#Firsthand Exposure

[qalamwalawh]

Mastering Arabic requires more than just textbooks and grammar drills. Engaging with the language in real-life situations enhances fluency and comprehension. One effective way to accelerate your progress is to learn Arabic in Rabat, Morocco, where you can interact with native speakers daily and experience the language in authentic contexts. Living in an Arabic-speaking environment helps reinforce vocabulary and pronunciation naturally.

[thanatologie]

@todrawblood - Do you tell your friends / family that you write? questions for the mun / accepting

boything is about the only one that matters as far as that goes, because you know.  i see him every day and stuff, and he has singlehandedly contributed several cursed lines of dialogue for tony stark and cackled when it gets the reaction desired.  so, you know.  yeah.  i do.  i don't feel like it's all that weird of a hobby or anything, and he's willing to be my rubber duck when i need one for stuff.  though it probably also helps that we generally play the same games and he's as big of a nerd as i am.

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

A number of my friends from college became IT people and so I’ve heard firsthand all the bullshit they have to put up with at their jobs. But at the same time I know that this constant exposure to people who don’t know the first thing about computers warps their perception to the point that they automatically assume their users are idiots, and so if you have an actual IT issue that’s more complicated than the usual 3 things they will be so dismissive and doubtful of you and will assume you are in the wrong to the point that you have to be a bit of a persistent asshole to get it across that your problem is real.

Anyway I think that’s probably the same problem with doctors

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR I

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.6k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This story is inspired by the 2012 movie This Means War. I went back and forth on whether to write it with a named OC or in reader format—and ultimately decided to try something new and go with reader-insert. I usually write in third person with original characters, so this is a bit of a different style for me. As for who the reader ends up with… I haven’t made a final decision yet—maybe one of them, maybe both. Feel free to let me know who you’re rooting for! Hope you enjoy the chaos! warnings: None so far except for the fact that I don't know anything about neuroscience only what my research brings up, so I'm praying the shit I write makes sense

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The lecture hall smelled like old paper and burnt coffee. You stood at the front, spine straight despite the fatigue threading through your muscles. Behind you, the whiteboard was half-covered in scrawls of chemical structures and dopamine pathways, neatly drawn and precisely labeled. It was the kind of lecture that left half the room wide-eyed with curiosity… and the other half silently praying for mercy.

With a quiet click, you capped your marker and continued. “Neurotransmitter binding is not a one-size-fits-all process,” you said, voice steady as your gaze swept across rows of glazed eyes and frantic scribbles. “It’s dynamic. It’s reactive. It’s shaped by genetics, trauma, medication—even what you ate for breakfast.”

A hand shot up in the second row.

“So… like, can serotonin make you hallucinate?”

You blinked. “No. And if it does, someone’s given you something else—and you should go to the ER. Immediately.”

A ripple of laughter. A few groans.

Another hand rose—this one from a sharp-eyed girl near the back. “In Joker toxin exposure cases, have you ever seen synthetic mimicry of dopamine flood patterns?”

Now that was a question worth respecting.

You’d specialized in Joker toxin during your postgraduate years, had seen firsthand the neurological carnage it left behind. The clown was a madman no doubt—but a dangerously brilliant madman.

Your mouth tugged into a faint smirk. “Yes. And no. But that’s a topic for next week.”

The clock ticked toward the hour. You fielded three more questions—one insightful, two exhausting—before dismissing the class. 

Backpacks zipped. Conversations stirred. As the last student filed out, you finally exhaled. Slowly. The silence was a relief.

Rolling your shoulders, you gathered your coat and bag, the weariness catching up to you in waves as you made your way toward the door—hungry, tired, and vaguely craving something that didn’t taste like caffeine or sugary energy drinks.

Gotham’s streets buzzed with their usual chaos—honking cabs, barking vendors, motorcycles weaving between traffic like they were flirting with death. You walked with familiar ease, the city noise fading beneath the throb behind your eyes and the pressure at the back of your skull.

Your hand drifted up to your bun. It had been tightly wound since six in the morning, and now it felt like a migraine on a countdown. Mercifully, you didn’t have to be in the lab today—no microscopes, no sterile gloves, no post-doc breathing down your neck. Just freedom. Glorious, unwashed, unbothered freedom.

So you didn’t hesitate. One by one, you tugged the pins from your hair, each metallic clink falling into your coat pocket like a tiny rebellion. The strands spilled down, wild and full of indents, but you didn’t care. You tipped your head back, rubbed at your aching scalp with slow, tender fingers, and sighed like you’d been holding your breath all day.

You looked like hell. You felt like hell. But you were done. No lectures. No lab reports. Your appearance be damned you just wanted to spend the rest of the day in comfort. 

Your boots clicked along the sidewalk as you headed toward Café Nero, already imagining the warmth of a latte in your hands—despite your earlier claim about cutting back on caffeine. A lie, obviously. Caffeine was practically your lifeblood— and something carby in your mouth.

But the universe had other plans.

You turned the corner—and nearly collided headfirst with a ghost.

Jake.

Three years of your life bundled into one name, one face. One half-curved smile that looked exactly like it used to and somehow worse now that it was being directed at someone else.

Three years of your life compressed into one name. One face. One irritatingly familiar smirk. His arm was around a tall blonde, her smile radiant and far too trusting. He wore the same smug charm he always had as he said something that had her giggling. 

He noticed you first.

“Hey!” he said, voice way too bright. “Y/N. Wow. You look…” his eyes flicked over your rumpled sweater, your wild hair, “…great. Still at the university? Tinkering away in your little lab?”

You straightened instinctively, spine snapping to attention like your body was trying to make up for the indignity of the moment. Of all the days to run into him.

“I am,” you replied, polite but clipped.

Three years together, and he still couldn’t grasp the importance of your work—or the lives it affected. Your research had been groundbreaking, and he’d always referred to it like you were tinkering with science fair projects.

The blonde leaned into his side with a warm smile. “You didn’t tell me your ex was brilliant and pretty.”

You wanted to hate her. Truly, you did. But unfortunately… she actually seemed sweet.

He laughed. “I forget sometimes.” Then turned back to you with that same infuriatingly casual smirk. “Oh—uh, Y/N, this is my fiancée, Hannah.”

The word hit like a slap.

Fiancée.

Only a year ago, you’d walked in on him and his yoga instructor, limbs tangled and guilt nowhere in sight. He’d thrown away three years with you like it was nothing—and now, not even twelve months later, he’d found someone new and locked her down with a ring so big it probably needed its own insurance policy.

You managed a smile. A real one, for her sake. Sort of. “It’s nice to meet you.” Your eyes dropped to the large, glittering ring on her hand.

“Wow,” you said with a tight smile. “That’s… that’s a big rock.” You let out an awkward laugh, trying muster the slightest bit of enthusiasm you definitely weren’t feeling on the inside. “You’re engaged. To be married.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. Things just… clicked. It was like fate.” Then he reached out and stroked her cheek with the kind of performative tenderness that made your stomach churn. 

God. How had you ever loved this man?

“Isn’t that right, baby?” he murmured.

Someone gag you with a spoon.

You stood there, frozen in place, as Jake pulled Hannah in for a kiss—deep as if he was trying to fit his entire tongue down her throat. Screw you, you thought. Screw you for rubbing her in my face.

You cleared your throat, the sound awkward and a little too loud. “Well, I should get going,” you began—except your mouth didn’t stop there.

Your brain screamed abort, but your tongue had other plans.

“I actually have to go meet my guy. Yeah, he’s a neuroscientist too. We, uh… met at work.” You nodded like that somehow made it more convincing. “Anyway…”

You cleared your throat again, silently begging yourself to shut up.

“It was… great seeing you. And congrats. On the ring. The upcoming wedding. Your whole… life. All of it.” You winced inwardly. “Well… Peace.”

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, you topped it off by flashing a peace sign like some glitching robot before turning and briskly walking away.

The second you were out of sight, your smile collapsed. You pressed your lips together, debating whether to scream into the sky or crawl into the nearest sewer.

“Someone kill me right now,” you muttered under your breath.

CAFÉ NERO

You finally made it to the café, and with it, your mortification began to loosen its grip. The familiar scent of roasted beans and fresh pastries wrapped around you like a warm blanket, softening the sting of everything that had come before.

Inside, it was calm—the gentle hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of scattered conversations. A peaceful hum that felt like the complete opposite of Jake and his nauseating tongue display.

You slipped into your usual seat at the counter, letting your bag slump to the floor, and leaned against the worn wood like it might hold you up a little longer.

“Ah! Doctora!” Juan greeted you with a bright smile from behind the bar.

He was a sweet kid—maybe nineteen—who’d moved to Gotham from Mexico about six months ago. His English was improving steadily, though every now and then he’d still stumble over a few words. You’d quietly helped where you could. While he knew your name, he aways insisted on calling you Doctora like it was your superhero title. 

You snorted at the thought. You, a superhero? You couldn’t even save yourself from an awkward conversation with your ex.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for your cup.

“Si, please,” you nodded.

He glanced up with a curious smile. “Long day?”

You let out a soft groan, dropping your face into your hands. “You have no idea.”

The door chimed behind you, but you didn’t bother looking up. Not until you felt someone hovering a little too close to the seat beside you. 

You prayed your luck wasn’t that shitty.

But of course, it was.

Jake’s familiar chuckle slid into your ears like nails on glass. You closed your eyes for half a second, steeling yourself, before slowly peeling your face from your hands.

“This is too funny,” he said with a grin. “What a coincidence.”

“Right! Absolutely hilarious,” you replied, forcing a smile that you hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt as you saw Jake and Hannah standing there.

“I’m assuming this is your boyfriend’s seat?” Jake asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, ye—”

Before you could finish, Juan slid your drink across the counter, cheerful as ever.

“No, Doctora,” he said, accent warm, words slightly clipped at the edges. “Order for one. Always order for one. Seat is free.”

You nearly choked on air.

Hannah giggled while Jake said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows slightly, in that smug little way he used to do when he thought he’d won something.

God, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You smiled tightly. “It is. I’m meeting him back at work. Just stopped in quick. Juan, I thought I said I needed this to-go?”

Juan frowned, brows pinching together. “Mmm… no, I don’ think so. You say you finish work. You always sit here, like always.”

“Not this time,” you said—too sharp, too fast.

Juan’s face fell a little. Guilt bloomed in your chest like a bruise, he didn’t deserve that. It was your own damn fault for digging the hole in you were now.

You sighed, softer this time. “Lo siento, Juan. Can you make it to-go, please?”

He nodded, already reaching for the paper cup and bag.

You turned back to Jake with a forced laugh. “Seat’s all yours.”

The second Juan handed you the new cup and pastry bag, you thanked him quietly, paid, and practically sprinted for the door—mortified, humiliated, and more than ready to go home and bury yourself under ten layers of shame.

MILO & ANTHONY’S APARTMENT

“Ugh! I wanted to die right then and there,” you groaned, collapsing dramatically onto Milo and Anthony’s couch, a glass of wine already halfway gone. Their apartment was across from yours, and you’d made a beeline for it the second you got home, desperate to drink your embarrassment into submission. “I fucking peaced them.”

Anthony winced. “Yeah, that’s… pretty bad.”

“That’s because you need to go out more,” Milo said, waving his wine glass like a pointer. “Meet someone. Rub him all over Jake’s face like a human flex—same way he’s doing with that girl, Hayley.”

“Hannah,” you corrected automatically. “And she seemed sweet.”

“She could be as sweet as cotton candy dipped in honey and I still wouldn’t give a shit,” Milo snapped. “I give a shit about you. And you cannot keep letting that asshole rent space in your head.”

You opened your mouth, but Milo steamrolled right over you.

“Fine if you’re not ready for anything serious, but girl—you need to go out and get some good dick. That pussy is drier than the Sahara.”

You choked on your wine. “Hey! I get some!”

Milo deadpanned you. “Your vibrator doesn’t count. Honestly, it should start charging you. Thing looks like it’s about to file for workers’ comp.”

You blinked. “Have you been going through my drawers again?!”

He shrugged without shame. “I was looking for your face cream.”

“And you thought I keep that in my underwear drawer?” 

“Look, the point is,” he said, sitting forward, “you need to go out. Date. Even just a casual thing. I hate seeing you mope over that troll.”

“I’m not moping,” you muttered.

Anthony gave you a soft smile—too kind for this earth. “We’re just worried about you. And hey, for the record, we’re glad you moved here. You’re part of our chaos now.”

You exhaled, guilt and warmth stirring in your chest. “I know. It’s just… I can’t believe I was that blind. I nearly gave up everything for him. I even moved back to this shit-hole of a city—where clowns and penguins blow up buildings and guys in capes fight crime in full spandex.”

“Well, at least Gotham has a certain… charm,” Anthony offered.

“I mean, it’s great if your idea of charm is daily arson,” you deadpanned.

“We are happy you’re here,” Milo agreed, his voice softer for once. “But you’ve gotta stop beating yourself up. Even I thought he might’ve been your person—but he wasn’t. That’s on him. His loss, not yours. You’ve gotta move forward, babe.”

“I am dating,” you said weakly.

“No, you’re talking to people. You don’t even give them a real shot.” He raised his brows. “You can’t test chemistry without mixing the liquids.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s more complex than just ‘mixing liquids,’ Milo. There’s neural signaling, oxytocin regulation, attachment frameworks, behavioral conditioning… Timing alone can throw everything off. You can’t just drop two people into a room and expect chemistry. That’s not chemistry—it’s chaos.”

“Why not?” Milo shrugged. “People do it all the time. You’re overthinking it—as usual. But if it helps, just treat it like another one of your experiments.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argued. “My experiments have structure. Charts. Data. Equations. Control groups.”

“Exactly!” Milo clapped his hands. “Which is why you should try online dating. They have charts and shit.”

You let out a snort. “Please. In this city? Knowing my luck, I’d end up matched with a serial killer. Or worse—the Joker.”

Anthony tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does the Joker even online date?”

Milo groaned. “You’re both insane. There are plenty of semi-normal people on those apps. It’s how me and Anthony met.”

You gave him a flat look. “Exactly.”

You gave him a long, pointed look. “Point proven.”

“No.” Milo leaned in. “The point is you need to get back out there. Whether it’s for a wham-bam-thank-you-man kind of night, or you end up calling me crying because you just met the father of your future babies—I don’t care. You just can’t keep living in Jake’s memory. Not everyone is like him.”

You groaned, tipping back the rest of your wine in one go. “I know that.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a look.

“I do!” you insisted. “Look, can we table this for now? I just want to drown my feelings and make future-me regret the hangover I’m definitely earning tonight.”

GOTHAM ROOFTOPS

Boots hit the edge of a rooftop with a soft scrape of gravel. Jason Todd scanned the streets below, hands resting at his sides, jacket collar tugged up against the bite of the early spring cold. He moved with restless energy—agitated, impatient, ready for something to go wrong.

“This is a bust,” he muttered into the comms. “Three blocks, no action. Not even a wannabe thug with a pocket knife and poor life choices. I’m starting to think Gotham forgot how to be Gotham.”

There was a beat of silence before Dick’s voice came through, dry and amused.

“Or maybe you’re just scaring the criminals too much, Hood. Ever consider early retirement?”

Jason rolled his eyes behind the mask. “Only if you go first, Nightwing. I thought Blüdhaven was where all the action was—what’re you doing slumming it with us Gotham bottom-feeders?”

“It is,” Dick replied. “But every now and then I like to slum it with my baby brother. Make sure you’re not burning down half the city in my absence.”

Jason snorted. “You’re only older by what, five years and a moral superiority complex?”

Before Dick could answer, Barbara’s voice cut in over the channel, sharp and clear.

“Seems like you’re about to get your wish, Jason. I’ve got eyes on suspicious movement down at the docks—east side, Warehouse Eleven.” Barbara drawled through the comms. 

Jason was already moving, boots hitting gravel as he took off across the rooftop. “Now we’re talking.”

Dick followed a step behind, vaulting over a low pipe with practiced ease. “Arms deal?”

“Most likely,” Barbara confirmed. “Thermal scans show at least four bodies. No confirmed ID yet, but one of them matches a known associate of Black Mask.  “Be smart. And try not to level the building, Jason.”

“No promises,” he said, grin audible.

WAREHOUSE ELEVEN, EAST DOCKS

The docks were dead quiet when they arrived—too quiet. The kind of stillness that always meant something was waiting to go wrong. The air smelled like oil and sea rot, and the only sounds were the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of aging chains swaying in the wind.

Jason crouched at the edge of a container stack, pistols holstered at his thighs, his gaze locked on the warehouse below. His breath clouded in the cool air.

“East lot’s clear,” he murmured into the comms. “Nothing but rats and roaches.”

Dick landed beside him in a soundless roll. “So, your usual crowd.”

Jason didn’t glance over. “That’s twice tonight. Keep it up and I’ll tell everyone you cried during that Pixar movie.”

“I was twelve. And it was Up, you heartless bastard.”

“Still counts.”

They moved in silence, slipping through a broken window high on the warehouse wall. Their boots hit the rafters without a whisper. Below them, four men circled a battered folding table strewn with crates, unmarked cases, and haphazard stacks of cash. A single overhead bulb flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows across the concrete floor.

Jason zoomed in with his HUD. “I know that one—left side. Carlo Mancini. Low-tier runner for Sionis. Looks like he’s about to piss himself.”

“Might mean he knows something,” Dick murmured.

They listened.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Mancini hissed, voice tight and shaky. “It’s gonna be big. Joker-level big.”

One of the others scoffed. “The hell you talkin’ about? Joker’s been off the grid for months.”

“Yeah, and now he’s back. Lookin’ for someone—some guy who used to run with him, then bailed. Word is, he took something. Something important.”

Jason’s fingers curled slowly around the grip of his pistol.

“It’s not his usual stuff either,” Mancini went on, voice dropping to a whisper. “Heard it’s from Scarecrow too. Some freak chemical—don’t kill you right away. Makes you laugh yourself insane. Till your heart gives out.”

A beat of silence.

“No cure for it, either.”

Jason exhaled. “Shit.”

Beside him, Dick’s jaw flexed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Jason gave a tight nod. “If the Joker and Scarecrow teamed up and made something new—and someone stole it…”

Dick’s voice was grim. “Then Gotham just became a countdown clock. And we’re already late.”

Without another word, they moved.

Jason dropped from the rafters like a shadow cutting through fog, landing hard enough to make one of the thugs flinch. Dick followed a breath behind, graceful and quiet. By the time the first man reached for his weapon, Jason had already disarmed him with a sharp twist of his wrist and sent him sprawling with a solid elbow to the jaw.

Dick swept the legs out from under another, zip-tying his wrists with practiced ease. The other two barely had time to shout before they were taken down—one with a stun baton to the ribs, the other with a boot to the sternum.

Mancini tried to run.

Jason caught him by the collar, slammed him against a crate with just enough force to knock the air from his lungs. “Going somewhere?”

The runner gasped, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t—look, I don’t know anything!”

“You know enough to be scared,” Jason growled, pressing his forearm into the man’s throat. “So start talking.”

“Okay—okay!” Mancini wheezed, both hands raised in surrender. “I just heard whispers, man. Word on the street is Joker and the ‘crow are lookin’ for someone—most likely one of his old runners. Said he took something. Chemical notes, maybe the whole damn formula. Whatever it is, it’s important. Real important. Joker’s tearing through people trying to get it back.”

Jason’s gaze darkened. “You know who this guy is?”

“No name,” Mancini coughed. “Just that he used to run logistics—backdoor stuff. Quiet type. Smart guy. Kept to himself. Real ghost.”

“Not smart enough if he got himself tangled up with the Joker and Scarecrow,” Dick muttered.

Jason’s hand tightened. For a moment, Dick thought he might snap.

“Jason,” he said, quiet. A reminder.

Jason let go.

Mancini dropped to his knees, coughing and trembling. Jason stepped back into the shadows, tapping his comm.

“You catch all that, Oracle?”

Barbara’s voice filtered in, sharp and efficient. “Every word. Red Robin and B are already digging. If this guy’s in Gotham, we’ll find him. But until then, you two are off the clock. Get some rest.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dick shot him a look. “Try to actually listen for once. Not everything has to be solved in one night.” 

With that, he clapped Jason on the shoulder and nudged him toward the exit—just as the distant wail of GCPD sirens broke the silence, growing louder with every passing second. Cleanup crew was on its way.

Jason didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his thoughts already miles ahead—backtracking whispers, dissecting clues, remembering the sound of laughter that still echoed in the corners of his nightmares.

It was rare for the Joker to get invested in anything. He thrived on chaos, not consistency. But if he was serious enough to go out of his way to hunt down some nobody, then whoever had the formula was sitting on a bomb.

Next Chapter →

[andacherrycoke]

Thinking about how Bobby was there to bear witness to Buck climbing the crane after Eddie was shot. Bobby’s the one that was on the receiving end of “I was just the guy standing there who couldn’t do anything to protect him.” Bobby saw how feeling like that drove Buck up that crane with a sniper on the loose, and that was even with Eddie surviving. He had a firsthand look at what his death could do to Buck that I think was even more clear than Buck’s worry about Bobby’s exposure to cobalt or whatever it was in season 3. I think “they’re gonna need you” was both to give him a task to focus on and a desperate reminder that Buck can’t follow him.

[callalillywrites]

Your Eyes Brought It All Back

Written for @steverogersbingo. E3 - Amnesia.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Steve Rogers Bingo | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count: 1616

Summary: Steve and you took some nasty hits. While you're stuck in a coma, Steve's healing but having a hard time remembering you. All he knows is that you deserve better than an absent fiancé as he watches over you.

Warnings: Medical setting; injured Steve; injured reader (coma); head injuries; grumpy Steve; protective Steve; memory gaps; happy ending; fluff; hurt/comfort

A/N: Since this an amnesia story, I went a little crazy with the cliches. I regret nothing.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

Steve wanted to pummel your fiancé.

The man had some nerve to leave you alone at a time like this.

All Steve knew was the man had a lot to answer for if he ever dared show his face.

Three days.

Three goddamn days.

That's how long you've been asleep in the bed next to him within the medical ward of the Tower.

Well, sleep wasn't quite right.

Coma would be more appropriate.

The doctors had ordered it to better help you heal your injuries, especially the nasty knock you'd taken to your head. They've been monitoring your progress ever since, and they're all relatively optimistic you'll make a full recovery. You just needed time to recover, and that's what they were giving you.

Having taken a heavy knock in the same incident that's led to your current predicament, Steve hadn't needed to be induced. His serum would take care of any healing his body needed, and it has for the most part.

The only hiccup had occurred when he woke up and couldn't recall the past couple of years.

It'd been a real shock to learn that not only had they won against Loki in New York, but his best friend hadn't died that day on the train as he'd thought for so long. He'd also made friends with another guy, who'd been sitting at his bedside as much as the others. That same man had been an integral part in assisting him and Nat to get Bucky back.

Steve found he really liked Sam, who seemed to always have a knack to lighten the mood. Sam also had a special knack for driving Bucky crazy, which was equal parts exasperating and amusing.

He'd also met Sharon Carter, another who'd helped to save Bucky from Hydra and taking Hydra down after they'd infiltrated SHIELD at all levels. She was definitely nice enough, and he really liked the spark he saw within her that reminded him so much of Peggy.

While she had checked in to see how he was doing, it was actually you that had drawn her to the room.

You were apparently good friends with Sharon, having served as an agent alongside her for a few years before you joined the ranks of the Avengers. She quickly filled Steve in on how you'd gained psychic powers after exposure to the Mind Stone. With some help from the others, you'd quickly risen into their ranks and helped them on several missions.

Hearing Sharon talk about you really made Steve sad that he couldn't remember you.

You seemed like someone who cared about the team and them for you in return.

He wanted to remember you. He really did.

Before Sharon left, he couldn't help asking, "Why hasn't her fiancé visited her? What's got him so hung up that he can't be here when she clearly needs him?"

"Well, it seems he's a little lost at the moment. I'm sure he'll come as soon as he can," Sharon said with a not-unkind smirk spreading across her features. It softens into a genuine smile when she glanced at you again, still sleeping so peacefully. "He really loves her. I've seen it firsthand just how much. They're both so lucky to have someone who cares so much about them. I know he'd never leave her alone unless something kept him from being at her side."

Steve wasn't so sure about that.

He couldn't be.

From what the others had told him, he'd been ready and willing to burn the world down to get Bucky back. He'd done everything he could to keep his other friends safe. He'd almost died doing so, but then, that sounded like him.

Something seemed off about this fiancé of yours.

If it was him, he knew he'd never let anyone or anything keep him from your side.

Even if he couldn't recall who you were, something about your presence calmed him. It made him want to stay at your side and keep you safe. Your fiancé was a lucky guy alright, but did he really deserve you? Steve couldn't keep that question from repeating itself as the days wore on.

The only other thing bothering him were a pair of eyes that haunted him in the few hours of sleep he got. He never saw more than those eyes, no other defining features, but they were so distinct that he doubted he could focus on anything but them. They were so distinctive and lovely. He'd seen them through a myriad of different emotions, too, as though he knew them.

But he couldn't ever place them.

He tried, too. He really did.

Every new person that came into his room, he studied their eyes in the hopes of finding the pair that haunted him.

The notebook Bucky had brought him quickly filled with every iteration of those eyes. He couldn't stop drawing them, hoping they'd spark something. Anything.

When the doctors tried to release him after his first day, Steve refused to leave.

Your fiancé still hadn't shown up, and he couldn't let you stay in this room by yourself. It wouldn't be right. You deserved to have someone watch over you and keep you safe, even if you couldn't be safer than in the Tower's medical ward.

"Hey, man, she'll be fine," Sam had said, but Steve had shaken his head.

Nat and Bucky tried to back Sam's assertion up with Bucky adding, "You could use a real shower, punk. It's not like we can't visit her later."

"I'll use the shower here. Just bring me some things from my quarters, please," Steve said softly, his gaze remaining on you. "She shouldn't be alone. She doesn't like it."

"How do you know that?" Nat asked, her curiosity piquing. "Are you remembering?"

Steve shook his head.

How he wished he was, but no, he just simply knew. It wasn't something he could explain; it was instinctual, almost like knowing the sun rose in the mornings and set in the evenings. He just knew that you hated waking up alone, and he couldn't let you do that when the time came.

The doctors said it could be any time after they'd weaned you off all the medications that kept you in the coma. Your signs remained stable, so it really was just a matter of when you would come back to them.

Over the next few minutes, they finally convinced him to take an hour. Get some of the food Tony had ordered in, take a shower in his quarters, and then he could come back. Bucky had even set an alarm on his watch while Nat promised not to let to your side until Steve returned.

To his credit, he did take the shower, insisting on it first. The shower did actually help him feel better as he wiped away the last couple of days from his skin. What wounds he'd had already healed up, leaving it easier to clean up fast.

Sam and Bucky, having waited on him in his little sitting area, followed him to the common areas where they loaded up their own plates. Whenever Steve would try and bypass something else from the massive amounts of food, they'd redirect him until his plate practically overflowed. In fact, they made sure he had enough food that it required a tray, which Bucky insisted on carrying for him while Sam handled both his and Bucky's plates.

"You know she's not going anywhere," Sam teased even as he quickened his steps to keep up with Steve's purposeful stride. "Your hour is definitely not up yet, man. Just relax a little."

While he knew Sam had a point, Steve couldn't shake the thought of you. He definitely couldn't shake his desire to sit beside you. It didn't matter that no memories had stirred in the last couple of days. All he knew deep down is that your presence soothed him even as his ire had risen at your absent fiancé.

Low voices and the occasional giggle reached his enhanced hearing as he neared your medical room.

Figuring Nat was probably on the phone, Steve wasn't anywhere near ready to see you actually awake and interacting with Nat.

When your face slid his way, he nearly fell to his knees.

Your eyes.

He knew those eyes.

They'd been the exact same ones that had haunted him these past few days. The ones he hadn't seen you open yet had seen so clearly in his dreams.

The longer your gaze synced with his, the more everything started coming back to him.

The total cliche of a B-rated rom-com that you enjoyed watching.

"Ah, there it is," Nat said, clearly thrilled at seeing recognition lighting up his features once more as he stared at you. "Was wondering when he'd finally remember. He's been sitting in his bed next to you, ready to beat up your fiancé. No idea at all that he was that fiancé or that he'd been here with you the entire time."

Maybe he should've felt a little silly for not realizing it sooner, but he couldn't care at that moment.

No, all that mattered was he remembered you. That you were awake and seemed just fine, too. That he hadn't lost out of his future because the two of you would pull through.

"Morning, beautiful," he said softly, finally closing the distance between you. He placed a gentle kiss against your wrapped forehead. "I trust you slept well."

Your smile, always so beautiful, beamed up at him as you came back with your usual reply. "I always do with you around. Thank you for being here with me."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be."

[maaarine]

Scientists Pinpoint Cause of Severe Morning Sickness (Azeen Ghorayshi, The New York Times, Dec 13 2023)

"More than two-thirds of pregnant women experience nausea and vomiting during the first trimester.

And roughly 2 percent of women are hospitalized for a condition called hyperemesis gravidarum, which causes relentless vomiting and nausea throughout the entire pregnancy.

The condition can lead to malnutrition, weight loss and dehydration.

It also increases the risk of preterm birth, pre-eclampsia and blood clots, threatening the life of the mother and the fetus.

Perhaps because nausea and vomiting are so common in pregnancy, doctors often overlook hyperemesis, dismissing its severe symptoms as psychological, even though it is the leading cause of hospitalization during early pregnancy, experts said.

Although celebrities like Kate Middleton and Amy Schumer have raised the condition’s profile in recent years by sharing their experiences, it remains understudied.

“I’ve been working on this for 20 years and yet there are still reports of women dying from this and women being mistreated,” said Dr. Marlena Fejzo, a geneticist at the University of Southern California Keck School of Medicine and a co-author of the new study.

She knows the pain of the condition firsthand.

During her second pregnancy, in 1999, Dr. Fejzo was unable to eat or drink without vomiting.

She rapidly lost weight, becoming too weak to stand or walk.

Her doctor was dismissive, suggesting she was exaggerating her symptoms to get attention.

She was eventually hospitalized, and miscarried at 15 weeks. (…)

The researchers found that women experiencing hyperemesis had significantly higher GDF15 levels during pregnancy than did those who had no symptoms.

But the hormone’s effect seems to depend on the woman’s sensitivity and exposure to the hormone before pregnancy.

The researchers found, for example, that women in Sri Lanka with a rare blood disorder causing chronically high levels of GDF15 rarely experienced nausea or vomiting in pregnancy.

“It completely obliterated all the nausea. They pretty much have next to zero symptoms in their pregnancies,” said Dr. Stephen O’Rahilly, an endocrinologist at Cambridge who led the research.

Dr. O’Rahilly hypothesized that prolonged exposure to GDF15 before pregnancy could have a protective effect, making women less sensitive to the sharp surge in the hormone caused by the developing fetus. (…)

The new study is powerful because it offers genetic proof of a causal relationship between GDF15 and the disease, said Dr. Rachel Freathy, who is a geneticist at the University of Exeter and was not involved in the study.

That will help the condition gain greater recognition, she said.

“There is kind of an assumption made by many people that women should just be able to cope with this,” Dr. Freathy said.

With this biological explanation, she said, “there will be more belief that this is a real thing rather than something in somebody’s head.”"

[pmamtraveller]

LUDWIG DEUTSCH - THE PALACE GUARD, 1892

The painting depicts a palace guard standing in an ornate, richly decorated setting typical of Middle Eastern or North African architecture. He is dressed in traditional attire that includes a yellow cloak draped over his shoulder, a chainmail shirt, and a blue skirt-like garment. The guard holds a long spear with a decorative top, which leans against the wall beside him.The background features detailed tile work with geometric patterns and an archway, indicative of Islamic architectural influence. At the guard's feet, there are a pair of red shoes, which might indicate that he has removed them out of respect for the sacred space he's guarding.

Deutsch's multiple trips to Egypt provided him with firsthand exposure to the culture, architecture, and daily life of the region. His visits allowed him to gather authentic visual references, which were crucial for the detailed and accurate depiction of this masterpiece. The guard's attire, the architectural setting, and cultural nuances like the removal of shoes are direct results of his observations during these travels.

By 1893, Deutsch was at the height of his career. His works were being regularly exhibited in prestigious salons in Paris, where he had moved in 1870. This period was one of recognition and success, with his detailed and exotic depictions gaining popularity among collectors and the public. Critics appreciated the meticulous depiction of textures, fabrics, and architectural elements, which showcased his mastery of the medium. His ability to capture the essence of the exotic and romanticized East was also praised.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: The Big Ambitions of Baron Bittly

Monsters from the primal expanse of the Drovidiin Wilds have been appearing without warning in the kingdom's heartland, somehow teleported hundreds of miles to rampage through towns and cities. After more than one skirmish with the beats, your party has ventured to the bordertown of Thimblewell on the edge of the wilds, seeking answers.

Adventure Hooks:

Though the party have heard whisperings of the beast attacks before, their firsthand exposure to the phenomenon comes when they hear screams and cries coming from the town's fancy playhouse. An acid spitting drake has somehow found its way inside the building during the middle of the performance and its rampage threatens to bring the house down.

Tasked with tracking down a crew of bandits that've been plundering local caravans, the party's raid of the outlaw's encampment is thrown into chaos when one of their targets breaks open an innocuous crate, pulls out a glowing glass canister and smashes it in the middle of the melee: unleashing a beast in a burst of blue light into an already chaotic final battle.

The party find a strange tension when they arrive in the town of Thimblewell. Though the settlement has a long history of being beset by monsters from the primeval wilderness it borders, there've been no attacks for the past several years and no one seems to want to talk about why. Eventually a disgruntled former guardsman points them in the direction of the local landholder, an amateur mage with a reputation for conducting strange experiments. He fails to mention that said mage has a defence system built into his manse, and that he's been expecting the party's arrival for some time.

Background: Irnett Bittley was never a mage of large talent, both because he was unable to summon up the showy displays of elemental mastery that would have earned him a living as a court wizard, and because his self important streak made him too proud to ever suffer suffer through an apprenticeship. He was a great mage, destined for great things, and the fact that others couldn't see that was their failing.

Tired of being challenged or denied by people who genuinely knew better, Bittley picked up stakes and went to the boonies seeking to find a pond small enough to consider him a big fish. He found it in Thimblewell, a little town sorely in need of a handymage, and he could have been happy and well liked there if the need to be great wasn't etched on his soul. Thimblewell had a monster problem, and while Bittley was no battlecaster he did have a knack for bindings and containment spells. If he managed to catch a monster by supprise while it was distracted by the local millitia he could shrink it down and hold it in stasis, effectively defeating the monster by kicking the can indefinitely down the road.

The townsfolk heaped praised upon him for his heroics, only to have their goodwill spat right back in their faces as Bittley started asking for increasingly steep "donations" to keep his enchantments in place, all but threatening to release the beasts again if his impromptu tax wasn't paid. Fast forward a couple of decades and Baron Bittley has become rich enough to buy himself a title and become Thimblewell's defacto ruler.

Still not content to be a backwoods landbarron, Bittley's latest scheme is to sell his stockpile of captured beasts one by one to unscrupulous individuals who are in need of a good monster: thieves in need of a distraction, poachers and collectors trafficking in rare specimens, nobles who'd prefer an untraceable and indiscriminate means of assassination. This enterprise is making Bittley even more rich, but with success comes paranoia, and we all know how dangerous a paranoid mage can be.

Challenges & Complications:

1: The drake was intended as a means of assassination, targeted at a countess and her heir attending the playhouse's performance in one of the box seats. As the party runs in to save the screaming commoners, they'll potentially be diverted by the countess's guards, intending to save their employer's life before anyone else's. Saving the noble might earn them a rich reward at the cost of many lives, but choosing to look after the common people will earn them the ire of the acid-scarred heir, who watched them save the rabble while his flesh burned and his mother was crushed to death under rubble.

2: After the party have defeated the bandits, they'll find three more of those arcane canisters left in the box, each containing its own miniaturized monster waiting to be unleashed. The caravan the bandits robbed was smuggling these beasts to a buyer with dangerous aims, meaning the caravan's owners now have good reason to want the party silenced. Do the party report their findings? Extort those who hired them at the cost of a knife in the back? Or do they just take their offbrand pokeballs and run, dreaming of the chaos they can cause.

3: Baron Bittley knows the party is coming for him thanks to his spies in town, he also knows he could never hope to take them in a fair fight. Thankfully he’s got access to magic, so he doesn’t need to fight fair, allowing them into his home only to catch them in a trap that will shrink them down to a few inches tall, whereafter it’s a simple matter of mage-handing them over into the basement bound dowry chest/prison he’s made for all those in town who’ve dissented to his rule over the years.

Thankfully the tiny townsfolk have been working on a jailbreak for some time now, having painstakingly sawed their way out of the box while their inattentive overlord’s been distracted domineering the world outside. The greatest hurdle to their escape has been the wild landscape of the junk fulled manor basement, filled with various pests that’ve become arcanely mutated from the leakage from the mage’s lab on the floor above. The party will need to engage in some borrowers esque traversal across the basement, up through the walls, and into the lab if they have any hope of reversing their predicament.

Artsource 1

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[warblingmoss]

cannot stop thinking about merlin & the way fear drives him throughout the whole series. specifically the shift in the kind of fear he feels

merlin starts out fearful of his magic being found out- even though he he treats potential exposure rather blasé at times (re: confessing to save gwen in 1x03) hes still actively keeping it a secret to the best of his abilities, even if hes a bit irresponsible. he is extremely hesitant when it comes to telling people. in fact, i can think of two (2) people in the whole series that merlin actually tells about his magic rather than them finding out (gaius, lancelot, will,) or already knowing (kilgharrah, mordred, balinor,). and those two people are freya and arthur (which could mean nothing)

so merlin is absolutely afraid of his magic getting exposed. and we see this when morgana comes to him about her magic- we can see how he considers telling her, and maybe he might've if gaius hadnt advised against it, or kilgharrah hadnt warned him about the danger morgana could potentially posed, but he also might not have. most of his conflict with gaius is about telling morgana about her own magic, not his own, because he (correctly) believes she has the right to know, so that she isnt living in fear that she's going crazy. it also trades her fear/paranoia about going crazy for fear of the pyre

as a sort-of aside, i know many many people hate that merlin didnt tell morgana about his magic, and think that it mightve saved her from her fate. and while i understand that, and i do think morgana could absolutely have stayed good and kind had she been given the support she so desperately needed, i honestly cannot begrudge merlin for not telling her. morgana has every right to fear execution as much as merlin does; she grew up witnessing uthers genocidal vitriol firsthand, but she did not grow up with it applying to her. her magic is terrifying because it is new and suddenly puts her in a place of immense vulnerability when it comes to prosecution when she grew up extremely privileged, first as the daughter of a noble house and then as the kings own ward. meanwhile, merlin spent his whole life knowing what would happen if he was found out. that kind of fear is deep rooted. where morgana was scared and desperately needed to tell someone, merlin has had it instilled in hin from a young age to never let anyone find out. theres also the extremely important role of class differences to consider that i think people forget about/ignore when it comes to merlin telling morgana about his magic- merlin is a peasant. yes, hes irreverant, and he gets away with so many things, but he is still very much lower class. we see it with the witchfinder- someone of any significant standing does not need to even know merlin has magic; they need only accuse merlin of it, even if hes done nothing, and it will be taken at face value. when merlin confesses for gwen, it isnt until the prince himself sticks up for him that it is disregarded. meanwhile, morgana is the kings ward and known to have his immense favour; regardless of the truth, if someone were to accuse morgana of witchcraft, unless uther was given hard proof it would absolutely be rebuked as a lie. morgana comes from a place of privilege that merlin simply does not. they both have every reason to be afraid, but they come from very, very different places of fear.

not to mention by this point merlin has already seen morgana try to kill the king once only to change her mind at the last minute. she is... volatile may not be quite the word, but you get the gist. and thats on top of kilgharrah painting her in a negative light whenever he gets the chance.

all that said. much of merlins choices are dictated by fear that is motivated by love, and that kills me!! but what gets me is the way it shifts from fear of being found out and love of magic & his people (and hope for a better future for them) to fear for arthur and his safety, to love of arthur above all else. early in the series, merlin does come to appreciate arthur, yes, but a lot of it has to do with who arthur is destined to become, and thats supposed to be the king who brings magic back to camelot. merlin gives him a chance largely because of this; he gets a glimpse of who arthur really is as a person, and starts to understand how arthur could possibly be that king

but theres this shift at some point where merlin starts prioritizing arthur over magic. he becomes blind to many of the chances he has to steer arthur in the right direction (of course most notably with the disir) in favour of arthurs survival. obviously arthur cant bring magic back without being alive, but by the end of the series it is so clearly that it is more about arthurs life than his destiny, especially when merlin directly prevents him from fulfilling said destiny with the disir.

it also makes me very insane the way merlin sort of.... divides their destiny. he foists the responsibility of bringing magic back largely onto arthur without arthur ever knowing while taking responsibility for keeping arthur safe almost exclusively, even though hes meant to help arthur, not just keep him safe. it puts this unknown expectation on arthurs shoulders without giving him the tools to fulfill it, all the while merlin takes away arthurs chances at doing so in somewhat misguided, though coming from a place of deep care, attempts to keep arthur safe from harm--mentally and physically. it just devastates me how little agency arthur is given in his life and his destiny, which should be shared, when all he wants to do is do right by his people

[effietrinket1619]

The idea of the lanterns fasting in Ramadan is so funny because they absolutely don't have to. It's a religious obligation, it's just for Simon. Maybe Keli is curious about all traditions and wants to participate in everything which leads to:

- Simon and Keli being awake at sometime between 2 am and 4 am for sahur. This leads to the two trying to prepare and eat a meal without waking others up which they fail pretty often

- When they're breaking their fast, especially during Ramadan, they're pretty adamant that all the other lanterns have to have their dinner at the same time as them having collective meals

- Simon teaches Keli how to pray just because she's curious but she gives up pretty easily, which is fair enough. Again, this isn't something she has to do

fasting's kinda one of those things they do because like. simon's doing it so they might as well, right? and honestly, what harm could it do other than confusing literally everyone else? unrelated slightly but i like to think the House is in a pretty white neighbourhood so they bewilder the shit out of most residents who cannot, for the life of them, figure out the living situation either. none of them seem related to each other and yet???

i've never experienced ramadan firsthand (my exposure to most religion outside of my own is tiktok <///3) but i am familiar with sahur and given that simon and keli live in a household of superheroes who are probably primed for even the smallest disturbance to jolt awake, yeah they fail often. simon drops a pot half asleep or keli trips on the last step and suddenly, guy and hal are grumpily joining them because they might as well. i think a lot the decisions they make here happen because 'they might as fuckin' well'.

[rawbin-hsr]

Hi! Could i request Feixiao, Boothill, and Argenti with a s/o who has panic disorder (or panic attacks in general). Just generally how they react and such :)

@dragon-anon

A/N: Surprisingly I found this a little difficult IUESJhief I have a lot of experience with. having anxiety when I was younger. I think I was even diagnosed with it at some point ? Which is weird because I’m not diagnosed any longer and I no longer really get anxiety attacks so idk what the fuck that was erm. Anyways that’s beside the point. I really struggled to make Feixiao and Argenti different because I think they would handle it similarly (hence why Argenti’s part ended up so much shorter than the other two, cause I didn’t want to just. Repeat Feixiao’s whole part.) and I’m a little worried Boothill is ooc because I haven’t done the new quest and it seems like it showed a lot of his backstory so forgive me if I’m not up to date on that. Sorry about rambling I’ll get on with it now help

Reader has an anxiety disorder

Characters: Feixiao, Boothill, Argenti

Cw: anxiety/panic attacks (descriptions kept brief, not very detailed), slight mention of self-harm inflicting behaviours in Argenti's part (only reader unintentionally scratching themself, not necessarily done out of a desire to harm oneself).

Lmk if there's anything else I should add !

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

╭──────────.★..─╮ Feixiao ╰─..★.──────────╯

Oh she’s great 

Amazing at picking up your signals, amazing at assessing what course of action would help you most, amazing at following through with it

She can tell what sets you off, even without you telling her, and she has a lot of firsthand experience with handling other people’s anxiety (both from more intimate relationships and from soldiers she doesn’t exactly know on any personal level). It’s not hard for her to figure out what calms you down most quickly. 

Your episodes have never been shorter than they are with her around 🙏🙏

I’m not sure exactly how I imagine her handling it, because I think it switches a lot depending on what she knows about you. If she knows you find physical touch comforting, she’ll hold you and gently talk you down. If you’re the type who doesn’t need much reassurance, she’ll firmly remind you of where you are, that she’s with you, that you’re safe, etc, etc. She’ll find whatever solution works best for you. 

Apart from being great with damage control if you do have a panic attack, she’s also pretty good at preventing them from happening in the first place. 

If she recognises you’re stepping into an environment you’re likely to have an attack in, she’ll either steer you out of it if she can or she’ll make sure you’re in there for as little time as possible. Like, for example, if you’re bad with large crowds, she’ll usually just find a less packed road to take around the mass of people.

Obviously it’s unavoidable sometimes, and she won’t always be able to adhere to you completely because she does have a very important job that she can’t really put on hold for your sake, but like I said, she’s great at handling it then too. 

If something needs to be done but you can’t do it, she’ll do it for you (after gently trying to encourage you to face your fears and do it yourself — but she does quickly relent if she notices you really, really don’t want to)

10/10 would recommend she’s amazing

╭──────────.★..─╮ Boothill ╰─..★.──────────╯

I feel like Boothill would be absolutely dogwater at preventing any anxiety attacks from happening, but he’d be great at stopping them once they do happen

Like obviously he won’t trigger you on purpose but he won’t tiptoe around the things that put you off either. Both because he doesn’t usually have much choice in the matter considering his line of work, and because he believes in exposure therapy. And because he maybe sort of kind of forgets. 😭

But he’d be great while you’re in the middle of an anxiety attack ! So that counts for something !!!!

He always manages to snap you out of it pretty quickly. Takes you out of the situation once he recognises the signs that the attack is coming, then gets you present in the current moment again. How ? That’s very simple. He confuses the fuck out of you

You know that tip about making someone having an anxiety attack bite into a lemon ? Yeah

(If you haven’t heard about it: a way to snap someone out of a panic/anxiety attack can be to make them lick a really sour lemon without any warning. The sensory input is really overwhelming and the person having the episode might be so shocked by it they kind of just snap out of it because who the fuck makes you taste a lemon when you’re at your lowest like that ???)

You’re curled up in a ball, hyperventilating because there are too many people, too many sounds, too many what-have-you ? Not anymore, now you’re too busy being confused and lowkey angry at him for shoving an ice cube down your throat. Like wtf are you doing my guy

Usually his little stunts do the trick to get you out of that headspace, and then he can just verbally talk you down so you’re nice and calm again. Will let you cool off while he solves whatever issue it was that led to your anxiety attack. Don’t worry about it anymore, he’s got this. 

If he can’t confuse you out of it, though, he’ll just do whatever you’ve instructed him to do while lucid. If it’s hugging you and talking gently until you’re calm, he can do that. If it’s to just take you into a quiet space and let you ride it out, no problem. If it’s to just continue on and let you just stand next to him, sure. 

Only thing he won’t do is to avoid your triggers altogether. He can give you a heads-up when possible, he can let you sit it out if you really need to, but he won’t (in his words) “baby you”. In his opinion, you’ll never get over it if you just avoid it forever. 

He says it in a kind of harsh way, but there’s genuine care in his tone and his expression, so you know he doesn’t mean it like that. 

All in all I think Boothill is really great if you’re the resilient type and you have the kind of anxiety that can actually get better through treatment, but if you’re sensitive and need someone who actively helps you avoid your triggers I definitely wouldn’t recommend him 😭

╭──────────.★..─╮ Argenti ╰─..★.──────────╯

Obviously amazing at handling it is there anything he’s not good at ? 🙄 (/j)

He immediately becomes very serious when he realises your control is slipping, falls silent and looks at you worriedly. He recognises surprisingly quickly what’s happening, and steps into your field of view and crouches down, makes sure you can see his face. Takes both of your hands in his, wishes he didn’t have armour so he could let you feel his heartbeat.

He calmly talks you out of it. He sounds so sure of everything he does, to a point where you’ll question afterwards if he has firsthand experience with this. 

(He does. He used to experience a lot of anxiety and panic attacks as a child, it is only natural when you grow up surrounded by war; you’d never guess just looking at him now, though.)

He’ll obviously switch how he handles your panic attacks if you ask him to, but his default is to hold your hands (both to prevent you from accidentally scratching yourself, and to remind you he’s there) and to softly reassure you

I think he becomes sort of hyper aware of what triggers you, and does as much as he can to avoid it. Lowkey starts to baby you a little, but just a little, and even if it’s annoying it’s done with love, done out of a desire for you to be happy. It does put him in some tough spots though, considering it means he sometimes tells you to sit an adventure out, but the plan was for it to have the both of you and it’s harder to handle a lot of things alone 😭

Overall super good though I love him <3

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3

[necrotic-nephilim]

"--but why should I let you go when you look so pretty like this?" w/JayTim

send a quote and a ship and I'll write a short fic!

this one was such a fun pick, anon. i will warn you, this one has some... very dark dialogue. the JayTim is absolutely unrequited, but Tim is forced in a situation where he has no other choice bc of some Ra's tomfoolery. you *could* read into there being Ra'sTim as well, but that's not the focus, it's just 2.8k of unhinged JayTim. enjoy <3

Tim had lost count of the days.

He was pretty sure he was somewhere in the range of ten days and two weeks. He couldn’t use how often he was fed as a gauge when it seemed purposefully sporadic to throw him off. There were no windows in his cell.

Not that it looked like a cell, but Tim insisted on mentally calling it one, mostly for fear of Stockholm Syndrome getting the best of him. No matter how large the bed was, with an ornate carved cedar headboard and cotton sheets. No matter the plush carpets and en suite bathroom with a gloriously large shower with limitless hot water. No matter the shelf full of books to keep him entertained and patterned wallpaper.

This was still a prison. Tim was still forcibly attached to the bed by a long chain connecting to a thick metal cuff around his wrist he’d yet to figure out how to pick.

Tim had to let himself believe the lock could be picked. He had to hold onto hope there was some kind of escape.

The real contrast of the lavish room wasn’t the chain, though. It was Tim’s current state, naked and questionably close to bleeding out.

Not that it would matter if Tim died.

Ra’s al Ghul had already revived him with a Lazarus Pit at least four times, and he had made it clear he had no qualms doing it again. And again.

Tim went with ‘at least’ as a mental marker, because he was certain the Lazarus Pit was starting to influence his mental state.

However many times it took, repeating the vicious cycle of coming in to torture Tim until his body gave out, then giving him a violent, unwanted rebirth. Each time, Tim was pretty sure he lost a piece of himself, somewhere deep in those glowing waters.

He was sure he’d been angrier and fighting harder to break free once. Now, that anger was drifting somewhere in the Pit, far out of Tim’s reach. Tim had heard that rapid repeated exposure to the waters of Lazarus could have degrading effects on one’s mental state.

But he never thought he would learn that firsthand.

Instead of fighting and clawing at the wrist cuff like Tim had been doing for days, he just laid on the bed, sprawled out and staining the chartreuse sheets a bright crimson, staring at the cuff. One time, Tim had clawed at the cuff until his nails ripped out of their beds and he was biting a pillow in pain, watching his skin shred trying to pull it apart.

Those injuries, much like his feral desperation, were washed away now. Every scar Tim had earned over the years was gone now. He was losing pieces of himself.

After his next death, Tim promised himself he’d redouble his escape efforts. Run his hands along the walls again, test the door frame, find something that he must’ve missed his first dozen tries. He wasn’t going to let himself rot here and be changed into someone else, just wearing the corpse of Tim Drake.

Ra’s could take a lot of things, but he couldn’t have Tim’s humanity.

For now, though, Tim was just going to lay in the bed, breathing as shallowly as he could. All his body’s survival instincts were in overdrive, making him light-headed and his heartbeat a rapid, fluttering thing, trying desperately to hold on. He had yet to figure out how to get his body to let go of those responses yet.

Because the worst part wasn’t dying. The worst part was the animalistic attempt to survive that came just before his body gave out. Tim’s mind had fought alongside his body the first time he died. The second time too.

By the third, Tim had just naively hoped Ra’s would let him stay dead.

Now, Tim was just tired and waiting for it to be over with.

Just when Tim was considering getting up and trying to speed up the process, he heard a commotion. He lifted his head and squinted.

The ninjas who brought his food were always so silent in how they moved that Tim couldn’t hear them even when they were in the room. So the running feet, the yelling-

The gunshots.

Definitely a fight. Tim snapped back to reality. He sat up as fast he could, trying not to let his body dip and sway the way his perception did. It had crossed Tim’s mind, that rescue would come at some point. But he refused to hold onto it as anything other than a futile last hope.

And even now, it didn’t feel real.

No one who would save Tim used guns. The ninjas definitely didn’t use guns either. Tim carefully wrapped the chain around his fist. Whatever energy was left in his body was better spent fighting like hell than just laying there and accepting death.

The door to Tim’s room slammed open and Tim sucked in a breath.

Of all the people it could’ve been.

“Look at that,” a smug, modulated voice crowed. “I’m the lucky guy who actually found your sorry ass.”

Jason Todd reached up and pulled his Red Hood helmet off, shaking his hair loose. Tim didn’t like the look of his smile.

Granted, he didn’t like the look of Jason Todd in general, but that was beside the point.

“What are you doing here?” Tim hissed through clenched teeth.

Jason just shrugged, walking into the room with slow, casual steps. “Bats wanted to find you bad. Bad enough he was willing to call me and offer a truce if I helped storm the stronghouse.” He shrugged like it meant nothing to him. “Looks like you’re lucky I said yes. You’re already half dead.”

“Others are here?” Tim’s breath caught on his hope.

“The whole fucking calvary.” Noises of a brawl sounded in the distance and Jason spread his hands, as if his point was proven. He took another step forward just as a ninja ran into the room, sword raised and charging Jason. Before Tim could warn him, Jason shot the person in the head over his shoulder, making them drop to the floor. A full-bodied flinch went through Tim at the sight of blood spraying the beautiful wallpaper. With an annoyed huff, Jason turned and kicked the door shut.

He didn’t signal for backup. Tim’s skin prickled at the sight of the shut door and Jason stalking toward him.

“This is the part where you say thank you,” Jason prompted lazily, getting within an arm’s reach of Tim. Tim couldn’t stop his body from recoiling, eyes flicking down to the dead body on the floor. “Oh come on. Now’s not the time to worry about morals. I gave them a quick death. You should be thanking me for that too.”

“I’ll thank you when you get me out of this,” Tim said, lifting his arm to show the cuff. He pressed his palm against the cut on his chest, the one responsible for most of his blood loss. Ra’s had blamed Tim for that one, saying it was his fault for squirming too much. Tim knew better, though. He knew every drag of Ra’s’ blade was always exact and purposeful.

Jason tilted his head to the side and leaned in close. He smiled with tiger teeth and snake eyes. “See, I would but-” his eyes dragged up and down Tim’s battered form- “why should I let you go when you look so pretty like this?”

Tim was suddenly all too aware of how naked he was, skin prickling. He grabbed a handful of sheets and yanked them over his lap, trying to cover himself. Jason made no move to stop him, just watching the motion of Tim’s arm as it grasped for a crude attempt at modesty.

“You said Bruce is here,” Tim chose his words carefully, trying not to show fear. He was better than being afraid of Jason of all people. He blamed the worst of his feelings on the vulnerable state he was already in. His fingers clenched the sheets to hide the way they shook.

“He’s around somewhere,” Jason waved his gun in the air dismissively. “But he’s not here, is he?” Another wave of the gun to gesture to the room. Jason’s eyes flicked down to the gushing chest wound. “You really need to cauterize that.”

“Do I look like I have something to cauterize it with?” Tim shot back, sluggishly. He didn’t let Jason distract him from the real point. “If you try anything, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Jason rolled his eyes. He searched around his utility belt, pulling out a lighter and a knife. “Tattle to Bruce? Fight me?” He snorted. “I don’t know which is more amusingly unrealistic.” He flicked the lighter on and held it under the knife.

Tim watched the blade heat up, eyes widening. “You’re not going to-”

“You’ve got a better idea?” Jason arched an eyebrow. “It’ll really piss B off if you fucking die.”

“Won’t be the first time,” Tim muttered under his breath. He cringed as soon as the words came out. That was too much information to be giving to Jason.

Another cruel snort came from Jason. “You got your own taste of the Pit, didn’t you?”

“No,” Tim tried to lie, shifting a bit.

“You did,” Jason hummed. He leaned in even closer, until his face took up Tim’s entire field of vision. “Trust me, I recognize the look in your eyes. Hold still.”

That was the only warning Tim got before a red hot blade was pressed against his skin. Tim opened his mouth to scream against the burning pain, but gloved fingers were shoved into his mouth to muffle the noise.

Tim tried to bite down on Jason’s fingers hard enough to break them, but the gloves were too thick and his body was too weak. All he could do was glare and grasp at the sheets.

The look in Jason’s gaze was terrifying. His lips held a slight smile and he looked hungry, eating up all of Tim’s tormented noises. Tim’s pain was a feast for Jason’s sadism. Tim was struggling just to stay alive and Jason looked like he was having the time of his life, licking his lips and swallowing hard.

Tim was starting to think maybe he preferred Ra’s over this.

Finally, Jason pulled the knife off of Tim’s searing skin and Tim sagged in relief. He almost fell over before Jason caught him around the waist, pressing Tim against his suit. Blood smeared over Jason’s jacket.

His fingers were still in Tim’s mouth.

Tim tried to speak around them but Jason just forced his fingers in deeper, making Tim gag.

“I could probably sneak out with you, you know,” Jason whispered into Tim’s ear. “Tell Bruce I got bored and left. They’d just think it was a bust.”

TIm had never understood Jason’s complex over him. He knew it was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. With Ra’s, Tim could at least find the root of the obsession.

With Jason, not so much.

He was always breathing down Tim’s neck and trying to get a rise out of Tim. Wanting Tim to work with him, pay attention to him, anything he could get. It reminded Tim of trying to tame a needy dog.

This was a step too far, though.

This made it all make sense in ways Tim regretted knowing as soon as it hit him. He twisted his head around until he managed to spit out Jason’s fingers, coughing.

“You don’t have Ra’s’ manpower,” Tim bit out the words. He tugged hard and uselessly against his cuff. “You couldn’t hold me for long.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Jason hummed. “Tell me, Drake, you pissed off enough to actually try to kill me, yet? Or do you need another dunk?”

“Give me that knife and find out,” Tim curled his hand into a fist. He was bluffing. Just the thought of killing someone nauseated Tim, his eyes briefly flickering over to the dead body on the floor.

No amount of the Lazarus Pit could turn Tim into that. A cold-blooded killer who didn’t even look before he shot. Tim was better than that.

He was better than Jason.

He just had to distract Jason long enough to find where he kept his lock-picking tool, stab him in the eye with it, and then break free and find anyone else.

Maybe Tim was against murder, but there was just enough cold rage in him to crave bloody violence. He squirreled away his logical thoughts on the matter, for now. The situation warranted just a bit of brutality.

Someone had to teach Jason that he didn’t always get to have what he wanted.

Jason dared to groan softly. “Tempting. So fucking tempting. How would you kill me, Drake? Would you gut me? Slit my throat?” He sounded far too into the idea of it. The knife in his hand started trailing up Tim’s bare back. Not deep enough to cut, but still leaving goosebumps of fear in its threatening wake. “We borrow enough Lazarus water and we can take turns killing each other.”

“Borrow,” Tim echoed the word with an incredulous laugh. “Like Ra’s would let you.”

Jason’s laughter was sickening. “Didn’t plan on asking permission.” He paused, just as the knife dragged up to the base of Tim’s skull. “I’m serious, you know.” His voice got quieter. “I’d do it if you wanted to.”

“Kill each other?” TIm’s heart was pounding. He was doing the exact opposite of getting himself out of this situation. He was sinking deeper and deeper into Jason’s clawed grip and didn’t know where the escape route was anymore. He couldn’t pull away from the hold, with the knife pressed where it was. He definitely couldn’t fight Jason like this.

Tim was trapped in what he was pretty sure was a prison of his own making.

“Kill, kiss, fuck.” Jason shrugged. “I’ll take any of the above.”

Tim swallowed down blood and bile. “You couldn’t handle me.” He couldn’t show fear. More than couldn’t, he refused to. Giving Jason his fear would just spur Jason on more. Or maybe piss him off to the point of just killing Tim and leaving him there.

Now, with the teetering edge of Tim’s sanity under Jason’s scrutiny, Tim was positive he’d shatter if he got dipped in those green waters again. And he refused to let Jason keep the pieces left of Tim to himself.

He was not going out like this.

“Wanna bet?” Jason asked. “Winner takes all.”

He sounded insane. He probably was.

And he wasn’t letting Tim dance around a lack of an answer any longer. The tip the knife started to press harder until blood was trickling down his spine.

Placating Jason seemed to be the obvious and smartest survival method. If Tim faked it long enough, he’d have to have an opening sooner or later.

“If you can keep me alive long enough to get the hell out of here, then we’ll talk,” Tim chose his words as carefully as he could. He kept his tone light, in a way that was practically teasing. He hoped it was enough.

Jason practically preened, his whole body shivering against Tim’s. He lifted the knife from Tim’s neck to reach for his belt. Tim was able to suppress his sigh of relief, hearing the lock on his cuff click.

“Can you stand?” Jason asked, pulling away to stand up, but still keeping a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Possessively, almost.

Tim gave him a withering look. “Do I look like I can stand?”

“Good point.” Jason shrugged. He lifted Tim almost too easily, an arm around Tim’s waist to haul him off the bed, forcing the sheet to fall away. “God.” Jason paused for just a moment, looking over Tim’s naked form. It made Tim felt studied under a microscope in a way that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

He’d just signed a deal with the devil, and he was already regretting it.

Jason managed to snap out of it and carried Tim toward the door. Tim just held onto Jason’s neck for support and closed his eyes, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just made the stupidest decision of his life. He could still distantly hear other Bats fighting off ninjas. Salvation so close to Tim, yet still out of reach. Jason easily stepped over all of the dead bodies as they slunk through the hallways, away from the noise and into the darkness.

Tim couldn't escape the awful chill crawling down his spine; pressed against someone who was possibly more psychotic than the madman he was being promised escape from, grandeur illusions traded for the ugly truth of Jason's desire. His flicker of hope felt like it was being snuffed out by every heavy step of Jason’s boots. The best he could pray for was for Jason to give him a cell as nice as the one they were leaving behind. 

Out of one den of vipers and into another.

[theshiniestgemstone]

i know it's kind of talked about, particularly in s4, but how do you see gideon's relationship with his brothers?

I think he's a gentle older brother. The kind of sibling who takes the fall and tries to protect them. He sees through the hypocrisy from a very young age and once he recognizes what that means in this context, he doesn't want his brothers to feel the same way.

Stick with me while I connect dots:

If they went to the same high school as Jesse and Judy did in S3, they already have to have a name and reputation. I can definitely see a principal or a teacher seeing the name Gemstone and internally sighing. Gideon probably worked hard to reverse that stereotype. Good grades, never a toe out of line, just so Pontius and Abraham can be assumed as excellent students. Also, assuming it's a public school, there are chances for a lot of exposure. Considering they live on a compound on what I assume is the outskirts of town, they may not usually have a lot of after-school friends. I don't know many parents who would want to go through the hassle of driving all the way there and going through security checks. I also don't see the Gemstones taking Gideon into town for playdates past the age of 7 or really wanting anyone on the compound.

Growing up lonely and disconnected is difficult. I like to think that he'd take his brothers out often. Late night drives, gas station hot dogs and strolls around the mall just to connect. Closer in age to Pontius, I think he eased him into the web of the family's fragile image, hence the 'you used to be cool' comment. He used to tell Pontius the little things, explain the looks over dinner and the hushed conversations behind cracked doors.

I think Abraham saw it play out firsthand. I think he was too young in s1 to really understand the severity of the issue and the fallout. Even if he finds out later, I think he respects Gideon for coming back, doing camera work, and preaching. I think that Abraham looks up to Gideon. Someone who made a mistake and learned from it and its the exact reason why Abraham respects him and why Pontius disrespects him so much. To Pontius, Gideon was someone who was quick to be forgotten, quick to come back, and quick to be banished. It's almost like he sees his older brother as someone who's just as hypocritical as Jesse, someone who abandoned him once for Los Angeles and then again for the church. I think when he came back from LA, Pontius was too far gone. I think he knew too much, but had no idea how to rationalize it in his mind, and sees it one-dimensionally.

I think that the three of them, mostly Pontius and Gideon, were thick as thieves pre-s1, which is why it's a slap in the face to Gideon when Jesse blames him for Pontius's behavior and why in s4 Amber is so sincere when she asks what's happening between them. She knows how close her sons used to be and wishes she could hear them coming back late at night all with sugar highs and hiding receipts for candy and sodas she pretended not to know about. Abraham adores both of his brothers, stuck in the middle, but happy to have both ends of the spectrum. I like that they repaired, or at least began to, in the s4 finale.

[hornymotionalcookie]

Nobody can tell me this shit wasn't 100% intentional

Captain America's cast is predominantly POC, from the protagonists, the antagonists and what neutral and/or side characters.

And just look at the differences in premieres and attendance and the exposure between it and tbolts. Now a film with a return to predominantly white cast gets huge spectacles and events made of their premiere with constant advertising and interviews. They even get the Marvel intro that they refused to give Sam's first lead film.

But where was half this fanfare fer Captain America?

I feel bad fer Danny because he showed up and had to see the favoritism firsthand and he's not a dummy or blind to the preferential treatment given to white actors/characters. That had to feel like a slap to the fucking face. As a fan it certainly feels that way.

And there aren't enough words at the level of disgust I continue to feel fer this fandom at large. How can a film that they're bitching about Stan not having a bigger role still be so fuckin fantastic if they're majorally going to see it fer him? The dishonesty and blind obsession of that fucking sect of stans is sickening.

Their open hostility to Sam about everything his character has said or done, and many things he has not except in their small minds, is unforgivable. But the bitch who disrespected everyone, especially women and POC, treating them inferior and with such poorly hidden hatred, who attempted to kill Sam (who they dgaf about) as well as their precious bean Bucky and actually murdered a surrendering man that was not responsible fer his besties death and then lied about that to his family - this muthafucka they go to bat fer?! You bitches are unserious, hateful, blatantly racist fucks.

[io-iota]

oh yeah i was assuming you were, s'why i brought up the iruru thing because it seemed to be a really frustrating example of how far people went in trying to bash dragon maid. apologies that that wasn't clear.

i'll never understand how Dragon Maid got all the backlash it did