#bayoneted babies

[immaculatasknight]

Chorus of imbeciles

[quanblovk]

Fun lil relationship chart with loads of empty space

[tobii-kadachii]

For fun i did a general mock-up of my hunter in Rise! I dont have any screenshots on me as I’m away from my computer but here’s the general vibe :D!

[xo2dee]

NOW LOADING. .

DMC MASTERLIST

AMBROSIAL

PAIRING: Vergil x (Fem)Reader WARNINGS: Slight sexual tension sooo MDNI/18+ only. WORD COUNT: 4676 SUMMARY: He didn't even like strawberries. He just liked to piss you off.

A/N: first ever fic i ever posted on ao3 which is nuts. vergil brainrot never dies.

If you were to look back on yourself years ago, the thought of your current position in life sounded preposterous. A fairy-tale, fantasy even. Who in their right mind would take up demon-slaying as their primary job?

You, apparently.

Four years beforehand was the beginning: you had set out, armed with a baseball bat as ghoulish creatures had raided your hometown. You were a newbie, so incredibly under-prepared, and came out of that fight wounded and traumatized, but ultimately victorious. It was a start, no one was ever perfect as a beginner, you made mistakes, but weeks later you made your mind up and decided you wanted to kill these monsters for they did to your home and all those people. After all, it was the least you could in honor of their memory and for your guilt in surviving.

You could remember the ache in your back from being hunched over your computer looking up workout routines, the pain of ice-filled baths to relieve your soreness from pulling muscles after strenuous workouts and fights, and the scars on your body throbbing from one too many near-fatal fights with demons. You were human, painfully human, you had realized that particular notion after nearly breaking your hand socking a demon in the jaw. It was then that you realized you couldn't fight hand-to-hand combat with some demons (why did you even try anyway?) and you needed a weapon, one that was not a baseball or an axe that was on its last life. You needed a gun.

There you met her. Nico. 

Two and a half years into your self-employment, Nico came speeding into your life. Literally, she almost ran you over.

You had to explain yourself that no, you were not a demon, you were just a carrying carcass because it was a good alternate to weight-lifting because you didn't have any weights. She had looked at you like you were stupid, eyes squinting and cigarette ash falling from the smoke in-between her lips and onto the road before asking, "You a demon hunter?"

Well, you didn't necessary call yourself that, but, whatever, you told her yes.

Nico grinned after that and introduced herself, telling you that you were lucky for her bumping into you. You wouldn't necessarily call that 'bumping into you' and how you were lucky from almost being flattened like a cartoon character on the side of the road? You had not one clue, but you took her word for it in the end. 

Through her you met Nero, a young man – you had believed he was an old man at first because of his hair, to which he got fussy about while Nico was hysterical in the background – and learned that he too was a demon hunter, a rather good one at that; miles better than you. Of course, the glowing claw-tipped arm told you there was more to him than you knew, but you didn't push it, not when he convinced Nico to make you a weapon so you didn't look like a Neanderthal running around with a wooden baseball beating demons with it. 

"It'll cost ya, I don't just do handouts," she had told you, blowing cigarette smoke into your face. A test you presumed.

Nero looked ready to interject at that, but you spoke up before another loud argument broke out while fanning away the smoke.

"I'll pay you anything you want."

Nero looked at you like you had just sold your soul – you probably did – while Nico smiled and stubbed her cigarette out with the tip of her boot. "I always knew I liked you."

She had made you a bayonet, a gorgeous onyx one held that objective affection towards. You had thanked her, giving a hefty amount of cash and practically skipped off ready to use your new baby. However, you were not a good shot since you almost shot Nero in the head – more times than you would like to admit. 

That's when you met him. Dante, the Legendary Demon Hunter – though he didn't like to go by that, Nico called him that albeit never even meeting the man. And your teacher you guessed, not like he did any teaching standing off to the side occasionally throwing jokes at you and trying to hold his laughter back when you missed a target by a couple of feet. But still, he meant well. 

Nero had practically held you by your scruff in front of Dante like some lost puppy and told him everything he knew about you, up to how shitty of a shooter you were, but were able to wrestle demons down in a fight. The aged man scratched the scruff adorning his chin and looked you up and down before sighing.

"Okay, but I can't pay ya."

What was with these people and money? Dante didn't pay you, and Nico would sometimes charge out the ass. Of course, you later learned Dante didn't pay you not because he was Eugene Krabs incarnate, but because he literally had no money and was in debt. You wondered if he even paid taxes.

(Though coming to find out Dante's true agenda behind being in debt – aside from the mountainous supply of pizza and booze he spent it on – you didn't bring it up, opting to keep your thoughts and mouth to yourself and just taking your duct of the pay from Morrison, Lady or Trish when you had the chance.) 

Your 'demon hunter' status was well-off after that, you had teammates – meeting your favorites: Lady and Trish – your skills only increased, and you were basically employed at Devil May Cry. Life was fine until a giant fucking tree sprouted out of the ground in Red Grave City, and it was your hometown incident all over again. Dante, Lady, and Trish had went missing in May of that year leaving you with Nico and Nero, as well as the odd new member V, and his talking pet demon Griffon. You did not converse with him that well, he was quiet and you appreciated that since you often had to hear Nero and Nico's arguments, or worse, Dante's and Lady's. Still, you remained polite to him as long as he was to you, perhaps that's why you felt a little melancholic when he never returned after leaving with Dante and Nero that one time only a month after knowing him. Maybe you were sad at the thought that he died, given Nero and Nico had made a companion out of him and you were feeling sympathetic for them.

Then again, maybe you were sad for Nero since his father was apparently V, but was not V, ripped his arm off, was the reason behind the Qliphoth, fought his own father, then watched as his father and his uncle jumped into Hell to stop the roots from the tree from spreading any further out of the city. You had blinked when he relayed it all to Nico and you, astonished he seemed happier. You supposed it was understandable, he had found out that he did have family left (sometimes you had wondered if Dante was his father given the striking similarities and the relationship between them) and his arm... grew back. You didn't question it when you watched him later on pull out an old book with a V engraved on the front and flip through the pages with a ghost of small smile on his lips. If Nero was content, then all your complaints dissolved. 

You weren't exactly so content cleaning up someone else's mess, but you reminded yourself that you wished someone had done it for you back then. As well having Morrison technically being your boss for the time being, you had to listen to him and take jobs from him. 

It was months later when Dante came back, appearing in the middle of Devil May Cry through a random portal. You expected nothing less from someone like him, yet you still remained apprehensive scowling at the azure rift breaking reality. Out of it sooner than you expected came Dante, swaggering while looking like he never wanted to do it again and –

Who was that?

"Babe! Didn't expect to see you here, you been keeping the place clean for me?" Dante started out, walking towards you with his arms spread. It almost looked like he was going in for a hug, yet you knew Dante wasn't exactly the type for physical contact and your expression probably wasn't the most welcoming then. You didn't know if it was from your frazzled mask or him just being him, but he stopped mere feet away from you, holding up his hands in mock surrender as you regarded, "Relax, it's just me and Verg."

'Verg'. Vergil. It was him, Nero's father and Dante's elder twin. It was the first time you had laid eyes on him, though you listened to him and untensed. You took that time to not so discreetly take in the new face in front of you. 

And boy, was he a sight. 

The genes that ran in the family of Sparda must've been something other-worldly (literally). You can see the similarities in the twins: their hair the same shade, yet they both opted for a different approach on how they styled it with nearly the same type of face structure and same color in their eyes – however a different type of glint and feeling in them. They were of the same height, yet it looked like the eldest was a tad taller and you weren't too sure if it was due to his hair perhaps the boots he was wearing. Their choice of wear completely differed too, much in the sense of the colors they wore and the amount of skin they were willing to show; whereas Dante donned a regular Henley shirt with the beginnings of his chest exposed, his brother dressed himself completely covered in an odd vest, you didn't know where he had gotten, with the zipper all the way up to his chin with the only skin showing being his face and parts of his hands and fingers. Other than that, they seemed to like the leather pants combo too and it was easy to tell they were brothers. 

You didn't miss Dante's red coat, and Vergil's blue one. 

Truly the same blood, but completely different people. 

You were still staring at him, perhaps like a little too long than you would've liked to have admitted, but you were having trouble wrapping your brain around the fact you were in the presence of the man that ripped your friend's arm who was also his dad, who also caused Qliphoth rising and then jumped into Hell and was back with his brother, who seemed to have settled that... 'difference' he had with him enough to bring him back to Devil May Cry...

You stared, mastering a poker face through years of being alone. 

He stood rigidly in the middle of the room as if he was a statue, a white-knuckled grip on his sword with stiff shoulders as he eyed the room warily before landing on you. He looked down at you with a furrowed brow and a scowl like you were bug he was ready to step on. His presence was so... icy compared to Dante feeling so warm. They truly were polar opposites; the Red Oni and the Blue Oni. As you stared the more handsome he got and you could see how he was able to father a child – a child who looked so much like him, it was uncanny. Then he opened his mouth.

"What are you looking at?”

Why were you not surprised?

You did not like him. His voice fit him perfectly; so cold, and just so Vergil. It was slightly nasally and not like the husky tones of Dante's, but you knew his voice could instill fear into grown men and anyone else. However, you were not swayed, instead overcome with the backhand of his attitude.

Dante put up a hand before you could open your mouth and fire off a retort. Vergil wasn't even asking, it felt more like a demand to know why you were blatantly ogling him. You didn't answer, only throwing back an attitude with a tsk! and whipping your head around from his smartass. He didn't retaliate, stepping away from the scene and dismissing you like you were still nothing more than little bug underneath his boot. You had watched him walk away, glaring at the back of his head through the sides of your eyes. Dante, meanwhile, only laughed patting your shoulder looking a little too happy.

"I think you'll get along just great."

You did not get along 'just great'.

After that, it was a series of events...

Once you decided to be courteous for Dante and take his laundry with yours, to which Vergil all but dumped his dirty ass clothes on you as well. Literally, he just dropped them in your arms and you had struggled to catch them (why did you anyway?).

You had glared, fingers gripping the insanely nice fabric of his coat as he stood but two feet away from you, "Why should I?"

Vergil had the nerve to look down at you again, features as stunning as ever in the low light of the shop and his expression betraying nothing but that stoic exterior he was known for, yet you saw a minimal raise to one of his eyebrows, "Are you not offering?"

"I'm offering Dante."

"Then your common courtesy is a lie?"

He really had a retort for everything, didn't he? You scowled at him and pinched his coat between your fingers, "That's rich coming from you... but sure," you stuffed it down into the basket, balling it up extra measure to piss him off, "Anything for you, your Highnass."

You didn't give him time to reply, walking out with as much dignity as you could knowing you had given in and were going to do his laundry. Though he didn't know you kept his coat longer in the dryer to absorb as much static as it could, and you balled it up again to get as many wrinkles as you could in it. 

(You were sure he knew though, if that Stanley Kubrick stare you got returning it was anything to abide by.)

As you left, you could hear Dante sigh.

"Have you ever heard of please? And have you ever actually talked to a woman before?"

There was another time you were just standing next to him, then suddenly your cheek was squished up against his bicep and body nearly compressed under his weight as he slammed you both into a nearby wall. You didn't think that perhaps he was shielding you from the rampant rage of a demon, more annoyed with the fact your bruised nose was getting the horribly intoxicating scent of his cologne, or whatever it was, and you could feel the disturbing way his lean body molded into your own.

"...Vergil."

All you got was a slight tilt of his head. 

"Get your big ass off of me."

That got you the frosty glare you had been waiting for, the silvery tint in his eyes not something you were unfamiliar with or afraid to look into it. Vergil regarded you for but a few short moments, eyes darting around every inch of your face before quietly speaking, "I expected a thanks, not an insult for saving your frail self."

'Frail'? Whatever, you weren't about to argue with him thinking you were a dainty daffodil. He had eventually lifted off of you after you vouched out you had to pee because he was pressing on your bladder, the man looking – dare you say it – embarrassed over it as well.

Afterwards, it was another of Dante’s input.

“I need you to tell me how you had Nero, because this is just sad.”

It was a constant back and forth, though the times you randomly turned around and Vergil was just glaring at you nearly looking like he wanted to combust were the oddest of his vampire-like behavior. You figured perhaps he was plotting your demise, though it started getting weird whenever you turned around and he was inches from your face.

You didn’t like to think too hard about those.

Whether it was awkward van rides with you staring at him seeing if you could piss him off, him taking away a demon kill from you at the last second, you 'forgetting' to wash his laundry, him spreading out on the couch in the world's biggest man-spread so you had no place to sit, it was a constant back and forth. Or perhaps it was present time with the matter at hands.

Kyrie had brought her famous strawberry pie because she knew it was your favorite, and you had stashed the piece in the fridge for later time only for the next current day it to be gone. You confronted Dante about the matter ready to scold him when he you he hadn’t been around to even know you had any (and pouted you didn’t share), and then suggested Vergil did it. You didn't believe it, sure you two had... whatever going on, but you knew that as half-demons the twins did not have to eat human food; Dante only did so to keep in touch with his human side and probably because he missed his mother's cooking at times. Vergil, however, you never saw eat once, practically wrinkling and up-turning his nose whenever Dante brought back pizza or strawberry sundaes, so you assumed it had been Dante who ate your beloved pie and didn't want to admit to not hear your nagging. 

Though Dante had listened to your reasoning and told you something that surprised you given Vergil's... tastes.

"True, he doesn't like strawberry-flavored things. I think he likes chocolate."

Of course he liked chocolate, perhaps bitter and dark like him. 

Vergil would not eat your pie. 

Or so you thought until he and you were sitting across from each other at Devil May Cry at that moment. When you caught his eye, you watched morbidly curious as he bore his silvery eyes into yours and ran his thumb across his plump bottom lip until you could see the crumb of red he purposefully left for you to see. He ate it. He ate your fucking pie out of sheer pettiness.

He didn't even like strawberries. He just liked to piss you off.

(Didn't your mother tell you that boys picking on you meant they liked you?

Still... you didn't think that applied to forty-year old half-demons with stick up their asses.)

You could not stand him, you hated him and his handsome face and his stupid lips. You don't know how many times you envisioned stepping on his stupid coat and watching him trip and fall flat on his face, or just tackling him into the ground in a fury, or just fighting him, or just kissing him –

You swallowed at that last thought, raising your gaze from his titled lips to lidded eyes. Teasing. 

You never had a problem with looking him dead in the eye before, yet there was something brewing in-between that nearly had you sweating as you looked at him then. Since when where you shy?

Looking at Vergil then though... you weren't sure if you wanted to body slam him... or kiss him. Or both in that order.

So you did. You don't know what possessed you, whether it was his expression taunting you or the overwhelming urge to get rid of whatever the feeling was inside you, you shot up determined, marched over and tackled him into the couch. It was not necessarily a body slam like you wanted, but the giddy feeling you got watching his eyes widening a fraction and that barely concealed grunt he let out when you straddled him and pushed him down into the cushions was worth it. You felt yourself grow embarrassed at that point and uneasy as well. Vergil not throwing you across the room was one thing, but being able to straddle him and have him on his back was another thing altogether. Still, planting a kiss on those lips...

"Why are you making that face?" he asked once you finally looked him in the eye. He look unamused at a first glance, but close enough something was dancing in his pupils.

You knew you were embarrassed from the heat you felt on your cheeks. What face were you making? Did you look constipated? Whatever, you pushed it away and tightened your thighs against his waist and gripped his shoulders harder, reveling in watching his eyes flick downwards for a mere moment. You inhaled, hoping your voice didn't come out as unsteady as your body and mind felt. 

"You ate my pie."

"All this over a slice of a dessert."

"You did it on purpose because you knew it was mine."

"I didn't see your name on it."

"You don't even like strawberries."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because."

"As I said, perhaps you should leave your name on things if they are yours."

"That's rich coming from the one who has their initial on their own little diary."

Vergil's eyes narrowed, "That 'diary' is a book of poetry, not that your narrow-minded self would know anything about." That hit a nerve.

"I want my pie, you ass."

"How am I supposed to give you 'your pie' if I have already ate it?"

Why did he look so smug? You trailed your eyes from his long lashes, to the slope of his nose, to his prominent cupid's bow before finally landing on his lips. You remembered the crumb he swiped away realizing he had only ate the pie just prior beforehand, he purposefully took it out of the fridge and let it sit until he knew you would be back and he ate it just before you returned, He ate it just to see you squirm. The sneaky, plotting, petty, handsome bastard...

You attention was roused back to him when he spoke again, saying your name, "I asked you a question: How are you supposed to get your pie if I have already ate it?" Vergil had caught you staring at his lips you realized. He was staring at yours now and unabashedly rolling his eyes down your body. It was an inquiry, wondering if you were going to do it. If you had the gall to. He knew what thoughts were brewing in your mind just by the look in your eyes and the flux in your body temperature. You made up your mind then, scooting up to sit on his abdomen and slapping your hands on either side of his face. You wanted your pie, so you were going to get a taste of it at least. 

"Fine."

Your spine bending awkwardly at that angle reminded you once again the times you spent hunched over your computer, but the dull ache didn't compare to what Vergil's lips felt like. They were partly chapped, but you didn't mind, not when he was already opening his mouth for an invitation for you to get a taste. So you did just that, pushing your tongue through to explore his mouth for the fruitiness of your lost pie. He did taste like Kyrie's famous strawberry pie, but somehow it tasted better once it was on his tongue. He made a noise underneath you and maneuvered his hands to touch you, one gripping your hip fingers digging into your shirt and the other curled around the back of your neck to pull you further into him. You felt dreamy melting into him and moving your lips along his, you only failed to realize how incredibly sloppy your kissing was when Vergil pulled your neck back to speak against your lips.

"You are atrocious at that." Well, you can tell now given the saliva glistening on his lips. "Are you trying to devour me?"

You hummed, pushing your body down to lay atop his, "I don't think you can talk big when you don't know how to kiss either."

"Mmmm," you've never heard that noise before and it sent a flutter straight to your lower abdomen. Vergil moved the hand resting at the back of your neck, brushing fingers across your cheek to grip your face tilting forward until your lips touched again.

Compared to you basically drooling into his mouth in a needy make-out session, the kiss he left on you was chaste and so longing. It felt sweet. You wanted more as molded his lips onto your top lip, leaving you at the expense of his buxom bottom lip. You had wanted this so bad and all you could do was grip the lapels of his coat and drown yourself into Vergil's kiss. It was over far too soon than you wanted, which was why you chased after him when he parted away from you looking all too pleased with himself again. "I don't know how to kiss, yet here you are chasing after me again whining for another."

You groaned and hid your face in his chest again knowing that he had won. Again.

Vergil: 6

You: 2

Not that you ever won against his wittiness in the first place. Yet this time you felt you had won something big. 

Vergil did have a son, so maybe you were wrong about his skills in kissing. 

The moment was interrupted when the doors to the shop busted open and the owner waltzed in acting like he wasn't outside the door listening.

"OH – whoops, didn't realize you two were busy canoodling," Dante's tone sounded all too amused as he covered his eyes with hand, yet created a space in his fingers so he could peak at you both, "I'll just be on my way. Give you some privacy. Be safe though we don't need a repeat    "

"Dante."

You had shot up back into a sitting position on Vergil when Dante burst into the shop, hoping to show the red-wearing twin that no, you two were not doing what he thought and almost countered saying you were both just wrestling, but that sounded even worse somehow. Vergil had hissed out his name sending a scathing side-eye towards his brother and you prayed they didn't breakout into another 'argument'. 'Arguments' being full-blown fights, whether it be with swords or just throwing hands at each other over the stupidest reasons. You had walked into their fights on more than one occasion, always giving a dry look towards them when Dante would usually explain that Vergil got mad he called his hair ugly or something. You almost rolled your eyes again, Grown ass men.

Dante held up his hands, one hand holding a pizza box, "Okay, sheesh, don't get your panties in a bunch, Verg. You should be worrying about hers."

"Leave us!"

The remaining effort it took for him to leave was the blue spectral sword that he ducked for before laughing and disappearing upstairs. You watched the summoning sword pierce the wall before dragging your eyes back to Vergil, who was already looking at you. "You're both annoying."

He glowered again, "You are infuriating and a maddening being. A witch."

"That's a new one. Are you saying I bewitched the mighty Vergil."

"Hardly."

"Okay, Verg."

His eye twitched at the crude nickname before pulling you back down onto him by your elbows, you had a clear message of what he wanted by the way his eyes were half-lidded and hands ghosting over your back.

You gave him a cheeky grin basking in the satisfaction of his brow twitching in annoyance at it, "You trying swap spit again?"

"You are disgusting."

You hardly took the insult to heart when his lips slowly pressed against yours again and you sighed dreamily into his mouth.  

You suppose you could forgive him for the pie if you got that in return.

[disappearinginq]

I feel like people are sleeping on the awesomeness that is Sister Boniface Mysteries. I think it's considered "cozy murder mysteries" which is just a weird genre to have, but it's a spinoff of Father Brown in the 60's in the Cotswolds of England. I'm not usually a murder mystery fan, they're mostly just 'eh' for me - neither good or bad, just there to have in the background. But I love Sister Boniface for several reasons (which I will admit bias to)

The police are actually happy to have her around. The main DI will find an excuse to pull her into any case they have, and the entire police force love her and will almost always follow her advice/lead, unlike 90% of other mystery shows where the police are always either one step off from bad guys or just can't be bothered.

It shows the wide diversity of women who find their way to a convent. The nuns make wine. They wind up on cooking shows. They host an episode of a really hokey Austin Powers type TV series. They guest star on a children's show being filmed at the church. They love being a part of the cases when they get roped in. The Mother Superior is a cranky Irish lady who is like a beleagured mom who has more luck herding cats than keeping the Sisters out of cases, but she also has a favorite fish in the pond that she feeds, and loves babies and new parents and bends over backwards to help people and lets Sister Boniface blow up the basement with her experiments on a regular basis.

Sister Boniface herself. She was a translator in WW2, she has the equivalent of a masters in chemistry and is the police department's Go To forensics. She has a vivid imagination that borders on cartoonish when imagining the crime and how it could've happened. She rides a motorcycle. She is like 5 feet tall and spicy. The basement of the church has been converted into her own laboratory where she tinkers and futzes at all hours as long as it doesn't interfere with her church duties.

THE SISTER AND THE INSPECTOR ARE BESTIES WHO CRACK TERRIBLE PUNS OVER CRIME SCENES. No, really, there's an entire youtube video of every scene where these two idiots (affectionate) are cracking the absolutely WORST puns related to the crime. Sam Gillespie is the DI and he doesn't seem to actually enjoy the police part of policing, but really likes the community outreach part. He's a WWII vet that was at the battle of Normandy, took heavy losses, got bayoneted (which is brought up in one episode), and as soon as a crime has been committed, he calls in Sister Boniface. There is zero romantic interest between them, she is like his actual sister, and they are absolute enablers for each other's shenanigans, and it is hilarious.

There are no bad characters.

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 28 July 1932, the US government sent in the army to attack World War I veterans and their families with tanks, fixed bayonets, teargas and sabres, killing three, when vets marched demanding the wartime bonuses they were promised. The bonus payments were due to be paid in 1945 but when the great depression hit, leaving many veterans destitute, they decided to demand earlier payments. Up to 25,000 vets, Black and white, formed a "Bonus Army" and set up camp in Washington DC. Major Patton, whose life had been saved by one of the protesters, advised his troops to stab protesters with bayonets, and kill a large number of veterans as "an object lesson". General MacArthur and Dwight Eisenhower were the other officers in charge of the operation which killed two veterans and an 11-week-old baby, partially blinded an 8-year-old boy, and injured a thousand others. Read this and hundreds of other stories in our book, Working Class History: Everyday Acts of Resistance & Rebellion, available here with global shipping: https://shop.workingclasshistory.com/products/working-class-history-everyday-acts-resistance-rebellion-book https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=668683575304861&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[anyonghalimaw]

i mean this completely wholeheartedly people have got to start treating imperial japan the way we treat european colonists aka with criticism disdain and vocally decrying them. even now they deny that they did this to us. there are literally people over there who WORSHIP THE WAR CRIMINALS AT SHRINES. they used to fucking THROW CHILDREN IN THE AIR AND CATCH THEM ON BAYONETS. online they have people who literally do nothing except search for certain keywords like "unit 731" or "rising sun flag" to accuse any chinese korean or seasian person of being Historical Revisionists and saying that were simply falling to korean propagand about The Good Japaneses. i had someone tell me to my face that "the imperial japanese army fought for good" when they murdered one of my family members as a BABY. even now there are so many modern japanese media where if u look closely enough they straight up have imperialist apologia or propaganda, saying shit like "we Needed to colonize korea for their own good, they needed it" like atp if you dont acknowledge the crimes of japanese imperialism at least once ur either ignorant or u just dont care

[hotvampireadjacent]

Jesus Christ everything awful in American history has always been exactly the same. I’m reading a history book about the Great Depression and then the dust bowl. “In 1924 they’d [war veterans] been promised bonus payments, but those were not scheduled to be paid until 1945.”

The veterans marched on Washington DC to demand immediate payment. “Veterans pressed their demands. Then six people died in a violent stand off after a local police officer tried to evict marchers from some buildings owned by the treasury department. The deaths gave Hoover and his allies justification to clear the larger encampment.” One thousand soldiers were sent to dismantle the camp. “The active duty troops crushed their veteran counterparts’ structures and used bayonets and tear gas to force holdouts away. A twelve week old baby died in the enduring chaos after inhaling tear gas.” The Golden fortress by Bill Lascher (59-60)

I assumed attacking people just using their 1st amendment rights was a relatively recent U.S. tool (as of the 60s) clearly this was wrong and they have been doing this for forever. Of course I knew they always terrorized black and other POC communities, but I thought they at least loved their golden boy white men. Truly the state has a monopoly on violence.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons. 

“Mattie.... What is that coat?” 

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears. 

“It’s for you.” He said. 

“Whe did you get it?” 

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.” 

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly. 

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said. 

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.” 

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday. 

[staticofthetv]

Doing another favourite frames from the new b side chapter because narumi is my favourite son

Everything's under the cut, this is gonna get long

Starting off strong, numbers weapon 1 starter is officially contacts

Also bayonet origin!! When in doubt attach your sword to your gun with what I can only assume is left of the medical wraps/tape after he gets patched up

Ah yes, the good ol stab n shoot

All three narumis on this page give me life, he's such a fuckin goof

Honourable mention to the immediate karma in the last frame

Baby mina AND bakko!!!! He looks a lil goofy but in a cute way just hanging out behind her 🤣

And narumi is just confused

Calling your commanding officer an old gorilla, icon behaviour

NO BECAUSE HE LOOKS SO CALM WHEN AFTER THE CONVERSATION!! HE'S FINALLY SURE HE'S STAYING WITH THE FIRST DIVISION

Icon behaviour

Side note: wasp kaiju, horrible

Hasegawa immediately calling him out on his bullshit once again, you can't call obsessive training "gaming" and get away with it narumi

Just,,, this entire page

Hasegawa talking about how narumi went back alone to get the toys for the other kids in the orphange, yeah it's under the guise of just getting his own and there's no way anyone believes that

Also narumi looking like a disgruntled wet cat in the first frame because he was confronted with someone else knowing that he may actually care for people more than he let's on

The rest of this is gonna be a part two because of the 10 images per post limit, alas

[mdeeks15]

I’m sorry but if my kinda sorta partner figure skated their way through a squad of guards and massacred them via makeshift bayonet and pulled a near perfect spinning finish (I know nothing about figure skating) I would be begging for their hand in marriage and their babies

[azspot]

The American soldiers raped scores of women from elderly grandmothers to young girls. Their screams were muted because many had their tongues cut out by American bayonets and knives. The soldiers bayoneted pregnant women and babies. They scalped the living and dead. They herded 107 defenseless civilians into a ditch and executed them at point blank range with automatic weapons. They did not discriminate. They killed every human they could find from babies to the elderly.

The Hegseth abomination is an American tragedy

[amateurvoltaire]

In your brilliant review of Vaincre ou Mourir, you mentioned that Reynald Secher's research methods happened to be rather sketchy... I got curious, what do you mean by that? What did he do?

Thank you very much for the question. What better way to celebrate Bastille Day than by answering a question about the French Revolution?

Before I begin, I'd like to note—perhaps unnecessarily—that the study of history is inherently subjective. It's in the very nature of the subject for different individuals to interpret events differently. For instance, Mathiez and Leuwers will invariably have slightly divergent views on Robespierre, simply because Mathiez wrote during the Third Republic while Leuwers is a product of the Fifth.

This brings us to the crux of the matter: a historian's interpretation of history is deeply influenced by their own context and motivations. So, who is Reynald Secher?

He is a right-leaning French historian, best known for a section of his doctoral thesis, titled Le Génocide franco-français (translated into English by George Holoch as A French Genocide). In this work, he proposes that the events in the Vendée could be classified as genocide. There are several reasons I disagree with this assertion—which I'd be glad to elaborate on in a separate post if anyone is interested—but in short, what occurred in the Vendée was tragic for its residents but constituted a civil war, not genocide.

That being said, the fact that I happen to disagree with his thesis doesn’t make his argument invalid or his research sketchy. The way he supports his argument does. The fact that he misrepresents sources does. The fact that he has a financial incentive to be as inflammatory as possible does.

Allow me to explain.

(In the interest of transparency, I should mention that my observations are based solely on Le Génocide franco-français/A French Genocide, the only book of his i've read.)

Cherry-picking Sources

Arguing any point is straightforward if one only considers one side of the argument. Off the top of my head, I could list at least ten sources to write an article to convincingly argue that Robespierre harboured ambitions to be crowned king and that the Thermidorians were heroes for stopping him. Of course, I wouldn't do that; it would be highly disingenuous. Quickly into reading Le Génocide franco-français, it becomes evident that Secher isn’t burdened by such scruples.

I learned in high school that not all sources are created equal. Secher seems to have missed that lesson. With all due respect, if your book consistently references 19th-century local memoirs and anecdotes, treating them as facts without examining their veracity, perhaps it shouldn’t be taken as serious historical research. Also, how can one write a comprehensive book on the Vendée using 19th-century sources and overlook the 12-volume epic, Histoire de la Guerre de la Vendée by Chamard, Deniau, and Uzureau? In short, what surprised me most in the bibliography was the abundance of sources with very little integration into existing historiography—a definite red flag.

As such, his seminal work comes off more as a catalogue of republican violence, dwelling on horrific accounts of women burned for fat, people skinned for officer breeches, drownings, bayonet-stabbed babies, and massacres of villagers. While acknowledging attacks by Vendéean forces, he dismisses these as natural responses to republican aggression, completely ignoring events like the massacre of Republicans at Machecoul.

Cherry-picking extends to his treatment of the Convention’s attitude towards the Vendée. While Secher rightly highlights the extreme rhetoric in the Convention during 1793, he fails to acknowledge its moderation post-April 1794. He also takes this rhetoric at face value, neglecting to contextualise it within the broader proceedings of the Convention. Even a novice to the French Revolution would understand that much of what was said in 1793 was mere posturing and political theatre; it’s disingenuous to suggest otherwise.

Misrepresentation and Oversimplification

He tends to oversimplify complex topics and tailor narratives to suit his predetermined conclusion of a Vendée genocide. Thus, he does not represent that neither the First Republic nor the Vendée were monoliths. Just as the Republic under the Committee of Public Safety differed from that of the Directory, so too did the Vendée under Cathelineau in early 1793 differ from that under La Rochejaquelein in early 1794, and from Stofflet and Charette in 1795-1796.

Financial Incentive

And it makes sense that he simplifies; simple books with “Genocide” plastered on the cover tend to sell better than a collection of academic essays with serious historiography. Le Génocide franco-français was published in 1986, on the cusp of the bicentenary of the French Revolution—a time when the legacy of the Revolution was contested between the right and left in France. The timing was opportune for a fresh graduate to write a simple, highly readable book that “proved” the republican government committed genocide against its own people. This book has become central in shaping the genocide discourse and the entirety of Reynald Secher’s career. From what I've observed in his more recent works, he continues to tread a similar path.

I hope this answers your question!

[lil-miss-bearhug]

You can drop the knife now, just like how you can drop dead for the GREAT KING OF BRITAIN! *Pulls out his musket and cuts her leg with the bayonet* Where's your boyfriend CatNap? Awww, poor thing! Too bad he's not here to kiss you boo-boo! *Was mocking her in a baby voice*

AH! *she tumbles backwards, hugging her leg and crying*

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

desertwalkers- baby rattler

"Stupid tumbleweed." Riven pouted, kicking another rock out of her path. The Hex Witch had created a beautiful pair of chakrams, all dainty and pretty with enchantments but oh-so-deadly. Riven had fallen in love with the weapons, her fingers itched to pick them up. To have proper chakrams again to dance, to let the magic in her blood fly free once more...But it was the Hex Witch. She was expensive. Thus, Riven's need for extra money.

Technically. The brunette huffed, shaking her head.

No. Her bridal trousseau and the jewelry that had been her dower--those were all stuffed into her spell-warded travel chest. Those were strictly for emergencies. Or when things cooled down that nobody would blink at the rich silks and satins, laces and linens, or the sparkling gemstones showing up in pawnshops...and Riven wouldn't be questioned for having a little bit extra pocket money. She was only two weeks into her arrival at Stonewood, if she went around dropping gil like ceruleum she'd get eyes clapped squarely onto her. So for right now, it'd be stupid to touch the lot. And given the conversation she and Sebastian had upon their arrival with Mz. Gohtawyn, Riven was determined to prove she wasn't stupid.

Maybe the traveling circus needs extra hands. The thought cheered the Tonawawtan woman up. She still had a little bit of lunch-time left, she could go right on over and ask! But before Riven could continue her train of thought, her path took her into the way of something hard like rock and covered in fabric. With a cry she stumbled backward, falling down again on her ass..

"Ow!! What the--" The obstacle turned. Riven trailed off, blinking. She'd collided with a man dressed all in black and silver, with what looked like a bayonet-style gunblade on his back. A frown crossed the stranger's features as he looked down at Riven. Riven stared back up at him. Then she gasped as fingers roughly seized her by one of her upper arms and yanked her to her feet.

"Ow!"

"Look at this one, boss!" A pink-haired Tonawawtan man also dressed in black leered at the brunette.

"Looks like there's a new whore in town! She's a cutie pie! You think they've been hidin'-AAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!!!!" A high-pitched scream filled the air as the toe of one of Riven's boots collected solidly with the man's groin. His grip loosened, and Riven broke free, watching as he fell down howling. With a screech, Riven lifted her foot.

"Don't touch me again!!!" This time her foot came down with all the force she could muster. The howl that escaped the man made the fast-forming group of onlookers cringe.

"Holy sheeeet!"

"Gods damn!"

"Little bit's got some spice!" A drunken Hhetsarro cheered. Riven turned on a heel and stomped away, fuming. Hoots and cat calls followed her.

"Hey Doc! Can ye fix that?!"

"Can't do nothing for smashed sausage and cracked eggs." Mathye commented, shaking his head as more laughter rippled through the crowd.

[eretzyisrael]

By AMIR BOHBOT

Procedures of Hamas for those in the LGBTQ community 

The official documents of Hamas's "rulebook" reveal brutal behavior against anyone suspected of belonging to the LGBTQ community. 

Additionally, documentation of interrogations and testimonies about aggressive questioning focused solely on sexual preferences and orientations was found, indicating that those suspected of being part of the LGBTQ community faced a single fate – death.

Documents were also recovered that held detailed plans by Hamas on how to operate worldwide in regions such as Europe, Jordan, Egypt, the US that were far from the eyes of foreign intelligence organizations and under the radar of the media.��

The documents revealed that Hamas developed a plan tailored to the population in each country. 

Another document detailed a plan to ignite unrest in the West Bank and undermine the Palestinian Authority (PA) by infiltrating its security mechanisms and encouraging internal rebellion to overthrow and take control of the PA gradually.

The IDF Intelligence Division gathered various equipment, such as weapons from Russia, North Korea, Iran, Egypt, Libya, and others, to trace not only their usage but also to learn about procurement and assistance routes.

Among the items found were over 150 pickup trucks and more than 350 Chinese motorcycles smuggled through tunnels under the Philadelphi Route, which were used by over 4,000 terrorists from 75 infiltration points to attack Western Negev settlements and military outposts on October 7.

Educating with antisemitism 

Literature from the Hamas education system was also found. Among the items discovered were approximately 1,500 antisemitic books, indicating a systematic process of instilling hatred and promoting terrorism against Israel from the first day of education in the Hamas system. 

Items included children's books teaching how to murder Jews by running them over or stabbing them, a book by senior Hamas official Mahmoud al-Zahar titled The End of the Jews, and other literature that places all responsibility for wars in the Middle East on Israel, advocating for the murder of all Jews. 

Additionally, booklet about senior terrorists were found, as well as special documentation from Hamas summer camps funded by foreign donations and photos of babies on home sofas alongside shrapnel grenades and mortar shells.

Another procedure the Military Intelligence carried out was linking Hamas's plans to the documents and weapons found in Israeli territory after October 7 and in Palestinian territory during the ground operation. 

The military equipment supported the operational idea of prolonged presence in Israeli territory, which included medical equipment, weapons for amputating limbs using Kalashnikov rifles with bayonets or machetes, special forces rifles (Russian Kalashnikovs), and other rifles for the rest of the forces.

Documents found on the bodies of the terrorists included Israeli work permits, as well as maps of settlements and IDF bases, marking important points such as the locations of senior officials' offices, armories, clinics, and more. 

The most prominent map was of the Tel Nof Airbase, detailing the locations of squadrons, commanders' offices, and kibbutzim such as Nahal Oz and Be'eri. 

It included the locations of dining halls where the terrorists initially planned to concentrate most of the hostages before transferring them to Gaza. 

One of the terrorists tore the map of Be'eri into small pieces, but an observant soldier noticed it and passed the pieces to intelligence personnel, who then reassembled it.

Some documents also revealed the corruption within Hamas, showing how they not only accumulated assets but also used them. United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) apartments were registered in the name of Hamas military leader Mohammed Deif's wife.

Apartments of Mohammed Sinwar, Hamas head Yahya Sinwar's brother, were found to be received from UNRWA and then rented to Palestinians, according to rental contracts in possession of Military Intelligence.  Documentation of Hamas operatives working for UNRWA was also found. 

"After consolidating all Hamas infrastructure in the Gaza Strip, based on what we saw in maps and documents and what was actually discovered, it is clear that Gaza was constructed as one large military base, including the use of kindergartens, schools, clinics, hospitals, and mosques," said a source who reviewed Hamas documents. The source added, "They intended to infiltrate a large number of IDF bases, including Air Force bases."

On the bodies of terrorists with name tags, photos, and numbers, a "phrasebook" was found that allowed them to communicate in Hebrew with civilians and soldiers during the raid. It included phrases like: "Take off your clothes," "Strip," "Take off your pants," "Children here and women there." 

Military sources indicated that Hamas systematically integrated religious justification for their brutal acts into all their books, pamphlets, speeches, and notebooks, using Quranic verses and fatwas (religious rulings), including decisions on mutilating bodies and amputations.