#how was i supposed to know in the moment that i should be remembering this event

[randombush3]

que te quiero

alexia putellas x reader

prologue

summary: you wake up but you're not sure where

words: 3217

content warnings: just you fucking wait

notes: i slaved away to get this out asap lol

They list your injuries in an awkwardly ascending order: best to worst. You suppose the doctor’s callousness is more professional than malicious – and maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t panicking at the sight of such long, uninteresting words – but he makes it sound clinical (his job) and it’s hard to remember not everyone feels the excruciating pain you are slowly growing accustomed to. 

You wince at your thoughts’ poor choice of words. 

Apparently, you don’t remember much. In the week that you’ve been awake, you’ve been subject to every test, question, and assessment possible, all answers coming out with the same result. 

You know your name and when you were born. You know that you have a degree in Literature, but that you’re now a lawyer with an extensive library instead. You can speak all the languages you’ve ever learnt (that’s a different part of your brain, says the doctor when you ask how). They ask about your parents, your brothers, and names easily roll off your tongue, the childhood fear of hospitals still present (god, there is something that you wish had been forgotten). 

Still, the nurses approach you with sympathetic smiles, replicating the expression when they converse quietly with the worried-looking woman who visits you every day. She’s called Alexia, she tells you, staring at the gap between you as though she is a stranger to being so far apart. 

Although it was blurry when you first woke up, once Alexia reveals her name, you’re certain you recognise her.

“I’ve seen her somewhere,” you tell your favourite nurse, chipper that you’ve worked it out. In an attempt to jog your memory, you’ve kept the small TV in the corner of your section of the ward on all afternoon, sort of missing the noise your committed visitor brings with her. “And she’s not here today, Isa, because she’s there.” You point at a figure running around on a football pitch. “Alexia Putellas. She’s famous!” It explains the secrecy and the inexplicable absences. You suppose a slightly different structure of her job allows her to visit at unconventional times, too. 

“Mm,” Isa hums, not quite committed to this conversation. “Let’s save the discoveries for your chat with the doctor, yeah? He should be here any minute now.” 

On cue, the pot-bellied man appears, clipboard in hand, bottom lip between his teeth. His perception leads his gaze to the TV, which, in turn, causes him to watch your reaction to the match. Growing insecure of his scrutiny, you press a button and watch the screen go black. 

“Good afternoon,” comes his greeting, clipped and determined to not waste time. You try to find comfort in that: maybe you aren't in the worst shape in this hospital. “How are your ribs feeling?” 

“Battered.” 

He writes that down. “You’re on the highest dosage of pain medication. We’ll need to start weaning you off soon, too. Especially due to a family history of addiction.” Your eyebrows furrow, and his pen scratches at the paper once again. “Okay, Y/n. Can I have a seat? Are you comfortable?” 

You take a moment to acknowledge the ache in your abdomen and head. He assumes your silence is a ‘yes’ and Isa is dismissed. “You shouldn’t be looking at any screens,” he says calmly, with the faintest hint of disappointment. “It will not aid your recovery.” 

“How am I supposed to remember anything if I can’t use… sources to help me?” you protest. 

“That is exactly what I have come here to discuss. We’ll start bit by bit. The more open you are to this, the quicker you will be released from hospital.” He smirks. “And I know that you are desperate to leave.” 

…

The stands of the stadium echo with jubilation as the final whistle blows. Alexia barely hears it due to the noise, still reeling from her penalty, proud to have scored in front of such a special guest. She’d made an ‘A’ with her fingers as she had celebrated. 

Despite her teammates’ dallying on the pitch, never in a rush after a win like this, Alexia is jumping the barrier and barreling through the crowd to get to the seats she’s been keeping an eye on for the whole match. Her mother is barely offered a ‘hello’ before Alexia is wrapped in a tight embrace. She won’t admit that the force of the impact winds her a little. 

“You played so well!” squeals Amaia, voice muffled in the sweat-soaked jersey. She seems almost giddy, which is a hefty improvement considering your current situation. 

Alexia laughs, bending down to Amaia’s level, her hands resting on the girl’s shoulders. Tears prick at her eyes but she hopes it isn’t that obvious. “You saw my penalty, right?” 

She’s met with enthusiastic nodding, Amaia’s eyes widening with excitement. “Vaig veure la A! It was for me, right?” 

“For you,” Alexia confirms, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Amaia’s head. Despite her efforts, the softness of the girl’s hair – the way she clings once more to Alexia’s body – is disarming. And Amaia speaking Catalan always gets her emotional. 

She wipes her tears when Amaia pulls away. 

This is difficult. Alexia is trying her hardest, but nothing is the same without you. She finds herself looking at the seat beside Amaia, expecting to see it filled by you, but it’s not; it’s empty. You are still at the hospital. You don’t even remember who Alexia is. 

You don’t remember the past eleven years, they think. Which means no Amaia, no Alexia, no Barcelona. 

It has broken Alexia’s heart. 

Her mother places a hand on her shoulder. “Go and get changed,” she instructs gently, in the same way she has been since the accident. Eli has become an engine, a guide. “Alba said she’d meet us at the restaurant.” 

Alexia swallows, embracing her mother. In her ear, she whispers, “I think it’s time for Amaia to see her.” Her mother’s touch remains firm, grounding her. She breathes out, and it is only now that her lungs ache that she feels like she can no longer hold it together. But Alexia is determined, and she will not crumble. 

Not in front of your daughter. 

“It’s your decision, Ale,” Eli murmurs back, her tone steady and calm. She’s seen how tirelessly Alexia has navigated these past weeks, juggling her team, her grief, her hope – all while trying to keep Amaia’s life as normal as possible. “You have done everything you can. If you think she’s ready, she’ll be ready.”

Alexia pulls back and nods, a quiet determination settling over her face. The thought of bringing Amaia to the hospital without the stability of a coma to predict her reaction has been weighing on her ever since you woke up. But, even though this step is more of a stumble, it seems to be in the right direction. 

"Now, go and get out of this kit. Amaia and I can only pretend you don’t smell for so long," Eli jokes, hand guiding her toward the locker rooms. Amaia is practically bouncing at Alexia’s side as they make their way down the tunnel, still buzzing with excitement over the game and ten goals scored. 

Not everyone is so plagued by misfortune in their personal lives – a reminder which is stark as Alexia passes the conga line of her teammates, all thrilled with their (superfluous) scoreline and exploiting the night off that Pere has allowed right from the get-go. A few of the girls wave at their captain as she walks past, but most feel uncomfortable shoving their elation in her face, aware of the shitstorm she is going through. 

The girls do keep plaguing her about what you had thought of their ‘Get Well Soon’ card, though. Not that Alexia has found an appropriate time to give it to you yet.

“Will she be awake?” Amaia suddenly asks, her voice breaking Alexia’s thoughts. Her expression is open, hopeful. Her eyes have the same shine as yours do in this light. 

Alexia glances down, her lips forming a soft, bittersweet smile. "We’ll see, Amaia," she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from the girl’s face. "We’ll visit, and we’ll see."

Inside the locker room, Alexia changes quickly, her mind already racing ahead to the visit. She imagines you there, perhaps looking out the window or glancing at her with that blank confusion that still cuts her deeper than she’d expected. The nurses have told her that you’re growing more restless with each day, becoming harder to occupy. You sound like a pain in their arses, which is comforting, because at least you are still you. And your questions! Alexia is unsurprised that the doctors rock-paper-scissor for ward duty. 

When she emerges, mood lifted by the thought of you continuing to be a nightmare, Eli and Amaia are waiting by the door, Amaia now clutching a small bouquet of flowers that must have been retrieved from Eli’s car while Alexia was changing. She’s holding them proudly, as if they might be a magic cure, as if a burst of colour is exactly what’s needed to bring you back.

“Ready to go?” Amaia asks, instinctively high-fiving Mapi as she walks out with Alexia. 

“Exciting plans, Capi?” her friend questions. Alexia’s look says it all. Mapi lowers her voice, allowing only Alexia to hear her; “you are strong. You will be strong.” 

“Let’s go,” prompts Amaia. Her impatience was very much inherited. 

After shooting an unconvincing look of confidence to her friend, Alexia nods, holding out her hand for Amaia to take. “Okay, okay. Say goodbye to Eli.” 

Kisses are exchanged. Alexia promises to come for dinner, even if she will be late. 

Amaia plays Taylor Swift in the car. The whiny music gives Alexia a bit of a headache, but at least it’s loud enough to dull the absolute din of her screaming thoughts. And when they arrive, it’s all too familiar for Alexia’s liking. 

She has her route to you memorised. It’s magnetic and intrinsic, and a desperate part of her is clawing at the hope that, somehow, you will have regained everything that has been lost in the day she hasn’t seen you. Before entering the ward, she tries to prepare Amaia, but the girl is as unstoppable as you can be and there is no intervening before she is at your bedside, greeting you like you remember who she is. 

…

A lot of what the doctor tells you are things you struggle to believe. Like, last year, you were made junior partner of the law firm you work at. They’re based in London. You used to live there – you moved after you’d finished your degree, bored of Bilbao and of home and of knowing every person in your world. Another confusing one: your brothers actually visit you, as though you are forgiven. 

Which sparks an aged memory. Two lines in the bathroom at the university. 

“Am I pregnant?” you ask, feeling the colour drain from your face at the idea that you might have lost the baby in the accident. 

The doctor waits patiently for you to remind yourself that eleven years have passed. 

“I was pregnant.” Nothing comes back to you, though this would be an appropriate moment for it to. The rest of the story hangs loosely at the back of your throat, unable to be spoken. You look at the doctor for help. “Did I keep it? I’m not – I wasn’t planning to.” 

“She’s called Amaia.” 

“Amaia…” you repeat. A painful realisation settles in you. How did you feel about becoming a mother? Why did you? When did they forgive you, and was it because of her? 

“Your mother’s name, I believe,” continues the doctor, “although you can remember that.” 

“I barely knew my mother.” She had died when you were very young. She didn’t feel like yours to grieve. To you, it was just time off school, hospital visits, and watching the rest of your world fall apart. You find yourself swallowed up in guilt – anger. How did you let this happen? How could you forget what must have mattered the most? “I want to see her,” you resolve, attempting to sit upright and pretend the movement doesn’t send a searing pain through your chest. “My… I want to know what she looks like.” 

Your patience need not extend for too long, as Alexia and Amaia arrive only two hours after the doctor departs. 

The sterility of the ward is no match for the warmth they exude, and you can almost sense them coming. It’s both comforting and unsettling. You refrain from telling Alexia that you know who she is. 

You have no time to, really, because there is a girl, average height with a bouquet in-hand, barreling towards you the moment you lay your eyes on your visitors. She’s loud enough to make you wince, which, in turn, earns her a sharp warning from Alexia, even further away than usual. She is watching you closely, awaiting your reaction. Her arms are folded across her chest, hair scraped into a damp ponytail, and she is withholding the emotion she wants to express because Alexia, you’ve learnt, isn’t really that kind of person. You often find yourself wondering how she first opened up to you. How long did it take? 

You want to ask, but Amaia – Amaia – begins to speak. Her voice is unfamiliar, her accent failing to reflect any time in Bilbao she might have spent with you. She speaks at first in Spanish. You hardly hear what she is saying, too focused on examining her features. 

She does look like you. Or, rather, pictures of you from years ago. Your father’s eyes, your nose. A smile that you can’t help but reciprocate. You try to remember what her father looked like, but nothing comes to mind and Amaia seems to have been unresponsive to his genes.

“Amaia,” you interrupt, not to cut her off but to test her name on your tongue. It’s foreign to you, but it suits her. She beams. 

“Do you remember me?” 

And what the actual fuck do you say to that? 

Your hesitation is telling. Alexia stiffens from where she had relaxed on the fringes on the section. 

“It’s okay if you don’t.” You look up at her, unaware that you had bowed your head in the first place. She has kind eyes, you think. And she must be clever, because it is not what she says, but that she says it in Euskera. 

“I missed you,” you say. It slips out, but you mean it. Well, you assume you missed her, and therefore it is a logical thing to come out with. And, also, you are aching inside from seeing the life that you have created standing right in front of you. A life you were not going to pursue. 

Amaia does not cry, but she delicately unfurls your clenched palms and shapes her hands to link with yours. You want her touch to bring it all back. It feels like jumping off a skyscraper when you are met with nothing, still. Instead of the flood of recollection you long for, there is a faint, ungraspable feeling of something you cannot name. 

After a silent pause, a movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. Alexia steps forwards, her arms still crossed, her expression unsure and more than a little guarded. There is a sudden swell of gratitude in your chest, more for her presence than anything specific, and, without thinking, you smile at her. 

“Congratulations,” you say, voice just above a whisper as though Amaia will be unable to hear. “I saw you on the TV. You scored, didn’t you?” 

Alexia’s eyes widen a fraction as she glances at Amaia, who is proudly informing you, “ez behin, baizik eta bitan”. Alexia manages a small, almost bashful smile, her hand coming up to rub the back of her neck. For a woman so publicly celebrated, she seems to struggle to handle your praise. 

“Thanks,” she says awkwardly, eyes not quite meeting yours. “It… wasn’t a huge match but,” she grimaces at the sound of her voice, “I wanted to play my best for, well, for you guys. Amaia was there, and you… Well, I suppose you were watching it on TV.” She doesn’t feel inclined to show you the band of pre-wrap around her wrist with your name written on it, hiding it under the sleeve of her hoodie, or tell you that you were there with her, like you always are. 

Something tugs at your heart. It’s obvious that she is desperately holding back emotions, likely for Amaia’s sake. She looks away for a moment, regaining her composure, then turns back to you with a steadier expression. Amaia glances between you both, unnervingly perceptive for a girl so young. She squeezes your hands a little tighter. 

In the silence that follows, Alexia finally speaks up again. “I… didn’t want to crowd you, but,” her tone drops into something more serious, “I’ll be back again tomorrow, and, actually… Your doctor and I have been discussing the idea of you coming home soon.” 

The word hits you like a bullet from too close a range; it’s almost too fast to register before the damage is done. 

You don’t even know where you live. In your mind, you have never been to Barcelona, let alone have a home here. And yet there is an inexplicable warmth in Alexia’s voice that makes the idea feel… less absurd. 

She clears her throat. “In three days, if you’re ready,” she softly adds, eyes glimmering with hope in a fearful way. 

Later, Alexia stands just outside the ward, talking quietly with your doctor as Amaia sits nearby, focused on the little bouquet of flowers she brought for you, picking at a petal here and there. Alexia watches your daughter for a moment, the girl’s calm focus oddly grounding. 

“She’ll need a lot of rest and minimal stress,” the doctor says, drawing Alexia’s attention back to him. “But it’s promising. Her physical recovery is progressing, and though her memory may take longer, familiar environments could help.”

Alexia nods, though the doctor’s words bring only partial relief. “I can make things as calm as possible for her at home,” she says, trying to avoid sounding like a child begging for a present she knows she will not receive. “We have spare rooms, and lots of pictures to look over. And she hates hospitals. You’re lucky to have her disorientated, else she’d be kicking up a big fuss.”

The doctor lets out a tired laugh, but makes no attempt to agree that you haven’t made his life slightly more difficult than it needed to be already. “It will be an adjustment for everyone, but it is important that you are looking after yourself too.” 

Alexia’s gaze drifts back to the door of your room, and she swallows hard, steeling herself. The doctor’s words linger but they do nothing to curb her determination. She would do anything for you, and if you fell for her once, you can fall for her again. 

After another quiet moment, the doctor pats her arm lightly. “Three days, then. We’ll make sure she’s as prepared as she can be.”

[lokisprettygirl]

Twice the love (Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader) (Non Canon Modern Au)

Summary : You meet the love of your life during the worst night of your life but your man might not be who he claims to be.

Warning: Drowning, Resuscitation, Mention of suicidal ideation, alludes to cheating and smut

Note : I'm working on the next chapter of RTHF (I'm not abandoning it) but I had this little thing in my head so decided to write it down.

You remembered that night clearly as if it were yesterday, the night you had seen him for the first time, the night he had saved your life.

You had no intention of dying per say but you were drunk, depressed and lacked the most important skill one required before jumping into the water that was supposedly way deeper than 4 feet. Looking back now perhaps you wanted to die that night, or maybe you had a distorted sense of ideation but he had saved you.

You didn't remember much when he resuscitated you but you remembered his face, his angelic godly face, you remembered his greenish hazel eyes, his cheekbones that were sharper than your wit, and you remembered his silver hair, his curls wet and sticking onto his forehead.

“Come on darling, don't give up, you can't give up” 

You remembered hearing his soft murmur as he tried his best to pump the water out of your lungs.

You remembered his face vividly, but then you slipped into unconsciousness once more. When you awoke, you found yourself encircled by your friends, none of whom knew anything about the person who had saved your life, not even his name. He had quietly departed after ensuring you were safe amongst your loved ones.

From that moment onwards you felt as if you owed your life to him, an innate sense of gratitude filled your heart for that strange gentleman, it was as if that angelic man had stolen a part of your soul that you would never be able to reclaim again unless or until you see him but how were you supposed to find him? You didn't even know his name or where he had come from, all you remembered was his beautiful face.

You dreamt of him pretty often, innocuous dreams at first that became intimate later on, more than intimate if you were being honest with yourself, you saw his face so vividly as if he was actually there. You had committed every little feature to your memory, and everytime you woke up, you woke up with heavy breaths and a burning in your loins but then followed the disappointment and the emptiness, a void that you could never fill. 

It all came to a stop though, a year later you saw him in a bar, having drinks with his friends, before you could stop yourself your feet dragged you to him on their own, like a moth to a flame you approached him, gently tugging on his forearm to get his attention, you could hear his friends making crude jokes in the background but you didn't care at the moment..

Perhaps you should have cared, and you should have noticed how he had joined them instead of shutting it down immediately. You should have noticed. 

“Do you remember me?”

You mustered the courage to ask, your voice tinged with hope and a hint of vulnerability. He took one last swig of his drink before turning his attention towards you finally, looking at you from head to toe.

"Should I?" he inquired, his eyes meeting yours with a look of mild confusion. A year had passed since that night, and you couldn't help but wonder if he had forgotten you, a messed-up drunk stranger he had pulled from the water. Despite the doubts in your mind, you held onto a sliver of hope.

It was him, you wouldn't forget that face, that much you knew, he had been in your dreams almost every other night since that fateful one, he had been making it difficult for you to forget him.

“You saved my life two years ago, Margate beach?” You spoke nervously, sounding like an idiot probably so he chuckled and then smirked in response.

“Of Course i remember, how could I forget you love?” 

He told you and you breathed a sigh of relief as you heard those words.

He remembered you.

Now two years later you found yourself seated at a dinner rehearsal, some cousin of his you didn't even know or even heard of before.

He insisted you join him as his plus one even though he knew how important this week was for you and your late blooming career. You didn't want to upset him so you obliged, he had saved your life after all.

You didn't like upsetting him, you didn't like it when he got mad and raised his voice and-

“Excuse me, i think you're in the wrong seat” You heard a lady's voice so you got up and excused yourself as you stepped out of the lounge.

It didn't matter if he got upset sometimes, he had saved your life, perhaps he wasn't how you had imagined him to be in your head during that year you had dreamt of him but you loved him now and he made you happy…at times. It wasn't all bad.

You tried your best to make sure it wasn't all bad.

As you saw him leaning against the bannister in the corridor you approached him from behind and hugged him tightly. His familiar presence eased your anxiety a little.

“You brought me here and left me with people I don't know -”

You mumbled softly so he turned around, you didn't recognise the clothes he was wearing, a black suit you didn't even know he owned, it certainly wasn't his style, you were sure he had packed something else for the rehearsal dinner.

His eyes widened as he faced you and stared at you as if he was seeing you after a long time.

“You-” he spoke softly but then he paused for a moment, his eyes kept flickering, “You are okay” he continued so you looked at him confused,

“I'm okay yeah but I was missing you, I don't know anyone and I sat on the wrong seat like a moron” 

He placed his fingers on your cheek and caressed your skin, his touch felt different- softer, more loving, you couldn't really describe it but he seemed gentler, a feeling you have never had before with him, perhaps it was his surroundings, being around the family must have been comforting.

 It just bothered you how he had never told you anything about his family or his siblings but then you never told him about your family either, not because you didn't want to, but because he didn't ask.

In the past two years he never even asked why you were so drunk that night that you forgot you couldn't really swim.

Before your thoughts could spiral you cradled his cheeks between your palms and got on your tiptoes to kiss him ever so tenderly. He seemed as if he was taken aback for a moment but then he reciprocated the kiss, you felt your whole body lighting up as he moved his lips against yours, his touch felt soothing, like warm fire in cold winter, he tasted different and he smelled different so you pulled away to look at him for a moment as you couldn't really make sense of it. 

“Ray-” You spoke nervously but then you heard his voice.

“I see you have met my twin, love” 

You heard his voice so you looked behind in shock, you found your boyfriend of two years standing right behind you, the man who had saved your life staring back at you or so you thought.

“Raymond” You gulped in confusion as you said his name so he walked towards you and placed his arm around your waist to pull your closer, his fingers digging into your waist almost painfully, in the surrealism of the moment you didn't notice how how his hair looked the same way it did after he made love to you or how there was a red mark on his neck that you certainly didn't give him.

“Your brother?” You mumbled as you looked at the man in front of you, the man you had kissed just now, the man whose kiss had made you feel alive again, almost like that night when he had-

As your eyes welled up he furrowed his brows and brought his hand forward-

“Daemon.. Daemon Targaryen, it's good to see you..again.. darling”

💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

[defectivehero]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Trail of Blood

warnings: blood, injury

"Well then."

The detective flinches at the familiar voice, dread and fear running through them as their eyes fall to the figure standing at the mouth of the alleyway. They attempt to push themselves up into a better position, but their limbs don't cooperate. The gashes across their body—coupled with the worrying bullet wound in their abdomen—prevents them from moving. Their teeth are chattering and they blink stars from their eyes as their enemy approaches. "How-?" The words die in their throat.

Yet the supervillain comprehends what they're trying to say anyway. They take a few more casual steps closer. "You left a trail." The supervillain then answers matter-of-factly, pointing back to the mouth of the alley. Indeed, there's a discernible path of crimson stains leading to their current position.

"Ah," the detective remarks. They dazedly look down at their trembling form, an ugly realization settling at the pit of their stomach as they see the slowly expanding puddle of blood beneath them.

"Yes." The supervillain hums. "It's really rather ironic. You of all people should know better."

The detective just blinks blearily. They suppose that's true. Then again, they're not usually the victim in these scenarios. The detective is typically the uninvolved third party who appears after the damage is done, relegated to making sense of the evidence left behind.

Their enemy is unperturbed by the detective's silence, instead continuing to speak. "So, what's your plan?" They ask. With another step, they're close enough for the detective to see the expression on their face—an unfamiliar one that appears to be a puzzling mix of irritation and something the detective is too afraid to name.

Then they remember the question. "Die, I guess." The detective mutters.

The supervillain huffs a dry laugh, studying them for several moments. They seem to be cataloguing the detective's injuries. "You'll live." They state with an almost clinical boredom.

"Thanks." The detective responds flatly. For a while, there's nothing but silence. The supervillain hasn't budged or moved a muscle in the time they've spent in tense quiet. "What?" The detective eventually chokes out impatiently.

"Just waiting for you to ask for my assistance." The supervillain hums. The detective glares at them for a long moment. Their enemy only scuffs their boot in the gravel below, seemingly more interested in the pebbles on the ground than the matter at hand.

A sudden prickling shame runs down their skin. The detective grits their teeth. "I'll just-" They murmur to themself, slowly straightening their posture through the nearly blinding pain.

"Just... what, exactly?" The supervillain's acerbic voice cuts through the detective's thoughts. "Crawl to the nearest hospital? It's more than three miles away. Should take you a good several hours. Or a few days, depending on your speed." They respond with a bored tone, holding up their hand and picking at their nails. The supervillain's casual demeanor is infuriating.

"Are you- just here to state the obvious?" The detective chokes out, their tongue feeling thick in their mouth. Did they appear just to witness the spectacle?

"You know me," the supervillain shrugs magnanimously. At the detective's glare, they smile. "I'm the helpful type."

The detective groans in annoyance and refocuses their effort on moving forward. They don't get past a slightly more mobile sitting position before there's a hand on their shoulder.

"Alright, enough," the supervillain announces, their grip strong enough to shake the detective out of their determined state "You're just embarrassing yourself. It's pathetic, seriously."

The detective is too exhausted to notice the concern hidden in their enemy's tone or the concentrated furrow to their brows. They growl and attempt to shove the supervillain away, but their enemy is inexplicably persistent. Within moments, the supervillain is gathering them up into their arms with minimal effort. The detective’s head is spinning at the sudden change in momentum. Were they in a slightly better state, they'd be envious of the supervillain's casual display of strength. Now, however, all they can do is attempt to fight the fatigue threatening to bring their vision to darkness.

Still, the detective's mind is plagued with questions. Where are you taking me? Why are you doing this? How did you find me? These queries all remain trapped in their throat, left to fester and rot in their thoughts.

"You should be grateful I appeared when I did." The supervillain says, looking down at them with an uncharacteristic vulnerability gleaming in their eyes. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, their composed mask returns and they return their attention up ahead. The detective frowns and attempts to dissect what they just saw. But as their adrenaline quickly starts to fade, they soon fall into unconsciousness, before their enemy can even attempt to elaborate any further.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

author's notes: first entry done! woo woo!

in light of recent events, my activity on tumblr may be sporadic. but now more than ever, I'll likely be leaning on writing as a form of escapism. I hope to get bingo at the very least, if not complete the entire card.

if there's something specific you want to see on the card, feel free to send me an ask and I'll see if I can make it happen.

thanks for reading! <3

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[christinebloodwrittings]

Die in your arms #1

Alastor x Fem!Reader.

Warning: mentions of implied SA, imprisonment, murder.

July 1913. Manhattan, NYC.

The courtroom, with all those eyes staring, would make anyone tremble with anxiety. The jury of men in gloomy suits, whose faces you did not know and did not bother to remember, the judge with white hair and glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and the lawyer on the side of the people looked at you as if you were the worst scum in the world.

How distasteful.

The D.A’s office had taken the trouble to give you a new outfit to wear to court, with lots of layers and cream-colored ruffles. The last time you wore something so nice was when your parents brought you to a friend of the family’s house, for dinner.

The high neck of the dress was not tight, but given the heavy atmosphere and the nerves, it was as if a rope had been put around your neck.

"Your Honor, my client has not a single criminal record prior to this incident.  Her family in Denver reported her to missing persons five years ago, the police deliberately dropped the case after a week” he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before watching your lip quiver, “After her father asked to do so" but you knew that already.

Incident, five years of imprisonment, and the attorney who is supposed to be defending you used such a weak word to describe it all.

Also, your father… it should have surprised you, but after everything he said before it all started…it really didn’t.

Before your attorney could actually begin to speak, the defense took his sweet time trying to make you look like a serial killer, a potential risk to the community.

“Miss Desmond, is it true that your commanding officer knows that you are the New York Smiler?” the lawyer asked, the jury having their sole attention on you. “No” the scoffs of the public at the hearing  echoed in the room. “Do you consider yourself guilty of the twenty-two victims, murdered in between the years of 1910 and 1912?” it was only 1912, december, you remembered because there were christmas decorations on some houses.

“Twenty-one, and no, I did what was necessary to stay alive” at what cost, liberation? That one breath of fresh air felt like needles down your throat, and has brought you nothing but problems ever since.

“Twenty-one? There were twenty-two bodies at the scene” he placed a detailed record of the evidence found in the scene in front of the jury for all to read.

“When I left there was one that was still alive, since he was in no position to follow us, I didn’t do anything, I was the one to notify the ambulance about him” his kneecaps were shot with a gun, he would never walk again so it meant no harm at the moment.

Then, he continued to the one charge he could actually condemn you to, “Miss Desmond, did you or did you not fake an ID to enter the army?” your attorney nodded, giving you a pass to say the truth, given his strategy. “I did” he presented a photo of the woman of the original identification, “Who’s ID did you forged?” mercilessly, the memories flooded your mind. 

‘Everything will be alright Y/n, just…’ she took a deep breath before caressing your cheek, ‘Do what they say, and no harm will come to you’ her bloodied hair stuck to her face as she smiled, teeth broken and red. “Martha Woodsman” her name burnt as it left your tongue, “Who is she?” you closed your eyes trying to remember a time when she was the most beautiful woman inside the facilities. Her creole accent and brown skin, along with the greenest eyes you had ever seen, she was idyllic.

“Was” you corrected, “One of the eldest women inside the brothel, I stole her ID and placed a picture of myself” you answered with the truth, your voice trembling and breaking as you did. “Nothing further” that lawyer had some mercy in finishing his questions after that.

"Do you understand, Miss Desmond, that if you lie while under oath, you risk being charged with perjury?" the judge reminded you. The judge had a cold and defiant attitude towards you from the moment he found out that the accused was a woman. He reminded you about perjury with the sole motive of saying ‘you are a woman so don't get emotional and tell the truth’ indirectly. 

"Your Honor, I did plan the escape, down to the smallest detail, with the goal of getting out of that place without anyone getting hurt. The boss shouldn't have been there, I checked the schedule book three times before the escape." You were irritated, but you didn’t let his guts get to you. "If I had planned a murder of that magnitude, I would have admitted it from the start, they were bad men, but that doesn’t excuse ending a life like that, I didn’t plan to harm anyone that night" satisfied, yet adamant, he signaled to your defense to step forward.

In all, it took three sessions in court and at the grand jury, during which you spent the night in the cell of the police station closest to the courthouse. Three sessions that lasted about two weeks, telling the same story over and over again until someone could make up their mind.

"I understand that it's difficult for you, so take your time" Your defense looked at you as a victim, not as just another psychopath, it wasn’t a great help, his look of pity boiled your blood.

"I had been in brothels for a little over five years, in different places, although I didn't know exactly where, they blindfolded us and kept men with us, with guns" The weight and cold metal of a revolver barrel is a sensation that will never leave your skin.

"You and other women" matter of fact-ly directed himself towards you. "Yes" you tried to sound sad, not as nonchalant as you would hope. "How many would you say?" One hallway, five rooms, the red door always had more voices coming out.

"There were six of us in the room, but some time passed and two of them didn't come back. When I left I saw that there were more rooms so I guess more than a dozen" you managed to get 26 girls out, the red room was secured on the inside for some reason, so picking the lock resorted impossible, and when you thought you had cracked it, your boss came back through the main door.

Spotting you, red-handed.

"And those two who didn't come back, do you know what happened to them?" you shook your head, "Not very well, but I heard that the ones that aren't sold to other brothels are usually killed in front of the newer ones to set an example, but it may have been just a rumor".

"There were women of many ages, the youngest must have been about fifteen or fourteen" chained, with hands and legs to the wall. You watched as the youngest and newest ones entered trembling with fear, knowing there was only so much you could do for them.

“People of the jury, she’s no psychopath, she is a little girl who tried to escape her captors, a stray kitten who saw no other way than to scratch her abusers in self defense” ‘Oh call me kitten one more time’ you bit down, trying your very best not to give them even a smidge of anger to use against you.

“Miss Desmond, why did you join the army?” They had not asked themselves why, they had only seen the deception and identity theft. “Objection, relevance?” The defense tried to prevent your attorney from using a sympathy card, but the judge, tired of going over the same case over and over again, allowed it. Like the jury, he was curious as to why on earth a woman would want to enlist in the military.

“Overruled. Miss Desmond, answer the question” your answer left a few men in disbelief.

“I tried to join the police force to bring down the people in the brothel, but not only did they reject me, but also they didn’t believe me, so I thought the army would help me build my body to help others” ‘how noble’ you heard the judge mutter under his breath.

“You didn’t want anyone else to feel like a victim” speculative, that earned a misplaced objection. “No, I wanted to give the victims someone that would fight for them, some hope to survive” an executioner, someone that would cut the heads of the snakes for them.

The judge called both representatives to the chambers after they started arguing, faces far too close, fists tight and white, like two wolves showing their fangs in warning.

“She did forge an ID to enter the army” started the defense, "Forging an ID can be considered a misdemeanor, but my client did not do it for sinister reasons" continued your attorney. "And what do you suggest we do with your client, Mr. Davis?" the old judge sat, his eyes never leaving your over coloured form.

"Remand her to the care of her family, one foot outside will get her 35 to life in prison”  a bunch of files were opened before the eyes of the judge, records of your family mostly. "Does Ms. Desmond have a family, a husband?" no husband, though there were men that tried to buy you for that purpose, you never understood why. 

"A cousin in New Orleans, no husband” you shook your head at the thought of your cousin, you haven't seen him in years and now you were going to drop on his front door in shackles with a criminal record? “I don’t want to be a burden to my cousin”, you didn’t even know how he looked like after so many years.  

“If you get a husband, it will be the same sentence, remanded to his care, one year” tied to a man that will have a sexual appetite, and probably demand that of you, hell no. Your attorney saw the hesitation in your face, “Y/n listen, either is this or a lifetime in the reformatory in Indiana, your choice”.

After what felt like half an hour, the jury had come to a decision. 

“Does the jury have a verdict?” you closed your eyes, a bruising grip on your skirt as the leading man spoke, “We have, your honor”.

“On the charge of first-degree murder, how do you find?” the charge of planned manslaughter, “Not guilty” and how it hurt their pride to find no evidence of a planned murder. “On the charge of forgery, how do you find?” oh, that’s the one you would have to pay a few bucks to get rid of, “Guilty”.

After assuming that you would walk as a free woman, the judge proposed house arrest to the jury, “Gentlemen of the jury, do you agree with the solution?” instead of the fine that forgery would make you pay for the rest of your life and that you would not finish paying even after death, “Yes, your honor” now you were going to be imprisoned, again.

"Y/N Desmond, you are hereby remanded to your family’s care, you will be considered a flight risk, and your title as a soldier will be removed”

“This is an extraordinary measure, given that you freed more people than you killed, but as Mr. Davis says, one foot outside will resort to a lifetime behind bars, do you agree to this?” it’s not like you had any other option, “Yes your honor, thank you”.

The sound of the gavel was the last thing heard in that quiet courtroom. 

You were assigned a nurse for your medical care, among other cares. Given the severity of your wounds and the time it took you to call for help in the army, several of them became infected or went from being a knife scratch to a deep cut.

The stitches made by the commander's assistant were not the best, so some dead pieces of skin had to be surgically removed and sutured. More than one or the other, you looked like the daughter of the mummy and Frankenstein, covered in sutures and bandages.

Not to mention the cut on your cheek from the first time you were forced to please a man, orally. The mobster took an awfully big liberty in permanently scarring your face, which is why he was never allowed back in.

The train and ferry ride was long. At night you couldn't really appreciate the scenery, much less being handcuffed and delivered to your cousin's door without warning.

Finally, the police car that picked you up at the port stopped in front of a two-story brown house. In the darkness of the night, and with it being the new moon phase, there wasn't much you could make out of the image.

A police woman delivered a few punches to the front door, immediately attracting rapid footsteps from the inside. 

“Howard Desmond?” she asked, suddenly Howard was paler than he already was. “Yes, is there a problem, officers?” A tall man, with short, ebony-black, tattered hair, dressed in an old, smelly nightgown, as if he had never washed it, appeared through the door. 

"Your cousin, Y/n Desmond, is under your legal care for one year, the details are written here" he slammed a thick file against his chest, before pushing you inside "We'll be monitoring from time to time, just to make sure the sentence is carried out" he released the iron grip of the shackles and walked out the door.

“Thank you, uhm, good night officers” Howard said goodbye, absolutely sleep deprived and shocked. Though that would be an understatment.

“Y/n, what the hell?” He wobbled a little, but after processing it for a second, Howard ran to hug you. The embrace was something you longed, every fiber of your being wanted to remain in his arms until your flesh dissolved.The sudden pins and needles that his strength against your wounds provoked was everything but comfortable, but to be cared for just one second, you could bear with it.  

“What happened?” cold rushed by your body the second he stepped away, he glanced at the file for a second, “I can’t summarize five years of shit in a couple sentences” that came out shaky, more than you expected.

“How did the jury find you?” you rested your back against the wall, finding some comfort in the cold surface, “Not guilty for first-degree murder, but guilty for forgery, thank god they oversaw the identity theft charge” he was appalled, not understanding a single thing and making movie about you being a mastermind of crime in his head. You rolled your eyes and pointed to the file they gave him, “Like they said, read it, may I have some water?” from the table next to the coats he took a small pair of glasses, his face became paler as he read the reports. “Of course” he sprinted towards the kitchen whilst reading and muttering ‘oh goodness’ as he went.

Meanwhile you took it upon yourself to wander around the living room, specially to the picture frames on top of the fireplace. His graduation, marriage - she was pretty, maybe too pretty-, then Howard in front of a building with a glass and lots of happy people - maybe a grand opening?-.  

His pacing sound made you turn around, the silence as he handed you the glass of water was sepulchral. “Wow, you own a business? Swell” an ice breaker, not a very good one, because he didn’t seem to un-glue his eyes off the pages. 

“Twenty-one?” he breathlessly asked, either in disbelief or pride, you weren’t sure, his tone didn’t match the smile on his face. You nodded, saying something would be redundant, given that your confession was on the report, signed by you. 

“And a nurse will be coming to my house to tend to your rehab?” Multiple injuries that worsened over time, bones that healed poorly, rehabilitation and physical therapy was the only option the doctor gave you to heal completely. You thought it was incredibly invasive, but they promised you a woman nurse to aid you, so in order to heal, you could bear it. 

“It’s already paid for” Howard felt his knees buckle at the sudden information, he hadn’t seen you in years and you show up with this kind of situation, money wasn’t the problem. “You know that’s not what I mean” with that he meant perhaps what kind of people the crime committed could attract.

“Look, I didn’t want this to happen, my parents aren’t an option and I don’t have a husband, please” begging to stay somewhere safe for a year wasn’t on your plans, but for the sake of not being thrown in jail for the rest of your life, you could lower your pride enough.

This time, willingly.

“Did you get them all, or?” The disagreement look you gave him was enough of an answer.

Howard was going to ask about your possible luggage, but noticed that you only had what you were wearing, the cream-colored ruffled dress from the trial. Thinking out-loud he began to make a list of needs, “I’ll have a modiste come tomorrow, also I’ll hire you a tutor so you can learn some basics” he spoke of shoes, undergarments, cooking books, he wrote everything so he wouldn’t forget.

“Sweet lord” he exhaled, gathering some thoughts, “You want…some alcohol, food?” you shook your head, “I’m not very hungry, the train got me a bit dizzy” he left the note with the file and his reading glasses on the table near the door, “Then, rest, we’ll figure stuff out in the morning” he took the empty glass off your hands, after putting it down in the sink he made his way to the stairs.

“Howard th-” he cut you off before you could finish your sentence, “Don’t even mention it, not until you are thoroughly okay” with that he disappeared upstairs, the sound of a door closing the last you heard.

---

Stay tuned.

Taglist open: @littlebluefishtail @maxlynn17

[thefinalwitness]

i don't know if it's because i started playing mmorpgs with one whose fanbase was generally HOSTILE to people becoming invested in their characters as fully fledged members of the story being told (insane, i know), but one thing that environment DID teach me is how to bend the canon story to MY needs and the needs of the character i wanted to play, and i see a lot of ffxiv players, specifically those very invested in the "rpg" part, that don't... seem to grasp this idea?

i instead see a lot of (joking and serious) demands that the wol be portrayed differently in the source material, that we hug more characters, scream and cry over more events, and i think the mismatch happening here is you're supposed to WRITE IN any of those moments or divergences yourself. the portrayal of the wol cannot meet everyone's expectations about who the wol should be; they are, within the game, a narrative tool, as all characters in a story are. they serve a function in order to progress the story squeenix has chosen to tell.

but things like dialogue choices and an ambiguous timeline are MEANT to provide YOU with the option to rewrite the details yourself. they can't possibly provide every way every wol could react, so it's up to YOU to put an asterick in things and say, ok, this is how this scene went in MY version...

and the same is true of how other npcs treat your wol! op is completely right: the formula squeenix used in ARR is "you are an adventurer, and adventurers typically agree to crazy dangerous shit for money, and that's the agreement you and the scions began with". i think minfilia saying "we are family" is a two-fold thing: one, i think minfilia DOES care about you more than the average employer of an adventurer, just because she cares about people in general.

(the secret second reason is, if you were a 1.0 player, she RECOGNIZES YOU in ARR and thus already has a particular relationship and bond with you. ARR is weird because, if you're a 1.0 wol transferred to 2.0, you get lots of different story beats to reflect that—but also, a couple of those beats seem to persist in the non-1.0-transferred version of the story? remember when cid said you gave him his goggles despite never doing that in 2.0? yeah.)

but all of that is just the baseline, default version of a story YOU are meant to and encouraged to rewrite as needed. your wol WASNT the typical die-for-money-or-glory adventurer? you can rewrite the reasons the scions sought your character out, AND their treatment of that character to reflect the new circumstances! that's what an rpg IS: you MAKE the story YOURS.

to be fair to the scions regarding their arguable lack of concern for your wellbeing, despite minfilia's 'we are a family' hr spiel in arr they clearly hired* you in your function as an adventurer, people who by canon die like flies and who's job is to do the worst and most dangerous things ever for glory and shit money and maybe some used shoes. somehow i don't really blame them for taking you at your word. you clearly are off your nuts already

*allegedly we are paid

[void-ink-studios]

Rinse and Spit [Part 2] - A Mouthwashing AU

Chapter 2 baby!!! It's a bit of a calm before the storm type of deal. And a little bit more character interaction, for better or worse.

Check it out on Ao3 right here! And drop a comment while you're there!

Content Warning: Depictions of physical abuse.

Curly didn’t see the others much these days.  Not that he saw Swansea or Daisuke very much, even before the mysterious meeting with Anya.

But now, not even she came to see him much.  Just to redress his bandages, give him an IV for food, and keep him as clean as could be helped in such situations.  But she didn’t speak to him.  Or really look at him anymore.

Maybe she finally figured out how to hate him.  Curly figured it was only a matter of time.  Five months of taking care of someone that could be blamed for all current problems had to have taken its toll on her.  He didn’t blame her in the slightest.

She watched him through the night, just to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.  She extended as much care as she needed to.

It’s exactly what Curly deserved.

He had no right to miss their one sided conversations.  Or her reading out loud to him some cheesy fantasy novel, or the employee handbook.  He didn’t need any of it, didn’t deserve any of it.  So it’s only right, he supposed, that she’d decide that as well.

But the other’s absence meant that it was just Curly and Jimmy in the Med Bay these days.

And Curly hasn’t had a moment’s peace yet.

Jimmy liked to stare at him.  Maybe gawk is the better descriptor.  He seemed to take some amusement or satisfaction looking at Curly’s state.

Curly had done his best not to dignify it with eye contact.  But it was hard when you felt the burning emptiness locked onto you.

He touched a lot.  No matter how many times Curly made noises to indicate it hurt, or how he moved his weak limbs, he was touched.  He was moved and turned and rotated, as if Jimmy was trying to take in every detail.  He opened and closed his mouth, sometimes hard enough to make his teeth rattle against each other.  He forcefully turned his head to make him look at random things.  He picked at bandages, staring as his ruined skin tugged on them.

I hope this hurts.

Sometimes he would just choke him.  If Curly ever made it out of this, he would remember the look on Jimmy’s face forever.  There wasn’t any light in his eyes.  Not even anger or disgust.  Just emptiness as he squeezed and pushed hard onto Curly’s neck.  Sometimes he’d rummage through a drawer and see how far he could push a tongue depressor down Curly’s throat.

Jimmy didn’t talk much during these visits.  Only when he gave him his pills did he really talk.  But dear god did Curly wish he didn’t.

“I know the way you thought of me” he started.  “I was your charity case, right?  Saving me from my struggle of a life?  Yeah, I see that, Curly.  I suppose you think I should thank you?”

Jimmy stared intensely at the pill between his fingers.

“Who should be thanking who now?  Not like you can do anything without my help anymore.  It’s you’re fault we’re in this mess.  I think you should act a bit more grateful.”

The pilot leaned in close, close enough Curly could smell his breath.

“Say thank you.”

Curly did move.  Didn’t open his mouth.  Just kept his eye locked on Jimmy’s.

“I said to say thank you.  Say thank you and I give you your pill.”

Jimmy’s hands were rough.  They always had calluses, he’d worked a number of odd jobs back on Earth, labored the softness of his skin away.  And Curly could feel all those years of struggle as his former friend started to squeeze his cheeks tightly, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

“I’m busting my ass around this ship because of you.  The least you could do is be thankful for it.”

Curly’s world goes topside as Jimmy shook his head back and forth.  Black spots filled his vision, and he could hear the blood rushing in his head and ear.  And the grip just kept getting tighter.

“Say it.”

Curly forced his throat to make sounds.  Some kind of approximation of “Thank you.”  Anything to get Jimmy to leave faster.

“There.  Wasn’t so hard to just show a little appreciation, right Captain?”

Curly had learned to mostly escape his own body when Jimmy shoved his fingers down his throat.  That’s been a skill he’s gotten really good at.  He could carry his mind away, to other places and times, far far away from the Tulpar.

But he could never escape for very long.  Jimmy patted his cheek like he was a misbehaving child finally deciding to cooperate.

“You know.  If we had the supplies and Swansea could let go of a bottle of mouthwash for long enough, I bet we could put together a little button wall for you.  You know, like those videos of the talking dogs Daisuke was showing you?  Then you can tell us when you need your pills instead of making those fucking noises all the time.  Look at me.  Still fixing things.”

Jimmy laughed.  Curly didn’t.

He had hoped that would be the end of it.  But he was hardly so lucky these days.

“Stop staring at me.”

Curly flicked his gaze up at the ceiling, his eye tracing the patterns of the seams in the ceiling.  He could still see Jimmy, out in his peripheral.  Staring at him.

“Why’d you have to give Swansea the ax, hm?  Old bastard won’t hand it over.  Kept saying how you entrusted him with it.  Even before the crash.”

Curly wasn’t sure where he was going with this.  What was he meant to do?  Answer?  He’s not even sure why.

But there was something in Jimmy’s expression that makes him glad he did.

“...This really was all your fault, huh?  If you had just… Well, we wouldn’t be here.  And now look at you.  You’re too useless to be angry at.  Managed to dodge any responsibility and get to lay here.  You don’t have to do anything.  Must be paradise, right?”

And then Curly was alone again.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, just trying to breathe and let the pill’s effects take hold.  He didn’t even like how the pills felt.  He felt clouded.  Muffled.  Not even in a way that could let him relax or distract him from the pain.  It’s just now he can’t do anything to express that discomfort.  He can’t even make “those fucking noises” when they take effect.

Best he could hope for is them making him too tired to do anything else but sleep.

He didn’t know if Anya knows that.  Does she think they’re helping?  Does she know that Pony Express paid for the cheapest possible painkillers and called it a day?

He didn’t know which answer would be worse.

“...Captain?”

Curly jumped a little.  Couldn’t be…

Daisuke seemed lost.  He always looked a little lost, but this time he really looked out of place.  He’d been to the Med Bay a few times, as far as Curly remembers.  A few bumps and bruises that Anya had to clear, especially after the foam wall mishap.

“Uh, hi Captain.  It’s been a while.”

Curly made a soft noise as Daisuke inched into the room a bit further.  He turned his head, unable to look at the intern.

The kid shouldn’t be here.

Take Responsibility

It was Curly’s fault this kid was here.  He remembered the memo from Pony Express, that they assigned an intern to the voyage.  He remembered getting frustrated, but letting it go and informing Swansea he’d be training a new crew mate.  He remembered how excited Daisuke was when he boarded the ship, immediately tripping over the last step before the captain could warn him about it.

Curly thought bitterly about Pony Express.  Why bother hiring an intern if they knew they were going under?

God, what are his parents thinking right now?  Did they know?  Did anyone on Earth know they’re stuck out here?  When would they figure it out?  Long after they’re all mummified in this metal tomb, that’s for certain.  If they even get that far.

“Are you feeling any better?”  Daisuke sat on the chair right next to his bed, where Anya usually sat.  He turned his head to look at the kid.  “Right… Dumb question, sorry.”

He pulled something out of his pocket.  Oh… His game system… Swansea had complained when he first saw it, called it a waste of batteries.  And maybe it was.  But Curly let him keep it anyway.  What harm could two missing batteries cause, after all?

Curly remembered Daisuke showing him the game he was playing, months ago.  Some platformer, a difficult one, one Daisuke himself said he was kinda bad at.  Yet he kept playing.  Curly couldn’t recall a time he’s seen the intern not smiling while playing.

Unconsciously, Curly makes a noise, a motion towards Daisuke, who had begun playing.

“Oh!  You wanna see?”

Curly hesitated for a second before nodding.

“Awesome.  So, I’m on this level with a bunch of explosive mushrooms, the explosions are huge and hard to dodge.  Never made it past this level.”

Curly watched the gameplay, the tiny character trying to dodge and weave between fungal bombs.

He felt himself move before he consciously realized he was doing it.  But he found himself now on his side, watching the game.  It was the most movement Curly’s had in days, at least movement that he initiated.

“Swansea’s not interested, Anya’s busy, and Jimmy… well, nobody seems to really have time for anything other than stress right now.  A-And I don’t blame them, this situation sucks.  Maybe we’ll get famous for it later, but right now… Things are pretty dicey, Captain.  I know I should probably be doing something more useful right now but… I don’t know.  I just don’t want to make things worse.”

Daisuke looked at Curly, a little surprised to see the captain’s change in position.

“Oh, woah.  Anya said you haven’t moved in ages.  Heh, glad my game’s so interesting, Captain.  Makes me play better, I bet.  Be my good luck charm?”

Curly didn’t make a noise, just a shallow little nod.  If he could smile, he would.  It was the first in a long time that the captain felt he was being treated like a human.

Not that you deserve it.

“Anya and Swansea have been acting weird lately.  They have little meetings in Utility.  I don’t think they know I’ve noticed.  I thought Swansea said Utility was walled up with foam.  Guess he cleared it out.”

Daisuke made a little triumphant noise as he defeats what Curly believes to be a miniboss.

“They don’t talk about you anymore.  I tried to ask Anya if you were doing any better and she just kinda looked away.  I thought you had died or something. Swansea just told me to not worry about it.  Maybe that’s why I wandered over here.”

Curly made a wounded noise at that.  He figured he was probably a lost cause anyway, but… Well it didn’t make hearing it hurt any less.

“Jimmy’s been weird too.  Or, I guess he’s always been a bit weird.  But now he’s acting really weird.  He keeps telling me that Swansea’s up to something, but… I dunno.”

Daisuke shook his head, his expression turning a little embarrassed.  “Sorry Cap.  Didn’t mean to talk your ear off like that.  Or, uh, wait… Nevermind.  I can go if you, uh, want.”

Curly groaned.  He couldn’t grab, couldn’t reach out very far without the bandages tugging on his back and arms painfully, but he tried his best.

“Oh.  Cool.  I guess I’ll keep playing here then.  It’s quiet here.”

The two stayed like that for a long while, with the only noise being the little sound effects and music coming from Daisuke’s game.  Even the fluorescent buzzing and crackling of the window screen seemed quieter than before.

“I get why Anya sleeps here instead of the Lounge.  Gotta be nice to get away from Swansea’s snoring, right?”

Curly chuffed a weak laugh, surprising even himself.

He wished he could tell Daisuke stories.  He had wanted to ever since the intern first introduced himself after take off.  Wanted to let him know they’ve all been in his position.  And that he’d find his place soon, just like they all did.  But Curly was always too busy or distracted.

Take responsibility

It all seemed so pointless now.  What place was Daisuke meant to find if he lost his job before he even finished his first trip?

“Hey Captain…?”

Curly snapped out of his thoughts, turning to look more directly at Daisuke.

“When we get back, you’ll keep in touch, yeah?”

Curly was confused at that.  Keep in touch?  It’s a miracle every second he’s still breathing, how is he meant to last long enough until they get to a proper hospital?

But then he saw the look in Daisuke’s eyes.  He was always such a happy kid.  Smiling even when Anya lost her mind at his luck in dice games.  Laughing even as Swansea scolded him for doing something foolish.  Joking even in the face of what’s certain death to everyone else.

But… Well, Daisuke probably knows that too.  He knows the chances of them ever seeing Earth again are slim enough to cut air.  He knows as much as everyone else.

Do you see the dead pixel?

Curly nodded, making his best effort at a positive noise.

“Awesome.  I gotta tell Mom and Dad what a cool boss you are.”

Take responsibility

The door slid open, breaking whatever spell was cast over the Med Bay.  The buzzing and crackling filled Curly’s head again, the pill’s effects finally enveloping his head.  He spotted Anya, who looked a little startled.  Both at Daisuke’s presence and Curly’s new position.

“Daisuke.  Did you need anything?  Another new bruise?”

“No Ms Volkov.  Just chatting with the Captain.”

Anya looked between Curly and Daisuke.  Curly had the impression like she was inspecting him.  Whether it was like an insect or like a wound, he couldn’t tell.  He wordlessly rolled back over onto his back.

“...Swansea was looking for you.  You might want to meet him in the lounge before he blows a gasket.”

“Yes ma’am” the intern said with a silly little salute.  He turned to look at Curly one more time.  “I’ll talk to you later, Captain.  You’re my new good luck charm with my games.”

And with that, it was just him and Anya once again.

The two stared at each other for the longest time.  Curly hoped that maybe she would finally speak to him again.  His selfish heart still ached for her company.

I hope this hurts.

“...Goodnight Captain.”

And Curly was alone again.

[rhiannonsknife]

heyyy first of all, i just needed to say that your writing is soooo fucking good like i was genuinely impressed when you said that english isn't your first language because I can't imagine how this could get any better. Also, it isn’t only about the way you write but also the way you just get each character perfectly. That's just... woah, just woah. So yeah, I hope you keep on writing for a long time for the sake of everyone's happiness lol

And lastly, you remembered us about how you also write for the rest of the yellowjackets, not that I don't enjoy the whole "let's give love to all ella purnell's characters" thing going on here buuuut i remembered one scenario has been in my mind for a while and I'd love if you wrote about it.

Shauna, after losing so much to the wilderness, carries this relentless, overwhelming anger that keeps most of the other girls at a distance. Even those who aren't outright scared of her still know better than to get too close. She obviously needs love and comfort, but god help anyone who tries to say that to her. And then r decides to take a shot, carefully inching closer without setting her off. Slowly but surely, r makes progress. First, just being allowed in Shauna's space, then a hand on her shoulder, brushing her hand, maybe even touching her hair. When Shauna finally lets her guard down, r sees just how touch-starved she really is, how deeply she needs someone to just be there, to be her person.

Shauna and r start disappearing for hours, slipping off to somewhere, maybe the airplane, where r can pepper her face with kisses, making her feel safe. And Shauna just lets herself melt in those moments, holding r close.

my mind just goes ogdofgkditwukymg w her

── ౿🪵 NO ONE COULD SAVE ME BUT YOU

— summary: shauna shipman needs a hug. that’s it. that’s the summary.

— warnings: hurt/comfort. canon typical dark themes. implied cannibalism (duh). child loss. etc. so: angst. some fluff. did not beta-read this. + i had no clue how to start or end this fic.

— a/n: woah thank you so so much!! i genuinely appreciate that <3 i’m not planning on stopping any time soon! anyway, i hope you like how this turned out!!

out here, she’s lost everything. you all know it, though none of you dares to actually talk about it. it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that she’s beginning to lose herself too. it’s concerning all the same.

shauna still gets her chores done, so it is not like you don’t have her support in this poorly built system, this attempt to keep things under control when -really- all last restraints of control were lost the morning you’d found jackie’s body, buried in the snow, and with all that came after that. the things no one ever speaks about.

perhaps that is why none of the girls have approached her yet: as long as she does what she’s supposed to do, why would anyone try and cross her, or potentially upset her? after what she’s done to lottie, it’s no surprise. sometimes, in moments during which you find yourself staring at her hands for reasons beyond you, you can see the flash of a scar, standing out against the thin skin of her knuckles.

maybe they’re scared of her. or scared of what she’s become, out here. it doesn’t make a difference. maybe you should all be scared of what you’ve become.

either way, it’s not fair. you obviously know that she needs the same comfort some of the other girls have found in each other, whether shauna wants to admit it or not.

so you -with nothing better to do for the most part- make it your mission to be this comfort for her.

at first, shauna gives you short, cold responses when you try to make small talk, but you keep at it. there’s nowhere to go anyway, nowhere she could flee to get away from your slightly awkward attempts to just talk. it’s a first step.

gradually, you notice her replies get a little longer, her posture softens, just slightly, and she doesn’t seem so quick to brush you off. a small sign, but it means you’re beginning to earn her trust. you don’t talk, not always. sometimes, you’ll just linger nearby and watch her prepare the last remaining pieces of meat or sit in the same room as she scribbles in the journal she’s brought from home.

sitting with shauna in silence becomes its own form of closeness; she doesn’t say much, but she lets you be near her. you can’t remember, now that you think about it, when she was last hugged. when she last felt the touch of another person. your heart aches at this realization. could it have been jackie? it already feels like a whole lifetime ago, that she'd been among the group.

over time, she actually starts letting you sit close enough that your legs touch. you hope it’s her way of saying that maybe she doesn’t mind your presence as much as she lets on.

one day, after a particularly hard night, you take a chance and rest a hand on shauna’s shoulder. you’ve noticed, even from a distance, that she doesn’t sleep well. truthfully, no one out here does. but, with your makeshift mattress closest to the spot she’s preoccupied in the farthest corner of the room, you often notice the way she flinches in her sleep, or shoots up in the middle of the night, panting heavily.

when you notice it that night, you slip out of the more or less comfortable ‘warmth’ of your blankets and make your way over to her.

she tenses, but for a moment, she doesn’t pull away. her silence feels like a monumental moment, a sign that she’s slowly starting to let her walls down. you sit like this, hidden by the darkness of the cabin and with none of the others awake, for a long moment. neither of you moves, neither of you even dares to breathe, afraid it’ll pass by as fast as it has come. then, she shrugs away from your grip and mutters: “i’m fine”. she’s not, obviously. but you take it as a small victory. you’ve felt the way she relaxed under your hold, the way she didn’t immediately push you away.

as weeks pass, you notice shauna becoming less and less guarded in your presence. she’s still wary, still sharp, but you can sense the small shifts, a quiet murmur here, a shared look there, that suggest she’s warming up to having you close.

maybe that night is what’s to blame, or maybe she’s genuinely beginning to realize how much she craves the warmth of another person. your warmth.

it’s one of these days where she’s angrily scribbling down words into her journal when shauna reaches a first ‘breaking point’. she’s sitting beside you in silence, the weight of the wilderness and the day pressing down on both of you. the only noise is the angry scrape of her pencil against paper. in a rare moment of boldness, you reach out, brushing a strand of her hair back from her face.

you’re not sure why you do it. but shauna seems so far away from everything, so detached from the reality you live in, that you just want to offer her something grounding.

her first reaction is to freeze, her eyes widening with a flicker of surprise, and you nearly pull your hand away, wondering if you’ve overstepped. but instead, shauna lets out a breath and holds still, allowing you to tuck the strand behind her ear. as your fingers brush her cheek, you can feel her breath catch, her defenses lowering just a little. it’s a brief, fragile moment, but one that feels much bigger to you: an unspoken acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, she’ll allow more of this.

that’s when things begin to change: shauna starts looking for you after difficult moments, lingering by your side in ways that tell you she needs someone, even if she won’t say it; too stubborn to ever admit it out loud. she lets you take her hand quietly, her thumb rubbing yours a wordless promise that, just for a while, she’ll let you be her safe place.

it becomes routine for you and shauna to disappear to some quiet spot when the cabin feels too heavy. no one has figured you out yet, although you’re sure that they can put two and two together by now: tai has caught your eye, the last time you sneaked off together and lottie has long claimed that the wilderness has its fucked up ways of communicating with her. whether any of it is true or not, something about the glances she shoots in your direction tells you that she knows. that she might even appreciate it, though that could just be because she won’t be the outlet for shauna’s anger anymore.

after a particularly tense exchange with the others, she brushes past you, muttering, “let’s go.” you follow her immediately, of course, and the two of you wind through the forest until you reach the plane’s wreckage. inside, it’s silent and dim, a place that’s somehow managed to become a safe haven. the last reminder of civilization, somewhere far far away from you.

shauna lets herself lean back against the metal frame, shoulders dropping in relief, her usual guarded expression softening as you sit close beside her.

she doesn’t say anything, but her hand finds yours, squeezing it tightly, as if she’s grounding herself in your presence. then, in a rare show of vulnerability, she leans her head on your shoulder, her eyes closing as she lets out a shaky sigh. you wrap an arm around her, pull her closer, and let her melt into you, feeling her tension slowly give way as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.

together, you stay like that for hours, just holding each other. shauna curls into your arms, letting herself fully relax in the quiet. you actually dare to cradle her head and press gentle kisses to her forehead, feeling her melt into your embrace, and trusting you in a way she hasn’t trusted anyone else in a long, long time.

“you’re…you’re way too soft for this place, you know that?” you hear her whispering. she doesn’t stop you, though.

when it’s time to return, shauna doesn’t say a word but gives you a look that says it all: gratitude, trust, and something almost like relief.

even when you’re not together, shauna’s glances toward you become longer, her eyes lingering with something that remains unspoken, as if she’s trying to understand this newfound feeling.

around the others, she is still hesitant to be openly affectionate. in the cabin, it is only late at night, when it’s just the two of you, that she lets herself fall into your arms. It’s the only time she allows herself to be unguarded, clinging to you silently as if afraid you’ll vanish too if she lets go.

that same night, you catch a quiet confession under her ragged breath. she’s facing the other way, letting you spoon her from behind. only this way, does she dare to open up about how everything seems to slip away from her. she’s scared but hides it behind anger and frustration. you’re the first person allowed to see her tears.

you can’t even begin to imagine what she’s going through. all the things she’s been robbed of: girlhood, like all of you. even if you’re ever rescued (which seems less likely with every day that passes) how are you supposed to move on? how are you supposed to live, like none of this ever happened? her best friend, who no one dares to talk about anymore, afraid it’ll bring back the things you’ve done. it’s like she was never here at all which, you think, must be even worse. motherhood, too, though she never even wanted it. no one seems to acknowledge that, out of everyone out here, she might just be the one to have lost everything to the wilderness.

in an attempt to comfort her, you trace mindless shapes against the back of her hand, slowly soothing her back to sleep. the letters of her name, a loopy S, gliding across her scarred knuckles with a tenderness so contrary to everything these hands have done. your own name, next. you hear a gentle chuckle coming from shauna. she knows what you’re doing, of course. you don’t stop.

the outline of wiskayok, as you remember from the map. she doesn’t seem to recognize this one, a little crease between her brows. “home” you tell her quietly and the crease vanishes.

it feels surreal that, somewhere out there, home is still a place. that wiskayok still exists to the people, to your families, your classmates, and everyone else back there. that it’s more than just a fading memory.

“you suck at drawing” she finally manages. it’s the first time you can hear the glimpse of amusement in her voice.

“what? you think you’re any better?” you whisper quietly, wanting it to last.

shauna shifts beside you, and takes your hand with a gentleness you didn’t think she possessed still.

now it’s your turn to lay back and feel. she starts with words. “yellowjackets” she spells out. a small smile flashes over your features as shauna studies your face attentively. then, though it’s harder to make out, she traces the word: “champions”. your heart feels heavy with everything that could’ve been.

shapes are next: a tiny heart, resembling the shape of jackie's necklace, then a simple circle.

"that's a soccer ball" she whispers expertly. for the first time, you laugh. it only lasts a short moment before you remember where you are, and that the others are trying to sleep just a couple of meters from you.

you fall asleep with her hand in your own, as both of your eyes grow too tired and you drift off together.

other nights, when she’s fast asleep and -for once- doesn’t seem haunted by nightmares, you find yourself watching over her. it’s the only time you get to see her the way she’d once been: when her features aren’t tense or pained, but relaxed. when she’s the girl you met at the very first soccer practice years ago, who hasn’t known any of the things that’ll happen to her in this lifetime. you stay up all night, only realizing how much time has passed when light starts spilling into the cabin and she stirs up.

you know shauna hates being pitied. so while you do feel for her, instead of asking if she’s okay, you just stay close, offering your warmth and presence. when shauna’s frustration bubbles over, she lets herself scream or cry in your arms, knowing you won’t turn her away. you hold her tightly all through the waves of emotions, murmuring quiet reassurances, and she clings to you, even as she struggles to accept that someone genuinely cares.

“everyone else… they don’t understand. they couldn’t. but you-“ she murmurs softly. “you’re the only one who sees me. the only one who wants to.”

shauna begins to show subtle signs of protectiveness over you, too: always looking out for you and offering the little comforts she can manage. even though her gestures are often quieter than yours, and less obvious, she's found her own way of showing she’s come to care for you, and that she’s willing to fight for you as much as you’re willing to be there for her out there!! <3

[tyrantisterror]

At Sea Without a Map pt. 25

For a very brief moment, you consider how out of all the crazy bullshit that's been thrown at you, this - a fucking pirate tiger - is the thing that's breaking your brain. Sea monsters and living nightmares are one thing, but how do you even begin to comprehend something this goddamn silly being real?

Well, apparently you just roll with it, because that's what you end up doing. "Alright, Calibani, translate for me please," you say, "I've got some questions for..." You stop and squint at the tiger pirate, and it regards you back with the terrifying stare of an apex predator. "For Captain Peter."

The tiger sits at attention, waiting for your queries. With a nod from Calibani, you begin to interrogate the big cat. "Alright, so..." You try to think of which questions would be most important to ask, but one keeps superseding them in your mind. "I'm sorry, but why are you a tiger? Like, were you transformed into a tiger or something?"

Calibani poses the question for you in a mix of growls and roars, and Captain Peter simply shakes his shaggy head in response. "He says he's always been a tiger."

"Then how did he get here?" you ask. "Tigers aren't exactly aquatic wildlife!"

After a translation by Calibani, Captain Peter begins growling and roaring back a very long answer, which takes your fishy companion a while to parse. "I think I have the jist..." Calibani says.

"Captain Peter was put in a cage by a nasty man. The nasty man took him on a big boat across the ocean, and Captain Peter was very sad and scared. A great storm came and shook the ship, breaking the cage and letting Peter free! He chased the nasty man off the big boat and onto a small boat, then ate the nasty man and was very happy! But he had nowhere to go, and was stuck on the boat for a long time. Eventually he saw a huge fish, and it tried to eat him, but he ate it instead. Eating the fish made him and his boat stronger, so he kept doing that, and now he and his boat are very strong!"

As the story is relayed to you, you place your palm upon your face and slowly draw it down as you process what you're hearing. "Alright, alright, fine, that makes enough sense," you tell yourself. "But where'd he get the coat, and the hat, and the eyepatch, and the goddamn hand-hook on his tail?"

After relaying the question, Calibani translates the tiger's brief answer, "From adventure." Frowning, she growls a followup question to the tiger, and gets another brief response. "I'm sorry, he's not giving me more detail than that."

Sighing, you ask, "Is he the only crew of this ship? I mean, it's huge, don't ships like this need a big crew?" You look at the tiger again and add, "Also, like, human hands to manipulate it?"

After some back and forth roaring, Calibani translates, "He is the only crew of this boat. It listens to him well, and has grown big and strong."

"What the fuck does that mean?" you ask. "Boats don't grow!"

"They don't?" Calibani asks. "I thought all living things do that."

"Boats aren't alive!" you say, only to remember some odd quirks of your own vehicle. "At least they're not supposed to be..."

"Huh. You learn something new everyday, I suppose," Calibani says.

A thought occurs to you. "Ask him how long he's been here."

Calibani relays the question then gives you the response. "Many days and many nights. He says that he has lived longer than any tiger has lived before out here, and plans to live longer still. As long as he draws breath, he will claw and bite and thrive out here on the sea."

It's not a specific answer, which should be expected from a creature that was not taught how to record and measure time (and hell, it's not like you've been doing a good job of it yourself), but it tells you what you need to know. If you are stuck here, that doesn't mean you're doomed. After all, a tiger's got some significant disadvantages you don't have to deal with, and if he made it this long, maybe you can too.

Still, that doesn't mean you want to stay here. "Ask Captain Peter what he knows about Dr. Neptune, whoever that is. If those notes are to be trusted, that guy might be my ticket home."

A good deal of roaring fills the air as you wait for an answer. "He says Dr. Neptune is... um... a bucket? With meat in it? A meat bucket?" Calibani shrugs. "I'm not quite sure what he's describing, but apparently this Neptune fella is pretty smart, but also strange? He lives in a... what?" She growls and roars back and forth with the tiger again. "He lives in a mountain shaped like a wrinkly butt."

"...a wrinkly butt," you say flatly.

"Yeah, like a monkey's butt, but covered in wrinkles," Calibani says. "Peter says Dr. Neptune does not like it when he calls it a butt, but that's what it looks like, and Dr. Neptune can complain all he wants but he chose to live in a butt mountain so what does he know."

"Does he know how to send me home?" you ask insistently. "I don't care if he lives in an actual asshole, I just want to go home!"

The tiger thinks for a while when this question is translated for him, before finally growling out a reply for Calibani to relay. "If anyone Peter's met would know, it'd be Dr. Neptune." More growling, more translation. "But Peter asks why you want to go back? There are nasty men at home. The sea doesn't put you in a cage."

That question stuns you so bad you feel dizzy, because you're not sure what the answer to it is. As you try to think of it, you feel your compass grow heavy in your pocket, and instinctively reach down, grab it, and reposition it so it weighs a bit less on you. "Tell me where I can find Dr. Neptune," you say, putting the tiger's question out of mind for now.

Captain Peter turns around and looks to the horizon, gesturing at it with his tail-mounted hook. "He says we should travel that way. It should be no more than a day's journey till we find Dr. Neptune's island. If we hit the island with jagged spines, we've gone too far."

"Spines?"

"He doesn't have the largest vocabulary," Calibani says. "I think he means rocks, or maybe mountains? He describes most things in animal terms."

"Alright," you sigh. "Those are directions are easy enough to follow, anyway." You think about any other questions you might have. "Does he have any weapons he can spare - a cannon, maybe? I just lost my harpoon, after all."

Calibani relays the message, and the tiger's eye lights up. He gives a growl before stalking up the plank back to his ship, then returns shortly afterward with a bundle of harpoons held in his jaws. "Oh, that's kind of him," Calibani says. "We have five to spare now!"

You think about how you would have preferred a cannon, but decide not to verbalize it. "Thank him for me," you ask Calibani, and she nods and growls to the tiger.

Captain Peter nods and releases several roars in quick succession. "He says to think nothing of it, and to remember the kindness of Captain Peter. He adds that he wishes us well on our journey, and that we kill and eat many a monster, so we too may grow strong." She gives the tiger a nod as he trots back to his ship. "Pretty pleasant fellow, huh?"

"...yeah," you say quietly as you watch the tiger climb up onto his pirate ship and sail away. Once more you're safe, and while you have more of an idea what to do now, you're still left with a lot of burning questions. Confused as to what you should focus on, you consult your compass.

[skyguy8108]

The difference with Ki-Adi and Anakin though is Ki-Adi was a Knight in the story whereas Anakin is still a Padawan so they might not let him leave.

I don't know if Lucas realized how he made the Jedi look because neither AOTC (movie) or novel explains why they had no contact. I know Lucas told Terry Brooks, the writer of TPM novel, what happens to Shmi in the second movie and that's why he wrote a scene in TPM novel with Anakin saving a Tusken.

The thing is Lucas wanted Shmi to die that way and for Anakin to lose it and he didn't care about how he made the Jedi look but I think were not suppose to see because he does not see the Jedi's rules as wrong even though we may question it and feel (as I do) that is part of why Anakin fell. In the AOTC commentary Lucas says Anakin would have been fine if he had been found as a 1 year old because he wouldn't have had a strong connection to his mother (I say he wouldn't have one at all) and learned to love without attachment. But what does loving without attachment really mean because it comes off as just not caring beyond Oh, that's said.

Obi-Wan knows Anakin has been having dreams about his mother, if contact was allowed surely Obi-Wan would suggest calling her but he doesn't. Going further with reading things from the movie we have Anakin telling Padmé he's ready for the trials and feels held back and I feel a part of that is because as a Knight he would have the freedom to go save his mother from slavery. The AOTC novel adds that other Padawans his age have taken the trials.

Before getting on the transport to Naboo Anakin tells Padmé this is his first assignment on his own. So that to me says he never had a chance to run off and help his mother and Padmé offering to go with him addresses the need of him getting a ship.

On the transport to Naboo Anakin has a nightmare, the scene was cut form the movie but Padmé mentions this when she says to Anakin he's had another nightmare. The second being the one he had on Naboo. This scene is also in the novel. Now I don't know why it was cut but it again raises the question of why Anakin doesn't know about his mother being free once Anakin and us the audience learn she's been free for years.

All the other Jedi are recruited as infants and are we to assume that no parent in the history of the Jedi Order has never tried to contact their child? Sure Lucas could say that has never happened but he hasn't so all we can assume is the Jedi would not allow the children given to the Order to have contact with their families. So them preventing Shmi from talking with Anakin is in their wheelhouse.

I have wondered what would the Jedi do if Cliegg or Owen had sent a message to tell Anakin what had happened to his mother. The Jedi are all about not acting on their emotions and they would remember how he felt about her when they first interviewed him and surely they know that he'd run off to help her and thus could easily determine Anakin should not be told.

There is a quote from TPM novel which I feels highlights the issues with the Jedi and why Qui-Gon would have been the ideal master for Anakin. Also in Legends Qui-Gon did do something to help Shmi which if he had lived I'm sure he would have told Anakin what he did. Qui-Gon was going to send Shmi money that Watto would take but worried Watto would be suspicious so he sent her a valuable ship part. After falling in love with Cliegg she gave it to him and Cliegg used that to free her.

Here is the quote:

Qui-Gon lifted his gaze to a darkened window. The storm had subsided, the wind abated. It was quiet without, the night soft and welcoming in its peace. The Jedi Master thought for a moment on his own life. He knew what they said about him at Council. He was willful, even reckless in his choices. He was strong, but he dissipated his strength on causes that did not merit his attention. But rules were not created solely to govern behavior. Rules were created to provide a road map to understanding the Force. Was it so wrong for him to bend those rules when his conscience whispered to him that he must?

The Jedi folded his arms over his broad chest. The Force was a complex and difficult concept. The Force was rooted in the balance of all things, and every movement within its flow risked an upsetting of that balance. A Jedi sought to keep the balance in place, to move in concert to its pace and will. But the Force existed on more than one plane, and achieving mastery of its multiple passages was a lifetime’s work. Or more. He knew his own weakness. He was too close to the life Force when he should have been more attentive to the unifying Force. He found himself reaching out to the creatures of the present, to those living in the here and now. He had less regard for the past or the future, to the creatures that had or would occupy those times and spaces.

It was the life Force that bound him, that gave him heart and mind and spirit.

So it was he empathized with Anakin Skywalker in ways that other Jedi would discourage, finding in this boy a promise he could not ignore. Obi-Wan would see the boy and Jar Jar in the same light—useless burdens, pointless projects, unnecessary distractions. Obi-Wan was grounded in the need to focus on the larger picture, on the unifying Force. He lacked Qui-Gon’s intuitive nature. He lacked his teacher’s compassion for and interest in all living things. He did not see the same things Qui-Gon saw.

Qui-Gon sighed. This was not a criticism, only an observation. Who was to say that either of them was the better for how they interpreted the demands of the Force? But it placed them at odds sometimes, and more often than not it was Obi-Wan’s position the Council supported, not Qui-Gon’s. It would be that way again, he knew. Many times.

This also ties into another part from TPM novel and the book Clone Wars Gambit Stealth.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes in dismay. This was a disaster waiting to happen. But it was Qui-Gon’s disaster to manage. It was not his place to interfere. Qui-Gon had made the decision to bring Jar Jar Binks along, after all. Not because he was a skilled navigator or had displayed even the slightest evidence of talent in any other regard, but because he was another project that Qui-Gon, with his persistent disregard for the dictates of the Council, had determined had value and could be reclaimed.

It was a preoccupation that both mystified and frustrated Obi-Wan. His mentor was perhaps the greatest Jedi alive, a commanding presence at Council, a strong and brave warrior who refused to be intimidated by even the most daunting challenge, and a good and kind man. Maybe it was the latter that had gotten him into so much trouble. He repeatedly defied the Council in matters that Obi-Wan thought barely worthy of championing. He was possessed of his own peculiar vision of a Jedi’s purpose, of the nature of his service, and of the causes he should undertake, and he followed that vision with unwavering single-mindedness.

Obi-Wan was young and impatient, headstrong and not yet at one with the Force in the way that Qui-Gon was, but he understood better, he thought, the dangers of overreaching, of taking on too many tasks. Qui-Gon would dare anything when he found a challenge that interested him, even if he risked himself in the undertaking.

So it was here. Jar Jar Binks was a risk of the greatest magnitude, and there was no reason to think that embracing such a risk would reap even the smallest reward.”

The Gungan muttered some more, all the while casting about through the viewport as if seeking a road sign that would allow him to at least pretend he knew what he was doing. Obi-Wan gritted his teeth. Stay out of it, he told himself sternly. Stay out of it.

“Here, take over,” he snapped at Jar Jar. He moved out of his seat to kneel close to Qui-Gon. “Master,” he said, unable to help himself, “why do you keep dragging these pathetic life-forms along with us when they are of so little use?”

Qui-Gon Jinn smiled faintly. “He seems that way now perhaps, but you must look deeper, Obi-Wan.”

“I’ve looked deep enough, and there is nothing to see!” Obi-Wan flushed with irritation. “He is an un-needed distraction!”

“Maybe for the moment. But that may change with time.” Obi-Wan started to say something more, but the Jedi Master cut him short. “Listen to me, my young Padawan. There are secrets hidden in the Force that are not easily discovered. The Force is vast and pervasive, and all living things are a part of it. It is not always apparent what their purpose is, however. Sometimes that purpose must be sensed first in order that it may be revealed later.”

Obi-Wan’s young face clouded. “Some secrets are best left concealed, Master.” He shook his head. “Besides, why must you always be the one to do the uncovering? You know how the Council feels about these … detours. Perhaps, just once, the uncovering should be left to someone else.”

Qui-Gon looked suddenly sad. “No, Obi-Wan. Secrets must be exposed when found. Detours must be taken when encountered. And if you are the one who stands at the crossroads or the place of concealment, you must never leave it to another to act in your place.”

Clone Wars Gambit Stealth

“Probably,” said Anakin, grinning again. “Right, let’s get settled in. The faster we can get through to the Temple and coordinate a battle plan, the faster we get Bant’ena away from Durd. Here—” He held out his glowing lightsaber. “Hold this for me.”

Troubled, Obi-Wan watched him as he unplugged a small desk lamp. “Anakin …”

“What?” said Anakin, dropping to his knees to set the lamp up again on the floor under the front counter. He looked over his shoulder—and his expression changed. He plugged the lamp in and switched it on, then sat back on his heels. His face was wary now, and his fists rested combatively on his thighs. “Obi-Wan, what?”

Obi-Wan wasn’t going to let himself be sidetracked by the tone. Deactivating the lightsaber, he tossed it back. “Anakin, don’t do this,” he said, as his former student caught the weapon and put it aside. “Don’t—” He took a moment to rein in his own temper. Fixing broken things is all very well—but not when we’re up to our armpits in a dangerous mission. “Qui-Gon used to do this. He used to roam around the galaxy picking up strays.”

“Like me, you mean?” said Anakin tightly. “Useless hangers-on like me?”

“You were never useless. Anakin, please, you must listen,” he insisted. “On almost every mission he and I went on we came across someone in trouble. Sometimes they’d brought it on themselves. Sometimes they were like Doctor Fhernan, victims of another being’s machinations. But there was always someone. And he would try to help them.”

“So?” said Anakin. “What’s wrong with that? He helped me. He saved me. And this is my way of paying him back for that. Every person I help or save is me saying thank you to Qui-Gon. Why do you have a problem with that?”

“I don’t,” Obi-Wan protested. And then, at Anakin’s look, he grimaced. “Well—yes, all right. I do. But not because it isn’t an admirable ambition. It is, Anakin. It’s admirable, it’s laudable, it shows you have a good heart. But—” He ran a hand over his beard, searching for the right words. “For one thing, we’re Jedi, not social workers. It’s not our job to collect the galaxy’s waifs and strays.”

Anakin’s chin came up, defiant. “Then it should be. What is the point of having all this power if we don’t use it to make people’s lives better?”

“But we do make people’s lives better! You know we do!” he retorted. “Right now the Jedi are dying to make people’s lives better. I can’t believe I need to remind you of that!”

“You don’t,” said Anakin, glowering. “And I’m not saying we should drop everything and devote all our time and resources to picking up strays. I’m not saying we should go looking for them, either. What I’m saying is that if we happen to fall over one we shouldn’t just—just pick ourselves up and keep on walking.”

“Oh, Anakin.” Sighing, he dropped cross-legged to the dusty carpet. “I know it’s hard. I know it seems cruel. But—”

“That’s because it is cruel, Obi-Wan,” Anakin snapped. “Cruel and unfeeling and unworthy of the Jedi Order.”

He was so like Qui-Gon. This was like arguing with a ghost. Don’t waste your breath, Obi-Wan. I will do what I must. “It rarely ends well, you know,” he said gently, willing Anakin to hear him, to believe him. “Entangling yourself in these transitory lives? And when it doesn’t end well, when you can’t save these people, when we can’t save Doctor Fhernan or her family or her unfortunate friends—”

“You don’t know we can’t save them. You’re giving up without even trying!”

“No, Anakin. I am not giving up. I am merely facing facts.” He hesitated, because what he wanted to say next was dangerous. On the other hand—it needed to be said. “Don’t misunderstand me. Your compassion is admirable. You are a truly good man. One of the very best I know. But you’re also a Jedi, and we cannot allow ourselves to become emotionally involved.” A deep breath. A sharp sigh. “Bant’ena Fhernan is not your mother.”

Anakin leapt to his feet. “You leave my mother out of this!”

“Anakin!” he hissed. “For pity’s sake, keep your voice down.”

Hard-breathing silence as Anakin struggled for self-control. And then he shook his head. “You don’t understand, Obi-Wan. You’ll never understand. You’ve never been a slave. You have no idea what it’s like to be completely helpless. To know your life could end at any moment on someone else’s whim.”

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But—”

“No. There is no but,” Anakin said flatly. “You’re wrong. Okay? You’re wrong. So just sit there and be wrong. Or get the other lamp set up. Or start looking for a comm hub so I can hopefully punch a signal through to the Temple. Do something, Obi-Wan. Do anything. Anything except try to tell me that I’m wrong. Because I’m not.”

Obi-Wan looked at Anakin, astonished. Ignoring him, Anakin turned away and began to rummage through an overstocked cupboard. So he did as he was told, and started setting up the second lamp.

My read of the situation is simply Shmi is not important enough for the Jedi to bother with and that lead to some of the problems.

In the epilogue of the Darth Plagueis novel Obi-Wan and Anakin visit Palpatine shortly after the victory celebration on Naboo on Coruscant and he realizes that Anakin will grow embittered as his mother ages in slavery. The freaking Sith Lord figures it would while the Jedi are just OMFG.

[Attack of the Clones reveals that sometime after Anakin left to become a Jedi, Shmi found herself freed from her enslavement to Watto, but tragically died later on due to the actions of some Tusken Raiders. Anakin came to her aid in her last moments, but was unable to save her, and his main hangup over what happened is indicated to be a belief that he could've saved her if only he'd been stronger.]

Jedi critical folks: The Jedi should've gone back and freed Shmi; that would've TOTALLY prevented her from randomly dying! Also, Anakin and Shmi not speaking for ten years was OBVIOUSLY because the Jedi forbade them from contacting each other, and he DEFINITELY came to resent the Jedi over that, nevermind that there's absolutely no evidence to support this in Lucas's works!

[bigothteddies]

oh my god re: your recent post... the 'girl dinner' shit. omfg. idc if it's 'not that deep' you're still reinforcing terrible shit!!! and also the like 'boys when they see a stick/cool rock' and 'girls when they time travel vs boys when they time travel' wojaks. the gender-fication of barbie vs. oppenheimer. why the fuck is the recent internet zeitgeist hyper stereotypical cisnormativity. like. i thought we had collectively outgrown this.

exactly. And that’s all just some parts of it too. People pretend they’re so on top of things but it’s just because they don’t want to seem out of touch and offensive. It’s wild watching people barf out gender binaries with new terms and new ways to categorize trans people as not their gender and new ways to reinforce the same gender roles on ourselves but in “good” ways now. It’s just….really frustrating and pretty terrifying at the same time

[unproduciblesmackdown]

(genderly) chill as hell if i was only ever glimpsed / detected like this

[uiruu]

I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re very young and aren’t deliberating spreading misinformation about how the US branches of government work. The president does not have ANY say in Supreme Court decisions. The president belongs to the executive branch of government. The Supreme Court belongs to the judicial branch. The only influence the executive branch has on the Supreme Court is if/when the president gets the opportunity to appoint a new justice, which only occurs when a current justice dies or steps down. Those appointments from the president’s office need Senate approval before a justice can be confirmed to the court.

The US currently has a conservative majority on the court: there are nine justices total with six being conservative — three of them were appointed by Trump due to vacancies that occurred during his administration* (technically one vacancy occurred under Obama, but the conservative-majority Senate at that time blocked his nominees until he left office, meaning Trump was in a position to fill that vacancy. Hm, almost as though voting does in fact matter because of how our branches of government are designed, and Democratic presidents alone can’t achieve unilateral change!).

I understand the frustration with the state of the country right now, but acting like Biden is a king with unprecedented power over the judicial and legislative branches is dangerously out of touch with the reality of how this country works. Although ironically, Trump and his allies plan to redistribute power into the executive branch when he takes office by minimizing the power of the legislative and judicial branches (see Project 2025). If Project 2025 comes to fruition, the executive branch WOULD have king-like power, which is what The US Constitution was written to avoid. I recommend learning about the limits and parameters of presidential power before you “voting is useless” your way into handing absolute power to Trump.

im not gonna respond to very much of this, except to say that i'm almost certainly older than you, and also it's funny for you to be like "Biden isnt a king and doesnt have absolute power, there's nothing he can do about the supreme court. but Trump will have absolute power". which one is it? is the president important or not? also, you people all say that the democrats will be better than the republicans. where's the proof of that? what have they done for anyone? commit genocide?

[mad-hunts]

in response to the other's answer in regards to what jervis would prefer on his toast, jack simply nodded. he'd found himself at a loss for what else to say even though that was actually quite rare for him. maybe it was the idea that barton could be outside at that very moment, listening in, that made jack suddenly feel like a fog had rolled into his mind; making it so that he could protect himself without even knowing for sure that there was a threat in the first place.

barton didn't like talking about julien - he'd pretty much stowed away every single picture but one the family had with him in it, in fact. for it still hurt him too much to look at them. therefore, especially considering his father's history of not being able to regulate his moods well, jack might have to perform 'damage control' if that were the case. but crossing the bridge if he were to get there seemed to apply quite well here. so, the farceur chose to move on and it turned out to be wisely, too.

jervis did look very tense lying there with jack visibly appearing to want to curl up into himself and never come out. after going to the nearby trunk in the room, he opened it. this was done as a means to distract the both of them from succumbing to the weight of their own differing circumstances. though there was certainly a good cover reason for jack to, ❝ oh, wow. ahh... i almost forgot that its supposed to get down into the forties tonight so you might need this. its going to be cold, after all, ❞ it was also hitting sundown at that moment as well.

jack could tell by just looking through the crack in the curtains of the one window in the room. while gnawing on his bottom lip, he pulled out the plush blanket inside of the chest only to shake it out a bit. now, as jack tossed the blanket up just enough to cover jervis's body without touching him? something matilda told him a few years ago echoed in his mind during a conversation they had late at night: 'you know, i know you'd like nothing more than to get rid of all your feelings sometimes - but i hope you never change.'

jack just remembered looking up at the tent he was in that day of camping afterward, as he decided he should probably get to sleep. but it felt validating in a way he couldn't explain as well even now. because jack's first instinct upon seeing jervis was that he was struggling, so he should help him; though one could definitely say that sense of responsibility had made him suffer in the past. thank goodness sucking in a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaling could allow jack to quiet his mind then.

he tilted his head at the other's words and squinting his eyes, deep in thought. of course if jervis didn't believe in one, that was fine, but it appeared like he might. these sorts of concepts could trigger whole debates for a reason, however, as spirituality was something that jack affiliated himself with. but religion? he wasn't so sure, so he more than understood when jervis settled for saying his loved ones being at peace was simply something he wanted to believe in. with jack's sudden exit came the arrival of a much less benevolent figure, to say the least, and barton couldn't say he blamed jervis for seemingly somewhat disappointed that his son left.

jack was easy to get along with, and with just a little bit of time spent with him, he might just win someone over with his compassionate nature. barton knew this well along with the reality he had to learn other people's behaviors throughout the years to appear at least 'semi-normal.' how that was going for the doctor would often depend on who you asked, though. barton could only snort derisively at that, ❝ funny. just remember, you'd be in arkham right now if it weren't for me and my daughter. ❞ he pointed a sharpened nail in the direction of jervis as he proceeded into the room.

the same crack in the curtains jack had once looked through was soon closed with a quick 'swishing' motion. barton was personally raised with a very limited exposure to faith, as neither wesley nor winslow were particularly religious father figures. but barton could admire those who participate in it regardless of their level of involvement in it. though it could be used as a force of evil as much as it could be used for good, a lot of humanity existed in shades of gray.

so even if they were under the threat of suffering through something like eternal damnation after death... in barton's mind, it was only a matter of time before someone used a widespread thing like faith to their own advantage. and maybe this was bad of him but thinking about wesley being in such a place somewhat brought him a sense of twisted satisfaction; because at least barton would be getting a form of justice for every fearful moment wesley put him through that way. barton only blinked as his eyes trailed from jervis's face to the teacup that jack had presumably brought him.

shockingly enough, all he felt when he discovered that marty's father was a powerful figure was an incredible amount of disbelief for a moment before it fizzled away. barton was used to things getting worse even if he couldn't have seen this coming. plus, he'd gotten frighteningly good at treating human lives like this police captain's more as obstacles than actual beings. it remained to be seen which one jervis was to barton. he squinted his eyes before standing up and ultimately finding out that, yeah, he had done that too quickly.

barton felt like he was green around the gills all over again, ❝ that is one way to put it, jervis. but don't worry. you just reminded me that, although we're going to have to get creative, there are ways of getting away with it. i'd say pinning his murder on someone else might be the best. ❞ he uttered after swallowing thickly, making a 'turn around' gesture with his finger towards the other. barton talking about murder as if it was light dinner conversation said everything that needed to be said about how he felt about their current predicament.

maybe it was because he was still feeling a lot of malaise, but no part of it bothered him in particular. the doctor was more worried about jervis becoming queasy because he accidentally saw the scars where he'd stitched on yves's arm to his own body, ❝ uhh, just in case you didn't get that, turn around. i'm going to change my shirt. ❞ once that was done, barton slipped his current bloodied one over his head only to replace it with the other. he slumped down in the chair to the table opposite of jervis and looked over the tarot cards laid out before him.

barton, too, knew how to interpret them. ❝ what were you two planning on doing with these? a 'past, present, and future' reading? because i can do it while my son's gone for you. ❞

Jervis gave the barest of shrugs as he glanced at Jack through his bangs, the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the slow drip of the IV, and the faint shifting of the cards against the tabletop the only sounds piercing the air. "Either one sounds perfectly agreeable. I defer to your good judgment." A ghost of a smile, pale and wan, tugged at his mouth for an infinitesimal moment.

Call it the lingering pangs of paternal instinct or projection, whatever you felt was most appropriate, but some flicker of warmth—worry mingling with concern—stirred within Jervis' breast; softening the veneer of exhaustion and discomfort that clothed him like a second skin. Like an invisible cancer that had latched onto him, draining his vitality—a slow-acting poison decades in the making; only this time, the source was external, a reflection of Jack's own unease radiating across the space between them.

Jervis drew in a shallow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest not as his own, but as if their nerves had blurred and grown entangled. He tried to focus, willing his own breath to steady, his hands to unclench. A low chuckle escaped Jervis' chapped lips at Jack's query. The medications in his IV coursed through him, cold and prickling, sending a frisson over his skin as goosebumps rose in response. And yet, somehow, it eased the deep ache within him, dulling the edges of both pain and nausea. He could feel the weight of his discomfort receding, just slightly, as though the medicine were smoothing his raw nerves; coaxing him toward a delicate, unfamiliar calm.

Not quite like ketamine.... not like the cozy, blithesome feeling that coursed through his veins with each dose. Even when most of his prior consumption of the drug hadn't been consensual—thick enough to cut his teeth on, it ensured small pockets of blissful ignorance hardening into a dissociative shell, like callus. (God bless those poor, ministering angels at Arkham... only a trace of spite and animosity there, rage bleeding with sorrow at how his autonomy and consent was completely ignored, snatched... one wrong move, and he was left cowering in a crumpled heap, or otherwise dead to the world... but now? Would the scales be tipped, if they managed to drag him back there? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know that answer.) If Odysseus and his crew had been desperate to escape the Lotus Eaters only to stumble unwittingly into the clutches of Polyphemus, Jervis felt quite the opposite.

For better or worse, the ketamine had left him numb to everything.

The pain, the grief, the anguish that tore gouges in his heart and mind; lacerated his psyche to shreds, in conjunction with the ECT. Somehow, he compartmentalized it... gravitated to the cannabis as an alternative upon his discharge, once he'd regained his center of gravity and emerged from his self-immurement; the fractures left by his losses and lessons grinding him to the bone. Everything it cost him and what he'd earned in exchange. Simon. Arabella. His time in Ireland. Sylvie. The flood. Alice.

The lengths he had gone...

And so Jervis chuckled; the sound dry and hollow, barely touching his eyes. He met Jack’s gaze, his expression tightening as he mulled over the question, tasting the irony in it.

“An afterlife…” he murmured, his eyes drifting. Thoughts and memories broke the surface like apples bobbing in a bucket: Simon and Stephen putting aside their differences over the blessing at Passover; his and Arabella's quiet, but spirited discussions of Heaven and the saints and catechism, the differences between the Old and New Testaments as they strolled along the shoreline. Stories of the witch trials in Ireland, of John Calvin and his legacy in Scotland.

All the old beliefs he’d grown up with circled back and hit like a tidal wave, tied as much to memories of family as to the concept of religious faith itself, all its beauty and diverse forms, yet it left him feeling frigid now. For a little over three decades, he'd told himself that he could appreciate the mythology of it all, even found it strangely comforting at times, but belief? That had always been a different thing entirely.

Jervis' mind tugged him back to reality. He could sense Jack’s curiosity pressing at the edge of his own awareness, a secondary presence so strong it was almost rendered a physical form. "That's.... a complicated notion, from where I'm standing.” He let out a slow, careful breath; curled his fingers back around his necklace as he dissected the question. “But... yes. I'd like to think our loved ones are at peace."

He could map it all in a dozen lines, right down to his own lived experiences, the rules he tried so hard to follow, the ideals that always seemed to warp and fray. There was karma, consequence, perhaps even the lingering shadows of what people might call a curse. But the idea of any higher being calling the shots? It gnawed at him like an old wound. And so Jervis looked back at Jack, almost apologetic, the faint sting of an old ache flickering beneath his words.

He was spared from elaborating with Barton's sudden appearance; lurking on the threshold like a wraith. Poor Jack's confidence and ease withered like a hapless petunia caught in the dead of winter. A few quiet words of dismissal and a pat to the shoulder were all that heralded the reluctant, leery departure of his one potential ally in the wolf's den.

'As phantoms frighten beasts when shadows fall.' Jervis sighed, slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, looked Barton in the eye; as well as he could, anyway, with the lingering gray spots and his missing glasses still impeding his line of sight. “Maybe we each make our own heaven—or our own hell.”

Perhaps that was petty or harsh of him to say out loud... though that was the truth of the matter. Jervis didn’t need religious belief to drive him, after all; he needed only his own peculiar code, that precarious balance between curiosity and cynicism, and the sense of duty he still felt for a daughter who had deserved something far more stable, more secure; safer than the patchwork life he had known. Whatever his flaws, his faults, some small part of him still respected the right to believe—what faith meant to others; its power to inspire, to build, to destroy. The cause and effect of human history, the double-edged promises of faith. And maybe that was the root of it: faith could be a tool, a guide, a balm.

But then the stark, often bitter truths he’d learned through survival would come rushing back. Besides, he reckoned, Barton likely wouldn't give a damn about any of his prior train of thought. In any case, on the topic of hell, Jervis never pictured the vast, cavernous expanse of fire and brimstone that Jonathan Edwards had once preached about in the summer of 1741. No. Hell always conjured up fevered images of a frozen lake in the deepest, darkest part of the center of the earth, untouched by light and warmth and life—the last of Dante Alighieri's nine circles.

'I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.'

He was torn from the thick mire of his thoughts, yanked back outside his mind as if caught in a sudden hurricane at Barton’s next revelation. Jervis shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached for the cup of tea Jack had brought him. The liquid within was a warm, golden amber—like sea glass he’d once collected as a child in Bermuda, or the bits Alice would gather along Gotham’s coastline on their rare visits when she was little.

How simple those days were...

"Well." Jervis' voice was completely flat, his brow creasing with incredulity and disgust. Barton’s outline weaved and blurred before his eyes like a will-o’-the-wisp. No more, no more… no room, no room. He felt completely hollow. "Trading one problem for another, are we?" His scarred knuckles bulged as his fingers curled around the delicate porcelain; his grip hard enough to produce a faint, foreboding crack.

He would weep, if he had anymore tears left to shed over their predicament. For Marty and his partner, for the trouble Jack and Matilda had been brought into by association… but none for himself or Barton. He wasn’t certain he was worthy of it; and Barton had no qualms over their actions, he’d freely admitted it at that bistro earlier. Jervis’ hands tingled, as if they were still covered by the bloodied gloves he wore when he dispatched the driver in order to retrieve Alice’s rabbit, wielding his hatpins on pure impulse; there was no premeditation involved, but there was no discounting how surgical his actions had been in their efficacy with each targeted nerve cluster and artery. He wasn’t indulging in self-pity, oh no… nothing so shallow or solipsistic. Not like that at all. Just a pure ant mill of growing dread and horror and regret, one that couldn’t be encompassed by words alone.

His teeth sought the gouges in the corner of his mouth from where he’d previously bit himself in the throes of his nightmares, worrying at the cuts till they began to sting anew.

‘Despair has its own calms.’

[epicdogymoment]

❌ i forget what people look like easily

⭕️ i dont look people in the face and never commit their faces to memory in the first place

[coreius]

Tag drop 1.

[arabriddler]

important ! In recent years especially this year I’ve noticed a lot that the internet language picked up so many Islamic phrases and, from a muslim perspective, it makes the internet a little more welcoming. the thing is, a lot of the time with Islamic phrases you have to be careful about when and where to say them they hold their own weight and demand their own respect so here is a list explaining each phrase and some notes about it.

In sha allah

It means “ If God wills “. It’s mostly a response that can mean yes or no. If someone asks you to do something you can say in sha allah as in “ I heard you and I’ll try to do itc but I can’t claim that It will happen “ . Muslims say it because we’re unaware of what future holds it’s actually blasphemous to claim to know the future, so saying so means “ If it’s the will of god it will happen if not it won’t “ and you’d also say it about future events.

Ma sha allah

It means “ this is what god intended “ and it’s a compliment. Saying so is like saying WOW! But it’s also kind of a prayer of protection? If I see someone with pretty hair I should say “ Ma sha allah your hair is very pretty “ the ma sha allah protects the person from the evil eye. By saying that I’m also saying I’m not jealous I’m genuinely enamored and I don’t wish any harm to go to it.

Astagfurullah

it means “ to god I repent “ or “ from god I seek forgiveness” it’s usually used when you make a mistake but people also use it when they see something bad or when they want to avoid saying something bad. Like once my card refused to work and I’d say that so I won’t say any curse words and to calm down my anger

wallah/wallahi

okay this one is important. This one shouldn’t be used so lightly. It means “ by god’s name “ and it’s basically swearing in Allah’s name. You are only supposed to say it if you genuinely mean what you’re saying. It’s such a heavy word that I only say it very rarely and if you say it and don’t follow up on what you said you have to fast for three days as repentance.

ya allah

ya is an addressing word? Like talking to someone or calling them? Like saying O’ ( someone ) so ya allah means O’ god

Al hamdullilah // hamdullilah

it means ‘ praise/thanks to god ‘ said when something good happens or when you feel relieved about something— for example, my shirt is stained badly and I’m worried it won’t clean well. I clean it and the stain is gone so I say “ al hamdullilah “ kind of like phew!. Sometimes people say it as an answer when they’re asked how they are it can either mean things are good or bad but we preserve .

One more note is that with the name of Allah you should also be careful it’s not supposed to be written on papers that’ll get stepped on or lightly used in art because it also has its own weight it’s regarded heavily. Like even in home decorations it should be elevated and not overshadowed. If I have to throw away a paper I have to sit down and color over the name of Allah or burn the papers so it won’t get thrown in trash.

another note is that those phrases aren’t Muslim exclusive. Some Arab non-Muslims use them as well. This is only my explanation from a Muslim perspective.

Another another note is this is what I can remember at the moment but if you have additions or enquiries let me know