#first time working with these specific markers too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moody-alcoholic · 27 days ago

Text

Cross My Heart

Chapter 1 - Self Preservation

Summary: poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers. You're a smuggler working for whoever pays trying to survive in the war torn Urzikstan.

On what should have been a routine job for Konni you end up becoming entrapped by a mysterious SAS unit.

They need your help and maybe you need theirs too.

Original abridged version HERE

---

CW: Mention/description of injuries.

masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

It was late evening when Ivan called you for a meeting. You walked into what Ivan has started calling the ‘war room’ to see a group of older looking men lined up against a wall. They look different from anyone else you’ve seen, these must be the people he wants you to smuggle.

Ivan is leaning over the table talking to whoever is on the other end of the call. You can hear a russian voice but you don’t recognise it. There is also another man sitting at the table who you don’t know as well. You lean against the opposite wall with your arms crossed, they’re going over the plan. As per usual you’re not listening to specifics.

Your attention turns back to the three guys, they look older, the walking is going to be hard on them. From what you’ve gathered there’s not even a swap, just dropping them off at an Al-Qatala munitions place about 30 kilometers inland. You watch as Ivan walks around the table with his arms crossed.

He looks better, gave himself a makeover by the looks of it, got a haircut, new suit and vest. He looks good for once-or at least better than his usual get up, it’s a shame he’s trying too hard to copy Makarov. The people you’re supposed to be smuggling look scared as shit, they’re not soldiers, they’re not POW’s, something else, all you were told is that they’re specialists.

“You fucking listening?” Ivan snaps at you. You stand up off the wall letting your hands drop and go over to the map on the table.

“I’ll take the normal route, 30k shouldn't be too slow, get them there by tomorrow morning.” You say pointing at the map.

“No. Farah’s moving north.” Ivan says, you sigh, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Alright, I’ll take the longer route, stop off at a safehouse if I need to.” You say.

“You should do it in one night. It’s risky stopping off at safehouses right now.” Ivan says, you know he’s not saying it for your sake. This is precious cargo, you look over at them standing against the wall. They’re not Russian, or at least they don’t speak Russian. They keep exchanging confused glances while they watch you.

“Can your smuggler handle the ULF?” A voice through the phone asks.

“I can handle myself.” You snap back, you don’t need strangers doubting you.

“Make it as far as you can before looking for shelter. If you’re lucky you will make it there by tomorrow morning.” Ivan says. You sigh, that was going to be the plan. But of course you can’t have all the glory, Ivan needs to earn his role so you let him think the plan is his. Besides, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Fine.” You say, nodding and standing up. You look down at the new markers on the map, it doesn't seem like much has changed since you were last out. This is your first big job in a while though.

“Good.” The other random guy says, you don’t recognise him but he’s definitely Russian. Probably someone higher up in Konni, here to keep an eye on Ivan, it is his first time running a base for them. A big one too, on the Russian-Urzikstan border. You want to be proud of him but you really don’t care.

You look out the window crossing your arms again. It’s early evening, you should leave when it’s dark it will give you the best cover.

“What do you know about Farah? Why is she moving north?” You ask.

“No idea, Al-Qatala are monitoring it. Besides, you’re friendly right?” He says.

“Friendly’s a loose term. I don’t think she would be happy with me sneaking people to Al-Qatala.” You say.

“You’ll be fine, you know what you’re doing.” Ivan says. You nod, sighing.

“I’ll get what I need, leave as soon as it gets dark.” You say, turning to leave the room.

…

You walk over to the prison wing, although it’s barely a prison. The whole base used to be a school or a college. Konni took it over a few years ago, the prison wing used to be the art department or something based on the plain concrete walls and floor. It’s the most secure building, there’s an old cold war bunker directly under it.

You’re looking for Calab, you need a cigarette and a chat before you leave. It's the first proper job you’ve had in a while. Other than some simple intel runs for Konni, this is the first time you’ll be back in your home country in over a week.

Not that you miss it, not like there's anything there for you.

“Heading out already?” Calab calls over. You smile walking over to him and accepting the cigarette he’s already holding out for you.

“Thought you'd be off duty already.” You smile, lighting it. You take a deep breath in letting it calm you and warm your lungs.

“Too early for that, besides think I’d miss waving you off?” He chuckles.

“Big package.” He says pointing over at the people you’re smuggling.

“Konni to Al-Qatala.”

“Look at you, big leagues.” He says, you can hear the sarcasm in his voice.

“Big pay too. Maybe I'll take you out for dinner.” You smile nudging him.

“How much is the split with Ivan?”

“60/40.”

“He’s screwing you.” You laugh, blowing out a lung full of smoke.

“In multiple ways.” You say sighing. One of the soldiers calls you over.

“Got to go, should be back late tomorrow.” You say patting him on the shoulder.

“Give me another?” You ask, holding your hand out for another cigarette.

“You need to buy your own packs.” He chuckles, handing you two.

“I don’t smoke.” You smile back at him, flicking the butt on the floor.

“Hey!” He calls, you turn to look at him. “ULF’s heading North.”

“Yeah, I know.” You say holding a thumbs up. You watch as the soldier shakes hands with one of the people you’re smuggling. You won’t bother learning their names, the less you know about them the better.

“Long trek, need anyone to escort?” One of the soldiers says, you shake your head. You don't know who he is, you’ve only been using this base since Ivan got moved here. Easy to sneak people over the border when you’re literally on it. These people are a nice gift from Makarov, get them to Al-Qatala and then get back.

“Do you speak Arabic?” One of them asks, you nod. They seem nervous, nothing like most of the people you smuggle. Your plan is to make it to a ULF safehouse you know will be empty, or at least you hope it will. If the ULF are moving north you have to hope they’ve not come this far north.

“How long will it take?” One of them asks.

“Couple of hours, but we’ll be stopping off half way.” You reply, leading them over to the main gate.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” He asks, you turn to look at him and raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t really feel like walking 40 kilometers in one go.” You say, smiling at the soldier who’s standing at the main gate. You offer him one of your cigarettes.

“Heard the ULF are moving north.” He says, you sigh, taking it away before he can accept it. He scoffs and goes to open the gate.

“There’s a rumor marines landed a few hours away.” You smile offering the cigarette again.

“Americans?”

“No fucking idea.” He says.

“Landed where?” You frown letting the others go through the gate before you. He puts the cigarette in his mouth.

“Russia.” He says as he lights it. You nod and walk through the gates.

“Did you at least fuck Ivan?” He asks, closing the gate behind you.

“No.” You smile walking away.

“Fuck, he’s going to be in a bad mood.” He says, loud enough for you to hear.

“Not my problem.” You call back walking past the 3 people you’re smuggling and putting the cigarette in your mouth.

“Do any of you smoke?” You ask, switching to Arabic and looking around them all. One of them nods, you smile, lighting the cigarette. “Good.”

_____

When you make it to the safehouse you can already see it's still empty. You pop the lock on the door and walk in.

“Where are we?” The older one asks. He started complaining about his feet hurting a few kilometers into the walk. You thought you were going to have to stop even earlier, but you forced them to push through it. There’s no way the ULF are this far north and even if they were they wouldn't use this safehouse.

When you get in you feel the ache in your legs, you could use a rest too besides on the way back you won’t be stopping off. You shouldn’t sleep but you’re already feeling the first 20 kilometers and you know the people you’re escorting are feeling it worse.

“There’s MRE’s in the crate.” You say. “Don’t drink the water from the taps, there should be water jugs in the garage.”

They’re still looking at you bewildered and confused. You sigh, rubbing your forehead.

“It’s safe here, the ULF doesn’t come this far north. If Konni or Al-Qatala show up, call me.”

“Where are you going?” One of them asks.

“To get a few hours rest. You should too, one of you needs to stay up though, as a lookout.” You say.

“You’re the one with the gun.” The one with the glasses points at your hip.

“If the enemy comes knocking, my gun’s not going to do shit. So wake me before that happens.” You say sighing and walking up the stairs. You’ve never been caught short before, you’re not going to let it happen now. You still check all the upstairs rooms just to be safe, the place is clear. You pick one of the rooms, pulling your pistol off your hip and putting it on the bedside table.

You take your jacket off but leave everything else and lay down on top of the sheets. You should get a few hours rest, or at least try. You could use another smoke but then you definitely won’t be able to sleep. You can get a few hours here and then still make it by the morning if you pick up the pace a little.

You sigh and close your eyes, it doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you under.

____

A light flicks on and your eyes snap open.

Something’s wrong, you can feel it. You look round the room, your eyes immediately land on a man holding a pistol at you. He’s sat on a chair, decked out in full military gear. There’s a bigger weapon slung over his back.

“Not a good idea to be sleepin’ when you’re alone.” He has an accent you can’t quite place. Not American though. You look at the patches on his vest, Union-Jack, O-Positive. SAS, fuck .

“I had lookouts.” You say swallowing the nerves.

“Yeah, ‘bout that.” He sighs, your heart is pumping rapidly in your chest. They’re most likely dead-innocent people, dead.

“What do you want?” You ask, your eyes flick over to your pistol on your night stand. The man sees it, his eyes follow yours.

You have to act now.

You reach out for the weapon. The man is on his feet in an instant, the pistol in his hand comes down hard on your wrist.

You yell out in pain, your weapon falling to the floor. The door to the room fly's open, there’s another man now. He makes you jump, training an AR at your head with a scary looking skull mask covering his face.

There’s no point in fighting.

The man next to you picks the weapon up off the floor, unloading it and throwing it to the side. You swing your legs out the bed.

“Don’t fuckin’ move!” He shouts. You hear the safety click off his gun, your breath catches in your throat. You hold your hands up, you’re unarmed, there’s nothing you can do.

“What are you doing in a ULF safehouse?” The man in the doorway asks, you keep your eyes trained on the person holding the pistol to your head. The other man’s accent is different.

“You’re injured?” There’s blood on his vest, it’s a long shot but better then nothing. “I’m a medic. I can help.” It’s a lie but all you can think about is getting out here alive.

The man looks to the doorway, you keep still. Even if you could tackle him to the ground his friend would finish you off.

“We’ve got one injured, think you could help?” The man in the doorways asks.

“What happened?” You ask, trying to hide your nerves. Your mum was a nurse, your dad a doctor before. Before the war, you could help, maybe that would buy you your freedom, or at the very least make sure they don’t shoot you right away.

“GSW.” That’s all you’re given, that could mean anything.

“You work with the ULF?” The man in front of you asks. You shake your head.

“Al-Qatala?” You shake your head again.

“Who?” The man in the doorway asks again. This time you turn to him. The mask on his face is splattered with blood. He’s bigger, taller and wider than the guy in front of you. He has the same patches though, Union-Jack, SAS.

“Does it matter, you said you had injured? You’re not going to find a hospital around here. It’s all Al-Qatala controlled territory.” You say. Self preservation at its finest.

“Can you help then?” The man in front of you asks. You turn to look at him, your hands still in the air.

“The longer we wait the less chance I have. Gunshot wounds can be unpredictable.” You say swallowing the nerves. Confidence is key, that's what you learnt once. The man in front of you puts down his weapon, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet.

“Try anything and we fuckin’ kill ya.” He says through gritted teeth.

You make it down to the ground floor as their hostage, it doesn’t take you long to see the blood stains on the floor. The uneaten MRE’s and open jug of water. The man with the mohawk is walking down first, the man with the mask is behind you, the barrel of his AR digging into your shoulder blades.

You can see two other people, they’re dressed in similar gear. At least one of them is, the other is laid out on the couch. The man standing turns, he brings a pistol up pointing it at you.

“Easy Gaz. She’s a medic.”

“Doesn’t look like one.” The man-Gaz-says lowering his gun looking around at the people escorting you. They walk you over to the sofa, you step around the coffee table, you can see an open first aid kit, it’s one of the ones from the safehouse. It should have some things that could help you. The man on the sofa looks clammy, pale skin and sweat on his forehead, his top is soaked too, a mix of blood and sweat.

You don’t know what you’re doing, you didn’t think you could make it this far. They’ve taken his vest, belt and boots off. It’s just his shirt and trousers, his shirt has been pulled up to his chest, they’ve been trying to stop the bleeding. You’ve seen wounds like this before, you’ve seen people die from wounds like this.

You try to think about what you remember from your parents and spending countless summers and holidays in the hospital.

“You said you could help him. What do you need?” The voice snaps you out of your head, you look over at him. He seems the most reserved, dark skinned brown eyes, he has a cap on, he’s stood on the other side of the sofa his hands still on the weapon slung over his chest.

You have no idea what to do.

“Clean water, and bandages. Sterile if possible.” You say, you can’t tell if that sounds professional or not but they exchange glances and the mohawk man moes from behind you into the kitchen. You take another step over to the sofa. You need to know if the bullet has gone through or not.

“Not another step.” Gaz says, raising his weapon. You hold your hands up again, holding your ground.

“I can’t help him if you don’t let me check him.” You say, gritting your teeth.

“Stand down Gaz.” You hear the voice behind you say. Gaz shifts gripping the weapon in his hands tighter.

“You won’t hurt him?” He asks.

“Cross my heart.” You say looking in his eyes, you keep your hands up until he lowers his weapon. You look down at the man on the sofa. There’s so many things you need to check, he could be bleeding internally, you can’t see any other wounds but there could be others.

You remember the basics, seemingly pointless stuff like ten-second triage and CABC. You could name every organ and what it does. Maybe you could stitch him up, you’ve had enough practice in the labs with fake skin. You know how to do an ultrasound and an x-ray but it’s not like ULF keeps stuff like that in a safehouse.

You lower your hands but take it slow, bending down by him. Your hand brushes over the bandages. They're thick and it hasn’t bled through. You want to pull them back, look at the wound but if it’s not bleeding he's stable.

“I got water. Ghost, Gaz. Check your medkits for sterile bandages.” It’s the man with the accent, you turn to see him bringing over a bowl of water.

Ghost. He must be the man with the mask. Gaz and Ghost.

He puts it down on the coffee table behind you.

“What's his name?” You ask, swallowing the nerves you need them to think you can do this. Maybe you can do this, or maybe he’ll die and they have someone to blame.

“Is that important?” Gaz asks.

“No, I'm just used to asking.” You pull the bandages back slowly, blood pours out and you take a clean bandage mopping it up. You should clean the wound, asses the damage and get then fuck out of here. Or at least do enough for them to let you go.

“What's his blood type?” You ask.

“Oh-positive.” The Ghost says.

“Do you think he needs blood?” They guy with the accent asks. You look up at Gaz putting the bandages back down.

“I don’t know. How bad was the bleeding?” You ask.

“Bad I guess, bled through a few bandages before we got it under control.” Gaz says.

“Can you help me roll him on his side? I need to know if there's an exit wound.” You ask, turning to the guy with the accent, you still don’t know his name but he seems the nicest out of all of them.

“There’s no exit wound.” Gaz says, you believe him and the less you have to move him the better, especially if the bullet is still in there. You nod looking back at the bandages and gauze they’ve managed to collect.

You replace the bandages with gauze, homeostatic gaze, the good stuff you've only seen once or twice. The bleeding already seemed under control but you’re trying to buy time besides there's nothing you can do to make this worse, or at least you hope so.

You try to remember things you’ve picked up from your parents. He’s breathing, responding to pain even though he's barely conscious. His pulse is as rapid as his breathing, again you don’t know if that's good or bad.

In the medkit there’s a blood pressure machine and a thermometer. His blood pressure is elevated, if he was bleeding out his BP would be low or at least that's what you assume. His temperature is normal, so no fever which means no infection right?

You pick up one of the rags from the kit and dump it into the bowl of water. You ring it out and use it to mop up the sweat on his face, before resting it on his forehead. People do this in movies, maybe it will help, maybe it will get some kind of response from him.

If he dies they’ll kill you. There is always someone behind you, you can hear them shuffle as they move their weapon from hand to hand. If you tried to make a run for it they would kill you. Your best chance is to save this man. Save the enemy.

If he’s breathing, you’re safe. If he’s not bleeding out, you're safe.

You continue to make yourself look busy. Patting his forehead, keeping pressure on his wounds. He doesn’t seem to have any other injuries, just a gunshot to the abdomen. There’s no swelling or rigidness in his bowel. You remember hearing from an ED doctor once that everything from nipple to the navel is no man's land.

“When were you going to tell us huh!?” It’s Gaz, he's loud and angry. There’s a hand gripping your shoulder and you’re pulled away from the man on the sofa. You turn to see Gaz with his weapon in his hands, the barrel pressed to your head.

“What’s going on?” Ghost asks even though he’s bought his own weapon aimed at you.

“She’s Konni.” The man with the mohawk says. You look up at the man with the gun pressed to your head. You didn't even get a chance to get to your feet.

This is it. This is how you die.

The barrel is cold on your skin, you’re holding your breath, his finger is on the trigger.

“Explain yourself.” A deep voice asks. You swallow hard trying to keep as still as possible.

“I’m a smuggler. I work for whoever pays. The people you killed, I was supposed to get them to Al-Qatala. Konni pays me to smuggle people or weapons over the border. It’s easy to use ULF safehouses up here as a stop off point.” It’s desperate, you feel like you’re talking too fast. Maybe they won’t understand you with your accent. Maybe they won’t believe you.

“You Russian?” The man with the mohawk asks.

“Does it matter?” You almost spit back at him.

“What about Al-Qatala or ULF you done jobs for them too?”

“If they pay, yeah. You’d be surprised how desperate people can get.” Adrenaline pulses through you, you’re not going to back down even if it is your final stand.

“Gaz, stand down.” You see a hand land on his shoulder. You swallow again, looking up at him, his eyes are scrunched together, there’s real anger behind them. The gun moves from your head, you let out a sigh of relief, sitting back on your legs, you keep your hands up.

“What do Konni pay you to smuggle?” Ghost asks.

“I don’t ask. The less I know the less I’m a liability. I’m good at what I do, that's all that matters.” The man with the mohawk scoffs. Gaz moves back to stand with him.

“You don’t even get a little curious?” Gaz asks.

“POW’s, chemicals. High ranking members of Al-Qatala, mostly for meetings with Konni, sometimes with Makarov himself.”

“What about the ULF?” Ghost asks.

“General supplies, the odd civilians, favors for Farah. It’s harder to cross the other borders. Russia is easy.”

“So you’re not a medic. Can you even help him?” Gaz asks. You turn to look at the man on the sofa, you can’t tell if colour has come back to his face or not.

“My mother was a ED nurse, my father was a doctor. I was on track to go to med school too.” You say, you’re not sure what’s going to happen now. You probably know as much as they do, they’ve most likely have more medical training then you.

“Where are your parents now?” Gaz asks.

“Dead, killed in the conflict. Like almost everyone I know.” There’s sadness in your voice, you try to hide it.

“You didn’t pick a side?” Ghost asks.

“I did, in the beginning. Farah’s message was a popular one. It was the ULF who came to our aid when our town was attacked.” You pause looking round at them all. “It was the ULF who carpet bombed the hospital killing my father. A week later my mother was killed by Al-Qatala when they raided a ULF base.”

“I’m sorry, about your parents.” The mohawk man says, Gaz tuts.

“Why become a smuggler?” Ghost asks. “Put your hands down.”

“It was by chance. I managed to gather enough money to flee, and pay someone to get me over the border. We got talking, he offered me a job instead.” You explain lowering your hands.

“Where is he now?”

“Probably dead.” You say as a matter of fact. You haven’t seen him in over a year. In the beginning he was like your mentor, teaching you the best routes and how to use ULF and Al-Qatala safehouses. Who to mention to get people to leave you alone. He vouched for you, got you jobs then when you were ready then he just left.

Or maybe he fucked up and he was killed.

No one is saying anything.

“Your friend’s gunshot is not a through and through, that means the bullet is still in there. Pulling it out could kill him, I don’t have the equipment to check where it is or if he has any other injured organs. He needs a hospital.” You say urgently.

“CASEVAC?” Gaz asks.

“Not from here.” Ghost replies. There’s silence again. You squeeze your eyes closed, sighing.

“There’s an abandoned vets in the next town, east of here. It will have the supplies I need to sew him up at least. Make sure he’s stable enough to move.” They could think you’re lying. They’re exchanging glances, you can almost see them thinking. It seems like Ghost is the one incharge, he shifts on his feet.

“Okay.”

“What about Farah?” Gaz asks, your head snaps over to the mohawk man, you need to get his name at some point, and figure out where his accent is from, he doesn’t sound like the other two.

“Nothing but radio silence.” Ghost replies.

“How did you end up here?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You’ve been honest with them, maybe they’ll be honest with you.

“That's classified.” Ghost snaps, you nod. You expected that.

“I heard Farah’s forces are moving north. We’re close to the Russian border. Maybe it’s best you wait?” You say offering up the only info you have on ULF’s movements.

“How do you know that?” Ghost asks.

“I was warned they were on the move when I picked up this job.” You say.

“By Konni?” Gaz asks, you nod. You hear Ghost sigh then mutter under his breath.

“In your opinion, how bad is he?” Ghost asks, taking another step towards you, you hold your ground.

“I don’t know. Moving him is risky, but there is no way to tell if the bullet is already doing any damage internally.” You explain. “It’s 50/50 either way.”

“And you know how to sew him up?” The mohawk guy asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve had plenty of practice.” You explain. It’s a long shot, but right now it's about keeping yourself alive. As long as you’re useful you’re safe.

There are collective sighs around the room, glaces and nods of heads. Ghost lowers his weapon taking another step towards you. He opens his mouth about to speak but a groan from behind you cuts him off.

You turn to see the man on the couch trying to sit himself up. Gaz rushes past you and you move out the way getting to your feet to give him room. The guy with the mohawk grabs your arm pulling out the way.

“Price, don’t move. You’re okay.” He says. Price, so that's the name of the man on the sofa. His eyes blink open and he looks around, you can feel the barrel of a weapon digging into your back.

A gentle reminder they don’t trust you.

“Where are we?” Price slurs followed by a groan, you almost miss what he says.

“Urzikstan, ULF safehouse just across the border.” Gaz explains. They came from Russia, what were they doing in Russia? You remember what the guard told you, there were marines landing in Russia. Maybe this is them and he got it wrong. Or there are still people out there and you’re about to have marines and SAS to worry about.

“Shit, what happened?” His voice is less slurred now. Gaz is keeping him pressed down, his hand stroking his arm.

“Convoy was ambushed, we had no choice.”

“Alex?” Price asks.

“MIA, we lost track of him when you got shot. I made the order to fall back.” Ghost says but you can hear the strain in his voice.

“Shit.” Price says, dipping his head.

“It’s okay Cap, we’ll find him.” So there are more people with them. Someone called Alex, and they’re missing. They had a convoy, most likely for the ULF.

“Who’s she?” Price asks his gaze landing on you. You smile at him, it’s mostly nerves but you don’t know what else to do.

“Not sure.” Gaz says, Price looks over at Ghost.

“Smuggler.” The mohawk guy says.

“ULF?” Price asks, no one says anything for a few seconds.

“Take her out to the hall.” Ghost says.

“C’mon.” The man behind you says pulling you out of the room and to the entrance hall. The door is closed behind you and he lets your arm go leaning against the wall. You don’t say anything leaning against the opposite wall.

You could take him, you wouldn’t have to do much just surprise him, give yourself enough time to run out the house. Maybe if you knock him hard enough you can grab his weapon. He’s not even holding a weapon at you, his arms are crossed.

You’re quick, you don’t know if you’re quicker then him but his pistol is just sitting in his holster.

It’s been at least 10 minutes you’d wager. They’re deciding your fate. It makes you restless, you pick at your nails while you hear their muffled voices on the other side of the door. You look over at the man in the room.

“See something you like?” He asks.

“Why join the army when your country is not at war?”

“Why not pick a side when yours is?” You scoff, shaking your head. Like he would understand what it’s like. Just like the Americans, there always has to be a good and a bad.

“You’re not british?” You ask.

“Scottish.” He replies. You didn't think you were going to get a sincere reply, you smile. He looks over at you and you look away, back to the door.

“Ever think about what’s going to happen when the war ends?” He asks. You laugh, you don’t really mean it, it just seems like such a stupid question.

“I’ll be long gone before that happens.” You say crossing your arms and shifting your weight. You’ve dropped the idea of escaping it seems. Maybe you can get more info from them, useful info. A Lot of people would pay good money for SAS intel.

“Really? Where would you go?” He asks like he’s interested all of a sudden.

“America, Russia. Somewhere with a fuck load of land.”

“Why?”

“Farming sounds like fun. Being self-sufficient, that kind of thing.” You say. He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe you.

“What about you? Got any dreams or are you planning on dying for your country?” You ask bitterly. What makes him think he’s any better than you? Because he took an oath? Fuck him.

“Who knows, might do. What’s better though a quick fulfilled life or a long unfulfilled one?” He says. You frown at him. What the fuck does that mean?

“What? Were you a therapist in another life?” You ask, looking away. He chuckles, you ignore him. You both stand there in silence for what feels like ages. You can still hear mumbling, they’re still talking. They could be deciding to execute you. You’re the enemy, they don’t even need to make it look like an accident. Boom bullet in your head job done.

You just hope it’ll be quick. Or maybe they’ll decide to torture you for intel, not that you know much.

“What’s your name?” You turn to the man.

“Soap.”

“Soap? Like what you wash with?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. He nods, you scoff, shaking your head and looking away.

Soap, Ghost, Gaz and Price. What a fucking mess you’ve got yourself into.

The door swings open, it makes you jump. You both stand up but you wait for Soap to move first.

“He wants to talk to you.” Gaz says, he barely looks at you as he moves out the way of the door. You nod swallowing the fear rising in you. You walk back into the room. Price is sat up on the sofa now a hand pressed on the bandages on his stomach, there’s an electronic tablet by his side. That probably has a lot of expensive intel on it.

Ghost’s stood behind the sofa with his arms crossed. You look at him quickly then to Price as you stop in front of him. He looks round you, he still looks clammy, at least there is some colour back in his face. That’s got to be good, at least whatever you did didn't kill him.

“You said you could pull the bullet out?” He asks. You look round the room not quite believing what you’re hearing.

“No, I said you needed a hospital.” You cross your arms. Price smiles leaning back on the sofa, his face winces in pain even though he tries to hide it.

“I want you to pull it out.”

“Price!” You hear Gaz say. “That's not what we discussed.”

“I’m sorry. Even if I could just pull it out, I don’t have any equipment. No sterile field, an x-ray.” You stop throwing your hands up. “I could kill you. I don’t exactly want the blood of a SAS soldier on my hands.”

“I could die anyway?”

“You’re still talking, moving, breathing.” You’re getting frustrated, there’s no way you’re going to do this. If you kill him they’ll blame you, it’s a death sentence.

“Which means the bullet probably missed anything vital.” He says as a matter of fact. You look down at the wound, his hand still resting on the bandages. The bleeding is under control, he seems fine other than the hole in his stomach.

“Maybe. I don’t know but I'm not doing what would essentially be surgery on you in a shitty safehouse.” You say squeezing the bridge of your nose. “Like I said I don’t even have the tools.”

“The vets in the next town over, will it have what you need?” You stop pinching your nose. You don’t say anything. There is no way this is happening.

“You’re crazy.” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air in disbelief. You look round at everyone. No one is saying anything, Price has a smile on his lips you just want to slap off.

“C’mere.” He says moving and gesturing for you to step closer. You just stand there gawking at him, no one is saying anything. You look up at Ghost, his eyes are digging into you. You swallow again, taking a step over to him. This time everyone does move, ever so slightly but enough for you to notice. Price’s hand reaches out to press on his side.

“Feel that.” He says. You look up at him unsure what to do, he nods at you. You shake your head for a second letting out a sigh and press where he instructed.

Holy shit, it’s hard just under his skin. It’s the bullet. You could pull that out no problem, then you could stitch up the rest of his wounds.

“Still don’t think you could get it out?” He asks as you stand back up. Your eyes flick back up to Ghost. You press your lips together thinking, you could do this.

“What’s in it for me?” You ask. Now it’s negotiation time. You hear Gaz scoff.

“We let you walk out here alive.” Gaz says, there’s anger in his voice. You turn to look at him. He’s definitely the most reserved out of all them, he held a gun to your head. He would kill you, all he needs is an excuse. You look back down at Price.

“Your life for mine.” He says.

“Dramatic.” You scoff. You hear Soap chuckle behind you.

“I want asylum, in the UK.” You say, crossing your arms. It's not America but it’s a start.

“Fine.” Price says. You look at him shocked.

“Just like that?” You ask frowning, it’s almost too good to be true.

“Just like that. You need to get us into Russia though. Quietly, you said you’re a good smuggler, we’ll even pay you for it.” Price says. Now you really don’t believe him. It’s a challenge though, you can see it in his eyes.

“I would need to go to the vets for the supplies.” You say.

“Ghost will go with you.” Price says. This is risky, they could be lying. They could kill you as soon as they’re done with you. If they want you to take them over the border you could hand them over to Konni. Makarov would probably pay you enough to retire if you handed him 4 SAS soldiers, fuck it he’d probably give you a mansion somewere in Russia.

“How do I know I can trust you?” You ask.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Price says back, tipping his head. Touché. You smile.

“Okay. I’ll help.” You hold your hand out, he shuffles uncomfortably but leans forward to shake your hand.

You don’t trust them, but they don’t trust you. No way you’re going to let them betray you though. That’s your job.

Banners by plum98

116 notes · View notes

heavenlyraindrops · 1 year ago

Note

Can I request a bit of lucifer x reader where reader is a new resident at the hotel but also extremely powerful like could almost be an overlord if they wanted but are shy/hate people so they try to just keep to themselves and be as quiet as possible but end up in a forced proximity situation with the king of hell himself (who they have a horrible crush on) and something pushes them over the edge we get some fluffy confessions but also a bit of dry humping (I liked your pervious story with it) and afterwards they realize being tangled up with Lucifer himself probably isn't going to keep them out of the spotlight but oh well? (I hope this isn't too much you said the more specifics the better and works got me to burned out to write it myself )

ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ- “ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ” ——> word count: 3.5k

Warnings: drinking, tiny mention of blood/violence, sexual content, dry humping, forced proximity

hiii anon tysm for the ask I love it, it’s perfectly specific and I had sm fun writing this ! I’m not too good with fluff but I tried my best, I hope you like it!

You didn’t want to be an overlord.

Despite your monumental power- it was just too much. The other overlords scared you, and you despised the attention.

Instead of choosing any overlord-ish career endeavours, you’d opted to help Charlie, your friend, with her hotel. It was better, it was easier, especially much more than having to mingle with power-hungry demons. And Charlie herself was charming enough to make working with her seem attractive enough.

“[name], I’m so happy you’ve decided to help me,” she beamed, clutching your hands, eyes sparkling. And as she hugged you fiercely you realized with a rush of warmth that it was worth it.

Vaggie nodded behind her, yet her eyes held apprehension as she swept her gaze up and down you. “We need all the help we can get,” she said tersely. You nodded wordlessly. Charlie turned to look at her.

“Believe me, Vaggie, she’ll be a great addition.” She hugged you again, sideways. “[name] here just happens to be super powerful! It’ll be really useful to have them around.” You flushed bashfully at the praise.

Vaggie nodded and smiled stiffly.

Over time you’d made it your mission to get Vaggie to like you. Need help moving these boxes? Telekinesis. Loan sharks bothering the hotel? Incinerated. Angelic warfare? You were more than willing to paint the streets gold. And you did it, too, terrifyingly easily, without a single word spoken. You were never one to talk more than you needed to. Normally you wouldn’t, but you did it discreetly so that word wouldn’t leak that it was you, and plus, you could use Vaggie’s trust.

You sighed, placing down a box Vaggie had asked you to move as everyone crowded together in the lounge, colouring pencils and markers spilled across the floor. Charlie’s soft murmurs had ceased as she put down the phone.

You cleared your throat, to catch her attention and focus it on your quiet voice. “Hey Vaggie. What’s in this?”

Vaggie looked up. “Books, for the library. It’s too he-“

It lifted up into the air behind you, and you stared at her blankly. She cleared her throat.

“Right, you can do that. They belong in the library.”

You set for the door, the box trailing behind you in the air. Charlie sat up properly. “Won’t you join us, [name]?”

You nodded quickly. “I’ll just drop these off first,” you mumbled, before giving a tinkly little wave before slipping in through the door.

Sighing, you quietly made your way down the hallway towards the library. Grappling with the lock before swinging the door open, wincing as it creaked, you switched on the lights. Dust billowed up where you moved and even more as you set the box down with a thud.

“God, this storage unit so fucking tiny,” you muttered to yourself. The door fell shut.

You tried to open it but it wouldn’t budge. It was jammed. You slammed the base of your palm against the door. It took you a good few seconds of pulling and twisting until it clicked back open.

You sighed, running your hand through your hair before going back to join the others.

You smiled wearily in greeting, your hand throbbing as you sat down and picked up a piece of paper. It rustled in your hands. You looked around, an unspoken question.

“Mindful colouring,” Charlie replied, the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration as she carefully coloured within the lines. Vaggie smiled softly. Your eyebrows shot up as Niffty took in a deep sniff of a Sharpie and suddenly began to shake- not that anyone paid her any mind.

“Cool,” you said, not really knowing what else to say before picking up a pen. Angel Dust shifted behind you, his paper catching your eye.

“Angel, you can’t just draw dicks all over your sheet,” Vaggie chided.

“Sure I can, toots,” he said, scribbling down another one in bright pink marker. You sighed and scratched a few lines into your own sheet.

“By the way,” Charlie said. “My dad’s coming tomorrow.”

Your heart seized.

No-one noticed the look on your face as the room fell into casual conversation. Only you could feel the thrumming of your heart in the back of your throat. Heat crept up your face.

A hand landed on your shoulder. Charlie’s concerned face appeared in your vision. “You okay, [name]?”

You struggled to dredge up words to assure her that you were, eventually stuttering out a single word.

“Y-yeah.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. You gave her a wobbly smile. The conversation resumed without you.

Eventually night fell and the group had dispersed, aside from you, Angel and Alastor at the bar while Husk rubbed down a glass. You glanced sideways nervously at the overlord, who lifted a gloved finger.

“Whiskey,” he ordered nonchalantly, leaning on his elbow as he flicked his hand at Husk- who rolled his eyes and grumbled. You hunched over your hands as you quietly requested a drink, before Angel made his own order.

“So, dear.” Alastor’s glass clinked as he set it down on the counter, smile widening as his eyes fixed onto you. “You’re quite powerful, [name].”

You shrugged, taking a gulp of your drink, figuring you’d need it to get through the conversation anyways. It burned the back of your throat, bitter and woozy. “I guess so.” Alcohol had always managed to loosen your tongue. Angel and Husk fell into conversation on the other end of the bar. Alastor leaned closer.

“Then why don’t you become an overlord, darling? You could seize half of the Pride ring with that power. We’d work wonderfully together.” His eyes sparked with excitement. You pulled away.

“Don’t wanna,” you said bluntly, turning back to your drink. You heard him huff lightly, yet the smile never left.

“Why not?” Radio static buzzed in your ears.

“I can’t. I just can’t. Being well-known…dealing with other overlords and sinners and even royalty…” you threw your hands into the air. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Al, but I’m not exactly a people person.” You threw back your head and took another gulp. “I’d rather live without the attention on me.”

He gave a low chuckle, tracing the rim of his glass. “Oh, but there already is. Despite keeping to yourself, and hiding who exactly you are, you haven’t exactly made an effort to hide your abilities. Not from us, anyways.”

“And I have no obligation to,” you slurred. “I’m content with what I have.”

He seemed to be thoughtful for a moment, finger still tracing patterns against his glass. Then he sighed. “Fair enough, dear.” You blinked, surprised as he patted your shoulder. “If you ever change your mind, you may consider me and Rosie allies.”

With that offer he stood up, dusting down his coat and emptying his glass. He nodded curtly. “Farewell.”

And then he left.

Angel Dust’s arms were around you within moments, his chest floof pressed against your back. You giggled a little, ticklish.

“Hey, toots. What was Smiles talkin’ about?” He released you, spinning your stool around so that you faced him. Husk had moved towards you two as well.

“Just asked me why I wasn’t an overlord,” you mumbled. They both looked at you expectantly. “No, I’m not explaining. I’m sick of it. I just don’t wanna.” You sighed and slumped onto the bar counter, almost knocking your drink over before Husk steadied it.

“That’s fair,” he said gruffly. Angel Dust shifted behind you.

“If you’re not drinking that, then I will.” His hand reached for your glass.

“Take it,” you mumbled. He did.

Husk had disappeared to mind his own business, leaving you and Angel to talk. You could feel his smirk burn into your back, and turned to look at him. “What?”

“So, I’ve been noticin’ something…” he leaned his elbows on the counter, placing another hand on his hip, as his smirk widened.

“Uh huh,” you said, not sure where this was going.

“And whenever someone mentions him, or he shows up…Don’t think I didn’t notice the look on your face during Charlie’s little bonding thing.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “Who’s he?”

Angel waved his hands around animatedly. “Devil Daddy. Short King. Ya know.”

“Did you just call him ‘Devil Daddy?’”

“Yeah, I did,” he said proudly, giving you a bold stare. You sighed and ran your hands through your hair, and with your growing silence his smirk split into a grin.

“You’re not denyin’ it.”

“Denying what?” You spread your hands in front of you, exasperated. He rolled your eyes.

“You got a crush, toots.”

You pressed your lips together.

He jabbed a finger at your chest. “See? Y’ain’t denyin’ it!”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” Your words seared through your throat and tore from your lips, face burning with embarrassment. “What’s it to you?”

He snorted. “Can’t wait to see him tomorrow, huh?”

“No,” you squeaked. He chuckled with triumph, ruffling your air.

“Good luck, toots.”

“Thanks,” you muttered.

You groaned, stirring in your sheets as the red light peeked in through the curtains. Niffty was jumping on you, knocking the breath out of you as she landed on your chest. She pulled away, face inches from yours, hair tickling your cheeks.

The words came out in a jumbled, hysterical mess. “Wake up! The bad boy’s here and he’s been here for an hour and you’ve just been sleeping!”

You tore Niffty and the bedsheets off of you before scrambling to get yourself ready as she scurried out.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you muttered under your breath as you tried to fix your hair and stripped yourself of your clothes, stepping into the shower. You tugged a comb through your wet hair and quickly rummaged around for clothes- and all the while your heart thrashed against your ribcage at the thought of seeing Lucifer.

A few minutes later and you’d managed to make yourself presentable. You sucked in a breath, smoothing your hands down over your stomach to fix your clothes, and then stalked down the stairs.

Charlie looked up, blonde hair falling over her shoulders. You tried not to look at the man sitting next to her.

“Hey, [name]!” She waved and then gestured to Lucifer. “My dad’s here!”

Your eyes shifted to him and immediately burned again- his sleeves were up, coat and hat off. His blond hair was slightly tousled in that perfectly messy way- you tore your eyes away from him after giving him a small smile and back to Charlie.

“Sorry I slept in. I must have had too much to drink last night.”

Charlie smiled, waving her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

You smiled nervously, feeling Lucifer’s gaze burning through you. Charlie waved you over next to her. You sat down awkwardly, knotting your fingers together in your lap.

“I’ll just go get a drink of water,” she said quickly, shuffling off. “I’ll be right back.” You and Lucifer both nodded. He turned to you.

“So,” he said. The air burned with awkwardness. “You look- you look nice today.”

Heat flooded your entire body. “Really? Thanks.” You looked away, unable to find the courage to compliment him back. “I mean, I only woke up less than ten minutes ago,” you chuckled nervously. He laughed.

“You seem to have a talent for looking effortlessly beautiful, then.”

Was he flirting with you?

Before you could answer with an absolute stuttering mess of word vomit, Charlie tottered back. “So anyways,” she said, turning back to her father and continuing their previous conversation. “We’re making a library. [name]’s helping with it.”

“Really?” He balanced his elbow on the side of the seat, his eyes fixing onto you. Your face burned.

“I- yeah, I am.”

He chuckled at your answer, then his eyes flicked between you, Charlie, then you again. Charlie piped up. “How about you show him, [name]?” She grabbed you both my the arm and ushered you to the door.

“Oh, it’s not really- it’s not really ready-

“It’s fine!” She waved you away. You and Lucifer stared at each other. You could see him swallow, then grin and flick his head at the door.

“Go on, then. Show me.”

You briskly walked down the hallway, feeling his presence behind you as you began rambling. “Well. The bigger room is where we’ll eventually have the library but we’re keeping all the stuff in this smaller room right now, well actually the stuff was already there except we’re just moving it now so-“

“You can show me both,” he murmured as you stopped outside a door, breath hot on your nape. You flinched at his closeness and opened the door.

He glanced inside. “It’s quite…empty.”

“Like I said.”

“I guess so. Other room, then?”

“Sure.” You turned. “It’s just a storage unit, though. There’s books, bookshelves, lights and decorations and stuff.”

He hummed as you opened the door.

“Wow,” he said, stepping into the dark room after you. “How do you even move around in here?” Something clinked and the clutter shifted, before he almost tripped over a box and into you.

“I don’t know,” you said, with a light huff of laughter as he grabbed your arms to steady himself. The places where his fingertips pressed into your arm burned. The door swung shut.

The room flooded in darkness. You flinched, Lucifer’s yellow eyes glowing at you, cutting through the shadows and you laughed nervously, shuffling around the mess to reach for the door handle. Your hand closed around cool metal, and you tugged.

It wouldn’t budge.

You tugged again, and it took a few moments of you grappling with the handle for Lucifer to come over and try it himself. He stood behind you, reaching past your arm to-

CRASH!

You let out a small yelp as you were immediately pressed against the door, Lucifer being thrust up against you. Your forehead knocked against the wall and your head spun.

“Fuck,” he cursed behind you, breath skimming across your shoulder. You shuddered. “Something fell and I-“ he squirmed, “I can’t move.” Your eyes fell to his palm, splayed out on the wall above you to steady himself.

You parted your lips but no sound came out for a few moments, until you forced yourself to speak. “It’s okay. Do you have a phone?”

Silence. Then: “No. I left it in the other-“

“Yeah. Me too.”

You both fell silent, and it began to gnaw at you so you scrabbled at the wall, looking for the light. You searched for at least five minutes but couldn’t find it. Your hand fell back to your side.

“Can you turn around?” Lucifer muttered. “This feels…this is kind of weird-“

“Yeah, yeah,” you said hastily, voice breathless as you shimmied to the side so you could turn around, your back to the wall instead. You bit your lip as you looked at him, a blond lock of hair falling in front of his eyes. His breath was warm on your lips.

“I feel like this isn’t much better.”

“I guess not,” you laughed nervously. He started to look anxious so you awkwardly patted his shoulder.

“They’ll find us,” you reassured him. “They’ll realize we’re gone and they’ll come looking.”

His lips twisted into a wry grin. “I hope so.”

You could feel his heartbeat thrumming against your chest. You tried to look everywhere except him, but the closeness wasn’t exactly helping- his eyes searched your face, expression dropping.

“Hey, [name], I- I know that this isn’t the ideal position to be in, and that you’d rather be anywhere else than stuck with me right now, but-“

“That’s not true,” you said quickly, then pressed your lips shut as he looked at you in surprise. “You’re… you’re nice.”

“I- really?” He chuckled nervously. “I mean- I always thought you hated me.”

You blanched. “What? No, that’s-“ your face grew hot at the look on his face, and your gaze dropped downwards. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, you don’t really talk to me that much is all.” He licked his lips nervously. “I mean, you don’t talk much but- me, it’s like you’re specifically avoiding me. So I just assumed.”

You stared at him for a moment. “That’s far from the truth.”

He gave a low, quiet laugh, nerves eased. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“I like you,” you blurted out. The stunned look on his face seemed to slow down time. You swallowed and then turned away, not that it would get you anywhere away from him- he seemed to have pressed even closer to you- flush up against your body. Or it could have just been your imagination.

“Well, I’m glad,” came the relieved reply.

“N-no, I mean, I like like you. Romantically.”

Silence.

Fuck. You should have just not said anything and-

“I’m still glad.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “Huh?”

“I like you to, [name].” He grinned. “I like like you. Romantically.”

The air around the two of you felt like it was burning, oxygen sucking out of your lungs as your knees buckled. This had to be some sort of fever dream. “Really?” Your voice sounded weak to your own ears. He drew closer, humming.

His lips met yours.

Heat pooled under your stomach as he pushed you roughly against the door, lips moving in time with his as you snaked your hands around his shoulders and dug your fingers into his hair. He pulled away, face flushed.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I should have asked.”

“It’s fine.” A smile danced along your lips. “I liked it.” His hands fell down to your waist, then hips, pulling you closer. Your core brushed against his, and you flinched, but he didn’t notice as he buried his head into your shoulder in an embrace.

“This is nice,” he muttered, and you hummed. “I’m glad- this sounds selfish, but I’m glad that we got stuck in here.” He laughed, a beautiful sound.

“Really? Exactly how long have you had eyes for me, my king?” You teased, newfound confidence born from how comfortable the vibe had gotten. He shivered at the title you’d called him by.

“Since I saw you help Charlie with those loan sharks.”

“So…when I commit an act of violence?”

“Hush. Don’t question it.”

You squirmed a little, trying to get into a comfortable position, and he stiffened. “Don’t do that,” he muttered. You did it again and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Don’t do what?”

He didn’t say anything, instead opting to hide his face from you. “Lucifer?”

You felt something press up against your abdomen.

You flushed heavily, then chewed on your lip, wondering if you should drop it or toy with him. Your own desire flooded you at the thought. You tapped his shoulder. “Kiss me again?” You mumbled. He glanced at you, not knowing whether you’d noticed or not.

“Anything you ask of me,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your lip before pressing his lips to yours.

You ran your hands through his hair again, and just as he was about to pull away you sharply tugged him back in, pressing your crotch against his. You could feel his breath hitch. “[name], what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently, grinding slowly. His face flushed as you felt him harden, and suddenly you were burning too. “What do you think I’m doing?”

He didn’t answer, instead immediately diving in for another kiss and catching you off guard. His tongue swiped across your lips, which didn’t part, until his hand snaked its way up to your collarbone, wrapping around your neck and pressing gently at the base of your throat. You gasped, and his tongue slipped in, making you shudder.

“Lucifer,” you gasped as he pulled away, hips rolling into his, desperate for friction against your cunt, which was already drenched. He peppered kisses down your jaw and collarbone, hands falling back to your hips and pushing you back up against him.

“Fuck,” he grunted, a languid grind of his hips against yours making you throb. He latched his lips back to your neck, leaving a hickey. You whimpered as his hands smoothed up your sides, thumbs worming their way under the hem of your shirt and holding you steady by the waist as he continued his desperate humping against you. Your core pulsed, drawing closer to the edge-

Suddenly he pulled away, running his hands through his already mussed hair. “What?” You asked breathlessly, anxiety spooling in your stomach. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head, then bit his lip and grinned. “The opposite, actually.” He reached behind you. The handle clicked, air buzzing with magic. You stared at him, finding it even harder to ignore the throbbing in between your legs.

“You could do that this whole time, couldn’t you?” You accused. He arched a brow and you flushed.

“Don’t act like you couldn’t either,” he winked before kicking the door open. His hand closed around your wrist.

You huffed, face burning as you realized- getting tangled up with him wasn’t the best idea if you wanted to avoid attention like you’d told Alastor. But the pleasure you were feeling told you that you didn’t care.

He turned to you. You flushed.

“Now. Where’s your room?”

526 notes · View notes

genderqueerdykes · 4 months ago

Note

I have some thoughts on the oppression of trans men and mascs and why it’s often not taken as seriously as other kinds of oppression.

I think a big part of it is that what is mainly weaponised against trans men and mascs, as well as other trans people assigned female (or assumed to be assigned female) is infantilisation and erasure, and for people who haven’t experienced those types of oppressions, it’s often hard to understand what they mean, how they work, and how they themselves are perpetuating this oppression. Because the words sound easy, so people just make assumption based on what the oppression is called without listening to the affected people (which is easy, too, because of both infantilisation and erasure. It’s a circle), which leads to people thinking it can’t be that bad for us.

Erasure, or "invisibility" must mean oppressors won’t notice us, "cant perceive us", and thus we’re "save". Infantilisation must mean we’re treated like children, and while children are treated badly sometimes (understatement tbh, but that’s a different conversation) most of the time that must mean we’re "save" too, because we aren’t taken seriously.

What both of these things combined actually mean is that we’re abused, but there won’t ever be consequences for what happens to us. People can do whatever they want to us, because no one would believe us. We’re just stupid little girls (no matter our age) and the people who we claim hurt us just want to save and help us. And so, our abuse is swept under the rug.

There’s a pile of bodies under the rug but because no one lifts it, our claims that these dents are there are ignored, ridiculed. We’re just imagining things. No such thing is happening.

When we talk about what happened and is still happening to us, it’s always just individual. Incidental. There are no systems in place that kill us. We’re just stupid little girls imagining stupid little things. Now hush while we bury your best friend in a dress and under a name that made him cry. She wasn’t a man. Just a stupid little girl.

You’re just imagining things.

Nothing bad ever happens to trans men. And if it does, it’s because we’re seen as something else.

He was raped because that man thought he was a cis woman. Ignore that he threw transphobic slurs at him first. Ignore that he screamed he’d fuck the tranny out of him to make him his housewife.

That man died from natural causes. Pregnant people die all the time. Ignore that he was denied insurance coverage because he had the wrong gender marker, and that his death could’ve been easily avoided. Ignore that the complications he had could’ve been easily treated had he gotten the care he needed. It was his own fault anyway. What did he think would happen when he got pregnant as a man? He chose this.

Ignore the trans men being institutionalised, the trans men put through conversion therapy, the trans men "fixed" into perfect submissive housewives and mothers.

It’s so easy for people who aren’t affected to just… turn around and ignore everything that happens to trans men and mascs. To just. Keep acting like trans men and mascs are just ""incidental"" victims of violence instead of one of the specifically targeted groups. Because if they keep acting like these systems don’t exist, like nothing ever targets trans men and mascs specifically, just incidentally, they don’t have to question the way they act around and towards trans men and mascs.

Acknowledging that "trans man face a lot of erasure" is easy (tho most people even struggle with that.) Doing something about it is the hard part a lot of people don’t want to do. Just saying "this happens to some trans men, too, maybe" after a bunch of cis women talked about pregnancy, natal care and/or abortion is easy, inviting at least one trans man who was or is or wants to be pregnant and listening to him talk about the struggles he has or had with the medical system, or in finding support groups or anything else around natal care and child care/(future) parenthood is the hard part; because it would require the cis women to actually adjust their behaviour to include transmasculine people and trans men in their conversations.

Adding "*some of these things also affect trans men" underneath a text about forced marriages and pregnancy is easy. Actively including the voices of trans people of people who have been through this? Nope, can’t do that.

It’s easy to acknowledge erasure exists (and again, even with that most people still struggle. The bar is in hell and so many people still can’t get over it). But no one wants to do the work necessary to do something against it. Because why would they? No one cares anyway. Trans men keep on dying, but since they don’t see it, it doesn’t happen. Doesn’t matter.

Let’s talk about something else now, yes? This isn’t happening. There’s more important things to discuss now. You’re just being hysterical and blowing things out of proportion.

And THAT is what infantilisation and erasure is. Constant gaslighting, not being taken seriously, being abused and harmed over and over and over again and having everyone just ignore you, having people who should be supporting you tell you it didn’t happen, with no possible way of speaking up about it. Because the second we open our mouths, we’re just hysterical and making things up, because if those things really happened, other people would’ve seen or heard something, right? And since nobody beside us sees it, we must be making it up. Else anyone else could verify what we say, and since they don’t, it must mean we can’t be trusted to talk about ourselves, our own experiences.

And most people will take the easy way out and continue to ignore us, which plays right into the infantilisation and especially the erasure we face.

i agree 100%, keeping my reply short to not detract from what you've said. thanks for your thoughts

#asks #feedback #transandrophobia

76 notes · View notes

charliedawn · 5 months ago

Note

Hi Charlie! Kindly coming into your ask box- First of all how are you? I adore your stories, I read them whenever I'm feeling down and it's perfect whenever I want to forget about my real life problems haha.

I was wondering how would the slashers react to a Hungarian y/n? Obviously I never found anyone writing about this scenario, for we 'hungries' are few. I'm actually Székely (Hungarians who speak the older version of the language and live in a different region than actual Hungarians), which means I'm Transylvanian. Like how would they react finding out that reader can literally move around with a bottle of alcohol on their head without it sliding off? Having long hair that is traditionally braided in two, and red ribbons braided in it (this is female case, which means the girl is 'on the market'), being able to speak multiple languages, meeting bears every single month given living in forest mountains, and owning traditional clothes that in old times mean high status? I'm sorry that this sounds so personal but like all my life (ever since I found out about slashers) I wanted to know how one might react to this kind of situation, given most fandoms, OBVIOUSLY include English reader. You can ignore if you want and sorry if u don't understand what I wrote :')

If you don't want to write for this (like I feel like I'm being too specific and personal with things) then I guess how they would react to reader with an interesting accent- all my English friends told me they love how I speak it's funny for them. Sending hugs and kisses I adore ur work <3

No need to apologize ! My pleasure. This is a really unique and interesting request, and I had fun searching what a Székely reader would be like. I hope I did it right. 😆

Slashers React to a Székely Reader

Jason Voorhees

Jason, being deeply connected to his own forested home, would be fascinated by your experiences with bears. He’s used to dealing with intruders, but meeting a bear every month ? That’s next-level survival. He’d probably view you as someone incredibly strong and capable, which earns you a lot of respect in his eyes. Your ability to balance a bottle on your head would both impress and confuse him—he’d tilt his head like how ? He is a clumsy man and if he tried the same, no bottle would survive. If you let him touch your traditional clothes, he’d be extra careful, appreciating the craftsmanship and the colors.

Michael Myers

Michael doesn’t react outwardly, but he watches. A lot. He’d probably test your balancing skills by suddenly throwing something your way while you’re carrying the bottle. If you catch it without dropping the bottle, you’d get a slow approving nod. He might also silently grab a red ribbon from your hair, just to see how you react—if you snatch it back, he’ll keep doing it just to mess with you. But, he would also appreciate the traditions and understand your connection to nature—since nature is fairly important to him as well. If you could, he would ask you to learn the language. True, he would not be able to speak it—but just hearing it would make him happy. He would also ask you to teach him your traditional dishes.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms would fixate on your braids and ribbons. He’d like the idea of your clothes being a ‘status’ marker since Brahms is from a higher-class family himself. But the ribbons…he would like them, but might get possessive, asking you to remove the ribbons or change their color so others don’t think you’re ‘on the market.’ Because you are not. You are HIS friend. No sharing or letting someone take you away from him. He’d also adore your ability to speak multiple languages, insisting you talk to him in Hungarian just so he can hear how it sounds. Your traditional clothes ? He’d want you to wear them all the time in the manor, seeing them as regal and elegant.

Bo & Vincent Sinclair

Bo would act like he’s unimpressed but would secretly be very intrigued. He’d tease you about the bottle-balancing trick—"Alright, but can ya do that while runnin’ ?"—but would absolutely brag about it to tourists before luring them into his trap. He would show them your trick and kill them while they are dumbstruck. Or he would ask you to bring his beers like that—and exclusively like that. And when he first saw you in your traditional clothes ? He was mesmerised. You looked like a damn princess. When you told him what the braids and ribbons meant though…Bo suddenly grabbed your braids and quickly pulled your braids loose…On the market ? Like hell you are…

Vincent, on the other hand, would love your traditional clothes. He’d want to sketch you in them, fascinated by the detail and historical meaning behind them. He would love to take pictures of you too. He would ask you about your culture and be really interested. He would also be impressed by the bottle trick and would immediately inform Bo because Bo would be impressed too for sure.

Norman Bates

Norman would see you as someone from another world—elegant, mysterious, and old-fashioned in the best way. He’d be captivated by your hair and the meaning behind the ribbons, maybe a little too curious about your availability status. If you ever wear your traditional clothes, he’d compare you to an old painting, romanticizing it. Your survival stories about the mountains and bears would leave him both impressed and slightly intimidated.

Norman *comes up behind you and slowly wraps his arms around you from behind* : "…Te vagy gyönyörű, drágám."

He would learn the recipes for Székely Gulyás (Székely stew), Puliszka (A cornmeal dish similar to polenta, eaten with cheese, milk, or stew) and Töltött Káposzta (Stuffed cabbage, a staple at Székely celebrations) to surprise you.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy would not take you seriously at first—until he sees the bottle trick. Then, suddenly, he’s got a new game to play. He’d try to mess with you by making dream versions of your traditional clothes wrong just to see if you notice the inaccuracies. He’d also probably joke about the bears—"So, what, you got one as a pet ?" If you start speaking Hungarian with him, though ? He’d hate it—he loves running his mouth, and now he doesn’t know what you’re saying. He would have to get a dictionary. He doesn’t like reading.

Pennywise & Penny

Pennywise would see you as someone tied to old traditions, which he respects in a strange way. He’d enjoy the idea of you carrying history with you. Penny, on the other hand, would love that you meet bears regularly—he’d probably insist that the next time you see one, you have to bring him along. The bottle-balancing trick ? Oh, now it’s a game. He’d try to distract you just to see if you mess up.

Penny would definitely imitate you and laugh as he starts dancing with three bottles on his head.

Jack Torrance

Jack would instantly bond with you over alcohol—if you can balance a bottle on your head, you must know good drinks, right ? He’d want to drink with you, hear your stories, and maybe even try balancing a bottle himself (bad idea). Your language skills would impress him, but he’d be especially curious about your encounters with bears—probably comparing it to his experiences in the snowy Overlook. He would also use you as an inspiration for his work and ask you questions about your traditions. He would also be interested in learning your language.

Ghostface! Eddie Munson

Eddie would be so hyped about your skills. "Dude, that’s metal as hell ! You walk around with a bottle on your head and survive bear encounters ? Like…what ?" He’d immediately ask you to teach him your language, failing horribly but loving every second. Your traditional clothes would remind him of a fantasy character, and he’d start calling you things like “the warrior queen of Transylvania.” He’d also be obsessed with the fact that you speak multiple languages—every time you switch to Hungarian, he’d dramatically pretend to swoon.

You: "A mosolyod beragyogja a napomat."

Him *looking at you with a big smile* : "I didn’t understand a single word that just came out of your mouth, but I love it."

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #slashers #pennywise 1990 #pennywise 2017 #pennywise x reader #michael myers x reader #freddy krueger x reader #jason voorhees x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #eddie munson #ghostface x reader #ghostface eddie munson #norman bates x reader

79 notes · View notes

heartz4levi · 3 months ago

Note

till fluff?

never thought i'd find you, but you're here !

☆ thinking abt till + drawing lessons . . .

☆ till (alnst) ,, gn reader . . combined with anon's request : Maybe a little scenario of Till teaching the reader how to draw? ,, reader and till are said to be close but no relationship is established.

when you first mentioned wanting to learn how to draw, till simply hummed. he nodded, a silent way of saying "i believe in you, if you do start learning."

when you brang up the suggestion that he should teach you, you managed to leave till a little speechless. he was going to support you on your artistic journey regardless, but you wanted him to teach you?

sheepishly asking why you want him, of all people, to guide you through the learning process of drawing, you explained to him your reasoning — first and foremost, he's good with what he does. second of all, considering how well you two get along and how much your bond has strenghtened over time, you are certain that he'll make drawing a simple thing to pull off.

even without your reasoning, till would have agreed. but hearing you insinuate that you trust him so much even with something that could be considered a mundane hobby by a select few has his heart swelling within his chest.

and so your art class begins.

till guides you through what the necessary instruments are first. to draw, you do need quite a few items, preferably good quality ones — good quality doesn't equal to expensive, as hidden gems exist. for now, till lends you some of his tools.

when he asks if you have anything in mind that you want to try and draw first, you state that in your opinion, it's best that the two of you start with something simple. nothing too realistic, no specific art styles, just a few doodles and some technique learning along the way.

as per your request, till teaches you the way of drawing a couple of fruits, a few cute animals and different kinds of flowers. he's patient, taking your hand in his and guiding it whenever you can't get one of the silhouettes right. he's patient and supportive, letting you take your time with each individual doodle and telling you about how great you're doing from time to time, even if all you're really doing is some beginner stuff.

every time you need a new color to add details to one of your creations, till is quick to hand over the crayon or the marker you're searching for. he'll even sharpen the pencils for you, letting your fingers take a brief break.

by the time you decide to call it a day, the empty page that you randomly chose from one of till's personal sketchbooks is now littered with cutesy doodles. you lean back, admiring the fruits of your hard work before concluding the impromptu drawing course.

that sketchbook is one that till will never throw away, specifically because of that page. every time he goes back to skim through his old works, he'll take a moment to admire the page decorated by you, feeling a faint smile tug at each corner of his lips.

till really hopes that this isn't a one time thing and that you'll come back to him soon, asking him to teach you something new.

#⠀⠀⠀⠀Ꮺ heartz4till #⠀⠀⠀⠀Ꮺ 🫧anon #alien stage #alnst #alnst x reader #till alien stage #till alnst #till alien stage x reader #till alnst x reader

86 notes · View notes

lukesvangelista · 3 months ago

Text

𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞ˡᵈᵇᵇ⁶⁵

in which you surprise luca at his game.

warnings; none that i can think of

You hadn’t told Luca you were coming to his game—partly because you wanted to surprise him and partly because you wanted to see his genuine reaction. The second you bought your ticket, you started planning everything, down to the smallest detail.

The most important part? The sign.

You wanted it to be perfect—something that would stand out, something he wouldn’t be able to miss, and most importantly, something that would make him smile the second he saw it.

You made a trip to the store specifically for supplies, carefully picking out the biggest, brightest poster board you could find. At first, you debated between a bold red or a classic white, but ultimately, you went with white so the lettering would pop even more.

Next came the markers. You tested a few on a scrap sheet of paper before settling on black for the main message—thick, bold, impossible to miss—and red for little accents.

You spent way too long mapping out the letters in pencil before carefully tracing over them in marker, making sure everything was perfectly aligned. You even debated adding glitter or something flashy, but ultimately decided the message itself was enough.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you took a step back and admired your work.

“#65 IS MY BOYFRIEND”

You smirked to yourself, already imagining Luca’s reaction.

On game day, you showed up to the arena early, your heart pounding with excitement. You kept the sign rolled up under your arm as you made your way through the crowd, scanning the sections until you found a perfect spot right against the glass.

You could hardly contain your excitement as you waited for warmups to start. The second the Zamboni finished its last lap and the doors opened to let the players onto the ice, you unrolled the sign and held it up to the glass proudly.

At first, Luca didn’t notice you. He was locked into his pregame routine — gliding effortlessly across the ice, stretching, tapping pucks toward the net. He was completely unaware of your presence.

Not for long.

You waited, anticipation building up inside you, until he finally skated past your section. His eyes flickered toward the boards for just a second, and then he saw you. Or so he thought.

He did a complete double take.

Luca’s skates came to a sudden stop, ice spraying up slightly as he whipped his head around. His eyes landed on you, then on the sign, and his entire face lit up.

For a second, he just stared, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. Then, his grin broke through — wide, boyish, completely stunned but beyond happy. He tapped his stick against the glass, shaking his head with a laugh, “What the hell! You didn’t tell me you were coming!”

You beamed at him from the other side of the glass, holding the sign up even higher, “Surprise!”

Luca laughed, running a hand through his hair beneath his helmet before skating off for a second.

Then, suddenly, he was back — this time flipping a warmup puck over the glass toward you.

“Catch.”

You caught it easily, looking down at it for a second before shaking your head with a knowing smile, “I swear, you’re such a showoff.”

He just winked, “You love it.”

Warmups continued, but every single time Luca skated past, he sent you little looks — quick smirks, playful winks, slight head shakes like he still couldn’t believe you were actually there. Then, just when you thought the moment couldn’t get any better, Luca skated toward you again near the end of warmups.

But this time, he wasn’t empty-handed.

Instead of just tapping the glass, he lifted his stick and motioned for you to take it.

Your eyes widened, “Luca, what are you...?”

“Take it,” he said, his grin growing, “You made a whole sign about me. It's the least I can do.”

You hesitated for a second, looking between him and the stick, "Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” his voice was muffled through the glass, but you could still hear the amusement in it. Still in slight disbelief, you reached up and carefully took the stick from him. It was still warm from his gloves, the tape perfectly molded to his grip.

“You’re actually insane,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Luca just laughed, “Yeah, yeah. You love it.”

Before you could even respond, he was skating backward with a wink, heading toward the tunnel as warmups officially ended.

You could still hear the guys chirping him as they left the ice.

“Ohhh, Luca’s in loooove!"

“Did you actually just give her your stick, man?”

“I swear, this dude is whipped.”

Luca, completely unfazed, just shrugged, “What can I say? My girl deserves the best.”

And with that, he disappeared into the tunnel — leaving you standing there, holding his stick, grinning like an idiot.

a/n; for my lovely friend rey (@fantillisgirl)! sorry it's kinda short :( also i'm aware that luca is currently with the monsters, but it was easier to act like he was called up at this point, so here we are

57 notes · View notes

wardencommander-surana · 2 months ago

Text

play guide: dragon age origins

aka: the order that i do the quests/maps and the canon/practical reasons why i do it this way

putting the steps below the cut so it doesn't swallow everyone's dashs <3

qualifications to make this: - autistic - played origins 4 times - on console so i have to work really hard to avoid bugs

a few things to remember: - talk to EVERYONE! - "camp time" = one or two dialogue trees, only one or two gifts at a time, talk to dog until he stops barking, inventory management, giving materials to army - whenever possible, all side quests for a region are done while i'm there for the storyline quest

your origin (obviously)

ostagar/kocari wilds/the battle - don't forget rigby's cache to give to jetta in redcliffe. most of the kocari wilds quests are pretty codex-reliant but if you walk around the whole map you should get all of them

lothering - sweep the map! don't leave anything behind and sell everything you don't need. be sure to talk to the blackstone irregulars guy.

camp time - levi dryden, bodahn, sandal convos. after this my decisions are 90% just based on my character and 10% practicality

kinloch hold - as a mage warden, starting here makes sense to me, esp since the templar in lothering tells you about the rite of annullment. gets the fade out of the way early and makes ALL options for redcliffe/connor available without having to go back and forth. you can't do any of the side quests during the broken circle main line and if i do it too late i don't feel like going back to finish those. i have a reason to come back later anyway

redcliffe - by this time my cunning is high enough and i'm mentally prepared to protect redcliffe/convince everyone to fight/run around the estate. i usually either sacrifice isolde or save them both, so i'm set up for either option here. don't forget to go back to the village to turn in quests and pick up chanter board stuff. i like doing redcliffe second - if you're playing as magi/dalish/dwarf i suggest doing the region specific to your origin first (sorry cousland and tabris

camp time, do random map marker quests for chanter board

soldier's peak - this DLC isn't particularly hard or long (that's what she said) and i like that it gives me a storage chest/starfang so i do this early on

honnleath - i like having as many companions as possible early on too. by this point you should have Dog, Alistair, Morrigan, Sten, Leli, Wynne, Zevran, and now Shale

camp time, check if you're ready to turn in quests like Mage's Collective stuff (there shouldn't be too many because you just did two DLCs)

orzammar - again, picking up all my companions early on. this is arguably the most side quest heavy area between orzammar proper and underground. if Leli is at 80+ approval, bring her with you to Dust Town

camp time but with a purpose - by now, your approval should (hopefully) be high enough with Sten that you trigger his personal quest. giving Oghren all the alcohol (gifts) you've picked up for him so far should be enough as well. if not, just save these next 3 steps for when you do have high enough approval

kinloch hold - bring Sten & Oghren for their stuff, go to tower to ask Irving if Dagna can study there, do all the leftover side quests (i think there are only 3 and some fetch quests for other stuff)

back to orzammar if needed to give Dagna the news - this is also a good time to run around and do whatever companion quests you've picked up that require backtracking (Sten to Redcliffe, fighting Flemeth) - i like to do Shale's stuff here as well - it hits different after doing the anvil

camp time

brecilian forest - the werewolf ruins are the worst part of DAO for me. curing the halla requires high survival so i save this for closer to the end bc survival is Not one of my priorities. bring Wynne so you can do her quest. the map makes this section the most time consuming bc i definitely run around 3 times before i find what i'm looking for

camp time

denerim - FINALLY! i know i'm lame for saving the sacred ashes for last but i like the ~drama~. do Alistair and Leli's quests. do whatever you can in town and pick up the chanter board/mage collective/blackstone stuff. i try to have denerim as cleared out as possible before i set off to the next map

haven/the temple of sacred ashes - nothing exciting. don't forget about the Zevran gift in the store and yaknow the high dragon

camp time - the closer i get to end game, the more often i go to camp. take care of chantry board map stuff

return to ostagar but if you're a ~secret companion~ type person you might save this for later

redcliffe - wakey wakey arl eamon :)

denerim - turn in whatever you still need to, escape from the palace, gather points for landsmeet, solve problems in alienage (i don't even bother trying the orphanage quest anymore because it has broken literally every single time except for the time ser otto died)

battle of denerim - wahoo you did it!!

by this point, i'm usually so ready to move on to awakening that i don't do anything after the main campaign so assume any and all side quests are turned in prior to the landsmeet

my playtime for DAO on average is 30-40 hours and i would say i get to like 90% completion but there are some quests that ALWAYS bug out like the orphanage and some i will never do like jammer's stash

#dragon age #dragon age origins

43 notes · View notes

asapart · 2 years ago

Text

Help Support my BPS Classroom!

Please help me by filling up my empty classroom with supplies, books and games. After a decade of teaching I moved back to the Boston Area and in the move donated everything I had at the time to the schools and kids in the area. Now that I’m back in a classroom in this fun late-stage capitalist hellscape I am back into an empty classroom full of needs...and even after spending over $200 in the first week, the classroom is still largely empty. Please support in any way you can, even if it’s just sharing! Amazon Classroom Supplies List: Amazon Classroom Book List: TPT fundraising:

FAQ Below

It’s summer WTH?: Yeah, it’s summer! But fun fact, most kids are 1-2 years behind academically after the pandemic (awesome) so therefore more and more programs are running summer school. My program is part of BPS (Boston Public Schools) and focuses on ESL and Math for 2 hrs a day, with art, STEM, and Nature programs coming in the rest of the time to expose them to more things. However we are just in random classrooms in random schools in Boston, and have very limited supplies... What’s your class like: Chaotic Fun. They are 12 kids aged 9-11, half of whom are ELL, a third on IEPS, and all living around or below the poverty line. They love art, hate math (except for 2), and are neutral on ELA (depends on what we’re doing). I have 2 who cannot read at all, and 1 who reads at a 7th grade level. Most of them would be quite happy if I just always let them play with supplies rather than actually use them in any academic sense. You know, typical kids. What supplies do you have?: Upon arrival I was given 1 pack of 25 pencils, 6 packs of 10 markers, 1 ream of colored paper, Popsicle sticks, graphing paper, measuring tape(?), tissues and lysol, and two board games...Basically, what was donated to the program. Here’s a photo.

If it’s a summer program what will you do with the supplies after the summer?: Pencils, markers, crayons, notebooks...that stuff I’ll give to the kids at the end. Extra larger supplies I’ll give to the program if they want them (they run after school programs during the year) or keep for the work I do during the school year (intervention work and contracted tutoring) What if i just want to give you money? What if things are too expensive? For legal reasons, classroom aren’t allowed to ask for just money. That’s why we do supply lists instead, or raise funds for something specific (the TPT fundraiser). We are allowed to get gift cards though, so that is why they are on the amazon list. If there is is something else you’d want to donate, please ask! I have another question. Ask me!

#fundraiser #fundraise #boost #school #education #boston #classroom supplies #donate #donation #help

755 notes · View notes

bonesandpoemsandflowers · 5 months ago

Note

are: Rust and EDC, on rewatching, I noticed that 2012 Rust uses Crash’s wallet chain, and possibly the same style of work boots (trying to trace the brand on these rn lol). I always thought the chain was interesting bc it’s the only super recognizable Crash thing that seems to carry over.

Sorry, anon. I forgot about this and then I didn't forget about this and then I read too much about it and then I concluded that I had nothing to add because you got it all in the ask--it is (apparently) the only visual cue Rust retains from Crash, and it is a Crash cue.

And that will be obvious to some of you--but it was not obvious to me, a person who arguably has "special interest: men" and "special interest: masculine accessories" written down on her character sheet somewhere, probably under a headline that says "penalties to charisma." Why was this not obvious to me? Why did I react with derision, when first faced with Rust looking all hot with his wallet chain on?

I refer you to this Vogue article from 2016, which (inaccurately) states that wallet chains are (were) back and also (inaccurately) states:

Blame the resurgence of the wallet chain on Vetements: For Fall 2016, the label gave the accessory a cheeky mall-goth makeover

To me, the wallet chain has always been a mall goth staple. But that is because my toxic trait is that I truly, truly believe that if I had been born in a slightly earlier time, I would have been so good at being an authentic 90s goth at the club.

(It pains me, it pains me to think of how Crash era Rust could so plausibly be at the (goth) club. Like, Rust wouldn't be, is the problem. But he could have been, so easily, and the overlap between biker scene and leather scene and goth has always been significant.)

(Crash era club setting BDSM fic set to Nine Inch Nails WHEN)

But reading anything in Vogue always reminds me that I, personally, might be full of shit, given that my frame of reference is such a thin slice of humanity, so I set out to answer the question of: do bikers actually wear wallet chains?

To do this, I did what anyone concerned with journalistic integrity and not leaving her own house would do: I read old forum posts from the early 2000s. And here I learned that it's not a wallet chain, in the parlance, but a biker wallet, and really the biker wallet is originally a trucker (as in semis) wallet.

The go to joke, on some slightly less old forums, seems to be that these days, the biker wallet / wallet chain is mostly good for scratching up your paint job.

however.

It seems that back in the day, the wallet chain was in fact an essential piece of kit. Why? Wallet in back pocket, bumpy rides, long roads--apparently losing your wallet because it jostled out of your jeans is a real thing that really happened. The difference seems to be that between now and then, suspensions (i think is the term?) got better and in general, rides are smoother, so it's less of a risk.

I assume there's also the issue of--once the look is diluted enough by people the initial core group thinks of as posers, the object that was formerly a reliable marker of in-group, now useless, becomes uncool.

So anyway, that's some general thoughts on wallet chains. But back to Rust, specifically.

he's so busted and hot here. dishabille. where was I.

We can conclude that the wallet chain, in the 90s, is a pragmatic choice, like almost everything is, where Rust is concerned. We never see Crash riding but we assume, right, that he didn't spend four years infiltrating a biker gang to never be on a dang bike. Period accurate suspensions were apparently shit, and presumably losing your state issued fake ID is a pain in the ass while working UC, so the wallet chain is practical.

So why is 2012 Rust, who drives a pick up, wearing it?

For the same reason he's wearing the same watch for the whole series, I think. It works.

Or is it a hint of some attachment to identity? This is only on my mind due to recent discussions in my DMs, but the idea is tantalizing. What if he likes the wallet chain, just a teensy bit? That seems good or healthy, maybe, that he's got some scrap of preference and attachment going on there.

Or maybe he doesn't, and it's just another way 2012 Rust comes across as frozen in time, like most of those ten years are lost time. Not rugged practicality, not if it ain't broke, don't fix it, but a secret third thing: a resigned it is what it is, the smallest unit of self fulfilling prophecy that time is a flat circle or nothing changes and therefore nothing matters.

Or maybe it's that there ain't much of a difference between Crash and Rust at the end of the day, which is my humbly presented thesis in this half finished fan fic I promise I haven't forgotten about.

re: the boots. I think I have a source on the exact boots, once again due to the insane guys over on reddit. I'll comb through my bookmarks and see if I find it and I will report back...eventually. And then I think I might as well post about the knife and the zippo because the knife, at least, is funny to me and very Rust. Also I need to tag these, I guess?

Rust EDC posts so far:

the ledger // the watch

#true detective #rust cohle #rusty edc #anon #bonus theory for why 2012 rust is wearing a wallet chain:#so he has an easy handle to be yanked around by #guards!! sexualize that man!

53 notes · View notes

wildharesandboundteeth · 9 months ago

Text

A subtle and low energy form of worship inspired by Chaos Magick and Sigils

So this one's a bit of basic Chaos magick I've been using for years to charge my sigils. It's slow but steady form of charging sigils that also adds a more 'personal touch' compared to charging with the moon and/or sun. Basically you just put the sigil on a body part with the intention of it being worship.

I am not the first one to do this but I figured that it might be good to share this knowledge to more people.

The basic formula is your God's symbol/ a correspondence of them on or against your body with the intention to dedicate each action of that body part to them.

A choker with a bird pendant dedicating every word you say to Hermes. (Good for presentations and for shit talking with the boys.)

Some examples:

(helpol specific because I'm more familiar with them at this moment)

A rose on your chest,/shirt/bra/binder with the intention of dedicating every heart beat to Aphrodite. (Low energy, more consistent and makes you feel hotter than usual. ;) )

Athena's name written on your finger to dedicate each word written to Her. (Good for homework though try not too write anything too stupid (very difficult for me).)

Ares's symbol painted on the bottom of your exercise shoe's inner sole with the intent to dedicate workout to Him. (Who knows? He might join you (and put you to shame).)

Ways to mark yourself:

I used to use this method with the elemental alchemical signs as well back when I worshipped/drew power from them more often. Holy book versus, sacred numbers, ect. can also work. Heck, maybe even write the entire Mahabharata on yourself.

Non-toxic marker / pen

Water / soil / ash / powder of ground herbs or flowers (non-toxic)

Temporary tattoo / Henna / actual tattoo

Sewing / embroidery / iron-on patches / fabric marker / washable fabric crayons

Honey / milk / yogurt / lotion (all good for the skin)

Face paint / graphic eyeliner / make up (especially foundation you're going to blend)

Just tracing the symbol with a finger

Suggestions

Tip: if you're going with more subtle correspondence (like a drawing of their animal) as opposed to just writing their name or symbol, it's good to do a ritual/ a small prayer to inform them. Just telling them can work too if you're too exhausted for those.

The same effect can be achieved with key chains, stuffed toys, taglocks, ect but I personally like this method as it's something I'm familiar with. It's also harder to forget to do bring something along if it's on your body (yes, I am calling myself out). It also feels more personal.

Disclaimer: Please only do this for gods/entities you know and have a relationship with. I would also advise against doing this to a god that has rejected/not answered your requests to work with them. And please don't mark yourself with a god that you straight up do not know anything about.

I sometimes put wellness sigils for my loved ones on my pulse point(s) or along my chakras with henna. It's slow but with time, it's really builds up.

More rambling

Nowadays, I always make sure to always have the sigils for Lord Hermes and Lord Ares on my foot so I can dedicate each step I take to them. I usually dedicate longer walks to *runs to them but I feel like having a physical 'anchor' helps me concentrate the energy and intent. It also helps if I just plain forget to dedicate a walk to them.

*Disclaimer: author of this post only runs for the bus or because they're late. In no way are they healthy nor disciplined.

In addition to all the worship stuff, it also feels comforting to having something of my loved ones near me/ on me. It reminds me that I am (somehow) loved and that there's something to fight for. Though I might just be getting sentimental in my young age.

So that's my suggestion for you lovely people. I hope to helps inspire someone or something. If anyone has any other suggestions, ideas or constructive feedback, please let me know.

85 notes · View notes

threepandas · 7 months ago

Text

Counting Down: 1 [Next ->]

The worst part about knowing the end? Is the beginning and middle. The waiting to change. The hoping it can. Days, spent with the low fear, ever churning, that it will all make no difference. Your actions. Your plans. The hopes you have placed in Fate's fickle hands.

Entering the Creche at an awkward age, too soon to be Legend, too late to be Peer. I was destined to be an adult by the time Anikin arrived. Getting up there, by the time the Order fell. Not yet old enough to be an Elder... yet destined to never live long enough to see such an age.

Obviously, I refused.

Looked around, locked eyes on the closest most manageable Character Of Relevance and took a chance. After all, was it not? The Jedi WAY? To inconvenience the Sith at every turn? So... first Crecheling, then Initiate, then baby Padawan Me, tracked the poor man down. Hunted him for SPORT.

Meditate with me, Knight Dooku! Can you teach me about this or that, Knight Dooku? What is the correct use of seashell tongs in formal dining, when attending a formal feast with the aristocracy, during this specific religious holiday, Knight Dooku? (No, no, on the moon not the planet.)

Congratulations on you Mastery! Master Dooku!

Pushing and shoving my way into his life. Persistent, much to everyone's amusement, and his baffled chagrin. It was like befriending a fussy, regal looking, semi-feral cat. Force knows, for all his training, he's terrible at casual interactions. He was older them me, yes. And Mentor of sorts, certainly. For a time. But? We became... friendly? I like to think? I certainly chased him down enough.

He's a dramatic and awkward man, Yan, and he'd be lost without us; Sifo, Nu, and I. Occasionally Yoda, but that does come and go. Not to metion... well... his Padawans. (Damn it, Yan. They can't read the subtext from your pointed silences! Use your WORDS.) The sort of man who is... sturdy, but brittle. Like an old, unbending tree.

Which makes it all the worse, when the pressure becomes too much. Because it does not merely crack. No. No, such men? They shatter in terrible and unpredictable ways. Unbreakable right up until they are not. Unending right up until the crash.

It is...? Both tragic and hilarious, in a that way, that Yan should live surrounded by so many prophets. Yet he does not, can not, and never will see the end coming. Surrounded by legends, both old and new. Born with every marker for greatness. Yet he...? He will be considered little more then a footnote, in someone else's history. At best.

And the worst part of his Fall? The absolutely worst part? Is the Light I still feel, each time I look at him, the GOOD I know is there. Resolute and noble, dignified and full of grace. A diplomat. Expert swordsman. Makes magnificent tea. The driest wit imaginable. He... he is YAN. Not Count Dooku. Not some Sith Apprentice. Just... just Yan.

My friend.

I meditate on it a lot. The Force gives no clear answers. Still, I do try, sitting in the gardens. Tucked away several stories up, past the considerate veil of several sweeping branches. I never did succeed in figuring out which planet the tree hails from, I suspect it might be either a long dead one or some small moon. It's a truely lovely, sturdy, thing nonetheless.

Far below, younglings shriek and play growl. Running carefree, to work off energy before evening meditation. Each a tiny blaze of starlight dancing at the edge of my vision.

A bit bright, I note, but nothing concerning.

The Halls of Healing will have to increase my prescription again. My glasses are no longer blocking enough... I sigh. Considering that. My sight? Is at least partially genetic. While I may be predominantly human, just because someone looks human passing, doesnt mean they genetically are one. My ancestors were, to put it mildly, a bit... Mandalorian.

Where their was a will, there was apparently, a way; And now I pay the price for it. It's honestly a miracle they never "married", as it were, themselves into a genetic dead end. Some sort of metaphorical space mule scenario, as it were. Yet? Despite all that seeming success? Luck is not eternal. And should you keep gambling? Eventual you will roll poorly.

I was that poor hand. That unfortunate luck. Loved of course. Expected even. My parents both wanted and were delighted by me. But? I screamed. Could not bear to be near people. My inheritance? A truely unfortunate luck of the draw. When combine with Force Sensitivity? My eyes reacted to "Light" poorly. Very, VERY poorly.

They were blinding to me. A mere child with no shields to speak of, no Force training to push BACK with. Like being force to look direct at the sun, again and again. It HURT. Because I could See.

Where others saw merely flesh? I saw deeper. Not infalliblly, not perfectly, I was hardly some omniscient god, but... oh. Oh. The world was so Bright. So LUMINOUS. The Force swirling and burning and flowing. In everything, from humble to grand. People shine, and yes, it is beautiful. But it also? Hurts. Because it IS, ultimately, being forced to stare directly at bright, ever shifting, sometimes flickering LIGHT.

I have a lifelong disability. Can not FUNCTION without my filtering shade glasses.

Or, if you are one of the ignorant assholes, who even NOW still seek to use me? I have what you might call? A"gift~☆".

According to Healer Che, it was some highly recessive trait. (From a planet I honest didn't even know I had heritage on, much less could find on a navigation system.) A subterranean people, due to the truely ungodly surface conditions. VERY sensitive to energy signatures and light. Which...? When you slap on a whole NEW super special Force sensing ability? Filtered through the same brain? Wires unfortunately crossed.

It could have happened it anyone. Unfortunately, it happened to me. Now I'm effectively blind around large collections of sentients. Or Life in general, depending on the intensity. To say NOTHING of Force Nexus! Dear merciful FUCK, that was the sort of accident only you make ONCE and then NEVER again. I was lucky to keep my vision. At all. Full stop.

Sifo was not so lucky. His Visions being neither natural nor kind. The Force seizing him again and again, to plunge him into vivid scenes of carnage. Death and horrors in the home he so loved. I would would be forced to, should I fail, see the Fall of the Order once. But Sifo? Oh... oh, dear Sifo...

Sifo, had seen it fall ten thousand times.

Even Yan did listen to him. Not truely. But there is camaraderie, in the horrors. In whispering, "it's not their fault", through choking tears. Forgiving the victims that will one day kill us. There is... a certain, heavy, sort of friendship... born of pressing your foreheads together, fingers intertwined, knuckles white with terror, as you shudder in the dark.

I think it helped, helps, that he has someone, who believes him. Anyone. Not just humoring him, the mad man sprouting prophecies of doom. But truely believes him. Knows he is right. And that if nothing is done? Everyone will die.

But... BUT! It CAN NOT, be Kamino, Sifo. Not that, never that.

In the dark, I remind him of prophets, seeking to avoid their visions, and instead? Ensuring the worst, comes to pass. Defense, Sifo. Escape. We are JEDI. Do not let fear blind you, to who you ARE. Do not let it take down a path of darkness.

I wrap him in the Light. Tuck my Force presence close, like I'm hiding him again my side, a youngling tucked into the safety of my robe. Shhhh, my friend. It is okay to be afraid. I am too. We can do this together. We are not alone. I believe you.

We are the pillars of his mental health, Yan and I. It concerns the healers greatly. The council. Honestly? It concerns me. But what can I do? No one else CAN help Sifo, until the first take the step of recognizing he is not, in fact, insane. He is a perfectly SANE man, reacting in entirely reasonable ways, to unspeakable Nexus born horrors. Slowly cracking under the isolation and grief. A jedi pushed and pushed, far past the point lesser men would have broken.

And if? He need a woman young enough to be his one of his student's, to rely on? So be it. I am a Knight now, I can handle it. (I have been handling it, since the incident. Since I was a Crecheling. Where the fuck were all of YOU? Ah, that's right. Calling him insane. Making things WORSE.)

I breathe out slow and controlled. My meditation is getting me no where. Rising, I carefully hop down, using the Force to slow my fall, much to the awe of various Crechelings. I can not help but smile. Was I ever that small? So easily impressed? I bow to my tiny fellow jedi. Delighted, they scramble to bow back. Thrilled to show off how grown up and serious they are, how well down they can do it.

Reaching out with my senses, I look for Yan, politely avoiding doing more then the briefest brush as I reach past others. I am not the first, nor will I be the last. There are hundreds of such searches a day. Some clumsy and heavy handed, from Crechelings or Initiates. Some soft as brushing strands of silk. Knights or Masters, looking for friends, looking for students where the should not be.

The Temple feels alive, noisy even, when you know how to feel it.

Ah, there he is! Heading from the High Council's cha-Grief. Horror. A gutting pain that numbs and spreads.

Caught off gaurd, I am sent reeling. Stumbling, without grace, over my own feet into a nearby wall. Glad for it, as I desperately grab at my chest and wheeze, drawing the alarmed attention of nearby Knights and Guards. Because... because, the other direction? Had I stumbled in the other direction, I would have hit the railing. Fully doubt I... I would have been able t-too.... oh Force-!

It takes entirely too long to seperate my emotions from Yan's. To realize what's happening. My panic feeding into the pain. My pain feeding into the panic. Yan. S-Something happened to Yan! I manage to gasp it out. P-please! S.. Someone! Go! Go check on Master Dooku!

The world spins as I try to force air into my body. It refuses to come. Whatever horrible pain Yan is in, leeching down our connection. Into me. Hurting. Made so, SO much worse, by my having been actively looking for him. I close my eyes, teeth gritting, and trying to stop digging my nails into skin. I-It won't help. There's nothing physically there.

But it hurts! God, does it HURT!

It feels like my WORLD has been shredded. My heart, crushed, cruel and slow in my chest. H-he's having a panic attack. Has to be! Or-! Or being attacked! I d-don't... don't KNOW!

A passing Master has hurried over, now kneels next to me. Various Knights pushing whatever calm and safety the can at me. No one is quite certain what will help. But they try. Desperately, stubbornly, resolute to the last... they TRY.

Breathe with me, begs the Master. Pressing my hand to his chest. Just copy my breathing. Help is coming. Release what pain you can, into the Force. We will help you. Let us help you.

I try.

Desperately, I Try.

The Healers end up having to give us sedatives, Yan and I. Sifo ends up... worse. The entire event triggering another, nasty, round of visions. He is incoherent. Trapped. Staring up at the Death Star from the surface of Alderaan, through countless eyes, begging to be heard. His soul, small and desperate, replaying the end, over and over. Even as he tries to protect what souls he can from the inevitable.

He cries for this too. They won't believe him, I know. Even as he thrashs and begs. For the lives of the innocent to be spared, for monsters to hold their fire. I will though. I will. I always do.

But Sifo will be lost for days. Yan, however? As he sits, on the bed, just the other side me? Sits stiff and properly. Blankly. As the healers words wash over him. I doubt a single on has registered. Of the three of us, I am the only one even remotely functioning. Yet... yet I still, don't know what has happened.

Nodding one last time to the healer assigned to me. Promising that yes, I will most certainly rest. I slip my my bed and sweep over to stand next to Yan's. The Healer's concerned and frustrated. He knows Yan's not listening. But has to try. I shoot him a strained, closed lipped, smile. Quietly take charge of my unresponsive friend.

The Healers relief is palpable. Our notes and instructions are not terribly dissimilar. Rest, food, no missions or upsets. Got it.

Gently, I guide Yan from the Healing Halls. Alarmed, that he let's himself be led. He never let's himself be led like this. Insists he is no invalid, to be coddled. Yet... here he is. Mind a thousand parsecs away.

Bringing him to his rooms, I key in his code then gently guide him to his favorite chair. Lightly guide him down into it. Not... not once, during the entire walk back, has he responded to anything. I am beginning to grow afraid.

Fussing, I drag up that terribly pretentious Serranian musician, on his music system. The one I can't stand. I am worried. Sacrifices must be made. Boring and insipid music fills the room. Very fancy! Come on, Yan. This is his new piece! Don't you want to comment on it? Come, tell me why it's so much better then the racket youngling blast these days. I'll call you an old man...

Nothing.

Worry growing, I begin making his favorite tea. Digging out his special occasion snacks. Something, anything, to get a reaction. As things brew, a sound too wounded to truly be a laugh, chokes it's way out of him.

"Xana-...My..." he starts. Stops. Normally sharp mind refusing to obey him, as he tries to summon words. He looks lost.

"My Grand-Padawan is dead." His voice is brittle, alien sounding in his mouth. I nearly drop the plate of snacks I was carrying over, in response. Horrified. "He was supposed be returning a knight. Qui-gon was.. was so proud of him. Adored him. This has destroyed him. Will destroy all of us. I... I have lost everything."

No. No, you have NOT.

Striding forward and all but dumping the plate on the side table next to him, I reach for my friend with both hands. With my Force presence. I refuse. No, damn it! I Will NOT lose him. Not like this, not TOO this!

Listen. LISTEN to me, Yan Dooku. So help me Stars, Gods both big and small, you will not succumb to this!

The greatest lie the Dark has ever told, is that it will make things better. That it can help you with your pain. Would Xanatos want his death to destroy you? Would the child of your child, want his legacy to be the ruin of everyone he loved? It is okay to grieve. You NEED to grieve. But remember you Padawans. Remember their Padawans.

Your Lineage still lives, Yan Dooku.

It is hurting, mourning, but ALIVE. Don't you dare run from it in your grief. You are better then that. I am here. Sifo and Nu are here. Yoda, is here. We will carry this pain together, okay?

Closing his eyes, he let his head rest more heavily against my hands. Dampness darkened his eyelashes, but no true tears formed or fell. He didn't seem to have it in him. Not yet. His hands though... his hands? Shook as they slowly, haltingly, like a droid with seizing joints, reached out for me.

I moved from leaning over him to sitting on the arm rest of his fancy Serranian high backed chair. That he didn't even grumble over me "abusing his furniture" by putting weight on the arm rest like this? Gods.

Leaning into him, I wrapped my arms around his head and shoulders. Like a shield against the universe. Used the Force to pull the tea, finally done, and pour it into a nice cup. Properly of course. See, Yan? I remember your lectures. Here, drink.

He... did not.

Just leaned, sagged against me, as he shuddered with grief. Hands wrapped around a cup of fragrant tea. Music filling the air. Tucked safe inside my Force presence, as best I could.

In... Out... In... Out... There was a slight stutter to it, a hitch, that in a less controlled man? Might have broken into a sob. But... instead, Yan meditated. That first cup going to waste. The second following, as it slowly went cold. Needs must, though, and tea? Can be replaced. Yan can not.

Emptying wasted cups, I poured more. Rested my head atop his own. Matched his breathing as I slipped into a light meditation with him. The room was quite enough. The position not terribly comfortable. But honestly? We'd both meditated under worse conditions, and it had been... A DAY.

To put it mildly.

I didn't like the look of Yan's Force Presence. It was like a fault line had been struck. Spreading terrible spiderwebbing cracks in otherwise sturdy stone. I was no mind healer... really, not a healer at all, I was a Seeker, but? I had learned a few tricks. After all, not every child I had found? Was found in a safe and loving home. Most weren't, honestly.

You learned to soothe, as a Seeker. Learn how to help. Children, after all, don't know Light from Dark. They just know that if they reach for the magic in their head? Bad things go away and good things tend to happen. Sometimes they hurt themselves by accident. Sometimes they hurt themselves... because the alternative was worse.

"You know, my dear? Some days I think you are the only Jedi with any compassion left. The boy never should have been sent there. Not for his trials. The lives of others are not a child's test. And to be asked to face one's own family? It... it was cruel."

Yan sent his cup around me, to rest on the side table, before gently tugging me down into his lap. He hugged me close, like a child squeezing a stuffed animal for comfort, face buried in the crook between my shoulder and neck. Like he was hiding from the world. I rest my head against his shoulder, eyes closed.

We were both... so tired, weren't we. This was nice.

"When did it all become about proving ones purity? One's superiority of morals? We are supposed to help people. Not lord over them. If I wished to do THAT, I would merely need to return to Serrano. Become a Count. You and Sifo are the only one who seem to understand me."

"I think I would go mad, without you."

Yes. I worry that you would, Yan. I worry that you would.

100 notes · View notes