#truncheon press

[springfox04]

Wanted to share one of my random Gilmore girls headcanons and it’s that of those other 4 or 5 guys that Jess Mariano works at truncheon press with at least one of them is gay. It’s not really important, just in my mind I know at least one of those guys is gay. They’re like intellectual book and art and music loving guys in the city, one of them MUST be gay and I know all the other guys are chill about it they just support their friend because I don’t think Jess or any of those guys he would hang out with would think anything weird about that. They’re accepting. Also I feel like I’ve seen a lot of people who headcanon that Jess is bi and I totally fuck with that as well so like ofc he’d be accepting of his friend being gay. They’d support him and hype him up like they would any of their other friends.

That’s it I hope y’all understand what I mean I don’t mean it to be weird in any way and I am a queer girl myself happy pride month loves

[jessmmariano]

Everyone always talks about the failed Jess in California spin-off but you know what spin-off I want to see? The adventures of Truncheon. I want to see Jess work at a publishing press being happy as he writes, gets to talk about and be surrounded by books, have friends, and not get his heart broken!!

[saltygilmores]

A List Of My Favorite Gilmore Girls AU's, Conspiracy Theories and Ridiculous Headcanons

There are definitely more... as I think of them I'll keep adding to it. But these are the biggies and some of my favorites. 13. Jess eventually gains custody of Doula and she avoids ending up in the cult, and she changes her name to something way less stupid. 12 Jess and Lane have an awkward fling as an act of rebellion to piss off Mrs. Kim (I can't see any long term compatability here) and because Jess is like eh why not, pissing off one Stars Hollow mom just wasn’t enough for Jess (2024 update: Madeline, Louise, and Lindsay have all been added to the bang roster 😋) 11. There is an alternate universe where Jess ends up enrolled at Chilton because his mother conned some rich fucker into marrying her and he used his money and influence to bribe Headmaster Charleston into letting him in. Even if Luke had the money he would never have enough pull to make it happen. 10. Rory was actually a hero for sleeping with Dean and breaking up Dean's marriage so Lindsey could escape 9 Luke, Jess, and/ or Rory finally snap one day after they can't take any more bullshit and go on a rampage around Stars Hollow slaughtering the many people who have wronged them (the Blood In The Hollow triology) 8. Taylor Doose is pocketing all the money made from the festivals in Stars Hollow and he has no intention of fixing The Bridge or putting that money towards other charitable causes 7.In season 4 when Jess is living in New York and Luke insinuates Jess is a drug dealer he's right #HeyTawd 6. Luke serves cheap ordinary supermarket coffee (oh wait, that one is actually TRUE, Mr. Folgers can. I've seen you). 5. There's a vortex/black hole in California sucking in the unsuspecting men of Stars Hollow (Dave Rygalski. Jess. Max. Even Christopher, apparently ) called the Male Gilmore Girls Character California Wormhole, it swallowed Dave Rygalksi permanently because It loved him so much, but it spit everyone else back out eventually 4. Jess erased Shane after the Dance Marathon and threw her body in the lake and the swan that beaked him was a reincarnation of Shane out for revenge 3. Jess' novels become unexpected worldwide best sellers, turned into movies, turned him into a household name, earned him legions of fans and book groupies, making him a millionaire, causing our reluctant and modest blorbo to face the pressures of fame, press, wealth and attention 2. During the Truncheon years and beyond Jess Mariano blossoms sexually and becomes a raging manwhore the likes of which Philadelphia has never seen, he has a Myspace page and a very busy flip phone and two roommates who never get any sleep 1. Lorelai and Dean are having a torrid love affair, and I call it The Dala (The Dean and Lorelai Affair) I will die on this hill, this is my Death Hill.

[tikitsune]

"Just a little longer, yeah?" Love and Deepspace angst.

“You’re asking me to choose?” Miss (Love and Deepspace Protag, because why not) asked.

They were held over a deep and wide hole so deep that they could not see the bottom. Across from her, each of the boys had their own glass box. Each of them had their own platform on the scale that held them up. Miss studied the scale mechanism. Each box, saved for her own, was surrounded by glass and she was weaponless. Something was keeping her from drawing her weapons from the Aether. All of them were attached to arms that connected in the middle. Above her was a circle in which they could probably rise to. 

There was no other way, she concluded. One of us would have to go. She bit her bottom lip. “Fine. I’ll choose.” 

Each head shot up to her, all of them looking at her with various degrees of shock or desperation. She looked back at each of them with a sad smile, making eye contact with each of them. She closed her eyes and exhaled as her face morphed into a more serious expression.

“I choose myself.” Miss declared loudly. “I choose myself. Let them live.” 

She got no confirmation that she was heard except for the whirling of something powering up. “Immortality is a concept of mind. Each of you are only immortal until you meet your match.” 

She looked at Xavier. “I’m sorry to ask you to look for me one more time. I will wait for you to find me again.” 

Xavier seemingly had access to his Aether inventory because he drew his truncheon and started banging and slamming it against the glass walls that enclosed him. It also seemed as though the boxes were soundproof as Miss heard neither hide nor hare of his attempt to break his cell. Tears streamed down his face as he seemed to yell out, for what, Miss couldn’t stand his sorrow long enough to find out. 

She turned to Zayne. “I’ll be the one saving you this time. I’ll save you the next time too, alright?”

Zayne seemed to be at a loss for words. Nothing, or at least she assumed nothing, was coming out of his mouth that kept opening and closing, as if searching for words to say before closing his mouth and lowering himself to the floor. He took off his glasses and wiped his cheeks before smiling and nodding, although the smile didn’t last long. 

Rafayel was already crying when she turned her gaze to him. “Wait for me, okay? You’ll see me again, I promise.” 

He had his hands pressed up against the glass, mouthing at her to not. Not do this to him, she supposed. She shook her head at him. He fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands. The air around him seemed to swirl as his tears started attacking the glass case he was trapped in but to no avail. The containers were just too strong, not something you could break with an Evol or any other power. 

 It was one way or another, her or one of them and she chose herself. For a singular moment, she thought that this decision of hers was selfish but she refused to choose between them. All were precious to her and she swore to herself that she would protect them just as they had her in the many battles they had together. 

The whirling had gotten louder and she knew, knew that her time would come to an end. So she flourishly bowed and smiled. “Until we meet again, my loves. Hopefully you can all get along the next time we meet, okay?” She looked at them, then closed her eyes, brightening her smile. “Just a little longer, yeah?” 

The whirling reached its climax and a beam of hot light quickly shot down onto her, completely erasing her from this mortal plain. So fast that she only felt the incoming heat for a millisecond and then she was gone. 

Xavier fell to his knees, letting his truncheon dissipate as he watched the love of his life perish before him once more, this time her body with it. Zayne only dipped his head down in respect, his tears falling to the floor of his cell. Rafayel had finally stopped using his Evol and stared at the place Miss had been. They made no move as their containers raised to the circle in the ceiling, simply mourning the loss of the most precious person in their lives.

Notes:My first time writing angst. What do you think?

Also I fucking love this game 10/10 would recommend.

[frazzledsoul]

Besides writing of course, top three jobs you imagine Jess might have had off screen to pay the bills in s4 and beyond

So I imagine at some point he becomes successful enough that he has plenty of money to buy some property and doesn't need a side gig, but prior to that I think he might have...

1) worked as a bartender. He's easy on the eyes, it's good money, he can do it and work at the press, and of course, it provides plenty of opportunities to be a ho.

2) I imagine prior to Philadelphia and maybe in the first couple of years there he did warehouse work, as it can be decent money and he doesn't have to talk to anyone. I have this image of him working stock at a Mexican grocery (maybe in California) where he speaks enough Spanish to get by but not enough to have to have a conversation with anyone. That sounds more like a pre-Truncheon job, because he is social from what we see of him in Philadelphia.

3) I like the idea of him having a motorcycle and going on a road trip and then writing about his travels and publishing them in some fancy magazine. Not a full time job, and maybe he was traveling for work reasons, but it sounds like a nice part time gig.

The other idea I have is him being a part time professor like many established writers are. It wouldn't be something long term or something he needed to do, but I could see him engaging in it post success at some point.

[saveugoodmadam]

warm hands, cold world

a/n: this was originally published as part of my @newsiestober2023 collection on quotev using the prompt "gift of magic".

a couple of content warnings: descriptions of injuries, implied physical child abuse

Stanley Milner, known to his friends as Specs, was by all accounts a regular teenager. Perhaps an overly happy one, but nothing out of the ordinary.

That was, until the night the strike went wrong.

Splasher whimpered pitifully as the policeman's truncheon crashed downwards onto his arm. Specs dashed from where he had been holding the line of safety with Albert and dragged the kid into a nearby alleyway.

"Jesus." Albert muttered. "That's broken pretty bad."

"Specs... god, it hurts... why does they hate us?" Splasher kept whispering. Specs' hands ghosted over the broken arm. He knew he could do something, but it would risk a secret his family had kept for hundreds of years...

"Ah, darn it." he muttered. He rubbed his hands together gently, then placed them on the broken arm. His palms heated up and when he had removed them it was like the arm hadn't ever been broken.

"The hell was that?" Albert asked, taking his eyes off the fight for a second to take in the miraculous events.

"Uh, magic." Specs admitted sheepishly. "It's a family thing. Y'know, a gift. Each of us gets magic to be used for something helpful. For me, it's healing. For Stray, she can understand animals."

" 'n ya didn't think ta tell us that when fellas came home with big shiners from fights by the docks?" 

"We's not supposed to tell people. It's supposed to be for emergencies."

"Well." Albert said, turning back to the carnage. "There's yer emergency, kid."

Specs knelt over an unconscious Finch, holding back tears as he knitted the boy's skull back together. He brought the boy into a tight hug as he woke back up. 

"Let me back out there!" Finch begged. "Gotta keep fightin' "

A sudden scream came from Race, who picked himself up from where he leant against the wall of the alley. "They's got Crutchie!" 

Finch broke from the hug, and ran to try and help the boy who'd been an older brother to him since they met, but was cut off by Buttons, who held him back from further harm with a quiet self-hatred for his actions.

"Finch! Finch, please. Run, don't let 'em get you. I'll be fine, ya hear me?" Crutchie wheezed, coughing as Snyder and his goons dragged him away. Specs pressed desperately against Buttons' other arm, his hands outstretched and the palms almost burning with the want to heal the older boy's wounds, but to scald Snyder's palms first.

He worked tirelessly through the night, healing wound after wound, reknitting bones back together and after that he went straight to the Refuge and found Crutchie's dorm room. Well, dorm would be one term for it. It was dirty and cramped and miserable. Crutchie himself was sat by the window, trying to write a letter by moonlight. His hands shook a little as he wrote and signed off the letter. 

"Hey, Crutchie."

The older boy started at the noise, obviously on edge after the events of the day.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's me. It's Specs."

Crutchie tried to smile at him, his partially healed split lip starting to bleed again. 

"Hey, Specs. I got a letter for Jack, wouldya be a pal and give it to him for me?" 

Specs took the letter that was pushed through the bars to him. His hands pulsed with warm, magic energy. Though he tried to reach out towards Crutchie's battered face to try and heal a cut or two, he couldn't reach.

"Don't let all the fellas worry about me, alright? Don't let 'em come along and try to break me out. I'm one tough bird, I'll survive old Snyder. Yeah?"

Specs tried to muster up a smile.

"Yeah. Okay. Be safe."

The after-party of the strike win was immense, but Specs could feel Crutchie's tiredness from a mile off. That night, he climbed up to the rooftop. As he had guessed, his friend was still awake whilst Jack slept curled up beside him.

"Hey. Has anyone had a look at your cuts yet?" he asked quietly. Crutchie, suddenly looking infinitely older than the plucky kid he usually played the role of, shook his head.

"Nah. They'll be fine." he croaked.

"Well, just let me have a look, okay?"

He traced his hands over the cuts on Crutchie's face. Then the ones on his arms. Then a few on his shins. Shuddering, he healed up a few nasty, methodical lash marks on his back.

"God, that man's an animal. I hope he stays locked up for good." he muttered spitefully. Crutchie just nodded.

"So you's got magic hands, huh? Don't see that every day. Do you think..." 

The question hovered, unsaid.

"No. I can only heal fresh wounds."

"Makes sense. Can you heal... mental wounds?" 

His eyes flicked to Specs'. The hurt in them would have been too much for a grown adult to bear, and it was a wonder that a kid could bear it all.

"I don't know. I- I'll try."

He put his hands either side of Crutchie's head and concentrated. Very soon, the boy's eyelids drooped and he slumped forwards against Specs, breathing deeply as he slept. Specs gave a small, tight smile. He hoped it had worked, that he could relieve a little of the pain any of his friends had ever suffered whilst he couldn't do anything to prevent it.

He fell asleep soon after, his warm hands providing a cosy heat in the cold night.

[leftistfeminista]

"In 2018, I was abducted by the MIT (National Intelligence Organization). For six months, I was subjected to all kinds of torture, including electric shock, suspension, and attempted sexual harassment/assault. A total of 898 wounds were inflicted on my body."

Marxist Leninist Revolutionary Ayten Öztürk, who was handed over by Lebanon to Turkey, and then tortured for 6 months by the Turkish Counter-Guerilla, has sent a letter explaining what she went through. We’ve translated the letter, please see below….

No matter what they did, I said that I would never talk, and after a while they began to torture me physically. Stripping me naked and suspending me; they said “Are you going to talk?”, I said “No” and then they would give electricity to various parts of my body with a device. They gave electricity every day for about 20 days of torture. Apart from the electricity given to my body by pressing the device against my skin, a metal latch was taped to my little finger and my toes and this was electrified also. It made my whole body shake.

While doing these, they would pull my hair and hit my head against the wall. “Remove those thoughts in your head. Take out whatever’s motivating you! For whom, for what are you resisting? You will die and go from here. Nobodies soul will hear, no one will care. Nobody knows you’re here. We only have God here and ourselves. Whatever we say happens. The only way to get out of here is not to get in here at all” they would say.

They were trying to keep me on my feet at all times, except for the physical torture sessions. They kept me on my feet in the cell and in a coffin-shaped compartment for hours. Therefore, severe swelling and edema occurred on my feet and legs. Physical torture hours were mostly made at night. I estimate that it was after 22.00

The reason I could estimate the days and the hours was that I followed the date from the first day I was detained. The cell door was opened at certain times; 3 times a day for the toilet. That’s why I could estimate the hours. I could also guess the time from the sounds coming from the ceiling that I was sure were during the office hours. They were using many different torture methods to prevent me from thinking right, to demoralize, to create a sense of nothingness and loneliness.

For example; they were giving very cold or very hot air for hours into the cell. At night they were trying to make me sleep less, they were trying to make me tired. “Are you not tired? Say you’re tired, say you want to go to your cell, we will take you to your cell.” Sometimes they would torture me to make me say my name or say I’m tired. They would whip, bat, and stamp on my swollen legs, they would hit them with truncheons. They were also whipping the soles of my feet. They held me in the air holding my nipples firmly. They would harrass me with a truncheon, bat, and their fingers for several minutes. They would also threaten me with rape.

At that time I saw that there were wounds and bruises all over my body. They tried to treat me when they realized that I was going bad. They used serum and also covered my body in cream. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t close the wounds in my body. I estimate that my treatment lasted for twenty or twenty-five days. And even during the torture they continued to apply the cream to the wounds and would continue the torture.

[ceescedasticity]

I really feel like tumblr would appreciate some of Monty Python's takes on the police, particularly this one, picking up mid-sketch in episode 27:

Judge What is it now, you persistently silly usher?

Usher He can't hold the Bible m'lud.

Judge Well screw the Bible! Let's get on with this bleeding trial, I've got a Gay Lib meeting at 6 o'clock. Superintendent Lufthansa will you please read the charge.

Superintendent Is a charge strictly necessary, m'lud?

Judge (heavy aside) The press is here.

Superintendent Oh sorry! Right, here we go. You are hereby charged. One, that you did, on or about 1126, conspire to publicize a London Borough in the course of a BBC saga; two, that you were wilfully and persistently a foreigner; three, that you conspired to do things not normally considered illegal; four, that you were caught in possession of an offensive weapon, viz, the big brown table down at the police station.

Judge The big brown table down at the police station?

Superintendent It's the best we could find, m'lud ... and five... all together now...

The whole court shout together.

Court Assaulting a police officer!

Prosecuting Counsel Call Police Constable Pan-Am. (Pan-Am runs into court and starts beating Njorl with a truncheon) Into the witness box, constable ... there'll be plenty of time for that later on. (the policeman gets into box hitting at anyone within range; his colleagues restrain him) Now, you are Police Constable Pan-Am?

Constable No, I shall deny that to the last breath in my body. (superintendent nods) Oh. Sorry, yes.

Prosecuting Counsel Police constable, do you recognize the defendant?

Constable No. Never seen him before in my life. (superintendent nods) Oh , yes, yes he's the one. He done it. I'd recognize him anywhere, sorry, super. (the superintendent looks embarrassed)

Prosecuting Counsel Constable, will you please tell the court in your own words what happened?

Constable Oh yes! (refers to his notebook) I was proceeding in a northerly direction up Alitalia Street when I saw the deceased (points at Njorl) standing at an upstairs window, baring her bosom at the general public. She then took off her ... wait a tick. Wrong story. (refers to his notebook) Ho yes! There were three nuns in a railway compartment and the ticket inspector says to one of them. (the superintendent shakes his head) No, anyway I clearly saw the deceased...

Clerk Defendant.

Constable Defendant! Sorry. Sorry, super. I clearly saw the defendant ... doing whatever he's accused of...Red-handed. When kicked... he said: 'It's a fair ... cop, I done it all ... Right... no doubt about... that'. Then, bound as he was to the chair, he assaulted myself and three other constables while bouncing around the cell. The end.

Spontaneous applause from the court. Shouts of 'more! more!'. Pan-am raises his hands and the clapping and shouting dies down.

Constable Thank you, thank you... and for my next piece of evidence...

Superintendent I think you'd better leave it there, constable.

Prosecuting Counsel Excellent evidence, constable (the constable is removed, flailing his truncheon the while) ... Thank you very much. Now then Mr Njorl, will you tell the court please where were you on the night of 1126? (silence from the bandages) Move any part of your body if you were north of a line from the Humbet to the Mersey. (silence)

[kallystah]

| 01 | Ninja Rindou

490 words

It was in a beautiful morning, the youngest of the Haitani growls when the shrill sound of his alarm clock reaches his ears. Burying his head under his pillow, he ended up violently turning it off a few minutes later and getting up.

Putting his glasses on his nose, he opens the door, yawning before running his hand through his tousled hair as he walks towards the kitchen. Only, using the rice still hot in the cooker to put it in a bowl, he sticks his head in the fridge to find eggs with the aim of making an omelette. His first meal of the day ready, he picks up the dishes and begins to eat silently without his still half-asleep brother.

However, having washed the dishes, he freezes, observing what is on the table, puzzled, not having noticed it while having lunch...

- What the- he wonders.

Approaching the black object, he carefully analyzes it before taking it in his hands. Pressing a button, he jumps when the stick expands suddenly, avoiding by reflex to take it in the face. Finally realizing that it is a truncheon, he takes it in his right hand, timidly miming combat gestures with slight sound effects, like a child. Only, gaining confidence, he begins to make much wider and more abrupt movements...When suddenly, the metal bar, by a backward movement, abruptly encounters something behind.

- Oh shit ! Exclaims the smallest noting the damage.

His brother had just taken the full force of the weapon in the face, had just fallen heavily to the ground, holding his nose, moaning in pain.

- How are you ? he asks, trying not to show his sadistic amusement.

- I will die !

Helping him to get up, he excuses himself, letting a nervous laugh pass the barrier of his lips under the braided man's black gaze.

- I could have typed with more stre-

-Give me some tissues, assassin. he demands, cutting him, trying to stop the bleeding.

- Yeah.

Wiping off the blood from his nose, the taller glared at his brother, seeing him glare at the gun he had just purchased, before smirking.

- You were so ridiculous with your little sound effects.

- Shut up.

- « Boom, pheeeeew, BaAm ! » He imitates until the gestures, trying to stop his laughter.

- Stop it! He orders, horribly embarrassed that he has been observed in this situation.

- Oh I know, after that you were going to do the beautiful pose of the ninja turtles?

The crimson face, the boy with glasses flees his glance by blowing, the hands plunged in his sweatshirt, fleeing the kitchen not to hear any more the mockeries of his eldest.

- Kiss my ass ! He shout, still hearing his laugh out loud.

- I love you too !

- It is not reciprocated !

- You are breaking my heart !

Sighing, he laughed weakly as he opened the door to his room, indicating to the older man that he had enough to eat on the counter.

~~~ chapter 01 - end ~~~

Masterlist tkr

[hellcab]

Pricking Thumbs - God of Teeth Start.

He dreams but doesn’t sleep.

Roth stirred and groaned, knowing the time. Half-asleep, Roth rose like some limp puppet hoisted by strings. He sat up, allowing his senses to catch up. Shower then breakfast.

Cold water sputtered then came in full. Roth tested the waters, then joined. The shower water washed over his weary frame. Soap in hand, he scrubbed his bluish skin. His mind longs for the warmth of his bed. Little by little, he convinced himself the day could be his. That he can do this.

That kind of thinking pushed him out the door. Kept him behind the wheel for about four decades. It came with self-loathing and bitter spite.

Cereal was all he could afford. He reused old coffee grind for another cup of joe. He forgot about getting groceries again. The mind was bothered by escapism. After work, he drinks and smokes. He gambles and finds love for the night. He finds his escape on the tip of every needle. Roth has yet to find his true escape from everything. That eludes him. So now, he must numb the pain of being.

Headphones blasted music into his ears. Elton John was his morning pick. The cassette was weathered but the music played. He finishes and gathers his clothes. Out of date fashion and weathered black boots was his uniform. Other clothes from another time were in the gloomy closet. Memories from another time when he could accept things. He could find joy, even in this place. That was long ago, far behind.

Unwilling, Roth exited and locked up his place. The hallways and stairs were dead silent. Nobody around, everyone was fast asleep or stranded. He preferred the morning quiet as he walked. The horrible, geometric carpet hurts his eyes. The elevator awaited him. Closing the lift doors, Roth pressed {“ground floor”} and started descending. The elevator rattled and moaned, as weathered, rusty steel grinds.

He dreams and is awake.

Roth thought about quitting for the umpteenth time. Then again, where will he go? What will he do? He wasn’t good at much. Not much at all.

He waited out of sight. He gripped his truncheon with nervous energy.  

Roth reaches the ground floor. The doors have trouble sliding open, but Roth frees himself. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone. Before Roth could turn, he’s struck across the head. A police truncheon smites his head, sending him back. Roth falls back, feeling pain and blood. He tries his best to get up. To fight to do anything. He yelps and screams, as the figure attacks again and again. Fear overcame Roth.

He could see the other’s face. The face was his. The other was him. He was grinning. He was grinning as he attacked him.

Again and again, the truncheon came down upon Roth. Other Roth strikes Roth again and again and again. Until Roth couldn’t move. He was knocked out cold, with blood on his crown. Once finished, Other Roth entered and pressed {“basement”}.

Roth arrived thirty minutes before his shift started. A strange sight, but nobody questioned why. He tackled the work and ferried passengers. He ate lunch with his coworkers and laughed and cackled. He worked. He laughed. He smiles. Roth consorts with the usual crowds he frequents and says every line. Yet, beyond the actions, there was something underneath. A kind of strange mimicry. Nobody could see. A soulless impression. Nobody could care. He had them all fooled.

They all shall dream.

[literatibarbie]

A Fresh Start

@averysrphq

As she stepped off the bus and onto the busy street, Rory squinted against the unforgiving Philly sun. Landing a summer internship at the trendy and up-and-coming Truncheon Press was a dream come true, but she couldn't help but regret her choice to read Tolstoy instead of catching some much-needed sleep on the way. Desperate for a shower and a fresh start, Rory walked towards the industrial red brick building with her well-worn luggage scraping the cement behind her. Still feeling the weight of her exhaustion, the brunette rubbed her eyes in an attempt to shake off the lingering drowsiness and looked around to orient herself when her eyes locked on the reflection in the window. It couldn't be, could it? Her heart somersaulted in her chest as she blinked hard. The unmistakable figure of Jess Mariano, leaning against a bookshelf, deeply engrossed in a book felt like a mirage. She couldn’t be that tired, could she? Rory questioned and she rubbed her eyes once again.

That messy hair, the familiar leather jacket – it was him. Rory's breath caught in her throat as she watched Jess. The last time she saw him, six months prior, she was a mess- a drop out- and in the DAR. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the memory of their last encounter with Logan. Only she would have the luck to, of all the places in Philly, run into him. Frozen at the threshold of the press, Rory felt her body shrink as she fixed her gaze on the floor and silently stepped inside, hoping not to be seen.

[maddydoessthings]

you people are welcome

[envihellbender]

20 + Gotham

"it's not okay! it's never gonna be okay!"

Characters: Oswald Cobblepot, Evil!Jim Gordon, Victor Zsasz

Disclaimer: yes I will always write Jim Gordon as a corrupt evil asshole cop because ACAB

Oswald sat patiently watching Detective Jim Gordon, who Victor had filled with sedatives and a muscle relaxant. He was restrained to a chair in Victor’s laboratory in the cellar of the Van Dahl manor, but that was mostly for show. The poison of Victor’s creation that he’d been injected with would make his muscles useless for at least ten hours. He’d be able to speak and breathe, but that would be about it… even then that would use an extreme amount of energy. Victor flitted around his lab arranging all the tools he would need, and speaking out loud to himself about his plans. Oswald sat comfortably opposite Gordon, his hands on his cane as a smile spread across his lips. For years now, Gordon had been manipulating and tormenting him. Since Oswald became mayor, the beatings stopped, but he knew it was only a matter of time before things resumed. That was why he had to act now. He waited until the first signs of Jim gaining consciousness appeared, and when they did, a sinister joy filled Oswald’s stomach.

“Look who’s finally awake, good morning, Jim,” Oswald laughed, clapping his hands together as he saw Gordon’s eyes groggily open. “Say hello Victor.”

“Morning Jim-jams,” Victor smirked, Oswald watched as he came up behind Gordon with a scalpel in his hands, pressing the side of the blade onto his ear lobe. “How’d you like your new home?”

“Zsasz,” Gordon grunted, he visibly attempted to struggle but he could barely move even his fingers. Oswald cackled watching him. “What- what am I… doing- here?”

“You’re going to be my dear Victor’s new project.” Oswald could barely contain his glee as he spoke, he was practically bouncing in his seat and tapping his cane excitedly against the cold tile.

“You- no,” Gordon groaned, he attempted to struggle again, to Oswald and Victor’s amusement. All they saw from him trying to move was a few twitches of his fingers and a desperate look in his eye. “Oswald. Please. Let me go. This isn’t- you’re better than this. Than him. I know you. You’re- you’re devoted to me. I’ve always had your back-” Oswald jumped to his feet and took a step closer to Gordon.

“You were my friend, that much is true,” he said. He lifted up his cane and slammed the bottom onto Gordon’s foot, resting his entire weight onto his walking stick. Hearing Gordon wince and give a muffled cry out soothed his anger somewhat. “You used to be, anyway. But you always saw me as a joke, right? And then when I was no longer a joke I was a dog to kick in the street and abuse so I wouldn’t forget my place. Right?” Oswald lifted his cane up from Gordon’s foot, he raised the stick and hit the detective on the right side of his ear, as if his weapon was a truncheon. He hit him again, and again, until Victor interfered.

“Uh, Boss. Love the show, but I need him to be not concussed for my experiments. Can you do this later?”

“Apologies, Victor,” Oswald grinned. “Did you really think you could get away with this?” He continued turning to Gordon. “Did you think that you could use and hurt me over and over again and I wouldn’t do a thing? Did you think my Victor would let you get away with that? Hell, the only reason he hasn’t hurt you yet is because I’ve been protecting you this whole time. But now…”

“Oswald,” Gordon said between gritted teeth. “Please. I can make things right, I can make things okay-”

“Okay? Well guess what Gordon… What you did to me wasn’t okay. It’s never going to be okay. I guess you’ve done it to every prisoner who’s caught your eye over the years but none of them were as powerful as me.” Oswald marched towards Victor, and squeezed his shoulder before saying: “have fun.” He planted a soft kiss on his lips, feeling Victor’s eyes lovingly follow him as he left the room.

[mediawhorefics]

may i ask for your favourite books this year and a quote from each of them? 💕

hum yes def ?!!!! i have more favs from this year tbh but i went with the highlights.

V for Vendetta (Alan Moore) –> "Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease. There were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense."

The Kingdoms (Natasha Pulley) -> "You're my family! You were family before any of them. I've missed you even when I didn't remember you. Everything I've done since losing you has been about getting back to you. And I know I've left you behind before for other families, but not this time. I can't do it again."

The Bedlam Stacks (Natasha Pulley) –> "I’d thought perhaps I wasn’t the sort of person who could have lived close to anyone else, but that was wrong, now I was here. It would have been good, always to wake up this way."

The House in the Cerulean Sea (T.J. Klune) -> "Humanity is so weird. If we’re not laughing, we’re crying or running for our lives because monsters are trying to eat us. And they don’t even have to be real monsters. They could be the ones we make up in our heads. Don’t you think that’s weird?"

The Binding (Bridget Collins) -> "Maybe I should have followed him; but somehow it went from too soon to too late, without the right moment in between."

A Marvellous Light (Freya Markse) -> "It didn't take long to become so accustomed to something that you could describe the exact shape of its absence."

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (Ocean Vuong) -> "Trevor had passed away the night before. I’m broken in two, the message said. In two, it was the only thought I could keep, sitting in my seat, how losing a person could make more of us, make us two."

Angels in America (Tony Kushner) -> "I've lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway. When they're more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they're burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children - they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don't know if that's just the animal. I don't know if it's not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that's it, that's the best I can do. It's so much not enough. It's so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life."

Brokeback Mountain (Annie Proulx) -> "They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard, Jack���s big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis’s straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other’s toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and his daughters, little darlin."

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Japan's 1968 commemorated the hundredth anniversary of the Meiji Restoration, the "return" of governance from the Tokugawa shogunate, which inaugurated a modern, centralized state and located a supposedly primordial institutional authority in a "restored" imperial rule. The calendar year opened with an event highlighting a rather different source of transcendent authority, with the imminent arrival of the nuclear-powered (and likely nuclear-armed) USS Enterprise to US Fleet Activities Sasebo naval base in Nagasaki Prefecture, en route to Yankee Station in the Tonkin Gulf. Activists assembled from across the country to oppose its arrival, and they faced thousands of massed riot police likewise mobilized from throughout the nation. The visit was years in the making, part of a plan to desensitize the Japanese people to nuclear-powered ships in advance of the anticipated reversion of Okinawa to Japanese sovereignty with American military basing rights intact, as well as continuing Vietnam War missions. The plan was for "conditioning the Japanese to military nuclear matters." This primary, though disavowed, mission relied upon the fiction of the Japanese government's "three nuclear principles"-neither to manufacture, nor to possess, nor to permit the introduction [mochikomi] of nuclear weapons-which dissimulated the regular transit of nuclear armaments as per the secret agreements appended to the United States-Japan Security Treaty (Anpo) in 1960.

The arrival came in the wake of major protest events at Haneda Airport, where activists seeking to block Prime Minister Sato Eisaku's departure for Saigon forcibly clashed with police on October 9, 1967, the "First Haneda Incident." Again, on November 12, in the "Second Haneda Incident" activists opposed Prime Minister Sato's departure (to the United States to meet with President Lyndon B. Johnson) and were met with massed security police - some 5,000 in the vicinity of the airport alone. While a range of groups protested these trips for their participation in the Vietnam War, press coverage focused on the actions of the Sanpa Zengakuren (Three-Faction Alliance, or Sanpa), a recent coalition of three radical student groups within the Zengakuren: the All-Japan Federation of Students' Self-Governing Associations. Sanpa was united in a commitment to direct action against the quiescent majority Minsei Zengakuren, an affiliate of the equally quiescent Japan Communist Party (JCP). The First Haneda Incident inaugurated the new policy of Sanpa members to don helmets and use staves and rocks to fight riot police (who were armed, as perusal, with meter-long truncheons, duralumin shields, visored helmets, tear-gas guns, water cannons, and armored vehicles).

While violence was nothing new in post-World War II protest in Japan, events at Haneda commenced the use of violence in order to prevent the exercise of declared state policy-thereby foregrounding the issue of force and its legitimacy in confrontations between protesters and the state. Mainstream press reaction to both Haneda events was dominated, however, by negative appraisals of student "violence" and featured few serious attempts to consider the substantive issues involved. Writing underground in the group's newspaper, Zenshin, Honda Nobuyoshi, the leader of the Chukaku sect (one of the three Sanpa groups), complained:

The organs of the bourgeois press and their official critics... obscured [our] focus - "oppose the Vietnam war, obstruct the visit" - with the so-called problem of violence, castigating the Zengakuren struggle as a "violent demonstration" and "armed demonstration," while simultaneously maneuvering to conceal and defend the fundamental problem of state violence... On October 8, Zengakuren had its right to demonstrate stripped from it: wasn't it police headquarters and the public safety commission whose suppression through outrageous violence ensured that Zengakuren would be unable to exercise its right even to a one-meter-long march without forcibly breaking through the riot police's obstructing line? And isn't it police headquarters and the public safety commission that for seven years since Anpo have mobilized the well-armed riot police against Zengakuren's unarmed demonstrations, inflicting bloody oppression by blows, kicks, and arrests, causing near-fatal injuries for dozens? For one, the right to be armed and to strike, kick, and arrest; for the other, in order to declare an anti-war intent, the right to be struck, kicked, and arrested - only this is permitted. If this isn't state violence, what is? But on October 8, police headquarters and the public safety commission usurped the right even to be hit, kicked, and arrested.

Delighted by such dismissals of protest actions as irrational, criminal, or worse, the government green-lit an even harsher stance to be taken against demonstrators in advance of the USS Enterprise's arrival in Sasebo. The Japanese and American governments both likewise were SSN visits since 1964 to routinize such events; both countries had sanguine about the perceived success of their program of successive witnessed decreasing protester numbers and press coverage, and they looked forward to a successful visit to take their program of nuclear desensitization to the next level.

The visit, together with the anticipated deployment of state violence against protesters, was thus intended to facilitate closer coordination between the US and Japanese governments in their synchronized strategic posture and support for American cold and hot wars. Likewise both governments looked ahead to the renewal of the United States-Japan Security Treaty in 1970 and hoped to curtail, overawe, and delegitimize likely sources of protest. Yet all of these plans for an edifying spectacle risked backfiring impressively, particularly in the event of a "fluke," either by a deserter from the ship revealing its actual nuclear armaments or by the accidental creation of a martyr among the protesters."

With such concerns in mind, police paid attention to members of the then-small anti-war "Peace in Vietnam!" Citizens' Committee, Beheiren. The group's pamphlets appealed to American soldiers to consider resistance at all levels, from letter writing and symbolic desertion - which they had memorably facilitated in the fall, assisting the departure of the "Intrepid Four" sailors from the USS Intrepid, including their escape from service and from Japan through their semi-independent JATEC (Japan Technical Committee for Assistance to Anti-War US Deserters) group. Beheiren had also been frequently visited by seventy-three-year-old Yui Chunoshin, a longtime peace activist and Esperanto advocate who set himself on fire outside of the prime minister's residence the night before the Second Haneda Incident.

Sanpa mobilized with an eye to Sasebo becoming a "Third Haneda" and possibly finally breaking through to trigger mass opposition to Japan's participation in the Vietnam War. A broad set of other protest groups likewise mobilized, including rightists (estimated by police at around 46,000) in support of the visit, but press attention was overwhelmingly drawn to the "newsworthy" attractiveness of anticipated battles between police and the expected 2,000-3,000 Sanpa members. As the American embassy recounted, on January 17, two days before the Enterprise's arrival, as hundreds of reporters and cameramen looked on, about 375 plastic-helmeted, stave-carrying and rock-throwing [Sanpa] students charged about four times as many riot policemen at a bridge directly in front of the US naval base. After taking the first student thrust, the police responded with their own billy club charge, supported by tear gas and water cannons. The peak of the clash coincided perfectly with the noon television news and millions of television viewers were permitted to see the full force of the police counteroffensive by direct television relay.

Such heroic exercises in symbolic opposition drew rapt press and public attention, with unanticipated results.

The stunning effect of direct television coverage combined with a popular press thrilled to market such dramatic imagery set the stage for a major reversal in the perceived legitimacy of state force in support of its policies. Hurling concussion grenades and liberally spraying eye-irritant water cannons, the police, over the next several days, enacted something akin to a police riot before the assembled live cameras, reporters, and some 10,000 citizens of Sasebo; officers were captured in acts of indiscriminately dramatic violence. Group beatings of unresisting protesters in hospital courtyards received iconic photographic coverage; likewise, early accounts of citizens and reporters falling victim to unprovoked and coordinated police attacks worked to reverse public perceptions of the legitimacy of such state force-and drew attention to precisely the issues the government had hoped to police with this orchestrated event. The danger of such entanglements was driven further home by the Enterprise's diversion after Sasebo to respond to the January 23 seizure of the vessel Pueblo during its naval and NSA surveillance activities off the coast of North Korea - events that threatened the outbreak of a second Korean War involving Japan directly, even as they recalled Japan's colonial legacy and support for the prior war. The January 30 launch of the Tet Offensive added further doubts and concerns, discrediting American claims about the scope and progress of the war and, by extension, the supportive stance of the Japanese government.

The subsequently named "Enterprise Incident" effected a watershed in the possibilities for political subjectivation and action. On the one hand, fearful of a subsequent incident of repression igniting precisely the kinds of conflagration dreamed of by Sanpa and the like, the government reversed its prior repressive stance and directed the riot police to a new and severely restrained posture. On the other, new attention now converged on the meaning of these confrontations. After years of waning public interest - and occasional summary state violence in the absence of that interest - the media now excitedly covered each subsequent protest in hopes of catching similar spectacular confrontations. Public polls, media discussions, and US embassy assessments alike confirmed new attention to strategic and security treaty issues, as well as to their connections to both state actions and daily life in Japan. But even more broadly, the transformation in perception by which protester concerns became reasonable, and police action (and the state policies it supported) violent and illegitimate, in turn prompted a wave of political subjectivations. Illegitimate violence at home echoed not-so-distant illegitimate violence, especially the Vietnam War - and attentiveness disclosed abundant direct connections between the two.

Moved by such concerns, so-called "ordinary people," "typical students," "citizens," the "nonpolitical" all found cause to engage in activism and sought new forms adequate to their understandings of the moment. They particularly swelled the ranks of antihierarchical organizations such as Beheiren, which offered a flexible, horizontal coalition (any group could call itself Beheiren if it adopted the three principles of peace in Vietnam, Vietnam for the Vietnamese, and opposition to the Japanese government's complicity in the Vietnam War), with each group responsible for its own policies and for communicating across this network. Ordinary people also formed the basis for the explosive spread of the nonsectarian All-Campus Joint Struggle League, or Zenkyōtō. These latter groups, emerging mid-1968 from the developing University of Tokyo and Nihon University conflicts, proliferated across hundreds of university campuses to create more than sixty-seven campus seizures or lockouts by year's end (and 127 in 1969). It was Zenkyōtō that made dissensus into their very motto, calling for their own self-negation [jiko hitei] as elite students within a hierarchical and compromised educational system that itself required complete disassembly [daigaku kaitai, "dismantle the university!"] to end its furtherance of domination.

In short, "1968," in the sense of a global moment, truly begins in this space of restrained policing and daily eventfulness, of diminished state legitimacy and intensified concern to the wrongs such legitimacy previously concealed, both near and far. This politics inaugurates new engagments, with novel perceptions and personal reflections that bring forth new actions and collective identifications. It is at this level that we should consider questions of comparability, of how such politics becomes thinkable, and of the proper approach to address the nature of this politics.

- William Marotti, "The Perception of Violence, the Violence of Perception, and the Origins of Japan's 1968," in Gavin Walker, ed., The Red Years: Theory, Politics and Aesthetics in the Japanese ‘68. London and New York: Verso, 2020. p. 57-65.

[empathydm]

Sherlock Story Chapter 12

Help me roleplay Sherlock Holmes in this collaborative story adventure. Last text: As Watson, Lestrade, and Eleanora followed Holmes down the descending staircase, they could feel the weight of their convictions pressing upon them. The air grew thin and stale, heavy with the scent of foreboding as they pushed deeper into the abyss. Step by step, they descended into the heart of darkness, their resolve unwavering despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead. As they reached the bottom of the staircase, the chamber that greeted them was a sight of true horror. Shadows danced and contorted, twisting along the walls like spectral phantoms. The air grew colder, permeated with a palpable malevolence that clung to their skin. They had crossed the threshold into a realm where monstrous abominations truly thrived. Holmes clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the dreadful scene before him. "These twisted creatures,” he murmured, his voice edged with a deep resolve, "they are the result of the unholy machinations of the Illustrious Order. We cannot falter. We must forge ahead and uncover their ultimate purpose." Watson, his face a mask of grim determination, drew his revolver from his holster. "We stand united against this darkness," he declared, his voice ringing with fierce resolve. "We fight for the innocent lives that have been taken or irreversibly changed by the Order's abominations. We shall not rest until justice is served." Lestrade, though fear filled his eyes, clutched his truncheon firmly. "Trust in our cause and the power that lies within each of us." His voice was steady, surpassing the trepidation roiling within him. "Together, we are an indomitable force, capable of vanquishing even the deepest abyss." Eleanora tightened her grip on the hilt of her hidden blade, her gaze resolute. "We cannot undo the darkness that has been unleashed," she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. "But together, we can still change the outcome. The struggle may be arduous, but our resolve remains unshaken." With their collective will, they faced the writhing horrors that advanced towards them. Their footsteps echoed in concert with their hearts, resolute in their belief not only in themselves but in the power of truth to triumph over desolation. Together, they fought, seamlessly finding their respective roles within the chaos. Holmes moved with swift precision, analyzing his opponents' movements, exploiting weaknesses, and striking strategic blows with surgical precision. Watson unleashed volley after volley of gunfire, his aim unerring as he sought to neutralize those who threatened their progress. Lestrade fought valiantly, his truncheon striking true as he protected his allies with a fierce determination. Eleanora danced through the fray, her agile movements accompanied by the flash of her blade as she thwarted her enemies' advances. Through their unity and strength, they swiftly gained ground, felling one abomination after another until the last semblance of darkness was vanquished. The chamber fell silent, except for the harsh panting of their breath and the sound of their hearts thudding in their ears. As they paused to catch their breath, Eleanora's voice cut through the lingering silence. "Remember this victory," she cautioned, her eyes flickering with encumbered knowledge. "Darkness may perish, but it never fully dies. Our fight is far from over." Holmes met her gaze, an understanding passing between them. "The Illustrious Order may have been dealt a blow today, but we must find their leader," he declared with unwavering determination. "Only then can we uncover their true intentions and dismantle their wicked designs." Nodding in agreement, the group prepared to press on. The path forward was still perilous, fraught with unforeseen dangers and unseen truths that lurked at every turn. However, the bond forged between Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, and Eleanora served as a beacon of hope, bolstering their spirits as they embarked further into the darkness with firm resolve. Through the labyrinthine corridors, they trekked, remaining steadfast in their pursuit of the truth. Powerless onslaughts would come, challenges relentless, but they held strong. For the heart of darkness had met its match in their unwavering alliance. Together, they would triumph or be consumed—unyielding in their purpose to bring forth the light. How should the story continue? Please vote by liking the following posts: Option 1: "The darkness beckons. Unveil truth." Option 2: Into darkness they press. #UnmaskingOrder #TriumphOfLight Option 3: Embrace the darkness. Full text for each option in following posts. The votes are counted every 6 hours. #Sherlock #rpg #fanfic.