#but whumptober my beloved 😭

[adrift-in-thyme]

My advisor: if you take four classes next semester you’ll meet your graduation goal!

Me thinking how that means I won’t have the time and brain power to do whumptober: haha cool beans!

[amethystfairy1]

Hello! Hello! Hello!

I don't really have a question to ask... you're just one of the blogs I've followed the longest (you as well as doody are the reasons i got tumblr actually) and I've never sent an ask so I thought I'd just stop by and say... well, hello!

I absolutely adore your works and although I've never sent a comment on ao3, just know that you can go to any chapter you've ever wrote and imagine many, MANY, keyboard smashes from me, lol

I'm proud to say I've been here since the beginning (Pretty Boy my beloved...) and am always looking foward to where you'll end up taking us next (traveling thieves was one of the best spur-of-the-moment things to come from whumptober-ish), and no matter what you do, fanfiction, original stories, art (even if you claim you can't draw)... you'll always have my, as well as many others, support

I hope you have a wonderful night of sleep, because you deserve it

Awww you're so sweet thank you thank you! 💖

I'm so glad you've stuck around since Pretty Boy for TTSBC and enjoyed TT as well! And it's so kind of you to say you'd be interested in anything I were to create (I promise you it won't be art tho, definitely can't draw 😭) that really does mean so much to me!

Like I've mentioned here and there, I have an original concept I've been working on for years, and it's meant to be written similar to TTSBC and TT, that is, multiple storylines all kinda tripping over each other, and while I don't plan to actually post anything of it until I finish my degree, which will be next May, I am already thinking about how I would figure to share it with all of you! It would be so much fun, and I hope it'll get at least a little bit of the astounding amount of love that my AUs have!

But for now, it's tippy taps for the block men! 😆

Thank you so much for coming by!!!

[sam-loves-seb]

Just a gentle nudge that if you feel inclined to post that one Whumptober fic that you gave us a sample of, I'd really love to read it. You're one of my favorite writers though so even if you don't post that one I'll be looking forward to whatever you decide to post next about our beloved Gallavich boys 🙂

oh this is so sweet, you're so kind 😭💛

see, i also would love to post that one whumptober fic but the thing is i still haven't gone back to finish writing it yet, so unfortunately i just have 3k of prison!gallavich sitting in my docs haunting me. i think maybe after the new year i'll go back to some forgotten whumptober fics/prompts and maybe it'll get written eventually, but for now i can at least drop another snippet from it under the cut:

***

The lockdown bleeds into lights out, which only makes Ian worry more.

Wherever Mickey is—he’s not coming back. Not tonight, anyways.

Ian refuses to let his mind go to the worst-case scenario. He’d know. He’d fucking know if Mickey was dead, if his body was lying somewhere without a heart beating between his ribs. Someone would have told him, probably, but he’d feel it in his gut, in the place that tugs and twists and tells him that Mickey is still alive.

Somewhere.

Ian lays in Mickey’s bunk and tries to breathe.

Maybe he’s in solitary. Maybe he mouthed off to a guard or got caught up in a fight that wasn’t even his to begin with—could be anything, really. They throw prisoners in there for less. Maybe by this time tomorrow Mickey will be back in their cell where he belongs, and Ian will laugh against his neck as Mickey retells the ridiculous story of his last twenty-four hours.

Or maybe it’s worse.

Ian doesn’t know, but he needs to. So, he lies in Mickey’s bottom bunk with his jumpsuit on, staring at the ceiling with a couple bills folded in his hand, and he waits.

He doesn’t know where Mickey gets his money in fucking prison, but he knows which hollowed out book he keeps it in, stacked at the foot of Ian’s bunk right between The Great Gatsby and The Book Thief.

“For emergencies,” Mickey told him one night, like a stern parent, showing Ian all his best hiding spots.

For information, is what he meant. For when something goes wrong.

Ian thinks now more than ever, something has gone wrong.

And maybe tomorrow Mickey will thump him upside the head for using it on something stupid, like confirming his boyfriend is in solitary for calling one of the guards a little bitch, but Ian doesn’t care. He’ll let Mickey call him ridiculous and a pussy and whatever the fuck he wants—as long as Ian knows he’s going to be okay.

So he waits the two hours after lights out for the guards to make their first lap of the cellblock on patrol, but he doesn’t recognize any of them. He waits another two hours for their next walk around, twiddling his fucking thumbs and refusing to fall asleep.

He recognizes one of the guards this time, an old school officer named Daniels who no one would ever blink twice at, let alone mark him as corrupt. But Ian does. Ian does because Mickey told him, showed him, had his back more than once and needed Daniels to make certain things happen.

And now it’s Ian’s turn.

“Daniels,” he calls out quietly, sitting up in his bunk just as the guards are almost past his door.

His heart beats hard against his chest and his breathing is fast, but his stomach nearly falls out his ass when the guard actually stops.

Ian is up and pressed against the door in an instant, looking too eager and too green but not giving a single fuck about any of it.

Daniels nods at his partner to go on ahead, waiting a full minute before turning around and looking at Ian straight on.

“I need your help,” Ian says quickly. “I need—”

“Step back, inmate.”

Ian blinks. For a second he thinks that maybe he got his guards mixed up, but there’s a sewn on patch that reads Daniels across the guy’s chest, and that just leaves Ian confused.

“What? No,” Ian rushes out. “I thought—”

“Step back,” Daniels says again, quieter. “So I can open the door.”

Ian does as he’s told.

He stands farther back in the room, shoulders square and his spine elongated to his full height. He waits for the buzzer and the click of the door, never taking his eyes off the guard as he takes three steps into the room.

He doesn’t ask about the empty bunk or the missing cellmate, which leads Ian to believe that he knows.

“Where’s Mickey?” Ian asks, jumping the gun.

Daniels looks him over for a minute. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He so clearly does, but, well—Ian is bad at this, and he’s never been able to play anything cool in his entire fucking life.

He holds out the folded bills in his hand, and Daniels’s brow twitches in interest. He reaches out to take it, but as soon as he grabs on, Ian pinches the cash hard between his thumb and forefinger.

“Where is he?” he asks again.

Daniels tugs the money free from Ian’s grasp, then counts out the cash. He tucks it away in his pocket before resting both hands on his belt, thumbs dipping beneath the fabric as he rocks back on his heels.

“Inmate Milkovich is in the infirmary,” he says without a hint of emotion.

Ian’s heart stops. “For what?”

Daniels just shrugs.

“Fuck,” Ian mutters, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Is he okay?”

“He’s alive,” Daniels says with another impersonal shrug.

Ian remembers to breathe. Alive is good. Alive is—not dead.

Daniels turns to leave, taking two steps towards the door.

“Wait,” Ian calls out, then hesitates when the guard actually turns back. “What… happened?”

Daniels just shrugs again, walking out of the cell like he doesn’t have all the answers that Ian so desperately craves. He stands in the hallway, tilts his head a little as he watches Ian, and as the cell door starts to slide back into place, he says,

“He got stabbed.”

***

yeah i'm pretty sure the prompt for this one was "bloody knife" so that's where this was going.

anyways

thanks for the ask and the lovely words 💛💛💛

[treemaidengeek]

for the wip ask: whumptober migraine? 👀

This has been hanging out unfinished at 2k RIP me 😭 I've got severe chronic migraines & I think it started partly as a way to process thru writing, partly as a hurt/comfort/sickfic & shenanigans piece with my beloved blorbo Xichen & the chaos gremlins that surround him... & then I stalled out in the mid-to-late execution.

Two excerpts to give the flavor of the piece (Lan Xichen narrator):

...........................................................................

I didn't have time for pain today. The thought brought a little laugh and a twist to my lips that wasn’t quite a smile. It wasn't going to be a good day. But one thing about surviving war and its aftermath: I'll always have had worse.

I forced my body to uncurl. Eyes half closed, facing away from the light. The episode wasn’t severe yet- that is, not as severe as I knew it would become. I sat up. A lightning-drumbeat pulsed at my temple. I winced and took a breath before standing.

...........................................................................

“Sizhui?” Jingyi’s whisper carried from beyond my door. “Is he asleep? Can I come in?”

“Come in,” I called, grateful for the distraction, at the same time that Sizhui hissed, “No! You’re supposed to be preparing the reception chamber.”

I flinched again as my door scraped open. “I’m sorry to intrude, Zewu-jun.” Jingyi did not usually speak so quietly. That was a blessing at least. “I was just hoping I could borrow some of your Huoshan Huangya tea.”

I managed a nod and waved a hand at the corner cabinet. “In the top drawer. No, ah." I forced my mind to function. "Middle drawer. Sorry. The yellow-enamel tin.”

“Why do you need it now?” Sizhui protested. “Ouyang-zonghzu will be here in a sichen. No, Zewu-jun, he can find it, please rest.” At that last, I permitted him to guide my shoulders back down to the mattress. Mostly because my head pulsed with renewed pain when I started to sit.

“I know he’ll be here soon. Why do you think I want to set out fine tea? The kitchen is out of Huoshan Huangya but I knew you’d have some,” he apologized.

“Jingyi," Sizhui scolded gently. "Ouyang-zonghzu prefers white tea.”

"Does he?" The youth sounded perfectly innocent.

"He does," Sizhui confirmed. "His son likes Huoshan Huangya, but I believe it's actually one of zongzhu's least favorites."