#testimony sorta

[almostfoxglove]

HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is. 

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun. 

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation. 

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight? 

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below. 

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands. 

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs. 

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze. 

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring. 

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin. 

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word. 

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take. 

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe. 

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on. 

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

@ak-vintage @thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @harriedandharassed 

@burntheedges @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave @for-a-longlongtime

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@noisynightmarepoetry @clawdee

[whumpshaped]

been spinning this idea around in the microwave that is my brain for a while now.

pet/slave/etc whumpee being rescued, seemingly improving and going along with what caretaker asks of them, and then immediately bolting and returning to their master the moment they get the chance.

they feel sorta bad for caretaker, but ultimately where they belong is at their master's side. whumpee's life was miserable and empty before they found them, but with master they were fed, had a warm place to sleep, and were shown more affection than they'd ever experienced before.

whumper, who in this specific scenario is more like a carewhumper/soft whumper, wanting to keep whumpee as their pet/slave but otherwise not being cruel to them, is of course elated to have whumpee back, lavishing them with praise and love and affection, further cementing in whumpee's mind that this is where they belong.

tw pet whump, conditioned whumpee, stockholm syndrome, caretaker new master, betrayal, abandonment

When Whumpee caught a glimpse of the article, it was like colour had suddenly returned into their world. Like the storm clouds had parted and finally allowed the sun to shine through, making all their worries and sadness dissipate.

All charges dropped.

Caretaker seemed to have the opposite reaction, throwing the newspaper across the room and groaning in frustration. Whumpee flinched, alerting them to their presence. “Oh, shit… Whumpee, I’m sorry. I didn’t– fuck, did you see the article?”

Whumpee suppressed their eagerness and slowly nodded, attempting to keep their expression neutral. Whatever Caretaker had interpreted it as, it made them open their arms for a hug.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Would you like a hug? Or… or would you like to talk about it?”

Oh, they wanted to talk about it more than anything, but they doubted what they had to say would’ve been to Caretaker’s liking. They accepted the hug anyway, holding their temporary owner tight for what was probably the last time.

“You did your best,” Caretaker whispered. “I’m so sorry that… that they’re a bunch of incompetent idiots there! You gave all that evidence, all those testimonies… I don’t get it… I’m so sorry.”

“Let’s not talk about it?” Whumpee hoped that was a reasonable request. They hated hearing about all the ways in which they’d betrayed Whumper, but they hoped their reasoning wouldn’t be readily apparent.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I got carried away.” Caretaker took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, and Whumpee had the feeling this hug was more for their friend than it was for them. “You wanna do something tonight? As a little distraction? We could make those new cookies you found a recipe for. Or watch a movie.”

Whumpee pulled away so they could look Caretaker in the eye. “Would you mind if… if I went for a little walk?”

Caretaker hesitated. “Can it be another time?” they asked cautiously. “I don’t like putting restrictions on you, I really don’t, it’s just…”

“Okay,” they said without knowing what Caretaker was going to say. “Another time.”

They could seek out Whumper any time, right? The sooner the better, but they didn’t need Caretaker following them.

“I’m a little nervous about letting you out of my sight after news like this,” they finished anyway.

“Okay,” Whumpee repeated.

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course not.”

Caretaker smiled and pulled them in for another hug. “Alright. Thank you.”

-

It was two days later when Caretaker finally let them go. It was honestly a little heartbreaking to know they would never go back, but… It couldn’t even compare to that time the police had swarmed the building and took Whumper away from them.

Whumper had been their everything. Their best friend. Their owner. The only one who cared. The one who had always provided for them, food, shelter, love. It didn’t matter what others had told them — they had to get back. And now that Whumper was finally let go, they could.

They kept looking over their shoulder, hoping Caretaker really wasn’t following them. They weren’t. They were left to their own devices, and they were about to betray every morsel of trust Caretaker had placed in them.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered outside of getting back to Whumper. Whumper was the only one whose trust counted for anything.

They rushed back to the house they’d used to stay in, and the ugly police tape was finally gone. It looked just like the first time they’d seen it: friendly and inviting.

Whumpee walked up to the door and knocked before their anxiety could’ve gotten the better of them. They stepped back and waited, rocking back and forth on their feet, shifting their weight from heels to tiptoes.

The garden seemed a little neglected, but it looked like Whumper had gotten to work since their release. There were fresh seeds in the bird feeder, and fresh water in the bowl they used for any stray creature that might’ve needed a sip. They were so caring. It was ridiculous that any investigation had even been conducted.

The door opened, and Whumpee’s eyes snapped up to meet their owner’s. They jumped into their arms without thinking, burying their face in the crook of their neck. “Master, you’re free!” they exclaimed, delighted when Whumper’s arms closed around their waist.

“I’m free!” Whumper parroted, just as giddy as their pet. “And you’re back!”

“Of course I am! I missed you so much!”

Whumper brought them inside without letting go, pushing the door shut with their foot. “I missed you too, sweet thing. I’m not quite packed yet, but now that you’re here, I’ll try to make it quick so we can leave tomorrow.”

Whumpee pulled away, frowning a little. “Leave?”

“Of course. They’d never leave us alone if we were to stay; not the police, and definitely not Caretaker.” Whumper moved their hands to cup their pet’s cheeks, smiling at them softly. “We’ll go somewhere peaceful, hm?”

Well… When they’d left the house and told themself it’d be forever, that they’d never see Caretaker again, that they were ready to leave all of this behind… They didn’t think it’d be so permanent. So irreversible.

They didn’t think they’d have to leave Caretaker so far behind.

Some of the cookies they’d baked the night before were still waiting for them at home, soft and sweet and tasting of friendship.

“I’d love that,” Whumpee said with a smile of their own. “We can go whenever you’re ready, Master.”

[weebsinstash]

Ya know, I've made posts about the yandere Batfamily before, and I've been thinking lately about one person in particular, and I think I've decided that Alfred is probably the most dangerous and formidable person in that entire house and have been brainstorming what a formidable platonic yandere guardian sorta figure he would be

For one, he's the man that canonically kept THE Batman from going over the edge, basically THE sole reason Bruce Wayne grew into the man he is. Literally, in alternate universes where Bruce never had Alfred, he literally 9 times out of 10 becomes a murdering sociopath. Alfred doesn't just have intelligence, he has EMOTIONAL intelligence

We're talking about the tenured elderly man who is former MI6 and doesn't give a fuck about murder, has killed, and will kill again. Bruce finds someone attacking you, he'll beat them up and cart them off to jail to be arrested and rehabilitated. Alfred will pull a pistol on a robber and shoot him dead before he allows you to get even a single scratch on you, just puts the guy down, "oh dear, I suppose I'll be late making dinner tonight, it seems I'll have to give testimony to Mr Gordon again"

I've seen fics where the sidekicks kidnap Reader or disable them for Bruce's sake, but don't you think Bruce himself would cross that line for Alfred? This man cooks, cleans, does everything for him, is practically a second father and his greatest friend, really kind of RAISED HIM. I just picture Alfred getting attached to Reader like you're practically his grandchild and then you return to your normal life, move out after staying them for a period of time or whatever, and Bruce can tell Alfred is... out of sorts, a little sad frown on his old withered face as he absent-mindedly sweeps the same corner of the same room for an hour, sighing, thinking about how he wanted to teach you all sorts of things, but, you're just gone now. Siiiiiiiiigh. And Bruce can't stand seeing Alfred like, actually depressed, even making mistakes he doesn't usually make, dropping things, lacking his usual playful sarcastic wit, just kind of a shell of his former self. You don't think you'd be getting an extra super special Uber ride in the Batmobile from the Dark Knight himself after that?

But I also think Alfred would be capable of really putting his foot down. He once told a disrespectful Damian he should be thankful Alfred wasn't his father in a very "because I'd actually discipline you" coded sort of way, and, say Reader grew up without a dad, or any parents and maybe has some traumas and potential behavioral issues from that. I could see Alfred being the kindest, sweetest, most patient grandpa, teaching you how to bake, keeping you company in the library, teaching you all kinds of things, and then the second you do things like start getting drunk, acting out, THROWING things, then he's putting his foot down, "now you listen HERE! Your behavior is absolutely unacceptable and you will not be allowed to degrade yourself within the walls of this home!" and manages to simultaneously scold you without putting you down, leaving you in ashamed embarrassed tears over your behavior that you're standing there crying, and he pulls you to take a seat in a nice chair and starts combing your hair and telling you he just wants best for you while you're bawling for his forgiveness, and he tells you he's already forgiven you and that he can run you a nice bath before bed

I can see a captive Reader scenario where you manage to break out of the house while everyone else is gone and you think, oh, you're home free! Batman and everyone else is busy! Lost in your own hubris as if Alfred doesn't have perfect knowledge of everything in the Batcave including the equipment and vehicles. You're in an alley cornered by a bunch of drunks who just want to beat the shit out of someone and suddenly, is that Batman? Wait, the costume is different, and the height, and, the body shape, and, and, and it doesn't even matter because Alfred can still lay all of them flat, blood on his knuckles as he wearily regards you, "you're not going to make a tired old man have to carry you to the car, are you?" and after what you just saw, you know better than to put up resistance

But like I can't get over the idea of, Reader staying at the Wayne residence for a limited period of time, you're injured and Bruce is offering you safe harbor, you're being targeted by a specific criminal group and need protection until the thugs are caught, something along those lines, and, one day, when everything is better, you just. Leave unexpectedly. They had already offered you a permanant place in the house but you still seem to be falling into a depression until one day you're straight up gone, only leaving a note that Alfred is the one to find, only 3 word, "Thank you. Sorry." and hr suddenly??? Can't think straight??? You're gone??? Why??? Why didn't you tell them?? Are you hurt?? Did they do something wrong??? How is he supposed to know if you're sad or if you're hungry or if you're in DANGER if he doesn't know where you are and what you're doing at all possible hours?

Just visualizing the idea of Bruce coming home one day and you're suddenly in the house again and you're seeming very much distressed but Alfred is looking fit as a fiddle again and it is very extremely incredibly obvious to Bruce that Alfred straight up brought you back against your will. But. He doesn't care because he agrees with Alfred that OBVIOUSLY since you're a member of the FAMILY NOW that OF COURSE you have to stay in the house

Can you imagine yandere Alfred but Bruce and everyone else is just, totally normal and just hardcore mega coping with Alfred's sudden change in behavior and occasional questionable actions. One day Alfred is dusting and without turning around, "Master Bruce, would you care to fetch my granddaughter for me while i finish this room?" and Bruce is just like "granddaughter????" And Alfred looks to him like he just said something BEYOND stupid, "Yes, my granddaughter, about ye high, awfully broody much like yourself, currently housed in the spare second floor bedroom at the end of the hall on the right? You act as if she didnt help bake that casserole you and the boys absolutely devoured last night"

Nightwing going down into the Batcave for like actual mission stuff and Alfred is already using the Batcomputer to monitor all your online internet use. What's that, some young man is trying to slide into your DMs? O-oh no, there was, uh, suddenly a glitch and he received a threatening message with no traceable source that told him to stay the bloody hell away from you! Whoops!

You're just his captive little grandchild who he helps teach recipes to and teaching you anything you're curious about. You make an offhanded comment one day that you would've loved to learn to play piano "but I'm too old now/it's too late now/I probably wouldn't be any good at it" and later on, after Alfred has brought you back after trying to live alone again (you being drugged if need be), and when you wake up he's all smiles, telling you about all the new structure he's about to introduce to your life, and, of course, you have to pick a day of the week for your new (now mandatory) piano lessons :) on Mondays you'll go for walks and have tea in the garden, Tuesdays you'll read in the library, on Wednesdays you'll learn piano, on Thursday he'll teach you a new recipe every week, Friday--- this old man is gonna force you to be productive and happy is all I'm gonna say

[quitealotofsodapop]

Nezha in the Century Egg au;

Almost forgot our perfect lotus boy!

In the Century Stone egg au; Wukong entrusts Nezha with waking him up/taking a peak at the cave every so often, but he doesn't let him in on *why* Wukong is "meditating" for 500 years. Wukong fears Nezha pulling a DBK-level move and he can't risk it .

Nezha agrees, but obviously he's pulling double duty as is with guarding the Map to the Samadhi Fire, so he sometimes forgets what he was meant to do. He sometimes runs into Princess Iron Fan when he visits Flower Fruit Mountain, and depite being former comrades, he feels no hate towards her. Nezha understands that Wukong is one of the few connections that PIF has left in the Mortal Plane, and thinks it's perfectly reasonable for her to be on standby until the monkey wakes up from his deep sleep.

Then one day, as Nezha is *actually* meditating; he's flipping through some requests/prayers to him when he gets a very unusual prayer from FFM;

Ao Yi, hands clasped and crying: "Nezha, Patron God of Children - please ensure my little Mei is found safe and well!"

Nezha: "What the- dragons don't pray to me..."

And they don't. After the incident with Ao Bing, dragons as a whole would rather due than be caught praying to the Lotus Prince. Even to request the safety of their children.

Feeling very sus, Nezha flies down to ask the dragon parents whats up - especially since PIF told him that very few souls are able to even reach the Monkey King's island without permission.

The two dragons are completely distressed, explaining that they were relaxing on a camping trip and that their toddler-aged pup had wandered off into the jungle after what looked to be a supernatural flame.

Nezha manages to brush off the weirdness of his "clients" being dragons enough to zero in on where the little pup had run off too- and she's in Brother Wukong's cave!

Nezha zips towards Water Curtain Cave with the dragon couple at his heels. He bursts through the waterfall only to see the dirty dragon pup digging around in the soil with.... Wukong's Pilgrim brothers?

And whats that statue of a monkey doing here??

PIF: "Oh, Nezha. Glad you're here. Hold him for me please.* PIF: *hands Nezha toddler Red Son* Nezha: "EH!?" The Monkey *statue*: *starts cracking like an egg* Nezha: "?!?!?"

Its a very odd family reunion.

The lotus prince has to be filled in on some details once Wukong wakes up, and he will have things to say about Wukong burying himself for 500 years to have a baby. And he's seconds away from throttling the monkey when he hears that the process is potientially lethal no matter the immortality.

He accidentally sorta joins the Noodle Shop gang's found family? Mostly cus Tang mentioned that the Lotus Prince died as a child, and the rest got super protective of him.

The real confusion for the Lotus Prince comes about when he's called to act as baliff at the trial of Sun Wukong vs the Heavenly and Infernal Court!? What?! How did this happen- "Oh hi Macaque."

Nezha is trusted as a high-ranking officer to keep the Six Eared Macaque detained for the trial. Nezha wonders why Macaque is pretending to be held by the ropes/handcuffs.

Nezha delivers a pretty solid testimony/character witness for Wukong, as I do believe he defended Wukong while in the presence of a Boddisattva in Jttw, and he pretty much considers the monkey a brother figure.

Nezha is one of the gods to glance over at Wukong when the Monkey King started shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His godly powers told him *something* was happening, but being a mental teenager, Nezha couldn't think what.

Then the Monkey King goes into labor in the middle of the Heavenly Court while pleading for the soul of his mate.

Nezha naturally freaks the frick out.

[thefandomenchantress]

Okay so. I’m currently working on a post that has this detail in it, but the post is really long and what I’m sharing now is at the end. And I don’t really expect a lot of people to through what’s probably 1,000+ words to get to it. I talked about it another time, but I don’t think it really got seen because it was a reblog. So I’m sharing it here, because I think it’s actually pretty important and should be talked about.

During Ace’s testimony about David and Arei, Arei says this:

Which makes sense by itself. We the audience know Arei would definitely say that, now that we know what happened in the Infirmary with Eden and Arei.

But remember. This is Ace’s testimony. And, well, there’s something that makes this very suspicious.

Ace doesn’t think Arei wants to change before he gives his testimony.

But he should. If we believe his testimony.

According to him, he heard her say that she wanted to change and “become a good person”. To be like Eden. And yet, he doesn’t believe Eden earlier in the trial when she says that Arei wanted to change, before he hears the story about Eden, Arei, and Arturo.

Which gives us four options, listed from worst to best (based on my opinions of course):

Option 1: The creator made a mistake and forgot Ace was supposed to know about Arei becoming a good person. I hate this answer, it’s such a cop-out. I hate assuming a creator made a mistake just because I don’t understand a piece of evidence or it doesn’t fit with my current view of something. I hesitate to even include this as an option. (This came out a bit aggressive sorry I just got a little passionate).

Option 2: Ace is a dumbass and didn’t remember that Arei said that until he said his testimony. While I don’t really like this one, either, since it’s also just a way of saying it’s irrelevant and doesn’t impact anything, I suppose it does sorta fit with Ace’s ‘act first, think second’ attitude.

Option 3: Ace is the culprit and jumped on the ‘Arei committed suicide’ bandwagon when he saw a chance to avoid most of the trial. I don’t really believe this one, but it is a viable option, I suppose. Though if he was the culprit, I don’t really understand why he wouldn’t share the David secret info immediately just to throw David under the bus and hope everyone voted for him.

Option 4: My personal favorite. Ace lies in his testimony. That’s why the information in it is inaccurate and why it seems like he hastily tried to add in details he recently learned from things like Eden’s testimony without considering the fact that the way he acted earlier wouldn’t make sense if he already overheard things about them. I’ll explain a little further.

The reason I believe this one the most, is also because of David’s reaction to Ace’s testimony.

He doesn’t say “No, Ace is lying” but he also doesn’t say “Yes, Ace is correct and his testimony is true.” Instead, he does something very interesting. He confirms that Arei and him met in the relaxation room…But refuses to admit that Ace is right about the conversation they had. Instead he avoids the question and says he isn’t going to remember anymore.

Which is really weird? Right before this he went on a big speech about just admitting the truth to preserve his pride. And this is backed up later when he refuses to be called the culprit—Well, until he realizes that’s the only way to get the class to realize he’s not the culprit. Or decides he wants to die. And yet, David refuses to say Ace told the truth about his and Arei’s conversation. Which he should be doing! Like I said, he went on a tangent about how he was just going to admit the truth right before this!

Which leads one to believe that Ace told the truth about David and Arei meeting in the relaxation room. But he changed the conversation they had in some way.

I think that’s the most agreeable part of the theory. The most believable, because it has the most evidence backing it up. However, Ace’s reasons for doing what he did, and what he changed in his testimony, are where things get a little messier.

Ace could’ve changed the story so that he could throw David under the bus, since David was trying to throw a bit of suspicion on him beforehand. But that still leaves the question of why. I’m gonna do a bit of repeating from my last theory, just for a little bit. Then we get back to some new stuff.

I’m going to go under the assumption that Ace changed the conversation to be about David’s secret, when in reality it was about something else, since I think that makes the most sense. (I recognize there are probably other avenues one could take, however). But if Ace knew David’s secret without overhearing it, he could’ve just said, “Hey, I know David’s secret, it’s the manipulator one! I know because *insert reasons Arei gave in the flashback, minus seeing it over Whit’s shoulder*” and that would be the end of it.

But Ace didn’t do that. Under this theory, he made up a whole conversation to justify why he knew. And I think it’s pretty simple to see why he did that.

Ace doesn’t want to die.

Ace just almost got murdered. He’s not too eager for that to happen again, so he wants to take all precautions to avoid it. People already don’t like him, so that’s not good. But what happens if people find out he’s observant enough to figure out David’s secret by himself, just from watching David’s behavior throughout the chapter? Currently, everyone thinking he’s an idiot when it comes to basically everything is working in his favor for once, since when trying to get away with murder, you’d probably want to murder the people who could potentially solve it. Not an incompetent asshole who’ll probably just make things easier for you. The only time this doesn’t apply is when the murder is more of a crime of passion, so to speak, like Nico’s. Where they, by their own admission, didn’t even think about the trial before they tried to murder.

So if Ace wants the best chance of avoiding becoming a future victim and revealing David’s secret, he can’t admit he found out on his own…And what better way to circumvent that than pin the blame on someone who’s already dead and can’t object to his story, like Arei? Better yet, he can just use the location and set-up he already saw, just change their conversation so that they said what he wanted!

Do you really think he left his story so open-ended on accident?

He purposely left it up to interpretation as to whether David was actually as evil as the secret says, because Ace himself doesn’t actually know if he is. He gives David the opportunity to reveal that the secret was exaggerated because he has no way of knowing if it is or not. He knows David manipulates people, like how he did so to make sure his real secret wasn’t revealed. But is he truly as pure evil as the secret makes him out to be? Ace doesn’t know.

Also, this line?

“I’m right, aren’t I?” This might be confirmation bias talking, but this just straight-up sounds to me like he’s saying, “I’m right, that is your secret and all those things I had ‘Arei’ say were true, weren’t they?”

Again, this isn’t my strongest point, but Ace in this case wasn’t really ‘right’. If anything, Arei was right because she accused David. Ace would only be right if he figured out his secret, which he didn’t according to his testimony.

But maybe I’m looking into this line too much. “I’m right and what I said happened actually happened” may just be the meaning. Moving on.

(Ace accidentally predicted the Literature Girl Insane video hehe).

With this theory in mind, Ace expected David to explain his behavior a multitude of ways, but completely changing his demeanor and just becoming a major asshole? He did not expect that.

This is on more of a light-hearted note, but:

This scene would be very fitting and kinda hilarious in retrospect if this theory were true. Ace is appalled by J’s comment because the part about him eavesdropping on a conversation was literally the only part of his testimony that was true, yet J finds it the most suspicious. And J’s habit of assuming the worst of people has been used for comedic effect before, so it’s possible.

Anyways, I think that’s all. The first part, about inconsistencies in Ace’s story, is probably the most relevant, and my theorizing afterwards was more so just my opinion on things and what I think happened.

I said I thought people wouldn’t read a long post, so I made a new one…But then the new post turned really long…Whoops.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

wait ok so gale got one of his scars cause of sanchez?

Ok. Here we go into Marina’s poorly thought out, hypothetical and fraying plotline acid dreams, vague and unsettled headcanon territory. Welcome, it’s sorta weird here—

This is legit all I got… Sanchez is a fighter pilot from the Aztec Eagles Fighter Squadron, a group of Mexican pilots who fought alongside the United States during World War II. These pilots, trained by the United States military, were the only Mexican squadron to see combat in World War II. They flew their missions in early 1945 but i like variety, showcasing how diverse this world war was and keeping my women mixed in a probable way. We’ve got women in a stalag? -one can be a Mexican fighter pilot, sue me.

I imagine she was one of the earlier women downed, before many of the bombers had been, she was also solitary as a fighter, didn’t have a whole crew to rejoin with. Before long she’s piled into a truck with other allied airmen. One Gale Cleven crashed through a family’s kitchen, about snapped his back and got a pitchfork to the chest. He’s kind but he’s cautious, as he should be.

Somewhere along the way before getting to the Luftwaffe holding places, things got hairy. Drawing from resistance sources rather than Air Force testimony -as female integration wasn’t a thing, I’m using the next best comparisons- the gestapo and the SS and even on some occasions the Wehrmacht, would use violence against women to break men who otherwise wouldn’t talk under similar duress.

He gets his scar somewhere in here.

After such a mutual horror show I imagine a few things:

One, neither is exactly seeking each others company out after this, awks.

Two, Gale Cleven is confronted with the realisation this is probably happening to all his girls, and that sits doubly hard as a gentleman and an officer

Three, he’s not likely to forget the taunts, the implications, the snide comments about their doubt that he too was a woman, pretty enough for it, and since Americans were so depraved as to send off their weaker vessels to be slaughtered, what’s the difference? Between an American man and an American woman? They want equality right? The Germans can make them equal, they’d be happy to.

Four, Gale got those scars trying to save her, and it’s not like Sanchez thinks she owes him one or is somehow guilty for it, but what she saw him go through was uncomfortable enough she isn’t sure she knows what to say about how he got them. How much is too much? How much is vindication verses how much is damning?She just keeps mum and she’s traumatized in her own way, already uncomfortable as a woman, this whole abuse further exacerbates that feeling and her perspective on others.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jonathan Cohn at HuffPost:

One of the Biden administration’s biggest legislative setbacks came when Democratic leaders had to give up on their “caregiving” agenda. The idea had been to transform everyday life for tens of millions of Americans by guaranteeing access to child care and paid leave, as well as home care for seniors and people with disabilities. And while the concept enjoyed plenty of support among high-ranking officials, few (if any) made it as much of a priority as Vice President Kamala Harris.

Harris had championed all three policies as early as the presidential transition, according to several sources inside and outside the White House who spoke with HuffPost. Later, Harris and her advisers advocated internally for including major new investments as part of what eventually became known as the “Build Back Better” legislation. “Her policy team really fought for it,” said Ai-jen Poo, who, as president of the National Workers Alliance, worked closely with the administration. And when efforts to enact the reforms eventually came up short because two members of the Senate Democratic caucus wouldn’t vote yes on the full legislative package, Harris made sure her allies knew the fight wasn’t over. “The vice president personally said to me that she is really committed to moving this agenda forward,” Poo said, “that she’s not going to give up, and we shouldn’t give up, either.” At the time, it felt like a promise for what President Joe Biden might pursue in a second term if he got one. Now, with Biden stepping aside and Harris the Democrats’ presumptive 2024 nominee, Poo cites that statement as one of several signs Harris would make caregiving a priority if she wins in November.

That feels like a pretty good bet. Election Day is less than four months away, Inauguration Day less than two months after that. But the unique circumstances of this campaign mean the elements of Harris’ prospective agenda are less clear than they normally would be at this point, at least by Democratic Party standards. On the one hand, Harris is part of an incumbent administration, running on its record and previously announced plans for new initiatives. But while Harris has certainly helped to shape both, she has never been the ultimate decision-maker. It’s safe to assume Harris has some different ideas about what to do or, at least, how to prioritize. Had there been a normal primary campaign, Harris would have sketched out that governing vision.

That never happened, and it’s probably not going to happen now. With her candidacy not even two weeks old, plus a running mate still to name and a convention still to stage, Harris doesn’t have the time to put together a bunch of new policies, let alone introduce them with speeches, white papers and expert testimonials. Her press team, meanwhile, isn’t saying much about policy ― except to confirm that Harris is no longer committed to some of the more progressive positions of her 2020 presidential bid, like promising to ban fracking or promoting a kinda-sorta-Medicare-for-All plan. Not that big new agenda pronouncements would get a ton of attention anyway. Threats to democracy and attacks on abortion rights are understandably much bigger preoccupations right now, and for much of the electorate, the most important thing about Harris is that she would fight both.

But Harris could win, putting her in a position to lay out a legislative agenda. And there’s plenty of reason to think caregiving initiatives would be a bit part of that, including the fact that policy conditions — in particular, the expiration of Trump-era tax cuts that could free up trillions in new funding — could give Harris a shot at ambitious, even historic reforms if she has a willing Congress to go along. “She could walk away from that first term saying that I brought America its first paid family leave and universal pre-K, and a refundable child tax credit that basically ends child poverty ― that’d be a hell of a legacy,” Bharat Ramamurti, former deputy director of the National Economic Council, told HuffPost. “That’s really within grasp.”

The political environment has shifted a lot since then, with challenges tied to care for children, elders and people with disabilities getting more attention. A driving force behind this shift has been the arrival of so many more women in so many more positions of authority. Kamala Harris is one of them. The well-being of children has been an area of focus ever since she was a district attorney in San Francisco and, later, the attorney general for California. Her legacy in the state includes the creation of a Bureau for Children’s Justice, which used the attorney general’s authority to investigate and (when appropriate) punish private and public sector organizations that serve children. Harris’ work to protect foster kids and juveniles in the justice system won praise from child welfare advocates, although an initiative to prosecute parents of truant children drew sharp criticism. (Harris later said she had regrets about it.)

[...]

Stories Of Working Mothers, Including Hers

Harris took an even bigger swing when she signed on to the “FAMILY Act,” a Democratic bill to guarantee paid leave — and then, as part of her presidential bid for 2020, rolled out an even more ambitious proposal that envisioned six months of paid leave. “I’ve been saying she is, in a lot of ways, the strongest paid leave elected [official] or candidate we’ve ever seen,” said Dawn Huckelbridge, founding director of Paid Leave for All. To make the case for paid leave, Harris frequently invokes the story of somebody close to her heart: her mother, who in her final years was battling cancer. “These issues have always been part of her agenda,” said Vicki Shabo, a longtime gender equity policy expert now at New America’s Better Life Lab (though speaking in her personal capacity, not for the organization). “She talks about her mother, her mother being such an important influence, and then pivots to her mother being sick and needing to care for her.” As a senator, Harris also cosponsored the Child Care for Working Families proposal, which sought to create “universal child care” by giving states enough money to cap child care costs for any family at 7% of household income. It was a vision for the largest expansion of the welfare state since the Affordable Care Act, one that would require hundreds of billions of dollars of new government spending in just the first 10 years.

[...]

The Caregiving Agenda’s Policy Questions

One reason to think these interests might carry over into a Harris presidency is that she has made early, clear references to both child care and paid leave in her speeches since becoming the presumptive Democratic nominee. [...] But actually passing major legislation on any element of the care agenda, let alone the entire package, would require more than commitment. It would require settling on the right policies — and rounding up enough votes. [...] The latter would obviously be a lot easier if Democrats get a majority in the House while holding on to the Senate ― which, although hardly likely, is certainly possible. If Democrats do keep control of the Senate, they will no longer have to deal with the two most conservative caucus members (Democrats-turned-independents Joe Manchin from West Virginia and Kyrsten Sinema of Arizona), who stood in the way of passing Build Back Better’s care agenda last time. Democrats would also have some money at their disposal, thanks to the looming expiration of the massive tax cuts Donald Trump signed into law when he was president.

[...]

The Message And The Messenger

Harris’ ability to manage such a situation with Congress ― or any situation with Congress ― is arguably the biggest question mark on her resume because it’s a skill that even gifted politicians take time to master. And Harris, frankly, hasn’t had that much time. She had been in the Senate for just two years when she announced she was running in the 2020 presidential election. During her unsuccessful bid to win the Democratic nomination, she struggled to explain and defend her health care plan in ways that raised questions about whether she fully understood ― or believed in ― what she was proposing. And while she’s now had three-plus years in the White House, it was Biden, the veteran legislator, who took the bulk of the negotiating portfolio. Harris, by most accounts, spent more of her time coordinating with outside groups or steering policy from within the White House.

But a big part of passing legislation is selling the product to Congress, to interest groups, and ultimately, to the public at large. And as Harris’ supporters are fond of noting, winning over everyday Americans is a lot like winning over a jury — a skill Harris demonstrated back in her prosecutor days. “When we were advocating for changes that we were seeking,” Martin said, “she really pressed us as staff to be able to not speak like the policy wonks that we are ― to be able to translate what we were talking about so that people in the midst of their busy lives could understand why it was important, how it would be important to them, how it would be important for other people and have impacts on our economy or our society.”

If Kamala Harris is elected as President, she will give priority to child chare, paid leave, and home care issues.

Read the full story at HuffPost.

[leox-un]

I'm SO interested in your jekyll/hyde!! are they ever apart? - how does physical distance (and contact) affect them? what's it look like for them to resonate? how did they split?? but also silly things like do their tastes and manner diverge between themselves? BIG invested!!

KICKS MY FEET AND GIGGLES I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED

SO the way it works is that they can only be in one form at a time, either weapon or normal person form, so jekyll can weild hyde, or hyde can weild jekyll; they cannot both exist as a person or a weapon at the same time (we'll get back to that)

imagining each of them having their own half of one soul, getting farther away drastically affects their health; they're already kind of dying because of the split but getting further just kind of makes it worse, since their already frail tether to each other could kinda just snap

i think of it like an egg, they split a whole egg in 2, so now the 2 halves are each in their own half of an eggshell; if the eggshell tips over too much then the egg falls out and Thats Bad

jekyll was able to manifest the split by focusing his entire will on trying to become a weapon without losing his human form in the process; he basically focused Real Hard on doing both at the same time, he did a lot of research and practice and testing stuff before actually being able to do it, but he cant put it back now oopsies

about their differences, thats the part thats more interesting to me! generally people view jekyll and hyde as a split personality sort of thing when it isnt really that originally? the original book is much more leaning towards being a metaphor for alcoholism; basically hyde is less of "evil jekyll" and more "jekyll if he had no inhibitions" so i wanted to lean into the fact that hyde is basically the same guy as jekyll! whenever jekyll does Crimes he does it as hyde because he knows no one will think its jekyll committing these crimes (testimonies going "i saw a white hair man at the scene!!" while jekyll has black hair, etc)

final thing, their resonance... he ehhehe so he only ever does this Once (and then is fucking Murdered minutes later but we dont talk about that) as a last resort sorta thing; so hes basically backed into a corner, and his last resort is to use all that Wonderful focusing ability he gained in his tests to try and split his soul Again so that he can wield Both halves of his blade together again (individually theyre light enough to be one handed swords, but together they form a big two-handed sword) BUT when he does this, his physical body is just. Not there, it moves very funky and looks like its being puppetted around

and then he eats shit and dies but we'll get into that later LMAO

[brutalitybunny]

Headcannon: Datz and Dhurke met at Dhurke’s first case when Datz was accused of murder and Dhurke was the only defense attorney willing to take his case. They’re been by each other’s side ever since.

SOOOO TRUE i love that kind of headcanon so much :'3 maybe it was dhurke's first case...he has the ace attorney curse of getting some insane case as his very first one. and he's like. WELL. I GUESS I HAVE TO HAVE UNWAVERING FAITH IN MY CLIENT.... even if his client looks to be The Most Guilty Thing On Earth... with the worst testimony ever probably.

it's so fun. i love it. dhurke has no experience and it's all he can hope that his client trusts him in return...it's a mutual thing!!! well that's what dhurke says anyway, that he's honored for datz to put his trust into a fledgling lawyer like dhurke, and datz is like... ARE YA KIDDING ME?? NO ONE ELSE WOULD TAKE MY CASE!! and then he mentions that he was kinda-sorta just planning on skippin' town anyway. and dhurke's like. haha! please don't

either they become strong friends right afterwards (i want this) and datz is out on the street helping advertise or drive people to dhurke's law office in the early days... or it'd be sooo cute if they just kind of went on their own ways but years later when The Treason happens datz shows up at dhurke's door to help him... "you believed me when no one else would" kind of deal... please. they're PARTNERS!!!

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for lying and forging evidence in court which resulted in a murderer get off not guilty?

I (17F) was hiding under a bus seat (it was for storage or something like that) so I could find stuff to pawn off, and ended up accidentally witnessing a murder. Sorta. I didn't see anything but I heard the entire conversation between the murder and the victim, and ended up screaming when I heard the guy die. I was found by the murder (48M) and he told me that he'd let me go if I didn't say anything about what I saw to the police. He ended up going to trial, and I was called as a witness. The murder helped me forge my testimony. When I testified, I lied to make it seem as if he had nothing to do with it. Later I used a smoke gun thingy I had snatched earlier to disrupt court and plant evidence that would put suspicion on one of the other guys on the bus. The murder ended up being proven not guilty. I know it doesn't really matter, since he wound up dying in a tragic fire shortly after, but I still don't feel good about it. I can't help but think if I had told the truth from the start, or gone to the police, then maybe things wouldn't have wound up the way they did.

[cassyapper]

Hi!! I adore your Kakyoin from the WWA/TA, and recently watching the Death13's arch made me wonder if in your version the Crusaders know/will ever know about what happened back then? Since he survived, there's a chance he told them, but I don't think Kakyoin would have done that, since he doesn't need to be thanked for it or anything, and he had enough of the rejection and disappointment from them during those events. But, damn, it's so unfair and I wish they knew!

Thank you for your reply in advance 🥰

By the way, Joseph's story in the last chapter about how he experienced the loss of Caesar absolutely destroyed me😭😭I wasn't expecting this at all! Your story is incredible

I'M SO GLAD YOU'VE BEEN ENJOYING IT ANON WAHH THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! <333 AUGH SERIOUSLY THANK YOU SO MUCH HHH

AND THIS IS A GOOD QUESTION!!! and it will get addressed a little in story <3 but not much so: yeah as it stands, between dio's mention of all the standusers in his cult in his diary, testimony of dio's minions that survived after the fact (like hol horse, oingo, wheel of fortune, etc), and their own like. knowledge (avdol knows a death stand has to exist cause the tarot card and like. joseph/pol/jotaro did see kakyoin go nuts and then jsut stop going nuts), they know that Something happened. they dont know if it was actually the baby or if the stand was just impacting kakyoin's perception of reality (and their's, cause they saw kakyoin with the words on his arm and then suddenly they werent there anymore), but they know like. It Was There. and whatever happened, kakyoin dealt with it. but no one has addressed it directly there's kinda just a quiet sorta-understanding kakyoin was right and kakyoin picks up on it and accepts it. but they will talk about it a little in-story <3 i wont spoil the specifics tho until we get to it heh

[plasmaandsandstorms]

Saturday 10.26.2281 - 11:41AM

(The crackle of the microphone momentarily masks a stark change in disposition from the previous audio log. Lydia, rather than racked with pain or sickness, speaks with great excitement.)

I'll be goddamned! No-Bark was fucking right! Well, sorta anyway! OK, first, I woke up this morning in damn near as much pain as when I fell asleep...lucky I woke up at all from what the...eh...hmm 'doctor' here in Novac said. I had three broken ribs, a fracture in my forearm, a broken tibia and a severe concussion along with advanced radiation sickness.

She was able to flush my system with radaway, curing the sickness, and with the application of a few splints and a super stimpack my bones were all healed up. The concussion required some medication to repair, but at least now the world isn't spinning all the time. After dragging my ass here in total misery, Novac has been a wonderful return to form for me. I met a man named Cliff Briscoe, who runs a shop out of this giant dinosaur figure...he also sells souvenirs of the dinosaur as well as rockets, he seemed disappointed that I wasn't interested in them so I may buy one just for the novelty. When I asked about the Checker suited fuck, since he came this way, Cliff directed me to Manny Vargas. He's a sniper who sits in the mouth of the dinosaur, isn't that cool?! Anyway, he said he'd tell me about Checkers if I cleared the ghouls out of the Repconn facility the town uses to salvage scrap to trade. After that fucking embarrassment at Searchlight I'm more than willing to go kill some damn ghouls. But! That brings me to No-Bark! He's an old man who lives here in town, he talks crazy but he speaks with a certainty that I feel betrays some level of understanding. He told me that the McBrides, a local rancher with a small corral of brahmin, was being harassed by a Chupacabra. An invisible chupacabra with an automatic weapon! (She bursts into a fit of giggles and ED-E trills audibly from somewhere nearby.)

Ok, heh, ok ED-E I'll get to it! Obviously this sounds completely mad, right? Especially after he tells me he met the thing and that it spoke to someone nearby. Well, regardless of No-Bark's craziness I figured I'd check in with the McBrides and offer my help. They were happy to oblige me and I set out to their corral to see what I could find. A dead Brahmin for one, which wasn't much so I took a walk around the corral look for footprints. I didn't find any, and I was feeling a bit hungry so I slipped over to a cactus for some delicious prickly pears.

Well, while I'm enjoying my little snack I happen to turn to the right and catch a glimpse of a weird patch of air, a shimmer in the shape of a very large human. I've used enough stealth boys to know what they look like from a distance but if the user saw me, he didn't show it. I slipped back around the rock and heard him muttering to himself about the voices in his head, to quote, "Horns will help the Bull. Voices say they knew that would happen." End quote, whatever that means. Anyway, he had a mini-gun, which was consistent with the wounds of the dead brahmin and the McBride's testimony, and No-Bark's for that matter. He said the Chupacabra had a 'blunderbuss with a rotating barrel that shot bullets out of a backpack' which perfectly describes that weapon. So...I shot first, took the creature by surprise, he tried to bring the mini-gun to bear but me and ED-E took him down before he got a shot off. The stealth field shut off a moment or two after the body stopped moving. It's an eight foot tall blue-skinned humanoid with straps holding up and over grown upper lip. The basis for this mutant is clearly human, though what created it I couldn't say. It had a recording on it, mostly consisting of incoherent screaming and rambling...that said most of it consists of comments about a pack of Brahmin who keep him awake by screaming inside his head when he closes his eyes. This, at least, proves this creature was as intelligent as a human being. More interestingly, it proves No-Bark was telling the truth. He really did see something that killed brahmin with a mini-gun, which he understood to be an invisible Chupacabra with an automatic weapon. I will take this information to Mr. McBride, he'll be pleased to know his cattle are safe now. This revelation has me wondering if the 'Commie Ghosts' No-Bark said were haunting the Repconn facility are more of these 'Chupacabra' I'll update once I know more. (The microphone cuts out briefly before surging back to life,)

Sitrep, I've made it to the Repconn facility. Evidence of those strange ghouls in robes here...prepared for a more intense firefight than expected. Furthermore, I've found two dead Chupacabra, which points to the idea that the Commie Ghosts No-Bark mentioned are real too...more of these Blue-skinned mutants. There is also evidence that the Ghouls were fighting the Chupacabra. Not sure why, maybe I'll find out more inside. Anyway...time for me to get back to work, peering through binoculars only does so much. (Despite her leaving off with a slight indication that she'd resume the log, it simply ends here.)

[schizografia]

Requiem per l’Occidente

Verso la fine del XIX secolo, Moritz Steinschneider, uno dei fondatori della scienza del giudaismo, dichiarò, non senza scandalo di molti benpensanti, che la sola cosa che si poteva fare per il giudaismo era assicurargli un degno funerale. È possibile che da allora il suo giudizio si applichi anche alla Chiesa e alla cultura occidentale nel suo complesso. Quel che di fatto è, tuttavia, avvenuto è che il degno funerale di cui parlava Steinschneider non è stato celebrato, né allora per il giudaismo né ora per l’Occidente.

Parte essenziale del funerale nella tradizione della chiesa cattolica è la messa detta di Requiem, che nell’Introito si apre appunto con le parole: Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Fino al 1970, il missale romano prescriveva inoltre per la messa di requiem la recitazione nella sequenza del dies irae. Questa scelta era perfettamente conseguente col fatto che il termine stesso che definiva la messa per i defunti proveniva da un testo apocalittico, l’Apocalisse di Esdra, che evocava insieme la pace e la fine del mondo: requiem aeternitatis dabit vobis, quoniam in proximo est ille, qui in finem saeculi adveniet, «vi darà la pace eterna, perché è vicino colui che viene alla fine del tempo». L’abolizione del dies irae nel 1970 va insieme all’abbandono di ogni istanza escatologica da parte della Chiesa, che si è in questo modo del tutto conformata all’idea di un progresso infinito che definisce la modernità. Ciò che viene lasciato cadere senza il coraggio di esplicitarne le ragioni – il giorno dell’ira, l’ultimo giorno – può essere raccolto come u’arma da usare contro le viltà e le contraddizioni del potere al momento della sua fine. È quanto intendiamo qui fare, provandoci a celebrare senza intenzione parodica, ma al di fuori della Chiesa, che appartiene al numero dei defunti, una sorta di funerale abbreviato per l’occidente.

Dies irae, dies illa

solvet saeclum in favilla,

teste David cum Sybilla.

Giorno d'ira, quel giorno

distruggerà il mondo nella cenere,

come testimoniano Davide e la Sibilla.

Di che giorno si tratta? Certamente del presente, del tempo che stiamo vivendo. Ogni giorno è il giorno dell’ira, l’ultimo giorno. Oggi il secolo, il mondo sta bruciando, e con esso anche la nostra casa. Di questo dobbiamo essere testimoni, come Davide e come la Sibilla. Chi tace e non testimonia, non avrà pace né ora né domani, perché è appunto la pace che l’occidente non può né vuole vedere né pensare.

Quantus tremor est futurus

quando iudex est venturus

cuncta stricte discussurus.

Quanto terrore ci sarà,

quando verrà il giudice,

per giudicare rigorosamente ogni cosa.

Il terrore non è futuro, è qui e ora. E quel giudice siamo noi, chiamati a pronunciare il giudizio, la krisis sul nostro tempo. Alla parola «crisi», di cui non si fa che parlare per giustificare lo stato d’eccezione, noi restituiamo il suo significato originale di giudizio. Nel vocabolario della medicina ippocratica, krisis designava il momento in cui il medico deve giudicare se il paziente morirà o sopravviverà. Allo stesso modo noi discerniamo ciò che dell’occidente muore e ciò che è ancora vivo. E il giudizio sarà severo, non si lascerà sfuggire nulla.

Tuba mirum spargens sonum

per sepulchra regionum,

coget omnes ante thronum.

Mors stupebit et natura,

cum resurget creatura,

iudicanti responsura.

Una tromba che diffonde un suono meraviglioso

nei sepolcri di tutto il mondo,

chiamerà tutti davanti al trono.

La morte e la natura stupiranno,

quando la creatura risorgerà,

per rispondere al giudice.

Non possiamo far risorgere i morti, ma possiamo almeno preparare con ogni cura lo strumento meraviglioso del nostro pensiero e del nostro giudizio e, facendolo poi risuonare senza timore, liberare la natura e la morte dalle mani del potere che con esse ci governa. Sentire stupire in noi la natura e la morte, presagire qui e ora un’altra vita possibile e un’altra morte, è la sola resurrezione che c’interessa.

Liber scriptus proferetur,

in quo totum continetur,

unde mundus iudicetur.

Iudex ergo cum sedebit,

quidquid latet apparebit,

nil inultum remanebit.

Verrà aperto il libro,

nel quale tutto è contenuto,

e da quello il mondo sarà giudicato.

Non appena il giudice sarà seduto,

apparirà ciò che è nascosto,

nulla resterà invendicato.

Il libro scritto è la storia, che è sempre storia della menzogna e dell’ingiustizia. Della verità e della giustizia non vi è storia, ma apparizione istantanea nella krisis decisiva di ogni menzogna e ogni ingiustizia. In quel punto la menzogna non potrà più coprire la realtà. La giustizia e la verità manifestano infatti se stesse, manifestando la falsità e l’ingiustizia. E nulla sfuggirà alla forza alla loro vendetta, a condizione di restituire al questa parola il significato etimologico che ha nel processo romano, in cui il vindex è colui che vim dicit, che mostra al giudice la violenza che è stata fatta a colui che solo in questo senso egli “vendica”.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,

quem patronum rogaturus,

cum vix iustus sit securus.

E io che sono misero che dirò,

chi chiamerò in mia difesa,

se a mala pena il giusto è sicuro?

Il giusto che presta la sua voce al giudizio è in qualche modo coinvolto nel giudizio e non può chiamare altri in sua difesa. Nessuno può testimoniare per il testimone, egli è solo con la sua testimonianza -in questo senso non è sicuro, è dentro la crisi del suo tempo -e nondimeno pronuncia la sua testimonianza.

Confutatis maledictis,

flammis acribus addictis,

voca me cum benedictis…

Lacrimosa dies illa,

qua resurget ex favilla

iudicandus homo reus

Condannati i maledetti,

gettati nelle vive fiamme,

chiama me tra i benedetti…

Giorno di lacrime quel giorno,

quando risorgerà dalla cenere

l'uomo reo per essere giudicato.

Benché l’inno sul giorno dell’ira faccia parte di una messa che chiede pace e pietà per i morti, il discrimine fra i maledetti e i benedetti, fra i carnefici e le vittime è mantenuto. Nell’ultimo giorno, i carnefici, come stanno ora facendo senza forse avvedersene, si confutano infatti da soli, lasciano cadere le maschere che coprivano la loro ingiustizia e la loro menzogna e si gettano nelle fiamme che hanno essi stessi acceso. L’ultimo giorno, il giorno dell’ira, ogni giorno è per essi un giorno di lacrime, ed è forse proprio perché ne sono consapevoli che si fingono così sorridenti. Solo il consenso e la paura dei molti tiene in sospeso quel giorno. Per questo, anche se ci sappiamo senza potere di fronte al potere, tanto più implacabile deve essere il nostro giudizio, che non possiamo separare dal requiem che stiamo celebrando. Signore, non dare loro la pace, perché essi non sanno che cosa essa sia.

Giorgio Agamben, 11 luglio 2024

[protectingtulpas]

This is sorta related to the transplural ask, but wouldn't that mean you're neutral on transplural as a label? I don't mean this as a malicious ask, but for clarification; I& are neutral on trans/ID and rad/queer labels as long as the intent of the label is not malicious and comes from a identity dysphoria lens (i.e most trans/abled and some trans/racial IDs related to BIID).

I think I agree with you and a majority of the community; many transplurals are likely just pleggs or would likely become tulpamancers/parogenic communities members. I'm curious how you came to this thought, was all. If you've had previous posts on it, idm being redirected to those. I don't use labels from these communities publicly, but I do sympathize and relate to some privately.

Heyo. So totally reasonable question- I just don't want my blog to become "about this", so this'll be a short answer. Basically, I see our system as a whole to have the right to say yeah being transplural is alright cuz we ARE plural, we're disordered even, and we know people can become plural, so there's no diff to me between that and just a regular prospective created system. As for other Trans/IDs, my logic is: I don't know exactly what things are OK and what aren't, and I've seen some REALLY shitty ones out there, and I literally do not have the authority to decide. I think treating all of them like a monolith makes things a fuckin' mess, so the only one I actively support is transplural. BIID is a completely different thing and if pwBIID want to use transx labels then more power to em.

As for rad/queer shit, I spent a long while reading testimonies of ex rad/queers and listening to their experiences to decide. I'm not cool with any community with such a heightened level of control over its members and disregarding other peoples' voices and experiences. I'm an anarchist ngl and the whole thing raises some MAJOR red flags for me.

hope that sums it up

[tobiasdrake]

Time to interrogate this douchebag.

Worshipper ran in looking for the latest name on a tag. Didn't call the Peacekeepers for some reason. He usually calls the Peacekeepers.

Right, and eventually you found the locked room.

So according to Staff Member, neither of these two knuckleheads ever entered the crime scene.

And Worshipper was the one who knocked over the paint can. I don't think I have anything that contradicts that.

This is pretty boring testimony, all things considered. A utilitarian confirmation of things we already sorta knew, with few new facts being added.

Pretty much what you'd expect from a mundane witness. Who might be the actual killer for this particular crime, but might not be.

Yeah, that's about right. We've seen all the crime scenes and questioned all the witnesses. Only place we haven't been is the clock area of the clock tower, because both Yuma and Shinigami wouldn't let me check it out. The pricks.

And we haven't actually visited the forest behind the church for ourselves but at this point, we may not need to. We got a lot of info about it from the clergy.

There's still a lot of information to sift through. Such as how the exit from the clocktower was performed. Who the fourth victim was and why either they or Halara (or someone else) climbed a rope ladder to enter the tower. What became of the rope ladder's other rope, which didn't get burned, and how did the ladder end up in the incinerator.

We've gathered a ton of information (and pinpointed the likely killer) but our understanding still feels incomple--AAAAAAND they're gone.

Okay. Bye. Guess now they're off to tattle on us to the Peacekeepers and have us arrested.

We need time to sift through this evidence. There's only one place with infinite time. But Yuma needs to be made desperate before he'll be willing to consider our inevitable destination.

Oh, there we go! Something to make us desperate. That's convenient. Let's go watch the Peacekeepers beat Yakou to death!

[holdingcourtwiththevoid]

Finally watched that movie (The Tearsmith) thats going insane on booktok rn because of the adopted sibling relationship (along wirh other reasons) and didnt wanna bother my IRLs with my thoughts so-

(Out of context opinions/raw thoughts while watching under the cut)

If its not specified with an initial assume “he” means the main guy

[ WHY DID OLIVIA RODRIGO LET THEM USE

VAMPIRE IN THIS] [AND BILLIE EILISH WHAT THE FUCK]

"No were not related" "you're right we're not"

INFRONT OF EVERYONE BRO ARE YOU FR

"Tell me what you want, I cant make it out"

HE WANTS TO FUCK YOU SO HARD IT MAKES HIM LOOK FUCKING DUMB BABE. THERES NO REAL TENSION ITS ALL SEXUAL

I didn't expect such a heavy abuse sub-plotline????

Him appearing from behind the door like the fucking boogeyman had me genuinley pausing because i just couldn't

Times he beats up a guy for being slightly friendly with her: lll

Times i had to pause the movie because it became too much: lllll llll

I KNEW THAT SIDE CHARACTER WAS GONNA BE GAY BRO YESSS

The smut scenes just are so choreographed by a man dude wtf is this. This is the first time I’ve genuinely understood what “heavy petting” was

Everytime he dons his fuckass leather jacket i take -2 hp

Him(L): ‘hey shes into sorta toxic guys like her semi brother, i know what’ll get me into her pants’ *dresses as the joker*

Him(L): ‘what does she like? Oh science! I know what to do!’ *takes her to the science lab*

*gives testimony* *everyone claps* her: we won!!