#this and and ‘workplace assault’ that

[abbotsanatomy]

Can I request a Jack x reader where reader gets hurt while working and Abbot goes insane trying to make sure she’s okay 🤭

⨳ HEART IN YOUR THROAT

pairing: jack abbot x wife!doc!reader warnings: workplace romance, descriptions of injury, depiction of an erratic patient, assault of a healthcare provider. author's note: y'all i wrote this man stressed! (reasonably) he CANNOT lose another wife...

There's a tune stuck in your head, from the drive to work. You're humming it as you look over your most recent patient's labs. But you can't hear yourself anymore when someone yells from somewhere near the ER's ambulance entrance.

'Yell' isn't really the right word, it's more of a shrill screaming that chills you to the core. You're still leaning on the station counter, when you spot Jack running towards the screaming, followed by Ellis.

The computer's immediately abandoned, as you make your way through the ER in a sprint. You pick up a paper gown on the way out, and pull it on, tying it in the back. The emergency entrance's glass doors open automatically, as you make your way through them and onto the road.

It's chilly outside, as can be expected on a winter night in Pittsburgh. You can feel cold air making its way deep into your bones, but you know you have to move quick when you see the patient thrashing violently on a hospital gurney. You can tell Ellis and Jack have already gotten a few kicks to the face, trying to steady the patient's legs, where the blood is making it difficult to asses his injury.

You make for his arms, which are free and way too close to grasping Ellis by the hair. You're pulling him back onto the gurney as gently as possible, pulling both of his arms into yours. There's no way to be reassuring in this kind of situation, but you try anyway. He isn't taking any of it, though. His screaming directly at your face makes you flinch a few times. His wife shouting in the background isn't so comforting either.

Somewhere throughout the struggle, the patient gains on you. You can slowly feel your grip over him slip. With a rough shove from him, you're down on the floor, face planted directly onto the pavement. You can hear a sickening crack when you try to move your face across the concrete. An intense pain shoots up from your nose, and you swear you can feel it in your brain.

"Fuck!" you shout into the ground, and even that hurts.

You can hear John make his way out of the emergency entrance, he almost leans down to check on you, but you give him a thumbs up. You just want this idiot on the gurney out of your sight, then you might get up. He makes his way to help restrain the patient.

Jack's voice is distantly shouting a question at Shen that you can't quite make out. Then, he's right in front of you, pulling you up by your arms before you can protest. There's an almost alarming amount of blood on the pavement where your face was. When he pulls your face up to get a good look, you can taste your own blood making its way down your throat.

You wipe away the blood from your top lip. Any expression you make is so painful you regret ever even having a face. Jack's eyes are going back and forth, analyzing every part of you to make sure there's nothing else besides the glaringly obvious broken nose.

"I think it's..." you take a deep breath in through your mouth, "broken."

The gurney passes you two, crouched on the side of the road. Jack shoots the patient the nastiest glare you've ever seen. He looks ready to kill the man. You're pretty sure he would've at least put him in the hospital if he wasn't already here.

The moment he looks back into your eyes, his face twists into a more comforting expression.

"Yeah?" he smiles, but it barely reaches his eyes, "I think so too, honey. Let's get you up. I'll take care of it."

You let him pull you up to stand. He's still observing you for any signs there might be something else wrong.

"You hurt anywhere else?" he asks, his tone soft.

You shake your head.

Even if you were, you're pretty sure the burning sensation in your face is clouding your judgement. "Nope. Legs just a lil' sore."

"Alright. We'll get 'em looked at."

By that, he means he's going to move you into the ER and damn-near yell at anyone who even suggests he go assist with the patient and let someone else take care of you. You always knew Jack had a protective streak, but seeing it in action is entirely different. You're sure you'd be laughing and making fun of him for it, if speaking and smiling and breathing didn't hurt so bad.

He guides you to one of the ER chairs, and pulls the cubicle curtain closed. The first victim of his very thorough physical examination is your nose, which he packs to stop the bleeding and then gives you a local anesthetic injection in. It dulls the pain and makes the manual realignment feel like barely a gentle pull.

When he's done, he checks you everywhere else. He does a million tests you both know are incredibly excessive. You let him turn your limbs every which way, check your breathing a hundred times, and perform a neuro exam more than ten times, probably.

"I'm fine, Jack," you kindly inform him, for the fifth time since you've sat down, as he flashes a light into your eyes.

He puts the flashlight away and nods, finally acknowledging you. His arms come to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs stroking the skin there. Your eyes meet. When you smile at him, he grimaces.

"Oh my god. Am I really that deformed?" you joke.

He shakes his head slowly, "You could never be anything short of gorgeous in my eyes."

You're about to make another joke, when you realize his eyes hold an intensity in them that's usually reserved for those terribly intimate moments you share, almost exclusively, at your apartment. He looks really fucking scared, too. It’s a proper notch down from how afraid he looked outside, so you’ll take it.

"Where doesn't hurt?" he asks.

You point to your cheek. It isn’t completely pain-free, but it's the only place you can tolerate any kind of pressure and actually feel it. He leans down and presses his lips gently there. It makes your eyes flutter shut instantly. Your hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, keeping him there.

"I think you'll need to perform an even more thorough examination. At home. In bed," you whisper into his ear.

When he laughs against your skin, you turn your face to the side, so you can press your mouth to the side of his jaw. You instantly regret it, though, because your freshly split lip burns.

"Ouch," you complain.

Jack presses one last kiss to your temple, before he pulls away. He grabs his phone out of his front pocket.

"We leave in an hour," he confirms.

"You can nap here. I'll make sure no one wakes you up until it's time to go," his voice is soothing, but you know he's not really asking.

Luckily, you can already feel your eyes droop, so you’re barely arguing anyway. Jack's footsteps are heavy, and when he pulls the curtain open you can tell he hesitates for a moment.

It sounds like he has a smug grin on his face, "And, uh, you're only slightly deformed."

Your eyes shoot open, but before you can grab something to throw at him he's already out of eyeshot.

"You can't say that to your patients, Doctor Abbot!" you yell after him.

The last thing you hear before passing out is his distant laugh.

[celtyradicalfem]

What happened at Edinburgh Rape Crisis Centre was a rape trauma victim asked Roz Adams about the biological sex of rape trauma counselors and she inquired on her behalf

Assisting rape trauma victims and acknowledging their needs and wishes is part of the job (a concept that escapes your understanding) and Roz Adams faced discrimination and a workplace tribunal in retaliation

Mridul Wadhwa was unjustly handed a the position of CEO of Edinburgh Rape Crisis Centre instead of an actual woman qualified for the position

He took offence at her legitimate inquiry on behalf of a client (the people they are meant to serve) and started a harassment campaign based on biased polices that sacrifice the safety and dignity of rape trauma victims for the feelings of men (himself included)

Cameron Downing, a sexual predator was permitted access to the rape crisis shelter under Mridul Wadhwa’s trans inclusive policy

Wadhwa has been unceremoniously fired after the scandal broke. Edinburgh Rape Crisis Centre has been forced to apologise for unprofessional behaviour and safe guarding failure

“If the most important thing to you after you've been fucking raped is whether your counsellor has a penis, you've a whole other crisis to be worried about, and it's not one a rape centre can assist you with.”

All this happened because a rape crisis centre did not follow the correct guidelines on safeguarding and serving the female rape trauma client they were entrusted to protect

In other words the trans identified male corrupted a rape crisis centre (founded by radical feminists in 1978) did not do their fuckin jobs of providing a penis free environment for rape victims to heal and allowed a sexual predator into a rape crisis centre in the name of ‘trans inclusion’

if i'm being honest one of the biggest things that peaked me was beira's place, jkr's women's crisis centre.

there was no shortage of mixed sex crisis cwntres, it would become the only single sex one in that city. you would think it would be good for social support, so the women who had no negative reaction to bio males (trans or not) could go to them, and the ones who were triggered by them could go to beira's place.

if a transwoman was truly in crisis, surely the last thing they would want was to be surrounded by women who were triggered by them due to their bio sex? surely it would be better to divert those women elsewhere so everyone could heal in peace?

but trans activists wouldn't stand any single sex crisis centre, which shows something very ugly about their cause. it isnt about helping the most vulnerable among them and women, its about punishing anyone who commits the thoughtcrime of seeing biological sex

[tacobacoyeet]

“JEALOUS JAKE PERALTA” 🗣️🗣️we all shout in unison. maybe a detective from another precinct hitting on Jake’s girl. Something like the 9-8 episode yknow?? I lovvveeddd the the story from the other day you did. It was so cutie

not-girlfriend | jake peralta x reader

a/n: short and stupid and sweet but i hope you like it! warnings: not my usual writing style, really short, not proofread

The briefing room is louder than usual.

The overlap of night shift and day shift has brought double the cops and triple the ego, and Captain Holt looks about one more sarcastic comment away from walking into traffic.

“Let’s try this again,” he says, tone clipped as always. “The precinct is short-staffed due to the commissioner’s inexplicable decision to approve simultaneous leave requests, so the night shift and day shift will be operating as one until further notice. That means cooperation, communication, and no turf wars.”

A hand shoots up.

“No, Detective Boyle, this is not an opportunity to suggest ‘team-building lasagna.’”

Boyle lowers his hand slowly. “Copy that, sir.”

Jake leans back in his chair, trying to look casual. He nudges your knee under the table.

“You know this is gonna be a disaster, right?” he whispers. “Night shift people are weird. They’re like raccoons. Shifty, unpredictable, probably hiding trash in their lockers.”

You grin. “They’re not that bad. And you have trash in your locker.”

Just then, the door swings open.

And in strolls Detective Cole.

Night shift. Leather jacket. Perfectly gelled hair. The kind of smile that knows it’s been complimented before. He scans the room and lands squarely on you.

“Well,” he says, voice like he thinks it’s charming, “day shift just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Jake chokes on his coffee.

Boyle pats his back.

“I got you, buddy.”

Cole ignores the commotion entirely and slides into the empty seat beside you—your usual spot next to Jake now inconveniently blocked by smirking smugness and cologne.

“So,” Cole says, turning to you with that same perfectly polished grin. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you 'trouble'?”

You blink. You’ve barely spoken to the guy, and already he’s laying it on thick.

“Uh—Y/N. Detective Y/L/N,” you manage, trying to sound neutral. “Day shift.”

Jake snorts from behind his coffee cup. “Yeah, she’s not in the market for whatever noir fantasy you’ve got going on, man.”

Cole doesn’t miss a beat. “Relax, Peralta. Just being friendly.”

Boyle leans toward Rosa. “This feels illegal. Should we tase him?”

Rosa nods, deadpan. “Let’s give him five more minutes.”

Amy whispers to Holt, “Should we intervene?”

Holt, without looking up from his notes, replies, “Only if someone dies. Or worse, makes a pun.”

You shoot Jake a glance. He looks… not mad. Just slightly feral. Like he’s trying to figure out if 'accidentally' spilling hot coffee on Cole would be considered assault or a workplace hazard.

You turn back to  Detective Cole. “Appreciate the enthusiasm,” you say. “But maybe let’s focus on the briefing?”

Jake mouths 'thank you' at you.

Cole just smiles wider.

When the meeting finally ends, Holt dismisses everyone with a dry “Do not disappoint me,” and the room scatters.

You stand to stretch, and before you can even grab your notepad, Cole’s already hovering.

“So, Y/L/N,” he says, leaning just a little too close. “You got any plans after shift? Because I know a diner down the block with terrible service and excellent pie.”

Jake is behind you in a second.

“She does have plans,” he says cheerfully. “With me. We’re watching Die Hard and making aggressively mediocre spaghetti. Very romantic.”

You glance at Jake, confused but amused. “Since when?”

“Since… now,” Jake says, voice going high-pitched at the end. “Right now.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Ah. Got it. Work partners and dinner dates. Cute.”

He walks off, finally, and you turn to Jake, who is absolutely not making eye contact.

“Jake?” you say slowly.

“Hmm?” he replies, inspecting a nearby pencil like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine. Not jealous at all. That guy’s hair is definitely not better than mine. Why would I be jealous?”

Boyle strolls past with perfect timing. “He’s extremely jealous.”

The rest of the day only gets worse—for Jake, anyway.

Cole is everywhere. At the vending machine when you’re getting your usual afternoon candy bar. Offering to carry files that don’t even belong to him. Laughing too hard at your jokes, even the terrible ones. He even volunteers to accompany you to the evidence locker, which makes Jake nearly implode.

"I'll go too," Jake blurts. "You know. For backup. Because some of those boxes are heavy. And emotionally unstable. Like me."

Rosa watches him tail the both of you down the hallway and mutters, "This is either going to end in a fistfight or a kiss."

By the time night falls, Jake’s nerves are frayed. He’s pacing in the break room, talking mostly to himself while Boyle nods encouragingly.

"I mean, maybe she's into that stupid hair gel. Maybe I’m just her coworker-slash-Die-Hard-buddy. Maybe I hallucinated that time she touched my arm for like three seconds straight."

Boyle hums. “You should probably just tell her how you feel, man.”

Jake stops. “No. No way. That’s ridiculous.”

But the traveling sound of you laughing at something Detective Cole said is starting to convince him otherwise.

Jake storms out of the break room, marches over, and inserts himself right between the two of you.

"Hey. Quick question," he says. "Are you hitting on my not-girlfriend? Because if you are, I have a very long and very unnecessary PowerPoint explaining why that’s not allowed."

Cole raises both brows. "Your what?"

Jake turns to you, cheeks a little pink. "My not-girlfriend. Who I maybe—definitely—like. A lot. And have for a while. And maybe want to take on a real date. If she's into that. Which she might not be. And that’s okay. Unless it’s not."

You blink at him.

Then smile.

"Jake."

"Yeah?"

"You’re an idiot. But yes."

You grab him by his stupid collar and pull him into a kiss.

Across the bullpen, Amy silently high-fives Rosa, who then walks over and slips Cole a twenty.

Boyle blinks. "What’s that for?"

"I asked him to do it," Rosa says, not looking up from her report. "Told him to flirt with Y/L/N until Jake cracked. Honestly thought it’d take longer."

Cole chuckles, folding the bill. “Glad to help. You’re welcome for the emotional growth.”

Jake gapes. "You set me up?"

Rosa smirks. “And you’re welcome.”

-----

tagging: @glennussy @larasreality

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3

PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks, implied past SA

“Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

SUNDAY APRIL 29TH 2024

MEXICO, 0700 HOURS

Soap thinks that he might explode.

The radio has been static.  Silence.  Dead.  It hasn’t left Price’s hand and Soap severely doubts his finger has left the button, either.  Not since promising that they were on their way, two whole days ago.  Too long ago.  Anxiety coils tight in his chest with each second of tense silence, a ticking time bomb.

Seven days.  Over one-hundred hours Ghost and you have been stranded in this fucking country, a number that only grows by the moment.  The more time passes the bigger of a chance he’ll find you both dead in a ditch somewhere; and the thought bothers him more than he’d ever admit to anyone.  Ghost: dead—for some reason his mind just won’t compute it.  Can’t happen.  Impossible, even.  

And all Soap can do is sit and fucking wait while the man who’s saved his life time and time again is out there somewhere.  It makes his throat feel tighter than he’ll ever admit, more than even he predicted.

Not that he ever predicted this—Ghost being stranded and half-dead, of all people.  Soap thinks he’s only ever seen the Lieutenant injured a handful of times; less so than his own Captain.  A ripped sleeve from a stray bullet, a busted glove from a wrong punch.  But nothing serious.  Nothing as damning as blunt force to the head, nothing to get him discarded into a ditch like he was just any old soldier.

It was unsettling.  Disturbing.  Right fucking terrifying, seeing Ghost get distracted and injured.  Seeing him hesitate at the sight of air support they hadn’t accounted for, open firing at the armor supporting them.  The armor you supplied them with. The armor you were in.

Soap watched Ghost’s eyes flicker with panic when he realized, watched him completely change course and abandon everything to bolt in the opposite direction.  Watched him abandon mission and run full-speed towards the tanks. Soap had called for him, but hell reigned down on them before anything could be done.  In the moment he’d been pissed, but now?

Now just thinking about that moment he saw Ghost’s eyes change makes Soap’s jaw clench.  Makes his throat tight and stomach uneasy. 

Bleeding Jesus, Simon, what the fuck did you get yourself tangled into?

A torrential downpour assaults the helo, a constant muffled rumble outside the gear that covers Soap’s ears.  To his right is Gaz, clutching a rifle close as his foot taps erratically against the floor.  Expression tense, he stares out from under his hat at the fog and the rain. 

In front of Gaz is Laswell, hunched over a laptop.  Wisps of blond hair beginning to fall out of her bun, a nasty cut still remains on her cheek from the battle a week prior.  Everyone is beat up, running on fumes, painkillers, and anxiety from the fiasco—but no complaints leave anyone’s mouths.  No words at all.  Soap shifts, the arm he keeps in a sling aching dully with the movement, fingers twitching.

Tension weighs like a heavy, hot, suffocating blanket.

“‘Better not be fuckin’ dead,”  Soap mutters to the other sergeant to his right, just loud enough to speak through the rain.  The first thing anyone has said in twenty minutes.  “Or I swear I’ll lose it.”

Gaz takes a breath, sitting back in his seat.  

“Gotta stay optimistic,” he says.  “He’ll be fine.  He always is.”

“And the Colonel?”

Gaz sends a loud glance Soap’s way.  From all the information Price got from Ghost—it was unlikely you’d make it.  With that, plus the radio silence, and the very real idea that Ghost may be underplaying his injuries—whatever lay ahead of them won’t be good.  Nobody said so, but everyone was thinking it.  Gaz doesn’t say anything.

Soap only met you a few weeks prior to the fight—right there on the tarmac as he stepped off the plane into Mexico.  A wave of deja vu overcame him, inhaling his first breath of humid, warm air since that disastrous mission in Las Almas.  The one that brought him and Ghost together—taught the stubborn, aloof lieutenant to trust someone.  Soap swears he’ll bully the lieutenant into spilling his guts.  Filling the gaps of the story he’s only heard bits and pieces of from Price.

From the second he left that plane, Ghost wouldn’t stop staring at something off at the end of the room.  Following his gaze, Soap’s eyes landed on you.  The laptop under your arm and the men you surrounded yourself with.  Beside you was Laswell, here to introduce you as the new member of the team for the mission at hand.

Anyone who Price trusted immediately held his respect, but he finds you’re a special kind of scary.  A pretty thing, one of the few women on the base other than Laswell, but strong and reserved.  Tired eyes jaded, permanently focused.  Uniform, hair, posture all scarily perfect, disciplined.  You were straight to the point and didn’t fuck around—traits he also admired in his Lieutenant, who was conveniently missing for your introduction.

A woman who’s seen shit.

“You must be MacTavish,”  you said, giving Soap’s hand a firm shake—a small smile gracing your lips.  It suited you, something unexpected out of someone so intense.  “Price speaks highly of you, yeah?”

He nodded.  “Aye.  Likewise, Colonel.”

“Angel,” you corrected politely.  “No need for formalities, seriously.”

“Angel?”  He says, feeling bold.  “For your looks or your attitude?”

You only huffed, shaking your head in an amused manner.  “Depends on how well this goes over.”

“Aye.  Call me Soap.”

“How’d you get tacked with that?”

“Long story,” he replied, though it really isn’t.  “Wouldn’t mind telling ye over a coupla drinks, though.”

At that, you laughed, deciding to humor the younger sargeant.  “I might have to take you guys up on that offer, Sarg.”

Soap decided he liked you.

When Ghost reappeared a few minutes after you busied yourself rounding up other soldiers; he was pretty sure that opinion isn’t unanimous.  The lieutenant paid close attention to Price for only a few minutes before his eyes were back on you again, off at the very other end of the room.  His grip on his pack was white-knuckle tight.

Soap could probably count the number of times he’s seen Simon this uneasy on one hand.  But this?  This was different.  There was something else there; something that made his eyes dilate.  Something nervous.  He remembers scoffing at Ghost the first time he noticed his lieutenant’s lingering eyes, jabbing his side with an elbow.  Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he kept his skeptically lighthearted.

“Pretty one, ain’t she?”  He teased.  “Name’s Angel. ‘Invited us all out for drinks after the debrief; seems like another close friend o’ Gaz and the Captain.”

Still, Ghost’s gaze didn’t leave your face.  Dark eyes unreadable through the skull mask and day-old eye black.  He grumbled indifferently, dropping his pack with the others.

“Won’t be there,” he muttered.

Soap gave him a look, confused.  “Why not?”

He didn’t reply.  Confused, Soap lowered his voice, leaning in to speak over Ghost’s shoulder.  

“L.t.,”  he said, low and serious.  “You know ‘er?”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, still locked on where you stood across the large room—escorting a handful of your batalian out somewhere.  Ghost isn’t tense in the way he gets around enemies, and if he had a problem with working with you the team would’ve heard about it before the flight.  Yet, still, he stares.  Uneasy for a reason Soap can’t read.

Soap realizes his Lieutenant might actually be shocked to see you: a stranger—as far as he knows.

Then, Ghost turns and walks off to follow Price.  That strange, foreign look in his eyes disappears as he grunts; “mind your own, Johnny.”

Knowing better than to pry, he does just that.  He figures, if anything, he might get some answers out of Ghost after everything is said and done—if he’s still alive.

Soap is pried from his memories as the helo lands and everyone scrambles for their gear.  Gaz taps his shoulder and he jumps to his feet, hooking his pack over a finger and hauling it over his shoulder as Price barks orders. 

“Search the area, keep your guard up.  We don’t know what's out there—what’s got ‘em staying quiet.”  Price is tired; voice raspy and hoarse from one two many nights awake, a few too many cigars—the way it always is when missions go tits-up.  “You see anything out of the ordinary, report it immediately.”

“Copy!”

Just as Soap goes to step out behind Gaz, Price’s hand taps his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“You stay,”  he says, patting his vest.  “Watch Laswell’s six.”

Soap blinks, heart dropping to his feet.  “what?”

“You can’t shoot with that arm, Sergeant.  Stay and keep watch.”

Soap’s heart beats hard in his chest.  Just the thought of leaving Ghost out there, leaving him abandoned again in this godforsaken country leaves a sour feeling in his mouth.

“Simon could be dead out there and you want me to stay?”  He growls lowly to his Captain before he can stop himself.

Price sighs in that way he does when Gaz questions his orders.  Understanding the frustration, but also needing the cooperation with so much to worry about,  He squeezes Soap’s shoulder.  Jaded eyes are sincere and tired under his hat.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Soap,”  he says.  “Stay.  Here.”

Soap bites his tongue, only watching as the others step out and disappear into the billowing underbrush and pouring rain.  First Price, then Gaz—who sends an apologetic look Soap’s way as he jumps down into the grass.  The fire of anxiety in Soap’s chest only coils tighter now that he can’t find you or the Lieutenant himself, stuck inside the helo as backup because of his arm.

“Fuckin’ bullshite,” he growls to no one in particular as he ducks back inside.

[mediabrainrot]

when those rumors about Mia Goth came out about her kicking an extra in the head on the set of Maxxxine and we were joking that we were still gonna see it (sorry king) and my friend said “me not seeing the movie isn’t gonna unkick you in the head” and well. every time i think about why Thomas Gibson got kicked off the show im like. can’t he just come back if he promises to be nice. him not being in the show isn’t gonna. well

[strangesmallbard]

having many thoughts about helena eagan. it’s so interesting that we’ve never seen helena’s inner world—who she is without anyone watching. until ep 4 last night this frustrated me, but now i think it’s a brilliant choice because wait, no. we have seen her inner world, her inner self: we know her inny. we know that devoid of context and history and pressure, there exists helly r. and she’s strident and bold and wants to get the entire fuck out of this fucked up cult. she wants to destroy the eagans from the ground up: from her own beating heart all the way up to kier eagan’s exalted, mythologized memory.

but no, that’s not quite right. because helena eagan is still a mystery to us: who is she fully alone but still encumbered by memory? who is she alone in the dark? (we do technically see her alone, but she’s still in lumon, surrounded by lumon, staring at her eagan-given face in the mirror). i think we see flashes of this helena as she awkwardly yet sincerely mimics helly r. when mark looks like he wants to kiss her in ep 2 and she stands still, staring, unsure how to proceed. when she utterly fails at improvising her innie’s wake-up moment. when she makes the snow seal for irv, breathless and excited to have a friend who will accept a gift from her. obviously this was also a ploy to make him believe she is really helly r, his friend, but there was something so vibrantly real in her eyes. this is a really, really lonely person! this is a person who’s maybe never once had a real friend even one time.

this moment also cemented my wavering belief that we’d been watching helena, not helly. when irv expresses his suspicion, we watch her face contort itself into a blank, threatening stare. helly r (and all her freeing possibilities) leeches from her body and we’re left with the blank, solid wall of helena. who is she behind that wall? i don’t think she knows either, except that she’s ashamed of who she is outside. this is the only inside thought she fully voices, cocooned in warmth with a person who thinks she’s someone else (two times over but that’s another post). her assault of mark s—and yeah that was 100% assault—was, i think, an attempt to prove she is capable of loving and being loved, like any person. she is a real animal with instincts still alive that the eagans try to mold into something neat and sterile and dead. or rather not quite truly alive.

all this to say: what the hell is going to happen when helena and helly r integrate?

[genderoutlaws]

shot in the dark but anyone have leads on jobs in toronto? my partner has almost a decade of food service and retail keyholder experience and they need to get tf out of their current job

[bemtevis]

i would fully marry franziska von karma if I could

[hezekiahwakely]

Tumblr: art between Colin and Sam is adorable, their miscommunication is cute, they're basically already jumping each other

Me, looking at the end of episode 7: well now.... you're not wrong....

[whatahypnoticharmony]

Hi, this is aspen, the owner of this account. This is a massive divergence from my usual content and is very much full of sensitive content so tw for sexual harassment, workplace harassment, assault, and general misconduct.

On Saturday, 20th January 2024, I was assaulted by one of my coworkers.

I was closing the kitchen when he came up to me and mentioned how I wasn't allowed to call in sick again (I had woken up with a bad headache and didn't make my previous shift). He kept touching my hair and calling me various pet names, and as uncomfortable as this made me, it was normal for him.

Things eventually escalated with him grabbing my face and, for a second, grabbing my throat. I remember feeling shocked, I didn't even have time to feel scared before his hands were off me. I can't remember much after that.

With the way the kitchen is laid out, it looks more like a hallway than a room and unless you're physically in the kitchen you won't be able to see anything going on, meaning he probably wouldn't have done it had we not been remotely alone.

This account of events is mostly to help me figure out my thought process but partially to spread awareness for a topic that is often overlooked amongst other stories of sexual assault. Workplace harassment is real and a serious problem, but we can minimise said problem by spreading awareness and raising public knowledge.

It shouldn't have happened to me, it shouldn't happen to you, it shouldn't happen to anyone.

[pynkhues]

I'm so glad your friends are both okay. That's so horrible.

Thanks, anon. It was about a decade ago (although the incidents happened in different years), so time's marched on. They're both doing well now.

[jinxed-dreams]

My mum just showed me several "let's get this bread I guess" memes and asked wtf it means. I explained but apparently gen x has a difficult time understanding why the younger generations are so depressed because we have to go to work

[demento-mori]

Man, this pokemon world is fucking brutal

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"ROBBERS GET CASH IN HAMILTON SHOP," Toronto Globe. September 30, 1933. Page 2. --- Armed Men Hold Up Dominion Store on Caroline Street ---- HATCHET CASE PROBED --- (Staff Correspondence of The Globe.) Hamilton, Sept. 29. - Two armed men held up and robbed the Dominion Store at 140 Caroline Street South tonight of $30 in cash, and fled in a car. They were about 40 years of age and well dressed.

Miss Josephine Wheeler, clerk, was alone in the store when the two men entered about 7.15 o'clock. They flourished their revolvers, ordered her Into a back room, and told her to keep quiet, "If you know what is good for you." One of the men then went behind the counter and emptied the cash register.

Miss Wheeler told the police that one man was about six feet tall, clean-shaven, and well dressed in a grey suit and cap. The other man also wore light colored clothing, she said.

Allegedly Lit With Hatchet. John Tossone, 50 Gerrard Street, was removed to the General Hospital this afternoon suffering from a scalp wound and a possible fractured skull. Angelo Bambien, 366 Hughson Street North, was arrested on a charge of assault. as it is alleged he hit Tossone over the head with a lather's hatchet. The two men were at 50 Gerrard Street, and Bambien is alleged to have been quarrelsome and under the influence of liquor. In a rage, it is alleged, he raised the hatchet and struck Tossone with it twice, first with the sharp edge and second with the hammer end of it. Tossone's condition was reported to be fairly good, despite his injuries.

George Brown, 5 Inchbury Street, was severely burned this afternoon at the plant of the Canada Iron Company when he was pouring molten metal and the container overturned, setting fire to his clothes. He was burned about the chest, abdomen, head, arms and legs. Fellow-work- men rushed to his aid and stripped his burning garments from him: He was removed to the General Hospital. His condition tonight was reported to be slightly improved.

Hurt By Wrench. Sidney Piner, 467 Wellington Street North, was injured painfully on the face this afternoon when working at the Hamilton Cotton Company. wrench slipped as he was tightening a nut and struck him. He was removed to the General Hospital.

Ernest Denyes, alias Edward Burns, who was arrested last night after several citizens chased him from a house on Holton Avenue South, appeared in Police Court today on a charge of housebreaking. Before pleading to the charge Denyes asked for an adjournment, and, with the consent of Crown Attorney Ballard, the case was laid over until Wednesday. Mr. Ballard suggested ball be set at $1,000, should Denyes apply for it.

Lorne Gibson, hired man on the farm of John Prouse, in Ancaster Township, where ten fires occurred this week, appeared before Magistrate Vance in county Police Court this afternoon on a charge of vagrancy. A 14-year-old boy who lives at the farm also appeared.

County police asked for an adjournment of one week, and Gibson was remanded, while the boy was allowed to return to the farm. No fires ccurred at the farmhouse today.

Police said they expected there would be fresh developments by the time the case is proceeded with, a week hence.

[blackeyesandfistfights]

explaining wrestling drama makes you sound insane