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toms-cherry-trees · 9 months ago

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"Look After You" || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Time and distance cannot break certain promises

Word count: 4.2k

Tags: Mentions of war, mental asylums, unjust imprisonment, mentions of controversial mental health treatments, cross dressing (?), implications of violence against women, illness, no betareading we go in raw

Author's note: You might have seen this post where I mention the life of Dorothy Lawrence. Well this is very loosely based on her life mixed with Tommy's story. Left it very open to a part 2 if people like the premise.

(Yes my people watch me put together moodboards instead of choosing gifs)

Requested tag (hope not to disappoint) @brummiereader @emotionalcadaver

The asylum stood tall and imponent before Tommy’s gaze, its towering central dome and flanking turrets framed by the bright sun rays of a cheerful spring afternoon. The radiant gardens contrasted dramatically with the derelict state of the building itself; rusty and broken drainpipes hanging from the roof, rotten wood frames and shattered window panes, missing chunks of brick on the walls, revealing the inner framing and plaster. Nothing about that place inspired trust to those who crossed its threshold, let alone hopes of betterment. The lamentable exterior stood like the perfect match of the decadence within.

The smell of rot assaulted him the second he entered. The paint had started to peel off, and moisture stains crawled across walls and ceiling. Most windows in the main hall were shuttered, and the incandescent light bulbs did little to cut through the darkness, casting a sickly shadow over the room. The orderly that welcomed him in the entrance had an embittered face, and he questioned Tommy on his name, whom he was visiting and his reasons to. He patted him down and overturned his pockets, making him leave behind anything that could be used to harm or be harmed. Cap, cigar case, lighter, sleeve garters and shoelaces stayed behind while another orderly led him through long hallways and endless locked doors towards the morning hall where he’d meet the purpose of his visit.

Finally, they stopped before a wide set of oaken double doors with panels of rubbed glass, which allowed him a faint peek of what happened on the other side. The orderly barely opened the door enough to enter himself and told Tommy to wait outside, as if he feared something may escape from within given the chance. After a few minutes he returned, leaving the gap open for Tommy to pass through.

“Sister Janice will take you to her. Don’t look at other patients. Don’t talk to other patients. If they come to you, ignore them. Don’t take anything they give you”

Perplexed, curious and mostly annoyed by all the delays, Tommy ducked under the orderly’s arm while he held the door open. As soon as he stepped inside the orderly let go, and the door closed behind him with a heavy click.

The sudden brightness hurt his eyes after the unceasing darkness, and Tommy had to squint briefly as his pupils grew accustomed to his surroundings. An ample hall stretched before him, arch windows spanning from floor to ceiling lining the west and north walls. Moth eaten draperies of blue velvet had been drawn back to allow sunlight in, in hopes of insufflating some life into the gelid heart of the asylum.

The room had surely once been a magnificent ballroom, but had now been reduced to the sad, dirty, abandoned alcove where the non-aggressive patients spent most of their waking hours, some engaged in the very few activities offered to them, others dragging their feet and mumbling to themselves like lost souls, their gazes absent and their appearance unkempt. Not one person appeared to have a coherent thought there, and Tommy wondered if it was due to their own ailments, or due to the medicines the nurses forced down their throats to keep them tame and peaceful, albeit stupid.

As Tommy walked past, he couldn't help but notice the way his presence drew attention from them. The patients stopped in their tracks to stare at him as if he were the most marvellous wonder they had ever seen. They pointed at him, uttering incoherences and laughing at jokes no one else heard. Some tried to get close but were forced back with a sharp gesture by the nun accompanying him, whom only now Tommy noticed, carried a mean looking leather strap, hanging side by side with a rosary from her cord belt.

At long last, she came into view. Slouched on a rocking chair facing the windows, a ragged purple cardigan thrown over a white, floor length dress, resembling more a nightgown than any sort of decent clothing. A white linen cap covered her hair, and Tommy noticed that the ties had been removed, as had been from the rest of her garments. She looked thinner, thinner even than she did in France. She gave no indication that she had noticed their presence, her dulled eyes fixated on the gardens outside.

“I have it from here, sister” Tommy dismissed the nun with a wave of his hand, dragging a nearby stool to sit next to the woman.

“I’m sorry Mr. Shelby, but I cannot allow you to be unsupervised with a patient. She seems tame now, but who knows what atrocities a woman of sin like her might commit”

Tommy wanted to snort. She barely looked strong enough to hold herself in the chair, how could she harm anyone?

“She won’t attack me sister” Tommy insisted “Now step back, and I will make sure the asylum is handsomely rewarded for your troubles.”

The nun opened her mouth, ready to argue, but then chose against it. The asylum could do with some extra coin, after all. She straightened up and smoothed her habit, perhaps a way to reinstate her authority that Tommy had so brazenly challenged.

“You have half an hour” She stated at last before walking away towards a group of patients who were seemingly arguing over a doll.

Tommy’s gaze returned to the woman in front of him, who continued to be absent from the world around her, and who gave no sign of life other than the steady rising and falling of her shoulders with each breath. Thomas allowed the pause to linger between them a few seconds longer, but he didn’t want to waste his allotted time. He wouldn’t put it past these people to drag him out like that; the laws of men did not apply in these sorts of places.

He called her name softly, in a nearly soothing whisper. Once, twice, thrice, yet it did not do to her more than the drafts howling through the broken panes or the maniac laughs of the patients around them. He didn’t want to touch her and risk startling her, but he didn’t want to spend his visit staring at her left cheek. He took his last chance, using this time a different name, a name he had not pronounced since 1915.

“Private Anders”

The name stirred something in her mind. Her back straightened a bit and her features quivered in recognition. Slowly, stiffly, she turned towards Tommy, her eyebrows first furrowing in confusion then rising in surprise.

“Sergeant Major?” Her shock could not be disguised, and she readied to rise and salute, but Tommy motioned for her to remain seated.

“At ease, private”

Tommy recalled perfectly the first day he saw her. They were stationed near Albert, digging up a new front line as they tried to gain terrain from the Germans. The troops from the British Expeditionary Force and the 179th tunnelling company consisted mostly of coal miners, all turned sappers whose task was to ready up the land for battle. The clay rich soil basically melted between their fingers when it rained, making the digging of trenches and shelters a never-ending battle. The dampness crept up their legs and seeped into their bones, and Tommy had seen one too many soldiers whose feet rotted inside their boots. Even the strongest men, used to work from sun to sun in the depths of the coal mines breathing dust and methane, would sometimes succumb to the elements.

Tommy worked paired with Tom Dunn, a man as thick of back as he was of skull. He could easily lift an adult man and throw him across the field like a sack of potatoes, and legend has it he pulled the coal carts in the mine when the horses couldn’t. If left to it, he could probably dig out the trench with only his hands and his helmet.

He had been the one to introduce Tommy to her. Dunn had hidden that little lunatic in an abandoned cottage, not too far from where the troops were stationed. Somehow, she had obtained a uniform, which she had padded with cotton wool to flatten her curves and broaden her shoulders. Her hair had been cut in a military style, scrapes on her cheeks simulated a shaving rash, and potassium permanganate attempted to sharpen her jaw and cheekbones with dark shadows.

She slept in a damp mattress, with little more than a threadbare blanket to keep her warm; she had no means of acquiring something better, nor could she light a fire in the dusty hearth for fear of being discovered. Dunn had been feeding her with whatever he could spare from his own rations or snatch from others, which meant she had been eating the minimum for survival, since the woods offered nothing but naked branches at that time of year.

Tommy had been left thunderstruck, far too much to react properly. A million questions came to his lips, and a million died there as his mind couldn’t exactly put into words what he wanted to know. His gaze flickered between them both, who looked at him pleadingly like a couple of children asking their parents to stay up late. His first instinct was to call up their superior and hand her over to them, for her own safety, but then he thought about it better. The things that could happen to her if he handed her over to the war office…and that’s it, if they handed her over in the first place, or chose to make justice themselves.

No, for the sake of her safety and his conscience, he would play along with them for now.

“What is your name?” He inquired, a simple question to cut through the gelid silence that had befallen them.

For an answer, she handed Tommy papers and a matching dog tag. Forgeries, most likely, and very good ones, which meant she spent money on those. Paying from her own pocket to go to war

They held each other's gaze for endless seconds. At long last, Tommy offered a handshake.

“Welcome to the 179th tunnelling company, Private John Anders. I’ll look after you”

Tommy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the meeting. The person who sat before him, hunched and dirty and completely lost to the world, bore no resemblance to the fiery, and perhaps a little unhinged, woman that had gone through every length to infiltrate herself in the front line. Years of memory seemed to have been erased from her mind, but she recalled vividly everything she went through in her time in France. She did not know the day and year she lived in but could easily recite the names of every man she met from the 179th, as well as every technique they implemented to dig out the clay.

Tommy was sure that, if he were to put a shovel in her hands, she would unconsciously start digging.

He had partly placated his worries by placing a nurse in the asylum, one handpicked by Polly and paid out of his own pocket, to look after her. But that solution felt like not enough. Not by a mile. What that place did to her, what they were turning her into…Killing her bit by bit, stripping away her sanity to erase from her any memory she held of those weeks in the front. He still recalled the tunnel collapse, when the rain-soaked clay began to crumble over them like cold tar, obscuring their vision and sticking their feet to the ground. How the men dragged out each other, coated from head to toe in the reddish paste. She had tripped, her foot had gotten stuck, he couldn’t tell anymore. All he knew was that she had been left behind, and he had re-entered the tunnel for her. Feeling his way through the darkness, keeping an eye on the entrance, calling her name out; her fake name, for even in the face of danger he had the mental fortitude to remember the importance of her cover up. How she dropped her own facade, her fearful voice calling him as she stretched her arm towards him.

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy

“Tommy!” Billowed an angered female voice, dragging his thoughts back to the present time.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, attempting to dissipate the fogs of the past that laid over them. Because he was not in the tunnels, nor in the Western front. He was sitting in his office, behind his desk, nursing a whiskey in his hands and with Polly sitting across him, equally angered and perplexed at her nephew’s inattention.

“You know I don’t appreciate my words being wasted”. It sounded like a threat, but half of the things Polly said usually did “If you had no interest in this briefing, you could have rescheduled our meeting”.

“You hate your time being wasted” Tommy pointed out.

“Which is exactly what you’re doing now” She remarked.

Silence lingered in the office while Polly lit a new cigarette and Tommy downed his drink, which had already begun to warm in his hands. He stood to pour another, which he finished almost immediately.

“So” Polly began, exhaling the smoke in an elegant blow “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?” As usual, Polly could see through him as easily as one would do through a clean glass. It unnerved him sometimes, to be laid open so vulnerably under her watchful gaze.

“It’s nothing” Tommy sat before the fire; hands laced behind his head in an attempt to seem relaxed.

“There’s been many things on your mind, Tommy, and nothing has never been one of them”. Polly’s slender fingers ran across the glass bottles on the bar cart before settling on gin, pouring herself a more than generous serving.

“You’re thinking of her”.

Tommy immediately thought of denying it, but what was the point? When Polly knew, no one could tell her otherwise. And as much as he hated others meddling in his business, the words came tumbling before he could hold them back.

“I’m just worried. She’s not the same she used to be. I don’t know what they do to her in that place, but she’s changed. Those medicines they give her, and who knows what else they’ve done. You know the treatments” He shook his head, as if to dismiss everything he said “Just worried”

“It’s been many years since you last saw her. Everyone changed after the war. God knows you did”.

“This is not the same. They’re killing her there” Tommy stared up at the ceiling, as if hoping to find a solution to his problems in the plaster. Polly only watched him, pondering over her next words carefully. She only hoped she would not regret whatever her nephew chose to do next.

“If her wellbeing worries you so, you have to do the right thing”

He frowned, turning to look at her with confusion clear in his eyes. Polly sipped the gin, swirling it around her mouth as she gave it a last thought. This was one of the far and few times in which Tommy proved he had a heart, and that softened her as well.

“If you are worried, you act. If they’re killing her in there, you get her out”

The sun had finally shone upon the soldiers after nearly a week of bad weather, when rain and fog had turned the living conditions in the trenches into nearly inhumane. The soldiers were happy, for they would no longer shiver until their bones ached, and they would at last be able to put their clothes and themselves to dry. The tunnellers were less than pleased, for the sun had dried the clay into a solid wall, forcing them to exhaust their muscles to dig out chunks the size of their heads while the sweat ran down their temples and backs. Their comrades kept them supplied with water, but it felt like pouring water on a bottomless bucket.

Tommy worked side by side with her. Him. Her. Her identity still got tied in his mind, and he had to think through every word addressed in her direction for fear of blowing her cover. He watched her out of the corner of the eye as she swung the pickaxe with a strength and determination he never expected to see in a woman. Despite her resilience, Tommy worried about her, and kept a watchful gaze for any sign of exhaustion. She could not afford to be taken ill or injured, for a trip to the medical tent would be enough to unravel all her carefully crafted lies. He had to take care of her.

They both worked in the very end of the trench, and the sounds around them would conceal any hushed conversation. Tommy’s curiosity was stronger than his willpower

“Why?”

She didn’t react at first, and Tommy thought she either didn’t listen to him, or chose to ignore him, both of which were valid. But before he could ask again, she whispered back, keeping her manly tone

“Why what?”

“Why come here? What sane person would come here, on her own free will, to be forced into coldness and starvation? Risk your life, and for what purpose? Couldn’t find good places to dig back in England?”

She snorted, the sound quite lighter than any man’s laugh, so she concealed it by clearing her throat

“I wanted to serve my country, same as you. Is there any sin on that?”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night to sleep?”

She stopped digging for a moment, leaving the pickaxe embedded in the clay. She sat in the upturned bucket they used as stool, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. She couldn’t work shirtless, and their uniforms had been made to shield from the cold only. Tommy offered her water; she drank a sip and poured the rest on her head. He noticed her hair had grown again, and curled behind her ears. He made a mental note to give her a trim after nightfall.

“I just wanted to see what it was like. What it really was. They don’t tell us the truth back home. The newspapers make it sound as if the front is almost peaceful and the men are just laying back eating turkey while the Germans fall a hundred a day. I wanted the truth, and I want to write about it. Make a book of all the lies they fed us home.”

Her reasoning didn’t sit well with him. All that effort, that trouble, that risk, just to figure out if war was as bad as she thought? Mad, mad in the head this one.

“And what does your family think you’re doing away from home?”

She scratched her chin, in the same way Tommy did when he got a shaving rash from his blunt razors. She had picked up male mannerisms quite fast, particularly his own

“Not much family left to care what I do or stop doing. I said I’d come to France to volunteer as a nurse, but they most likely think I came as a camp follower. If they knew what I’m up to, they would have me committed to the closest madhouse”

“The madhouse is where you belong” Tommy replied, albeit jokingly, as he stopped his work to pull out a cigarette from his pocket. But he was interrupted by a ball of clay being tossed at his face with masterful precision, dampened for maximum effect.

“Shut up, Sergeant Major”

Blue skies and a pleasant breeze welcomed them at the gates of Arrow House. Tommy chose to drive this time, taking the advice from the doctor who would oversee her care, who suggested she be exposed to the least amount of people possible during the first days as she adjusted to life outside. Only Tommy, Frances and the nurse who would be her primary caretaker.

She stared at the world around her with such wonder, like a blind whose sight had been restored. Every tree, every bird, the very landscape that surrounded his manor brought such wonder onto her face, like a child with a Christmas tree. Her happiness almost managed to convince him that this was, in fact, a good idea.

When Polly told him to get her out, he knew she meant to put her in a home of her own, with a caretaker, and allow her to have a life of her own. And Tommy considered the idea, for a while. To place her in a nice neighbourhood, in a house with a garden and a balcony where she could enjoy the sun, with a nurse and maids and a car. But it didn’t sit right with him. She had been alone ever since they took her. Imprisoned until the war ended, and then released only to be taken to the madhouse at first chance. Not one familiar face around her for nearly a decade. No, Tommy wouldn’t take her out of a cage just to put her back in a smaller, prettier one. She needed someone to protect her. And for better or worse, that one could only be Tommy.

When the car came to a halt, she was the first one out, gaping at the imponent state which Tommy owned.

“Is this where you live, Sergeant Major?” The wonder was palpable in her voice. But the only thing Tommy noticed was that after everything she still couldn’t find it in her to call him by his name.

“2000 acres of land, of which 12 are just garden, and 750 acres of farming land”

She cocked an eyebrow, and in the amused twinkle of her eyes Tommy saw a glimpse of the one she used to be.

“Are you a farmer now, sir?” She disguised her laugh behind the handkerchief she insisted on carrying, looking down like a bashful schoolgirl.

Tommy pulled out a cigarette; he felt the corner of his lips pulled into the shadow of a smile, pleased to see her spirits lifted.

“My business is more focused on progress and modernity, but I wouldn’t reject the idea. Perhaps one day it’ll come in hand to have crops and cows”

“That would be the bloody day” She didn’t even try to hide her laughter this time “Our mighty Sergeant Major, dressed in overalls and with mud up to his knees shovelling cow shit”

“I find myself more interested in horse shit these days. Come on, I’ll show you around”

Tommy gave her a complete tour of the house and adjacent grounds, both to show her everything that would be at her complete disposal, and also as a way to show off how far he had come since they were both in the trenches, hunched over a meagre fire lit inside an empty can and sharing a homemade cigarette made from tobacco leftovers. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her fingers running over tapestries, leathers and carved wood with childlike wonder

He saved her room for last. A wide bedroom at the very back of the house, situated in a corner with plenty of windows. It had a view of the back of the state, so she could enjoy the gardens, the horses and the surrounding woods. In the corner with the most sunlight Tommy had placed a writing desk, supplied with paper, pens, ink and a brand new typewriter. Amidst everything sat a bunch of old and worn pages, all of different sizes and materials, kept together nicely with leather cord. She picked it up gingerly, running her thumb over the first page. Even though the paper was stained and dusty, the words could be read as easily as the first day she wrote them.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she hugged the improvised diary to her chest like it was a most prized possession. And perhaps it was. She turned towards Tommy, a mixture of bewilderment and eternal gratitude plastered on her features

“Where did you get it? I thought they would have had it destroyed when they locked me up”

Tommy only smirked, pulling out a cigarette from the golden case he carried “Remember what I told you? Always make sure someone owes you something”

That gesture, so small yet so meaningful, shifted something inside her. Her eyes brimmed with tears she attempted to fight, but they won in the end. She practically jumped into Tommy’s arms, hugging him with the eagerness of a person who has been denied a caring touch for far too long.

“How will I ever be able to thank you enough, Sergeant Major?”

His free arm circled her frame, returning the gesture

“You can start by calling me Tommy”

Worry crept up Tommy’s spine as the higher ups did their rounds to inspect the work on the freshly dug trenches. It had been three days since she last showed up, and he would soon run out of lies to cover up for “Private Anders’” absence.

As much as she tried to deny it, finally the harsh conditions had caught up to her. Her health had gone down a slippery slope with the arrival of winter. First it had been just a fretless dry cough, easily softened with pine tea. But then came the bone pains, the headaches, the constant fatigue. The dampness of her safe haven had seeped into her bones and caused some sort of rheumatism. Tommy noticed the swelling of her hands as they struggled to grip the pickaxe. Her hair began to fall out in clumps.

The shivers and the fever had finally knocked her off her feet. She had been unable to leave her cottage, which in turn worsened her condition even further. Tommy had tried to bring her something more substantial to eat, but she seemed unable to eat more than a few bites of stale bread dipped in some coffee the Americans had given them. Dry, suffocating coughs racked her body until she had to gasp for air, her teeth and lips speckled with blood.

“This is the end line” She had mumbled weakly during the third night, while Tommy tried to desperately convince her to light a fire to warm and dry the place

“No. You are not going to die. I won’t allow it. I told you I’d take care of you” He stated firmly, sitting on the floor by her side with her hand in his, his other one cupping her feverish cheek. He had been in a similar spot, not too long ago. Watching life fade away from a young woman’s eyes. He refused to let her die, not like that, not there where he would have to dump her body in the river.

“I am not going to die” She stated with a conviction her current condition didn’t match “But to survive, I have to turn myself in”

The idea of handing her over to the war office filled Tommy with panic

“No, no you cannot do that. Do you have any idea what they could do to you? Your best prospect would be to be thrown in jail, to be given 10 years for impersonating a soldier. And that’s if the higher ups are feeling compassionate” He shuddered at thinking what those wolves would do to her “Listen, I get leave tomorrow night. I’ll go to the nearest town, get some medicine, maybe I can pawn some things and get you a new blanket. You-”

“No” With great effort, she propped herself up in one elbow. Tommy couldn’t help but notice the strands of hair left in the pillow “I’ve implicated you long enough. The excuses and lies you have made for me are enough to have you dishonourably discharged and tried. You have done everything you could for me, and for that I am forever indebted to you, Sergeant Major. This next chapter in my life, I have to write it alone”

She sounded dejected and disappointed, as if she had failed some unwritten expectation of her adventure. But Tommy thought quite the opposite. He only felt admiration for the things she had put herself through in order to tell her story. He still thought she was mad in the head, but in a completely different way

“Will you mention my name when you write your book?” He asked jokingly, helping her lay back down slowly, pulling the ragged blanket up to her chin

“Only if you want to be jailed next to me for helping an intruder” She laughed, but the sound was cut short by another fit of coughing “I’ll dedicate it to you, Sergeant Major. Everything I write and do will be because of you”

Tommy awoke with a startle. His eyes were wide open, darting around the room as he tried to locate the source of the disturbance. Everything seemed to be calm in his room. And then it happened again. A dry thud in the wall, followed by a muffled scream.

In a heartbeat he was out of bed, gun in hand. He followed the noises, which seemed to grow louder the closer he got to her bedroom. The door was ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to project in the floor, in which Tommy could see two shadows moving.

He stormed inside, gun ready to fire. But he didn’t find an intruder, no. Just her, on her knees, banging her fists against the wall as she screamed. Her nurse stood by her side, amidst a disaster of clothes and books and other objects, unsuccessfully trying to coax her back to bed

“Miss, please. The hour is quite late. You need sleep”

“No, no. The walls are coming down. We have to get out, the roof’s collapsing!” She yelled desperately, clawing at the wall trying to dig herself out of some dark place that only existed in her head. He saw her nails tear the wallpaper with ferocity. And then he noticed the nurse unlocking a cabinet and pulling out a syringe

“No” He said almost immediately as he put a firm hand on the nurse’s arm “Go to bed. I have this”

“But Mr. Shelby!”

“I said go. Leave me with her”

The nurse doubted, holding his gaze, but chose to exit the room, closing the door behind her.

Tommy walked towards her slowly, afraid he would startle her. He gingerly touched her arm, but his presence went as unnoticed as a speck of dust. He called out her name, again and again, without success. The mud had seeped deep in her brain, as it had done his, and blocked her senses from the outside world. In order to get through, Tommy had to get into the mud with her

He stood tall, in martial position, hands behind his back

“Private Anders!”

Quick like a lightning bolt, she stood up and saluted in a firm position. Tears streaked her face and her entire body quivered like an autumn leaf

“Sergeant Major sir!”

“At ease, private. You are relieved of your duties. Time to go back home”

Like the lifting of a spell, her eyes glossed over as she blinked slowly, looking around her from the bed, to the things she had thrown around in haste, and finally towards Tommy. Her lower lip quivered

“What is happening to me?”

Her knees faltered. Tommy lunged forward before she could hit herself, coming down to the floor with her held in his arms. She burrowed herself in his chest, her fingers clinging to his shirt as she wept, her body racked by sobs. Tommy shushed her quietly, his fingers carding through her hair

“Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you”

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby one shot #marsie writes #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine

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nobodysdaydreams · 2 months ago

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In Honor of All Saints Day, Here's Some Random Assumptions About My Followers Based on Their Favorite Saints 😇

Please note this is a merely for fun and not meant to offend anyone, please be kind, thank you. Also, I obviously can't possibly include every saint here, so I'm just gonna stick to some of the ones I think are most likely to be favorites of my followers.

Saint Joan of Arc- I'll start with arguably the most popular one, or at least the one I see posted or discussed online the most. If your favorite saint is St. Joan of Arc, there's a good chance you're an atheist who doesn't vibe with saints in general, but likes her because she's a girl with a sword and that's objectively awesome. You're correct for that, and welcome to the post. Another option is that you're a girl who was labeled a "tomboy" growing up.

Saint Paul- if your favorite saint is St. Paul, you have a blog or a significant portion of your blog dedicated to one ex-villain character whose redemption arc you could rewatch on loop for hours. You also might be Protestant, and yes, this particular St. Paul is the same Paul from the Bible. Welcome to the post. ✝️

Saint Olga- if your favorite saint is St. Olga, you support women's rights, but more importantly, you forgive women's wrongs. There have been several times when you've gotten upset about people questioning the validity of a female character's redemption considering her past when they overlook and forgive way worse done by male characters. There's also a chance you might be Orthodox. Welcome to the post. ☦️

Saint Nicholas- if your favorite saint is St. Nicholas, there is a chance you followed me for TMBS content. Your favorite holiday is Christmas, and you're still hyperfixated on the same book series or television show from your childhood. You're also extremely passionate about your fandoms and can't stand it when people grossly misinterpret characters or things in canon.

Saint Benedict- if your favorite saint is St. Benedict, you also probably followed me for TMBS content. You're also a very humble and unproblematic person but the haters are bitter and always trying to bring you down (via their jealousy and also poison, but you can't be stopped).

Saint Scholastica- if your favorite saint is St. Scholastica, you also might have followed me for TMBS content because you know that she's Benedict's twin sister. You also wish that God would summon storms for you whenever you find your brother annoying.

The Virgin Mary, Mother of Jesus- if you picked the Virgin Mary, you're neurodivergent, specifically the type of neurodivergent who loved those card games where characters had different levels of power. You take a similar approach to picking your favorite saint, so why wouldn't you go straight for the one that is objectively the most powerful and the best one? It just makes to most sense to you, and the thing is, you're right. You're 100% right. Congrats!

Saint Cecilia- if your favorite saint is St. Cecilia, you're a musician and were in choir either at school or church. You also probably are/were a theater kid.

Saint Lawrence- if your favorite saint is St. Lawrence, you were definitely a theater kid and tried stand up comedy at least once. You also use jokes and humor to cope with stressful situations.

Saint Josephine Bakhita- if your favorite saint is St. Josephine, you are one of those people who somehow remains positive and sees the sliver lining in literally any circumstance. Don't get me wrong, I love that for you, but please take care of yourself. 🫂❤️‍🩹

Saint Dymphna- if your favorite saint is St. Dymphna, you are neurodivergent, have struggled with mental illness, work in psychiatric or medical care, or you’ve dealt with a lot in your life, and I hope you heal. 🫂❤️‍🩹

Saint Kateri Tekakwitha- if your favorite saint is Saint Kateri, you're sick of your relatives pressuring you to date someone, and you're extremely worried about climate change (girl, me too).

Saint Anthony- if your favorite saint is St. Anthony, you have ADHD and lose things multiple times a week. On the off chance you followed me for Wolf359 content, you identified way too strongly with Doug Eiffel.

Saint Peter- if your favorite saint is saint Peter, you either watch "The Chosen" or you have ADHD and felt seen when you read about him in the Bible. That man boldly declared he would never deny Jesus and when told he would do it before a rooster crowed three times, to which he confidently replied "nah" and then immediately got distracted and preoccupied with cutting some guy's ear off and forgot all about the oddly specific terrible thing he was prophesied to do just a few hours earlier by a man he believed to be God incarnate. As someone who also breaks down in tears when I suddenly remember the important things I forget to keep track of, I sympathize with his story. Saint Dymphna is patroness of most mental illness and ADHD is technically covered by her, but if we ever get an ADHD specific saint, I know it has to be either be Peter or Anthony, and if it were entirely up to me, I'd give it to Peter. Don't get me wrong, Saint Anthony is there for us, but Saint Peter is one of us, you know what I mean? Though I feel like due to the problematic nature of diagnosing the deceased (no matter how evident symptoms might be) it would end up going to Anthony, since we do call on him often, and I think Peter would be fine with that.

Saint Mark Ji Tianxiang- if your favorite saint is St. Mark Ji Tianxiang, you or someone you know is probably in recovery from addiction, and I wish you well on your journey. You also empathize way too much with any character who suffers from addiction and if you followed me for Wolf359, that was the aspect of Doug Eiffel's character that stood out to you the most. 🫂❤️‍🩹

Saint Catherine of Siena- if your favorite saint is Saint Catherine of Siena, you've probably written a book or fanfic well over 100k words. (Yes, I know, you don't have to say it).

Saint Francis of Assisi- if your favorite saint is Saint Francis of Assisi, you either have pets or want them, and if you do have them, you've taken them or begged your parents to let you take them to a St. Francis feast day pet blessing. If you followed me for TMBS, SQ is probably your favorite character, and if you followed me for Wolf359 content, you were inconsolable when Blessie died. You're also probably the kind of neurodivergent who takes things like "if you want to follow God, sell all you have and give it to the poor" literally and as a result, this has caused conflict with your family (specifically on account of you giving all the money made from your family business to the poor).

Saint Joseph- I doubt I have a lot of followers who are parents because of how tumblr demographics skew, but if your favorite saint is Saint Joseph, you just became a dad or really want to become one someday.

Saint Monica- again, I doubt this is the case because of the age of tumblr demographics, but if your favorite saint is Saint Monica, you're a mom who really needs a break, and I hope your husband and sons get it together soon. 🫂❤️‍🩹

Saint Augustine- if your favorite saint is St. Augustine, you also like redemption arcs and likely went through a "party phase" at some point in your life that you regret and identify a bit too strongly with the younger brother in the prodigal son parable. However, in this case, you likely also love St. Monica and if you followed me for Star Wars content, you are particularly upset that we didn't get to see more interactions between Leia Organa and her son Benny Solo especially considering they led a whole war against each other the year between TLJ and TROS (dead horse, I know).

Saint Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin- if your favorite saint is St. Juan Diego, you have or grew up with a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe somewhere in your house. You've also been in the incredibly specific situation of seeing or doing something super cool, but not having anyone believe you (but the satisfying payoff when they find out you were right).

Saint Mary Magdalene- if your favorite saint is St. Mary Magdalene, you either watch "The Chosen" or you're a woman who's faith pulled her out of a very difficult time in her life, and like St. Juan Diego, you also know what it's like to be proven right after a group of men call you a liar.

Saints Louis Martin and Marie-Azélie Guérin (Zélie)- if these are your favorite saints, you understand why you can't just pick one. This power couple comes in a set. If you picked these two, you heard about them because your favorite saint might actually be or have been their very famous daughter St. Thérèse of Lisieux. And if you're a guy and you picked these two, you're also a proud girl dad and can't stop bragging to everyone you meet about how successful your wife's business is (especially because she's so humble about it). Green flags all around.

Saint Maximilian Kolbe- if St. Maximilian is your favorite saint, you're a history guy or gal who is obsessed with world war two, but in a good way. In the "this was very not cool. Let's never forget so we never do this again" way. You also love stories of heroic sacrifice and aspire to always do the right thing even when it’s not socially popular or doesn’t benefit you.

(Soon to be canonized) Saint Carlo Acutis- You're a millennial or gen z who loves researching and talking about modern saints. You aspire to be like them and have a list of ones you want canonized (mine are Servant of God Dorothy Day and Archbishop Joseph Francis Rummel. They lived in the 20th Century and when you're dealing with 2,000 years of history, that's pretty modern).

I'm sure I'll think of more to add after I post this, but I'll leave it here for now. I hope y'all enjoy this!

#Happy All Saints Day!#Catholic #Catholicism #Catholic saints #roman catholic #saints #christianity #all saints #all saints day

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neve-0001 · 4 months ago

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BEETLEJUICE HEADCANNONS YAY!!!

hi tumblr I assume I'm allowed to yap about my headcannons all I want so here we go yay!!

lawrence betelgeuse shoggoth:

audhd (both autism and adhd), probably mainly hyperactive subtype (he cannot sit still) and probably has sensory issues and is sensitive to any sensory input. stims as to not explode. head tilts, very twitchy, t-rex arms, tenses his muscles when he's pouting/angry/having sensory overload. also he probably has no idea and never got diagnosed and hates himself for it because he just thinks there's something wrong with him.

cis male, he/him, pansexual. sibling relationship with lydia, crushing on both the maitlands LOL. shitty relationship with both mother (juno) and father, father left first because of a shitty marriage/neurodivergent meltdowns, juno was an autism mum at first but eventually gave up as he grew older and got mentally ill and depressed and couldn't fit into society. also because he's pan. homophobic juno!!

tw suicide: he contemplated for a while when he was older, he'd come to the same balcony lydia eventually was at, and eventually he jumped into the river below and drowned. he regrets it deeply now that he's dead, he wanted an escape and instead just gave himself an afterlife of loneliness. chose not to go to the netherworld because he knew his parents would be there.

I genuinely don't have any specific mental illness/physical illness headcannons. but he is definitely depressed and mentally ill. hugging him thru the screen even though he's done bad shit I resonate w him a lot

anyway haha silly drawing, drawing lydia next!! request if you want but I can't promise anything!!

they could never make me hate you, brightjuice

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice headcanons #brightjuice #alex brightman #musicaljuice #they could never make me hate you beetlejuice #i <3 this tubby man sm

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hiskillingjar · 5 months ago

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I think it's exactly that previously mentioned liminality in Lawrence that I absolutely adore. On one hand it's the core of the horror of her run. The rot, the river, her gentleness and volatile nature all exist in an eery, liminal space that fills you with unease even when she is kind with you or when you sympathise with her. And on the other hand it's also the core of what makes her a really interesting and beloved character to me.

I was recently reading an article about the liminality of being genderqueer due to not exactly fitting in with what society recognises as normal for my thesis and it really made it click in my mind why reading her as trans is so easy and right. Her struggle with herself, her struggle with finding connection in her own terms, a connection that understands her without asking her to change, it's all very close to that experience and it's fascinating to me.

Also, in a related but also unrelated note, since most of the endings in her route are very calculated (whether they end with death or a fate worse than death) I love it when she just goes berserk. She is ruthless and it makes me flustered.

i'm giving you a big fat smooch on the brain oh my g-ddddduh

i love my mentally ill princess with many disorders <3

#also your thesis sounds fab! i wrote mine on queer horror. hence why i'm insane <3 #qs #river walker

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terrence-silver · 5 months ago

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Been thinking about twig being the boy version of Betsy in John eyes

---

Will do you one better:

Of course, this is just speculation and reaching on my part, as always, and we're free to throw ponderings like this into the trash bin, but what if Twig, or rather, a young Terry Silver in Vietnam reminded John Kreese of himself...that is, the way he used to be; a young boy, son of a single, mentally ill mother, fatherless, ostracized, slightly marginalized, left to fend for himself in a time where all of these things would come with extreme societal judgement and isolation? Because, consider, along comes this boy, this guy called Silver, and he sure as heck doesn't fit in either. The way Terry doesn't fit in and the way John didn't fit in back in the States are two totally different ways of not fitting in, but still. Not fitting in is still not fitting in and that sort of thing comes with baggage. Of course, they're from totally different forms of life, entirely diverse classes and they'd probably never even meet or even have a chance to interact if it wasn't for the military, but something about the fact that Terry was already a teensy-tiny bit otherized for his appearent lack of experience, how green he was, how young, how soft, how scrawny, how wide-eyed...well...something about that might've caused a part of John's brain to just click off. Perhaps consciously, perhaps subconsciously.

Could be the same reason he fixated on Johnny Lawrence as much as he did. Another boy who was initially maladjusted before he found Cobra Kai. Son of a single mother. Fatherless. Then, later, saddled with a possibly overbearing stepfather. You name it. Another reflection of John Kreese himself. They even had the same name.

Hey, lets take it a step further --- could be why he felt as protective as he did over Kim Da Eun. Over Tory. Another pair of people with, yeah, you guessed it, broken families, Tory lacking a father figure altogether, having an ailing mother, financial issues, a little brother she has to care for all while being a kid herself and Da Eun having no parents whatsoever we ever see in the first place. Only a grandfather that is physically and mentally abusive towards her.

See a pattern here?

I think John Kreese takes people who remind him of the way he grew up and he, the way he sees it, places them under his wing and does right by them by helping them. Mentoring them. Tutoring them. Guiding them. By being their hero. He wants to be their hero. He might think this sappy, wimpy snowflake world desperately needs that kind of thing even though it doesn't admit to it, yet, all the more reason why this old fashioned ideal is a necessity --- because a world that forgets and neglects its heroes and ideals is a world in decline. He sees himself as such. He sees himself as the embodiment of these true, genuine ways. He saves them, these individuals, in ways nobody was ever there to save him. Or his mother. He fathers weak, vulnerable people instinctually because he didn't have a father figure himself, or, in his own words, he gives them life because they didn't have a life before him ---- naturally, he is often times a toxic father figure, especially to the likes of Johnny or even Tory in ways, but a father figure regardless, and from his mind's eyes, considering the era he must've grown up in, it is still better than having no father at all, seeing as how John Kreese was undoubtedly forced to grew up too fast if we read between the lines. Probably couldn't have been easy taking care of a mentally ill mother and being the head (and breadwinner?) of the family simultaneously. John Kreese must've been the de-facto father of his own family unit from a very young age because he had no choice but to be, meaning that he could've matured prematurely. Could've developed this instinct to father people before he could develop anything else.

Along comes scrawny Terry Silver and John's desire to protect him is immediate because the instinct was there long before John ever even contemplated going to Vietnam, and this protective instinct is there not because Terry reminds him of the boy version of Betsy, but because both Terry and Betsy remind him of aspects of how John himself grew up. Betsy could've been the archetype of something deeply defensive connected to this mother. Women being abused. Ways he might've protected his own mother against harassment too. His protectiveness towards Terry? A reflection of himself and all maladjusted boys; the type of maladjusted boy John Kreese could've been too, once upon a time, in an age that bypasses memory by now. Except, this time around, things can be different --- he can save these people. He can be the father. He can win. He can and will make the weak strong. Be number one. He can be these people's champion and in turn, they'll be his.

He sees himself as their maker as well as their protector.

Which is why John Kreese feels so silently entitled to all of his people to degree he does in the first place.

He can come and go as he pleases.

Disappear without a word.

Return randomly.

Demand things.

Not demand things.

Reject things.

Be too proud to be ever helped.

Then ask to be helped in the next breath.

He's your creator. He's earned that right. Every right.

#terry silver #john kreese #betsy #character analysis #terry silver twig #twig terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #cobra husbands

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qapsiel · 7 months ago

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BASICS

Full name: Castiel

Nicknames/aliases: Cas, Cassie (derogatory), Clarence, Feathers, Emmanuel, Steve

Height: approximately the size of the Chrysler Building (319 m, 1,046 feet)

Age: as old as the universe

Number of eyes: 393.5

Spoken languages: every language known to mankind, Enochian

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS (vessel)

Hair colour: Brunette

Eye colour: blue

Skin tone: white

Body type: average

Dominant hand: Right

Posture: 11 out of 10, appears overly stiff sometimes, ramrod straight back, hands on his thighs when he's sitting

Scars: on the back of his left thigh (about 2 inches / 5 cm in length), two pinhead-sized round scars next to his right nipple and close to his left elbow, on the bottom of his right foot (about 1 inch / 2.5 cm)

Tattoos: one on his lower left abdomen (Enochian sigils)

Most noticeable features: his stiff posture and the tendency to stare without blinking, very blue eyes

CHILDHOOD

Place of birth: the galaxy known as JADES-GS-z14-0 to humanity

Siblings: the angels and archangels of heaven (no biological relation)

Parents: God (father), Amara (aunt), no mother

ADULT LIFE

Occupation: angel

Current residence(s): No permanent residence, though he often resides in Lawrence, Kansas

Close friends: Sam & Dean Winchester, Cain (verse dependent), Balthazar, Hannah

Relationship status: Single

Criminal record: Has never been arrested

Vices: anything bee-related

SEX & ROMANCE

Sexual orientation: pansexual

Preferred sexual role: Top

Libido: fluctuating; sometimes, he wants sex five times a day, and then he forgets about it for an entire week

Turn-ons: eyes, letting him watch, stripteases

Turn-offs: blindfolding (on him), bondage (on him), eye injuries or malformations

Love language: acts of service

Relationship tendencies: inexperienced; tends to copy what he sees in movies or reads in books or witnesses on the streets, thus it can be very cliché; has no concept of privacy (e.g., might tell his partner he wishes to have intercourse in front of friends/family/strangers); likes to be close to his partner but usually doesn't know how to ask for it

MISCELLANEOUS

Hobbies to pass time: bee-keeping, reading, 'people-watching' (aka sitting somewhere and staring), later gardening

Mental illnesses: autism (undiagnosed)

Self-confidence level: low

tagged by: @downs1detagging: @murderdeals + @bloodsalted + @sacrisaint + @sarishim + @eyeless-smiles + @theirmadness (Samantha + Carol) + @snnynatural + @venatcres (Bobby!) + @supegod + @nightmdic + @mostunwantedfbi + @aintashes

#( headcanon )

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judy1926 · 1 year ago

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Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier met for the first time in 1939 after a theatrical performance of The Mask of Virtue.

From the first meeting, there was an attraction between the two

After their conversation, Vivien said to one of her friends “This is the man I will marry,” ignoring the fact that she is married and he is also married

After one of Olivier's performances, Vivien visited him in his room, and after chatting a little with a rising actress before she left, she kissed Olivier on the neck shyly and left.

Vivien was attracted to Laurence because of his charm and charisma, according to a biography written about Vivien Leigh Lawrence was attracted to her in a way he had never been to any other woman

Olivier said in Lord Larry: "I couldn't help myself with Vivian, no one could."

"I hated myself for cheating on Jill, but then I had cheated before, but this was something different. This wasn't just lust. This was the love I didn't really ask for but was drawn to."

A year later, a movie brought them together Fire Over England They spent all their time together, but they succumbed to each other's attraction and their secret relationship began

After a period of time, their relationship was secret, and when Vivien played Ophelia on stage in Hamlet, she suffered a brutal bipolar attack. When Laurence Olivier entered the dressing room, Lee suddenly started shouting at him. This incident shook Olivier, as he later described how it was like a switch had been flipped. Lee started yelling at him, then immediately stopped as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, her illness will get worse.

During their separation in order to expand their professional life, the two exchanged scandalous and romantic letters, dating back to between 1938 and 1939.

After a dispute over my role as Scarlett in the movie Gone with Profit, I was surprised by the difficulty of the work and everyone’s fear of the failure of the assigned project. She wrote to Olivier explaining how she felt. He responded to her You have to be very smart to succeed in your photo career, which is essential for your self-esteem." "…I'm afraid you might become boring. Never for me…but for yourself and because of that for others. It seemed that Olivier's letters were what kept Lee going

After much struggle, the two finally married in 1940

Vivien contracted tuberculosis in 1944 while she was on a trip to South Africa and Olivier was afraid that his wife would die.

“Please, my angel, send me word of what the doctor said, + if I may ask him to send me a report.”

“You are the only person in the world who can make me so hideously selfish love someone else more than I love myself.”

In 1947, Lee's mental state became worse and Olivier's professional life became better.

In 1948, Lee and Olivier went on a six-month tour in Australia and New Zealand to perform and raise money for the theater. Lee's health condition was poor, and severe quarrels occurred between the two due to Lee's sharp fluctuations and Olivier's lack of knowledge of how to deal with her. The strongest quarrel was when Vivien refused to go on stage with Olivier. Because she could not find her shoe, Olivier could not bear her childish behavior and slapped her in the face in front of everyone. She responded to Lee by hitting him on the back hard. However, at the end, the two of them went up on stage with smiles on their faces, but Olivier learned that he lost her in Africa.

Their professional lives were putting a lot of pressure on their relationship and there were constant comparisons, and she was taking the issue seriously and with great fear

The two still wrote letters when apart, but even that romance was beginning to fade

Lee's mental state was devastating for the two

In 1958, I was introduced to Jacques Merivale, who was aware of all his psychological and physical problems. When Olivier found out about this, he asked Jacques to take care of Vivian, and he promised him that.

The instability in their romantic relationship worsened Lee's emotional and mental condition.

By 1960, Vivien was threatening suicide. “Vivien is several thousand miles away, trembling on the brink, even when she sits quietly in her drawing room,” Olivier once said. Olivier and Lee filed for divorce in May 1960. The divorce was finalized later that year and Olivier married again.

Although they were no longer together, Olivier and Vivien continued to write to each other every now and then.

“I want to thank you for understanding all of this for me,” Olivier wrote in a letter to Lee regarding their divorce, according to The Guardian. “You did a noble, brave, beautiful thing, and I'm so sorry, so sorry, because it must have been a hell of a lot for you.”

But she once said to newspaper, “I would rather have a short life with Olivier than a long life without him.”

Her husband, Jack Merivale, left her at home while he went to perform in a play in Eaton Square. When he returned around midnight, he found Lee asleep in bed. Half an hour later, he entered to find her body on the ground. Leigh apparently tried to walk to the bathroom and collapsed due to her lungs filling with fluid, according to Vivien Leigh: A Biography of Anne Edwards.

Merival alerted the Vivien family and then Olivier

He attended and participated in Vivian's funeral even though he was undergoing treatment for prostate cancer

Olivier Merival helped make funeral arrangements and stayed with Lee until her body was removed.

1967 On July 8, Vivien Leigh's death was announced, and all theaters in London's West End turned off their lights for one hour in her honour. A memorial service was held at St Martin-in-the-Fields and Lee's cremated ashes were spread on the lake at her summer home, Tickerage Mill in East Sussex, England.

In a final letter to Vivien just five weeks before her death, Olivier signed, “Sincere love my dear, your Larry.”

In 1989, on July 11, Olivier died of kidney failure

Even after his marriage to Plowright, Olivier held Lee dear in his heart for the rest of his life. It is said that shortly before his death, he found Olivier watching a film starring Lee, with tears in his eyes, “This, this was love,” he said

#classic hollywood #old hollywood #classic cinema #1940s #classic films #classic movie stars #classic movies #1950s #vivien leigh #laurence olivier #Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier #vivien and Laurence #tragic love #sad ending #love #love you forever

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morbidology · 2 years ago

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‪22-year-old Matthew de Grood was a student at the University of Calgary. The son of a city police officer, he dreamed of attending law school. In the early months of 2014, Matthew started experiencing some bizarre delusions. He believed the world was going to end and that he was locked in a mortal battle with werewolves, zombies, and vampires.

He started to post about his concerns regarding the end of the world on his Facebook account. Matthew believed that there was going to be a war of good and evil and on the evil side, according to him, was the Nazis and Barack Obama.‬ ‪

‬In the early morning hours of 15 April, 2014, a party was underway at a home near the University of Calgary. It was the end of the school year and students were in a celebratory mood. Approximately 30 guests showed up, one of which was Matthew.

At around 1:20AM, Matthew heard voices in his head, telling him to kill. He grabbed a kitchen knife and started to indiscriminately attack his fellow schoolmates. He killed five people - Joshua Hunter, Kaitlin Perras, Jordan Segura, Lawrence Hong, and Zachariah Rathwell��.

‬‪During his trial, his defence lawyer contended that Matthew believed his victims were werewolves and vampires and that he had to kill them because they threatened his life. Two experts found that he was suffering from severe untreated schizophrenia.

Much to the upset of the family members of his victims, Matthew was found not criminally responsible for the murders. “There will be no peace for us. Our wounds will never fully heal because every year our families will have to wonder what will be the fate of the man who destroyed so many lives,” said Hong’s brother. Matthew was sent to a secure hospital where he shall remain until he is released.

In 2017, it was reported he was granted more privileges such as being allowed to walk around the hospital grounds while supervised. After receiving his treatment plan for his mental illness, Matthew release a statement which read: “It breaks my heart that the good times they had with their loved ones are over. They may not care that I am schizophrenic. The act of killing five innocent people and putting their families through that agony is unconscionable. To them, I am either a very evil person or a psychotic individual who is dangerous and can’t be trusted.“‬ ‪

‬ The tragic case of Matthew de Grood poses the question: Would the outcome have been different if somebody took heed to his warning signs?‬

#matthew de grood #true crime #mass murder

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fredbydawn · 1 year ago

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You think Jigsaw was pro life?

This is a very interesting question that I find myself thinking about very often. Putting under a read more, cuz this is gonna be a long ass ramble

Full disclosure, I am pro-choice and have had an abortion, so my takes are obviously going to be influenced by that

I think about this a lot cuz there’s the popular question of “would you survive a Saw trap?” and my smart ass response has usually been “I don’t have to worry about it cuz I haven’t done anything worth putting me in a trap” but then I remember that I did in fact have an abortion so I gotta be on my toes 👀 cuz that lil puppet could be anywhere

There is a line when John has Cecil in the knife chair where he says he’s doing this because Cecil accidentally injured Jill and caused her to miscarry. But he words this as Cecil “killing an innocent child” (or something to that effect, I don’t have the exact words in front of me) and I think he doesn’t even mention Jill. Seeing the life of an unborn child as more important the health and safety of his literal wife seems very pro-life to me. That being said, I’m not totally sure whether or not John would put someone in a trap for having an abortion, nor am I sure he would stop a trap if he found out the person in it was pregnant (and therefore place the life of the fetus on the same or greater level than the pregnant person).

Like John’s philosophy is so interesting to me particularly because of how hypocritical he can be sometimes. Cause like his whole thing is “value your life” not necessarily to value life itself, and to prove that you value your life his tests will sometimes require you to harm or even kill another person, who sometimes hasn’t even done anything particularly heinous (i.e. Lawrence being tasked with killing Adam (who I fully believe was not intended to survive), or Zepp being tasked to kill Allison and her young daughter Diana (who fully didn’t do anything). So in that way I could see John potentially seeing someone getting an abortion as a way for them to take control of their life, particularly if they were pregnant by sexual assault.

But then again, John seems to have very little sympathy for people doing “bad” things due to the circumstances they find themselves in. I think there’s a conversation between him and Amanda in X where’s she’s basically like “hey, man, maybe these people are doing these things that they know are wrong and feel bad about because they have no other way to make money and survive?” and John’s just like “nah, miss me with that gay shit” so idk 🤷🏻‍♂️

There’s also a whole thing about how some of the larger games almost operate on a Silent Hill kinda level, where you’re facing the guilt that you have surrounding an event (such as Jeff’s game from III) and you’re made to confront the ways you’ve been punishing yourself. So while it feels almost like going down a supernatural route where we believe that John somehow has a way to assess how much something weighs on your psyche, I feel like if someone didn’t feel guilty about getting an abortion (which, most people don’t obvs) then they wouldn’t be put in a trap.

In general, I feel like the politics of the Jigsaw killer(s) is a rich and complicated vein of character interpretation. In the beginning there’s definitely a conservative vibe, people being put into traps because they’re sex workers, drug addicts, mentally ill, etc. But when we get to VI it starts to get a bit more capital l Liberal with corrupt insurance company employees being put in traps. But even still, like I said, preserving your life is considered the sign of success and there are very few traps where sacrificing yourself for another person is even an explicit option, let alone considered the “right choice.” So there’s that to think about, I guess.

Long an short of it, in my opinion;

John: still on the fence on whether he’d put someone in a trap for having an abortion, but might stop the test if he found out they were pregnant, especially if they wanted to keep it

Amanda: she strikes me as pro-choice-ish around the beginning of her apprenticeship, but just generally anti-life towards the end, probably wouldn’t put someone in a trap for having an abortion, but would not stop the test if the person in it was pregnant, whether they wanted to keep it or not

Hoffman: as much as he is my thick waifu, he’s also an incredibly corrupt cop so he’s probably leaning conservative, he might put someone in a trap for having an abortion (although there’s a whole nother conversation to be had on how much Hoffman actually believes in John’s philosophy, so he just might not care enough idk), but he would not stop the test if a person in it was pregnant

Lawrence: he’s a doctor, he’s intelligent, so he wouldn’t put someone in a trap for having an abortion, but I feel like he would stop the trap if the person in it was pregnant but only if they wanted to keep it since family is probably a soft spot for him

Logan: thinking about the Jigsaw movie gives me such a fucking headache so I don’t wanna think about it too much, but he did participate in the US invasion of the Middle East and works with the police, so yeah probably conservative and pro-life

Schenk: tbh probably the most left leaning of the apprentices (although technically he’s not an official John Approved™ apprentice, but whatever) so he might be pro-choice, but honestly idk

But that’s just my 2 cents :)🏖

#sorry this is so long I have many thoughts #ask #saw franchise

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magic8ballofyarn · 4 months ago

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Ask a question... Turn over for the answer!

Good day, my name is Juno? and I am the internets finest wizard. I am 20 and a genderqueer lesbian, my pronouns are It/that/they/he sometimes she and I am taken by my forever love, Lawrence.

I am currently studying to become a music educator. I am also looking to teach both music and drama since those are both things I am passionate about.

Here, I will post about my interests, life events, and maybe even things that get a bit personal. That being said, I will not put warnings unless it is graphic. (Tag will be #shuteye if needed)

I enjoy music, the performing arts, parodies, dancing, singing, oddities, whimsy, pokemon, cosplay, internet horror, writing, creative projects, collecting CDs, puzzles, movies, photography, US history, politics, magic (illusions, practical, spells) old youtube, video games, collecting jewelry, dressing up, *crime cases, game shows, mysteries, aliens, cryptids, cats, urban legends, weird animals, makeup, jumpscares/screamers, shock sites and more..!

(*I do not support the glamourization and the insensitive commentary that is normally associated with this)

I am looking to make more friends! Particularly lgbt, otherkin/therian, just very fun overall, and weird. [PUT SOMETHING HERE]

I ask that you tag the following with #junobeware:

Alcoholism, Negative religious topics, Neglect, Emetophobia, Any kind of ab*se, Contamination/germ talk, Cutesy trauma dumping or kind of the "t*ktokification" of mental illnesses (ex: omg im so ocd) it just bothers me personally, nothing against anyone who does this.

Thank you in advance.

#intro post #lesbian #wizard #music major

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minefield-of-a-ninja · 2 years ago

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28 DAYS: CHAPTER FOUR

Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given a choice to go to rehab for 28 days or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.

Chapter Characters: Dean Winchester, Jack Kline, Missouri Mosely, Meg Masters, Billie (Pilgrim), Pamela Barnes, Crowley, Rowena Macleod, Constance Welch, Gabriel

Chapter Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Meg (lol), Dean's first therapy session, sexual content

Words in this chapter: 3,600

AN: Dean’s experience with Billie is unique to his experience and influenced by themes from SPN. Please do not take his scenes with Billie (or anything from this story) as a reason not to seek therapy.

While very important to me, this story is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent all aspects of addiction and recovery. In Dean’s case, he is in no danger of delirium tremens, but withdrawal is always a lengthy and challenging process. Since Dean’s tox screen was positive for Valium, a go-to alcohol withdrawal treatment, as well as Vicodin, his doctors have prescribed Gabapentin (for pain, tremors, and anxiety) and the vitamin Thiamine (an essential micronutrient that cannot be made in the body of which alcohol prevents absorption). The treatment is meant to relieve Dean’s discomfort, prevent the development of more serious symptoms, and forestall cumulative effects that might worsen future withdrawals (i.e., delirium tremens).

Mental illness, alcoholism, and addiction run in my family. Yesterday, I lost another close relative to alcoholism. He was a beautiful man who loved his family and brought us joy and warmth through the years. Rest in peace, Kent.

If you or anyone you know are facing mental and/or substance use disorders, please do not hesitate to reach out:

All my love and thanks to @stusbunker and @brrose-apothecary for reading and discussions and holding my hand

text divider by @talesmaniac89

CHAPTER FOUR

Sun filters through the bare windows, heralding a new day.

Dean made it through the night, and, of that, he’s pretty fucking proud. He even got a good 90 minutes of sleep in, which is wild considering the total lack of valium.

He peers over at Jack’s bed and sees the kid sound asleep, drooling all over his pillow and stuffed guardian like a good kid should. The sight makes Dean’s stomach flip, but he smiles as he sweeps his blanket aside to cautiously roll off his bed.

He’s aching from head to toe, and the cool air has him shivering. Overall, his symptoms seem to be subsiding, but maybe he’s just too tired to feel it all.

Under his shower's hot, steady spray, he gets warm and limbers up. His range of motion, though stiff and painful, is returning to his shoulder and hips. He wishes he could soak in a tub like the one they have at the station.

His heart sinks, thinking about the station — about his team and Tessa. He hangs his head, letting the hot water soothe his muscles and trying not to think too much about how disgusted they all must be.

His spiral of guilt and shame is interrupted when his stomach growls. Hunger’s probably a good sign since the mere thought of food made him want to hurl yesterday and the day before.

More than anything — well, not anything, but more than food — he wants coffee.

After his shower, he quickly and quietly dresses, trying to remember what Missouri told him yesterday (which seems like a fucking year ago) about breakfast. He doesn’t recall the time she mentioned, so he wanders to the front desk to see what he can find out.

Missouri’s in her office as if she never left. She’s busy setting out little paper cups on trays, and without looking up, she greets him.

“Good mornin’, Dean.”

“Mornin’, ma’am.”

“How’d you sleep last night?”

Dean leans on the counter and watches her work. “Not a lot, but better than nothin’, I guess.”

Missouri hums. “You’re early, but I’ll get you fixed up.”

Dean’s brow furrows when she hands him one of the tiny paper cups with two pills inside.

“Your doctor told you we’d be givin’ you thiamine and gabapentin?”

Dean nods.

“You’ll get one low dose each every mornin’ from me, or from Alex. Just come right here and we’ll have it for ya, and then you can go to breakfast.”

Dean stares at the pills. He’s taken enough first responder classes to know what they’re used for, but he doesn’t feel sick enough for thiamine.

“They’re not gonna bite ya, boy. They’re better for ya than whatchu been swallowin’ — go on, now.”

Dean looks up at Missouri, and her stern, warm eyes calm him enough to throw the pills back and accept the cup of water from her. He crumples the water and pill cups into his fist before handing them over for Missouri to discard.

“What time d’you say breakfast was?” Dean asks.

“Not ‘til 7:30, but there’s coffee.”

“Fuckin’-A.”

Missouri tsks and furrows her brow at his language.

“Apologies, ma’am.”

Yeah, he apologizes, but he can barely contain his excitement, and he almost cries when he sees the tall carafe. As he reaches for a clean cup, Meg appears at his side out of fucking nowhere, peering over a steaming cup of her own.

“You know, I’ve heard of dry-out joints where they don’t allow caffeinated beverages of any kind.” Her eyes narrow, and her voice hollows like she’s relaying a dreadful urban legend.

“That so?” Dean arches a brow as the liquid gold fills his cup.

Meg, clearly better caffeinated than he is and dead set on engaging him pre-coffee, makes a show of lounging against the beverage cart.

“Or cigarettes,” she adds, taking a pointed sip of her coffee.

Dean takes his first blessed drink with a deep moan and then realizes what she’s actually said. “Wait— we have cigarettes here?”

Meg slowly nods with the most impish smirk Dean’s ever seen, then inserts herself between Dean and the carafe to top off her own cup.

“You can buy them at the commissary. Except they’re almost always out. I have my sister send them to me by the carton.”

For the second time in barely 5 minutes, Dean feels like crying from joy. He examines his tiny savior as she turns to look up at him, blowing across the lid of her cup in what he assumes is her natural state of absolute mischief before taking his leap.

“I dunno how to say this without sounding sad and desperate, but I’ll do just about anything for a smoke right now.”

Meg chuckles, raking her gaze up and down his form. “Damn that pesky no-fraternizing rule.”

Dean narrows his eyes as he tilts his head and purses his lips. Turns out he doesn’t need to be all the way at the top of his game to charm the smokes out of even the shrewdest holders.

“You’re adorable.” Meg purrs, reaching her inside jacket pocket. “Does anyone ever say no to you?”

Dean mocks up a thoughtful expression. “Not usually.”

She pushes away from the coffee bar, sticking a cigarette between her lips and waving a second like a dog biscuit. “C’mon. Outside.”

Meg will either be his new best friend or his demise. Either way, he’ll do whatever she asks right now.

On their way out to the deck, a woman brushes past them, openly eyeing Dean. She’s petite and seductive, with dark hair, dark eyes, and porcelain skin. Dean licks his lips, and his pants excessively tighten for 7 o’clock in the morning.

Meg whistles and Dean jolts from his trance before following her out to the deck.

“You know you’ll get booted for that, right?” She tucks into herself and lights her smoke.

“What?” Dean plays dumb, accepting his treat and her simple plastic lighter.

Meg rolls her eyes and exhales. “Sex addict to sex addict? I could hear your dick serenading her.”

Dean chuckles and rolls his eyes, firing up his reward. He inhales deeply and revels in the mingling of nicotine with caffeine. As he exhales, a warm buzz seeps through his brain and out to his extremities.

“Might be worth it. Fuck, I need somethin’.”

“You don’t need that, I promise.” Meg leads Dean to a long sturdy table overlooking a wooded area. “Billie will not even think twice about transferring you out, and then you start all over.”

Dean chews his lip, letting his second exhale roll from his lips. He shakes his head and hands her lighter back to her as she hikes up onto the table, planting her feet on the bench.

He doesn't tell Meg that he wouldn’t go to another rehab; he’d go to jail — no Passing Go, no two hundred dollars, no starting over.

“Who’s Billie anyway?” He takes another drag and eases up onto the table next to Meg.

“Therapist,” she grunts, then exhales. “Recovering addict, general badass, and doesn’t miss a thing.”

He rolls his cigarette between his fingertips, momentarily lost in the glowing tip. “There’s gotta be a way around some of these bullshit rules, huh?”

Meg shakes her head. “Nope. I mean, some people get stuff or fuck around, but they always find out.”

Dean huffs a laugh and exhales. “Fuck around and find out — cute.”

She shrugs, chuckling along with him. “I have a few good ones now and then.”

They’re quiet as they finish their smokes and their coffees cool. Finally, Meg tosses her butt into the bucket of sand as she hops down from the tabletop.

“Breakfast? The bacon’s not bad.” She shoves her hands in her pockets, giggling when Dean groans.

“Oof, talk dirty to me, darlin’.” He squeezes the cherry from the end of his smoke as he slides from the table and follows Meg back inside.

Billie Pilgrim appears just as Dean imagined she would. She’s professionally dressed and attractive, but not overwhelmingly so. Yet Dean can feel the light tremor of gamma-ray inquisition flowing from underneath her calm exterior.

“Good morning, Dean.”

“Mornin’,” he replies, mimicking casual as he glances around the uncluttered and ordered office.

There’s a wall of louvered glass doors similar to the cafeteria but on a much smaller scale. It’s a neutral, open space designed to promote conversation; even Dean knows enough about psychology to suss that out.

“Have a seat.”

Dean nods before settling into an armchair. His anxiety kicks in when he sees Billie round her desk with a thick manila folder and a legal pad.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“No thanks,” Dean answers, studying the chair’s upholstery and contrasting it with the denim of his worn jeans.

As Billie takes the seat across from him, he realizes too late that he still hasn’t made eye contact. When he finally does, he discovers her observing him without expression. He holds her gaze just as he shifts for comfort or cover.

“How’s your pain, Dean?” Billie opens the manila file.

“Better,” he replies.

Billie nods, flipping through the pages in the file. “Any questions about your prescribed medication?”

Dean shakes his head. “Discharging doc told me what to expect. Missouri’s a pro. Think we’re good.”

Her mention of medication as she peruses a hefty file all about him makes his chest tight, but he smiles and breathes through it.

Billie nods, organizing the file and her notepad before lacing her fingers together in her lap. “Well, then, let’s hop right in.”

“Great,” Dean agrees.

Billie fixes her face with a small smile but remains quiet.

Dean waits, not wanting to break first, but he’s agitated. He rolls his eyes. “This uhh... silent treatment/staring contest thing — does it really work for you?”

Billie chuckles before flipping to another page in her folder and making a note. She doesn’t answer his question.

“Are you aware of what caused you to lose consciousness on the morning of the incident?” She pauses, bringing her gaze back to him before swiping a hand down her notepad like she’s brushing away some ill-perceived dust.

Dean sticks his tongue into the side of his cheek and tilts his head. “I’m gonna go with drugs, alcohol, and an explosion. Am I warm?”

Billie nods. “To be clear, Dean, my job is to help you piece things together so that you better understand your story.”

“My story.”

Jack mentioned Crowley’s story last night. The psychobabble is going to drive him off a cliff.

“I’m asking if anyone has reviewed the series of events, the toxicology report, and your subsequent injuries with you.”

“Yeah, I got fucked up, disobeyed direct orders from my boss, and almost got myself blown up.”

Billie narrows her eyes and nods as she begins to read from the file.

“Your attorney agreed to tests and a search of your person. You carried 1.5 grams of cocaine for assumed personal use into a massive conflagration for which you were the chief in charge of four other firefighters — plus the life of a teenage boy inside the building.”

Dean drops his eyes and bobs his head, then squeezes his eyes shut.

“All stop. All stop!”

The blunt edges of his fingernails dig into his palms.

“You then tested with a BAC of .23. At 9 AM.”

Dean nods again as the words knit together to tell his story — one of negligence and ruin. He knows this; she doesn’t have to tell him. Why the fuck does she think he drinks?

“Also found in the tox screen: marijuana, Vicodin, Valium, and coke.” She closes the file and slips it under her notepad. “Quite the mix.”

Dean twists his lips into a wry smirk. “Well, I like to be thorough,” he drawls.

Billie studies him closely. “Do you always use humor to deflect?” she asks, jotting more notes.

“No, sometimes I use sex and drugs.”

“Touché.”

She continues to write things on her giant pad and act like she isn’t conversing with a human being while Dean grinds his teeth and imagines what it would feel like to punch a hole through the wall.

“I understand you have a teenage daughter.”

“Anything about me you don’t know?” He gestures toward the fat file in her lap.

Billie shakes her head. “Just the basic outline. I’m hopin’ you’ll give me the colors.”

Dean remains silent. So far, her line of questioning has been nothing but intimidation tactics and shaming. Dean sees no reason to team up with her.

She sighs, sliding her notepad inside the big file with the rest of Dean’s mistakes. “Listen, Dean; I’m here to help you. You did some bad things that your brother Sam can’t defend, and over the next 28 days, you’ll need to decide how you want to move forward with your life.”

“Yeah. I get that.” He grinds his teeth.

“Especially with joint custody of a teenage girl.”

Dean flicks his eyes to hers. He can no longer stem his rage. “Are you threatening me?”

Billie doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re threatening yourself, Dean.”

“Alcohol is a depressant; after prolonged use, the body must respond. To offset those effects, the brain starts producing a large number of chemicals like serotonin, dopamine, and epinephrine.”

Dean is absolutely positive that the slide presentation is filled with the most gruesome and extreme photos of alcohol- and drug-damaged organs anyone could find on the world wide web.

“Jesus Christ. What’s next, a honey bath with a million red ants?”

“Shut up,” Crowley hisses from four seats over, and Dean rolls his eyes, snatching a baby carrot from Pamela’s bowl of raw vegetables.

He scowls at the tiny, orange root before deciding to gnaw on it anyway.

“What’s his fuckin’ deal?” he murmurs, slumping into his seat

“Other than being a miserable old queen?” Meg asks, reaching across Dean to nab a slice of bell pepper from Pamela’s stash.

“Really?” Dean raises a brow as he chews.

Pamela snorts. “What’s the surprise — that he’s pathetic or gay?”

Dean pulls a sturgeon face. “I dunno why I even care, honestly.”

“When you suddenly quit alcohol, the brain continues to produce these substances in the same quantities, and the body’s flooded with chemicals at dangerously high levels.

Alcohol withdrawal symptoms include insomnia, restlessness, hand tremors, anxiety...”

“Do they think we’re all layin’ around gettin’ a full eight hours every night?” Dean gripes.

He doesn’t see it, but he knows Crowley and Rowena are glaring at him. He should probably reel in the MST3K of the educational videos for a while.

He sinks lower in his seat with a pout. “Why’s she so chummy with him, ya think?”

Meg shrugs, nibbling on her bell pepper and sliding her stocking feet across Dean’s lap. “She mothers everyone. Jack? I get. But him? Ugh.”

Dean immediately sets to work, kneading and squeezing Meg’s feet like they do this kind of thing all the time. It’s comforting to have the connection. He’s thankful he found her and Pamela so quickly; otherwise, he’d already be in jail.

The instructor raises the lights and takes questions as she loads up the next reel of slides. Meg’s gaze wanders momentarily until she locates Jack sitting on the floor with a couple of other teenagers.

“That was me when I was his age, ya know? I started just as early.”

Dean quietly rubs her feet, listening. He wouldn’t say he was Meg or Jack, but he did some shady shit when he was a teenager to put food on the table for himself and Sam.

“Not to be Debbie Downer,” Meg quips.

“That’s what we’re here for, right? Sharin’ and growin’?” Dean smirks, digging a knuckle into her arch.

Meg’s eyes roll back and she moans, curling her toes. “Holy shit.”

Dean chuckles, pressing his tongue behind his teeth, and Pamela says something about getting a room.

“You haven’t shared yet, though.” Pamela points out, offering him another baby carrot. Dean opens his mouth and she pops the small veggie into the abyss. “How’d things go with Billie today?”

Dean munches his snack with an eye roll. “Slapped my wrist, gave me homework, and now I get to clean up after dinner.”

“So, standard first meeting,” Pamela says, and Meg nods.

“I dunno, man, it felt like she was trying to piss me off. Like she had a score to settle. She kept bringin’ up my daughter.”

Pamela nods, turning closer toward Dean. “Does your daughter live with you?”

Dean glances at Pamela then sort of shakes his head. No one likes people who put kids in danger — their own or anyone else’s — but he can’t say that Em wasn’t there that morning as some kind of answer because she’s seen plenty.

“Joint custody.”

The lights go down again, and the instructor starts the audio. Before the second slide, Pamela nudges Dean and slides him her phone.

“Hey, how d’you get a phone?” he whispers, and she chuckles.

“You’ll earn it back." She points to two young kids on her screen. "These’re my boys. Jesse Jr. and Bodhi.”

Dean grins at the sunny smiles, radiating from the screen. “Coupla handsome kids ya got there, PB. Jesse Sr.?”

“Killed in Afghanistan.” Pamela’s smile and answer are both soft and subdued as she pockets her phone. “What’s your girl’s name?”

Dean suddenly feels very heavy and tired. “Emma.”

“As soon as you get your phone back, you call Emma,” Pamela whispers before relaxing back into her seat.

Dean nods.

Emma stopped taking his calls and blocked his texts months before. Should he say that to Pamela?

Meg drags her feet from his lap and leans forward. “Welp, I’ve seen this one, folks, so I’m gonna duck out and play cards with Gabe.”

“But this is riveting cinema, Megan,” Dean mutters, and Meg chuckles, ruffling his hair.

“See ya at dinner,” Pamela whispers, and Meg waves. “Do I get a foot massage next?”

Dean snorts a laugh, turning to face Pamela as she kicks her clogs off to rest her feet in his lap.

Later that week, Dean sets about his assigned tasks of wiping down every table and chair before laying out breakfast set-ups for the following day. He appreciates the rote chores because they allow him to just breathe for a bit — no purposeful conversation or tip-toeing around bitchy, old Crowley.

As he’s stripping the required protective gloves off to wash his hands, he spots the dark beauty he and Meg saw on Tuesday morning. She’s alone in one of the peripheral seating areas, watching him over the top of an open book.

He drops his gaze to see the hand not holding her book buried between her legs. His gut clenches, and his cock stirs. He bites his tongue and wills himself to breathe as he tosses the gloves in the trash and turns to wash his hands.

He’s staring into the steaming stream of water when she speaks.

“I’ve seen you around. I’d like to see more.”

Dean closes his eyes and swears under his breath. She slides up against his backside like they’re in a dance club, skating her hands up under the front of his t-shirt. His core muscles clench so hard it hurts.

“You’re really hot.”

He twists the knobs to close before dropping the nail brush into its grated plate and shaking the excess water from his hands.

“Is your dick as pretty as your face?”

Dean slowly turns and places his hands on her shoulders. “You’re gonna get us into trouble.”

“C’mon, Dean.”

He tilts his head, searching her dark eyes and lifting her chin with a thumb and forefinger. “How d’you know my name?”

She laughs; it’s practiced and sensual. “Everyone with a pulse in this place knows your name, Dean. I’m Constance.”

She reaches for his other hand and slides it into the loosened top of her dress. Saliva pools in his mouth as she closes his fingers around her bare, heavy breast.

He moans and dips in to kiss her mouth, jaw, and throat, then slides his hand into her dark locks. She feels so good — familiar and welcoming. He wants to rip into her, to be on his knees with his face in her cunt, to feel her throbbing heat.

“Did you make yourself come, watchin’ me?” Dean walks her backward into the dark, quiet kitchen.

“Uh-huh.” She slides her hand down and wraps her fingers around the growing bulge in his pants. “Fuck, I want this inside me.”

Dean’s mind races with how exactly Billie defines fraternizing. What if he fucks her standing up? What if he just fingers her or tastes her? God, he wants to taste her.

But he knows what happens if they get caught.

Before he can further hypothesize, the kitchen lights are glaring. Dean breaks away from her hot curves, and she gasps.

“Hey! There you two are!" Gabe grins like a game show host, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. In fact, he looks terrified. "We’re watchin’ Titanic. You should join. We’ve got a pool goin’ — could Jack fit on that door or not?”

Dean huffs a laugh and pushes his hand through his hair. “Damn, I do love Kate and Leo.” He doesn't look at Comstance when he wipes his mouth with a wince. He stopped wearing the arm sling, but that doesn’t mean his shoulder’s completely healed.

He exits the kitchen quickly, with Gabe on his heels and Constance calling his name in the distance.

“Uh, you’re welcome,” Gabe mutters when he catches up to Dean’s retreat.

Dean sighs and tosses Gabe a look of appreciation. “Thanks, man.”

“That Constance Welch, what a fuckin’ menace,” Gabe cracks as they round the corner to the TV room, and Dean busts out a genuine laugh.

Chapter 5

Please let me know what you think!

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crystallizedkingdoms · 1 year ago

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all the posts youve tagged as igsi have created SUCH an interesting portrait!!! if you ever want to talk about him, please take this as an invitation!!

sending this ask is like hand-feeding me crack cocaine. I WILL utilize this invitation i will tell you this man’s fucking life now. under the cut because this gets extremely long but tl;dr for anyone else: Igsi is my angry dog coded character who hates authority and will NOT respect gods (even though he ends up dating one)

OKAY so to start off. Igsivalitaq “Igsi” Anderson is a guy from my original story Ittuatuq and I’ve written a few things for it but I never actually wrote anything with him, though I should Really Change That. he’s one of the main antagonists in the second book/season (I section off Ittuatuq into books/seasons cuz im insane), but over time he becomes part of the main protagonist cast instead.

so, backstory: Igsi grew up in Iqaluit, Nunavut. He lives with his mother and father, but also an anthropologist named Roland Lawrence who’s lived there most of Igsi’s life(not important now but later), and as he grew up he started getting into trouble with authority, even at a young age. at first it started with petty domestic stuff, like acting out for attention at home or teasing classmates, but over time it started really escalating into getting into trouble with the law with crimes like theft, trespassing, underage drinking cuz of good ol undiagnosed mental illness. he specifically starts running into trouble with one RCMP officer in particular, Officer Nakasuk.

so, Igsi obviously starts to form a grudge against him, and he starts to repeatedly antagonize the Officer specifically. in turn, the Officer and Igsi’s parents set him up with the Officer’s mother, who we just call Mentor. the Mentor starts Igsi on a very spiritual path towards healing and also lowkey teaching him about being a whole ass angakkuq in the hopes that this makes him stop being such a troubled kid. and while Igsi does actually get very, very interested in traditional spirituality and does end up liking the mentor and wanting to be a full-fledged angakkuq, his troubles with the law still get worse.

this all REALLY comes to a head just after he turns 18. the night Igsi gets released after a gruelling inpatient treatment that really left him frustrated, he and the Officer really come to a head. theyre alone and it’s a dark winter so they’re really saying like the shittiest things possible. one thing leads to another, Officer Nakasuk threatens Igsi with a stun gun, Igsi’s frustrations of being treated like shit for his entire life for things he never got Actual help for while being consistently incarcerated by the people who have authority over him finally overflows, and… oops! Igsi utilizes his angakkuq power andddd the Officer is dead.

THIS is where the dog coding really kicks in because it’s like. oh my god, he killed a person. he has fought and injured people, yes, but he has never actually killed someone. and he’s an adult, there is no juvie waiting for him, its Real Prison, and while he has hated the Officer for breaking his community apart, he’s still law enforcement. this shit is going to ruin him. so… he runs! he runs away with practically zero preparation, into the very dangerous tundra wilderness in the dead of winter. and he essentially just becomes a stray dog, living on scraps while a part of him desperately wishes he could return home and curl up in the lap of his parents, but he KNOWS he can’t do that.

but at the same time he refuses to believe that what he did was wrong. that he’s done what should have been done long ago, that he DESERVED to bite the way he did, because goddamn it, he was horribly oppressed by a system that was created to subjugate people like him, and he will never be the boy he was again, and isnt that enough to prove it was worth it? its during this exile that he really feels dejected by the entire world, from controlling human society and uncaring spiritual society, that he’s like Fuck it, whatever happens to me, i dont care, i will never follow anyone’s orders ever again.

anyway. hes about to die in the tundra due to hypothermia (lmao) when he encounters a spirit made of flame. this spirit is a tuurngaq, an auxiliary spirit that angakkuit can bond their souls to and gain extraordinary power, named Paliq. Paliq is a whole other can of worms lol but essentially, the two of them have very similar ideals in regards to authority and being controlled, so they make a deal: they can bond, Paliq will keep Igsi warm and protect him from then on, but in return Igsi cannot treat Paliq like a regular tuurngaq and they must act like a team, not with no orders or subordinates. which Igsi is like okay yeah perfect.

this however does Not solve the fact that Igsi is wanted and also starving OOPS. so one way or another, Igsi ends up returning to Iqaluit, and obviously he’s fucking arrested. and while Igsi and Paliq are planning to find a way to escape and leave the country (its a terrible plan), guess what. it’s that fucking anthropologist in the beginning didn’t expect THAT. and he’s like Listen Igsi. youre a good man if a bit misguided. I can get you out of this situation to the best of my ability, but in return you have to tell me about what your mentor has taught you, and also tell me about your new friend. because turns out, while this anthropologist joined Igsi’s family to study poverty and culture in Inuit families, he ended up getting really obsessed with the “lost” art of traditional angakkuit so now he wants access to it.

Igsi agrees, the court proceedings go surprisingly well bc Lawrence has the money to provide Igsi with a good lawyer, and Igsi gets off with manslaughter. so he still does time but like, better than second degree. and while Igsi has obviously lost the trust from his Mentor for killing her son, he still has a lot of angakkuit knowledge that he starts to provide for Lawrence, and while Lawrence is very careful to make the whole transaction seem very equal bc they’ve known each other for so long and he knows Igsi’s deal with authority, he basically has Igsi on a leash and is using him as a working dog isnt that FUCKED. I love it.

this goes on until “present day” in the story (which actually takes place in 2030 cuz im insane), where Igsi is finally off of prison. and Lawrence is like hey I’ve got word from two reputable angakkuuk (the protagonist’s, Piqati’s, parents) that theres actually a super small hamlet in the middle of buttfuck nowhere where a living god resides and is basically a bastion for power and spirits. come with me and we can go there and you can basically do whatever the fuck you want there forever and i get to pursue my studies (unlimited power but Igsi doesn’t know that). and Igsi is like Fuck Yeah let’s go.

SO. NOW HES LOOSE. he enters Ittuatuq and immediately starts antagonizing the fuck out of everyone in there, but especially Piqati and his friends. WHICH IS INSANE. BC THEYRE 18 YEARS OLDS WHO ARE STILL IN SCHOOL and at this point Igsi is 24 it’s like. he’s beefing with high schoolers and he’s very pathetic about that. But what i reallyyyy wanna focus on is his interaction with a certain character: Airaq, the VERY beloved bear deity of Ittuatuq.

HIS DYNAMIC WITH AIRAQ IS SOOO. RRAUURAGH if you love dog coding and religious doubt then this is it this is the place. at first Igsi starts pursuing Airaq because he’s kind of very into the whole challenge of getting with a deity and the fact that Airaq seems so pure and beloved on the outside. so it starts out with very casual flings and hook ups, but over time as the plot moves on Igsi starts getting really attached to Airaq and it’s like. oh shit. now all of a sudden he feels himself getting wrapped around a god’s finger, instinctively doing what Airaq says (the whole fucking “call your dog off” dynamic), and oh god, is this going against his ideals? what does it mean that he’s falling in love with a god?

so yeah. dog metaphors, religious metaphors, and crazy insane power dynamics all about. also stupid crazy faggot sex but thats not what you asked for and i wont embarrass myself elaborating here LMAO.

OKAY THIS GOT VERY LONG. and i could honestly do this for hours but this is, believe it or not, just a brief overview of him and i barely even got into the main plot. if you or anyone who is reading this wants anything more specific then please feel free to ask and ill go even deeper. god i really need to actually start writing him cuz im obsessed with him genuinely.

thank you for asking this if you read all of this my dear mutual sworcerie im kissing you square on the lips (or just high fiving you if that’s cooler)

(btw heres him all drawn by my gf)

#asks #sworcerie #mewfies #ittuatuq #i wrote so much that I legit have to rb this to my ittuatuq blog lol

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