#berserk-al

[vertigoartgore]

1988's Wolverine Vol.2 #1 cover by John Buscema & Al Williamson.

Heritage Auctions : "The iconic cover from Wolverine's first solo ongoing series ! What can we say about this monumental piece of comic history ? Not only did this series cement the clawed Canadian as one of the most popular comic characters, but the stunning artwork was created by Marvel mainstay John Buscema. This image fronted the issue that took the character, best known for his gruff/no-nonsense attitude and elite fighting skill as a member of the X-Men, and presented a different persona to the world, where Logan (as Patch) lived and thrived in the crime-ridden world of Madripoor, dealing out his own personal brand of justice. A departure from the character fans had known, the series revealed more sides of the deadly mutant were discovered as his mysterious past was slowly uncovered. All that was kicked off by this eye-catching shot of Wolverine on a pile of bodies, claws popped and standing the moonlight. Most comic collectors of the late 80s will recall the feeling of grabbing this off the shelves, evoking a sense of nostalgia just at the sight of this piece ! A true Marvel gem ! Ink and screentone over graphite and blue pencil on Bristol board with an image area of 9.75" x 15". Slight toning, stat logo/header paste-ups, acetate overlay with stat text paste-up taped at the top, staple/pinholes and tape registration marks in the margins, scratch effects, marginal notes, with light smudging and handling wear. In Very Good condition. Includes a copy of the comic and John Buscema's signature on a piece of board."

[nogoodkook]

I feel like Weird Al exists in every universe. And I'm not talking about voice cameos or cameos in general I mean he himself is everywhere. Disco Elysium? Selling records about politics, Homestuck? Bronze troll with some kind of accordion bug, fuck it Berserk? You bet his ass is wandering the streets bringing joy to a joyless world with a song in his heart and an accordion by his side.

[iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife]

you can tell he was filming hannibal at the same time as s15 because his hair actually looks good.

[solarismp3]

It really must be so insane to be a manga fan and wait 20 years until the story finishes

[negreabsolut]

Coberta del sisè volum de l'edició catalana de Berserk, versió ‘Maximum’, que conté El gos demoníac (parts 1, 2, 3, 4), L'udol de la bèstia enfellonida, El bosc de les atrocitats, Lluita a mort (parts 1, 2), Amb l'armadura al cor, Des del cel, El retorn de l'immortal, El rèquiem del vent, L'ocàs dels guerrers, El noi del carreró, L'Eclipsi, El moment promès, L'adveniment, Éssers sobrenaturals, El castell, Comiat, El banquet.

[theophagie-remade]

Miura may he rest in peace really named Caska "Caska" only for italians to make puns out of her name

[thomas-barbosa]

página final

[mylifeisadeceit]

Hi I'm Lauren I'm new to this app, I'm just trying to make some friends. Can i be your friend?

Sure why not!

If you want you can DM but in a couple of days because I'm pretty busy today/tomorrow and I don't want you to think I don't care

[sapper-in-the-wire]

Liberals wincing at the brutality of Hamas’ attack is even more smoothbrain when you consider that the Gaza Strip is objectively the worst concentration camp in the world.

It’s the 2nd most densely populated area in the entire world, 95% of water isn’t safe, they are only given 4 hours of electricity (imagine this with the population density and Mediterranean heat), medicine and basic foodstuffs like juice are embargoed. The average age in Gaza is 19 - the old and weak die quickly as their health care system cannot get supplies and doesn’t have stable electricity. More than half of youths under 18 expressed that they have no real desire to live and contemplate suicide regularly. 45% unemployment. Children get blown up playing soccer on the beach by advanced warships. It’s probably the most surveilled and spied upon place in the world. It’s a tiny strip of land 25 miles wide that is regularly subjected to bombing.

In 2018 mass peaceful demonstrations were organized, thousands and thousands of Palestinians marched along the border wall. Israel shot 2,000 of them with live ammunition, but only killed around 200 because they deliberately aim at legs to place even more strain on the depleted medical infrastructure and make an invalid that can’t contribute as well. 36,000 Palestinians were injured peacefully protesting.

Every year the IDF invades Al-Asqa mosque, gasses the worshippers and cracks heads open, and then they leave because there’s no point aside from violent harassment. And then there’s the constant news from other occupied areas of Palestinians being evicted, homes being bulldozed, the survivors fined and harassed. Palestinian olive trees, generational in their age, bulldozed by the occupiers.

Shooting civilians wantonly might be morally dubious in a situation like Hawaii, some place where an occupation makes you disadvantaged and a second class citizen. But Gaza is just flat out a death camp. Of course the commandos went berserk with rage, of course they brought bodies back to parade in the streets - everyone has been dehumanized for their entire lives. Treat people like animals and they might just act like animals once they get their hands on you.

[animescreendump]

[loves-alibi]

i cared

MDNI simon "ghost" riley x f!reader summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door. wordcount: 4.1k warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon) a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.

ao3

The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.

It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?

He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.

Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.

But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.

Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.

“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.

Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.

You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.

You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.

“Tea?”

***

“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”

Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…

“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.

“I inherited it.”

A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.

“You’re on holiday?” You ask.

“‘Tis the season.”

You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.

“And you came here.” Why?

He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.

“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”

You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”

You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.

Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you. 

You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”

“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”

It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”

“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”

Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.

You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”

***

You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.

You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.

You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.

Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.

“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.

You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”

Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.

John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.

She was discharged.

Why?

For… mental reasons.

Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.

Breathe, son.

“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”

Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.

“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.

“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.

You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”

“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.

You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”

Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.

“You said no?” He asks.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.

“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.

“Bullet in the head.”

You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”

Christ. 

“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”

You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.

“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”

Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.

“He told Price?”

You nod.

“That was after we…”

You nod again. Simon feels sick.

“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”

“I never thought it did.”

“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”

Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”

You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.

He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.

Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.

“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”

You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.

“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”

“That’s not true.”

Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”

“Love–”

You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, “You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“You’re not.”

He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.

“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.

“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.

He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.

It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.

He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.

It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.

“What?”

“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”

***

Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?

He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.

His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.

He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.

It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.

The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.

Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.

“Are we doing this again?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”

“‘S not that easy.”

“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”

“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.

“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter? 

“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.

“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”

Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?

“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”

Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.

It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.

“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.

Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.

It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.

You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.

He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.

Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.

The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.

In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”

Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”

[birbleafs]

Most people tend to point out how badass Alhaitham is here (true). But what I like and appreciate a lot about this scene is how it also shows that Alhaitham cares enough for the general public's safety (including the Ayn Al-Ahmar members he'd agreed to fight with just moments before) that he rushed in to disable Mizri's corrupted Akasha terminal to stop his rampage. Alhaitham didn't actually need to do so either (he's not the Matra; public security isn't part of his job as the Scribe) since Mizri was attacking his own members. But Alhaitham still crossed that distance just to protect the other members of the faction once he'd realised what was happening, and he didn't even draw his swords out against Mizri. **Edit: I would like to also point out how there's a note of concern and urgency in Alhaitham's voice that you can hear clearly both in the JP dub here and in the original CN voice. It can be argued, of course, that he only did this knowing that Mizri had the Divine Knowledge Capsule and because he'd wanted to steal it. Still, Alhaitham could've kept his distance as Mizri continued lashing out at his men, and during the chaos and confusion, he could've easily filched the Capsule too before letting the Matra deal with the group's in-fighting while he slipped away with it. But he chose to jump right into the fray instead and risk injury to himself by going against a berserk Mizri.... though, I suppose Alhaitham had probably already decided that risk is extremely low and reasons that "I'm a very good fighter and I've a Vision, so I was never in any actual danger" or something along those lines. Because he's just annoying like that lmfao. This also makes that one iconic, quotable quote of his "I'm merely a feeble scholar" all the more hilarious.... What a lying liar LOL...

Still, I'm willing to accept his (modest lol) rationale, that in terms of sheer brute strength and perhaps without any help from his Vision, Alhaitham isn't as physically strong as the most jacked Eremites—he did preface the above line with "Compared to the mercenaries...", after all lol. He's simply a very efficient fighter who excels at using speed and agility to his advantage.

[magnoliasandarson]

dynamic duo

Damian Wayne was not impressed with his family. This was his third Christmas at the manor, and he was severely disappointed. Last year, Jason hadn't been around, nor had Drake, Brown, and Duke, for that matter, and Damian had been able to have a mildly successful evening. Father had been... lost, but Richard, Cassandra, and he had passed presents around in somewhat pleasant silence.

It was best not to think of his first Christmas at the manor. Or any holiday preceding that. Al Ghuls do not engage in such frivolities.

He had... enjoyed the holiday when Father was missing. Richard had given him a trove of new art supplies, and he gave the man the dignity of pretending to have not seen how his face changed when Damian handed him a drawing of the two on patrol. Cain had no such compunctions and photographed the teary-eyed exchange. Damian had not hated being Richard's Robin. He had not hated the man showing up to his art shows at Gotham Academy. He had not hated any of it.

Which isn't to say he hates Father, but sometimes he misses Richard. Even if the man abandoned him.

He misses his Akhi, even though Jason still walks among them. Even though he, too, abandoned Damian.

Though their relationship is tense on the best of days, Father has yet to walk away from him, which cannot be said of the other two. So Damian stands at his side, the Prince of Gotham's heir. It was everything he desired four years ago but it all felt hollow now. It was an emptiness somewhat mended with his companion animals and Jon, but the gap was still felt.

Damian wanted to blame Akhi Jason for the evening's demise. It would certainly be easy to do so; the man was never around and his reputation was abysmal. Damian remembered his fits of rage from Nanda Parbat, he remembered the whirlwind of protective fury that would decimate even the most skilled shadows. It would be easy to reduce his brother to a berserker, but he could not forget the Arabic poetry Akhi had whispered in the dark. So he could not blame Jason, no matter how convenient it would be. He was aware of true cause for the argument.

Richard seemed rattled by the events transpiring, which did not sit well with Damian. He kept his eyes trained on Father's face- watching lines form as he snapped at Jason for being reckless, studying the furrow of his brows when the glass shattered... Damian had been around the man long enough to know there would be blowback from an event like this. If they were fortunate, Father would express his upset on the criminal element, if they were not- the Red Hood might end up on the wrong side of Batman. Someone would have to mitigate the disaster either way.

Damian looked back to Richard- the man was in no state to do damage control, not tonight. He was strung tight- like a bowstring seconds from release. When they were the duo protecting the night, Damian had seen that look many times. Richard was seconds from losing control, and he was not going to be helpful in containing Father.

One by one the family fled the dining room, and Damian steeled his resolve. He couldn't go check on his brothers, couldn't go to the Clocktower to be with the birds- no, tonight, Batman needs Robin.

Richard would be with their family, and Damian would handle Bruce. He could protect the peace, he could guide Batman to where he was actually needed. He'd watched another do it many times. He could sacrifice for his siblings.

He was just like his Dad, after all.

Later, he will return to his quarters to find a poorly wrapped parcel on his pillow addressed to Dames.

He will clutch it to his chest so tightly that the paper tears beneath the pads of his fingers.

Damian will struggle to breathe in that moment, wishing desperately to be with the rest of his family, but he will heed the call for Robin and go to the cave.

There's always next year.

[negreabsolut]

Coberta del cinquè volum de l'edició catalana de Berserk, versió ‘Maximum’, que conté El cavaller de la Calavera, El principi de la nit sense fi, El falcó abatut, La fi del somni, El torneig, Fugitius, El lluitador, Companys d'armes, Confessió, Cicatrius (parts 1, 2), Espurnes a l'espasa, Incursió a Wyndham (parts 1, 2), Vigília festiva (parts 1, 2), Mil anys de reclusió, Retrobada a l'abisme, Sender de sang, Els Bakiraka (parts 1, 2), Flors al castell de pedra.

[sassenach77yle]

7x12 “Carnal Knowledge”

In the woods,

an hour’s ride outside Philadelphia

JOHN GREY HAD BEEN quite resigned to dying.

Had expected it from the moment that he’d blurted out, “I have had carnal knowledge of your wife.” The only question in his mind had been whether Fraser would shoot him, stab him, or eviscerate him with his bare hands. To have the injured husband regard him calmly and say merely, “Oh? Why?” was not merely unexpected but . . . infamous. Absolutely infamous. “Why?” John Grey repeated, incredulous. “Did you say ‘Why?’”

“I did. And I should appreciate an answer.”

Now that Grey had both eyes open, he could see that Fraser’s outward calm was not quite so impervious as he’d first supposed. There was a pulse beating in Fraser’s temple, and he’d shifted his weight a little, like a man might do in the vicinity of a tavern brawl: not quite ready to commit violence but readying himself to meet it. Perversely, Grey found this sight steadying.

“What do you bloody mean, ‘Why’?” he said, suddenly irritated. “And why aren’t you fucking dead?” “I often wonder that myself,” Fraser replied politely. “I take it ye thought I was?”

“Yes, and so did your wife! Do you have the faintest idea what the knowledge of your death did to her?”

The dark-blue eyes narrowed just a trifle. “Are ye implying that the news of my death deranged her to such an extent that she lost her reason and took ye to her bed by force? Because,” he went on, neatly cutting off Grey’s heated reply, “unless I’ve been seriously misled regarding your own nature, it would take substantial force to compel ye to any such action. Or am I wrong?”

The eyes stayed narrow. Grey stared back at them. Then he closed his own eyes briefly and rubbed both hands hard over his face, like a man waking from a nightmare. He dropped his hands and opened his eyes again.

“You are not misled,” he said, through clenched teeth. “And you are wrong.” Fraser’s ruddy eyebrows shot up—in genuine astonishment, Grey thought. “Ye went to her because—from desire?” His voice rose, too. “And she let ye? I dinna believe it.”

The color was creeping up Fraser’s tanned neck, vivid as a climbing rose. Grey had seen that happen before and decided recklessly that the best—the only—defense was to lose his own temper first. It was a relief.

“We thought you were dead, you bloody arsehole!” he said, furious. “Both of us! Dead! And we—we—took too much to drink one night—very much too much . . . We spoke of you . . . and . . . Damn you, neither one of us was making love to the other—we were both fucking you!”

Fraser’s face went abruptly blank and his jaw dropped. Grey enjoyed one split second of satisfaction at the sight, before a massive fist came up hard beneath his ribs and he hurtled backward, staggered a few steps farther, and fell. He lay in the leaves, completely winded, mouth opening and closing like an automaton’s.

All right, then, he thought dimly. Bare hands it is. The hands wrapped themselves in his shirt and jerked him to his feet. He managed to stand, and a wisp of air seeped into his lungs. Fraser’s face was an inch from his. Fraser was in fact so close that Grey couldn’t see the man’s expression—only a close-up view of two bloodshot blue eyes, both of them berserk. That was enough. He felt quite calm now. It wouldn’t take long.

“You tell me exactly what happened, ye filthy wee pervert,” Fraser whispered, his breath hot on Grey’s face and smelling of ale. He shook Grey slightly. “Every word. Every motion. Everything.”

Grey got just enough breath to answer. “No,” he said defiantly.

“Go ahead and kill me.”[...]

Fraser stood quite still for a moment, breathing slowly and regarding Woodbine as a tiger might regard a hedgehog: yes, he could eat it, but would the inconvenience of swallowing be worth it?

“Take him, then,” he said abruptly, stepping back from Grey. “I have business elsewhere.” Woodbine had been expecting argument; he blinked, disconcerted, and half-raised his stick, but said nothing as Fraser stalked toward the far edge of the clearing. Just under the trees, Fraser turned and gave Grey a flat, dark look.

“We are not finished, sir,” he said. Grey pulled himself upright, disregarding both the pain in his liver and the tears leaking from his damaged eye. “At your service, sir,” he snapped.

Fraser glared at him and moved into the flickering green shadows, completely ignoring Woodbine and his men. One or two of them glanced at the corporal, whose face showed his indecision. Grey didn’t share it. Just before Fraser’s tall silhouette vanished for good, he cupped his hands to his mouth.

“I’m not bloody sorry!” he bellowed.

4 DON'T ASK QUESTIONS YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR THE ANSWERS TO ~ Written in My Own Heart's Blood

[katsona-the-katsequel]

Personas' Unique Skills

All this talk of Maruki made me think of the special skills that individual Personas can have. These are clearly born from some strong aspect of the User. Something strong enough to define them as a person. So to determine what counts as a Unique Skill(tm) I consider the following:

No other Persona in their respective games is able to do it.

Almost never included among the skills you can use during normal combat.

Users can just use it whenever without needing to power-up or receive a boost.

It's related to the User's personality and/or journey.

Must have possessed it from the moment they awakened to their Persona. It was a package deal.

Users can or have been shown to use it passively in their daily lifes.

Off the top of my head, here are the Personas with Unique Skills, though feel free to add more if you remember any:

MOT

Belonging to Reiji, it possesses a fear aura. Unlike everyone else on this list, this actually made Reiji's life harder. Useful while trying to be an edgy teen, not so much as a salesman.

AKUMA

Belonging to Kenta, it can create desire in people. He used it to make himself a successful salesman. You gotta respect the hussle.

NIGHT QUEEN

Belonging to Tomomi, it's less of an original power it had and more what it mutated into. By separating itself from Tomomi due to the Demon Mirror, the Night Queen could (potentially) bring an "eternal night" into the world. Maybe her original skill as a Persona was a weaker version of this. Maybe darkness/shadow manipulation. Something to go with her name.

VULCAN AND APOLLO

Belonging to Tatsuya, they could slow down time and give him brief bursts of super strength. This made him ridiculously OP in Tatsuya's Scenario, soloing entire quests while the main plot was happening. Then again, he was running on NG+, so maybe it was a mix of both.

PERSEPHONE

Belonging to Musubu, it could brainwash people like a parasite, with the infected spreading the brainwashing to other people and growing stronger as the number of infected grew. Strong enough to create pocket dimensions.

PENTHESILEA AND ARTEMISIA

Belonging to Mitsuru, Penthesilea had some minor enemy-detection abilities. Just enough to know there's a threat. It also seems Mitsuru's ice skills go beyond what is normal for other Personas, manifesting in the physical world as well without the need to summon her Persona. That's a Unique Skill, alright.

LUCIA AND JUNO

Belonging to Fuuka, they have the Navi Package (get info on the enemies, sense the location of other beings, heal the party, etc). Navis might appear every game, but that doesn't make them any less unique.

MEDEA

Belonging to Chidori, it could fuck with Navis and, most importantly, heal. Chidori had one of the strongest healing powers, from people to plants to herself. Derived from this, she could also transfer some (or all) of her own life to heal someone else, even from the brink of death. Junpei would later inhereit a weaker version of this.

HIMIKO, KANZEON AND KOUZEON

Belonging to Rise, all her Personas have the Navi Package, though a bit more active than Fuuka's, mostly due to her experience and training as an idol (having to know what people want and how to please them without letting them step on you is an art).

NECRONOMICON, PROMETHEUS AND AL AZIF

Belonging to Futaba, they also have the Navi Pack, though way more active than Fuuka and Rise's, reflecting Futaba's deeper understanding of cogniton and her experience obtaining information.

LOKI

Belonging to Akechi, it could cause any being to go berserk, including himself. This power tells us that Akechi needs to get proper therapy.

AZATHOTH AND ADAM KADMON

Belonging to Maruki, they can alter a person's cognition of themselves and/or the world. The world-reaching powers he showed were the results of many shenanigans that had nothing to do with him, but it's still a pretty strong power, as shown with Rumi and Sumire.

Before anyone says anything, I count Third Eye as a gift by Yaldy rather than a natural skill. You can count it if you want, but for me its an extra thing. This also implies it's an AKIRA skill, not a PERSONA skill. Same with Minato's Great Seal. That's a MINATO skill, not a PERSONA skill (one born from having an embodiment of Death inside him for years). Both of them could still use those powers even if they didn't have access to their Personas, say, if they were reaped or something.

I truly believe every Persona has or is capable of having a Unique Skill, but either they aren't shown or the User doesn't know about it. Based on their Shadows, what unique skills would other characters have? For example, I would love to see Madarame's.