#<- just in case. better to use them than not

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Lost and found 2

Part 2 of this storie.

Genre : request, fluff, oneshot

Pairing : Lando Norris x teacher!Y/N

Main Masterlist

The day after the Monaco Grand Prix, Y/N sat cross-legged on her tiny balcony, sipping lukewarm coffee and grading spelling quizzes from her students.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: You owe me one, remember? Still waiting for my “thank you” dinner, Miss Y/N.

Her eyebrows lifted.

Y/N: I’m sorry… who is this and how did you get my number?

Three dots blinked back almost instantly.

Unknown Number: A good magician never reveals his secrets. Let’s just say… you left quite an impression.

Y/N: Lando ? How did you get my number? Did Sara give it to you?

Lando : (Contact saved) You left so quickly yesterday, I didn’t get the chance to ask. And no, Sara didn’t give it to me, though I suspect she’d do just about anything to help my case It wasn’t that hard to find you. Monaco’s small. 😌

Y/N stared at her phone, heart doing a weird little skip in her chest.

Y/N: You could’ve just asked like a normal person. I guess I did already say yes to a date... No need to recruit a spy agency.

Lando : Well, Miss Y/N, I didn’t want to miss my shot. Besides, you disappeared into the crowd didn't have time to ask

Y/N: Sorry I ghosted. I had 20 kids to not lost again Which, by the way, went surprisingly okay. No one else wandered off. Not even Ella, and she’s usually one “Look! A butterfly!” away from vanishing.

Lando : Impressive. Gold star for you. ⭐ Also, congrats to me, I guess? For the race? Just wondering if you noticed I, you know… podiumed.

Y/N: Oh wow, did you race yesterday? I had no idea. It’s not like you had your face plastered across every surface within a 3-mile radius. 🙄 But seriously, congrats. That was epic.👏

Lando : Was waiting for you to say that. Thanks 😊 Felt good. Monaco wins always do. But you know what feels better?

Y/N: What? Your lap time? The smell of champagne on fireproof suits?

Lando : Having a date with a cute teacher.

Y/N: Smooth. Very smooth. Fine. I’m free Thursday night. But only if you promise not to bring any stickers.

Lando : Can’t promise that. Might be my signature move.

Thursday night in Monaco felt less like a date and more like something out of a movie. Warm golden streetlights cast long reflections over the marina, and the soft hum of distant music floated from open terraces. Y/N checked her phone for the fourth time, then shook her head and laughed at herself.

This is ridiculous, she thought. It’s just dinner.

But it wasn’t just dinner. It was a date. With Lando Norris. Race winner. Flirtatious chaos incarnate.

She was halfway through mentally rehearsing excuses just in case, when she spotted him.

He was already there, waiting outside the restaurant, dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy trousers, hands tucked into his pockets, curls slightly more tamed than usual.

And smiling at her like he wasn’t used to waiting, but would wait hours if she asked.

“Wow,” he said as she approached. “You’re… georgous. Really elegant tonight.”

She smirked. “You clean up okay too. No McLaren cap tonigh ?”

“I brought one,” he teased, patting his chest. “Emergency use only.,if a kid get lost again”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Let’s eat before you start handing them out.”

They were seated on a quiet terrace overlooking the water, the clink of glasses and the murmur of other diners providing just enough cover for nerves.

“So,” she began, folding her napkin, “when you’re not rescuing lost children and stealing phone numbers, how's is tour life like?”

Lando laughed. “Oh, just some light go-karting. On an international scale. No big deal.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” she said dryly.

After a beat, he asked, “So what made you want to wrangle children for a living? Seems like you could do something far less… chaotic.”

She tilted her head. “Chaos is kind of my thing. Teaching’s exhausting, yeah, but it’s also... deeply rewarding. I love the curiosity, the little victories. And I love showing them something new. After the race, I had ten of them who wanted to do study downforce and tire compounds. Do you know how rare that is in a classroom?”

“Honestly?” he grinned. “Sounds like you’re raising the next generation of engineers.”

“I hope so. Or drivers. Or… I don’t know. Curious, kind humans.”

He watched her for a long second, then said, “You’re good at it, aren’t you?”

“I try,” she said, a little surprised by his tone.

“You are,” he said. “I saw how Sara looked at you. That wasn’t fear or just respect. She trusted you. And that doesn’t happen by accident.”

She felt her cheeks flush. “Careful, Norris. You’re starting to sound like a grown-up.”

He laughed, tilting his head. “Don’t get used to it. I’m usually a menace.”

“I figured,” she said. “Before I first met you, I honestly thought you were just some reckless, childish guy with too much confidence and not enough sense. I get enough of that during class.”

Lando clutched his chest, mock wounded. “Ouch. Harsh.”

“But fair,” she added.

He chuckled. “Okay, fine. You’re not wrong. I am childish sometimes. I like dumb jokes, fast things, and annoying my friends.” He paused, looking at her more seriously. “But tonight? I’m just trying to impress you.”

That stunned her into silence for a second.

She recovered with a soft smile. “Well. Consider me… mildly impressed.”

He grinned, but then she shifted the conversation again.

“You were so good with Sara. Not a lot of people know how to talk to kids. How are you so good at it?”

Something changed in his expression. He leaned back a little, fingers tapping lightly against his glass.

“I think…” he began slowly, “I think I just remember being that kid. The one who was obsessed with cars. Who lived and breathed racing. Who dreamt so big it didn’t even make sense. And if one of the drivers I admired had ever looked at me, really seen me and said something kind or just… paid attention? That would’ve meant everything.”

Y/N stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“So I try to be that guy now,” he said. “The one who makes space for those kids. Especially the little ones who look lost or overwhelmed. I don’t always get it right. But I try.”

She stared at him, moved. “That’s… honestly kind of beautiful.”

He shrugged, like brushing it off made it less vulnerable. “I mean, don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she whispered.

Their eyes met. Something shifted. The conversation slowed, deepened, turned into a soft current pulling them closer.

“So,” he said after a moment, playfully nudging her foot under the table, “how are we doing so far? Am I winning this date?”

She tilted her head, smirking. “You’ve avoided all major red flags. No chewing with your mouth open. No sticker bribes. A surprising amount of introspection.”

He grinned. “I’m saving the chewing-with-mouth-open for date three.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Date three? Already making plans?”

“Just saying,” he said, leaning closer, his voice a little lower, “if tonight ends with a yes, I’m definitely asking you out again.”

“And what makes you so confident I’ll say yes?”

“Because,” he murmured, eyes warm, “you’re smiling like you already have.”

She stared at him, this sweet, clever, chaotic, unexpectedly deep man and realized… he was right.

“Maybe I am,” she said quietly.

The restaurant’s terrace had long since emptied, the soft clink of cutlery replaced by the hush of late-night Monaco. Lando offered to walk her home before she even had to ask.

They stepped out onto the cobbled street, the glow from storefronts casting gentle halos on the sidewalk.

“So,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself more out of habit than chill, “do you always go full gentleman after a race win?”

Lando glanced sideways at her, hands tucked casually in his pockets. “Nope. This is strictly VIP treatment.”

“Oh? And what exactly did I do to earn such an upgrade?”

He grinned. “Didn’t tackle me when you found out I was famous. That alone deserves flowers.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I had a kid to chase. Didn’t have time for fangirling.”

“Exactly. You’re terrifyingly efficient. That’s very attractive.”

She smile and the space between them grow thiner, their hands brushing here and there.

They fell into step again, their pace unhurried, as if the night had conspired to slow down just for them.

Her apartment wasn’t far and when they reached her building’s steps, she turned to face him, one foot on the bottom stair.

“Well,” she said softly. “This is me.”

“I figured,” he said, glancing up toward the window with a small, almost boyish smile.

They stood there a moment, the silence between them full but not awkward. A good silence. A “neither of us wants to end this” kind of silence.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking up at her. “So… I had fun tonight.”

“Me too,” she said, heart ticking faster now that it was just the two of them, the city dim behind them.

“You’re not what I expected,” he added, voice quieter now. “You’re smarter. Sharper. And a lot harder to impress.”

She tilted her head. “Is that a challenge?”

His smile was crooked. “Maybe.”

She took a step down, so they were on the same level now, barely inches apart.

“You’re not what I expected either,” she admitted. “I thought you’d be all ego and reckless charm.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, that is most of my personality.”

She chuckled. “But tonight you were kind. Thoughtful. Gentle.”

His expression softened, like she’d touched something just under the surface.

“I told you,” he said. “I was trying to impress you.”

“You did,” she said quietly. “You really did.”

The air between them changed, warmer, slower, like the universe had just given them a moment to breathe.

Lando leaned forward slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Would it be crazy if I kissed you right now?”

She blinked, heart now firmly lodged somewhere in her throat. “It might be.”

“But would it be wrong?”

Her answer came in the form of her hand reaching up to lightly touch his chest, steady, quiet confirmation.

He didn’t rush. He leaned in slow, his hand brushing gently along her jaw like he was still waiting for a sign to stop.

And when their lips finally met, soft, certain, and warm, the world around them faded entirely.

It wasn’t fireworks or a movie crescendo. It was better.

It was real.

He pulled back first, just slightly, lips still close, breath warm against her skin.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the paddock,” he murmured.

She smiled, eyes still closed for half a second longer. “And you did good not kissing me in front of one of my student.”

“Noted,” he said. “But I can’t promise anything.”

She laughed, then stepped back, just enough to let the space settle.

“Goodnight, Lando.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He waited until she slipped inside the building, still wearing that small, dreamy smile, then turned, hands in his pockets again, and walked into the Monaco night like the happiest man alive.

A month had passed since that night on the cobbled street outside her apartment, the night he’d kissed her like she was something fragile and electric all at once.

Since then, Lando and Y/N had slipped into something almost like a relationship. Late-night texts turned into coffee the next morning. Long FaceTime calls after his flights blurred into afternoons spent wrapped up on her couch, his head on her lap, her fingers brushing absentmindedly through his curls as they talked about things he didn’t usually let people hear.

He liked this quiet life with her. The slowness. The steadiness.

And though they hadn’t labeled anything, he was sure of what it was becoming.

He was falling for her.

Every time she laughed, every time she told a story about one of her kids with that glowing kind of fondness in her voice, he fell a little harder. It terrified him, in the best way.

Still, doubt crept in around the edges.

Would she really want him? The guy who lived out of suitcases, who flew to different time zones like it was just another grocery run? The one with microphones shoved in his face, rumors written in headlines, and fans who treated privacy like a joke?

Would she want to build something real with him, when her whole life was rooted in structure, patience, and carefully timed snack breaks?

Maybe.

And maybe not.

But today, he was going to find out.

He stood outside the school gate in Monaco, holding a slightly lopsided bouquet of tulips and daisies, the kind that looked somehow perfect for her. No reason, just because. Because she deserved flowers. Because he needed a little courage.

The plan had been simple: she’d told him she was free after class, and he offered to pick her up. But as the bell rang and parents trickled in, she still hadn’t appeared.

Inside, something colorful caught his eye through the half-open door to her classroom.

Ten kids remained.

Not in detention, in full, chaotic, unfiltered enthusiasm. They were gathered around her like she was a celebrity and a saint all at once, waving their drawings in her face with joyful urgency.

“Miss Y/N! Look! I drew your car with rocket boosters!”

“Miss, I made you getting married, look, I draw the dress!”

“I drew a giraffe. I like giraffes.”

Y/N knelt between them, laughing, holding each drawing like it was a museum piece.

“Oh wow, Maxime, that’s a very powerful rocket car. I’m not sure if it’s road-legal, but the shading is amazing.”

“Anna, this… is deeply concerning, but also? Very creative.”

“And Baptiste,” she smiled, holding up the giraffe. “Honestly? That’s the best one of the bunch.”

Lando leaned on the doorframe, still unseen, his heart punching hard against his ribs.

God, she was good at this.

He caught sight of Lara, the little girl from the paddock, now missing a front tooth and holding a drawing of what looked like a very abstract race car.

He smiled.

One day, he’d have to thank her properly.

Then one of the kids spotted him.

“MISS Y/N,” a small voice squealed. “LOOK! HE’S HERE! YOUR BOYFRIEND IS HERE!”

Y/N froze. All heads turned.

Lando straightened from the doorframe, holding the flowers like they might shield him from a stampede.

And it was a stampede.

“Oh my gosh, it’s the papaya driver!”

“Lando! Lando, do you drive to school?”

“Are you rich? How fast can you go? Do you have a yacht?!”

“Why are you here?”

“Can you sign my drawing?”

Amid the chaos, Y/N stood slowly, face bright red, one hand rising instinctively to her temple like she was bracing for impact.

She looked at Lando across the sea of tiny bodies.

He didn’t say anything. He just smiled.

And held out the flowers to her.

Her breath caught.

She took a step, then another, until she reached him. Her fingers closed around the stems.

“Hi,” she said, quiet and slightly breathless.

“Hi,” he replied, grinning like a complete idiot. “These are for you.”

She glanced down at them, then up again, some soft understanding blooming in her expression.

“Thanks,” she said. “They’re… really nice.”

One of the bolder kids shrieked, “IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND OR WHAT?”

Silence fell.

Y/N looked at Lando.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Well,” he said, not loud enough for all ten kids to hear but she did, his eyes never left hers, “I’d like to be.”

She blinked, startled by the clarity of it.

He stepped closer, speaking now just for her.

“I know I travel a lot. I know my life’s a mess. But when I’m not racing, I want to be here. With you. Because this? Us? It’s the only thing lately that feels like home.”

Her eyes softened. A slow, unshakable smile curved her lips.

“Well,” she said, voice warm and amused. “I guess you are now, my boyfriend I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Behind them, the kids erupted.

“I KNEW IT!”

“I told you she liked him!”

“Wait, are they gonna kiss now?”

“EW, GROSS!”

Y/N turned, laughing. “Alright, okay, okay! Everyone, backpacks on, we’re leaving! If you behave, maybe he’ll sign your drawing next time!”

The kids squealed in delight.

Lando leaned in as she gently ushered them out the door. “Was that a threat or a promise?”

She turned to him, eyes glittering. “You’ll find out.”

And when the last child finally left and the hallway quieted, he looked at her again, still smiling like he couldn’t believe his luck.

She held the flowers a little tighter, leaned in, and kissed him, quick, certain, unmistakably his.

“That,” she whispered, “was definitely a promise.”

And this time, there were no more questions left to ask.

taglist : @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie, @madicecream123, @landofotographyy, @moonayu, @l4nd0kkii441

[motherismotheringggg]

please darlin’

summary: reader is walking home from the jukebox joint when a mysterious man lurking from the shadows offers to walk her home, what they both learn in due time is that the unlock something in other person that they didn’t know was even there

type: black southern fem! reader x remmick

warnings/tags: well he’s a vampire so there’s blood play but i don’t think it’s particularly graphic, biting, dry humping, p in v

author’s note: i used the gif in the images but this post is based on this gif set here and a tiktok i saw that pointed out how HUNGRY this man was during the movie 😭😭 i also asked this question separately and didn’t get a ton of pushback just to reiterate — being attracted to the “antagonist” of the film does not negate my understanding of the film or its cultural and historical importance — im just a criminally horny individual 😛

The juke joint was still humming behind you—low and rowdy, with bass rattling the floorboards and laughter spilling out the crooked windows like steam. You stepped into the thick Mississippi night, dress clinging to the sweat on your back, the heat pressing on your skin like it had weight. The cicadas sang in the trees, and somewhere far off, someone was still blowing blues on a trumpet like their life depended on it.

You didn’t notice the man at first.

He stood in the shadows just past the tree line, his form half-hidden under the crooked lean of a willow tree. A white man, alone, arms crossed over a chest that looked carved out of something strong and stubborn. Brown hair curling in thick tufts, jaw dusted with stubble, and a guitar case slung across his back like a weapon.

Every instinct in you went sharp.

A white man in the Delta after midnight didn’t mean anything good—not for a Black woman walking alone with liquor on her breath and music in her bones. You held your chin high, eyes fixed forward, feet steady on the gravel.

He didn’t speak until you passed him.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he said, slow and honeyed.

That voice stopped you.

Thick with Southern drawl, like warm molasses. He didn’t quite sound like danger. He sounded like moonlight through lace curtains. Like the kind of man you know who’d smile sweet, touch gentle, and still be the end of you.

“I ain’t lookin’ for company,” you said over your shoulder, not stopping.

“I ain’t company,” he replied, stepping out into the moonlight with his palms up. “Just a fella walkin’. Thought maybe I’d keep you safe.”

You turned, slowly.

“From what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled. Slow. Crooked. Full of something too soft to be harmless. “World’s full of bad men, miss. Ain’t no tellin’ who might be out this time of night.”

You looked him up and down. Tall, broad-shouldered, tan from sun exposure, and dressed in linen. That guitar case over his shoulder looked worn, edges frayed like it’d seen more of the South than you ever had.

“And you?” you asked, tone sharp as a razor. “What kinda man are you?”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head with a confident smirk and said, “The kind who calls a woman ‘darlin’ ‘cause she walks like she got secrets I’m dying to know.” His hands clasped in a praying motion, you snuck a quick glance at the veins in them.

“The kind who knows better than to let beauty like yours walk home alone.”

You should’ve walked away.

But instead, you let him follow you. Not close, not touching—but his presence, his footsteps in time with yours, felt… right. Familiar. Like a song you’d heard before but couldn’t name.

When you got to your door, your hand hovered over the knob.

“Well, you best get on home now,” you said.

He nodded.

“Or,” he said, voice softer as he pressed judy up against your back. Not enough for there to be contact but very little room for anything else, “you could let me come in. Just to talk.”

You could feel his eyes scanning your body, though his gaze stayed respectful—it burned. He wasn’t begging. He was waiting.

You opened the door.

The next memory was heat.

Your dress hiked up, his hands on your waist as you crashed on to the bed, his lips slanting over yours with an urgency that stole the breath from your lungs. His body was hard and hot above yours, the curve of his hip pressed into your inner thigh, his belt buckle cold against your stomach. His fingers dug into your hips like he was afraid you’d float away.

He pressed his weight onto you as he came down into your neck , both of you slick with sweat, tangled in cotton sheets and heavy breathing. His tongue worked over a sensitive part of your neck that made you melt to his touch

Then—

Blackness.

The kind of still, shuddering dark that comes after a storm you weathered.

You woke up soaked in your own blood.

Sticky, metallic, warm and wet along your clavicle and down your chest. The bedsheets were ruined. You blinked up at the ceiling, then turned your head.

Remmick was kneeling over you. Mouth stained red. Eyes wide, almost glowing.

His lips, slick with your blood, parted slowly as he looked down at you in wonder. His voice was low, reverent, almost tender.

“This is what you needed,” he said. “Don’t you feel it?”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, your breath shallow. Slight traces of fear in your eyes.

“No more pain, darlin’. No more aging, no more fear. Just you and me, able to roam this earth and the next as we please .”

He brought his palm to your sternum, pressing over your heart like he could feel it trying to outrun your ribs. “I gave you what the world never would,” he proclaimed, brandishing his fangs in his smile. “Freedom.”

Remmick reached for your hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart beat steady beneath your palm—slow, deliberate, like thunder rolling through deep earth.

Your body tensed and then something inside you snapped.

But It wasn’t panic.

And It wasn’t fear.

It was a deep animalistic and hungry need.

Your vision sharpened at the edges. The room around you dulled into haze. All you could focus on was him—his smell, all smoke and sweat and salt, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his breath hitched when your fingers traced down the length of his chest.

You rose—slow, deliberate—until you were on your knees as well. You could feel the new strength coiling in your limbs, the animal instinct buzzing like a fever beneath your skin. He talked on and on about the promises this new life would bring. You flashed him eyes that communicated a nondescript but intense hunger and you swore you could feel his pulse in your mouth.

You trailed your fingers along the line of his collarbone, across the swell of his shoulder, then up—sliding into the soft curls at the base of his neck. He stopped talking altogether, just quiet in anticipation.

You gripped.

His breath caught.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as your voice dropped to a dark, sultry whisper:

“Bite me again, baby… and make it hurt good.”

He shuddered.

And obeyed.

His mouth descended like a storm, lips finding your neck, tongue lapping once over the curve of your shoulder before his fangs sank in deep. The pain was immediate, but it rolled over into heat so sharp and consuming you arched your back pushing you further into him with a gasp.

Your thighs twitched, your fingers clenched in his hair, and a moan clawed its way up your throat—raw and low. You throbbed everywhere, each nerve ending lit up, humming like your body had been set on fire from the inside out.

He fed, and you held him there, needing every drop, every ripple of pleasure knotted up in that pain. You rocked against him, your core tightening, heartbeat pounding in your ears like a war drum.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were red and his eyes glassy.

Your voice was hoarse and full of smoke when you whispered, “Again.”

—————

Daylight became a stranger to you—an old, forgotten friend you’d grown to miss some days more than others. Some days you wished you could unboard your windows and sit on your porch. But your life was now lived on by moonlight and instinct.

It was the way of things now. You didn’t question it. You just waited.

Every evening brought the same rhythm. The soft knock—three gentle taps at the front door, just after dusk. Sometimes you’d feel it before you even heard it. Something in your chest would tighten, like the pull of tide on sand. And then you’d go, barefoot and breathless, to let him in.

Remmick always stood there like a complete gentleman. Leaning in the doorway with that easy grin, hair tousled from the flight over, chest rising and falling like he’d just run to get to you. Sometimes his guitar was slung over his back, sometimes he’d bring flowers, he carried nothing at all. But he always brought that voice.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he’d say, like it was the first time you ever met him.

Then he’d kiss you. Or he’d bite. Or both.

He’d close the door behind him and walk you backward until the wall caught your spine. His hands would be warm, calloused, possessive in that way that made you weak in the knees. And his mouth — he used it like it was exactly what you needed. Suckling at the place behind your ear, then down the slope of your neck. Drawing blood like honey, always lapping it up before it hit your collarbone.

Sometimes, he got playful. Sometimes reverent. Sometimes both in the same night.

There were evenings he laid you out like a meal, biting slow circles behind your knees or dragging his fangs just barely over the soft of your belly. He’d hum songs from his time while he worked, deep and low, the sound buzzing in your skin.

And you’d laugh. You’d moan. You’d shake.

It didn’t take long before the pain didn’t even register anymore. Only the pleasure.

Each bite felt like being struck by lightning, and each mark bloomed like a secret flower on your skin.

But while you were losing yourself, you started seeing something else. Something new in Remmick

At first, it was just the look in his eye when you pressed your mouth to his neck. The way his lashes fluttered, like he was about to cry. Then there was another time when you opened the door before he knocked, pulled him inside by the collar of his shirt, and kissed him deep. He didn’t push back, didn’t even make a move. Just let you take it.

You shoved him against the wall, your palm flat against his chest, and stared up at him with hunger.

Then, with one hand, you undid his belt. Slipped inside. Wrapped your fingers around him like you owned him.

Remmick’s knees buckled.

He let out the softest whimper—high, shaky, damn near reverent.

You blinked at him. “Tell me you like it.”

His eyes were wide, glassy, mouth parted. “Y-yeah… I do…” he whispered.

The tremble in his voice lit a fire in your belly. It left you soaked and smug and stunned all at once.

A few nights later, you were straddling him on the couch, skirt pushed high, your hips working a slow, torturous grind against the bulge in his slacks. He was breathless beneath you, hands barely touchin’, like he didn’t know where to put them.

So you took his wrist and placed it on your waist.

Then you gripped the length of his neck, thumb draggin’ under his jaw, and squeezed just a little.

His head tipped back. His mouth opened in a gasp. And all he could say was your name—like he wanted to worship and repent in the same breath.

But the moment that settled it deep in your bones came just three nights ago.

Remmick had you laid back on the bed, his shirt open, your bodies tangled in heat. He hovered above you, ready to push inside, eyes locked on yours like he was asking permission.

And then he dropped his forehead to your neck, his voice gone raw and low.

“Please,” he said, and the word shook straight through you. “Please let me make you feel good. Lemme do it right, darlin’. I—I wanna be good for you.”

He didn’t want to dominate. He wanted direction. He wanted to be given, not to take. Wanted to be praised. Ruled. Owned.

And you?

You could do that.

You were already doin’ it.

You leaned in that night and whispered, “Show me how bad you want it.”

He did.

And now, every time you touched him—every time you claimed him—he’d melt into you like sugar on your tongue.

—————

Remmick was doing what he did best—buried between your thighs like a man starvin’ for grace, kissing and sucking like you were made of syrup and moonlight. The room smelled of sex and sweat and something wilder, something old. Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, damp with sheen, while his hands gripped your hips tight—thumbs digging into the softness like he was trying to carve himself a home inside you.

His tongue moved slowly and soulfully. You could feel him moaning against your clit, the vibrations rolled through you like thunder through tall grass.

Your breath hitched. Your back arched clean off the mattress, a cry ripped free of your throat as his mouth sealed tighter, tongue flattening and working you in slow, tight circles.

“Remmick…” you gasped, voice crackling like a lit match. “Shit—baby…”

But just as your body built to that fever pitch, that hot, dizzy place where the edge was near—

It hit you.

Not just the pleasure—but power.

That molten core deep in your belly didn’t just burn for release. It burned to command. You weren’t just his feast.

You reached down and tangled your fingers into that thick mess of brown curls. Then you yanked hard.

Remmick let out a strangled grunt, his mouth fallin’ open as you pulled him off your cunt with a wet, obscene sound. His face was slick with your shine, lips raw and glistening, jaw working like he didn’t know whether to cry or thank you.

He blinked up at you, dazed. Wrecked.

“Darlin’, please,” he rasped, voice sandpaper rough. He tried to lean forward again, his nose just barely brushin’ your thigh like he couldn’t stand the distance. “Let me back. I need—I need to finish you. Please, lemme taste all of you…”

“Ah ah,” you crooned, your grip tightening in his hair until he hissed, until his jaw clenched and his body tensed under your hands. You tilted his head back, just to watch his throat bob with the swallow. “Slow down, baby… we got all night.”

He looked like he was fighting for breath. His chest rose and fell fast, his thighs flexing where they knelt on the bed—like it was taking everything he had not to fall apart.

“I can’t let you do that just yet,” you whispered, leaning down close, your lips just grazing his as your voice curled like smoke around the words. “Not ‘til I get a good look at you like this.”

You dragged your eyes over him—his blown pupils, the tremble in his jaw, the shine on his cheeks. His mouth was still parted, flushed and wet, and you felt the weight of his arousal pressing up against your thigh, stiff and aching beneath his pants.

You kissed him slow—deep and indulgent—relishing in the taste of yourself on his tongue, moaning low in your throat as his hands twitched at his sides, still clutchin’ the sheets like a man on the edge of salvation.

You shifted and now he was under you.

Remmick went willingly. His breath caught in his throat, body folding back onto the mattress like he’d been waiting all his life to be handled just like this. You climbed on top, slid your bare thighs around his hips, your slick heat grindin’ down against the thick ridge strainin’ under his waistband.

He shuddered.

Hands still not touching, he wanted to wait for instruction. They just flexed at his sides like he was praying for permission to reach.

“Look at you,” you murmured, your thumb ghostin’ along his bottom lip, feelin’ the soft tremble there. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

He moaned—real and helpless—his head fallin’ back against the pillow. “I am,” he panted, chest heaving. “I am, I swear it—all yours, darlin’. I’ll do anything you ask—just tell me what you need…”

What a whiny mess.

Your lips curled.

You leaned down and dragged your tongue slow up the column of his throat, feelin’ him pulse under your mouth. Then you bit—just enough to make him twitch. Just enough to make him need.

“I need you desperate,” you breathed against his skin. “Need you beggin’ for it.”

Remmick let out the softest, filthiest sound—a desperate mix of want and surrender—and your hips ground down harder as he whimpered beneath you.

And baby… he did.

Your lips hovered just above his throat, breath fanning warm over his skin as your hips rolled again—slow and molten, drawing out a ragged moan from deep in Remmick’s chest. The friction was maddening—slick and aching and just shy of too much. You felt his cock twitch under you, felt his whole body tense like a man about to break.

He arched beneath you, head thrown back, jaw slack and trembling. His hands hovered in the air—uncertain, unmoored—like he didn’t know whether to grab your hips or clutch at salvation.

“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse, lips parted. “I—I c-can’t—”

You smiled, mouth grazing the stubble along his jaw, your voice like silk soaked in wine. “You can.”

You kissed your way down the side of his throat, slow and deliberate, until you felt his pulse jump under your mouth.

Then you moved—reached between you both and undid his belt with one fluid motion, your fingers deft, steady. The leather snapped open. The zipper whispered down. You dragged his pants low enough to free him, and he gasped as his cock sprang out—thick, flushed red, the head already slick and weeping.

His hips jerked into the air, but still—still—his hands fisted in the sheets like he’d been trained to wait for your word.

You licked your palm and then wrapped your hand around him, slow and sure, and gave him a few long, lazy strokes from root to tip.

Remmick’s whole body shuddered. His eyes fluttered. His voice cracked.

“God—”

You rose just enough to align him, his cock sliding through your folds, catching sweetly at your entrance. The head slipped in, and you sank down slow—inch by aching inch—until he was seated deep, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted.

And Remmick lost his damn mind.

His back bowed off the bed, a cry tearing from his throat, one hand finally snapping up to your waist like he was drowning and you were the only thing keeping him above water.

“F-fuck—darlin—please—”

You rolled your hips, slow and deep, your thighs clenched tight around him. You watched his face twist in pleasure, that strong jaw slackening, brows drawn like it hurt to feel this good.

He was trying to hold back—trying to let you lead—but his hands betrayed him. They clawed at your hips, gripped tighter, pulled you down harder, like his body had a will of its own and all it knew was need.

“You strugglin’?” you teased, raising your brows, breathless but smug.

He was unraveling. Stammerin’. Shakin’. That smooth southern charm dissolved into raw need. But he tried to mask with a smile the feigned even a shred of dignity.

You leaned forward, lips ghosting over the pulse point in his neck, tongue dragging slow up the sweat-damp skin.

You could feel his chest collapse under you the closer you got to his ear.

“I wanna taste flesh” you whispered against him, voice honey-slick and dangerous.

And then you did.

Your fangs sank in hard, right at the juncture where neck met shoulder, and he screamed—a sound torn from deep in his chest, feral and desperate. His cock jerked inside you, his whole body arching into your bite like he wanted to crawl into it, like the pain was just another kind of prayer.

His blood was hot and copper-sweet, rushing over your tongue in waves. It lit your nerves on fire—made you throb around him, made your hips snap harder, faster, riding him like you’d waited a lifetime to take this.

Remmick was gone.

A mess of sounds—moans and gasps and high, breathless cries—his body thrashing under yours as he gripped your ass like a man possessed. His voice was all broken pleas, all need and surrender.

“Please, darlin’, don’t stop—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You pulled back from his throat, lips slick with red, grinning down at him with a mouth full of sin.

Your nails dragged slow down his chest, raising goosebumps in their wake.

You rode him hard and deep, taking what you wanted, making him feel it—all of it. His cries got louder. His body shook beneath you. You could feel him throbbing inside you, could tell how close he was from the way he gripped you like he’d fall apart without your body wrapped tight around him.

You bit again—softer this time—just above your first mark, and that was it.

He came undone.

Crying out your name—just your name—like it was the only word left in the world. His release hit in waves, hips bucking helplessly beneath you, cock pulsing deep inside as you fucked him through every twitch, every tremor.

And when it was over—when he was boneless and breathless and soaked in sweat—you kissed his jaw, slid off of him slow, and disappeared into the other room.

You came back with a damp towel, soft as cotton and still warm from the basin. Wiped the blood from his throat, the mess from his stomach, and then let him curl into your lap like a man reborn.

You lit a cigarette and played with his hair, slow strokes at the nape of his neck, offering him a drag every few times.

[lovebyeler]

a rant on mlvn & their shippers. inspired by this post i saw on twt

one thing i noticed about mlvn fans is that whenever bylers point out a fact that is objectively true, either confirmed by the cast/producers or is said explicitly in the show, the first thing they do is call us names and deny it.

as much as i dislike mlvn, i see how someone could ship it by seeing it closer to the way they're portrayed in the show; a sort of puppy crush turned into push-pull relationship whose sides need to be truthful to themselves & understand each other better to make it work. i could see the appeal in this type of dynamic and if this was how they actually saw mlvn.

however, my main problem with mlvns is that instead of seeing them for what they are, they portay them as an example of somehow perfect couple - they'd rather twist words said in the show than admit that they're a troubled pair. they romantize the version of mlvn in their head instead of looking deeper into the show & will make fun of you if you do that.

the "and i knew right then and there [...] that i loved you" fragment of mike's monologue has been proved to be a lie multiple times from multiple sources. they would have to retcon things established in season one for this to be true. mike never was shown to like her from the start, he just happened to be the most empathetic one from the party and only started liking/crushing on her later (depending on your interpretation). besides, the show quite literally makes fun of love at first sight & the writers said they don't believe in it as well. and in the said tiktok screenshot, it's not bylers theorizing even - it's literally what finn has said.

you could still believe that mike loves eleven while lying & exeggarating things in the monologue so he could save her. that's sort of romantic as well if you want to see it in that light - he's willing to be fake to save her, however eleven is mad at him for that reason, and then lesson of mlvn in next season would be that you don't need to lie in order to save your relationship. but wait, wouldn't that be a repeat of season 3 & 4 where it was shown not to work regardless? 🤔 besides, i could still see how someone could possibly defend this.

but no, they cling to that damn monologue like it's their bible. they themselves exeggerate their love instead of just looking at them like it's a regular relationship. they downplay their lies, their problems for the sake of shipping it. at this point i'm starting to wonder if they ship it cause they actually like their dynamic or do they ship it cause they like them together visually?

that's the biggest difference between bylers and mlvns for me. bylers look deeper into their negative side of their ship, pick apart their flaws yet this doesn't dismantle their relationship but support it. why won't mlvn do the same when they have a bunch of that going on their ship as well? if we see proof by analyzing byler fights, can't they do that instead of downplaying them? unless deep analysis won't help mlvn... which is possibly the case. that's why they choose to ignore it. but that's another topic. i think i'd still appreciate them more if they actually tried, though.

anyways, that'll be the end of my long rant. it's ironic to me how much byler shippers are called delusional because they dare to analyze the show when mlvn's whole ship is build upon false romantized image of it, don't you think?

[imgonnaeatyouhyugosugitmoto]

“I wanna see it, wanna feel your love…”

-Love Taste, Moe Shop

Art by the lovely: @ alyysah._ AKA Waza on Tiktok!

Reverse Crowe Headcanons

Okay so we know that Reverse Crowe is basically the yandere in the AU and obviously emo lmao. Reverse Crowe will also be referred to as R! Crowe and Reverse Sol as R! Sol for Convenience fyi! Sol or “normal” Sol is mentioned here to.

⚠️Sensitive Topic Warning: Murder, Violence, Suggestive topics. You have been warned

—————————————————————

Headcanons🐦‍⬛

If the friendgroup is the same where its; Britney, Jessie, Deryl and Geo then maybe they’d be emo or just the same (just a thought), If his friendgroup is the same as his “Normal” group then he would be the random emo looking kid they adopted but they’d still get along, though R! Crowe would be paranoid that his friends also like you and if so, he would NOT spare them.

If Reverse Crowe was friends with Hyugo you can imagine he’s gets annoyed with Hyugo like Sol does, but it’s also a possibility that R! Crowe is more calm compared to Sol

You can imagine Reverse Crowe being a more calm and calculated Yandere who’s obsessed with you, rather than a irrational one like Sol. For example in the “No Witnesses Ending” You wouldn’t even discover the body in the shed. R! Crowe would have likely killed R! Sol in a more remote place. And He definitely used R! Sol’s phone to text his friends and you that he was “moving away” (obviously he’s dead). R! Crowe would be better at hiding his tracks and hiding his aggression.

R! Crowe would also be very obsessed with you but he can hide it better than Sol. Obviously he stalks you! He’s just inconspicuous about it…

He would definitely use a Crowbar instead of an Axe, yk since his name is “Crowe”. And when he eventually murders R! Sol he beats his head in with the Crowbar, but no decapitation atleast! (Tbh a head getting bashed in is still quite disturbing)

R! Crowe would dispose of bodies in the Ocean in trashbags (Dexter Type shi) since it’s less suspicious compared to burying a body. (I doubt Sol disposes of them himself He probably has Hyugo do it)

Even though R! Crowe’s nickname is Crowe the reason behind it in this case is that he prefers it because Jericho doesn’t fit the vibe and Crows (the birds) are cool (he just wants to aurafarm)

Definitely wears Guyliner and dark eyeshadow

(Heavy Headcanon) but you can imagine that he uses silver loc jewlery in his hair especially on his braid

Seems like the type to wear a lot of silver jewlery, such as leather bracelets and silver necklaces. ALSO! Silver Studded Belts!!!

He is a natural hair color person, and doesn’t dye his hair not even bleaching either

Gives off CD Collection of really niche emobands

(Personal Headcanon) but he seems like the kind of guy to go to punk shows/hardcore shows basically small emo (ahhh) concerts.

Would still be a nepo baby since regular is hinted to be welloff/rich but an emo rich kid who hides the fact that he has money

Has definitely been called a “poser atleast once on campus

Has Vertical Nipple Piercings

Also Imagine R!Crowe with a anti-eyebrow piercing

Seems like a knife collector. Not the Kitchen ones, the very fancy butterfly ones. He’d also know how to do the fancy tricks and spinning with them too so he can impress you.

I also see R! Crowe as a more consensual Yandere (like Ren from 14 days with you)

He has definitely snuck into your apartment but instead of getting all freaky with you, he’s probably cuddling you or sniffing you. Atleast he’s not rubbing his dick all over you (unlike a certain guy named Sol).

He’s creepy but not freaky (haha)

Actually I lied he’s probably masturbating to you but more so in private instead of a bathroom stall on campus.

When he draws you, his artstyle would be closer to Realism but I can also see him making abstract art of you like Picasso (yes quite contrasting art styles)

Definitely prefers graphite and ink as his art medium but he also know how to work with pastels

I would like to think R! Crowe similar to Crowe enjoys holding your hand (similar to how seaotters do it, I saw this in a comment section)

Speaking of Animals R! Crowe would like seaotters just like Crowe. There wouldn’t be any swapping where R! Crowe likes horses and R! Sol likes seaotters. Some characteristics would stay the same/similar sorta… (Crowe and seaotters is confirmed on Fantasia Tumblr, along with other TKATB characters)

R! Crowe is definitely not as friendly or popular as his counterpart. He would also not be on student council. Though R! Crowe could be in some sort of campus club, maybe the music club or art club

Speaking of Campus Clubs, R! Crowe would show up to meetings whenever he feels like it and usually goes alone, maybe he’d bring a friend with him… But he would prefer to ask you, only if you don’t mind!

If you and R! Crowe are at the dating point you and him have atleast done a mall date.

R! Crowe has money dw! He’ll spoil you!

At the mall, you and him have definitely gone into a hot topic or spencers. Bonus Points if you’re also into alternative fashion.

Random but R! Crowe definitely has a studded phone case

I think R! Crowe would call you “Pumpkin” just like how Sol does but I can also see him calling you a different pet name maybe “Sapphire” for example “my Sapphire” or something. Why Sapphire? Well…because his eyes are Sapphire Blue (idk the discourse with this)

OR R! Crowe wouldn’t use nicknames at all, it depends on how you feel about it. Likely he would ask you about it during a hangout.

R! Crowe is paitient about courting you, he waits and he doesn’t mind because he knows he can get rid of potential threats with ease.

As stated before R! Crowe isn’t irrational as Sol, he’s plotting on you and is smart about it.

If R! Crowe played an instrument he’d play Bass (just a feeling)

He’s probably gotten bullied before but doesn’t care and finds it a waste of time especially if it stops him from seeing you. Rather than getting beatup he just walks away. Non-Reactive and is able to get out of bad situations.

Similar to Crowe he doesn’t mind fighting for you, and would gladly get beat for you. Only for you though.

The manipulative type of Yandere. R! Crowe is Cunning. Has definitely gaslit you before but it’s not like you would know any better. He can lie like nothing plus he’s always Calm, or atleast is Calm in front of you.

R! Crowe is care about your opinion more than anything. He does not want to give off a bad impression of himself to you.

—————————————————————

Excuse any writing errors. This may be my longest one! Let me know if you have any ideas especially with the nickname one. Also I appreciate the support I’ve been getting on my last posts tysm! Ygs are perverts/degenerates but twin…I plan on writing (normal) Crowe headcanons and also actual fanfiction in the future. Funfact I’m mutuals with the artist I mentioned hehe 😈

[l0cadef4nfock]

Oh, nothing, I’m just thinking about ftm Tim Drake in a situation where he HAS so go undercover as a girl. Where he HAS to put on a wig, wear a dress, maybe even put on some makeup. Where he’s staring at himself in the mirror and absolutely breaking down because he looks like a girl. He thought he was getting better. He thought he was way past passing publicly. Hell, an old lady called him a handsome young man just yesterday. But he looks like a girl.

Oh, just thinking about Bruce or Dick finding him in the bathroom, bawling his eyes out while looking so much like a woman it’s uncanny, and only then do they find out he’s trans. Then they call Cass back from wherever she was and tell her to drop everything she’s doing because they REALLY need her help on a case and no it cannot wait.

And that same evening, while Tim is in that state of not quite crying but not quite NOT crying, alone in his bedroom in the darkness of Drake manor, convinced his family would never see him the same way, Alfred walks in with a photo album, sits down next to him and tells him about a boy born in a girl’s body named Penelope Pennyworth, how he had to pretend to be a man in order to enlist in the British army, about how he left home and moved to the US after the war was over in order to live as Alfred Pennyworth.

And how Tim is so shocked he lets Alfred lead him down to the kitchen where half is family is waiting (Jason? What are you doing here?) and after a long moment of silence Steph says “oh for fuck’s sake Tim”, grabs Cass by the collar of her shirt and kisses her until Dick tells them to wrap it up, and Jason going “Everyone in this family is gay, Timbers” as he raises a mini ace flag. Bruce raises his glass of coffee with a little bi heart that said ‘happy 29th birthday dad!’ That Dick bought him back then (and the one he made for Tim) and says “I’ve been out longer than you’ve been alive, buddy.” And takes a swing, then after a long moment of Jason staring at Damian knowingly, the boy throws a knife at him and exclaims “Yes Todd I am a homosexual Yes you found me making out with Jon three month ago do you want me to thank you for keeping it a secret!?” As Jason cracks up, and as the cherry on top Dick tells them he’s pan and has been dating Wally for the last year.

Just… thinking about a collective batfamily coming out day

[unsoundedcomic]

Any advice on how to convince someone to give the comic a shot when the child abuse stuff and shirtless Sette throws them off?

Well, first of all, don't bug someone to read something with content that they aren't comfortable with. I don't care for realistic war stories and it doesn't matter what the author's intention was or how it all resolves - I just don't like 'em. I empathize too much with the soldiers and am miserable.

But if you think their reluctance has more to do with authorial distrust, just be honest with them; tell them how you feel about how it's handled and resolved. Also remind them that different people have different boundaries. I'm a woman, I used to be a little girl, and drawing little girls with their shirts off should not be some scandalous thing, in my opinion. I actually think it's kind of sus to find that problematic rather than emblematic of their free spirit. Which is why it's done with Sette. Sette is a Forever Child. Sharteshanian Sette is not restrained by body shame in the way that dead Duane and the Alds are. Duane shrouds himself in his cloak and bandages; Sette strips to climb trees and swim in rivers. This is a really intentional contrast.

Sette's free spirit unsullied by shame is why Starfish was such a great foil. He was this horrid demon of perversion; this tumor of adult derangement that hampered not only Sette, but Jivi and Matty, and ultimately became the Final Argument of all the forgotten dead. It's better not to exist than to live in a reality with monsters like THIS.

It's heavy shit and not everyone wants to stomach it - nor should they be made to feel bad if that's the case! - but Starfish and the repeated incursions against kids in this story are deeply a part of the theme of the work. They're not frivolous.

That's how I'd frame it for doubters. And their doubt is understandable. There is a lot of questionable perversion in media. The line between smut and literature ain't that concrete.

[skulldetergent]

i do wonder who's better at babysitting, ghost or soap?

ghost IS an older brother, and i'm sure that he had to take care of tommy whenever his mother couldn't (don't even get me started on his father, that man isn't taking care of any kids!!). and isn't having a little sibling basically like babysitting with some extra steps? and i can definitely imagine that ghost used to babysit joseph too whenever tommy and beth needed a break from parenting. despite his intimidating exterior, i do believe that kids love simon. he's just this tall, scary looking but kinda nice weird adult to them (that always has a stupid joke ready)

now, soap on the other hand i headcanon as the youngest of 3. you can't convince that he doesn't have two older sisters. so in his case, he most definitely was the one being babysat in childhood. BUT if he ends up being an uncle one day you know he's taking it seriously!! he's probably also great with children, alas in a different way than ghost. imagine that picture with the iron man actor with his kid vs the thor actor with his kid. yeah. soap is probably the fun adult (with weird hair).

[girly-girlk]

Hi! I don’t know if you’ve already written something like this, but if not could you write a fic about firefighter Rafe and reader meeting? Like maybe she’s a waitress at the firehouse’s favorite diner?

diner

firefighter!rafe cameron x reader

summary: rafe is a regular at the diner you work at

a/n: sorry this one took so long, but i absolutely love it! i hope you enjoy!!💕

the bell above the door jingles at exactly 9:14 a.m.

like clockwork.

you’re already behind the counter, tying your apron tight and jotting down today’s pie special on the chalkboard when they come in — the southport fire crew. four of them, loud and laughing, tracking in sand and smoke and the faint scent of cedarwood. they pile into their usual booth like it’s their booth, and honestly, maybe it is.

you’ve been working at shoreline diner for two weeks now. long enough to learn their orders, but not long enough to stop watching one of them a little too closely.

rafe cameron.

he’s the last to come in, always is. tall, sun-tanned, with a jawline you could cut yourself on and arms that strain the sleeves of his navy uniform t-shirt. there’s a lazy swagger to the way he walks, like he knows people watch him.

he definitely knows you do.

“morning, darlin’,” topper grins, flipping his menu even though he always orders the same thing.

“french toast and black coffee, i know,” you say, already scribbling it down. “kelce, eggs over easy, bacon burnt to hell—”

“you get me,” kelce winks.

and then your pen stalls.

rafe lides into the booth last, glancing up at you with that maddeningly calm expression he always wears — like he’s not even trying to be charming, he just is. you swear there’s the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s gone too quick to be sure.

“you takin’ care of us today?” he asks, voice low and scratchy like he just woke up.

“i guess that depends,” you shoot back, trying not to sound breathless. “you planning to tip better than last time?”

topper howls. rafe raises both eyebrows, mock-offended.

“she got you there, man,” jj grins around a mouthful of hash browns from someone else’s plate.

rafe doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he says. not a joke. not a line. just a promise that settles deep in your chest, low and warm.

you don’t reply. you can’t — not without your voice shaking — so you nod and head toward the kitchen, scribbling “pancakes, extra butter, side of sausage” on your pad before he even says it.

⸻

they’re halfway through their meal when the first call comes in. the scanner at the counter crackles to life, dispatch barking out a structure fire off main.

rafe is already standing, sliding cash under his plate, eyes on you.

“you work weekends?” he asks, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat already glinting at his temple.

“every saturday.”

his tongue clicks against his teeth like he’s thinking, and then he says it — casual, quiet, but somehow not at all forgettable:

“see you then.”

you nod again, pulse skittering.

and when they’re gone, when the door swings shut behind all that smoke and static and adrenaline, you find yourself looking at the tip he left.

twenty bucks. on a ten-dollar order.

and a note scribbled on the napkin:

“in case i don’t get to tell you next time: you’ve got the prettiest smile i’ve ever seen.” — r”

you stare at it for a long moment, then fold it carefully and tuck it into your apron pocket.

⸻

you don’t know it yet, but that saturday? he’ll come in alone.

and you’ll sit at his booth during your break.

and he’ll ask if you want to grab coffee somewhere that isn’t where you work.

but for now, you just stand there — heart racing, hand pressed to a napkin — knowing full well this isn’t the end of anything.

it’s the start.

[peekofhistory]

Hi! Love your Tumblr! I'm fascinated by the fact that you are in China making and playing the Guqin, I was wondering if you can share a bit more about yourself and your background and why you decided to move to China? Like a self intro (that you're comfortable sharing). Thanks and have a nice day!!

Hello :D

How I ended up in Yangzhou learning to make/play the Guqin is a rollercoaster of a story xDD

As for my background, I was born in China (Beijing) and moved to the US when I was around 6 yrs old (my mom had moved several years earlier and I went to live with her). From the start my mom emphasized I can't forget I'm Chinese, because that's where I'm from and where my family's from, so she put in a lot of effort teaching me Chinese. She even had a colleague send over elementary school textbooks from China so she could teach me Chinese at home. She also got recordings of some Chinese TV shows and she'd watch them with me, explaining each episode and giving me information on that period of history.

Back then there weren't that many TV shows in China, and the ones we could access in the US were even less, so it was mostly classics shows like Journey to the West (1986), Dream of the Red Chamber (1987) and Romance of the Three Kingdoms (1994):

That really planted the root for my interest in Chinese history and culture. Especially in the case of Romance of the Three Kinggoms that was based on the actual Three Kingdoms period in Chinese history, it made me aware of how long China's history was and how rich and colourful it was, all the incredible historical figures, the battles of the past, the stories, etc.

Later on I also became interested in Chinese Opera (mainly Peking Opera, Huangmei Opera, and Shanghai Yue Opera):

We moved to Canada after a few years and stayed there until I graduated uni. I then went to Japan to work for a few yrs.

When I returned to Canada, it was 2018 and I found myself having to start all over career-wise. My experience in Japan really didn't help me at all when job hunting in Canada, and I ended up doing a few entry-level jobs in healthcare (office admin work). Then Covid and I lost my job, found another job about a year later, but still entry-level.

It was actually during the Covid break that I found out I could buy Hanfu fairly easily now. Throughout my time at uni and in Japan I didn't really check Chinese websites so I didn't know much about what was happening in China. During the Covid break, with nothing else to do at home, I found Taobao and realized the pretty clothes I adored in TV shows as a child I can now buy :D I went a bit crazy at first and ordered a whole bunch, but at the time I honestly didn't know too much about Hanfu aside from long robes, large sleeves, criss-crossed collars. But it was fun to wear them out (once lockdown ended) and actually feel like the characters I once saw on TV:

The job I had just before I came to China I actually really enjoyed, the work itself was fulfilling, the pay wasn't great but OK, and my co-workers for the most part were pretty good (my direct supervisor was great, I really, really enjoyed working with her). Unfortunately there was some changes to staffing in the office and the workload became really bad. I found myself literally having nightmares about work, and crying driving to and from work everyday. I decided I needed to quit. It was taking over my life 24/7, I was constantly tense and dreaded having to go to the office every morning.

At this point I'm in my late 30s and I took a few months to think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Either look for another regular office job that may or may not be better than the last, or try something completely different.

At the same time, I decided to take the chance to visit my family in China. Without a job, I could visit for a longer period of time (otherwise I could only get 2 wks paid vacation). I remember my mom mentioned during one of her visits to China she had met a master of woodblock printing (雕版印刷/diaoban yinshua). It was the first form of printing invented, they would carve out pages of text (or images), put ink over top, then print it onto paper:

This was even earlier than movable type printing (活字印刷/huozi yinshua) where each character was printed on a separate block so you could arrange them as needed:

This master's workshop took in apprentices and would offer free housing and food. After a certain amount of time, once the apprentices' work reached a certain level, they were even given a salary for their work.

I thought that sounded like a great plan. I didn't explicitly come to China with the goal of finding a place to do an apprenticeship, but I was aware this sort of opportunity was available, and it aligned with my interest in Chinese history and culture.

When I arrived in China last year I spent a few months visiting my dad and other family, before I ended up in Yangzhou.

There were some emotional ups and downs in between, I did find a woodblock printing master, I started to learn a bit with him, it didn't work out, etc., etc. But essentially I found myself in Yangzhou with nothing to do.

Yangzhou is quite famous for Guqin (there's an entire street here dedicated to selling Guqin...although it's a bit of a tourist trap ^^;;) , and I thought I could find a teacher to learn how to play the instrument at least. I had bought a Guqin years ago in Canada, but was always too busy/lazy to actually learn/practice it, but now being free everyday I decided I could do some sort of intense course. While scrolling through the Red Note app looking for Guqin teachers I came across a post of a teacher looking for students to learn how to make+play Guqin, with the option to live at the workshop and have housing and food covered:

And my eyes lit up.

That was how it all started :D

The biggest obstacle is honestly some family members. Growing up abroad, I've never really had a close relationship with any of my relatives in China. I've also never had to navigate the complicated family relations that Chinese families can sometimes have. If I were to go to any other country in the world to learn something, none of them would say anything, I don't think they'd even think about it, but because I'm in China a lot of them suddenly feel they need to express an opinion about my decisions, lol. Some don't like my interest in wearing Hanfu, some think I'm crazy learning something that "no one else these days is interested in", some think I'm immature/irresponsible not finding a 'regular' job and 'wasting' my time. Luckily, none of them live in Yangzhou so aside from a passive-aggressive text message/phone call once in awhile I can do my own thing 😁💖

[jacktheeldergod2]

People who remove sexual features,make people in vats with a machine that makes someone randomly with genetic code from everyone in that settlement,birthing only able bodied hermaphrodites with hyperflexibity and very above average physical capabilities. Literal hermaphrodites I'm not talking about intersex people

No youth,no lust,no gender,a life free of such "distractions". They live in rock homes often carved into the mountains of their world and most of the labor done by modified humans,4 limbed brown furred primates whose minds are controlled by a machine that uses them to farm the mushrooms and pseudoshrubbery of the world and its many berries. The oldest of these primates are served as food. Thus the citizens live their lives aspiring at arts and improving at them,the focal point of their society

Standard augmentations given before the "pupae" are:

a machine that covers the waist,hindering the sex organs but not removing them while allowing defecation and urination. A similar cover goes around the chest,acting both to cut off access to the nipples but also acts as a decent bit of armor. Just in case

Two connected machines in either side of the belly,low enough so they don't collide with the ribs when bending over,made to manage heat and pressure and stabilize them in most environments,thus deleting the need of clothing,and also can extract oxygen from the water and lend it to the lungs,allowing for longer dives

And a metal implant on top of the arm with two mechanical claws that can fold over the hand,meant for climbing. When they're considered adults,at their 20th birthday a firearm is latched on the forearm part of the augments,which fires by compressing air to propel the bullet. It's roughly as strong as the average military weaponry for low ranking foot soldiers on other human settlements,if a little on the weak side

The reasons for the side and arm implants is cause most of the planet is uninhabited,as the people are more focused on their arts,there's only 2 continents,and the uninhabited one is too cold

The planet has a weak sun and most of the heat comes from the immense amount of lava that's not too far from the surface,making it always warm and making the grass and bushes of the surface healthy. On the flip side it's hard to extract metal from the earth,the job always being done by controlled mining robots with advanced cooling systems

The people swim and climb constantly as well as doing arts

Martial artists go through artificial puberty and grow to the size of 2 meters and 60 centimeters on average. Additionally their brains changed to administer adrenaline and think in high stress situations better. Their bones are also made thicker. Their martial art has a short stance,having elements similar to Soviet style boxing,bare knuckle boxing and wing chun for punching,tae kwon do kicks although focusing on the more efficient ones,judo throws and minimal ground work. The martial artists have the gun removed and the claws replaced by knuckle dusters. They're known for fast footwork and attacks in intergalactic mma matches

The most successful artists become lords. The lords live atop the tallest mountain and never go down to the main settlement,are allowed to fully grow,their genitals and nipples unsealed and are free to live extremely extravagant lives. They're the rulers of the planet and are known for their hedonism. Even foreigners can buy their way into being a lord, gaining free reign to do pretty much anything other than procreate. This position is desired by many foreign nobles who knows that the life extending augments of the lords are the best in the galaxy,hidden under lock and key

@everythingismadeofchaos @polkadotsunshine @dh-ng @mmmmmmky

Imagine how societies with augmentation would differ aesthetically from eachother. Like, you'd have basically full control over what humanity looks like. If you went to diffrent planets in a future with augmentation, every human civilization would differ in human appearance the same way architecture differs from place to place.

A civilization that actively leans in to the fact that that their augmentations dehumanize them. Looking like insects or reptiles more then the do people when they're fully upgraded.

A utilitarian brutalist civilization where mechanical upgrades are just stuck into most people without caring how it'll make them look, where beauty has fully become a class privilege.

A somewhat feudalist or religious society who try to make everyone fit their hyper athletic beauty standards. More heavily upgraded people look almost like angels.

A super wealthy trade empire where people put precious metals and jewels on their mechanical parts and sculpt everything to be as extravagant as possible.

Is this anything? If you have any other ideas for societies like this please reblog with them?

[thelawfulchaotic]

o mister lawyer of the internet do you have anything to teach us what do we say to a lawyer (or what do we do when we get one) how do you know if a lawyer is good or bad, and how much does it affect us what happens to the lawyer when you lose, or win -a very naive anon who wants more information

It is madam lawyer, I gotta slap my pronouns around here somewhere. (Ms./Mrs. feel bogus after you get called Madam Counselor enough times.)

Absolutely nothing happens to the lawyer. No matter how my clients cases go, I'm leaving the courthouse the same way I walked in, and I'm going to go sleep in a comfortable bed tonight in my safe home. Some people who try to be public defenders can't handle this, knowing that their clients are suffering while they aren't. Truth is, I need the sleep and the comfort and the safety to come through for the next client and the next and the next. I do my best not even to think about active work problems while at home (I think about them anyway).

If you get a lawyer, especially an appointed lawyer, CALL THEM. Do not wait for them to call you, because they have piles of cases and plenty to do. Don't be scared to be a little annoying, because they work for you. Leave a few messages, if they have administrative staff then make an appointment and show up for it. Best way to get a lawyer's attention is to be right in front of them when their schedule says to pay attention to you.

Whether a lawyer is good or bad will absolutely change everything. Lazy idiot attorneys just move their clients towards pleas. Energetic attorneys who litigate issues get a reputation for it, and they get better offers.

How you know a lawyer is good or bad is a pretty hard question to answer. There are a lot of things that make a lawyer good: they could be intensely well-researched, they could have an impeccable reputation that causes judges to listen to them when they make arguments, they could be from a locally-famous lawyer-judge-politician family which again causes judges to listen, they could be empathetic and good with client counseling. There are a ton of ways to be a good lawyer, and a ton of styles for being a good lawyer.

In general, a good lawyer will make you feel better after the interview than you did before. You'll have a good idea what the possible consequences could be and what the vague shape of some paths forward might be. You'll feel empowered in the sense that you'll know at least the important decisions are in your hands.

But those things are pretty easy to tell in the moment. Some more subtle red and.green flags that you might not know to look for are:

The lawyer pauses to look something up: GREEN FLAG. It's easy to mistake this for a red flag (lawyer doesn't know what they're doing!) but this is a sign of caution and thoroughness. Lawyers have to remember a lot, and the best know that they don't know everything.

The lawyer promises you results: RED FLAG. The lawyer is not in charge of the outcome and doesn't get to make the call. Weird shit happens in court all the time. No one making promises about the overall outcome can be trusted.

Lawyer won't give you a straight answer to your fucking question: completely neutral flag. Some questions don't have straight answers and lawyers love to say "maybe."

The lawyer makes some remark about the tendencies of the particular judge/prosecutor: most likely green flag. That lawyer is paying attention to their court and how it does things.

Lawyer is impatient and hard to connect with. Neutral flag. One of the most impatient attorneys with trouble with attorney/client relationships in the office is one of our best trial attorneys, and they get a lot fewer complaints after they win.

Shitty suit: Neutral flag. They should look put together, yes, but what a pain in the ass to put together a whole wardrobe of suits, much less GOOD suits.

Hitting on you: extremely red flag and possible ethical violation.

The rest is pretty easy to figure out on the fly.

As for what to tell them... confidentiality is absolutely real and very serious. The lawyer is not allowed to tell anyone else what you tell them. But some lawyers have different styles on what they ask. I'd say follow their cue, answer what they ask, but don't bury the lede, make sure to tell them the most crucial details. Bring documentation of stuff: text messages, screenshots, even diary entries. ER discharge notes. School transcripts. Whatever. Lawyers love documentation.

Honestly, I have so many great public defenders hanging around this blog, y'all can probably add some good stuff.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 10: A HOUSE CALLED CARMODY DELL

synopsis: you tag along with hosea to set up a business deal.

word count: 4.8k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: sorry i was gone for so long! i stopped writing, felt like shit, started writing, and now i feel better. who'd have thunk?

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @its-yummi , @lazycowboah , @shackspossum , @swedesfics , @literallyrousseau , @xprloki , @pedifero , @6esi , @xnorthstar3x , @scorpio-echo , @eafv2323 , @junesfruits , @gallantys (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You were never one to find robberies and petty crime exciting, but sometimes you do what you need to because you must. And Hosea – the arbitrator of god’s will, apparently – has deemed that you need to come on a petty stagecoach robbery because you must help the gang acquire money. You’re not exactly keen on putting out and you’re not sure you’d generate any sizable revenue anyway, so this is the next best (and profitable) thing.

You wait nearby, sitting on a crate as Hosea continues to talk to Seamus: the guy Hosea wants to exploit as a fence. The barn all three of you are next to faces the outskirts of town, so there’s less of a chance of nosy ears listening in on this private conversation.

“Well, every half-dollar robber says he’s capable,” Seamus says. “I never met an idiot that called himself one.”

“Very true. In that case, me and my friend here are idiots,” Hosea says. “But we know how to get things done efficiently.”

There’s a lull in conversation. You take the chance to say, “Hosea’s been robbing longer than I’ve been alive. What – what’s this guy’s place like, Fort Knox?”

“Well, no,” Seamus says. “The closest thing we’ve got is Fort Mercer.”

You look up just as the sound of footfalls meet your ears. It’s Arthur, looking between Seamus and Hosea and you. You have to bite your tongue because you just got away from him – just got an excuse to be outside of camp while he was in it – and now he’s here. Because hey, why the hell not? It’s not like this is your first actual job that you want to go smoothly. No, it’s totally one hundred percent okay that Arthur’s here. Honestly…

“Arthur,” Hosea greets. “This is Seamus – he’s our new partner.”

“I ain’t no such thing,” Seamus says.

“Prospective new partner,” Hosea corrects himself, “if he likes us.”

“Liking ain’t the problem – trusting is, as I said.” Seamus stands and checks around the corner. “And keep your voices down. I don’t want my boss hearing… This is a side line.”

“‘Course,” Hosea says. “Look at the three of us – honest as the day is long.”

“We can do some light work for you,” you offer. You stand, looking between the three men. “Give us an opportunity to, um… prove ourselves?”

A surprised exclamation of “Prove ourselves?” leaves Arthur’s mouth amid a laugh. He glances over at you and Hosea, gesturing at Seamus. “To this clown? Whatchu talkin’ about?”

“Good day, both of you,” Seamus says. He turns on his heel, his boots making a schlock sound in the mud as he walks away.

“Listen,” Hosea says quickly. He starts after Seamus. “He’s rough and ready and quick with his tongue, but I swear, you can trust him, you can trust them, and you can trust me.”

“I…” Seamus turns and glances over Hosea’s shoulder at you and Arthur. His eyes mostly linger on Arthur – probably figuring out the ratio of brains to muscle (which has a strong negative relationship in Arthur’s case). “I’m an old man.”

“You’re not old, Seamus,” Hosea says.

“I’m old enough,” Seamus counters. “And you know why I ain’t dead?”

“You don’t trust idiots.”

“Exactly.”

“We’re not idiots,” Hosea insists. “Let us prove it to you.”

You watch carefully as Seamus considers it. His face twists as he thinks, probably weighing the pros of working with someone like Hosea and the cons of working with someone like Arthur. You hope you at least mostly fall into the pros category.

“I tell you what,” Seamus eventually says. Your ears perk up and you turn your attention to him as he continues talking. “Old Bob Crawford and his boys just bought a beautiful stolen stagecoach from upstate. It’s in their barn. Now you go get that – and then we can work together.”

Hosea puts a hand on Seamus’ shoulder and guides him back to where you and Arthur are waiting, talking as he does so. “Who’s old Bob Crawford?”

“An… acquaintance of mine,” Seamus says.

“So you want us to take out your competition?” Hosea asks.

“Well, he – he’s not just an acquaintance,” Seamus says, “but a cousin… by marriage. I also wanna see if y’all got what it takes. Now, you survive that…”

“Where is he?” Hosea asks.

“He’s in a farmhouse just northwest of here, called Carmody Dell.” Seamus gestures down the beaten dirt road. “It’s just up the train tracks as you’re headin’ up towards Fort Wallace. There’s also money in that house – but that’s your business, not mine – but don’t kill nobody. Folks know we ain’t intimate no more… they’ll know it was me.”

Before you can question the use of the word “intimate” when regarding a cousin (by marriage, but still), Hosea speaks. “But you’re fine with us robbing your cousin?”

“By marriage,” Seamus insists, pointing a finger at him as if that further proved his point. “And yes, I’d love it.”

“You heard the man.” Hosea touches your shoulder as he turns to walk towards the horses. “Let’s go rob his cousin.”

Seamus mumbles “By marriage,” but you just hide your half-smile and follow Hosea. You mount Bronya and tug her reins, leading her away from the hitch.

Arthur mounts Belmont, and Hosea mounts Silver Dollar. They follow you a little ways away from Seamus’ barn.

“Really?” Arthur grumbles.

“Really,” Hosea says. “Lead the way. He said the place is just northwest of here.”

Belmont breaks into a trot as Arthur guides him onto the beaten dirt road. “Me?”

“You’re the one who’s been out gallivanting around here,” Hosea says.

Arthur passes you to lead, while Hosea lingers beside you. You pass by barns and fenced-in livestock on the way out of town.

The valley opens before you, the ground turning from shit-mud to packed down dirt. Winding, patchy desire paths join actual trailways, all bordered by grass that almost seems to roll when a breeze wisps by. A herd of horses slowly move out by the horizon, dotting the prairie with spots of black and white and brown.

Jesus, that’s beautiful, you think to yourself. 

“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” you decide to say out loud.

“It is quite something,” Hosea agrees. “I’ve seen a lot of nature in my time, but the Heartlands trumps them all.”

“I’m… I’m jealous. Of your travels, I mean,” you say. You think for a moment. “Hey, maybe one day I can move my family out here? It seems… quiet enough.”

“Now, I – I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Hosea says. He glances forward at Arthur, then turns away to look out on the prairie. “Your girls are in California, aren’t they? They’re safer staying put for now. We can grab them on our way out of the country.”

“Do you…” You look forward to Arthur. He’s looking forward, most likely paying you and Hosea no mind. “Do you actually want me to run with you? Like, is this The Plan? Dutch’s Plan?”

“Ah, I’m just thinking out loud.” Hosea waves a hand dismissively. “Arthur – you couldn’t have played that thing with Seamus better?”

“Thought you wanted me here to show some strong arm?” Arthur says. “That’s usually how it goes.”

“Yes, but…” Hosea pauses. “You know how this works.”

“C’mon, Hosea,” Arthur drawls. “That feller’s a joke.”

“And that’s why he’s perfect!” Hosea exclaims. “He won’t cause us any problems. A safe spot to fence wagons and coaches, that’s easy money for us.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Come on, it’s not like he’s asking us to rob a bank.” He gestures over to you. “It’s perfect for their first job! If the two of us can’t teach some down-and-out how to steal a stagecoach, we should hang up our hats.”

You make a face at that but don’t comment on it. After all, you are some random person that came across them as a stroke of luck. If you were a bit less lucid in that cabin, Arthur could’ve shot you – so you guess that counts as another stroke of luck. It’s only a matter of time before that luck runs out.

“Thank you for that,” you blurt. “For – for trusting me with this job, I guess.”

“You need to start somewhere,” Hosea says. “Besides, we’re doing better. We won’t be in any major trouble if you make any mistakes.”

“Y’know, I figured more folks would’ve cut and run on us,” Arthur says. He looks to his left, like he’s thinking of looking over his shoulder at you, but he doesn’t. “Given all the trouble we’ve already gotten ourselves into, and the mistakes we already made.”

“Like Dutch says, a lone wolf don’t last long out on the plains,” Hosea says.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “He does like to trot that one out.”

“People see that, especially when they get a few years on ‘em.” Hosea pauses, then admits: “Even someone like Micah.”

“There’s a couple of folks I wish had cut n’ run,” Arthur says. 

Hosea pauses, then says, “I bet there’s some folks that feel the same about you.”

Even though you’re expecting it – Arthur’s eyes on you, staring you down and reminding you of what a burden you are – it never comes. He keeps his eyes straight ahead on the beaten dirt road. He doesn’t look to his left, he doesn’t look to his right. He doesn’t pay you any mind at all.

That’s good, isn’t it? You ask yourself. I’ve made myself useful. Useful enough…

The rest of the ride to Carmody Dell is mostly quiet, occasionally punctuated by people riding in the opposite direction or a bird flying overhead. Once the homestead came into view, Hosea had instructed you and Arthur to wait while he distracted the boy chopping wood at the front of the house.

Your back is flat against the trunk of a dead tree a little ways away from the house, and you can barely see the brim of Arthur’s hat peeking out from behind a rock. You’re both watching Hosea, waiting for his move.

“My good man! My good young man,” Hosea practically bellows as he approaches the teenager, throwing his arms in the air in greeting. “Fare thee well, fare thee well. Is your father home, son?”

The boy brings the axe down with (what you assume to be) way less power than he intended. He almost looks conscious and embarrassed at the poor display, but neglects to even acknowledge it. “Sure is.”

“Get him down here,” Hosea says. “Please, get him down here.”

You look over at Arthur’s rock. He’s halfway out of cover now. He points at the back of the house, and you point at Hosea.

The boy puffs out his chest a little and puts his hands on his hips. “Get lost, mister.”

“I was lost! For many years, I was lost.” Hosea nods sagely. “Many years. Now… I’m not.”

A man opens the front door and steps out onto the porch. You look over at Arthur and he nods. 

With quick, light steps, you follow Arthur to the back of the house. He puts a hand on the doorknob and braces the other against the door. 

“You know what to look for?” He asks, his voice hushed and almost rumbling.

You think for a moment, then answer, your voice just as quiet. “Cash, jewelry boxes… I – I’ve done this before, y’know?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “I did not.”

Before you can ask him what that facial expression meant, he turns the doorknob and slowly opens the door. It opens to a small bedroom and suddenly, robbing a house feels a lot more real.

“I’ll clear the rest of this storey n’ check upstairs,” Arthur says. “You start with this room.”

And like that, you’re left alone. He didn’t even give you enough time to explain that yeah, while you’ve robbed a house before, it wasn’t like… this. You rifled through drawers at some house party with lots of people, lots of music, and – most importantly – lots of drugs. Most people were too out of it to understand why you were doing that, and the people that weren’t were blissed out on ecstasy and didn’t care anyway.

You inhale sharply to try to shock your system into being not as nervous. It only kind of works. You start to open drawers of the dresser and focus on what you can hear from Hosea’s conversation to try and ground yourself.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you can hear Hosea’s muffled voice say. “I was just chatting with Junior here a bit.”

“You sellin’ something, partner?” A man’s voice says. Probably Crawford.

“Free!” (You can almost hear the way Hosea threw his arms up, flourishing his faux excitement.) “A free spinal alignment.”

You bite back a smile and move to the chest at the end of the bed. You need to ask Hosea where the hell he learned about chiropractors, of all modern things. You shift aside the folded clothes and find a small clip of money at the bottom. It’s not much – maybe ten ones – but it’s still something. You take it and move on.

Keeping in mind what Arthur did earlier, you brace a hand on the door and slowly open it into a small living room. There’s a fireplace with a mantle, a rug laid out across the wooden floor, and a table pressed up against the wall with three chairs.

“The Lord God Almighty, or who-whoever built us, put our brains in our heads,” Hosea says, “but our souls in our backs. You, sir, y-your back looks kind of tricky, and complicated.”

You move to the fireplace, making sure to tread with light footsteps. His voice is closer now, and a door you can see in a corridor nearby looks like it leads to the front porch. 

Two mostly burned candles and a small picture in a frame sit on the mantle, and a larger portrait hangs above it. The candles and the painting are useless, but…

You take the small picture and flip it over, then dig your thumbnail between the backing board and the frame. It pops open, revealing four fifty dollar bills behind the picture. You take them, then put everything back in place and move on.

“I can fix those spinal troubles for you,” Hosea says. “Just ten or fifteen sessions.”

“Whiskey suits me fine, sir,” Crawford says.

As you move into the corridor, you realize it’s a small entryway and kitchen. A brick oven sits across from cabinets with a sink and fruit on the countertops. Stairs lead up to the second floor, where Arthur is surely pilfering.

“Whiskey? Whiskey is – is causing the problems!” Hosea exclaims. “You ever meet a Scot who didn’t hobble in old age? But the English stand tall, sir – gin! They drink gin. And what is gin made with? Junipers. And what does juniper do? Creates movement in the spine, whereas your whiskey – made with grain as it is – leaves the spine brittle! Hence, your hobbling Jock.”

You turn towards the stairs when you hear footsteps, and Arthur is quickly moving down them, a hand on the banister. He snatches a mostly-full bottle of whiskey from a shelf near the oven.

He pats your shoulder as he passes. “We gotta go.”

You put up no fight at all and follow him. He leads you back through the living room and back bedroom.

He takes the steps down the back of the house slowly, looking towards the front. You follow, minding your footfalls. He checks over his shoulder, back at you, then points over at a barn on the other side of a clearing.

“Hosea’s got ‘em distracted,” he says, his voice hushed. “Now, you wait for my signal and we’ll go.”

You peek around the corner. The boy is a ways away, leaning on the fence and looking out on the pasture. Hosea… has the man of the house face-down on a picnic table, rubbing and poking at his back.

“See, now this, here…” Hosea looks over and spots you and Arthur. He nods over at the barn, then presses the knuckles of his thumbs into Crawford’s back. “This…! Is a technique from the Far East. You should be feeling some – some movement along your spine.”

“Kinda, yeah,” Crawford mumbles into the table.

Arthur sticks low to the ground, so you copy him. He snaps his fingers and starts walking, and you follow. He leads you around the back, past the water tower, and into the barn; all the while, Hosea still has that man (metaphorically) showing his belly.

Arthur pulls the barn door open just wide enough to usher you inside, then he follows and shuts the door. There aren’t any windows, and despite the one desperate oil lamp, it’s still reasonably dark.

Two horses are strapped to a fancy-looking wagon. It’s coated in a fire engine red paint-job and the brand on the side reads DAVIS OVERLAND DESPATCH CO.

“Overland Despatch,” you say, pointing up to the yellow lettering. “Isn’t it spelled with an ‘I’? D-I-S…patch.”

Arthur pats one of the horses on the neck. “How am I supposed to know?”

I’m just trying to talk to you! You say in your head in a song-song voice. Who could ever imagine… Me, of all people, trying so hard to be nice for some jerk!

“I… you… read,” you mumble. “I thought… you liked reading?”

“Well, now you can go and have a nice conversation with Lenny.” Arthur tugs on the horses’ straps and reins, making sure they’re connected properly. “The kid loves readin’.”

“I know,” you say. “I-I’ve talked to him before – about books.”

One of the barn doors swings open, Hosea sneaks in, then promptly closes the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and brushes the lapels of his coat clean of nonexistent dust and dirt.

“My friends, the time comes where we must make our exit.” Hosea points at you. “You – get in the wagon. Arthur – come drive with me.”

You open the carriage door and hop inside, while Arthur and Hosea climb up into the driver’s seats. There’s the sound of a horse being whipped, then the stagecoach jolts forward and starts moving.

The barn doors crash open accompanied by the sound of hooves pounding dirt. You brace a hand against the side as the carriage rocks. Through the window, you can see Carmody Dell getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Belmont, Bronya and Silver Dollar trot behind, easily keeping pace with Arthur.

This is nice. The job was clean – you did well. At least, you think you did well… didn’t you? $200 wasn’t something to stick your nose up at in 1899 (or even in 2024, really).

“So, what were you able to lift from the house?” Hosea asks once Carmody Dell has disappeared over the horizon.

“Found some money stashed away upstairs,” Arthur says. “Must be a few hundred – not too bad.”

“Not bad at all,” Hosea agrees.

I’ll tell them about my find later, you decide. Talking would be awkward, given that they’re outside of the carriage while I’m inside… or maybe I’m being weird.

You settle down and actually take the time to look around. The inside of the stagecoach is plush – or what flew for ‘plush’ back in the now. There’s a seat that kind of looks like the seats at the back of the bus on one side, and another on the opposite side.

You sit and push down on the upholstered leather. It’s firm, but soft. You shift how you’re sitting, and the firm cushions give way to some amount of comfort.

It’s not quite as comfortable as the mattress you have at home, but it’s loads better than the nonexistent mattress you have at camp. You lean your head against one of the wooden beams that lines the window.

The plains outside are marked sparsely, only by bunches of shrubs, trees, and the occasional homestead. It kind of reminds you of long car rides when you were a kid, without a phone or music to distract you from the exceptionally boring ride.

The way Arthur drives causes the stagecoach to rock back and forth slowly. The horses almost seem to pound their hooves to a steady, rhythmic beat. Your eyes are heavy, and you feel tired.

Robbing a house really takes it out of someone that’s not fit to rob houses, you guess.

Your shoulders sag, heavy, with the weight of a child. A blond boy named Sasha, no older than seven. You know this as a matter of fact, of course.

There’s something resembling a kalash in your hands, and a revolver serves as your sidearm. Sasha had really only come with you after noticing the guns you have with you – and his uncle’s guts splattered on the metal floor. He hadn’t screamed or yelled or done anything a normal child would’ve done. He just sat there, saying, “He’s dead? Uncle’s dead? But how will I get home? He was supposed to take me home.”

The children of the Metro are a perplexing thing. They were born underground, are being raised underground. Sasha alone has been through hell, and from what he told you about the monsters and the nosalis that attacked his uncle, he only stayed alive by sheer luck. Yet he’s still chugging along, gripping the top of your head for balance, not a worry in the world aside from when you’ll shoot your gun next and how loud and exciting it’ll be.

The tunnels you and Sasha snake through are claustrophobic, just barely bent into a shape meant for long-term human inhabitants. The V.I. Lenin Metro was never meant to have so many bodies crammed into it, but humans have a tendency to do anything they can to survive. Both parties just cursed their rotten luck and made do.

The ceiling, once so low you had to take Sasha off your shoulders to crouch down with you, now opens up into a silo-like room that breaks the surface. Sparse planks of wood are nailed into a makeshift roof, but slits of light still break through. The sky you can see is a bleak bluish-white, and you can hear the faint sound of a blizzard a few kilometers away.

“What’s that up there?” Sasha asks, pointing to the partial ceiling. Before you can respond, he continues: “Wait! Uncle showed me a picture once… The sk-sky. That’s the sky, isn’t it? It’s like… a painted ceiling!”

“Mhm.” You nod as you survey the room. There’s a tunnel up a good eight or ten meters in the side that leads into Hole Station. Light from lanterns leaks from the station’s entrance into the greater area. A scout fire at your feet illuminates a ladder that leads up to platforms that give way to a precariously-balanced extension ladder that rests on the lip of the floor of the station entrance.

“I’ll be famous,” Sasha parades from atop your shoulders. “I saw the sky!”

Not so sure about that, kid, you want to say. I see the sky all the time and I’m a perfect nobody.

You hold an arm up above your head and Sasha latches on. You lift him halfway up the ladder, then let go of him to stabilize the outer rails as he climbs. Once he’s up and out of the way, you follow after him.

You lean and put one of your feet on the platform Sasha is on to test the stability with your added weight. The sheet of metal doesn’t move. With careful steps, you get onto the platform, ushering Sasha along in front of you until he stops in front of the foot of the extension ladder. 

“Hey!” You try to call up into the station’s entrance. Your voice is too weak, and the wisps of wind coming down from the surface isn’t enough to carry it. You bend down and bang your palm against the sheet metal below your feet.

Two men peek out, each dressed similarly to you – guns, kevlar, light and malleable metal bound to their shins and thighs by rope. A woman pushes one of them aside and immediately cries out a hoarse, “Sasha! That’s my boy; they have my Sasha!”

You snap an arm around Sasha’s middle to prevent him from running to his mother. He thrashes against you, but stops when his mom tells him to. 

“I’ll hold this side of the ladder,” one man shouts over the gap. He gets on his knees and holds the ladder’s outer rings. “You get the other.”

You point at Sasha with a stern finger. “Wa… wait.”

You shift and hold the outer rings, then lift Sasha onto the ladder, careful of the flat-ish angle. He climbs on his hands and knees, completely focused on the ladder and oblivious to his mother’s fretting. She watches him with wide eyes, back and forth between Sasha and the ladder, her bottom lip pinched between her thumb and forefinger in worry. He just bumbles along, laughing delightedly when his mother scoops him up as he crosses into Hole Station.

You carefully follow Sasha’s footsteps, although you have to accommodate an extra ninety kilograms – both from you being an adult and all the gear you have on your person. Your ascent is not nearly as eventful as his.

A man claps you on the shoulder as you enter the station. He watches with you as Sasha’s mother fusses over him, pulling his clothes aside to check for any injuries, speaking to him in a soft but quick Ruslish.

“Thank you.” The man removes his hand from your shoulder. He starts walking, and you follow him.

The entrance is small and defensible. Hooks hammered into stone walls hold lit oil lanterns, their small flames contained by glass. Your headlamp would be a better source of light, but you don’t say anything. It’s called Hole Station, and probably for a reason. (You don’t really know if it was named that before 2013, but it’s not that important now.)

“If you had any idea how much that boy means…” The man shakes his head. “His father is really important to all of us, and if his son died, well… It would’ve killed him.”

You look over and see Sasha’s mother kneeling, her son in front of her. Tears carry the kohl that lines her eyes into black rivers that cut down her pale face.

“Where’s Mikhail?” She asks. “How’d you get up here?”

“Uncle is dead, Mom,” Sasha says. It’s clear that while he knows what the words mean and what order to put them in, he doesn’t fully know what it means when a person dies. “But this person took me on their shoulders – I helped them shoot the monsters!”

Sasha’s mother catches you out of the corner of her eye and stands, cradling Sasha’s face to her belly. “O, слава богу. Thank you for saving my son! I – I can never repay you, but…”

She pulls a cartridge – 45 military-grade bullets, you presume – out of her pocket and holds it out to you. “Take these cartridges. At least it’s something.”

Something in the back of your mind snaps. It tells you to take them. You scraped your way into adulthood, and you need everything you can to stay out of a shallow grave. This woman has a husband and a father for her child. And it’s not like you’re robbing her, either – she’s willingly giving up something with purchasing power, which is rare in the Metro. She fully knows what she’s doing.

You reach out and wrap her fingers around the cartridge, pushing them back towards her and shaking your head. She waits for a moment, then nods and tucks it away in her pocket.

As the two men lead you further along into Hole Station, you can’t help but glance back over your shoulder. Sasha’s mother is back to fussing over him, holding his baby-fat face and talking to him softly.

Your teeth grit together and you’re suddenly seething with jealousy. What are you jealous of? Sasha? He’s a child. You don’t want to be a child. Sasha’s mother? She nearly worried herself to death when her kid went away from home. You don’t want to worry like that. Maybe you’d like to have someone worry over you like that, but, no… this is a distinctly different feeling.

So why are you jealous? Are you angry? What do they have that you don’t? What the hell of theirs could you even want?

A child, that something in the back of your mind says. Where’s your baby? Your beautiful baby girl… Have you put her down to bed? Where’s she gone?

[theangryhistoriananna]

Whenever people claim Lucien never cared about Feyre past her connection to Tamlin and then Elain I always wonder if we've read the same books.

Like I can think of a TON of moments that showcase, starting in ACOTAR that Lucien did care for Feyre and considered her a friend but these five especially stick out for me:

But Beron had been part of that alliance, if I correctly recalled my lessons with Rhys all those months ago. "And yet here you are, ready to march with Hybern." "I did it for you, too, you know." Cold, hard words. "I went with him to get you back." "I never realized with a powerful motivator guilt can be." [.....] I said quietly, "Thank you. For coming to Hybern to get me." He pulled at the moss beside him, jaw tight. "It was a trap. What I thought we were to do there....it did not turn out that way." -ACOWAR 30

Lucien unbuttoned his jacket but remained mostly dressed as he slid onto his sleeping roll. "I think it's worse because you two haven't....I mean, you haven't, right?" I stiffened, tugging the blanket higher onto my shoulders. "No. I don't want to be touched like that-not for a while." His silence was heavy-sad. I hated the lie, hated it for how filthy it felt to wield it. "I'm sorry" he said. And I wondered what else he was apologizing for as I faced him in the darkness of our tent. -ACOWAR 56

....It's old magic-old and strange. It's why we avoid bargains unless it's necessary: even the scholars at the Day Court don't know how it works. Believe me, I've asked." "For me-you asked them for me." "Yes. I went last winter to inquire about breaking your bargain with Rhys." "Why didn't you tell me?" "I-we didn't want to give you false hope. And we didn't dare let Rhysand get wind of what we were doing, in case he found a way to interfere. To stop it." -ACOWAR 56

Tamlin had begged my forgiveness at dinner yesterday-and I'd given it to him. But Lucien hadn't spoken to him all evening. -ACOWAR 71

I was running out of borrowed time. I could winnow, but then I'd abandon Lucien to them if he somehow couldn't manage to himself with the faebane in his system from the food at the camp- Leave him. I should and could leave him. But to a fate perhaps worse than death- His russet eye gleamed. "Go" I made my choice. -ACOWAR 91

I often seen the last one used as evidence that Feyre was a good friend to Lucien who didn't deserve it and it always flabbergasts me that people think that from that passage of all passages. That entire scene is mostly just Feyre mentally complaining because stepping in and helping Lucien (who is being SA'd when she finds him and then later is having his life and/or sanity threatened) is causing her to waste time she needs to flee. She keeps telling herself that now that Alis is gone she doesn't need to feel guilty for what happens to Spring Court-including Lucien. She only steps in to protect Lucien from Ianthe because it's Ianthe and her hatred of her is stronger than her empathy for what Lucien went through. She only steps in and decides to stay and fight the twins AFTER Lucien urges her to leave him and save herself.

Lucien again and again and again steps in and protects Feyre, gives her advice, comforts her, argues with Tamlin for her, puts himself in danger for her, gives her presents (despite not getting any in return) and proves himself to be what Rhys told Feyre later in ACOWAR: loyal to a fault.

Not just to Elain, not just to Tamlin, not just the Band of Exiles. But to her as well. To Feyre almost most of all.

and in return Feyre takes his genuine concern for her and protectiveness over her and wields it as a weapon to tear his home down and goad Tamlin into violence with little care. She takes her friend and at best considers him a tool to be used for her and Night Court's benefit and expects him to show her nothing but gratitude.

I do think Feyre loves Lucien and wants him to stay in her life, but honey Lucien was always the better friend.

[satansluckycigarette]

4. The cave of hands in France: it's not the most complex art our genus has made but it's so old- our species didn't even make it. It would show them that we can understand that we cie species other than our own as worthy of recognition, that we value art and communication, and that we are a species which they can communicate with through images if nothing else. There's a fundamentally flawed belief that aliens would communicate with us through binary or mathematical equations, and while it's true that mathematics are universal (2+2=4, everywhere in time and space): it's not true that aliens would necessarily just intuit what Arabic numerals mean. Images, though, any species that has evolved eyes and an intelligent brain can understand an image.

7. Valid, but it's only useful if you do something with those thoughts. Pasting about the world you want or #resist will never be as useful as actually resisting or trying to make a better world

13. It depends on if a democratic state is already established in that country and if that country is not a colonial power. If the country is democratic and not a colonizer, then Nationalism will always be an enemy to democracy in that country- as it's necessarily going to vie for favoritism for a particular group and suppress minorities. If the country is not democratic or the country is a colonial state, then it absolutely must be judged on a case by case basis. Take the United States: white nationalism is obviously vile, racist, and undemocratic- it exists to strip rights from minorities and for no other reason; but AIM, Black Power, Irish-Republic-aligned marxism, Puerto Rican nationalism, and other groups are also nationalist strands here and they are largely positive (though there are definitely highly questionable groups within each of these movements)- pushing for civil rights reform and autonomy. So tl:dr- usually they're enemies, but- in very specific instances- they can be allies

holy shit, an ask game thats actually good

[loganwritesprobably]

The Horrors (A.H.)

Synopsis: Reader is a member of the BAU and suddenly becomes struck by the horror of their job, and Hotch comes to save the day Tags: Hotch/GN!reader, mute!reader, reader uses sign (indicated by speech inside square brackets), pre-relationship, fluff, flirting Word count: 731

AO3 | Fanfic Masterlist | Request Rules | Fic Trades Guide

There was nothing worse than cases like this. Child victims. Something about seeing the lifeless bodies of children just amplified how horrific the violence felt, especially when it was so gruesome. Organs removed, bodies borderline unrecognisable when they got to the morgue. Generally speaking, you loved your job, loved knowing that you were making the world a better place by taking bad guys out of it - though, sometimes you doubted even that because realistically putting them into a prison doesn’t actually solve any societal issues that create killers but that was above your pay grade. On days like today though, you just wanted to curl up in bed and pretend the world didn’t exist, because how were you meant to keep going and keep focusing when people like this can exist?

Hotch’s hand pressing against the small of your back startled you slightly, but you were thankful to be brought from your thoughts. “Are you alright? You’re shivering.” Hotch asked, removing his hand and stepping forward slightly to have a clearer view of you. You lifted your hands to sign your response, but struggled. It was colder than any of you had been prepared for, and you’d been so caught up in your own thoughts that you’d not realised you were cold enough to make your hands stiff - too stiff to sign clearly enough for Hotch, who struggled to remember sign on a normal day. “Okay. Let’s get you inside then. JJ can you make a hot drink please?” He called out, his hand returning to your back to guide you into the building you’d been called to. The body had been inside, but the site you suspected was the kill spot was behind the building.

Hotch guided you to sit on a small bench in a window, letting the sun hit you without having to feel the biting cold of the winter air. When he noted you were still shivering, he silently removed his jacket and placed it around your shoulders, shielding you further. JJ passed over a hot drink to you, and you could only smile appreciatively. You didn’t drink it at first, instead letting it warm your hands so it would be easier to sign, and therefore communicate. Hotch didn’t leave, but he didn’t sit down either, instead he leaned against the window frame in front of you, looking mostly out the window, but you knew from experience he was keeping an eye on you in case he needed to catch a few signs. “[Thanks, boss.]” You signed with a warm smile, then finally lifted the cup to your lips to sip at it, the warm liquid starting to gently melt the ice that had slowly started growing inside your heart while you’d been so caught up in your doom spiral outside. “Of course. Will you be alright here while Rossi and I finish checking the rest of the building, and JJ interviews the guy who found the body?” He asked, and you nodded, then gestured for him to go on his way. He did, but he was clearly reluctant.

The rest of the day passed without issue, but Hotch’s jacket remained in its place around your shoulders, as if it was your armour protecting you from spiralling again. You’d not intended to keep it all day, you’d just grown used to it being there and he never asked for it back. Not until you all got back to the hotel that night, having decided that nothing more could be done for now, and you should all get some sleep to make sure you were at full capacity tomorrow. You tapped Hotch’s shoulder before he could round the corner in the hall to head to his room. “[You might want this.]” You signed, then pulled his jacket from your shoulders to hold out to him. “Oh. Thank you, I’d forgotten,” Hotch said, then for what felt like a year, he hesitated and lingered there in the hall, “it looked better on you anyway.” He finally said, leaving you entirely speechless.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Hotch finally said softly, his smile small but smug. “[Asshole.]” You signed, and he just laughed. “Is that what you always say to men who compliment you?” He retorted. “[Only pretty ones.]” And having successfully gotten the last word, you waved and slipped into your room, hands resting over your thundering heart.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @hyperfixationthingss @queenmimi2817

If you'd like to tip me you can head over to my Kofi

[bluescreenvirus]

chaos' apology for + addressment of everything.

i am posting this for him as he is not logged in anymore and does not wish to, but this is directly copy and pasted from him. i will be posting other VERY important statements and information to help clear a few things up, especially regarding the misinfo involving sugarydeceit. i've already cleared some of that up privately, but i want it to be public info so ppl can feel secure. it may take longer than others to post due to being busy, but please keep an eye out if you could:

...

"first and foremost: i am sorry. i'm going to get into specifics but i want to preface with a blanket "i'm sorry" first.

to start, i'm sorry to ridley and friends and the ventblogs for not handling things better. i've been doing... bad, to put it lightly, ever since the document dropped. i've been unpacking nearly 8 years of constant abuse every day, and i've started taking it out on others. i have noticeably gotten worse than i used to be. which is an unfortunate part of healing. and i regret forcing the resulting harshness of my pain onto others, especially some minors. it wasn't your guys' fault for the things that happened to me, you shouldn't have been subjected to my ire. it was wrong. so again i am sincerely sorry for that.

and no, forgiveness is not my goal, i don't want anyone to demand i be forgiven or for anyone to feel obligated to forgive me. i don't have any problem getting mad at people who think it's okay to harass other people in my honor- it's not okay. it's never okay. and i'm really sorry that people did that. i'm not sure exactly what was sent to people originally, it's really hard for me to see/find things with how many people have me blocked, so i'm sorry if that apology feels too vague. but i am specifically sorry that people tried to blame ridley for me wanting to kms. it... was because of that situation, yes, but i don't want to put that on a kid, and no one else should either. especially if you're not me. why are you accusing anyone if you're not me. it's not your place. stop it.

i'm also sorry for the situation that sparked all of this. i really did believe that the ventblogs had a major problem with acting impulsively and making situations worse than they needed to be, however, i did not express that opinion in a nice way. and in the process i made people feel like i didn't care about the hate/harassment they had recieved. so i'm sincerely sorry for that, too.

i'm also sorry for bringing up kitty genovese. it was NEVER my intention to trivialize a rape+murder, i had hoped that would be obvious, but i saw that it wasn't and became angrier instead of calmly explaining what i meant. i only referenced kitty genovese in regards to the bystander effect- i know many in this fandom are young, so it's possible people googled her and saw a rape+murder case and took what i said very wrong. which i understand. if you don't know, kitty genovese is the main example used in every study of something called "the bystander effect", that's why i brought up the case. i felt the bystander effect applied to what i was experiencing. but it would've been better to just say the bystander effect, rather than assume everyone knew who kitty genovese was and the studies that stemmed from her case. i'm sorry again for all of that.

now i just. want to try and explain some things, if i may? i know people don't particularly want to listen to me anymore, so if you want to just stop reading at the apology, feel free. that's why i've separated the two. if you do choose to stop reading what i have to say here, i wish you well.

it was never ever my intention to make ridley feel attacked/endangered by me. i was just really, really scared, when i saw that ridley was sharing sugarydeceits/sweetfuls/lopsys lies about me, and people were believing them.

sugarydeceit has been harassing my partner and i for months- over half a year, actually, and has a history of doxxing people and sharing their names publicly. it even took one of the people to court, lio convoy, who i don't like as a person obviously, but sugarydeceit did take him to court. you can even find the recording of it on youtube. sugarydeceit has threatened to do the same thing with me many times. i've been careful to hide my personal information but even then it's not a guarantee of my safety. so i freaked out, and tunnel-visioned, because i need to keep myself and my partner safe from sugarydeceit. and any support it gets emboldens it to send us threats of death, harm, and other horrible things. i already woke up to some anons from it today because of all of this. [pictured below] having support has made it brave again when i had just finally gotten it to back off again a few days ago because it was stupid enough to insult sugar's grief about his dying great grandfather.—

[anon hate as a result of the mention of sugary deceit pictured above, one even targeting chaos abuse from KC by saying "go cuddle your little sis." not blaming anyone of course, this is only the fault of those who sent these anons.]

—that's why i wanted the posts taken down, on top of the fact that the information was untrue/exaggerated, which i'm sure sugar addressed in this post already. the posts put me and sugar in danger, the posts got us harassed- like i knew they would. i felt powerless and miserable and i didn't know what to do anymore. i really was making plans on how to kill myself because i thought it was over for me. i wasn't going to survive if the whole fandom began supporting my stalker, so i was in... survival mode, i guess. in that moment i wished i was back in the zcp. and i still kind of feel like that. it was abuse, but at least i didn't know that it was. it was a comfortable kind of misery. maybe that's just some weird kind of stockholm syndrome, i don't know.

i never want to come back to this fandom. it's absolutely mortifying to have my 'friends' all outcast and hate me for nearly 8 years, only to find a place i thought was safe, and then have the same exact thing happen. i haven't felt safe here ever since i was harassed for saying i didn't have enough information to pick sides in the maxim vs ridley situation, and then maxim himself was horrible to me in a way i can't address publicly right now, and then all of this. just being here scares me. all of anticare scares me. that's why i told people to not interact or use my ocs anymore. i was scared and just wanted to be left alone. it wasn't a personal attack against anyone, or me trying to invalidate previous support, i just had too many bad experiences that traumatized me and triggered me. i'm never even going to be able to release my own statement about my abuse because i'm terrified of the fandom picking it apart to try and invalidate me, or using the personal nature of the content to send me crueler targetted harassment, or just not caring.

i do have some involvement in the doc. i provided them with a fair amount of information considering my past proximity to kc, and i was able to confirm/deny things they were unsure about. i was going to have a section about my abuse, but i pulled out of adding it. so please don't discredit the entire doc just because you hate me. there are real predators, and real extremely damning pieces of evidence, addressed within it. and some other victims still made the choice to include their stories. so if you care about the other victims you'll spread it and support it. please.

the only further 'involvement' i'm probably ever going to have is boosting the doc when it comes out and answering any questions about it though i doubt i'll get any and i don't think i want to put them in the tag if i do answer any. if anything questions should be directed toward the doc blog and if they need an answer from me they'll ask me and parrot what i say.

the support was nice while it lasted and i appreciate it. but i can't be here anymore. and i would appreciate it if people just stopped talking about me so i don't have to be terrified of being put in danger when i can't defend myself. but i can't demand anything. i just hope someone will listen.

and i have changed my mind to agree with aobasgirlfriend, another victim, who iirc felt as though this comic shouldn't have a fandom anymore. i understand that point of view now. i don't think it should have a fandom anymore either. too many people were hurt using it, me included. i think everyone left should move on and let it die. there's nothing good that will come from staying. nothing at all.

if there's anything i've forgotten to address or apologize for, you can send it to bluescreenvirus because i'm logging out for an undetermined amount of time.

goodbye." — chaosblasts