightful? Thought you were always some dumb brute and here you are..?” The swordswoman scoffed.

“I'm looking at something for what it is.”

“Right, like you aren’t blind?” She retorted.

“About what?” He grumbled with irritation.

“About the shit that’s in front of you.” She said. He looked at her for sometime before turning his gaze away to contemplate. After a time of silence, the swordswoman gave up the conversation- turning to walk away.

The swordswoman retreated to her inn early. The inn’s wooden stairs creaked under the swordswoman’s boots as she climbed to her room, the raucous laughter from the celebration below fading with each step. Her chamber was sparse-a narrow bed, a warped desk, a single candle flickering in a tin dish. Moonlight spilled through a cracked shutter, painting silver stripes over the floorboards. She unbuckled her sword, letting it clatter onto the bed, and slumped into the chair by the desk. The scar at her side ached, a dull throb that mirrored the restless churn in her chest.

Three hours, she thought bitterly. Three hours with that simpering princess.

It was enough to make her toil through the night unable to find any sleep. The solace of the room being a rumination pit more than anything. Her throat grew pained and dry at the thought of it. Seeing this happening more than once, and not just that- but for years.

A knock pushed her from her thoughts. She stilled. Those were too soft for Guts, too deliberate for Judeau.

“It’s open,” she answered, her voice stripped of warmth.

The door creaked open, and there he stood- Griffith, haloed by the dim corridor light. He’d discarded his Midland doublet, his linen shirt undone at the throat, sleeves pushed carelessly above lean forearms. Pearly hair, unbound. The flickering candlelight carved shadows into the bruise mottling his jawline, violets and blues blooming beneath pale skin. A crutch leaned against his side.

“You should be in bed,” she said, ignoring the twinge in her chest.

“And you should be drinking with the others.” His tone was light, but his gaze lingered on the dagger sheathed at her hip. The door clicked shut, sealing them in silence.

“Yet here we are,” she replied, matching his calm.

“Here we are.” His smile was a ghost, fleeting as the candle’s shuddering flame. He stepped forward, the crutch thudding dully against the floorboards. Each labored breath, each hitch in his stride, pricked at her resolve. Her hands tensed- foolish impulse, before she forced them still, nails biting into her palms.

“What do you want, Griffith?”

“Conversation.”

The chair scraped backward as he dragged it closer, the sound grating like a blade unsheathed. She didn’t blink, didn’t shift, though her fingers drifted to the dagger’s hilt. The candlelight pooled in the hollow of his throat, his shirt gaping to reveal collarbones angled enough to draw blood. His hair, always so meticulously tied back these days, fell loose- a cascade of mercury, unbound and unguarded.

He studied her, the silence thickening. Then, softer: “You used to braid it for me.”

A strand of silver slid through his fingers, deliberate, a provocation dressed in nostalgia. Her breath caught. Eleven years old, his small frame trembling after the ambush. Her hands, stained with dirt and ash, weaving his hair into a shaky plait as he whispered, “Don’t tell the others.”

“We’re not children anymore,” she said, ice coating the words.

“No.” His gaze held hers. “But it still comforts me.”

The festival’s distant laughter seeped through the floorboards, discordant against the tension thickening the air.

“Ask Charlotte, then.” The words tasted bitter, and an annoyed snort escaped her before she could stifle it.

Griffith’s brow arched, molten mercury in the candlelight. His smile sharpened, wolfish.  “Jealous, are you?”

Annihilation licked up her spine. She dragged her tongue across her teeth, jaw clenched tight enough to splinter bone. “No,” she lied. “I’m tired.”

“Any other night and you would be dancing with your sword, especially after a victory. After you protected me.” Jaw tremored while she held her glare. He was going to do this until she rattles in herself, desperately holding on not to claw at him.

“Sit,” she muttered, nodding to the desk chair. “Before you collapse and blame me for it.”

He obeyed, lowering himself into the seat with a grace that belied his injuries. She looked at herself stood behind him, her reflection flickering in the warped mirror propped on the desk. His hair spilled over the back of the chair like molten silver, the ends brushing her wrists as she gathered it into sections.

“You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured as her fingers began their work. “At what? Braiding? Playing nursemaid?”

“At hiding what you want.”

Hands stilled in silver tresses while her eyes narrow, “and what is it you think I want?”

A head tilt and it was just enough for his temple to graze her forearm.

“To be seen.”

The air fell over her like a blanket. Why was he here, why was he persistent in fucking with her now? His eyes held a strange promise in his glare while his lips whispered in the ear of the princess earlier. And it salted the wound on her side.

“This is the last braid and then I’m done.” She said, ignoring his statement entirely. A hum and he tilted his head again showing the pale nape that peeked between curtained silver tresses.

The laughter that trickled in the inn like rain stopped and she became too aware of the silence.

“You know, this pleases me.”  Griffith said like velvet. “hmm… Do you like pleasing me..?” 

Fingers stiffened while her mind went over his words over again. She hung over the question. Do you like pleasing me? It wasn't an inquiry she could readily parse, not when her fingers were tangled in the silver silk of his hair, not when his warmth was beneath her palms. Pleasing Griffith… it was a concept woven into the very fabric of her being. From childhood spars to battlefield strategies, her actions had always, in some way, been towards him. But liking it?

The braid in her palm lost its tension. He subtly shifted his posture, a stillness that suggested he was waiting for her answer. The silence stretched for so long she wondered if she was doomed by it. The only solace was punctuated by the soft crackle of the candle flame and the distant, muffled music from the marketplace.

“What kind of question is that, Griffith?” Her voice a low rasp that barely disturbed the quiet. She resumed braiding, her movements now more deliberate, almost mechanical. It was easier to focus on the physical task than to unravel the knot of implications in his words.

“A simple one,” he replied in some hypnotic flavor.

“Well, don’t ask me it.” She rustled.

“Why?”

his coquettish attitude nearly sent her into a spiral. Fingers trembled in his hair as she focused on tethering the last weave.

“You know why, don’t act coy with me.” The swordswoman abruptly parted away from him by the time her hands left him. “I’m done, I suggest you go back.”

Griffith remained seated, his back to her, a statue carved from the tension in the air, the very one that was mauling her now. The finished braid lay against his spine, a silver river against pale linen. The silence stretched with unspoken things.

"Go back?" he finally questioned. "Go back to what, exactly? To the charade? To the princess with her hopeful eyes and her father's weighty expectations?"

He turned then, slowly, deliberately. The candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, the bruised cheek, the unsettling intensity of his gaze. It was the look he wore on the battlefield, the one that could freeze a charging enemy in their tracks. Except now, it was directed at her. Pinning her like a butterfly taxidermy.

"You think I enjoy that, don't you?" he asked, the question not a question at all. "The fawning, the… performance. You think I relish playing the role of the charming knight to become prince, the savior of Midland?"

The swordswoman crossed her arms, her stance defensive. "It's what you want, isn't it? Why do it if you don’t enjoy it?” She scoffed.

"It's what I need," Griffith corrected. “A kingdom isn't won with smiles and stolen kisses. There is sacrifice- sometimes.." he paused, hairs on her arm prickling to his words, "the sacrifice is… comfort."

The blanket of strain over her became heavy and suffocating. Comfort. The very thing she'd denied him, denied herself, for years. The shared warmth of a winter tent, the whispered stories in the dark, the easy camaraderie that had tattered into this… this vigorous, unspoken battle.

"So, what?" she challenged, her voice tight. "You're sacrificing my comfort now? Is that it? Benching me, coddling me, doing this?”

Griffith rose from the chair, pulling himself onto his crutch. The movement slow like a predator uncoiling. He closed the distance between them, the warm glow flickering over his features, making him seem so exquisite that it ached her to look. He stopped just a breath away, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the lingering scent of something indefinably him. Candlelight danced in his eyes, turning them into molten pools of sapphire.

"Your comfort?"  his voice edged with something that made her skin prickle. "No, I'm sacrificing mine."

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed the confusion swirling within her.

"What... what does that even mean?" she stammered, the defiance in her voice wavering. There was slivers of vulnerability exposed from him and it mirrored the turmoil she felt inside. It was a look she hadn't seen since they were children, huddled together against the cold and the darkness, sharing stories and dreams.

"It means, that every calculated smile, every strategic touch, every moment spent playing the courtier... it's a blade twisting in my gut."

Lips parted to say anything that would put distance between them, shaken when the tips of his fingers slip against her cheek. Stop, stop this. Her jaw snapped away from his touch and his brow furrowed as if burned. He lowered his hand granting her some reprieve.

“You’re still scared of me after the field...” It was a matter of fact that slipped from his lips, gaze casted down in a thoughtful gesture before he sighed.

There was nothing to say. Anything would be a lie. The sound of his crutch raddled against floorboards as his shoulders brushed hers.

“The band is sparring tomorrow; I look forward to you fighting even while your side aches.”

He said behind her. Instead, she focused on flames dancing on a wick while the door whined open and then clicked shut.

[scotianostra]

June 22nd 1861 saw the death of Edinburgh firefighter James Braidwood.

Braidwood was born in Edinburgh and educated at the Royal High School. His father was a builder and after leaving school, Braidwood joined the company as an apprentice. Here he learned about construction methods and took a particular interest in the way fires spread in buildings.

In the early 19th century people were leaving Edinburgh’s Old Town for the more comfortable surroundings of the New Town. The old buildings became slums and fire-traps. Edinburgh had very limited fire services and, following a series of deadly fires, which culminated in the Great Fire of Edinburgh of 1824, Braidwood persuaded the authorities and insurance company brigades to work together. He formed the world’s first municipal fire brigade, organising men and machines.

He was the first to promote entering burning buildings to fight the seat of a fire. He trained his men at night to get them used to dark conditions and instructed them to carry rope to escape from burning buildings, practising their climbing skills on Edinburgh’s North Bridge.

Braidwood became the first Superintendent of the new London Fire Brigade in 1833, with a team of 80 full-time firefighters at 13 stations. In this capacity, he carried out fire prevention surveys places like the Royal Naval Dockyards and Buckingham Palace. Braidwood’s manual on fire-fighting included many basic principles which are still quoted during fire training today. He also invented one of the first forms of breathing apparatus to be used by firemen.

On June 22nd 1861 Braidwood was killed by a collapsing wall while fighting the infamous Tooley Street Warehouse fire on the south bank of the River Thames. Queen Victoria was particularly concerned about the event and the fate of James Braidwood and in her diary she wrote ‘poor Mr Braidwood … had been killed … and the fire was still raging. It made one very sad.’ the second pic is his statue in Edinburgh’s Parliament Square , close to the site of his first fire station.

James Braidwood was buried at Abney Park Cemetery, London on 29th June 1861. The funeral procession was a mile and a half long and shops were closed with crowds lining the route. As a mark of respect every church in the city of London rang its bells.

The statue of James Braidwood is in Parliament Square beside St Giles, the memorial, as sen in the last pic is at Tooley Street, London, near where the brave man perished.

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1143 - Initial Thoughts

And we return

Oda gave himself a well deserved break but now we're back in business

Children are wandering, Nightmares are raging, and the Accursed Prince has set a fire. Things are finally happening in Elbaf

so what will happen next?

Spoilers for the Chapter, Support the Official Release too

A colour spread of racing on flying fish graces us this time

Jinbe how are you that far back? And I'm surprised Usopp's not riding with Nami (not that way!) and Robin's not riding with Franky (that way!) - at least there's the underrated Zoro/Chopper combo as they're neck and neck with Luffy

Sanji stans are gonna look way too into the tagline 'speed is the weapon'

There are words on the arms though which may have a sneaky message, but it just looks like sailing and sea buzzwords to me; Nami has 'CHANNEL', 'SONAR', and 'STORM', Sanji has 'STRATO' and something on his leg, Luffy has 'VOYAGE', Zoro has 'PORTHOLE', so yeah nothing that sounds like it's a clue

It still tickles me that one of the nightmares is just a ghost with a hat XD

Saul goes to the sleepwalking children trying to wake them, noticing Gunko's arrow as a white cloth

Robin - who's in his beard with Chopper - warns Saul against touching the kids like Mr Wolf said, but Saul sees no threat and tries anyway

The moment he tries to grab a child, he's impaled by invisible thorns

The thorns must be painful for Saul to writhe from it, given how he once tanked a navy warship's cannon to the face - but Robin and Chopper don't know what hit him

Miss Ange announces the predicament across Elbaf using a unique den den mushi

Only nine of the kids are sleepwalking right now, maybe there's a limit to how many Gunko can round up?

The feasting giants worry about the children, especially with the threat of beasts attacking

They are being led to the Eighth Branch...which happens to be near the fire Loki just caused

Jarul worries about the kids, including his Great Great Granddaughter, Ylva, who was named earlier in the chapter as one of the sleepwalking kids

Nami angrily notes that the giants, and Usopp, are way too drunk to respond to the threat

Elbaf's fire brigade (Fire-Svalr) are here though

Svalr is a weird choice since in Norse it means 'cold', so the Cold Fire has come XD alternatively it could mean a cold burning, which would be bad too

The Draugr nightmare appears and knocks the Fire-Svalr away though

Back over to the God's Knights and Sommers seems to be a sadist, enjoying the look of Saul's face in pain

Once again he waxes lyrical about love, but Gunko doesn't entertain him

They are literally having a meal while this is all happening

Seems that the more love you have, the deeper the thorns will go

So this man is definitely a Sanji enemy

He also looks forward to seeing the kids' parents be subject to the thorns, just to remind you that these are bad guys

Naturally, the thorns are his doing: the Thorn-Thorn Fruit makes him a Briar Man

It seems to be paramecia but I wouldn't put it past being a logia just to put all 3 fruit types on display

Gunko is leading the kids through a central route to a harbour she saw, the harbour however is right by the village where the feast is happening, so Sommers might get his wish

Killingham requests some salt from Sommers, and seems to cause him to fall asleep

Sommers then dreams of salt that Killingham spawns into life, just as he has done to the nightmares

As expected, Killingham is a Dragon-Dragon Fruit: Model Qilin zoan, though the brackets do say he's a 'dream-materializing man'

Qilin don't have dream powers though, this still sounds like a Baku to me, but it's not worth looking too deeply into

It's interesting to note too that Killingham put an adult to sleep, so poses the question why he only put the kids to sleep and not the teachers?

The God's Knights also seem to have access to a painter in order to escape via rainbow

Sommers laments the ease of the game, but don't worry I'm pretty sure this won't go as smoothly as you expect

The entire meal came from dreams - Luffy would love that - and that means they're zero calories - everyone would probably love that

Gunko is aware of the Straw Hats' presence though

And just to remind you that the God's Knights are awful people, they note how the branch the kids are walking towards is on fire, and they don't care - if they die they'll just bring the next batch over

Back to Loki and he stands by his threat, goading Hajrudin to do something

He notes how nobody can even lift his hammer Ragnir - probably a Mjolnir MCU nod

Gerd notes that they won't let him make any more victims, but Loki notes how the fires means there will be victims anyway

He offers surrender or fight, but he never actually says fight, he huffs instead from his injuries

Sanji wants to be caught up on things, but Luffy's still focused on his wounds, even when he threatens to kill every 'weakling' in the Sun realm

Hajrudin looks to appease to Loki's demands, but Zoro tells him not to

Luffy counters Loki's threat noting how he promised to beat him up if he tried anything

Oh Hajrudin, don't you know that Lightning doesn't affect Rubber?

Gerd tries to appeal to Loki using the children, but Loki's ready to fight

Zoro however calls out Luffy about letting him off easy, noting how his wounds are about to reopen

Luffy preps an attack, and it seems that Loki already futuresights his defeat, lamenting his loss

Not even a regular haki hit, an 'Arm Balloon' strikes Loki with little impact and he keels over

Detective Zoro notes how Loki was bluffing, barely keeping himself up as it was

He leaves it to either Luffy or Hajrudin to tend to his wounds, it's unclear who he's directing this at

Rodo quietly wonders if there's a connection to the castle attack and Loki's injuries

Luffy requests for Hajrudin to save Loki's life, since he doesn't want to watch him die

It seems Hajrudin accepts Luffy's requests, as we next see Gerd treating him, it'll take months for a full recovery though

Gerd notes that being in the Realm of the Dead will affect his recovery, but the village won't be so forgiving and would probably execute them if they brought Loki there

Loki doesn't mind staying, but he calls the giants' hatred 'unforgivable garbage'

Luffy notes how Loki's horns are real, being reminded how it's the mark of ancient giants and how Harald also had them

Hajrudin flashes back to his childhood, his still-horned father asking his sons to get along and do what's best for Elbaf

Followed by a young Loki beating him up surrounded by a crowd of giants, he claims he can't call a weakling brother

And for added salt he calls Hajrudin a bastard, illegitimate as an heir, and says his mother had dirty blood

Interesting to note that Loki's eyes are bandaged even in youth

But with that memory in his mind, Hajrudin raises his axe aloft with the intent to kill

Rodo and Stansen hold him back before he commits

Hajrudin refuses to forgive Loki though, citing the valid reasons of how he insulted his mother and killed his father

Loki challenges Hajrudin to do it, being bored with his 'weeping warrior' behaviour

He accuses Hajrudin of being drunk on the personal drama and asks him an important question

Does he truly believe that Loki killed their father in cold blood?

So here comes the complexity that we were expecting from Loki. He has a reason, but what is that reason exactly? At the same time even if he has one there's the matter of him being naturally deceptive too, can we even trust Loki to be telling the truth? Hajrudin too, those cuts clearly run deep.

Knowing that the kids are en route to the village invites the conflict of parents unable to help their children, which is actually a difficult spot for them, almost another layer to the God's Knights' sadism to parade their children past them as they're powerless to stop it. But there are shown to potentially be limitations to their powers, plus Gunko's arrow isn't at the village yet so its trajectory could in fact be changed.

This puts us on three fronts; the village, the school, and the realm of the dead. Franky and Ripley are likely to come down to the kids now that it's been announced of the danger afoot, but with the nightmares preventing the stop of the fire that's where the likely combat for this first stage will unfold. I do like that Oda has quickly reminded the audience that although quirky the God's Knights are pieces of shit. With Sommers being a likely lock for Sanji (or at the most Gaban) it's still a toss up whether Gunko or Killingham will be an Usopp opponent. The numbers still need buffing to involve everything else though, the nightmares shouldn't bother the Straw Hats so much.

Given Loki's injuries and the length of his recovery time, he is unlikely to be a major threat to the Monster Trio, but that fire is still a problem and the more it gets left unchecked the more of a problem it'll be. It's a slow start to shit hitting the fan but it is one that continues to feed us more information about the situation and the opponents we are facing.