#not sure how relevant those tags are on here

[blorbocedes]

let me take you guys on a journey. one that will help you understand how annoyingly obsessive and hung up my brain can get......

so here is where our wild goose chase starts. I was going through a 2012 f1 blog's nico tag. it's actually pretty rare for early 2010s blogs to have comprehensive tagging systems so whenever I find one I try to go thru it all. and I come across this v cute nico image (cropped for posterity. payoff will be worth it promise)

here we have a picture, from 2012, and in classic 2012 fashion there is meme text on it. OP of the original pic deactivated. so I want to find the version without the meme text. pretty easy, just reverse google search right?

WRONG!

google reverse search is functionally dead and defunct and absolutely dogshit.

ok back to square one. I'm trying to sus out from whatever information I have.

the other meme watermark of f1humour.tumblr.com? deactivated.

okay 37 notes. maybe I can do something with this.

tumblr kind of breaks (?) with very old posts. so even if someone tagged it, I can't see it. ok but 14 people liked it!

of the 14 accounts only 7 actually show, including mine. so what I do is I go through 6 of those blogs, and their public archives because those accounts are all inactive for several YEARS now. and I check their blogs for April 2012.

no luck.

back to the drawing board.

the meme has a MOTORSPORT.COM watermark.

here's all the information I have: this was posted on April 24th, 2012, which means that's my upper limit on the date this could be taken. Nico got in Mercedes in 2010. So from anywhere between 2010-2012 motorsport images couldve taken this pic.

so, because I was born with excessive intelligence, I think hmmm... let me search the archives of Motorsport Images dot com. surely that is where Motorsport dot com would keep their Images.

two years of a racing driver's pictures means thousands of pictures. okay. let's start from April 2012. unfortch for keen eyed listening, April 2012 was also the Chinese Grand Prix aka Nico's first f1 win.

why is that relevant? because it means every photographer and their MOTHER took a picture of nico for his first win. over 900+ images.

while I am exhibiting extremely unemployed levels of behavior here, I don't actually have the time and brain capacity to sift through 900 images.

I go back to the original tumblr post. this time I go to the empty reblogs. there's lots!

but because there's no tags it can't help me. still I go through every one of them because you can see the blog I found the pic from @the-fastest-waffle is listed in the other reblogs even though they clearly had tags!

and I find my silver lining. from @fuckyeahf1drivers's tags

just this simple. #bahrain #lol

if this picture is from bahrain 2012 it changes everything, as in it narrows my search a shit tonne.

375 images. This means 1-15 pages and I know the exact picture I'm looking for. I feel like I'm SO close. I can't give up now. gambler mentality 💎

so I guess what. I go through all 15 goddamn pages. and I DONT FIND IT!!!!!!!!! SCREEEEEECH

now I've lost hope. if it's not from bahrain 2012 then it can be from anywhere from 2010-2012 taken by motorsport.com which is just too big a search. there isn't anything I can narrow it down with. my search is futile.

but I have one tiny little thought bugging my mind. how come motorsport images don't have the motorsport.com watermark... so I consult a fellow archivist @vegasgrandprix on the matter.

WE AS A SOCIETY NEED TO ADDRESS WHY MOTORSPORT.COM AND MOTORSPORT IMAGES.COM HAVE THE SAME FONT

finally. finally

I go on motorsport.com

which is actually kind of not super user friendly interface finding their pics if you have excessive intelligence like I do. I go into this knowing if the bahrain 2012 long shot is actually NOT when that picture is from, I'm fucked.

I filter and say a prayer.

and lo and behold.

salvation.

one person's singular tag of 'bahrain 2012 lol' led me down this spiral, where if it wasn't for that bit of information this would be lost forever because finding the version of the pic without the meme text is otherwise near impossible. google reverse search is no help, and f1 drivers simply get photographed way too much. reblogs + tags with context literally are a holy grail. this is what I imagine archaeologists feel like. so if you ever want someone 12 years after you've posted something to go down finding out, tag your posts accordingly (assuming tumblr survives the next decade)

so why did I do it? why did I spend hours of my life on this? cause it's fun. it's like a mystery and it itches at my skin. many times I'm not successful which is why the times I am feels so rewarding because it feels almost like detective work, finding and refinding something, overturning evidence. and I have a brain that just functions Like This.

and now for the fruit of my labour, if you guys still want to see. the picture I spent hours to find the original version of. sitting proudly at the time of posting at 9 notes 😌😌 here's what goes behind actually finding and archiving 2010s retired f1 drivers online. click below!

👇👇👇

👆👆👆

[lumiilys]

It’s been 4 months… congrats to this scene for making me cry I guess?

[todayisafridaynight]

What do you think Jo is ugly and it pissed off people?

no my friend nono you got it all wrong. no its the opposite.

[shotmrmiller]

Multiverse part 3

You sat in a small room on a padded chair, with equipment set up around your arm, chest, and fingertips. A polygraph test. That's what you were being forced to take. And to your chagrin, Ghost is in the room with you and Captain Price.

"Try to relax, yeah?" Price commented. He must've noticed your restless leg.

"I'll do that, shall I? I've done nothing wrong, other than exist and I'm being interrogated. Because that's what this is— an interrogation." You finally turn your attention from Ghost to look at Price, who's sitting at the desk by your side. "Tell me, Captain. Did you get this same treatment when you came back after spending all that time locked up in the gulag?"

His dark eyebrows furrow in confusion. A sigh escapes your bitten lips. That's only in your...world, for lack of a better term. Dimension? Universe?

"I haven't been to the gulag here." Yeah, obviously.

With an impatient wave of the hand that doesn't have cables strapped to it, you mutter, "Let's get on with this circus act, then. Ask your questions."

Ghost steps forward, his arms unfolding as if he's about to speak to you, but Price swiftly intervenes, halting him with a raised hand.

"Alright then. Baseline questions first. Name." Ghost gives away nothing when you say your last name is Riley.

It goes like this for a few, then he switches to the control questions, until finally moving on to the relevant ones.

"How did you get here?" I don't know.

"Do you know why you're here?" No.

He pulls up a photograph. "Recognize him?" Captain MacTavish.

Another photo. "Him?" I don't know.

"What do you mean by that?" If that's Roach, I've never seen his face unmasked.

"You're sure you don't know him?" Unless that man's name is Gary Sanderson, no. I do not know him.

Price acknowledges your response with a nod, then shifts his gaze towards Ghost, whose head slightly tilts forward. Returning his attention to you, he retrieves a final photograph. "What about him?"

As you look at the picture, your eyes begin to well with tears, lip trembling violently. A new fracture reverberated through your tender heart, intensifying the ache in your chest. Yes.

"Who is he?" Price softly asks.

"That's my Simon," your voice broke on the last syllable. It was hard to not use a possessive adjective when the face of your husband was in that picture.

Blinking the tears away, you clear your throat. "Anything else, Captain?"

Price purses his lips under his hefty facial hair and responds, "Just a few more questions."

Once finished, you sat unabashedly staring at Ghost in the tiny room. "I wear Roach's tags alongside yours, in honor. He was with you until the very end, and for that, I couldn't be more grateful."

Ghost is completely silent, but you continue talking anyway. "I've been married to you since a bit after you came home on leave that one time. You know the one."

His eyes are emotionless, blank, as he stares at you. But you know him like the back of your hand. You've got his full attention.

"I accompanied you to your brother's wedding. He married a woman, Beth. She was good for him. They had a baby, your nephew, named Joseph. The love you had for him was one of a kind. I had told you later that evening that I dreamed of the day you'd look at our children like that."

With a shuddery breath, you tell him how none of those matters. Because your husband is dead, and you're stuck here. With his counterpart that hates you.

With a hushed click, the door closes shut behind him as he leaves, yet its resounding noise fills the compact room you're in.

You begin to fidget with the sizeable ring that hangs on a thin necklace beneath your shirt— the metal is warm under your touch as if it had never gone cold in the first place.

As if Simon had never taken it off his finger to go find Makarov.

ah theyre short but hurt. much pain.

taglist: @1mawh0re @sae1kie @darkravenqueen98 @chinuneko @thestartitaness @bowtruckleninja @hawsx3 @uyudunmuyavru @prettyoatmeal @arael-asuka @spencerreidisbae123 @beau-min @lovefks @maliakealoha @kit-williams @clear-your-mind-and-dream @theloneshadow24 @wolfieisacat @littlebunie @bloobewy @kkaaaagt @sadsackssss @hypernovaxx @halobaby @lildemon475 @animarix @just-pure-trash @catatemyslideshow @hayleybarnesx @sasagehoes @thigh-o-saur @youdontknowe @destroyer-of-za-warudo @maxisqq @k4marina @onlineoutcast

[febuwhump]

FEBUWHUMP 2023 IS HERE!

the prompts this year were chosen through a suggestion poll and subsequent vote, where over 350 people voted for their favourites. the top 28 make up the core prompts, and a mixture of the next most popular and this blog’s personal favourites have become the alternatives!

i’m so excited to see what you all create with these prompts, and hope they’re inspiring enough to trigger a whole month’s worth of creativity for you! if you have any questions, make sure to check out the blog’s FAQ, or check out the previously asked questions on the blog before sending one of your own!

please note: this year, notifying the blog of completionist status will happen through a google form that will be released closer to the end of febuwhump.

full write-up of prompts and rules under the cut:

FEBUWHUMP 2023 PROMPTS:

DAY 1: touchstarved

DAY 2: flinching

DAY 3: muzzled

DAY 4: knife to the throat

DAY 5: "that's gonna scar"

DAY 6: secrets revealed

DAY 7: made to watch

DAY 8: panic

DAY 9: voice loss

DAY 10: difficulty breathing

DAY 11: fever

DAY 12: "can you hear me?"

DAY 13: forced to hurt a loved one

DAY 14: captivity

DAY 15: self-sacrifice

DAY 16: semi-conscious

DAY 17: silent tears

DAY 18: can't stay awake

DAY 19: "you deserve this"

DAY 20: knife wound

DAY 21: shackled

DAY 22: can't scream

DAY 23: "you'll have to go through me"

DAY 24: bloody clothes

DAY 25: assumed dead

DAY 26: forced to choose

DAY 27: survivor's guilt

DAY 28: "you're safe now"

SWITCH-OUT PROMPTS:

is there a specific day’s prompt you don’t want to fill? here are ten alternatives you can switch them out for!

ALT 1: rope burns

ALT 2: caged

ALT 3: soft words

ALT 4: experimentation

ALT 5: time loop

ALT 6: limp

ALT 7: immortality

ALT 8: found footage

ALT 9: natural disaster

ALT 10: inferno

RULES:

SOFT RULES:

prompts should be answered in the form of whump

creators can produce whatever kind of media they want

you don’t have to complete all the prompts! you can create however much you want to

you can use the prompts after the event ends

you can post on any platform you want, however this blog will only be sharing those posted on tumblr

if you want to be featured on the hall of fame then you have until the 3rd of March to inform this blog that you completed all the days

HARD RULES: (specifically for being featured on the blog)

when uploading febuwhump content to tumblr, please use the tags:

febuwhump (i’ll also be checking febuwhump2023)

the relevant day’s tag e.g. febuwhumpday1, febuwhumpday2…

nsfw (if relevant)

and any trigger warnings that may be important!

you can also tag the blog, @febuwhump

i cannot guarantee your work will be archived on the blog because I have no idea how many participants there will be. a random selection of works tagged in accordance to the rules above will be reblogged every day of february.

[olderthannetfic]

I thought it would be interesting to see if I could easily determine which ships had the most works updated in 2023.

It turned out to be fairly easy, though a little time consuming. I think these results should be reasonably accurate.

Some points to note:

I did this on my own account, and I have like 2 people muted. So I am capturing the effects of archive-locked works, but my numbers might be off by one or two works due to muting.

Works updated in 2023 is a number that constantly changes as works are deleted or updated again in 2024.

I didn't scrape the entire archive or anything like that, so it's possible I missed a ship that would bump one of these down below 100. I'd take the last few at the bottom there with a grain of salt. But I think we can be reasonably sure the top ones are accurate and that the kinds of numbers that we see at the bottom there (eighteen hundred plus works updated in 2023) are about where the cutoff will be even if we find a ship I missed.

--

As for how I did this, I went to the category tags and the rating tags, filtered for updating in 2023, then excluded ships in the sidebar till I got to 130-150 ships excluded. I also grabbed ships that are big in general from tag search, which you can use to find all relationship canonicals, ordered by frequency.

I combined those lists of ships, cleaned off the works numbers, and generated a list without duplicates. That got me three hundred and something (yes, they were mostly duplicates). I generated the relevant AO3 URLs, opened them in batches with Open Multiple URLs, and copied the works totals into a spreadsheet. Not as tidy as using a script but honestly pretty easy if you know a few spreadsheet formulas to clean up data.

The key here is that if you're only going for pretty good and not accurate beyond a shadow of a doubt, all you need to do is generate a list of likely ships, then check them.

It's possible that there's some much-updated ship that is so evenly spread across these various other tags that it just missed showing up in the sidebar. Hopefully, grabbing more than just the top 100 avoided this problem.

This method also doesn't take into account backdated works. If a whole archive was imported in 2023 but all backdated, there could be some ship that didn't have new works but where AO3 users experience in 2023 was of an influx of content.

I also did this just now, in late March/early April, so some 2023 works have inevitably been deleted or updated again. So the exact work counts don't represent the experience of using AO3 throughout 2023. A fandom active in early 2023 might not have much updating in early 2024, while a fandom active in late 2023 would. This could demote the latter a few places in the rankings since I didn't grab numbers on January 1st.

Even if a person scraped AO3 every day or was monkeying around in the databases, you also have to ask what conceptual answer you're after. Is it works a user could have read at some point during 2023, whether they were deleted by the year's end or not? Is it new-to-AO3 works or only newly-created ones, not including imported archives? Does it matter if the works are fic? If they're in English? What about accidental double-uploads or translations of a single work?

I hope this makes it clear why a definitive ranking is not actually possible.

However, despite these drawbacks, I am confident that the rankings above accurately represent the broad trends on AO3 in 2023. Just don't get too fixated on whether a ship should be at number 73 or number 74.

And, of course, I excluded these from the top 100:

Original Character(s)/Original Character(s) - 20,026

Minor or Background Relationship(s) - 16,187

No Romantic Relationship(s) - 8,052

Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s) - 7,195

Original Male Character/Original Male Character - 6,283

Other Relationship Tags to Be Added - 5,618

Original Female Character(s)/Original Female Character(s) - 3,990

Original Character(s) & Original Character(s) - 3,210

Here's a spreadsheet if you want to see the actual numbers not as a shitty screencap. I left the next few below 100 for context.

[burnednotburied]

You're My People

AO3 Link

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Synopsis: You and Abby take refuge in an abandoned house to catch your breath and attempt to recover after the encounter with Ellie in the theater.

Tags: slight angst; hurt/comfort; mentions of death and blood; tending to injuries; (mostly) unspoken romantic feelings; reader is a young woman (same age as Abby)

Note: To be absolutely 100% clear, the reader is NOT meant to be Lev or Yara. Reader is a woman (about the same age as Abby) who met Abby on Seattle Day 1 when she was also meeting Lev and Yara. The four of them stuck together. None of this is super relevant for this story. (Just know that Yara was with them, but she was killed just as she was in the game, and Lev is around here somewhere.)

I have a lot of ideas for this character/storyline. It’s likely that I will continue to flesh things out in future fics, so I’ll leave the rest of the story to be explained later.

I put reader in many of the same scenarios as Lev was in the game, sometimes removing Lev altogether for the sake of the story. But reader obviously has a very different type of relationship with Abby than Lev ever would (or should) have.

----------------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t ever let me see you again.”

That’s what Abby had said to that girl – Ellie – before walking away without so much as a backwards glance.

You had quietly followed Abby out of the theater, because what else could you do, but you didn’t know how you were supposed to feel about what you just saw.

Watching Abby incapacitate one man and shoot another in the face without hesitating. Seeing her beat Ellie into the floor while she lay there motionless.

And the other woman. The one who was pregnant…

“Good,” Abby had seethed when Ellie told her. She almost seemed happy about it. Happy to repay the wrong that was done to Mel. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

If you hadn’t called out Abby’s name when you did, dragging her from the haze that was her desire for retribution…

Well, you could guess what would’ve happened.

You were just glad the two of you had decided not to bring Lev with you. That he was somewhere safe.

Neither of you spoke a word as you navigated through the dark streets of Seattle, her leading the way with you following quietly behind, just as you had been doing since you met. Although now you may have allowed for a bit more space between the two of you than you did before, trailing further behind. Lost in thought.

It had been three days since you met, but it felt like so much longer. A nagging voice in your head insisted that you really didn’t know Abby very well, despite how it felt.

She hadn’t given you any reason not to trust her. She had never hurt you. In fact, she had fought so hard to keep you and (more importantly) Lev and Yara safe. She had even turned against her own people, killed her own people, for the sake of protecting you.

No, that wasn’t right.

Those weren’t Abby’s people anymore.

“You’re my people.”

Abby had looked so earnest when she said it back on the Seraphite island just hours before. And you had believed her.

The words left you with a feeling deep in your chest that was hard to describe. You thought it might’ve been… belonging. Something you’d been hoping for but never found. You’d always wanted to truly belong to something.

Or someone.

There hadn’t been any time to dwell on the feelings or what they meant.

And now all you feel is a pit in your stomach.

Why were you so shaken up? This is stupid. You’ve killed before, and you’ve watched Abby kill.

But this felt different. It wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t necessary. It was dark and angry and honestly terrifying. She was honestly terrifying.

But it was justified, wasn’t it? You could argue that maybe it was necessary.

Ellie had been hunting Abby for days, killing her friends and seemingly anything else in her path.

Ellie killed Owen.

You weren’t sure of the exact history between him and Abby, but you did know how important he was to her. And you had seen the look on her face when she found him dead.

Who’s to say Ellie would’ve ever stopped coming after Abby and the people close to her? Who’s to say she’ll even stop now?

You’re just beginning to arrange your fractured, contradicting thoughts in a way that makes sense when Abby comes to a sudden stop in front of you. You would’ve run into her if she hadn’t stretched her hand out behind her in warning.

“We need to stop. Get out of the rain. Regroup.” Her voice is strained.

You hadn’t really even noticed that it started raining again, harder this time, but you can walk in the rain. Lev is alone, waiting for the two of you to return.

You open your mouth to protest, only to shut it again when Abby turns to face you fully. She’s balancing her weight unevenly, heavily favoring her right leg. A significant bloodstain runs all the way down to her left ankle. And her face…  

The pregnant girl had come from nowhere, attacking Abby from behind. She managed to slash across Abby’s cheek with a knife before you took her down with an arrow through the shoulder. It had been your only real contribution to the fighting in the theater, but it had been unavoidable. Abby had been in danger.

Now she’s standing in front of you, soaked from head to toe, from the rain and with blood, and you have no idea how much of that blood is hers, but there are definitely some significant injuries that need to be tended to.

Abby takes in your silence and your wide-eyed stare for a moment before shifting a little in place and clearing her throat. “Um… we can try in there. Yeah? The houses here should all be deserted.” She gestures weakly to the building closest to you.

You finally find your voice. “Yes, yeah. Let’s—let’s go in there.”

You pull your gaze away from Abby’s and walk past her, toward the small house, pulling your bow from where it rests over your shoulder and notching an arrow in the string. It suddenly occurs to you that you’ve walked all this way without your weapon drawn while Abby was injured and unarmed. For a moment, you’re glad that the Wolves and the Seraphites are too distracted fighting each other elsewhere to be roaming around in this area. Or else you and Abby would probably have been killed by now, both of you practically stumbling through the streets like a couple of vulnerable, mindless children.

You shake your head, silently scolding yourself and promising to be more alert, starting right now with sweeping the house.

The front door is mostly intact and slightly ajar. You approach carefully, painstakingly forcing it further open with your shoulder, fighting against rusted hinges and warped wood. The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you step inside, quickly scanning the entryway for anything or anyone that poses a threat. Abby follows behind you, trying not to visibly limp on her injured leg and holding up a small flashlight taken from the aquarium.

“Come on. You need to sit down,” you say over your shoulder, just loud enough to be heard over the pouring rain outside. For a moment, it looks like she might argue with you, maybe insist that she make sure the building’s clear first, but she seems to decide against it, giving you a quick nod of her head in response.

With your bow still drawn, you lead the way through the first floor of the building, passing a bathroom and a kitchen before arriving in what was once the living room. The room is filled with furniture in various levels of destruction and decay, somehow the most well-preserved among them being an old couch pressed against the back wall.

You point to it. “Sit,” you tell Abby. The fact that she listens and moves toward the couch without protest, albeit very slowly, is further proof of the extent of her injuries and her level of exhaustion. “I’m going to check the rest of the house, okay? I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

Abby lets out a scoff, immediately followed by a second, more pained noise. “I couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to.” An attempt at a joke, made through gritted teeth. You give her a hesitant, worried look, long enough that she forces a small smile and attempts to reassure you with, “I’m fine. Go.”

She’s lying and you know that, but you don’t have much of a choice. You turn to go quickly search the house.

The second floor is clear of any discernible threats but also of anything that would be useful in helping Abby. On your way back to the living room, you rummage through the downstairs bathroom and a couple of mostly empty coat closets in hopes of finding something. Medical supplies. Even clean cloths.

You find nothing there and move on to your last hope, the kitchen. This room is even more ransacked than the rest of the house, and still, you don’t find what you’re looking for.

“Ugh,” you loudly groan, clasping your hands together on the back of your neck and casting your gaze upward in frustration.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Abby quickly asks from the other room, sounding ready to jump up off the couch and rush to your rescue even in her current condition. It makes you smile until you remember that this is no time to be smiling.

“It’s nothing. The house is clear. I was just looking for some medical supplies.”

“Who needs medical supplies?” she asks, trying her hand at a second joke. This time you let yourself smile for just a second.

“You do, Abby,” you say, “You need medical supplies. Urgently.” You’re still staring up like the answer will be written up there if you just look hard enough, when something in the space between the one of the top cabinets and the ceiling catches your eye. If you’re not mistaken, it looks like the corner of a first aid kit.

It’s too high for you to reach standing, and there’s nothing for you to stand on top of. The countertops are broken, the pieces scattered across the room, and the wood of the lower cabinets is rickety and unstable at best.

You’re grumbling under your breath about damn high ceilings and unnaturally tall cabinets as you reenter the living room to find Abby almost exactly where you left her, left leg now up on the couch and elevated, right foot still on the floor. Both of her hands are hovering over the gash in her thigh, like she’s not sure if she should touch it or not, her face tense and focused. She’s in pain.

You pull your eyes away and look for something sturdy enough for you to stand on, eventually deciding on a mostly intact, only slight wobbly small metal table.

“Do you really think now is the best time to rearrange the furniture, honey?” Abby asks, glancing at you in her periphery. She’s joking again, and you know that, but you can’t help the warmth that pools in your cheeks at her use of the affectionate pet-name.

“I--“ You clear your throat, “I need something to stand on. I think I found something in the kitchen.”

“Aww, you can’t reach the top shelf by yourself?” Abby asks, amused. She turns her attention from her leg to watch as you drag the table out of the room. It squeaks along the floor the entire way, making her laugh softly.

 The fact that she’s being playful with you starts to ease your lingering panic about her many ailments. If she’s cracking jokes, she can’t be that close to dying, right?

“Crazy how you’ve lost like half your blood supply, and yet you still have enough energy to tease me,” you say, your own teeth gritted now. The table is much heavier than you anticipated. “And, for your information, the thing that I’m trying to get is not on the top shelf. It is above the top shelf. On top of the cabinet.”

“Uh huh. Sure… Take your time. I’m just over here, casually bleeding out.”

“Well, I’m no doctor. But I’m pretty sure that if the knife had hit any major arteries, you would’ve bled out a long time ago. So you’ll be fine for another minute. Probably.” With one final shove, you manage to get the table where you want it.

You carefully step up on the table, hoping that some sadistic asshole didn’t throw an empty first aid kit all the way up there just to waste the time and energy of some poor, desperate fool in need of medical supplies. (You, of course, being that poor desperate fool.)

After brushing off a thick layer of dust, you grab the handle. The kit is full.

“Yes!” you shout, nearly stumbling off the table in your excitement.

Abby can tease you all she wants and try to make light of the situation, but she can’t hide the look of relief that washes over her features when she sees what you’re carrying.

And, if you were paying closer attention to her face, she also wouldn’t have been able to mask the way her eyes go wide and her cheek – the one that’s not covered in blood – gets visibly pink when you get on your knees in front of her. “Uhhh hey, you can—you can sit on the couch.”

You raise your eyebrows, confused by her sudden nervousness. “No, the angle will be better this way,” you insist. “Just bring your leg over here.” She concedes, avoiding eye contact as you help her maneuver her injured leg so that her foot is back on the floor, practically between your knees.

There’s already a tear in her pant leg where the gash is. So to avoid having Abby stand up and take her pants off or cutting all the way around at mid-thigh, leaving her with half a pair of pants for the foreseeable future, you opt to just rip the fabric a little more on either side of the tear.

But you have a bad habit of occasionally thinking about something and then doing it, forgetting the often necessary in-between step of alerting the people around you to what you’re going to do first. You take the already-ripped fabric of her pants in your hands and tear, successfully making a hole large enough for you to properly clean and dress the wound.

The sound Abby makes when you do this surprises you. It’s almost sounds like a whimper—a noise that you don’t think you’ve ever heard her make before. There’s a twisting heat in your gut that seems to be a recurring side effect of being close to Abby, which you choose to ignore in favor of focusing on the more urgent (and honestly less daunting and less complicated) task at hand.

She’s quiet as you get to work cleaning the gash. Wincing slightly but remaining still.

The cut is deep, but as you expected it missed the femoral artery. You would have to stitch it up, though, and you told Abby as such. She nodded and watched you carefully as you quickly prepared, hoping to get this part over with as quickly as possible.

You moved even closer to her. Abby’s shin gently pressed against your front as you leaned over her knee, bringing your face closer, your movements precise and intentional.

Abby brings her hands down on either side of her legs, bracing herself. Her shoulders tense, muscles engaged. You have to tear your eyes away. Focus. You look back down at her thigh.

As you work, a strand of your hair falls from where you had tucked it behind your ear and into your face. You let out a light, annoyed huff. Before you attempt to blow the strand out of your eyeline, Abby’s fingers gently brush it back behind your ear. You feel yourself blush deeply, saying a quiet thank you before going back to sewing her up.

When the last stitch is done and you’ve carefully wrapped the wound, you feel Abby’s fingers run through your hair again, this time for no other reason but to draw your eyes up to meet hers.

“Come up here,” she says, her voice low. You stand, bringing the first aid kit with you, and feel the springs in the cushions creak beneath you as you sit on the couch, facing her, closer than is probably necessary. Before either one of you says anything else, you begin gently wiping away the blood surrounding the cut on her cheek, cleaning around the wound.

It's clear to you now that her wounds weren’t quite as detrimental as you had feared. With her leg sown up, her face was the only other thing that required your attention. Most everything else was superficial and would heal on its own. The rain had done a poor job of washing away all the blood, but it seems that much less of that blood had come from her than you had anticipated anyway.

“I can do that,” Abby says in a whisper, watching your face as you carefully and meticulously clean hers.

“I know,” you reply, just as quiet. “I want to.”

A few moments go by in silence until Abby once again breaks it.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” she begins, quickly adding, “Not sorry that I did it, but sorry that you had to… see me that way.” Her eyes are downcast. You know it’s weighing on her. Not just everything that happened today, but the fear that what happened could have a lasting effect on this thing you two have only just started to build. Call it trust or friendship or maybe something else entirely.

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad I was there. You shouldn’t have had to do that alone.” Abby nods, but you know it doesn’t do much to assuage her worries.

You still don���t understand what happened back in the theater. Or why it happened. Part of you wants to ask for the history now. How she knows Ellie. Why she wants Abby dead.

Maybe in time she will tell you, but you’ve already decided to trust her. To lean into whatever this thing between you is, and whatever it might become.

So instead, you ask another question that’s been in the back of your mind.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” You pull your hand away from her face, finished cleaning the cut there. It may form a scar, but it doesn’t seem deep enough to warrant stitches. (And you’re not brave enough to try, on her lovely face so close to her eye.)

Abby smiles softly, leaning forward just a bit to bring your faces closer together. “You’re going to have to be more specific, honey.”

That pet-name again. It makes your head spin. Makes you want to close the already shrinking distance between you and press your lips to hers. But you don’t do that. Instead, you explain, “On the island. When you said that… I’m your people.” You pause, hesitating over the last few words.

Abby stops for a moment, almost looking confused, and you start to spiral internally. You realize that it was probably just something she said in the heat of the moment. To calm you down and get you to keep moving, towards safety. You wish you could take your question back, retract your stupid words. Swallow them up and hide them inside you, along with your ever-growing feelings.

Abby finally answers. “Yeah. Of course I meant it. You’re my people.”

“Yeah?” You break out into a grin.

She nods, smiling and sincere. “Yeah.”

It’s that one, small word that makes you close the distance between you. Not to kiss her, but to gently rest your forehead against hers. Abby seems stunned, like maybe she was expecting the other thing, or hoping for it, but she recovers quickly, closing her eyes and maintaining the physical contact. You close your eyes too.

“You’re my people too, Abigail Anderson.” You can feel her laugh quietly and open your eyes, pulling away just enough to see her face again. “So… where do we go from here?”

“Santa Barbara, California,” she says. You remember overhearing part of a conversation about that between Abby and Owen yesterday. You figured that’s where she would be heading; you had just hoped to be given the chance to tag along. But you guess you didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

So you nod your head thoughtfully. “Sounds good… Sunny.”

“Hmm, yeah. That’s what I hear.” You’re both smiling. Happy, strangely enough, given the circumstances.

“Abby…”

“Hmmm?”

“We are going back to get Lev before we leave though, right?”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Note: If you read all of that, THANK YOU! This is the first fanfic I’ve written—and the first time I’ve written at all in a long time—so this is me dipping my toes in the water.

It definitely ended up being a lot longer and a lot less spicy than I anticipated, but I wrote what came naturally. I hope to continue this storyline, likely backtracking to when Abby and reader met, so we’ll be seeing more of these two. We’ll get to the fun stuff eventually!

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Hey I love your work so much!!

I was thinking of maybe a Mike Schmidt x reader where the reader is all like “I’m not good enough for you, I don’t deserve you” stuff and then like Mike makes it up to the reader to show them that they are more than enough 🫶

Sure, but it's gonna hurt!

Blue Sunrise

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: All is well, yet you aren't. A fact that disturbs and irritates you so, even if it shouldn't.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns for Reader, SFW with brief mentions of smut, pre-established relationship, set during the movie but that's honestly not very relevant, hurt/comfort, Reader and Mike both have PTSD, this isn't projection, bed rotting, depression, self-loathing, night terrors/nightmares, panic attacks, sleep deprivation, mentions of medication, lack of self care, slight self-harm (scratching), breakdown, nosebleed.

Notes: *in sonic snapcube dub voice* heyyyyyyyyyyyy what's upppppppppppppp it's meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (STOP!!)

                     ▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

6:34 A.M.

The dawn is gentle, the sky a soft blue behind the thin, cheap blinds that cover the bedroom window not that far in front of me. If I wanted, I could get up and open the window, revealing the surely beautiful and gorgeous sunrise that waits for me just outside the blinds.

But I don't. And I won't.

Birds sing gently outside, waking up and fliting about here and there. It's my favorite part of the day, quite frankly. When I can, I open the window to allow in the fresh, cool air, moist with the morning dew, unmuffling the bird's songs as I drift off to sleep, my schedule mostly in tune with Mike's for his night shift. Sometimes I manage to stay awake to greet him when he returns home. It's always nice when I do. His smile is lazy, his strides long and slow as he makes his way to the bed, peeling off his work clothes and crawling under the covers with me. Sometimes he'll press himself against me, his lips finding my neck as his hand dives between my thighs, his fingers trained on one goal as he murmurs against my skin how much he's missed me. Sometimes I wake to this.

There's a part of me that wishes he'd do this today just so I wouldn't have to think.

The lock on the front door rattles as someone attempts to insert a key into the hole. It doesn't matter how long he's lived here or how he uses those keys every morning, he still takes a moment to make sure he's using the right one, and on the first try he usually isn't. So it takes him a solid minute to unlock the door and enter the house. If we had dogs, they'd surely drive us insane from his routine. It slightly drives me insane already. But I'm technically not even supposed to be awake, so I never mention it.

When Mike finally enters the house, the first thing I hear after the satisfying break of the doors seal ringing throughout the living room is a deep sigh as Mike's backpack lands in front of the coat rack. He should be quieter about setting it down. I would be. But I think he assumes we should be so deep in sleep it really wouldn't matter, and it honestly doesn't make much noise. Just a slightly dull 'thud' against the thinly carpeted floor.

Next I can hear his car keys land in the bowl they're meant for. Again, he's a bit too loud with it all. At least, while people are sleeping. But it's not really a bother. In a way, I like it. It gives me a routine to memorize, his sounds before he'll trail to our room and come press himself against me.

The rocking recliner creeks softly as he sits in it, lazily undoing the laces on his boots before he tosses them towards the coat rack. And next he'll duck his head into the fridge I'm sure and look for the leftovers I put into a big bowl for him to warm up - which he won't, because he's a psychopath who likes cold food. - and then when my alarm goes off, he'll come to wake me up, rising from the old couch where he's very quietly reading his book while he eats and do whatever he has to do to prevent me from slipping back into sleep. He's very good at that job. Especially when he uses his tongue.

But today there's a break in the routine. Today, his footsteps are padding towards our room, the door quietly opening as he slips in. I can hear him let out a soft sigh as he tugs on his hoodie, pulling it off and then discarding of his jeans, which muffle the clack of his belt buckle as he slips them off. Left in his undershirt and boxers, he crosses the room to open the blinds and the window, letting in the fresh air and leaning against the thin windowstill for a moment. Now, I can see him.

He looks rested, a little more than he should for having just finished a night shift. I keep telling him he's going to get fired, but he always wiggles his way out of that conversation. The bags usually under his eyes aren't too deep this morning, which while problematic is relieving. His skin is pale blue from the dawns light that pours into the room. His dark curls are more thick on the top of his head, clumped together from him not brushing them after his shower. He must've used too much conditioner, because his hair also looks thicker than it usually does. The breeze blows his oversized pale blue shirt against his chest as he leans forward, allowing his eyes to close as he takes in a deep breath. It feels like an overly private moment. Like I've intruded by watching him. I don't see him like this much when he isn't alone. When he's with me or Abby, he's alert. Somewhat on guard. It's like he's watching us to make sure we're okay. He's too used to things falling apart in an instant. But when he's alone, physically or emotionally, the walls crumble away to reveal a man who enjoys peace. Who smiles softly as he bends down low, resting his chin upon his arms, letting the dawn greet him and being the supposed first in the house to greet the dawn. And I feel like a stalker for watching him. A scene that feels as if I've stolen what will now only exist deep in my mind for when I want to remember one of the few times he has truly ever looked at peace with the world. It's a scene out of a painting. As private as a prayer. I should grant him more privacy, but I don't. In a captivated and enchanted way, I can't.

I'd never tell him this, but in this moment he looks like his mother. And not in the sense of him being her son. No, based off of the few photos I've seen of her in more private, intimate instances, like when she was holding a very small Mike on her lap on his second birthday, or when Mike's father had stolen a photo during their honeymoon when she wasn't looking, Mike looks just like her. Quiet, serene, not hiding anything from anyone because there's no need. At this moment it is just him and the gentle, late winter breeze that makes my nose begin to sting. He's beautiful. Just like she was.

The moment comes to an end, and now it is just a moment that exists only within my mind as his eyes open. The blue dawn brings out the green in his eyes that's usually hidden by artificial light that overpowers the amber, turning them mostly black in some instances. That's the color I thought they were until I saw him in proper daylight. His long lashes bat once, twice in an almost sleepy manner as he shifts his focus, now turning his head to look at me. I shut my eyes quickly, my canines biting into my tongue to force myself to keep a straight face. But it's too late. We made eye contact, even if it was only for a second, and now he knows I'm awake.

"Sweetheart?" He whispers softly, his voice low and slightly gravelly in the way it always is. His 's' and 't's just a tad sharp, clear as always when he speaks. I hear the floor groan as he pads towards me.

I don't speak. I'm not supposed to be awake. I should be asleep, he would rather I was asleep. I tried to be asleep.

He stops in front of me, I can hear the floor groan louder as he crouches in front of me. He's trying to decide if I'm awake or not, if maybe he'd been tricked into thinking we made eye contact. But something convinces him he hasn't, and the bed sinks as he places a hand upon the mattress to support his weight while he kisses my temple.

"Hi," he whispers against my skin, placing another kiss just above the curve of my brow. "Good morning." He places another kiss on the space between my brows, his lips now trailing up to the middle of my forehead. "You look so pretty like this."

Like what? My skin shining with oil, my nose dirty, my body heavy from not having moved?

Something makes him pause when his lips find my cheek. He keeps his lips pressed against my skin for a moment before he pulls away, licking his lips as he looks closer at me.

"Hey," he whispers softly, a finger finding my chin. "Open your eyes."

I don't want to. When I do he'll instantly know what I've been doing, and I don't want to handle it. I don't want to deal with it.

His hand slips under my head, between my cheek and my pillow.

"Sweetheart, your pillow's wet," he says in quiet surprise. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

Hesitatingly, I obey. Cracking my eyes open and trying not to reveal how horrid the dryness in them feels after allowing them rest for a few moments after keeping them open for what could have been hours at this point. Mike's face is inches from mine, his brows furrowed in concern as his eyes scan for other obvious signs of distress.

"Hi," I croak in a tired, unused voice as I try to pretend all is well. Mike unfortunately knows better.

"What happened?" He asks concerningly, taking in the tone he does whenever Abby is upset, fretting over me like I'm an injured child as both of his hands cup my face, his lips finding what he's confirmed are thin, itchy and salty tear tracks, placing several, feather-light kisses along them.

"Nothing," I answer honestly, my voice still cracking. "I'm fine."

"Your eyes are red, baby," he says softly, pulling away to look at me again while his body inches closer. "You look like you've been crying for hours."

Ha. I wish. If I had been, maybe I'd feel better about everything. But instead, I've been lying here since Abby went to bed, feeling numb and dead internally as I willed myself to be upset about anything. Work, bills, the color of the walls. I'd succeeded maybe twice, little tears streaming down my face for a minute or two. But then they would stop, and it would feel as though I couldn't cry. Really cry. Like there was some emotional, maybe physical block preventing me from just truly letting all of my emotions out in a possibly hysterical fit. One that would mean I could connect to my humanity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So, instead I just say "I haven't cried."

Mike opens his mouth to call bullshit, but his brow furrows tighter as he thinks. "What's wrong?" He asks again, now lifting my head to allow one arm to slip underneath so I can lay upon it.

"Nothing," I answer again, truly unsure of what to say. "I'm really okay."

And I am. Work is fine, I am fine. Friends are fine. I don't have entitlement to be upset.

"Is it another episode?" Mike asks softly, now pulling his body onto the bed to lie next to me, fully committed to being partner of the year over here. Ugh. Great.

"No," I answer quickly, averting my gaze. Mike's hand cups my cheek, his body cool compared to mine. I'm soaked in sweat from sleeping - read: laying motionless on the bed since 9:30. - in too warm of clothes in too warm of a room under too warm of blankets. I probably stink. Meanwhile the morning air makes Mike feel refreshing. He's perfect. I'm a mess.

"It's okay if it is," Mike says softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of if-"

"I'm not having an episode," I say firmly, cutting him off as though it will solidify my statement more than his if I finish mine first. "I'm just not."

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not, and I never will be. I know that's okay. I know episodes happen, and that I'll be okay. I've been so much better lately on my new schedule. I'm working, I'm happy.

I have absolutely no good reason to be in the midst of a depression episode. One where the memories won't leave my mind, where I can't sleep, can't think about anything but the past. It plays in my head over and over again, and I can't stop it. Even though I try. I read, I journal, I bathe. But I don't feel real. People don't feel real. Mike is disorienting in the sense that he is the only thing that truly feels real. Where the pale color of the sheets seems hypnotic, his slightly tan skin contrasts to remind me this place really does exist. The furniture and details of the room seem as real as something from a video game, renderings that aren't as realistic as they could be that blend into the wall more as you look. Flat. Nothing. But the freckles on his nose are real. Strikingly real. Overly real. It's as though someone took their time to place each one, carefully deciding their color, their opacity, their placement. I want and love each one, but at this moment they slightly torture me by drawing me into a comforting trap.

"I haven't had an episode in over a month, I'm better," I attempt to say in a firm, solid voice. But I'm too tired, too worn out. My chest burns both from anxiety induced heartburn and how shallow my breathing has been for the past several hours. Mike looks sad, and I hate that. Deeply.

"You have been doing better," he says softly, like a reassuring parent. "I've seen that. And I'm so proud of you."

But I still have this. I'm still like this. I still can't have people wrap their arms around me from behind because I'm instantly taken back to when it would end in me collapsed on the ground, panting, crying, calling out for help that just wouldn't come. I still can't wear shirts with too tight of collars because it always end with me half naked, ripping the shirt off while hyperventilating. That was how I had to tell Mike. For our first Christmas together he bought me this beautiful turtleneck, knowing I liked the style but didn't own many. A dark evergreen color, affordable but a lovely tight-knit material, I adored the thing. But the moment the shirt was over my head, the neck felt like a hand suffocating me, and though I tried to tolerate it fie as long as I could, it only took one casual graze of his hand along my back to send me reeling into a corner, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering like a terrified child as I clawed at my neck while he tried to get it off of me.

'I'm so proud of you.' The statement feels like a backhanded reward. It feels as though I'm an idiotic child who just can't learn their ABC's or basic fundamental math. It feels like I'm a small toddler surrounded by adults looking at me full of pity in their eyes while they think 'well, you'll never be normal by any means. But maybe one day if you're lucky, you'll work in a Subway.' But they don't tell me this. They just praise me for existing. 'You woke up today! You put on clothes today! You didn't kill yourself!' It makes me want to scream. Yes, even at him. I want to grab him by his shirt and scream until my voice is shattered 'don't praise me for the bare minimum! I'm not a child!'

But I know he's not. I know he feels the same way when he slips back in progress as well. There was a solid month last year where Mike's insurance refused to pay for his sleep medication due to some paperwork slip and such, something they eventually realized was a complete blip on their end. But that month was hell for Mike, who could barely sleep well even with the medication. His easy smirks were replaced with cracked lips, skin raw from constant biting. His eyes were filled with paranoia from lack of sleep, and worse were the night terrors. Mike didn't even know he was still capable of having them, usually sedated by his meds well enough that if there was a nightmare, he just stayed asleep. At worst he'd wake up in a haze, maybe a very short yelp if anything. But without his meds, it was screaming. Constant screaming. There were nights he would wake after only an hour and he'd start, his voice shrill and reverberating off the walls as he thrashed in the bed. You couldn't console him, touch made him worse. When it happened, you simply had to leave the room and pray he would be okay. The episode could last anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and you would know it was over when all you could hear was broken sobbing, quiet and childlike in nature. Then I would return to the room, and there he'd be. Sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes his shirt torn off of himself. Usually sitting either in the dark corner of the room or on the floor of our closet. Red, angry marks would trail along his skin from clawing at himself with his uneven nails, some of them being actual cuts he'd managed in his terror. I'd carefully clean his cuts with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide while he silently stared ahead, too ashamed to speak or make eye contact with me. And too terrified to sleep again.

Sleep deprivation didn't help, either. One day I saw him with a Redbull stuck in his hand, seemingly never empty despite how much he drank from it. At first I thought it was one, than I realized it was three, then I realized I didn't really know what number he was on. It was surprising how well he could take the new, unusual load of caffeine that tastes sickly sweet without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. I didn't realize he was trying to starve off sleep until the next morning when his leg was bouncing a mile a minute and he was snapping at every little thing. That day he had a breakdown over dropping an unpeeled onion. And that's when it slipped out.

I didn't judge him. I was terrified for him, but I didn't judge him. And I could tell the same was true for him when I would have my slips, though mine looked different. Mine looked like a lack of self care and rotting in our bed, staring pointlessly ahead until he would lift me off the bed and carefully guide me to a warm bath, where he'd gently wash my skin with a soft rag like I was a newborn while I stared ahead at nothing. At this point we had learned to tell the oncoming signs of each others episodes, and how to starve them off. And if we couldn't, how to help each other through them.

Usually, I don't mind. But today, it hurts. It all hurts.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks me gently, his thumb gliding over my cheekbone as he wraps me in his embrace, careful of where he places his hands on my person. Like I'm a bomb.

I don't want to be treated like this anymore.

"Yes," I sigh in an irritated voice, like it's the most inconvenient thing he should ask me such a question. But I haven't. I feel empty and yet too full at the same time, and guilt pounds behind my left eye with the ferocity of a headache that I can't just mother myself.

Mike doesn't believe me. He'll pretend he does, but the press of his lips betray him as he takes a deep breath in like he's trying to tell what wire to cut next.

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" He asks softly, his thumb still stroking just below the raw corner of my eye. It burns. All of it.

'No,' I snap in my head. But I just tighten my jaw and press my own lips together.

"I'm not really hungry, but thank you," I say in a tight voice. Now he's going to pretend that's okay, and he'll go get his breakfast. Then he'll pretend he can't finish it all, joke lightly and say I gave him too big of a portion even though he eats like he's still a growing teenager, and offer me little bites as he "tries" to finish the rest, then eventually trick me into finishing it. He isn't slick, and I'm not a child.

"Hey," he says in a light whisper. "I was thinking maybe we could go out today? All three of us? Or I could call Max, see if she'll watch Abs for a little bit so we can get away?"

Distraction. Cute. I don't need it.

"That could be nice," I admit through half gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes. "Where to?"

"Anywhere," he says too quickly, obviously relieved to have a straw to grasp at. "Your choice."

Guilt twists in my chest like an alien creature settled in my lungs, burning as it begins to slither its way towards my throat to suffocate me on its wrath. He doesn't need to do this. Can't he see how well I'm doing?

"How was work?" He asks me in an attempt to keep me talking. Mike doesn't like silence, not like this. Not really any time. There's always noise throughout the house, whether it's a show on in the background or white noise from his cassette player. He can't stand silence. Especially from people.

"Work was..." Fine? The usual? Non-eventful?

"Good," I decide. Mike presses his lips together again. Stop doing that.

"Yeah?" He asks in a slightly tight voice.

"Yeah," I confirm in a tighter voice.

"You didn't... call out or anything?"

My bottom left back molar feels like it might snap from how tight my jaw is. "Why?" I ask, venom unintentionally creeping in.

"Just asking," he says quickly.

"Why?" I press harder, wanting to know who told on me. Abby hasn't even had the chance to speak with him.

'It's because he knows your patterns,' I think. 'He's trying to gage how serious this is.'

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast? We can wait until Abby wakes up, go get some Waffle Hous-"

"I'm not having an episode," I snap quickly, more harsh than I intended. My tone makes him flinch slightly, his eyes shutting for a moment as he takes another breath in. Now I'm scared he'll pull away.

"We... don't have to talk about this right now," he says softly, opening his eyes again and wrapping his arm around me tighter. "Let's just focus on breakfast."

The guilt pounds in my kidneys, which are sore since I haven't left the bed since I laid down after putting Abby to sleep, but I did have a full water bottle around 3:00 in the morning. It's not Mike's fault I backtracked. He's just trying to be nice. I'm the asshole here.

"I'm sorry," I say in a small voice, dropping my gaze and biting my tongue between my canines again to stop the tears that are now willing to come freely to burn my eyes during such an inappropriate moment.

"It's okay," Mike says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Don't even think about it."

'Don't even think about the fact he's just trying to be a decent person and you can't even say 'thank you,'' a grating voice in my head chides me. 'What, you're too good for a free meal?'

"I'm sorry," I repeat softer, my nails digging into my wrist that I'm holding to keep control over myself. Mike's hand is searching for mine, ready to pry it away to prevent me from doing what I need to to prevent the waterworks.

"Hey." Stop with the 'hey's. "I said it's alright, you're okay."

It's all bad. Everything's bad, and it's not going to get better. I keep thinking I'll get better, I keep thinking I'll be okay. But every two steps forward is one step back and I can't keep doing this redundant bullshit for the rest of my life. Am I going to be 40 at the office Christmas party sneaking off to freak out in the bathroom because something triggered me and I just can't get a grip on things? Am I even going to make it to 40?

Mike is comforting me, cradling my head to his chest and rocking me back and forth. And his shirt is wet. I don't like that his shirt is wet, it should be dry. Why is it fucking wet?

"It's okay," he's whispering in my hair while horrid choking sounds come from somewhere around us. Maybe the other room? "You're alright, it's okay."

I'm aware it's alright, I'm aware it's okay. Why are you wet? Why does my head hurt?

"I can't- sleep," my voice chokes out between guttural sobs, my face pressed into his chest. "It's all nightmares."

Oh. Shit. That's me. The wetness, I did that. My bad.

"I know, it's okay. How long?" Mike asks softly. What, are you gonna call my therapist?

"A week," I moan into his chest. My ribs expand with each recycled breath I steal from against his chest, and I can feel him trying to gently tug me away so I can get one with fresh, cold air instead. I don't let him. My lungs burn more. "They just won't stop."

"It's okay, it's only temporary," he says softly, his hand pushing away some of the blanket to relieve me of the boiling warmth underneath. The cold air is refreshing against my skin, even through my clothes are soaked with stinking sweat.

"No, it's not!" I cry hysterically into his chest. "They don't go away. None of it goes away. I want it to go away!"

He's nodding, rubbing circles on my back as I grip his shirt hard enough it may stretch.

"It'll get better. It did for awhile," he reminds me.

"But I'm back here. I always end up back here. I was doing so good!" I sob, feeling the wetness on his shirt begin to slightly thicken, probably due to snot. I try to sniff it back into my sinuses, but I think that just draws his attention to the new fluid he's covered in.

"That's okay. You'll do even better next time. And if you don't, that's okay too." Don't say what I think you're going to say. Do not. Michael, I'm serious, don't- "I'm still proud of you."

Fuck. Ooooooff!

This is the real release of my emotions. Now I'm gasping, choking, sobbing, making horrible sounds that sound like a European ambulance siren wailing through the streets to announce someone's dying on the way to the hospital. My head throbs with the pain from the heavy crying, and I may give myself a nosebleed from the passion of it all. And Mike, his patience thick and durable, just holds me through it all. Letting me soak his shirt, dirty his skin, grab at him blindly while I wail like a spoiled child, just repeating the phrase over again. 'Proud.' What pride. What honor to be had at such a breakdown. Yes, very understandable.

"I should be better," I sob into his chest. "You deserve better."

"What?" He laughs lightly, and at first it feels mocking, but then he's pulling my head away fron my soaked enclosure and his eyes are so gentle for a moment I know the light laughter is simply from surprise. Then his eyes widen and he's back in parent mode.

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" I choke out while gripping his shirt. At first he thinks I'm talking about our relationship, then he realizes I'm not letting him pull away.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding," he gently explains. "Let me wipe your face. I just need tissues. I'm not even leaving the bed."

But that's too much. Let me bleed, let my head throb, let this headache take the vision away in my eye from how bad it hurts. Let anything happen so long as I can stay in this moment. Don't break the spell. Don't let me go numb again.

"Don't leave me," I cry pathetically, my eyes all scrunched together in the same manner as wailing infants, my grip on his shirt not breaking. Sure enough, there on the wet spot of his shirt is a dark stain of blood that should hopefully come out if we wash it fast enough.

"Let me do that," I'm saying as I try to peel off his shirt now. "Let me wash it."

He's gently guiding my hands away. "Don't worry about it," he says gently, kissing my hands and wrists like they might break even from the delicate graze of his lips. "Let me take care of you."

He does this all the time. He always takes care of me. I should do more. Be more. For him.

"You deserve better," I choke out, feeling like I may suffocate from the tears. Mike's brows furrow in concern, and he grips my chin very carefully as he makes me meet his eyes.

"Hey, no. Get that out of your head, it's all okay," he tells me softly, staring at me like if he can't verbally convince me, his hard stare will do the trick. "I don't want to hear you talk like that."

"I should be better," I repeat, my crying lessening slightly as I try to hold eye contact.

"You're getting better," he reminds me. "This is the happiest I've seen you since we met. You'll get back to that. Hell, you could feel the same way tonight. It's okay. Take a day off. We all need one, even normal people," he says softly, stroking my hair as he kisses my forehead. "Can you just let me take care of you in the meantime?"

No. Go away, let me rot.

"We can still go out for breakfast," he offers gently. "I can still call Max, or we can all stay in. I'll set up a nest in the living room so you can watch TV. Works you like that?"

Stop. Stop being nice to me, stop trying to make me feel better. It all just feels awful. I don't want this guilt, someone takes it away.

Mike must sense my overwhelmed emotions, because he places another kiss on my forehead before asking if he can clean my face again, and this time I say yes. He pulls away, which is still upsetting but less so. I don't make a deal out of it this time at least. He opens a drawer, searching for wipes and pulling them out before turning back to me.

"Do you want to sit up?" He asks gently. I bite my tongue to prevent another mocking thought directed towards me and nod. Bones crack as I do, my kidneys hurt worse. But at least I finally moved.

Tears still streak down my face as Mike wipes away the snot and blood, his large hand gently cupping my face as he does. There's a soft smile on his face, though I'm not particularly sure why. And when he's done, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip before placing his own lips on top of mine. They're chapped, one spot raw from excessive biting. But there's still some leftover chapstick on them, and it tastes like grapefruit.

I tug on his shirt, one hand sneaking under it to feel his cool skin underneath. He gently takes my wrist once more, then pulls away. A silent rejection. He knows that I'm just looking for a distraction from my emotions, and in a moment he'll offer a much healthier one. He does discard the shirt, leaving his chest bare, but only so that he doesn't smear my fluids back onto me as he pulls me in for another embrace.

"We'll be okay," he promises. "Everything will be okay."

"What if it's not?" I ask in a quiet, strained voice.

"Then it'll be okay later. You can take time to not be okay," he says.

There's a short silence before either of us speak. And when I hear his voice hitch in the way it does when he's about to say something, Abby's alarm rings crystal clear in her room. Then the sound of a truck rattles by on the road in front of the house. Birds continue to sing. And my pours feel so clogged I'm sure my skin will be lashing out for days.

But it'll all be okay.

                             ¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

"Can we have some fluff to reco-" no. Suffer.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

               •▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

you guys… we got her 👀

***Spoilers for the White Rabbit Fest event below the cut!!***

> insert obligatory joke here about how Deuce’s mom has got it goin’ on/j

(NGL I THOUGHT THAT SILHOUETTE WAS ROOK FOR A HOT SECOND 😭)

Her name is written as “Dira” in katakana, so that could be romanized as “Dilla” or “Dilah” (but we won’t know for sure until an official English localization is out). The clothes… She works for a home delivery service as a truck driver.

UPDATE: Her localized name is "Dylla"! I'll be updating her name tag on all relevant posts.

That spade earring + blonde-ish hair makes me wonder if the fan theories about Mrs. Spade being a former delinquent herself are true…? Although it could also be just her natural navy hair color fading to a lighter color from time (I do see streaks of navy there)! Those could also be highlights like Lilia’s. Or maybe it’s stress prematurely aging her hair—

[aicedcoffeeandtea]

question for the culture of the ellie x reader community that i’m genuinely trying to understand but also having an even harder time wrapping my head around… and don’t fight me bc i know how this community loves to fight about everything!

in fics where the reader has a second love interest outside of ellie (excluding the ellie x reader x abby or ellie x reader x dina fics), why is the love interest always a man?

i myself have written a fic where reader was a lesbian that had an ex-boyfriend but only because it took place in the 80s and because it was actually relevant to the plot. and even then, i still made sure to tag that there would be references to reader being with a man in the past so that if anybody did read my story, they were doing it on their own discretion.

in a lot of the kinds of fics i’m talking about though, the reader being with a man could literally be swapped out with reader being with a woman and it would not change the story at all. but for some reason the default is 9/10 of the time, a man. it honestly wouldn’t even be that bad for me if 1) people tagged their works better and 2) if this didn’t happen so often.

this is a wlw space, where the common denominator that we all share is that we are attracted to women and non-men regardless of our specific sexualities. therefore, why is there a constant need to still include men in sapphic spaces? when you make reader be in a relationship with a man or have reader cheat on their male partner/love interest with ellie, you are automatically excluding those of us who are not attracted to men. plus, always having a lesbian, even more specifically a masc lesbian competing with a man puts a very strange taste in my mouth that i don’t think i can articulate the way i want to, but i feel like you can understand where im getting at here. i’m not even masc, im a hyper femme lesbian and it still rubs me off the wrong way, especially because most of this also only happens when it’s a fem reader, and the guy they’re with is always masculine.

and i’m sorry but im just gonna say it: ellie getting jealous of reader being with a man? yawn. boring. overdone. overused. predictable. trope ive seen way too many times. ellie getting jealous of reader being with a woman? im sat. adds spice. adds flavor. give me that shit.

if you disagree, that’s fine. we could (like civil adults) talk about it. i’m usually not the type to police people on what kinds of fics they write so i was very hesitant to even post this because i’m actually pro write whatever tf you want. but i definitely feel like it’s something that people do need to be more mindful of, so i guess i’m just asking people to do that, or at the very least can we tag our fics better so that i as a lesbian don’t waste my time reading the millionth fic where reader has both a masc lesbian and a man fighting for their affections? thanks, love yall. 🫶🏾

[azullumi]

“dangerously yours” ; alhaitham

summary — it was a simple mission, kill the scribe. it should be easy but what happens when you fall in love with your target?

pairing — alhaitham w/gender-neutral reader

tags — definitely not fluff, some angst here and there, reader is a criminal, inspired by the dangerously yours podcast (please listen to it), not proof-read as always, this is more like an idea dump and word vomit ; headcanons/scenario

words — 1200+

note — woke up and had this idea, goodnight (also wrote this months ago and just noticed this in my drafts)

you had one mission, an easy one at that.

working as a mercenary and spy under a criminal organization, you were tasked to do various kinds of things—from infiltrating certain groups in order to obtain information, from guarding someone and protecting their life to taking one at that. emotions were never relevant in this line of work, empathy and mercy never exists in these crimson-painted walls of your life. nor did the notion of affection and feelings were accepted. 

until a file containing details about a gray-haired man with eyes that seem to reflect both the ocean and the forest along with the contents of your task were placed into your hands: gain his trust, take the necessary information, and with the words encased in red and capitalized as if it was an important note, as if it was something that shouldn’t be ignored, the words, kill him were written.

it was simple. it’s not like this was your first time receiving this kind of mission; you had plenty of these and you’ve always done and finished them without any sort of trouble coming in your way. it should have been simple.

however, nobody warned you of what he would become—to you. the soon-to-be bane of your existence: alhaitham.

his whole being itself was a hindrance, a disruption to the way that you have survived life—kill or be killed. so how did something that you have been so familiar and used to become as scary as if it was the unknown? how did something that your whole life revolved around become so foreign and strange? how could you ever let go of someone who basked you in the afterglow of warmth and serenity?

he had you experiencing such things that you never dared to imagine.

“how can you be so sure when you don’t even know me completely.” you say, sitting right in front of the light-haired man, alhaitham,—your target—with a smile plastered on your face, a fake one at that. everything that will unfold here and throughout was simply just a form of deception to accomplish your mission.

“oh, i know you.” there was an underlying meaning underneath the tone of his words, the corner of his lips lifted into a small smirk, and you couldn’t help the numbing and cold chill that runs through your skin.

it was in a way that those stupid turquoise eyes of his feels like it’s looking right through you, as if he could read and see every thought of yours—and that’s what scares you, it’s not the fear that he’ll know of your soul and what you truly came for but the fear that he’ll know of the alacritous thumping of your heart and how your mind spirals into a turmoil and how you have to remind yourself every single time you hear his voice or gaze at him that this is the man you are supposed to kill.

not even once have you ever bothered to remember the names of the previous men that you were entrusted to get to rid of, only knowing their faces and quickly forgetting about it after you have done your job. but to alhaitham, to him, you know every single thing about him—how he prefers his coffee made, the colors that he likes (he insists on not having a favorite), how he struggles with falling asleep often, his love and preferences for books and reading, how he styles his hair (he only brushes through it and let the wind do its job), how he expresses himself, and how he lives his life.

in this play that you have orchestrated, you have unknowingly become of a victim of your own deception.

oh, foolish you, yearning for something, someone, that you will never have. when did it even begin? how did you even start to crave for a life that was completely out of your hands? was it when he smiled when he looked at you with those eyes one time? was it when you heard the sound of his laughter and wished to hear more of it? was it at the moment he kissed you and all you could remember throughout the night was the feeling of his lips grazing against your own and ghosting against your skin? is it because he always treats you with gentleness and looks at you with adoration like your existence was made up of stars and the sun?

for the first time in your whole life, you feel like a normal person for once—one who only experienced being hurt by heartbreaks, who cried over simple things, who ran through the fields in freedom and with nothing chaining you in a single place. for once, you feel like living instead of surviving.

the thought of running away, leaving behind the one thing you’ve only known and clung to, and simply being with him remains at the back of your head, the idea of waking up and spending your morning with him underneath the warm light of the sun, that you’ll get to feel the soft beating of his heart against your ear as he held you, that you get to experience the tenderness of his touch and kisses, that you’ll get to have him so close and so bare to you fills you with such warmth and comfort (feelings that were completely shoved under the pile of increasing corpses of the lives that you betrayed and took). but you weren’t a good person and you never will be, so how could you covet for something that is entirely undeserving for your existence.

“i can’t do this, i have to kill you.” your words came out as a desperate whisper, almost like a plea. you don’t even notice the tears that started to well up in the corner of your eyes until alhaitham wiped one that threatened to spill over your cheeks, his gesture gentle and forgiving. no one had ever come this close, no one had ever treated you so softly.

don’t come so close.

“then do it.” was he taunting you? you could never tell. all you know is you can’t pull the trigger on him.

“i can’t.” when did killing someone become so hard after you have taken dozens of lives with your blood-stained hands? your life’s purpose had trails of crimson, remnants of betrayal all over it yet you couldn’t even bear the thought of watching his eyes lose its light.

“why can’t you?” his voice was as soft and kind as his touch—he always speaks to you in such a way, never raising his tone at you, even at this moment.

the words remain stuck on your throat, nothing willingly coming out of your moment and the moment between you two comes into a hush. you can’t even say it; a confession that feels like a sin once it’s uttered out loud.

“say it. just say it, my love, please.” he chokes on his last word and something inside you breaks seeing this state of him. oh, how utterly foolish both of you are for falling.

“don’t do this to me.” your plea turns into a prayer, praying and wishing yet you don’t even know what it is that you are begging for.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[empressofmankind]

Hooked On You

[Crocodile x F!OC]

Explicit with a capital E

Word count: 1.7k / 5 pages

(A/N) Featuring Crocodile and Shivs when they were still a thing. I don't know what force of nature even kept these two together. Actually, I do. Its shared and unresolved heinous trauma, and coping through mutual enabling with a side dish of codependency. They have so many problems. Gambling problems. Drinking problems. Marital problems. Who's gonna tell them sex isn't therapy? I am counting on you, Robin.

This is the same time frame as 'The House Always Wins', so ten years prior to the actual story and likely after hours at Rain Dinners. There's a joke in here somewhere about trouble in Paradise - literally, as that is where Arabaste is located. I haven't a clue in which larger fic I will stick this, but it is likely a long way off and it felt selfish not to share it.

Tag(s): Absolutely inappropriate use of that hook. Does it count as foreign object play? Probably. Its not a knife but I am going to say knife play because it is a stabbing weapon. I am sure the knife crowd is down. Thoroughly drunk sub, though he ain't sober either. We get a whiff of that daddy vibe of his, too. Obsessive and controlling behaviour? Definitely. Edging? The worst. Begging? Totally. Absolutely filthy language. I keep forgetting how foul-mouthed he is. Some mild degrading? Yes. What else? Are they still dressed? Yes. Married? For better and for much worse. Size difference? Still relevant. Power imbalance? Yes, she's so drunk. And so horny. He could turn her any which way rn.

My sincerest apologies for this title being the worst pun known to man, but the besties were asnooze and I had to make do.

🐊 🐊🐊

Hooked On You

“Ssh,” Crocodile said, his eyes hooded as he gazed down at Shivs, sprawled in his lap and across the couch. Her sparkly cocktail dress hitched up to her waist, showing off dark stockings against pale thighs. Who knew where she'd lost her heels? He stroked a red bang from her eye. It gazed up at him, large with need and drink. Again.

“Careful, honey,” he rumbled as his gaze lingered on her bare pussy. Watching her labia part against the smooth metal as he gingerly ran the tip of his hook between them. Felt her shudder, heard her quiet, plastered moan as her legs twitched towards each other. He didn't like it when she drank this much. “Keep those pretty thighs apart or you'll hurt yourself.”

He spread her open with two fingers, her inner folds slick and shimmering with her juices already. And touched the curved tip against the small, moist folds concealing her entrance. The breathy huff that drew from her fogged his thoughts with hazy lust, the ravenous beast within him stirring from its slumber. She was such a needy thing, and he wanted to see it. Wanted to see her eager little hole contract around the metal, grip at it with no hope of finding purchase. Watch her sweet juices run rivulets down its curve as she came for him, and only him.

She rolled her hips, and he stopped her promptly. Her protesting whine was as slurred as her speech had been. She squirmed, but he kept her put. His hook wasn’t sharp, per say, but it would not give in the way his cock would if she foolishly shoved her needy little cunt into it.

He waited till she stilled, fingertips brushing the edge of lace between stocking and thigh. When he dipped the cool tip between her moist inner folds, her legs twitched further apart for him. And the gluttonous creature inside Crocodile burred happily, devoured the pretty sight. He lightly, carefully, dragged the tip along her inner walls, searching for the sensitive spot just a little ways inside of her on memory alone.

A whimper, when he found it.

Her pitched moan as music to his ears when he stroked it again.

“Oh-ah!” 

Her hands shot down, weakly, drunkenly, scrabbling at the metal as she tried to tug him closer, feel more, feel everything, just the way she would if it were his fingers dug knuckle deep into her moist cunt. But it wasn’t.

“Shh,” Crocodile shushed against her red hair as he gathered her wrists away before she hurt herself with her blind need. She glanced up at him with such drunken lust that he almost forgot he was upset with her.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you’re not careful,” he said, his hooded gaze on her parted lips, her panting breaths. And kissed her as he pressed the tip of his hook against that sweet, sensitive spot, gradually increasing pressure until she squirmed in his lap and moaned into their kiss.

“What is it?” he whispered against her bated breath as he paused and devoured the garbled, indecipherable plea that spilled from her lips. “You want me to fuck you with it? Is that what you want, doll?”

“Y-yes, p-plea-ah!”

Her precious mewls and the way she writhed in his hold with barely contained need spilled like gasoline onto the smouldering fire of his own desire.

“I can’t do that, honey,” he said as he gingerly guided it deeper, tracing the inward curve of her tight vagina, a passage he knew so well. “It’ll hurt you.”

She twisted in his lap and he had to pin her hips down, palm flat against her belly, to stop her rocking into his touch. She absolutely could hurt herself with her reckless, drunken actions.

“N-need. You-ah,” she whined in a tone that made him so hard. Made him want to toss her around, pull up that firm ass and fuck her sopping pussy full of cum like she deserved. A low, guttural groan clawed its way from his throat as he pressed her narrow hips down, pushed her butt unto his aching cock as he held her put. He wrestled the rapacious beast down, but only just. 

Soon, he promised himself.

“G-gim. Me. Ah-shole,” she complained. Her hands fisted into the cushion and the fabric of his pants, her knuckles bright and bruised.

“Ts-tsk. That is no way to talk to your husband.” He carefully withdrew his hook, her slick cunt making a delicious noise around the metal. “Don’t I take good care of you, sweetheart?”

“N-ngh-eed,” she whined as he slid the tip back into her with a smooth, languid push that followed the curve of her tight passage as far as it would go. “N-need you. T-to-oh-OH!”

“To what?” He mused against her hair as he stroked her lower belly, watched the muscles there clench and tremble at the lightest touch. The urge to bury his cock into her warm, snug hole clawed at his sanity like a living thing. He needed to have her. But he wanted to see. Wanted to watch her cramping pussy grasp at the metal as she came for him mewling his name. 

“You need a little help?” Crocodile said as he traced his fingers down to her pubes. “Is that it, doll?”

Shivs nodded, fingers digging into fabric and his thigh, barely managing a reply. “Y-yuh.”

He ran his fingertips in broad, lazy circles around her sensitive bud, never quite touching it. “You need a little help to make your sweet cunny make you feel so good?”

“Y-yes.”

“Why should I? You’ve been nothing but trouble.” He slid his middle finger down through her wet folds, teasing the hot, slick skin where his hook dug into her sensitive, pliable hole. “Tossing patrons, wrecking the floor, ransacking the bar. Why should I reward that kind of behaviour?”

“Am s-so,” she babbled as she arched her hips towards his touch. It felt good. Bad. Better than she’d ever thought it could.

“What was that, doll?”

“Am s-sor,” she wheezed as his thumb ghosted across her clit. “Ror-ry.”

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I s-said I am s-sorry!”

“Are you?”He teased her sensitive bud, delighted in the way she twitched, the way her toes curled. “Such sweetly false promises from my darling wife.”

“F-fuck you, C-croc-odile.”

Her fist came at his face half-heartedly, trembling from drink and desire. He caught it and pressed kisses against her bruised knuckles. “Yes, you will.”

When he reached down to rub his ring and middle finger across her clit, her fist latched onto his shirt, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric as she arched into his touch and hook, both, with the loveliest raw cry. He relished how much she wanted it.

He gathered her closer to him, keeping her hips locked against his own to stop them moving. He massaged her needy bud firmly, rubbing his fingers roughly against her the way he knew she craved. “Say my name again.”

“Hnn. Mmm. Croco-dile,” she whined drunkenly.

A deep grunt escaped him, his cock throbbing beneath her as he rubbed her aching bud between his fingers. He drew his hook back, lightly caressing the tip along her inner walls, searching. 

“Again.” 

“Croc-oh-dile!”

He could tell from her pitch he’d found it. The spot he knew would make her see stars.

“Once more?” he rumbled into her ear as she trembled against him, so ready to reward him. To show him what he wanted, needed. He watched her tether for a breathless moment, watched her slick pussy clench around his hook. Then nudged her across with a sudden, sharp tap into that sweet, sweet spot.

“Cro-oh. Ah! Yes!” she wailed, and he savoured the way his name broke as she lost it.  “P-plea-uh. Yess!” 

He struggled to keep her trashing in check as her orgasm ripped through her. Forcefully pinned down her narrow hips as they bucked against his firm grip. He kept the pressure on her little cum spot, rubbed her clit through her peak. His hungry gaze fixed on her sopping pussy, watching her tight hole spams around his hook. Her sweet cum gushing out, running down the slick metal and dripping from its curve.

She was perfect like this, and all his. 

And always would be.

“My darling wife is such a pretty slut, and ever so sweet to me,” he murmured into her ear as she calmed down, her panting breath slowing, steadying. The sweet trembles racking her body subsiding. “Able to cum on anything I put in her needy little hole. Even my hook.”

He drank in her blissful, fucked-out look as she gazed up at him through heavy lashes, the caress of too much alcohol lingering behind her flushed cheeks and bright eye. Her lips were parted, an edge of teeth visible. 

He withdrew his hook, and groaned at her meek whine and the way she reached for it. She was such a needy little thing. The ever-hungry creature within him stirred with a satisfied burr, never quite done feasting on her, devouring her every word, action, noise, sin. 

“You know what I am going to do after this?” 

He brushed her fussy touch from his hook, caught her fingers in his own as he rested the slick metal against her flat belly. The ravenous beast roared, no longer tolerating being ignored.

“I am going to wreck your pretty cunt and stuff it full of cum until you come apart beneath me,” he said as he pressed a kiss against her bruised knuckles, catching her bright, greedy gaze. “You need that, don’t you, honey?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

🐊 🐊🐊

Horny hell seat reservations - @ruledbyproblematique @littlemountainwolf @fanaticsnail @tiredemomama

[shadowfoxsilver]

How many scams are on tumblr? A lot, actually! Much like other social media platforms, tumblr is also home to accounts who only joined to get money off people via stealing content from other websites. This can range from various sources sometimes even private ones that are not as easy to locate! Even when trying to locate the real fundraising post that they took from, you don’t often easily find it if it wasn’t publicly posted. These accounts usually try their best to look like a regular tumblr user but there are a few easy ways to tell somthing isn’t right. I’ll explain them below under the readmore.

For short version, a brand new blog asking you for money should be treated with caution since it’s highly unlikely they are a real person needing mutual aid. If they sent you ask after you shared a certain post, it’s probably just a scam. If you are needing mutual aid, please don’t spam asks to users all at once.

If you like this post and found it useful, feel free to use it when you get an ask and also share it to your friends!

For example, these scam accounts often share a few popular trending posts or a few popular tagged posts they find when browsing the ‘For You’ page. These are often accounts who regularly post content that gets several thousand notes in a short span. Usually these posts are constantly then shared by scammers who use them to populate their account with posts of a certain theme or topic that is relevant to what may be going on at a certain time. Occasionally the posts may just be random posts to mix it up a little.

Additionally, the accounts who scam people will have a relatively new account with their first few posts only being a few hours old at best or even a week old otherwise. Keep in mind some accounts may backdate their posts to look older then they really are. For example, a reblog may be dated April 24,2021 but when you use timestamps and check the notes it’s actually dated April 20, 2024. This is a way for scammers to make their posts seem much older than they should be. While this may have a legitimate purpose for writers, it doesn’t really have much of a use outside of that even if someone does it to be funny. If someone catches you backdating posts, it’s better to come clean instead of ignoring the evidence.

At times, these scam accounts also take images off legitimate fundraisers and use them as their own even if a watermark on the image shows it’s been stolen from somewhere else. Scammers will edit these images to make sure locating the original is difficult and then get evasive if you show them the source they got it from. They may even claim that the source stole it from them and that your being mean to them when all you did was provide proof that they don’t own the image their posting and claiming is theirs. These images may range from a veterinarian bill to a hospital bill or images took from news sources about assorted issues going on at that point in time.

Usually, these scam accounts also claim the links they’re using is something it’s not. Or say the link is to a fundraiser, but it’s to something entirely different. Occasionally the link may be made using multiple colors for no real reason so don’t do that of you had the idea to. This isn’t a common thing among scam accounts! But it’s been seen across a few here and there.

Lastly, these scams accounts may pretend to be part of a minority in order to get more sympathy from those who see their accounts. They will also pretend to have some kind of health issue such as claiming they need medicine to stop their lungs from collapsing or medicine to stop their nose from freezing. Usually not much of a common scam attempt, but you’ll usually spot the issue with their claims. Most commonly these scams relate to saying they can’t afford insulin and ask for prices that ,while plausible, can be made cheaper with available resources.

As a bonus point, scammers may yell at you if you call them out so please make sure to take proper care to ensure they can’t do that.

[rayofdawnworld]

Too Late part 3

Here is part 3 of Too Late a fic that was inspired by this board done by the brilliant @darkficsyouneveraskedfor, please check out her page if you don't already know her and @thezombieprostitute also a brilliant writer that you look in too in case you don't already know her either.

This is a work of Dark Fiction. It WILL contain dark themes. I will post the appropriate tags as they become relevant.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. Don't Like? DON'T READ!

I do not consent to ANY of my works to be posted for profit. I do not consent to ANY of my works to be posted on to third-party sites. I only have ONE AO3 page and I post what I want on it.

MINORS ARE NOT ALLOWED ON MY BLOG! DO NOT INTERACT! MDI

Please tell me your thoughts, this is my first Reader insert so I'm still a bit unsure if I'm doing a good job. I love constructive criticism.

Will tag you if you ask.

Tags based on Reblogs, Tag requests and likes: @roni-not-tyler @rosecentury @raritygold @fidrygalk @leonaax @severussnapesimp @lov4gor3 @kjah97 @silelda @thedragonlab @hopeasan

Part One, Part Two

Mr. Beckwourth was a kind soul. You came across him one early morning on your way to the university, six months into your escape, unconscious by the sidewalk. You didn’t know how long he had been there, but he did have a wicked gush on his forehead. Luckily for you and him, the milk lad was passing by on his way to deliveries when he spotted the two of you and recognised the old man instantly. Telling you to wait with him, the young man sprinted in a direction and came back with the man's neighbours, a foreign middle-aged couple. After telling them where you worked and asking them to send any news, you collected yourself and made your way to work. 

You received news about him a week later. The poor man was robbed; yes, he was fine; no, he didn't see who did it. After some visits and friendly banter, you became friends and had a standing agreement that every Saturday morning, you would go out to the docks with Mr. Beckwourth to get his supply of fish and then help him sell it in the market.

You were busily accepting an order of salmon and herring when your stomach lurched. Surely you were mistaken. 

Ever since you ran away from your previous life, you have lived in fear of a tall figure with broad shoulders finding you and dragging you back to those horrid people you called family. They would kill you if you ever went back home before you came of age, after what became of Darling Anne. 

There was no way that a man like Sherlock Holmes would come to the market to buy his food. Unless he was in one of his cases, why would it bring him here? You had no clue; you just hoped that whatever it was didn't bring him to this point.

Oh, yes, you had followed the news discreetly (no point in letting those around you know you were literate.), but diligently. You knew all about him and his service to the crown and its citizens. Best not to test fate. I’ve come too far. Your thought was desperate as you dove below the stall and rubbed some fish guts on your cheek and head. I’ll have to spend some money in one of the washhouses with warm water then. Mrs. Acker will have a fit if I show up soiled again. You rose again with a cheery smile, despite your fear about whether you may or may not have been seen.

You were hyper-aware of yourself leaving the market. Once, twice, three times you could have sworn you were being followed, but when you stopped in front of a shop or pretended to turn in the wrong street, with a piece of paper in your hand to make it believable, you had either come across a vagrant or no one at all. It took you longer than normal to get to the washhouse, but it was worth the coin and your time. You didn't afford yourself many luxuries, but good ointments and oils for your skin, courtesy of the two nurses, who were just old school mates and the young governess who took care of some lonely boys on the other side of London at night, and a weekly wash—a habit picked up by your mother and father's stay in their respective corners of the east—were a must. It was, in part, also why you decided to help Mr. Beckwourth. Not only did you like the old man, it also gave you a reason to visit the washhouses once a week. The ones with warm and hot water were cheaper than the tepid tub that Mrs. Acker managed. Having one last look around, you quickly dogged into the washhouse.

It was closer to evening when you finally made it to the house. Exsusted, not only from the week of labour you had but from walking up and down the streets of London just in case your follower from last night or that nuisance Sherlock Holmes had seen you or at least suspected it was you and tried to follow you back to your residence. 

Thanking Mrs. Acker for allowing you to take your supper in your room, you made your way up to what once had been a small attic workshop with a partial glass roof but was now a small room. You didn't mind it. The glass part of the roof had a hatch you could open in the summer, keeping the room cool. After all, who would climb to the roof to steal steel from a humble boarding house? And since the fireplace chimney ran through your room, it kept the winter chill out, despite part of the roof being made of glass. You liked the roof like this. It saved you on candles and gas for the lantern; it provided you with lots of natural light for you to read when you were in your room. And you always did love the sound of the rain. 

All in all, it was a quiet place with its share of whimsy. You had fallen in love with it the moment you saw it. Yes, it was a hassle to go down a flight of stairs every time you needed to go to the washroom, but since it was on the smaller side and was in the attic, it did come in cheaper than the other rooms, which suited you nicely. After eating, you settled down for some well-earned rest.

You didn't know that on the other side of London, in an apartment on Baker Street, a tall man with wide shoulders and dark blue eyes seethed in anger.

It had been by sheer coincidence that he found you at the market. Watson had to do some hours at the hospital, and Mary, being heavily pregnant, asked him to help her with her errands at the market. He stood silent as you helped an older man behind the fishmonger's stand. You couldn't help but notice your still-smooth hands. They had thickened with what he deduced was years of hard work, but they were still fine with smooth skin. On the subject of your skin, that too was fine, smooth, and quite clean. It didn't have any of the telltale muck common among the more impoverished folk. He didn't see how you could afford the cost of regular baths in a boarding house, so it could only be through the use of the washhouses that you could keep so clean. It still didn't explain the softness of your skin and healthy glow. Sherlock only had time to quickly turn around before you raised your eyes in his direction. He was going to take advantage of his luck. It seemed that he would move his plans forward by a whole day and a half. Making sure that Mary was alright and excusing himself, he made his way to the first beggar he found near the steps of the market. 

He was going to put his homeless network to good use. He would know where you lived by nightfall. 

Nightfall provided him with nothing. Despite no less than fifteen of his best in the Homeless Network having followed you discreetly, you still managed to give them the slip, more or less where he had followed you last night. He grabbed the skull on the fire mantle and threw it angrily at the wall. He then shot the wall for good measure. 

That sent Mr. Hudson into hysteria, threatening him about calling the Yard. No doubt Watson would have some choice words come Monday morning if previous fits of rage had taught him anything. He growled and threw more things at the wall opposite him. 

Pussycat was in for a right spanking when he finally got his hands on her.

Pussycat was in for a whole lot more when he got his hands on her. A lot more. 

Sherlock smiled in the darkness, clutching his violin bow in his hands.

[ghostintheheadset]

Ok sorry for a 10:30 pm fandom rant. but.

This is a canonical, official tag in fe3h. I'll see it every so often, and it always rubs me the wrong way because the obvious implication of the tag is "unlike in canon, where they do not."

And that is just. Very blatantly untrue? The obvious example is after Jeralt dies, and every interaction in the following chapter is tinged by characters noticing and interacting with their grief. The battle in the sealed forest happens because Byleth is acting on their emotions and they fall into the trap set by TWSITD. They find their mother's ring in his room and carry it with them until the end of the game.

But even outside that: Jeralt notes how being around the students is making them look happy. When they wake up after the timeskip, their IMMEDIATE instinct is to go find their students and make sure they're okay. The vast majority of runs will end with them getting married to someone that they are in love with. They have paired endings that include exchanging love poems, starting a family, explicit moments of happiness with their spouse.

Does this sound like someone who's so emotionless in canon that fics where they have emotions need its own explicit tag?

But because their expression portraits are a lot less emotive than other characters, and the majority of their dialogue isn't voice-acted until Hopes, the conception of Byleth as being unemotional or not having a personality spreads around until we get here.

Let's talk about affect expression. Affect expression refers to how a person's visible responses emotion- not how they feel or process emotion, just how they respond to it in their face, voice, or movements. The terms "flat affect" or "blunted affect" are relevant here, referring to a reduced range of affect expression- someone with flat affect might show incredible happiness with a small smile, or appear perfectly neutral despite experiencing extreme sadness or anxiety. As you might expect, this can lead to people assuming those with flat affect are cold or unemotional, even when it very much isn't the case.

(This is also a fairly common trait associated with autism!)

Now, I do agree that there are aspects of their character, especially pre-hopes, that feel "intentionally left blank" for the purposes of being a player character for the player to project onto. There are definitely valid criticisms in that respect. However, it's always deeply frustrating to me to see them painted as being entirely emotionless or completely without character traits- they're someone who does feel, who cares about the people around them a lot, who turns back time to protect them, and that all falls by the wayside because they're quiet and not very expressive.

[lily-orchard-gossip-blog]

Hello hello again! It's good to have you back for a little while! Unfortunately there is a lot of infighting in the critical sphere right now and it's not very fun to follow. And worse still Lily is as smug as ever. People are too invested in who ripped off what, who's disrespecting this or that, they should just be having fun at Lily's expense. That's what Saiscribbles has done, and you can tell how effective it is because Lily has tried every strategy in the book to prove how not mad she is.

You know what?

I think I would like to poke fun at the whole thing. I mean, it's sounds like she's gotten a bit ridiculous since I've been gone. (Ridiculous sounds like an understatement, thought.)

I've done serious and it's exhausting. You can only take her serious for so long before you realize she doesn't really even know or believe what she's saying.

As for the fighting, well... It's a shame, but let's try to focus on what's at the core of this blog: Gossiping about Lily.

...But I do have one thing I want to get off my chest, so I will mention it here and then move on. It is under the read bar just so those who don't care can ignore it.

I do have one thing to say about the drama, and that's about Ethel.

They are a liar liar pants on fire.

Seriously, I watched Evangeline Skovs video, which was one of the better coverages on the subject and there was no plagiarism. Not even of me, and I was a source!

Never mind that fact that Ethel legit lied about my blog in their rebuttal, claiming that Levi couldn't find anything on my blog about their video, or glade, so Evangeline was lying.

Their proof? Levi used the search bar, used the word minor and glade, and nothing came up except one post...

Fun fact: I'm bad at tagging things, and my search bar is kind of useless because of that.

(Side note: why would I use glade's name? Why would I want to draw attention to someone who I assumed wanted to be left alone? I'm pretty sure that was made clear in the video.)

Anyway, if you used my archive you could easily find TONES of posts from me talking about the video in question with details.

Here's one that Ethel conveniently left out:

And you know what's hilarious about that? They reblogged this take to try and rebuke it on their tumblr. (That they have long since abandoned.)

I decided to ignore it, because obviously I'm not going to try and get in a fight with them, and Ethel was so mad by that they messaged me directly to try and threaten me with legal jargon.

So I blocked them.

But hey, since I'll probably never bother with this again, here are the messages. Enjoy old drama from like...2 years ago:

Image text here:

[Okay, I've put this off for as long as possible, but please, read this case study as right now you are parroting harmful legal advice. Victim testimony not only constitutes evidence, but can be sufficient evidence to convict, a fact that was tested in Commonwealth v Gustavo Gonzalez Santos in Massachusetts.

I’ll highlight two relevant sections in case you don’t have the time to read the entire thing: “The defendant's sole argument on appeal is that the evidence was not sufficient to support his convictions. The defendant asserts that "there were no witnesses to the alleged assaults," "no physical evidence," "no medical or forensic evidence," and "no expert testimony." He argues that "there was absolutely no conclusive evidence presented at trial that suggested the [d]efendant's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt."” And: “Here, the victim testified to facts that constituted each element of the charged offenses. Her testimony, which the jury found to be credible, was sufficient, standing alone, to support a finding beyond a reasonable doubt as to each of the convictions. See, e.g., Commonwealth v. Lawrence, 68 Mass. App. Ct. 103, 104 (2007)

("The victim's testimony was sufficient evidence of [indecent assault and battery on a child under age fourteen]"); Commonwealth v. Gonsalves, 23 Mass. App. Ct. 184, 185 (1986) ("The victim's account of what the defendant did to him in the apartment was sufficient to overcome the defendant's motion for a required finding of not guilty of rape"). The idea that long infected our legal system that the victim's testimony in sexual assault and rape cases is less credible than the testimony of victims in cases involving other types of crimes -- an idea that reflected nothing more than sexism and an unwillingness on the part of our courts to treat sexual crimes as the gravely serious matter that they are -- has been rejected both by statute and by common law.”

When you and others continue to parrot the myth that victim testimony does not constitute as valid evidence, you are harming victims of rape and abuse. This is straight up rape culture and, since I’m pushing back any video coverage on the matter until I’ve finished dealing with Lily because I don’t want to muddle things, I need you to stop promoting falsehoods. We have legal members on our team who have passed the bar, Patchie does not, Opal does not, and neither does You Can Eat Hearts. You are causing unnecessary harm to victims by breathing life into myths constructed by rape culture. To be clear, I am not asking for your denouncement of certain people, just for you to please, stop publishing bad legal takes.

This is also the case in Canada, if you're wondering - https://www.accused.ca/evidence.htm

Sorry, I just realized I didn't give you the US case study. Here it is - http://masscases.com/cases/app/100/100massappct1.html#:~:text=The%20jury%20found%20the%20defendant,We%20affirm. ]

Oct 30, 2022 9:16 AM

Whew, you have no idea how long I wanted to spill this tea.

Alright, I've said what I've wanted to say on this topic. I'm now going to focus on laughing at Lily and her horrible incest stories.