#to ‘I should be working harder/[redacted]’ and just

[musical-chick-13]

Once again wishing I liked the books more.

[ketchuppee]

During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

[lesbiancolumbo]

I know your field is quite different from the one I work in, but as someone who is currently job hunting- any advice on how you wrote your cover letter?

sure! first of all: i want it on record that i hate cover letters, think they're stupid, but they're basically a requirement if you want to get anywhere with any job 🤕, so my philosophy regarding them is work smarter, not harder. since i'm in a very specific industry, i can get away with keeping essentially the same template and changing up one or two sentences to apply to the specific job/employer i'm applying to. this has allowed me to just plug and play with my specific cover letter and helped me easily apply to many jobs. you shouldn't be writing a different cover letter for every job! i don't know who needs to hear this! that is a waste of time!!!! my god!

so i've done my fair share of cover letter research over the years as i've applied to and it seems like the standard industry advice is this basic ass template:

this is from an article titled, no joke, "how to write cover letters that stand out".

employers read so many of these damn things and this template ironically does NOT make you stand out. the likelihood of an employer reading this is low. here's a redacted excerpt of a cover letter i submitted years ago that got me hired at my current job (ignore the whited out typo lol!!! that's how good my letter was tho, that they ignored my typo).

see the difference?

with the caveat that you should take my advice with a grain of salt, because different industries look for different types of cover letters, i always lead my cover letters with a story in my distinctive voice that grabs the person reading it. getting in the room is always the hardest part, and this was an easy way for me to grab hiring managers' attentions. when i had my first interview with the place i now work at, the first question they had was........ tell me more about the power outage! i'd been using the traditional format for months (years before that), and after a bunch of insta-rejects and canned "no thanks" i was going crazy and had nothing to lose, so i chose to get creative with it, and it's been serving me very well ever since!!!!

personally i think it sucks that job hunting has become so much of an Event - but if you do a little bit of work on the front end and craft something unique to your voice, i've found that employers WILL respond to it. and when i go to submit to a new job, i change very little, just a couple of sentences, and boom. here's MY bare bones template:

paragraph one: [lead with a story written in your unique voice that shows off your skillset and strengths. end with a version of "and that's why i'd be a great [JOB TITLE]"]

paragraph two: [this is where you hit 'em with your past job experience, but don't just sum up the resume]

paragraph three: [and here's why i would REALLY be amazing at this job, because i'm (insert whatever it is the job is looking for - "i'm passionate about this organization's cause! i'm a master at multitasking, i love working with people!" etc). you've set them up, now you gotta knock it down].

i hope that was helpful. again i can only speak to my experience, and my industry is much more receptive to creative voice in the application, but i've got a pretty decent batting average on jobs applied to/interview requests, so i think there's something to this strategy. good luck with the job hunt!

[drinkyourvillainjuice]

In-character Q&A - Vantage!

(she's still here for another week or so for patreon members to submit questions!)

1.) How did you get your powers? 

That's a gutsy question. I suppose I'll humour you.

In my early teens, my apartment block caught fire and my mom got trapped. I was shouting and screaming from the far side of a wall of flames and... I don't know. Everything just seemed to click at once.

I--it didn't go perfectly. I didn't understand how the simulations worked or how to recalculate on the fly. Mom had health complications from smoke inhalation and died younger than she should have.

I try not to dwell on it.

2.) What's the most interesting way you've used your powers?

If you believe Arcade, to cheat at video games. laughs

I once simulated hostage situation so effectively that the mask just turned themself in immediately. That was interesting because I had a psychological profile to work with. Having access to that much information is incredible.

3.) Do you actively hunt villains like the Altruists or do you just show up when they start to actually do crimes? 

That's complicated. It's usually a bad idea to go after villains in their secret identities, if they have them. That just escalates on both ends. However, if we know an enemy hideout, we'll hit it whether or not they're actively doing crime at that moment. It's a base of operations. The Businessmen are a wrinkle to that; they're too clever to leave evidence of wrongdoing at Masquerade, so we'd shoot ourselves in the foot.

It's been... more difficult lately for us to act preemptively. When your reputation has taken the kind of hit that ours did, you have to be careful not to lose the PR battle.

On a related note, I can't bring villains in based on what they might do. They have to have committed some crime first.

4.) What was the worst fight you've had? 

The Zone incident, without a question.

I miscalculated. Then I didn't salvage my mistakes. People died.

5.) What are your official (and unofficial) opinions on your fellow teammates? 

Surpass: Who wouldn't want a hero like Surpass? She can be reckless, but it's hard to argue with those powers, and we'd be a worse unit without her.

[Redacted]: She's a pain in the ass and I wouldn't change her for anything.

Enfilade: A consummate professional with a head for tactical thinking. She's been an invaluable addition.

Catherine: It's been good to see her come out of her shell bit by bit, although she'll never be a social butterfly. She's harder on herself than she needs to be. Speaking a little more cynically, it's good to have snagged someone from the DPR; it helps our reputation.

Portrait: His constructs offer superb flexibility in the field. He's a very useful teammate to have, and he cares deeply about helping people in a way few others do.

Troy: I like him. He could hold up better under pressure, sure, but that's not a huge deal. Maybe he could stand to believe in himself a little more too.

Arcade: He's a fantastic asset both for PR and in the field. He could stand to remember that he's still learning, though.

Sammy: I wish I hadn't forced him to grow up this fast.

Phalanx: She's razor sharp and pulls no punches, as well as having excellent mastery of her powers. She's a great hero.

Beth: Hah... Catherine would have been a tough nut to crack if I hadn't cut my teeth on Beth first.

6.) What were your thoughts when Bet- I mean Phalanx joined?

It was heartening to have someone flip after the Zone. Reminded me that it wasn't exclusively the Hounds--exclusively me--to blame for everything. i did have concerns that she'd cause tension, considering our losses, but the others treated her very well.

She was and is a very troubled person. Even more guarded back then, if you can believe that.

Honestly, it was a good reality check about my people skills.

7.) Do you think there's a possibility of tensions between the GH and the DPR to boil over into an actual fight?

Doubtful. Both sides would have everything to lose.

8.) (off the record) What are your thoughts on the DPR? 

They're self-righteous and government-backed, which is a dangerous combination.

I expect many, if not most of their heroes have their hearts in the right place, but the organization itself is completely rotten. It says a lot that they're more concerned with who does the heroing--who's seen to do the heroing--than the heroing itself.

9.) Have you heard of Coven at all? 

I can't say I have.

10.) Would you allow a sad, tentacle having, former villain to become a GH?

I'm willing to hear villains out if they're repentant. Would probably be a PR nightmare, but I'd rather take an opinion hit than lose the chance to help someone for the better.

What if this is the one and only time they believe they can be more than a person who hurts others? What if rejecting them just confirms what they think of themselves?

11.) Will you marry me?

I'm sure you're lovely, but even if I knew you, I have a dangerous life and an open identity. It wouldn't be right.

[honeypiehotchner]

Devil's Backbone (Unsub!Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part twelve

Welp. Once again I have nothing to say for myself. I find this way hotter than it should be. Nobody @ me idk what happened to me

Warnings: 18+ duh, this one definitely teeters more on the non-con/dubcon line than the last, just a heads up! listen there's...so much. gun play, knife play, face fucking, choking, unprotected sex, reminder that he is not a Good Guy and this is meant to make you hot and bothered (emphasis on bothered)

Don't forget to follow @honeypiehotchnerlibrary and turn on post notifications to be "tagged" when a new chapter goes up!

Twelve: [REDACTED FROM THE RECORD]

Your mind fought your body as Aaron pressed into you, grinding against you, listening to you whimper. 

The cold barrel of his gun traced your jaw. It made the unbearable heat flood your entire body, and you felt ashamed. This was wrong. This wasn’t supposed to feel good.

“I think you’re just as gone as I am,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I could shoot you. Right here, right now. Instead,” he paused, pressing the barrel to your lips, “you’re squirming underneath me like a whore.”

“I hate you,” you snapped, taking a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

“No you don’t,” he cooed, taking his gun away to cover your lips in a blistering kiss. He ignored your protests and worked his tongue between your lips until you surrendered, relaxing against his body, giving in. “There she is,” he laughs, returning to your neck. “Undo my belt,” he said. He lifted his head, looking into your eyes. “Try anything, and I’m pulling the trigger.”

You believed him. You nodded, your eyes heavy. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, pulling some of his weight off of you. “Go on.”

With your arms released, you worked him out of his belt, unzipping his pants, slipping your hand inside. He fell against the car the moment your hand wrapped around him. His hips jerked into your hand, his lips pressing against yours again.

His sounds were addicting. Listening to him fuck into your hand, his shaky breaths on your lips. You felt in control, just once. Until he took it back.

“Down,” he groaned, his hands pressing onto your shoulders. You resisted, shaking your head, until he pressed harder, and with the gun. “I said down.”

You sank to your knees, knowing what came next. He pulled his boxers down, and gripped your hair with one hand, shoving you forward.

He hit the back of your throat immediately and you gagged, not prepared for the intrusion. You barely had half of him, and he forced more, until your nose was against his stomach. You squirmed, trying to get away from him, from the pleasure that you hated you were feeling. He noticed. He gripped your hair tighter, and shoved his foot between your legs.

“Since you clearly need something,” he laughed darkly. “Grind on me, baby.”

He lifted his foot and the bump against your clit was all you needed. Your pleasure won over your logic. Nothing felt more right, grinding against him, swallowing his cock down your throat, letting him hold you down. 

“That’s it,” he hissed, pulling back to give you air before you went back down, and he held you there. He gripped your throat with his free hand, feeling his head beneath your skin. “Fuck.”

You felt him twitch only once before he spilled down your throat, refusing to let you up. You coughed and choked, your vision speckling right when he pulled you up. He hauled you up to your feet by your hair, pressing you against the car, covering your lips with his. He ground his hips into you and you sobbed. How was he still so hard? It made your core ache with a need you had never felt before. 

You were close to an orgasm, and he ripped it away from you, but now he was bringing you back to the edge. He gripped your hips, pressing his knee between your thighs as he lifted you up. 

“I have never,” he groaned, leaving bruises beneath your pants, “wanted to cut someone open as badly as I do with you.”

Fear ricocheted through you at his words.

“But I won’t,” he grumbled, pulling back to look at you. “Because what fun is it, to end it here?”

He set you down and spun you around, pulling your pants and underwear down in one swift move. You leaned over onto the hood of the car, accepting your fate, accepting your shame because you wanted it. You wanted this so bad, you spread your legs without being asked.

He traced your spine with the gun, then you heard him toss it to the ground. If you weren’t out of your mind, you’d reach for it, but it was far from your priorities. 

“I know how we can make this interesting,” he whispered, and then you felt a blade against your lower back. “Don’t make me hurt you, and I won’t. This can be pleasurable.”

You rested your head on the hood of the car, taking a deep breath, whimpering when you exhaled without meaning to. 

“Shhh,” he soothed, rocking his hips against you as he drew circles on your back with the knife. “I’ll give you what you need.”

He pushed into you with no warning, immediately hitting your cervix, causing you to cry out in pain. He began rocking in and out of you until the pain resumed to pleasure, and as he brushed your G-spot, he dug in with the knife. You felt the skin break, but felt no pain, only a sting, and it was intoxicating. You wanted more.

He felt your walls flutter when he did it, and he laughed, leaning over you to whisper in your ear. “I knew you’d like that.” The knife found your neck, lightly tracing your main artery. “Sick and twisted. Just as bad as me.”

Your eyes rolled when he rolled his hips, nicking you with the knife just under your ear. Nothing compared to the white hot pleasure that ripped through you with your first orgasm, or the way he chased you right to your second.

“Now that is addicting,” he breathed, pressing his hips into you. “If only you weren’t following orders.”

You didn’t know what he meant by that. Did he want to kill you, but would he refrain since your whereabouts were known? You never had time to think about it. He continued fucking into you until you couldn’t see straight.

You didn’t remember how many marks he left on you with the knife, just that each one felt better than the last. And that more than once, the feel of the knife nearly sent you over the cliff of an orgasm.

You were done only when he was done, and Aaron made sure you had four orgasms before he let himself cum inside you, sending you flying into a fifth climax. He wanted you fucked purely dumb, so he didn’t have to worry about you fighting him. And it worked.

He righted himself and returned his gun to his holster, choosing to use yours to make you obey him if necessary, but he didn’t think he’d run into any problems. You laid there against the hood of the car for a while, with your pants around your ankles, his cum running down your thighs. It was a sight he wished to take a picture of.

Until he remembered he had a bigger issue at hand.

“Get yourself together,” he instructed. “You’re driving me back to the motel.”

You nodded and pulled your pants up, your legs shaking as you attempted to move. You didn’t think you’d be able to drive, but you didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.

You climbed into the driver’s seat and tried not to think about what you did. But the cuts from the knife screamed when you rested your back against the seat. A black shirt was your best decision this morning. “Now,” Aaron said, settling into the passenger seat, now pointing your gun on you. “We need to talk.”

[wingedjellyfishflight]

Hogtied: Part 3

You stay busy for another week, finishing up exams and redacting most of König's file for him. Just in time, it seems, as you catch one of your nurses looking through it with a frown. The dressing down she receives is more than enough to deter others, but the cleaning rotation she gets for the next month ensures it won't happen again.

When the C140 lands again, it is complete madness, just as you were worried it would be. König has multiple large lacerations, Ghost has a through and through on the meaty part of his thigh, Gaz has a laceration on his head that won't stop bleeding and Soap, poor Soap. A broken leg, lacerations on his arm, and clear signs of torture.

You triage the men, passing Gaz off for stitches, sending Ghost to a nurse who previously worked in an ER and directing a set of nurses to tag team the lacerations on König, but only what he will allow. Any pushback means stop. You don't want to lose the trust you have built up in the short time he has worked with you. Turning to Soap, you work to stabilize him. Immobilizing his leg, you quickly stitch the worst of his wounds to stop the bleeding. With the help of a few nurses, you get good x-rays. Luckily, it is not a complex break, and you are able to set it with ease. He will need a hard cast once the swelling goes down.

The aftermath of torture is a harder thing to solve. You bandage his hands, slather burns in ointment, and inject an antibiotic. Gaz pulls you aside and tells you that he was also subject to waterboarding for a very short window of time before they rescued him. You nod, angry, but trying not to show it. You turn back and review all of Soap's injuries now that he is more stable, ensuring that you didn't miss anything. There doesn't appear to be anything else wrong with him, and you have him moved to a recovery room.

You make rounds, checking on the others as they rest. When you reach König's room, you note blood on his pillow and check over his chart. "Herzblatt, do you have an injury under your mask?" He turns to look at you.

"Ja, mein Kopf tut weh."

(Yes, my head hurts.)

"Let me grab a kit, and we will get it fixed up then." You do so, shutting the door on your way back to the bed. He slips off his mask, and you gasp, seeing the large cut across his face. "You should have mentioned this."

"I wanted you to fix, Schatz."

"Yes, Herzblatt, but I would have come to fix it sooner. Now hold still. I will have to numb you to stitch it. You may grip my shoulder if you need to." He hesitates, but as he sees you move closer with the needle, he wraps his fingers tight where you indicated. The way he grips it, you know you will have bruises later, but he doesn't flinch away. "Once it is numb, I will stitch inside to bring those layers together, then I will stitch the outside. You will tell me if you feel pain, yes? There is no reason to tough it out."

"Ja, already proved my mettle." You chuckle and lay out your supplies.

"Jetzt haben wir den Salat."

He chokes back a laugh at that. While his body is becoming numb, you check the rest of his lacerations and ensure the stitches look good. Returning to his face, you check to ensure he is ready, then work to stitch him up. It goes quickly, though you have to make a conscious effort not to look in his eyes.

(Now we have the salad, aka shit went sideways, and now we have a mess)

Just as you set down the needle and thread on your table, the door bursts open. Unthinking, you jump forward and use your body to cover König's face. "Unless someone is dying, get out!"

"Sorry, you've been in here a long time, and we were worried. Is everything alright?"

"I said, get the fuck out! You know the rules here, Lieutenant!" The door slams shut and you cautiously pull back, checking to make sure none of the stitches popped. König's face looks red as a tomato as he looks at you. "Let me finish bandaging this and you can put the mask back on, alright?" He stares at you saying nothing. "Uhh... sorry for that. I should have locked the door. And sorry for mashing your face with my... torso." You quickly place the bandages and hand him his mask.

"I'd prefer if you had a clean mask, but I don't have one handy. If you drop one by later, I can keep it on hand for you. Ghost keeps some here, the delicate princess. He refuses to wear hospital grubs if he can't wear the clothes he came in with."

"So, he is not... dating you?"

"Hmm... no. No, he and I are not dating. I'm half sure he is more interested in Soap than me, but I've been wrong before. Any roads, enough talk about our co-workers. Push the button here if you need assistance. I am going off the clock, but I will return if needed. Try to get some rest. I'm sure debriefing will be hell."

When you return the next morning, only Soap remains in recovery. The other men have left to debrief. You schedule an appointment for him with the therapist he doesn't hate and listen to him flirt with a nurse while you update files in your office. He quickly grows bored and insists that you sit and entertain him.

You acquiesce, deciding that a break is in order now that you've finished about half of your paperwork. He is chatting away about things he's done mostly. You usually try to deflect questions about yourself, but he is not deterred, sipping at his coffee while you enjoy your cuppa.

"Didja always wannae be a doc?" You shake your head.

"Got it twisted, mate. I never wanted to be a doctor. T'was my parents dream, not mine. I picked here to spite 'em."

He laughs hard. "You're a rebel. What didja wannae then?"

You stand suddenly, too flustered by his question. "Tea times over, fella. I've gottae get back to work." You pause in the doorway, leaning back in and looking into his eyes as you debate with yourself. "I wanted a job like yours." He looks stunned, then a bit sad.

"Ye woulda been a belter, lass." You smile sadly and walk back to your office. It takes forever for you to get any work done. You make sure to sign off on his release so Soap can leave when he is ready.

You look up at a knock on your door some time later. "Enter"

"Doc, you're still here? I was just checking in here since the light was on. It's already after 2100."

"Oh, shit. I completely lost track of time. Just have to finish this, and I will head out."

"Alright, see you tomorrow then."

It's after 2200 when you do head out, and you quickly realize that you are starving, not having had much more than snacks since breakfast. The mess is closed this late, so you head to the kitchen. Digging through the fridge, you hear a noise behind you, but don't see anything when you look around the darkened room. Shrugging it off, you dig some more before grabbing leftovers with Ghost's name on them. You're disappointed to see that they've gone off and toss them in the bin before looking again.

You finally find some leftovers that aren't bad with Captain Price written in capital letters with an underline on the box. It's butter chicken over rice, and you've honestly never been so excited for it. Waiting for it to heat, you hear the sound again. You turn and realize that there are two men across the room watching you. Through squinted eyes, you see that it is Captain Price and Gaz having tea together. Whipping back around nervously, your fingers tap on the counter, waiting forever, it seems for the microwave to ding.

Just before it does, you hear, "Butter chicken. My favorite," in your ear, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

"S-sorry, Captain. I missed lunch and dinner. I'll order some fresh tomorrow to make up for it. Please."

"I'm just teasin ya, doll. Eat up. You know we never remember to eat our leftovers." He winks and walks off, catching up to Gaz.

[weekendpassrevoked]

Easy's Songbird - Chapter 20

authors note: some bs i pulled out of my ass so i can properly transition to the beast the next 3-4 chapters are gonna be lol

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

Camp Mackall, North Carolina, June 20th, 1943

Everyday Isabella was in the army it reminded her more and more of the sayings her mother would tell her.

When she was learning directly from Colonel Sink, she would remember “El Diablo sabe más por viejo que por Diablo.”

When she was doing whatever stupid maneuver Sobel came up with, it was “Uno no pide un favor con el revólver en la mano.”

Her favorite was personally when she would close her mouth tight and drag her hand over it as if she was zipping them closed.

All this to say, her mother would hate the army.

Too many rules, too many men shouting, and not enough common sense. 

Still, Isabella liked to think her mother was proud of her. Maybe not thrilled that her daughter was jumping out of airplanes and patching up bullet wounds, but proud all the same. Proud that she stood her ground. That she stayed kind.

That she kept her mouth shut when it mattered most.

Because if there was one thing Isabella had learned in the last few weeks—especially now that she was juggling both field training and S-2 intelligence work—it was that silence could be the sharpest weapon in her arsenal. Not out of fear, but out of precision. Observation. Timing.

The medic didn’t speak unless it was to save a life, and the analyst didn’t speak unless it was to confirm one.

Isabella Vega, as it turned out, had become both.

The balance wasn’t easy. One minute she was hauling a stretcher across uneven terrain with Gene, sweat stinging her eyes and mud up to her calves, and the next she was hunched over a coded German dispatch in the corner of the S-2 office, decoding troop movements with only a half-sharpened pencil and a cup of water. Nixon had quickly found out that coffee only made her sleepy after he found her knocked out at her desk, much to her embarrassment and his amusement.

Sometimes it felt like she was living two lives. In one, she was Birdie—the medic, the kid sister of Easy Company, the one who sang when the fire died low and patched up busted knuckles after training brawls. In the other, she was Corporal Vega—linguist, analyst, quietly pulling threads from intercepted messages while the officers pretended she was just another cog in the machine.

Both were true. Both were exhausting.

Today had been one of the harder days. Morning drills under Sobel’s gruff eye, then a mid-day scramble to assist with a real twisted ankle during a live-fire run, and now—her current reality—perched at a rickety desk in the S-2 office, redacting sections of a translated message for the fifth time because Nixon said it “read too academic.”

She was chewing on the edge of her eraser when Nixon finally looked up from his papers.

“You ever take a break, kid?

She glanced up, eyes dry. “Not if I can help it.”

He grunted, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve got something coming down the pipeline. Big one. You’ll be looped in early.”

That got her attention.

“Bigger than Sicily?”

His gaze flicked up, sharp. “Don’t ask questions like that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

But she already knew the answer. The tension in the camp lately, the increasingly vague orders, the whispered rumors among the officers—it was all pointing toward something massive. Something decisive. And she was being pulled deeper into the storm.

“Pack up,” Nixon said finally. “You're being reassigned for the next forty-eight hours. Temporary transfer to regimental HQ up in Raleigh. They want your analysis on some comms that came in from London.”

Isabella blinked. “Alone?”

“Not alone. But without Easy. You’ll bunk with the WAC unit posted there. Should be familiar territory.”

She nodded slowly, heart sinking a little. Forty-eight hours away from her boys. From Easy.

From home.

—

She didn’t say anything about the assignment as she returned to the barracks. Just smiled when Luz made some joke about how she was “starting to look like Nixon’s favorite child” and dodged Liebgott’s probing questions with a well-timed comment about his godawful handwriting.

That night, while everyone else snored or muttered in their sleep, she packed her things quietly, folding her medic satchel next to the folder Nixon had handed her under the table. The barracks smelled like sweat and damp boots and home. She hated leaving it—even for two days. 

Quietly, she grabbed her things and headed out of the barracks. Isabella took a quick peek back at the men before closing the door, saying a quick prayer for them before leaving.

The WAC quarters were unfamiliar—too clean, too quiet, too... feminine. After months of living with men whose idea of personal hygiene often stopped at "less muddy than yesterday," the meticulously maintained bunks and subtle scent of powder and perfume felt almost alien.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she approached the car assigned to drive her all the way to Raleigh. She quickly greeted the driver and they headed off in a cloud of smoke hard to see in the dark.

Isabella sat on the edge of her assigned cot, uniform still crisp despite the early hour, her small bag of personal items at her feet. The women around her moved with efficient purpose, some nodding politely as they passed, others watching with barely concealed curiosity.

"You must be Corporal Vega."

She looked up to find a woman in a WAC uniform standing before her, dark hair pulled back into a perfect regulation style, insignia identifying her as a lieutenant.

"Yes, ma'am," Isabella replied, rising to attention.

"Lieutenant Emerson. I've been told to expect you." Her eyes flickered over Isabella's uniform, noting the jump wings and medic insignia. "Quite the collection of qualifications you're sporting."

Isabella remained at attention, unsure of the proper protocol with another female officer. Her experience with military women had been limited to brief encounters at medical training facilities before she had left for Toccoa.

"At ease, Corporal. We're not quite as rigid here as your paratroopers." There was a hint of amusement in Lieutenant Emerson's voice. "I understand you're here for a special assignment with intelligence."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Your workspace is being prepared. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. The women here have been briefed that you're working on a classified matter and won't pry." She paused, her expression becoming slightly more personable. "Though I can't promise they won't be curious. We don't get many female paratroopers through here."

"I understand, ma'am."

Lieutenant Emerson nodded, then hesitated. "If I may ask, off the record... what's it like? Being the only woman in an airborne company?"

Isabella considered her response carefully. "Different than I expected, ma'am. Better in some ways. Harder in others."

"I can imagine." The lieutenant checked her watch. "Major Horton will expect you at 0800. Building C, room 204. I suggest you take the time to settle in and grab breakfast before reporting."

With that, the lieutenant departed, leaving Isabella alone again amid the unfamiliar surroundings.

"So you're the paratrooper."

Isabella turned to find another WAC approaching—this one younger, closer to her own age, with bright eyes and a friendly smile.

"Sergeant Kellianne Dixon," she introduced herself. "But everyone calls me Kelli."

"Corporal Isabella Vega," Isabella replied, accepting the offered handshake.

"I know." Kelli's smile widened at Isabella's surprise. "Word travels fast when there's a woman doing something no other woman has done before. You're something of a legend among us."

Isabella felt her cheeks warm. "Hardly a legend."

"Are you kidding? Project Blitz is all anyone could talk about when the rumors first started. A woman paratrooper? And not just any paratrooper, but one working in intelligence too?" Becca lowered her voice. "Some of the girls were convinced it was all propaganda. Until now."

Isabella hadn't considered how her role might be perceived by other women in service. In fact, Isabella had no idea that Project Blitz was known outside of the 101st. The idea that they saw her as some kind of trailblazer was both flattering and slightly uncomfortable.

"It's just a job," she said finally. "Not so different from what you do here."

Kelli laughed. "Except for the jumping out of airplanes part. And the living with 150 men part. And the—"

"Okay, maybe a little different," Isabella conceded with a small smile.

"Breakfast?" Kelli offered. "I can show you around before you have to report."

Isabella nodded, grateful for the friendly face. "Lead the way."

The intelligence office at regimental headquarters was larger and more formal than Nixon's cluttered workspace. Maps lined the walls, desks arranged in neat rows, officers and enlisted personnel moving purposefully between stations. The air hummed with quiet efficiency, punctuated by the clack of typewriters and murmur of low conversations.

Major Horton, whom Isabella recognized from her initial assessment at Camp Mackall, looked up from his desk as she entered and reported as ordered.

"Corporal Vega. Right on time." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Please, sit."

As she settled into the offered seat, she noticed several folders stacked neatly before him, each marked with various classification stamps.

"Lieutenant Nixon speaks highly of your analytical abilities," Major Horton began, his tone businesslike but not unfriendly. "Particularly your work on patterns in communication and, of course, your language skills."

"Thank you, sir."

"Your assignment here is straightforward but sensitive." He tapped the top folder. "We've received a series of intercepted communications from our counterparts in London. German and Italian transmissions, primarily, with what appears to be embedded code work. Most of it has been translated already, but we're seeing inconsistencies in the patterns—possible indicators of deception."

Isabella nodded, her interest piqued. "You want a fresh analysis."

"Precisely. Sometimes a new set of eyes can spot what others have missed." He slid the folder toward her. "You'll be working in a secure room down the hall. Everything stays there—no notes leave, no discussions outside that room."

"Understood, sir."

Major Horton leaned forward slightly, his expression becoming more serious. "This isn't just an exercise, Corporal. Your analysis will be incorporated into actual operational planning. Lives depend on accurate intelligence."

The weight of the responsibility settled on her shoulders, but Isabella met his gaze steadily. "I understand, sir."

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "Lieutenant Wilson will show you to your workspace and brief you on security protocols."

As she followed the lieutenant down the hallway, Isabella felt a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. This was different from her work with Nixon, which had still maintained some connection to her life with Easy Company. Here, she was fully immersed in the intelligence world, her other identity temporarily set aside.

The secure room was small but well-equipped—a solid desk, good lighting, reference materials on shelves lining one wall. Lieutenant Wilson explained the security procedures briefly: all materials stayed in the room, the door remained locked at all times, and she would be given scheduled breaks for meals and rest.

"Questions?" he asked as he prepared to leave her to her work.

Isabella shook her head. "No, sir."

"Very well. Someone will come for you at noon for lunch." He paused at the door. "Good luck, Corporal."

Left alone with the classified materials, Isabella took a deep breath and opened the first folder. The initial documents were intercepted German communications, similar to what she'd worked with before but more extensive. She scanned them quickly, getting a feel for the content before diving deeper.

As she worked, the outside world gradually faded away. The familiar rhythm of analysis took over—translating, comparing, identifying patterns, flagging anomalies. She had always been good with patterns, she had a knack for repetition although her disadvantage with numbers would sometimes add an error or two into her work. The rhythm of the repetition and patterns felt a lot like reading sheet music, and she got lost into her work. Time slipped by unnoticed as she filled pages with notes, cross-referencing between documents, building a mental map of the intelligence picture.

Hours later, a knock at the door startled her from her concentration. Lieutenant Wilson had returned, informing her it was noon. Isabella blinked in surprise, having lost all track of time.

The mess hall was another reminder of how different this assignment was. Unlike the raucous, crowded tables of Easy Company's dining area, the officers' mess at headquarters was relatively quiet, conversations conducted in measured tones, silverware clinking gently against plates.

Kelli waved her over to a table where several other WAC’s were seated, their curious gazes following Isabella as she approached with her tray.

"How's the secret mission going?" Becca asked with a teasing smile as Isabella sat down.

"Can't say," Isabella replied automatically, then softened it with a small smile. "But it's... interesting."

"Everything here is 'interesting' and 'can't say,'" one of the other women commented wryly. "You'll fit right in."

The conversation flowed more easily than Isabella had expected, the women asking about her training, her experiences as a medic, carefully avoiding anything that might touch on classified matters. It was strange, talking with other women after so long in the exclusively male environment of Easy Company. Their references, their humor, their perspectives—all subtly different from what she'd grown accustomed to.

"Do you miss it?" Becca asked suddenly. "Home, I mean. Your family."

Isabella hesitated, the question catching her off guard. Among the men of Easy, homesickness was acknowledged but rarely discussed directly. It was too raw, too personal.

"Every day," she admitted finally. "But Easy Company—my unit—they've become a kind of family too."

The women nodded in understanding, several exchanging knowing glances.

"It's the same here," Kelli said. "Different from home, but... you find your people."

"It’s all men?" another WAC asked.

Isabella nodded. "All of them."

"Must be tough," the woman commented. "Being the only woman."

Isabella shrugged. "It was, at first. But now... they're just my brothers. Annoying sometimes, protective others, but mostly just... there. Reliable."

"Brothers," Kelli repeated with a smile. "That's a good way to put it."

As lunch concluded and Isabella prepared to return to her assigned work, she found herself reflecting on the conversation. She'd never articulated her relationship with Easy Company quite that way before, even to herself. But it was true—they had become her brothers in all the ways that mattered. Family chosen by circumstance rather than blood, but family nonetheless.

The afternoon passed in much the same way as the morning, deep in concentration over the intercepted communications. But now, as she worked, Isabella found her analytical approach shifting slightly. Reading between the lines, looking for the human element behind the coded messages—what were these German and Italian officers thinking, feeling, fearing?

By the time Lieutenant Wilson returned to escort her to dinner, Isabella had filled several pages with notes and was beginning to see a pattern emerging from the seemingly disparate communications.

"Making progress?" he asked as they walked toward the mess hall.

"Yes, sir," she replied, careful not to share specifics. "It's coming together."

That evening, back in the WAC quarters, Isabella found herself unexpectedly drawn into their social circle. After months of male companionship, the feminine energy was both foreign and comfortingly familiar. They talked about home, about their work (in carefully vague terms), about the books they missed reading and the music they hoped to hear again when the war ended.

It reminded her of evenings with Sina, of the easy camaraderie she'd once taken for granted. These women understood certain things the men of Easy never could—the unique challenges of being female in a military designed by and for men, the balancing act between maintaining femininity and meeting the demands of service.

Yet even as she enjoyed their company, Isabella felt the quiet pull of absence. She missed Gene's steady presence, Luz's irreverent humor, Liebgott's sharp observations, Malarkey's earnest questions. She missed the familiar sounds and smells of her barracks, the rhythms of Easy Company life that had become her new normal.

Two worlds, equally real, equally important. The challenge wasn't choosing between them, she realized, but learning to move fluidly between them—carrying pieces of each wherever she went.

That night, as she lay in the unfamiliar bunk listening to the soft breathing of the women around her, Isabella's thoughts turned to what waited across the ocean. Sicily, according to the intelligence she'd been analyzing. An invasion that would put theory into practice, training into reality.

When that day came, these separate worlds—medic and analyst, Easy Company and intelligence operations—would collide in ways she couldn't fully anticipate. She would need to draw on every skill, every experience, every relationship she'd cultivated.

But for now, in the quiet darkness of the WAC quarters, Isabella allowed herself a moment of simple gratitude. For the opportunity to serve in these diverse capacities. For the chance to contribute her unique skills to the war effort. For the relationships—with Easy Company, with Nixon, and now with these women—that sustained her through the challenges.

The second day of her temporary assignment passed much like the first, immersed in the detailed work of intelligence analysis. By mid-afternoon, Isabella had compiled her findings into a concise report, identifying what she believed was a deliberate deception campaign in the German communications—false information designed to obscure the true defensive preparations along Sicily's coastline.

Tomorrow would bring more analysis, more piecing together of the complex puzzle before her. But tonight, she would rest, carrying both her worlds with her into dreams of home.

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

She presented her analysis to Major Horton with the quiet confidence she'd developed working with Nixon. The major listened attentively, occasionally asking clarifying questions but otherwise allowing her to walk through her reasoning without interruption.

"Impressive work, Corporal," he said when she had finished. "Your perspective on the potential deception elements is particularly valuable. Lieutenant Nixon was right about your analytical capabilities."

"Thank you, sir."

"I understand you're due back at Camp Mackall tomorrow morning," he continued, gathering her report. "A transport has been arranged. 0600 departure."

Isabella nodded, a mixture of relief and pride washing over her. The assignment had been challenging but fulfilling—a chance to prove herself in a different arena, to contribute directly to operational planning through her unique skills.

"One more thing," Major Horton added as she prepared to leave. "Colonel Sink requested an update on your progress with the intelligence training. I'll be informing him that you've exceeded expectations."

The unexpected praise caught her off guard. "Thank you, sir."

Major Horton nodded dismissively, already turning his attention to other matters. "That will be all, Corporal."

That evening, as she packed her few belongings in preparation for her return to Camp Mackall, Isabella found herself approached by Kelli once more.

"So you're heading back tomorrow," the sergeant said, sitting beside her on the empty bunk.

"Back to mud, mosquitoes, and men with questionable hygiene," Isabella confirmed with a small smile.

Kelli laughed. "You almost sound happy about it."

"I guess I am," Isabella admitted. "I mean, this has been... nice. Different. But Easy is..."

"Home," Kelli finished for her.

Isabella nodded, surprised by how right the word felt. "Yeah. Home."

"Well, don't be a stranger," Kelli said, handing her a small envelope. "Some of us get weekend passes to town occasionally. Maybe we could meet up sometime."

Isabella accepted the envelope, touched by the gesture. Inside was a note with Kelli's information—a way to maintain contact beyond this brief assignment.

"I'd like that," she said sincerely.

As she settled into her bunk for her final night away from Easy Company, Isabella found her thoughts returning to the dual nature of her service. The past forty-eight hours had given her a glimpse of a different path—one where her intelligence work was her primary function, where she operated in the structured world of headquarters rather than the chaotic environment of a combat unit.

It wasn't a path she wanted, she realized. The analytical work was stimulating, yes, but it was the integration of her roles—medic and intelligence asset, caregiver and observer—that gave her service its unique value. Her place was with Easy Company, balancing both aspects of her duty, leveraging her diverse skills in direct support of the men who would jump with her into whatever waited ahead.

Tomorrow she would return to Camp Mackall, to the familiar faces and routines of Easy Company. She would resume her training with Gene, her sessions with Nixon, her careful navigation between her worlds. And she would do so with renewed clarity about her purpose—not torn between roles but strengthened by their integration.

The truck rattled over the uneven road, jostling Isabella against the wooden bench as it made its way back to Camp Mackall. She watched the landscape pass by through the open back, the early morning light filtering through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the ground.

Sicily waited across the ocean. Combat loomed on the horizon. But tonight, Isabella slept soundly, confident in her path forward.

------------------------------‐----------------------------

Her mind was already shifting gears, moving from the analytical focus of the past forty-eight hours back to the practical concerns of Easy Company life. Had there been training injuries while she was gone? Would Nixon want an immediate report on her temporary assignment? Had Sobel invented some new form of torment in her absence?

As the truck turned onto the familiar road leading into camp, Isabella felt a surprising surge of anticipation. Two days away had been longer than she'd expected, the separation from her unit more noticeable than she'd anticipated.

The vehicle rolled to a stop near the company area, and Isabella jumped down, bag in hand. The camp was already awake and active, men moving between buildings, the sounds of morning drills carrying from the training fields.

She made her way toward the barracks, nodding to soldiers from other companies who passed by. As she approached Easy's area, a familiar figure emerged from the doorway—Gene, medical bag in hand, clearly headed out for morning sick call.

He spotted her immediately, his face breaking into a rare, genuine smile.

"Welcome back, chérie," he greeted as she approached. "Camp's been quiet without you."

"Quiet, huh?" she replied, falling into step beside him. "Should I be worried?"

Gene shook his head. "Just the usual. Sobel had us running tactical exercises yesterday. No major injuries, though Luz nearly took a branch to the face during a night patrol."

The simple exchange—this easy return to their professional shorthand—felt unexpectedly comforting after two days in unfamiliar surroundings.

"Anything I should know about?" she asked, gesturing toward his medical bag.

"Just routine. Spence has a persistent cough I've been monitoring. Randleman needed stitches after a training accident, but it's healing clean." He glanced at her, his expression shifting to quiet assessment. "How was your assignment?"

Isabella shrugged, keeping her response deliberately vague. "Different. Interesting. Lots of paperwork."

Gene nodded, accepting the non-answer without pressing further—one of the many reasons she valued their partnership.

"Nixon's looking for you," he added as they neared the medical station. "Said to send you his way when you got back."

She wasn't surprised. Nixon would want a full debriefing on her work at headquarters, especially given the nature of the intelligence she'd been analyzing.

"I'll find him after I drop my things," she promised.

As they parted ways, Isabella continued toward the barracks, eager to set down her bag and reconnect with the familiar rhythms of company life. She pushed open the door to find the space largely empty—most of the men already at morning PT or assigned duties—except for Liebgott, who was seated on his bunk, cleaning his rifle with methodical precision.

He looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from surprise to something more complex.

"Well, look who decided to come back," he said, setting aside his cleaning rod. "Thought maybe they'd permanently reassigned you to officer country."

There was something in his tone—not quite accusation, but a hint of... what? Annoyance? Concern? It was hard to pinpoint.

"Just temporary," she replied, moving to her bunk and setting down her bag. "Paperwork and meetings. Nothing exciting."

Liebgott studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Two days for paperwork, huh?"

Isabella met his gaze steadily, recognizing the challenge beneath the casual question. "That's right."

A beat of silence passed between them, laden with unspoken tensions. Then, abruptly, Liebgott's expression cleared.

"Well, you missed a hell of a show last night," he said, returning to his rifle. "Luz did an impression of Sobel that nearly got him court-martialed when Sobel walked in. Would've been worth it, though."

Just like that, the moment of tension dissolved, replaced by the easy camaraderie that had become their normal state. Isabella smiled, grateful for the return to familiar ground.

"Sorry I missed it," she said, beginning to unpack her few belongings. "Anything else happen while I was gone?"

Liebgott shrugged. "Usual bullshit. Oh, and Gene had to stitch up Bull's arm after he caught it on some barbed wire. Made a mess, but Gene fixed him up good."

Isabella nodded, making a mental note to check on Bull later. "Everyone else alright?"

"Guarnere got a letter from home. His brother's shipping out to Europe. Skip won twenty bucks off Penkala in poker, then lost thirty to Martin." Liebgott paused, then added with a slight smirk, "And we all learned that you apparently snore."

She shot him a glare. "I do not."

"How would you know? You're asleep," he countered. "Luz said it sounds like 'a small dog dreaming of chasing rabbits.' His words, not mine."

Isabella rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips. This—the teasing, the everyday updates, the shared inside jokes—was what she'd missed most during her brief assignment away.

"Anyway," Liebgott continued, seemingly satisfied that the natural order had been restored, "Nixon's been asking about you. Twice yesterday, once already this morning."

"So I've heard," she replied, closing her now-empty bag. "Guess I should go find him."

Liebgott nodded, returning to his rifle cleaning. But as she turned to leave, he spoke again, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of something more serious.

"Easy wasn't the same without you, Birdie," he said, not looking up from his work. "Too damn quiet."

The simple statement caught her off guard—a rare moment of direct sentiment from Liebgott, who typically buried such feelings beneath layers of sarcasm and sharp wit.

"Well," she replied after a moment, eyes fond and ears burning, "I'm back now."

He glanced up, meeting her eyes briefly. "Yeah. You are."

As Isabella made her way across the camp toward the S-2 office, she found herself reflecting on those simple exchanges—with Gene, with Liebgott. The ease with which she'd slipped back into Easy Company life, the quiet acknowledgment of her absence, the unspoken welcome of her return.

This, she realized, was what had been missing during her temporary assignment. Not just the familiar faces and routines, but the sense of belonging—of being known, valued, missed.

Colonel Sink had once told her that a soldier's greatest strength came not from physical prowess or tactical skill, but from the bonds formed with their unit. "When the bullets start flying," he'd said, "you fight for the ones beside you. Not for some abstract cause, but for the flesh and blood soldiers sharing your foxhole."

She understood that now more deeply than ever. Her analytical skills made her valuable to intelligence operations, her medical training made her essential to the company's combat readiness, but it was her place within Easy—the relationships, the trust, the shared experiences—that defined her service most fundamentally.

As she approached the S-2 office, preparing to report to Nixon on her temporary assignment, Isabella carried that understanding with her. She would continue to balance her dual roles, to move between her worlds as duty required. But she would do so anchored by the knowledge that she had found her place—her home—with Easy Company.

taglist: @malarkgirlypop, @darling-heffron

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

translations: 'el Diablo sabe mas por viejo que por Diabo' - The Devil knows more because he's old than from being the Devil

'uno no pide un favor con el revolver en la mano' - One doesn't ask a favor with a revolver in hand

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

[notebooks-and-laptops]

If you're so inclined, you should say more about Casseiopeia! She's so pretty, I always love hearing about people's Shepards ♡ she's spacer/survivor, right? what class? who's your favorite squadmate so far? welcome to mass effect!! (Don't forget, you're here forever 😈)

Hello!!! Thank you for asking I LOVE getting asks like these about my ocs and characters ❤️❤️❤️ people have been very welcoming into this fandom space too which fills me with such joy!

This is Cassiopeia Shepard; shes a soldier, spacer and survivor. I'm about halfway through the game so Im not fully caught up in everything, so plez bare in mind certain lore gaps I may have.

Cassi grew up travelling from space ship to space ship with her military parents; she's adapted to be likable, pleasant, fine to be around; but nobody is CLOSE to her, you know? She's a popular kid, but she doesn't have any friends, because what's the point in making close connections when everyone leaves anyway?

She didn't think much about whether to join the military; it's just what you do right? Her parents did it, she was gonna do it too. If nothing else it would mean she'd get to stay out in the stars. Cassi wasn't born in space, but she might as well have been. Real gravity feels more artificial to her than the artificial stuff. She loves the stars. She just wants to be out with them. It's where she feels the least lonely, the happiest.

When she joined up with the alliance, she worked a bit harder to become a bit closer with some of her squad mates; the first time she ever had been. But then...Akuse. they all died. And so she learnt; well. The first time she tried to get close to people properly she lost them. She always looses people: they die or they go away so there's no point trying to hold on tight.

This uhhhh has kinda messed up her concept of relationships. she's got Hella commitment issues. She thought Liara was hot but she came on too strong and so Cassi cut and run. As for Kaiden...well. their flirtings pretty subtle given the difference in rank. She's excited to sleep with him! They're good friends. She might cut and bolt the moment it gets too serious though, which WILL be hard because shes not aware how far she's fallen down that hole.

Her bestie on board is Ashley, because she gets it. She had military parents too, and she might have grown up on world but she's still on Cassis wavelength even if Cassi is deeply jealous can't relate to the whole huge family loads of siblings thing. Ashley is chill; they drink together and play cards and if Ashley ever asked Cassi would try her damnest to get over her commitment issues because she's maybe a bit in love but maybe that's just because Ashley is unattainable or maybe it's because she's hot and Cassi would like to [Redacted]

I'm so excited to keep going with her and learn more about her and her personality!!! I'm sure I'll share with as we go but thanks for asking about her!! Always happy to answer questions about Cassi (or any of my ocs tbf)

(also thanks to @oh-no-who-took-my-sushi for being a soundboard for literally all my ideas but especially my Cassi ones and listening to me ramble about her as she forms in my head)

[vaya-writes]

Serving the Serpent - AITA 3

A series of joke AITA posts that are about some of the antagonists in the Serving the Serpent universe. These are prompts and drabbles written for fun that reveal some key details of character back stories that might not otherwise be mentioned in the canon story.

This started off as a joke post - an "Am I The Asshole" prompt written to help me understand some of the antagonists in Serving the Serpent. Then the guy started having regrets, and it kind of turned into a journal entry. I like the descent from complete bigot who never questions himself to, 'holy shit I've lost a lot' this guy goes through. Still, the language is gross and potentially triggering, so please be mindful of tags.

Content Warnings: abduction and using a person as unconsenting bait for a monster, misogyny and objectification. Off screen background character death, brief mention of animal death, neither described in any detail (this piece deals with a literal animal predator). Brief mentions of food scarcity and one additional off screen death. 800 words. Divider by firefly-graphics. 

Previous

A monster started living in our territory so we used my adopted niece as unconsenting bait while our hunters tried to kill it. AITA   

An excerpt from [REDACTED]’s diary: 

XX/XX/XX 

Stella ‘Sister’ passed away last summer and things have only gotten harder from there. I haven’t had the time to find myself a wife so things around the home have become less homely. Briar  Stella’s daughter  ‘Niece’ knows how to keep the place clean, I suppose, but with the silence, it’s not the same.  

Things have gotten... bad. There is discontent among the people. Some of it comes from the church, which is frustrating. I don’t blame the men for being unhappy, what with so few resources to go around. But I do blame them for being so superstitious. You can’t spill a drink around here without somebody muttering that it’s an omen from the Serpent.  

Since when did we start caring for the Serpent? He’s barely more than a bedtime story we use to scare the children. He’s real, sure, but we live behind a palisade in the distant corner of his land. I sincerely doubt he’s out curdling the milk or spilling our drinks for spite. 

... 

Regardless. 

Things have been harder lately. Less food over the years. Not enough wild game come to our area anymore. (An omen, I’m sure.) Less forage too, since it’s too dangerous to stray far. Nobody wants to risk running into the natives. 

Yesterday we found the cause. Animal tracks. A carcass. 

There’s something else in the woods. Something that wasn’t here last year. And it’s been eating our prey.  

The men are torn on how to handle it.  

Part of me wants to play it safe. We could pull back. Change our territory. But then we run the risk of meeting the Others. Or moving to an area with even less food. Playing it safe might not be sustainable. 

The aggressive approach would be to hunt the beast. Reclaim our territory.  

But the hunters aren’t used to large prey. Dangerous prey. (prey that can hunt them back, prey that isn’t prey.) The state the deer carcass was in has got them spooked.  

Reginald ‘Priest’ suggested something outrageous. It’s not like he’s ever picked up a spear, and I wish he’d kept his mouth shut. But folks are clinging to his suggestion like it’s the best thing they ever heard.  

Regi ‘Priest’ suggested we use one of our own as lure, hide ourselves, and then kill the creature when its attention is focused on the bait.  

How would that even work? Where would the hunters hide? Up in trees like the damn Others? We are working from foot prints and claw marks, we don’t even know what kind of creature we’d be hunting! How can we deceive a beast when we don’t even know by what senses it hunts? 

Who would volunteer for such a job?  

Ugh. The whole situation has left me exasperated. I wish I could just ignore it. 

XX/XX/XX 

I was outvoted.  

I’m trying not to be bitter about it. My word should be law, but Reginald has gotten his hooks into everyone. We haven’t gotten along since Stella adopted the child, and I think he wanted to use this as an opportunity to spite me.  

They’re going to use Briar. And there’s little I can say to convince them otherwise. 

XX/XX/XX 

It went to shit. Of course it did.  

Two hunters made it back alive.  

Two.  

Out of twelve.  

The monster found them before it even got to Briar the bait. A monstrosity with the size and claws of a bear, beaked and feathered like a flightless bird. I shudder to think of where it came from. If there’ll be more. 

Stella’s daughter will be killed sacrificed for nothing. Nobody is willing to go back out there any time soon. 

XX/XX/XX 

We recovered the bodies today. Part of me wanted to enjoy the look on Reginald’s face during the burials. The rest of me was too distracted. 

The creature is dead. Its carcass slumped over the slab of rock where we’d left my niece. 

The remaining hunters can’t make any sense of the tracks in the clearing. Something happened. Obviously. But they don’t know what.  

At least, that’s what we’ve told everyone. Reginald included. 

It seems at least one of the hunters are back on my side again, because Percy told me in person (away from the church’s prying eyes) that there was one glaring thing he noticed. That some of the tracks in the dirt belong to one particular species of Other. 

The Serpent has visited our corner of the woods. 

There’s the other thing, too.  

‘Thing,’ I write, as if it were a casual affair... 

Briar is gone.  

(And with her the last of Stella.) I don’t know if I should be filled with regret or relief. 

[princelylove]

Your Highness 💞

Ever since you made that post about la squadra and talked about prosciutto being a model it's all that's been stuck in my head every time I think about him, and more so I think about him with a darling who's also a model (since you mentioned he was a runaway model I was thinking of darling being a photoshoot or fashion or commercial kind) . I think it'd be interesting to see how their dynamic goes.

All I can imagine is them at the met gala, help.

Please and thank you 🦪 (pearls for you if you're interested?)

Ooh, pearls. I love pearls.

Little warning for fatshaming (is that the word?) towards the end.

Prosciutto is simultaneously the most generous and selfish member of la squadra. He's genuinely very mean, but he mothers the younger members in a very 'gentle' way. Physical abuse aside, he's fairly loved. Even Ghiaccio likes him, and Ghiaccio's the type of guy to call all mother figures a bitch.

The reason I say "mother" instead of "father" is, well. There's two reasons. One, because I view Risotto as the family father. Two, because Prosciutto isn't the type to keep buying you fruit when you mention you like it, he's the type to not apologize after screaming at you but still makes dinner just how you like it.

Prosciutto is, of course, a diva. He doesn't want a model for a darling, he wants a nobody he can belittle. You think he wants to pretend you're sooo good at your job? He's doing this on top of his second job, and look. No eye bags. You're nowhere near his level, don't try, you're embarrassing him.

He views it as competition because he's....... a very jealous man. He likes to be the center of attention, as most divas do. Prosciutto could want a darling who also models, since it's easy to put you down for the obvious difference in levels. It's like if Naomi Campbell in her prime was dating a stock model.

Male models are obviously held to different standards than female models. It's unfair, but it's true. In the author's opinion, it's much harder to shine as a female model in the industry, so masc Prosciutto gets a boost from the start no matter what you're doing, assuming reader is fem.

But fem Prosciutto?

She genuinely outshines you. She could do photoshoots if she wanted to, even if she doesn't like them. She gets offers all the time, she doesn't need the side money.

She likes to be on set for your shoots for plenty of reasons. Entirely mean spirited reasons. Prosciutto likes to pinch your sides when you're feeling confident- are you sure they got your size right? You've been cutting for this, right? Jeeez, the sizing department really hates you, you should go back on that diet she tried to get you on a while ago.

Prosciutto's very fond of using pet names, it's 'unfortunate' that every last one of them is derogatory. Fatty, fatass, piggy, [REDACTED: CONTAINS SLUR], isn't she such a loving lady?

Prosciutto lets you come to her shows, at least! You get to exist in the Prosciutto’s dressing room- yeah, she's that much of a diva that she insists on getting her own room, despite getting changed by the designer and not needing one. Prosciutto's fully comfortable standing around in the nice lingerie she wears under her work clothes, she's baiting you to stare so she can accuse you of being a perv. What, stupid and all worked up over some underwear? Jesus Christ, stop thinkin' with your dick and go be useful.

[theoldaeroplane]

Man; this last year has been so strange for me in terms of my perception of myself.

It has been not quite a year since I said to my [redacted] that my fussiness over people at my work not following any sensible structure in their code was so strong that you would almost think I'm autistic. I'm not sure why it was that idle thought, specifically, that made me start researching what having autism actually looks like. It was such a tremendous breakthrough for me once I started reading, in a way it hasn't been for some friends that have offhandedly mentioned they thought they might be autistic. (It's possible they're having their own breakthroughs in private, but I don't think so.)

Suddenly I had Explanations for why I am the way I am. I had the language. I didn't have to constantly fall back on "I guess I'm just overly sensitive" or "I'm weird like that" with no obvious cause.

On the heels of this, and I mean like three weeks after I started reading, I began to suspect I might have ADHD as well. I've suspected this in the past, I even took a test, but I was told I didn't have it. And they were the professional, and I paid hundreds of dollars for that test, so surely it meant I didn't have it, right? My problems with time and attention and memory must just be quirks. I must just not care enough.

Buddy.

Earlier this year I finally got an appointment with a psychiatrist, who asked me some questions and gave me a prescription. It had to change a few times before we found one that balanced side effects and symptom relief.

I can't tell you how strange it's been to watch my perception of myself change. For most of my life, I was told I was weird, lazy, that I didn't care enough, that I was too sensitive, that I needed to try harder, that I had so much potential I wasn't living up to, that I was acting different on purpose, that I thought I was so special. I internalized all of it. I believed all of it. What else could I do? I was a kid. Something was wrong and the adults in my life decided it was those things.

No one ever thought I might be autistic. No one ever suggested I might have ADHD. Not even my dad, who also has ADHD, who is probably autistic himself.

I do my best not to be bitter. The world was different when I was a kid. Information was hard to come by and we were poor. For all that I've come to hate my mother I understand that she herself was struggling heavily with her own mental health. I'm angry I slipped under the radar, but I don't know if anyone can really be blamed. And being angry can't change the past. All I can do now is move forward.

I have to remind myself, often, that I am a good person. (The fact I was raised to believe that all people are inherently wicked is another post.) That I am trying my best, and operating under a fundamentally broken system that is intolerant to people who don't fit its borders. That if the screaming and shaming and self-flagellating were going to work they would have done so by now. That my brain is built in such a way that causes it to constantly feel both over- and under-stimulated. That I'm not broken.

I was, as the story goes, a cygnet being raised by ducks, who simply got more and more frustrated when their strange duckling did not act the way a duckling should.

Well. I guess I'm a swan now. A swan with baggage, which is a funny image. I can't quack, but I can trumpet. And I have wings so powerful that they can break bones. (Just go with the metaphor.) More importantly, I know I'm not a duck, and I'm learning I don't have to keep trying to be one.

[autisticempathydaemon]

hey hey! idk if this is where I submit for the match up! but I would love to see who you think I'd fit in with! I'm a creative soul who tends to try to develop deep friendships with people above everything. I have a bit of a savior complex as well lol I work hard and play harder, trying to find new adventures to go on with those i care about. I tend to support others before supporting myself, and while im happy to let others open up to me its hard for me to open up in return. the best way i can feel close to someone is deep conversations and being creative with them!

My current fav song has been Maybe IDK by John Bellion, specifically the lyric "i guess if i knew tomorrow i guess i wouldnt need faith"  just the idea of living today to the best you can just because you don't know what will happen tomorrow. the worries of the future should keep you down today

My current fav Redacted audio has to be the Helping your Werewolf bf shift again. Specifically the acting is just so good to me. Erik did an amazing job of portraying Milo's anguish and pain at not being able to shift. Plus the relieved sobs at the end is so satisfying and emotional. 

The one boy i cant get the hype around is Ivan. like sure the yandere thing is somewhat attractive to some, but i just don't like the idea of an actual psychopath being obsessed with me.

my favorite movie is definitely the Secret Life of Walter Mitty by Ben Stiller. its less of a quotable movie and more of i remember every scene very distinctly. its a movie that envelops my own escapism. its beautifully shot, wonderfully acted, and a wholesome story on a rainy day.

my platonic redacted crush has to be Damien. he seems like a blast to interact with and tease. he's a hard worker and is tied close to his goals which i can admire. i would love to body double with him if i had some tasks to get done

space is also 100% my ramble subject when im sleepy, that and greek mythology

My guilty pleasure media is currently the animated shows Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Lego Monkie Kid. despite being kids shows, both of these are beautifully animated and shockingly well written!

I hope that gives you an idea of me! I look forward to who you think i match with!

Hmm, lots of good tidbits of information to consider. You strike me as really thoughtful, really caring, and I think Lasko could really benefit from a partner like that.

A savior complex, from what I understand, is just wanting to help people and make their lives better, and Lasko’s a guidance counselor, so y’all would have that in common. What’s good about pairing two people like that is y’all could keep each other in line, so to speak. Something that’s important when you’re always looking out for other people is to make sure someone is always looking out for you and vice versa. You and Lasko together would always make sure you’re taking care of others, each other, and yourselves.

Another reason I like the two of you together is that you like being creative with one another as a bonding activity. You know what’s the ultimate way to be creative together? Tabletop role playing games! If you don’t already play, Lasko would be so excited to help you with a character sheet, to help you craft a backstory, paint some mini figurines, go out and buy the perfect game dice and notebooks- the greatest combination of nerdy and cute in a couple.

Song:

There now, steady love, so few come and don't go/ Will you won't you, be the one I always know?/ When I'm losing my control, the city spins around/ You're the only one who knows, you slow it down

One, the whole vibe of “you slow me down, I’ll look after you, we’re here for each other” vibes are exactly what I’m picturing for y’all. Also, Lasko and I are around the same age, and I heard this song a lot growing up. I have some weird, like, emotional resonance with it from childhood, and I think Lasko does too. Like, it makes him nostalgic and longing; maybe he always wanted someone to look after and to look after him, and now he’s finally found that in you.

Runner-Ups:

A very reasonable runner-up for you would be Camelopardalis because he would do a great job making sure you balance work and your personal life and that you don’t put others before yourself too much. A more fun runner-up would be Guy because I love sticking that beautiful Creative Writing major with other beautiful, creative people!

note: thank you for waiting, dear, and I hope you like your match-up! 💕

Read this post and send me an ask if you’d like a match-up of your own! 💌

[illym]

Day 3 - Roleswap

I'm not a good outfit designer at the best of times, and coming up with one while sketching out the body makes it so much harder. I'll have to come back to this one, since I just stole Sirius' suit.

Roleswapped Sirius and my oc Thalia. Idea dump under the cut.

ID in alt text.

I went too far into logicking out how exactly the roleswap would work; instead of merely swapping them and keeping everything the same, I swapped the people important to their stories, too. Thus, Thalia's family is a witch-hunting family that gives up an important limb in exchange for the ability to see the unseen and other stuff, maybe. Thalia gave up her eye because seeing, and she covers it with an eye-patch-made-talismen when not using it, as her family believed that the demon they pacted with could see through their eye, otherwise.

Her family in general has a lot of assumptions that are logical, but proven completely wrong by canon. I doubt Thalia would ever learn exactly how wrong her family is; they've been chasing ghosts for a long time, and she probably gives up the tradition after each conclusion (for different reasons each time).

Sirius gains her [ redacted ], and is far more unstable about the deaths of his parents, since he killed them in this au. He's journeying around to try and find a way to see them again, and cure himself of [ redacted ]. He takes on a few of Ashe's elements, here, which is fitting as I swapped Ashe and Wilardo. I should write this whole au out...

Sirius ends up working for Thalia as she did in my canon, but he's far less trusting of her than she of him because she refuses to say anything about her eye or all the demon / witch / magic equipment around the mansion. She doesn't tell him anything because she believes he doesn't need to know, and knowing would just stress him out.

Thalia would be willing to kill Claire because she knows the dangers of a witch's part in the wrong hands.

Sirius is willing to kill Claire to grant his wish and rid himself of [ redacted ] and meet his parents again. The second part of his wish ends up killing him whenever he gets the Witch's Heart.

[donnerpartyofone]

When I expressed my anxiety about how I need to get a job again, after frittering away my savings while doing higher-end hobbyistic writing that is public and vaguely pays (an extreme luxury to do this, I know), my dad's response was basically that I should just become a writer instead of going back to work. Of course I'm the biggest underachiever in my family and the only person who isn't published either through upper level academia or proper mass media, and all my life it feels like somebody has been saying to me "Why don't you just become awesome and famous" as if that's a career choice that has nothing to do with luck, charisma, and ability; as if I'm not sort of a mess with certain handicaps that no one else in the family shares. Unfortunately, this time my father had one piece of concrete advice that didn't just involve vaguely being special for a living, which is that my fancy brother is close friends with a successful editor at [redacted]. I do have at least one topic with potential mainstream appeal that I could pitch if someone tells me how the hell to do that, but the friend is, in my estimation, kind of a sociopath. One October he reached out to me about horror movies, and what I got out of that conversation is that he has no trouble digesting things like CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST full of real human abuse and animal torture, but he becomes angry if he sees anything with more challenging and inobvious intellectual content. The last time I saw him in person he was all agitated because he wanted to do a deal with Jordan Peterson, which a lot of his colleagues were scandalized by, and his only response was "It's gonna make money so what's the problem?" His interest in Jordan Peterson bothered me less than his weird, blank-faced ignorance of the fact that this might bother some people, his acting like that was a big surprise seemed to me to be really a bad sign. His wife is one of the more awful people I've met in person, one year she took up most of our Christmas dinner spewing some Sofia Coppola-type nonsense about the difficulties of being a beautiful poetess, before endlessly describing the sex practices of her polyamorous friends despite the many efforts of an elderly in-law to change the subject. Like anybody really needs to be thinking about all her buddies' played out dicks and pussies while we're trying to eat. Not that I would have to listen to her practice her needy, tacky self-marketing spiel if I worked with her shady husband, and it's not like I'm so naive that I think I can get around working with creeps in media industries, but it's harder to move forward when you know in advance how someone is specifically gross going in, it's not just an abstraction about the perils of business, it's That Guy. As usual my selective moral squeamishness is holding me back in life!

[chronologicalimplosion]

I think the thing that's currently fucking me up the most about whatever formerly-gifted kid flavor of neurodivergence it is that I've got, at this particular life stage, is still the minefield of setting expectations with new people.

For most of my life, authority figures and colleagues have been pretty neatly divided into "people who judged me at my worst, most burnt-out and struggling and decided I was a lost cause" and "people who met me during or stuck around long enough to witness a period of High Output, and decided I was the coming of the next mundane workplace Messiah". I've gotten to the place where I know that I can't keep my highest most hyperfocused least taking-care-of-my-basic-needs level of ~productivity~ up for long, and that I struggle with regulating the highs and lows, and that may be my battle for the rest of my life… but it's always the perceptions that trip me up.

I'm acutely aware of the fact that people judge me based on the current level of productive good citizen neurotypicality I'm managing to ape during that first impression window. Not everyone, but enough. And no amount of self-inner-work is going to change that reality. I just have to decide what I want to do about it, what with some unknowable percentage of people who may or may not be making career-altering decisions

It just. Sucks that there's no way for someone to meet both ends of the spectrum at once, or to understand where exactly they're meeting me at without it sounding like I'm bullshitting. And "I'm having a burnt-out month because I was operating at 300% during the first week to meet a deadline" isn't actually going to get the government of [redacted] to accept that I should just get whatever working hours I want actually.

Every new start has been harder and harder as I've gotten past college age, because I'm still trying to buy myself into people's good graces when I first meet them so they remember me as a Hard Worker Going Through A Rough Spell and not their burnout inconsistent colleague who made a bad impression and is now on a short-lived attempt to turn their disastrous life around.

The people who've been here for four years know that neither of those is the whole truth, that I'm always going to be both, and they've stuck around anyways. But every new person I meet is one more week added to the mental arithmetic of how long I have to keep the act up before I've tricked my way into their esteem. And I can feel the stress of that burning me out faster.

tl;dr- fuck a dichotomy

[pessimesticcee]

•—When Underestimation Makes Efforts Seem Invisible—•

• entry • 🖇 humanista, ano na? 📌

It’s hard to explain this feeling — the weight of doing your best and still feeling like it’s not enough… just because of the strand you’re in.

From the moment I chose the path of being a HUMSS student, I knew people would talk. People look at my strand and assume it’s easy. They treat it like it’s the default choice for people who didn’t want to “struggle” in senior high. And because of that, my efforts often feel invisible.

I write, I speak, I study human behavior, social issues, and I try to understand the world around me. I try to be more knowledgeable of the things that I want to be educated about, I think critically, I analyze, I emphatize. I try to build arguments, lead initiatives, communicate effectively, and many more. But all of that gets reduced to:

"That's just HUMSS."

"Kaya mo siguro pinili yang HUMSS kasi madali lang yan."

"Kaya ka siguro nakaabot sa with high honors kasi mas madali subjects diyan."

"Wala kasi kayong subjects na parang sa'min eh, na mas mahihirap."

"Bakit hindi na lang [redacted] pinili mo."

These lines stings more than people realize. It carries the weight of constant comparison. It makes everything I've accomplished feel smaller. Like it only happened because the strand is "easy". It's hard to be reminded every day that society doesn't value the strand the way it should.

So even when I do achieve something, even when I know I worked hard — I struggle to feel proud. There's always this voice in the back of my head whispering,

“They think it was easy.”

“You only did well because your strand isn’t hard.”

And honestly, I hate that it gets to me. I hate that I let other people’s assumptions steal the joy from my own growth. Because I know how much effort I put in.

Worse, many students only take the strand because they're undecided. Because they see it as an easy strand; because it's seen as a backup plan. That hurts — because this isn’t my backup. This is my choice. And seeing it constantly treated like a last resort makes me feel like I have to keep defending it… and myself.

On top of that, the system itself makes it harder. Schools, teachers, and even society doesn't give that much needed support to our strand as much as they do to... basta. Most of the time, we’re just expected to stay quiet and take whatever’s left. And because of that, no one really sees the effort we put in.

I also hate how the things they say affects me to the point that I find myself comparing the level of difficulty of my strand to other strands that are seen as the "hard" ones — the ones that students could ever take. To the point that I second-guess my achievements, even though I know the hard work and efforts I poured to reach those achievements while being in the field I know I'm passionate about — field where I think I've built skills that go beyond numbers and formulas.

I know how to lead, how to speak, how to think critically. That should be enough.

Still, it’s hard. It’s hard to fully embrace that pride when the world keeps making you feel like your strand, your journey, and your voice are less important.

I wish I could be proud. I wish I could own my growth and feel genuinely good about it. But when you’re constantly underestimated, it’s hard not to second-guess yourself. It’s hard to celebrate when people already assume it didn’t take much.

That's it, bye! 🔮📿