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callooopie · 4 months ago

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CALLOOOPIE‼️❗️‼️❗️‼️❗️‼️❗️‼️❗️

DROP A MODERN!CREGAN HEADCANON LIST. AND MY LIFE, IS YOURS. 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

Modern!Cregan Stark headcannons (pt. 1)

Forgive my northern attitude, oh I was raised on little light — Northern Attitude // Noah Kahan

okay… we did not get much Cregan.. so these modern vibes might be a little off. I looked long and hard (🤨) at a photo of him and these were the vibes I conjured up.

This man.. is so serious. Whenever you look at Cregan he looks like he’s going to pop a blood vessel with how tense he is. He’ll tell you not to worry, this is his natural state (“natural state?!?!”) you don’t think you’ve ever seen him relaxed… although there are times he lets loose, it’s reserved and calm. If he does relax it’s still oddly tense or as if he’s on edge. He’s mastered the art of being both chill but perceptive of his surroundings to a headache inducing degree. “Hm? Yeah I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, honest. One of us needs to be alert here.”

Immediately dipped after college. He got his degree in environmental engineering, he’s out of there. You, Jace, and Davos once planned a summer trip to Cregan’s cabin way up north. Now, way up north? Think like the Yukon or the bush of Alaska—that’s where Cregan would make his home. It’s secluded, no one bothers him, and he can live off the land in relative peace. You three get lost, of course. It’s like you have to take a seaplane, and then hike for a bit to the nearest town, and then you’ll have to wait for him to pick you all up. “You guys kept running around town. It took me forever to find you. Texts? I don’t get those traveling from the cabin… oh well—you’re all here now. The air will do you idiots some good.”

Dog dad. Dog dad. Dog dad. Cregan’s got big dogs, he’s got little dogs. A livestock dog to care for his chickens, some other big dogs for hunting, and a lap dog for emotional support purposes. It’s a hearty mix of Labrador, Pyrenees, mountain dog, maybe even a shepherd of sorts. But the little dog? I feel like it’d either be a dachshund or a corgi. A corgi is a reliable herd dog on top of being just a little guy. But a dachshund would be something he would hold as he walked around the perimeter of his land. Or even better he would have both. But this is his herd, his squad. “Hey!—settle down everyone. Sit down.. down now! Sorry about them, they’re just excited to see you. They’re usually pretty lax, except around you it seems.”

Terrible driver. But not because he’s bad at it, but because he’s literally in the wilderness, there are no traffic laws to obey. He’s driving down a hill full speed no braking. You’re in the passenger seat holding on for dear life as the car literally shakes and jolts you around. But Cregan? He’ll be holding a simple conversation with you, voice not even shaking from the sudden movements of the jeep or truck as he navigates the country road. I cannot figure out if he has more truck vibes or more Jeep vibes. I feel like either would work—as long as they got the job done. And either way, both cars would be muddied and somewhat damaged—filled with survival gear, winter gear, more things tied down on top with bungie cords and hooks. “What do you need? Oh, yeah that should be in the back.. somewhere. Probably in one of the bags—lemme go check for you. Hang tight, be right back.”

This man fishes. Not like “leaving my bitch wife to go fishin’ with my boys” more like “I’m catching the radioactive catfish of Chernobyl and no one’s stopping me” type fishing. He gets into it, he goes crazy. Cregan’s out on a boat at sea looking for Cthulhu. Y’all know the show River Monsters? That’s Cregan’s type of fishing. Sure he does more ‘relaxed’ fishing once in a while, he enjoys the mix of adventure but also the quiet and the patience of the fish. He will talk about how beautiful the fish is, like Steve Irwin levels of talking to fish (and animals in general). Cregan’s a catch and release king, but if he does choose to use the fish he will use all of it from the head to the bones. Everything’s getting used and processed into something. “Let’s see what you caught.. oh nice, that’s a chinook salmon. A beauty too, look at the size of that thing. You caught that beast yourself without my help? It’ll taste better on an open fire, c’mon I’ll teach you how to gut it… don’t frown at me.”

Master chef I would think. It’s not Michelin star cooking, but cooking with the freshest ingredients possible? Cregan makes a mean salad from the veggies in his garden (a pretty big garden too, he built those wooden garden beds himself) and when he hunts he uses all the meat and bones from the animal as said before with the fish. He’s not overly hunting either, he gets enough for you and him to last a while. “Good harvest today, real good—everything was ripe and ready. What do you think? It all looks good? ..that’s.. that’s good. I’m glad.. save room for dessert too then. Have you ever had acorn cake?”

You know what? He’s a park ranger. Or a state ranger. He’s got a job where he can take care of the land and teach people about the environment and how to respect it. Cregan’s all about teaching little kids what plants are poisonous and then on the next call he’s busting folks for throwing litter into a river. He is the type that if he spots you maybe hiking or doing something while he’s on duty he will pretend to bust you over for something heinous or embarrassing. Bonus if there’s people around you, now you’re getting arrested for leaving a dildo attached to a tree. But usually? It’s silly reasons laced with compliments that make you blush or smile. “..Whatcha doing out here? Hiking? Suuure. Y’know we heard some reports about a.. a very um—beautiful person wandering looking lost.. just saying, I know my way around..”

Such a good listener. Cregan is for the people who just need an ear to listen to them. If something’s bothering you, upsetting you, or you’re just not feeling like yourself; he’ll lead you out to the back porch, gesturing for you to sit down on the step beside him. It’ll be quiet, except for the sounds of nature surrounding the cabin and the woods. You can see mountain ranges in the background, the midnight sun casting a hazy glow over the land. And the next thing you know is you’re pouring your heart out to him. Cregan would remain silent, unless you ask him for advice or support. He’s the type to not want to impose on you if you don’t wish to hear unsolicited opinions or comments on a matter—so you’ll need to tell him you want to hear his advice.

Busted ass cabin. It’s so good. There’s a nearby lake, there’s mountains in the distance. The woods are thick and beautiful. The people yearn for such a place. It’s such a relaxed vibe too, take off your shoes in the house though. There is a lot of cleaning that goes on however on account of the dogs around the home. But the cabin is lived in and homey. It’s cool and refreshing in the summers with the windows open, and it’s warm and cozy in the winters with the fireplace roaring. It’s not too big, but it’s not too cramped either. “Not too warm? Too cold maybe? …well if you’re cold there’s a good way to fix that—“

Cregan loves teaching you how to live off the land. It’s basically a part of what he does for his job. But with just you? It feels more special, more intimate. You’re eager to learn, and he’s more than happy to show you how to start a fire in an emergency, how to skin an animal and use all its parts for different things. What to do if you’re in a bind in the woods and what you should do first. It’s good advice honestly. Pure survival skills. His hands would be over yours, guiding them through the motions of something. His chin resting atop your head or on your shoulder as he explains each step or how something can be utilized to its fullest potential.

Don’t take his silence or his lack of reactions as something negative. Cregan’s just the type to silently revel in your presence first and foremost, no talking required. Most of your fishing or hunting trips are filled with silence, save for the sound of music from an old portable radio and the occasional sound of a beer can opening. Sometimes you read, sometimes you fish alongside him. But know that he does enjoy your company heavily, and if you do say something don’t worry he’ll respond. Sometimes he does worry maybe he’s a little too aloof or reserved when it comes to you. Reassure him that words aren’t always needed, and sometimes it’s good to just be next to one another without adding anything to it.

With you he can get a little silly. Cregan would lean against your side of the truck, a stupid smile on his face as you talk to him. If you’re hiking and there’s a muddy spot, he will pick you up and carry you over it. He’s the type to serve you food first before him, and if he’s having a snack he’s the type to share it without needing you to ask him. It’s like the phrase to be loved is to be seen. Fresh flowers for you every day, he wakes up early to make you coffee in bed. If you’re the squeamish type about hunting/fishing, he won’t go into the details of your dinner. And if you’re with him, he’ll take care of the food far off from you so you don’t need to see it.

#cregan stark x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #hotd season 2 #hotd x reader #hotd cregan #house of the dragon #cregan stark

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celestialprincesse · 10 months ago

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Cabin getaway w/ Simon 🧺🤎

Simon's job is so stressful and busy, so constantly surrounded by people when all he wants is to relax with you. When he tells you he's rented some cabin away in the country for a few weeks you scoff, going on about serial killers and Wendigos and all sorts of other spooky scary things which has him sending a pointed look your way.

Obviously, the minute the car pulls into the driveway of the prettiest, most fairytale looking cabin you've ever seen, you find yourself rushing out to look at the view - squealing when you look down the hill from the place you'll be staying in to see a flock of sheep with the sweetest little lambs bouncing around at their feet, the sound of their bleats and the breeze the only thing for miles. So much for Wendigos and serial killers. Some, perhaps, wouldn't enjoy the thought of spending weeks in a remote cabin far from the amenities provided by suburban living - you, however, can't wait to spend the next month holed up with your incredibly sexy boyfriend, swimming in streams and snuggling by a warm fireplace - preferably all with no clothes on, but that can wait until you're all settled.

Simon is already letting Riley from the backseat, the Shepherd immediately bounding around at your feet, eager to take in his new surroundings. "M' excited too, bud." You hum to your pet, stroking his fluffy head whilst you pick up his leash to prevent him from wandering too far off into the unfamiliar area - not that he would - but better safe than sorry.

The next few days are pure bliss as you settle into the routine of things, making lunch whilst Simon goes out and chops wood for the fire, reading on the porch and occasionally making the trek down the hill to feed the sheep. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think that this is how life should be; simple and quiet and comfortable, long days filled with sunshine and birdsong melting into quiet nights of gentle caresses and peaceful sleep.

You've never seen Simon so happy as when he hoists you over his shoulder, carrying you into the river as you kick and squeal whilst he rumbles on about how you need to help him wash up after walking Riley through the mud - which you're sure is entirely intentional when he hoists your bare legs over his hips, has you chest to chest with him as he stares reverently down at your skin glistening with water droplets ad sunlight.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

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probablyasocialecologist · 3 months ago

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Most of the daily crimes against Palestinians on the West Bank take place only a few miles from the homes of Israeli citizens within the pre-1967 borders of the state. Particularly vicious events are sometimes reported, in relatively subdued and peripheral ways, in Haaretz, the only respectable newspaper in the country, and also, rarely, on the evening news that everyone watches. Still, even peace-oriented, left-wing Israelis often express shock when I tell them of witnessing violent attacks by settlers and soldiers on Palestinian shepherds and peasant farmers. It is as if that kind of knowledge were pushed away from conscious awareness, or as if the knowledge itself exists somewhere in the mind but knowledge of that knowledge does not. (Classical Indian logicians claim that one doesn’t know something unless one consciously knows that one knows it.) In short, much of the population of Israel has lived through the last five decades in varying modes and intensities of denial. Here’s a typical example. One night in late July I slept in the Bedouin village of Ras al-‘Ain in the southern Jordan Valley. Adjacent to the village, in a fiercely hot, arid zone, a cool, clean stream flows down from the hill country. The villagers need that water to survive and to sustain their herds of sheep and goats; each day they fill up five or six tankers, hitched to tractors, from the stream. Israeli settlers from the illegal outposts nearby are doing whatever they can, including committing vicious attacks, to block Palestinians’ access to the water; the goal is to dry them out so that they will have to leave their homes. The army, the police, the Civil Administration, and the military courts are all colluding with the settlers in their ongoing minibattle with the shepherds. Our activists are by the stream, night and day, to protect the Palestinians as best we can. We spent an hour or two that evening fending off knife-wielding, masked young thugs from the settler outposts who were trying to block a lone tractor and its attached tanker from bringing water to the village. Often Israeli settlers from the older settlements, who may be less prone to violence than those from the new outposts and are usually Orthodox, come to picnic by the stream. A friend of mine, a long-standing member of the Israeli peace camp and an Orthodox Jew—and thus adept in the settlers’ language—spoke to two of these middle-aged settlers about the situation in Ras al-‘Ain. “What?” they said. “You mean there is violence here? That’s impossible.” A total surprise—for people living in the heart of the West Bank, on stolen Palestinian land. I don’t think they were pretending to be shocked. Mainstream Israelis living in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem are even less likely to grasp the reality of systematic state violence directed against innocent Palestinians when news of it somehow filters into the public sphere. Simply stated, they don’t want to know, or maybe they don’t much care.

21 August 2024

#israel #palestine #gaza #west bank #zionism #settler colonialism

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theladyragnell · 3 months ago

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ooo, how about alex/thom for #29 visiting their home for the first time?

(If you are reading this and wondering why I didn't do the obvious and send them to hill country, that's because I got the same prompt twice for this round and already did that! Once again please kindly ignore the epic backstory fic implied by this ficlet.)

Roger had avoided the City of the Gods. He’d called it stuffy and hidebound and sanctimonious and staid, and Alex had believed him. He had no Gift of his own, no opinion on the place where most of Tortall’s mages trained. From Delia, from the other women who came to court from there, he’d had the idea of pampered cloisters where women and men without martial talents learned how to administer their fiefs.

When Thom of Trebond had arrived at court, with his gaudy clothes and his incessant words and his clear uselessness at anything but magic, he’d done little to disprove any of that. The City of the Gods was where people went to become decorative and, according to Roger, to stagnate magically. Alex had never expected to go there and have his vague suppositions either proved or disproved. He hadn’t wanted to.

Alex stared for a long time at the city walls of forbidding grey stone and tried to ignore the feeling of saturated magic prickling across his skin and how familiar it was. Thom, reluctant as he’d been the whole journey, seemed just as disinclined to ride the last few steps through the city gates.

“We have to do it sometime,” Thom eventually said. “If nothing else, our king commands it.”

They were, the both of them, too good at pretending not to care, not to be hurt. After the first week of travel, of the two of them reeling and snarling like wolves, they’d stopped prodding at each other and just let each other pretend. “As my liege commands, of course.” A truth, but a bitter one. Alex put his heels to his horse’s sides, and expected Thom to follow.

There were few people in the streets. Priestesses traveling in gossiping knots, or sterner and older ones shepherding along lines of girls in plain dresses. Men in Mithran robes, or scholars’ robes, or mages’ robes. Acolytes in plain clothes, their allegiances only visible from the badges they wore. All of them stared at two young lords on horseback.

“You aren’t wearing your robes,” Alex realized aloud when they’d passed a mage of about fifty, a plump and smug master of the Gift whose eyes Thom had avoided.

Thom’s edgy laugh was as abrasive as everything else that came out of his mouth. “It might shock you to learn, Tirragen, that I’m not terribly popular with the other mages here. My hair is distinctive enough. Add that to my age and my robes of mastery? Best to pretend at anonymity. If I’m even a master at all anymore.”

Thom’s Gift was one of the wounds Alex had learned the hard way not to press at. When he had, Thom had pinned him against a wall, and the very air seemed to be rusty violet, and then it was all gone, and neither of them had breathed right for the rest of the day. “Doesn’t matter to me,” Alex said eventually, and Thom snorted, but didn’t speak again.

The Mithran temple where Thom had trained was austere to the point of ugliness, and where Alex had expected pampered younger sons unsuited for being warriors, he found quiet men with pinched expressions. They were, on the whole, pale and delicate, as though kept away from the sun, and the older ones steered clear of Thom in the halls, seeming not to see him, as a novice brought them to the master they were there to see.

Alex had, in those last terrible weeks before the coronation, been vaguely aware of a Master Si-Cham, short and lively and kind, trying to bring Thom back from the brink. He’d expected, as much as he expected anything, the priest replacing him to be a similar sort of person. Instead, they were greeted by a sharp-featured man with the look of the haMinch, businesslike and unkind, who treated Thom with open dislike and Alex with suspicion mixed with a dose of pity as Thom explained in cold technical terms what had been done to them both.

“We’ll see what can be done,” the priest said at last. “In the meantime, Master Thom, you know where the guest quarters are.”

If it bothered Thom to be a guest where he’d once lived, he didn’t say it. He said something insincere and honeyed instead, and took the dismissal with as much grace as he took anything. There was no one waiting for them outside, but the priest was right. Thom knew the way, and brought them through the dim and dismal halls of Tortall’s biggest temple to the god of the sun until they found an out-of-the-way hallway where the sconces were barely lit. The quarters were little more than a room each with a washstand, and Thom abandoned Alex and put a thick stone wall between them as soon as he could.

Alex looked out the window at the kitchen garden crawling with novices hard at work and thought of the palace in Corus, how cold and strange it had seemed, how regimented after his childhood in Tirragen. How Wyldon of Cavall, his page-sponsor, had with grim duty told him that page training was about learning to endure, and that enduring was a privilege if it served a realm that Alex’s grandfather hadn’t been a part of. How mistrustful and mistrusted he’d been, until Gary had extended a hand, and then Francis, and Raoul, and at last Jon.

And then they’d all reached out to Alan too, years later, no matter how surly and prickly he’d been. Looking down at the boys in the garden, all of their eyes on their separate tasks, Alex didn’t think many of them reached out. Roger had always said, half-laughing, that mages were a selfish lot, that they would never help another one along if they might be competition later.

Thom spoke more, and more fondly, of the City of the Gods than he did of Trebond. Maybe he didn’t trust Alex with Trebond. Alex hoped that was it, and that it wasn’t that this cheerless place was what he thought of as home, the way Alex sometimes guiltily thought of Corus first, and clear-skied Tirragen after.

Alex wouldn’t ask. Thom wouldn’t want him to. Neither of them wanted questions from each other, just an end to their duties and thus to the reminder of what they’d done. If the home Thom knew best wasn’t what Alex had thought it would be, that didn’t matter.

Still, he watched the novices from the window, looking for signs of friendliness or care, until Thom knocked on the door to show him the way to dinner.

#answered asks #anonymous #cannot believe it's a month since i posted that ficlet #my brain has been SO scattered this summer it's dreadful

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goodqueenaly · 6 months ago

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@althaeaofficinalis reblogged your post “One aspect of Baelor’s reign that I find...”

A part of me, familiar with this level of religious zeal in both history and irl, wonders if perhaps Baelor's choices (still earnestly meant through his own zealousness and belief in his ecclesiastical kingship) didn't also serve to place the Faith by his own direction. By which I mean: the High Septons Baelor had divine revelations about were a) conveniently not septons at all and b) were in no way educated or mature enough to navigate the poltical or religious function of being High Septon in their own right, and so by necessity would have to rely on Baelor himself to maneuver through those political minefields. This isn't to say that Baelor didn't believe in his own proclamations (really that's up for debate, on a sliding scale of cynicism, but I'm inclined to believe he genuinely believed in his own visions) - more that hmmm isn't it crazy how his divinely inspired visions led him to candidates who would be wholly reliant on himself to lead the Faith?

It’s an interesting consideration, whether Baelor was being deliberately ambitious and/or calculating in his choices for these two successive High Septons. I do absolutely see Baelor as an ambitious person, and I certainly think Baelor was not interested in simply allowing the Faith to run the country while he entered de facto monastic retirement. Still, I tend to think that Baelor saw himself as almost in a way above the Faith - again, a sort of divine right of kings, where he was to some extent on a pedestal above the Faith, receiving the instructions of the gods directly and then transmitting them to both Faith and people. He wasn’t trying to run the Faith himself, necessarily, but rather he was going to transmit to the Faith how the gods had told him they wanted the Faith to be run

I could also see where Baelor’s goal may have been less about attempting to control the Faith himself via a convenient puppet (or two) and more about forcibly humbling the Most Devout, perhaps in line with his own zealous humility. Rigorously ascetic himself, and certainly willing to chasten the haughty - demonstrated in that anecdote of the “proud Lord Belgrave” made to "wash the beggar's ulcerous feet" by the king - Baelor may have been disappointed in or distrustful of the Most Devout if he saw this body as too comfortable, too removed from what Baelor may have believed were the fundamentals of the Faith of the Seven. If Baelor saw himself as a divinely appointed king charged with shepherding his wayward subjects back to the Seven - and I think he did, given his attempts to (as he saw) correct public morals by banning sex work and burning risqué and “sorcerous” books - then there may have been no reason, in Baelor’s mind, not to extend that purification to the Most Devout.

In turn, perhaps Baelor saw the remedy outside the Most Devout as an institution, a solution apparently validated by the gods themselves. If Baelor sought the will of the Seven beyond the persons of the Most Devout, then there may have seemed no better symbol than the Smith supposedly incarnating himself in a common stonemason, and then the Seven supposedly zoomorphizing themselves to appear before a draper’s son. The Seven, so. Baelor may have seen it, were using the lowest of his subjects, those people whom Baelor himself had emptied his treasury to provide for, to present themselves in the world, perhaps not unlike how they had in the days of Hugor of the Hill. Their appearance, as the king may have seen it, did not simply confirm Baelor’s rightness in caring for the smallfolk, but also seemingly proved that only the meekest and lowliest in his realm would receive the favor of the Seven. Just as the gods had, Baelor may have believed, struck down the Targaryen dragons to punish the Targaryens for their heretical Exceptionalism, so perhaps the gods had removed their favor from the Most Devout and designated the successors of the High Septon among the common people in order to show that even those at the highest levels of the Faith could be chastened if they were not pure and humble enough, the way that these smallfolk were.

If Baelor was thinking along these lines, then perhaps there is a comparison to be made to the ascension of the High Sparrow in ASOIAF. Like the stonemason Pate and the draper’s son, the High Sparrow was very obviously not a member of the Most Devout, and was like them almost certainly a commoner himself. If the election of the High Sparrow - when “the sparrows came pouring into the Great Sept with their leader on their shoulders and their axes in their hands” - was something of a “vox populi, vox Dei” moment for the Most Devout (at least in terms of the election’s spiritual justification), Baelor I think may have seen the same in his choices for High Septon - the voice of the Seven spoken, supposedly literally, through the mouths of these, to borrow the High Sparrow’s turn of phrase, “humblest and most common of men”. Just as the High Sparrow - who himself seems to hold Baelor in high regard - set the Most Devout septon Raynard to scrubbing floors and confined his Most Devout brother Torbert to a penitent’s cell, so perhaps Baelor also saw his reign’s Most Devout as needing similar correcting from a humble source. If Baelor would not literally hand the members of the Most Devout a scrub brush and a bucket (although I could see him doing that too), he might, nevertheless, have felt it prudent to set above them a master (or two, consecutively) who was (and were) from the lowest levels of Westerosi society, the better to remind them of their abasement before the Seven.

(To continue my pastime of paralleling Baelor and brother Daeron, to see them as more alike than they might appear at first blush - perhaps we can draw a broad parallel between Daeron’s governance of Dorne following the Submission of Sunspear and Baelor’s choice of first Pate and then the draper’s son as High Septons. Daeron had received the ostensible fealty of the Prince of Dorne and his vassals at the Submission of Sunspear, but clearly he was not interested in leaving Dorne in the hands of the Dornish following (what he saw as) the completion of his Conquest; instead, according to Yandel, “Lord Lyonel Tyrell was given charge of Dorne after the Young Dragon returned in triumph to King's Landing”. Just as Daeron had set above his (would-be) new subjects a governor not of their own body, as a sign of the king’s favor toward one of the most fervent supporters of his war, so Baelor set above the Most Devout two High Septons not from their own number, chosen for the divine favor seemingly shown to Pate and the draper’s son. Too, just as Daeron’s choice may have been intended to humble the Dornish and bring them forcibly into the feudal structure of his realm - putting them under the rule of a Reachman, despite or rather because of the historical animosity between Dorne and the Reach - so I think Baelor’s choice was designed, at least in part, to humble the Most Devout to the physical and spiritual meekness Baelor himself emphasized and prized.)

I’m also reminded a little bit - I know, it me - of the seventh novel in The Accursed Kings, The King Without a Kingdom. The narrator of the story is Cardinal Hélie de Talleyrand, a very high-ranking and aristocratic French prelate. During the novel, the cardinal describes the three papal elections at which he, the cardinal, was eligible to be elected pope but always somehow missed the tiara. The election which clearly bothers him most is that of 1352, following the death of Pope Clement VI. Cardinal Talleyrand moans that during the 1352 conclave, “my impediment was … the fact that I was too princely … [t]oo grand seigneur, too extravagant”, and notes that “[t]here are occasions when the Church is seized with a sudden passion for humility, for modesty”. According to Cardinal Talleyrand, his fellow cardinals “wanted a man of the people … a simple soul, a humble being, a plain one”. While the cardinal, somewhat self-satisfied, remembers that he was “barely able to prevent their electing Jean Birel, a holy man – oh! most certainly, a holy man – but who hasn’t an ounce of a mind suited for government”, he concludes that he “managed to have Étienne Aubert proclaimed Pope, he who was born to poverty”.

#tumblr replies #baelor i targaryen #faith of the seven #the accursed kings

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bnuuys-writing · 1 year ago

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Chapter One. The Castle Within The Fog.

HERE YOU GO VIL SIMPS! The first chapter of Howl's Moving Castle Vil x F!Reader!!

I am having fun making this, it was a little hard to start but WE GOT THIS! I hope you enjoy reading the first chapter!

TW: Creepy men, self image issues

-Bnuuy Out!

The fog was dense upon the hills, rolling over shepherds and their sheep, edging them back home towards their farmhouses as something waltzed within its secure density. Hissing, thumping and whirring could be heard through the fog, for it could only hide but not mute the sounds of a moving castle. Specifically, Vil Schoenheit’s moving castle. For everyone knew about the Sorcerer’s moving castle, and wondered where his loyalties were during these troubling times. Yet, no one could ever tell the proper story of Vil’s Moving Castle, only rumors fluttered about him and his mysterious ways.

You sighed as you looked out the window, watching plumes of black smoke roll past your window as a train passed by your quaint little shop. Or at least the shop you work in currently, weaving and decorating hats for the world to buy. A single wish always being pushed into the hat by your words, of how beautiful it will be, or that the owner will love said hat forever, or even in some cases; that whoever purchases this hat will find their true love. You always thought pushing these little wishes onto the hat would make the owner a little more happier with life, for you were certainly lacking a bit.

“Y/n! We closed up the shop a little early! Why don't you come to the festival with us?” One of your coworkers piped up, looking into your little room filled with hats and decorations. A small smile was on her face as she looked you up and down from where you were sitting and tilted her head. Of course, all these women were absolutely beautiful, having grown within their respective middle aged lives, and they seemed as if they hadn't had a care in the world; As if, they themselves, had no insecurities for who they are or what they looked like.

“No, thank you though. I should probably stay here and finish this hat. You go on and have fun.” You replied, smiling at her as you returned your gaze back to the hat within your hands. It was the perfect shade of pink, with a violet ribbon wrapping around the middle of it, where you were sowing in red berries with a few leafs upon it, and one beautiful pinecone. Whoever purchases this hat will be the finest lady come wintertime. You could hear all the voices of your coworkers speaking, how they were all ready to go and how excited they were until one piped up about seeing Vil’s castle within the rolling hills, hidden beneath the fog.

You gaze tore away from the hat once more as you looked outside your window. No more black smoke clouding your gaze as you looked off into the hills that were encased in mountains behind them and within those hills; There it was. Vil’s Moving Castle. So far and small, you could barely see it within the fog but with certainty, you could see its spindly legs moving back into the fog to hide away from the warplanes flying above. Although you tried to ignore it, you could hear your coworkers speaking about Vil Schoenheit.

“Did you hear about Fartha, the girl from South Haven? They say Vil tore her heart out!”

“Now I’m too scared to go out!”

“What? Well don't worry! They say he only preys on pretty girls!”

You could hear their giggling and you could only sigh, rolling your eyes as you returned to the hat within your hands. WIthin the next minute, you could hear the bell at the front door ring, then a click. Signaling that the women of the shop have all left to go out and have some fun within the parade, the festival, the goodest of all times for there was tension peace between the two countries. One wrong move and there will be a whole war breaking out. You only sighed as you looked down at the hat in your hands, wondering what else could be placed upon the lonesome looking hat before shaking your head. You had plans that you needed to follow through on.

Grabbing your hat and making your way to the nearest mirror, you tried smiling, flaunting off the pale hat with only a few buttons on the top, draped in a pink ribbon, yet nothing seemed to work. A part of you telling you it wasn't worth it, that you didn't look pretty nor good enough. You hated this part of yourself, as you seemed to cover your eyes with the hat, having pulled it down hard over your head as you began to make your way out, adjusting the hat as needed. It wouldn't matter anyway, because you didn't want to get stuck within the crowd, you traversed into the empty alleyways of the streets.

You could hear the loud fanfares of the trumpets, of the drums and the marching of the soldiers, the cheering crowd, and the humming engine of the tanks rolling by while the warplanes flew overhead, bearing the flag of your country. Yet, you refused to be out there within the crowd. Holding a piece of paper of where you were destined to go, you looked up every once and a while just to stop and see street signs, passing the occasional guard as well and ever seeming to rush by them with a startled gasp. You never wanted to be left alone with a guard, and you wished that your luck would deliver you unto the cafe you were supposed to meet your sister at.

Yet, your luck couldn't have been any worse.

Glancing up from the paper, you immediately took a step back as you looked up a little higher just to see a guard leaning on the wall, effectively blocking your way from passing forward. Alarms began to ring within your head as you stared up at the unfamiliar man who just seemed to smile down at you, something behind his eyes screaming interest towards you.

“Hey, it seems like a little mouse has lost its way.” He started out, trying his best to act suave towards you. Yet, you were not having it as you became more uncomfortable by the fact of this man keeping you here within this lonesome alleyway.

“Oh no, I'm not lost.” Your voice wavered slightly as you took another step back, trying to keep yourself distanced from the guard leaning on the wall only for another to appear at his side.

“This little mouse looks thirsty, we should take her for a cup of tea.” By now, the two guards have completely blocked your pathway, both smiling down at your form as you seemed to become even more unnerved. There was no one to hear your cries for help if you did even try.

“No thanks, my sister is expecting me.” You lowered your head slightly, trying to keep the fear within your eyes hidden as you just stared at the wall behind them. You didn't dare try to meet their gaze again as the other guard seemed to lean over just to inspect you, getting close and personal.

“She’s pretty cute for a mouse…” He spoke out, smiling at you as you disregarded any eye contact with him as well.

“How old are you even? Do you live around here?” The first guard spoke once more as they both took a step forward to get closer to you, in which you could only respond by taking a step backwards, pulling your arms closer to your chest as you kept your head down.

“Leave me alone!” You blurted out, trying to sound like stone. You tried to save yourself from the misery of this ending right here. You needed to escape, or just to run, there was no one to hear you.

“You see,” The first guard spoke up, laughing over at his buddy. “Even your mustache scares all the girls.”

“So? I think she’s even cuter when she is scared!” As the both of them turned their gazes back to you, evil glints within their eyes as you knew you were a goner now.

“There you are sweetheart, sorry I'm late. I was looking everywhere for you.” Almost like a calling from the divine, a gentle grasp wrapped around you as if you were being wrapped up within a warm blanket. Something- No, Someone, was here to save you! Feeling the hand on your shoulder, and you being pulled closer to the chest of the man saving your life, you could only tense up with your shoulders rising and a look of shock spreading on your face.

“Hey, hey! We were busy here!” The first guard spoke up, clearly irritated by the fact that this stranger appeared out of nowhere only to interrupt the time with you. The hand slid off of your shoulder as now the forearm was resting on it, for whoever this stranger was; they seemed to make it look exactly like he knew you. You were grateful for the help to get these goons away from you but now you had another issue at hand. How were you going to repay this man for the help he is offering you?

“Are you really? It seemed to me that the two of you were just leaving.” With the hand that was once resting on your shoulder, and with a flick of the finger. The two guards seemed to straighten out and with another flick from this mysterious man's finger, they began to march away from the two of you as the man dragged his hand off of you and into the direction that the guards were going. Then, once more, his hand returned to your shoulder. Relief seemed to sap its way into your muscles, for the fact that this man had saved you from two people that most definitely shouldn't be guards. The man finally spoke up once more as you glanced up at him finally. “Don't hold it against them, they’re actually not all that bad. Where to? I’ll be your escort this evening.”

By the heavens above, this man was gorgeous. With beautiful blond hair that faded into a lilac purple, let loose and letting those beautiful locks rest against his shoulders. Clearly, this man was not from here by the way he dressed, yet he did have a taste in fashion. What you couldn't deny were his beautiful lilac eyes that seemed ever happy to see you, as if they had a secret within them that you had yet to discover.

“Oh! I'm just… Uhm- Going to the bakery…” You answered out, baffled about how gorgeous this man looked in front of you. As the man leaned a tiny bit closer to you, you could only lean backwards slightly to avoid any accidents that could have possibly happened.

“Don't be alarmed, but I'm being followed. Act normal.” What was normal when such a handsome man just saved you and is now escorting you to the bakery you were going to meet your sister at? With one hand cradled to your chest, and the other now wrapping around the man's arm as he gently led you down the alleyways to the bakery. Unbeknownst to you, black slimy goop figures began to appear out from the walls, yet the strangest thing is that they were all wearing hats!

More began to appear behind you and then in front of you, as they seemed to look at your general direction and follow the both of you. Fear bubbled up within your stomach yet this stranger seemed ever so calm! How could he be so calm?!

“Sorry, looks like you’re involved.” This man whispered out to you as you could only gasp in alarm, clinging tighter onto the man's arm as you two ducked into a separate alleyway, causing the two opposing forces of goop men to slam into each other. Though, with reinforced goop men in front of you and more behind you, they began to charge forward to where you stood with this mysterious man. Yet, you were now running with this man towards the figures at the end of this alleyway.

“Hold on!” Within seconds, you felt an arm wrap around your upper waist and at the last second before you two were smashed into the goop figures, you both seemed to jump as you were now soaring through the air. Anxiety and filled with fear, you clung onto the man who could only smile down at you, one of his hands holding onto yours while the other still held you close to him by your upper waist. “Now straighten your legs and start walking.” His voice was so smooth as you did as he told you to do. You… You were flying! Floating? Walking on air?! You didn't care, you were above the crowd and you were walking through the sky!

Delight, yet fear bubbled through your system as you couldn't believe it! Both hands clasped around his own, you were left in a state of surprise you didn't know how to even react to this moment! Who was this person, and how could they have such great magical talents?!

“See? Not so hard, is it?” The man spoke out once more, chuckling at your surprised reaction as you continued to walk with him through the sky. With a synchronized step, you both stepped on top of a pointed roof that was in the shape of a ball, and propelled yourselves forward. “You are a natural.” He stated out, looking at you with a pleased expression in which you could only look back at him and smile, a feeling of reassurance flooding your system as you were no longer feeling anxious.

The crowd didnt even seem to give you two a glance as they continued their merry way of parading through the festival. Though, the bakery was coming in sight as the strange man landed on the hand railing as he lifted you up ever so slightly just to sweetly and delicately place you onto the balcony. Everything seemed so surreal, that you could only just stare up at him in a mix of awe and confusion, your cheeks dusted pink as you were also a bit sheepish to have been escorted in such a way by a strange, magical, not to mention; a very handsome man.

“I’ll make sure to draw them off. But wait a bit before you head back outside.” He smiled down at you as he slowly slid his hand out from holding yours as you could only stare up at him with that same expression. One filled with so much awe, and you could feel your heartbeat pounding against your chest. With a nod of your head, a small ‘okay’ coming from your mouth, he seemed ever pleased by your reaction.

“That's my girl.”

With that, the man jumped backwards off the railing, floating downwards into the mass of a crowd. Yet, when you looked over the railing to try and find him again, he was no longer there. As if he were a figment of your imagination.

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secular-jew · 7 months ago

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What should we learn from Benjamin Achimeir?

Posted on April 13, 2024 by Forest Rain

Yesterday we were told on the news that 14 year old Benjamin Achimeir went missing. He left his home early in the morning to herd sheep. His home is in the Benjamin region, named after the ancient Jewish tribe of Benjamin who lived more or less in the same area during biblical times.

A missing shepherd could be someone who walking on the hills fell and was injured and unable to call for help. Or someone attacked by terrorists.

Today Benjamin’s body was found. He wasn’t taken hostage, he was murdered and thrown nearby. He was stoned, tortured, beaten, stabbed and his skull was crushed by a large rock. A 14 year old boy.

Now the reports are of “settlers” aka Jews who live in the region, “rampaging” in the closest Arab village, the place where one logically assumes the murderer or murderers came from. It is worth noting that the reported “rampaging” includes setting fire to houses and cars, not murdering people.

Those who live in civilized places will respond in horror “Oh, no, one mustn’t take the law into your own hands,” and “two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Which is true. I believe those things. The problem is that this isn’t a civilized area and there is a big difference between theory and survival.

Let’s unravel some of the complications here:

“Settler violence”

This term encapsulates multiple lies.

The first is that Jews living in their ancestral homeland somehow are settlers who don’t belong there. The idea that “settlers” are Jews who live in the Benjamin region and not the Jews who live in Tel Aviv is an idea born from elites who don’t listen to what the Arabs say about us. To them, every Jew living in Israel is a “settler”. We saw this on October 7th when Hamas called the people of Be’eri and other kibbutzim in Israel “settlers”.

The next lie is that Jewish violence against Arabs is a common occurrence. This is an absolute lie, supported by warped statistics that include instances of Jews defending themselves from terrorists trying to kill them. For example, terrorists that were injured in these instances were counted as a case of settler violence and if they subsequently died in the hospital, it was counted as a second instance of violence. Another example of these outrageous lies with statistics is that every Jew who ascends the Temple Mount is counted as an instance of “settler violence”

“Taking the law into your hands is wrong”

Israel is a nation of law and murdering people is not allowed. Obviously. The law is supposed to protect all citizens. The problem is that the law isn’t fully enforced to protect Jews, particularly those who live in Judea, Samaria and the Benjamin region – people who stand in between the Arabs of the PA territories who promised to repeat October 7th and the Israelis living in the center of the country. The Arabs of the PA territories have proven their desire as they have committed small scale attacks for years. Their culture and education are identical to that in Gaza. Elections in PA territories have been postponed for over a decade because it is known that the people would elect Hamas. Gaza is Hamas. So is the PA.

Further complicating the situation is the decisions and attitude of the IDF general in charge of the region. The residents living there have been crying out for help, for years. According to them, many of his decisions about how to manage the area are more focused on maintaining Arab rights to freedom of movement than protecting Jewish right to not be murdered. Most recently he was criticized for a military exercise that proposed a scenario where “settlers” kidnapped an Arab child and the army needed to intervene. A scenario that never happened, one that would never happen and is exactly the opposite of what actually happens – as we see in the murder of Benjamin Achimeir. So here we have a terrible situation where Jews are under attack and the State is not defending them. If you were in such a situation, what would you do? Sit and wait for the next attack or make sure your attackers know they cannot attack with impunity?

What will be reported?

Most of the media will focus more on the “settler violence” than on the fact that a 14 year old boy was murdered for the crime of being a Jew in his ancestral homeland.

For Muslims, Jews returned to our ancestral homeland are a problem because it proves their religion wrong. God did not replace Jews with Islam. We were exiled but we were also returned.

For Progressives (in America, Israel and Europe) Jews who are both religious and connected to the Land, Jews who are willing to be a “Nation alone” are the last major threat to the new world they are trying to create. People that still live according to biblical guidelines are in stark and violent contrast to those who say that there is no difference between man and woman, nations, facts and feelings or even right and wrong. THAT is why “settlers” are a red flag to so many.

The murder of a child should make everyone pause. The murder of Benjamin Achimeir should make us all consider what is necessary to enable Jews to live freely in our ancestral homeland.

#israeli #israel #secular-jew #jewish #judaism #jerusalem #diaspora #secular jew #secularjew #islam #judea #Samaria #terrorism #terrorists #murder is murder #murder #Palestinians

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allfleetingdreams · 7 months ago

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'familiarity' - a Silent Hill fanfic

SUMMARY:

Travis Grady encounters a familiar face in the same, familiar place. It's been a long while, but their demons haven't quite let go of them yet. Maybe they never will.

ADDITIONAL TAGS / WARNINGS:

Rating: Mature Character: Travis Grady, Alex Shepherd Relationship: Travis Grady/Alex Shepherd Word Count: 5,878 (completed) Tags / Warnings: PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Referenced Child Abuse, Referenced suicide, Older Man/Younger Man, Strong Language, altered canon timeline, Good ending Travis, War veteran Alex, Canon Divergence

PREVIEW:

Faraway houses wink at him in the distance, roofs glimmering under the gentle morning glow, getting ready to face yet another day with its tenants who will be waking up a few hours later than him. For the first time after an hour he bothers to look at where the sun attempts to greet him; and not for the first and last time, he wonders what it is like to be at home—permanently at home, and not driving a giant monstrosity delivering cargo from one state line to another every damn week. Gently, like the unhurried rise of the sleepy sun, his thoughts start drifting to the what-ifs, but he never lingers too long to the point that these what-ifs start making sense. He turns away, back to the task at hand, listening to the loud roar-purring of the engine and the staticky quality of radio music. Not another lonely fucking country song. …But when did all country songs ever get happy? Seven miles. There’s only seven miles left before Brahms. He’d already passed through other quiet little towns, and whenever the outline of houses do not find him on the road, the shiny faraway waters of the massive Toluca Lake do. It waits for him like it always had, wondering when he’ll be dropping by again; and like the sun, he tries not to take notice of it too much. It’s too pretty; too inviting; too distracting; and last time he got distracted it had gotten him into a bit of trouble. All he has to do is drive, go through Brahms, then after Brahms, there’s another quaint little town to pass through. And this quaint, nice, quiet little town… Well. Shouldn’t be new to him anymore. It’s only a passageway: a bridge to get him to his point B. After that, it’ll be over, and he’ll be circling all the way back to where he’d come from, which should take him another week. He’d be waiting for new-not-so-new instructions by then, sending him back on the road once more after a couple days’ rest in his not-really-permanent home. It’ll be like nothing happened. Said quaint little town had been lenient on him for the last seventeen years, and even though he could sense its anger because he got out safe and sound, it never dared pull him back. He’s always around, anyway, observing. Like he never got away. Did he ever get away?

READ THE FULL PIECE HERE:

#silent hill #travis grady #alex shepherd #my writing #fan fiction #fanfic #ao3 author #archive of our own

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lensandpenpress · 1 year ago

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COMPETING OZARK TOURISM ICONS: Old Matt’s Cabin vs. Bagnell Dam

The two biggest tourist centers of the Ozarks are Branson and Lake of the Ozarks. While graphics used to promote travel do not necessarily accurately or honestly represent those places, they can betray the character and history of places. Such is the case with the imagery used to advertise and decorate souvenirs of these two attractions. Souvenirs from the Shepherd of the Hills Country (Branson).…

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#Bagnell Dam #Branson #Harold Bell Wright #Lake of the Ozarks #Old Matt&039;s Cabin #Shepherd of the Hills country #Union Electric

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year ago

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Happier Than Ever

Part 4: Fate Thou Art Twisted

“My base is your base.” The words were reminiscent of what Colonel Vargas had said before, when Ghost mentioned Commander Graves of the Shadows assisting in finding Hassan.

The join task force would hunt Hassan down in the hills he was hiding in, leaving no single crevice in that hideout uncovered. There was no probability of failing, this mission had to be a success, and whatever missiles Hassan had, needed to be found.

With the weight of more than just American lives on the line, the task given by General Shepherd and Laswell couldn’t afford any small measure of force. There would have to be an unseemly pressure put on Hassan and the hills he was hiding in.

“You good for this?” Soap had questioned you again, as if you had the opportunity to back down, as if you could change your mind and head back to the US. “You’re heading into gunfire.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Your heart was racing, and dread had settled in your stomach. It was your 4th mission with Ghost & Soap, and you’d yet to gather or steel your nerves. Not like they had, and not how you particularly should have.

You followed Soap & Ghost into the armoury, standing nearby as they grabbed ammunition and assault rifles, checking the weapons over. There was no shortage of artillery here, heavy and handheld weapons to kill or disarm, another necessary adage to the mission.

While you were a medic, and you had completed your nursing degree, you weren’t necessarily a soldier. You had gone through your 6 weeks basic training, you had learned to survive in a war zone, as best as Alex Keller could teach you.

You had gone through your crash courses, you had gone through as much training to solidify your skills as a combat medic. Pushing yourself through every necessary test to get your rank as private, you hadn’t faltered.

You completed your training, but you were not like Soap & Ghost. You wanted to put your focus on keeping them alive, on keeping them breathing.

“Take the damn gun.” A smaller rifle was handed to you, an order from Ghost.

As your CO, he had been responsible for yourself and Soap, and any fatalities were purely his responsibility. “And keep your head on straight.”

“An XM7,” Soap had spoken over Ghost, tapping the barrel of the gun with his fingers, twice, and then looked over his shoulder, “sergeant Parra is taking you to the med-bay. Get whatever supplies you need, we leave in 10.”

He already had his gear on, with the Kevlar bulletproof vest that bared the flag of his country, his rank, and the emblem belonging to Los Vaqueros. His vest was similar to Ghost & Soap’s, the indicators that would lead anyone to know that they were soldiers.

Unlike the soldiers' bulletproof vests, your tactical vest was emboldened with MEDIC, in English, in bright white letters at the front, with MÉDICO, in Spanish, below.

As on the front, there were the same distinguishing patches on the back of your vest, accompanied by a caduceus, a snake, and a pair of wings to symbolize your status as a healer rather than a fighter. A commonality among the three of you was the flag from your countries, a patch that identified just how international this mission was.

“Leave in ten.” You nodded your head, acknowledging the order Ghost had given you, and then you stepped toward Sergeant Major Parra.

He was waiting for you, and had reviewed you once, before he directed his attention behind him with a nod of his head.

When you first approached, you noticed his hands were held behind his back, though when he began walking with you, they dropped to his sides. As you walked with relative silence between you, you glanced over at him, rather of the identifying soulmate mark on his wrists.

One, you noted, was already emboldened and lined with black. One of the phrases was securely etched into his skin, as usual with marks like that, meaning he had found one; however, there was another out there.

You diverted your attention once you had reached the doors of the med-bay. The small clinic was dark upon your approach, something that had been rectified when you’d stepped inside. The automatic lights turned on, and you were greeted with shelves upon shelves of medical equipment.

“Take what you need.” Rudy Parra had leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched you, waiting for you to gather some things.

“Yes sir.” You stepped toward one shelf, looking over the different kinds of bandages and gauze there was, and then further to the threads for stitching.

You grabbed what supplies you hadn’t already had, mostly newer gauze and bandages, some cold compresses and extra thread, before you took a side-eye toward the narcan. You reached for the glass vial, looking over the label before you closed your fingers around the bottle and shoved it into your bag.

“You don’t seem like the type to be in a fight like this,” Rudy’s voice had caught you off guard, and you’d looked over your shoulder toward him.

“I’ve got more interest in being a medic, or combat nurse, than I do physically being caught in gunfire. But… I’ve always wanted to be in medicine, I’ve always wanted to be a nurse.” You moved down the shelves and then hummed under your breath.

“Looking for something?” His accent was light, his voice was relatively calm as he stepped further into the med-bay, closer to you.

“Necesito un frasco de morfina.” It was just natural for you to ask in Spanish, given that he was a native-born Spanish speaker, and you’d never questioned yourself until Rudy looked at it with furrowed brows.

“Hablas español?” He reached above you, grabbing a few glass vials of the drug you were looking for, handing them down to you.

“Yeah, I’m… I wouldn’t say I’d be as fluent as someone who was born in Mexico, but I learned Spanish from the time I was 7 to 18.” You thanked him and placed the vials into your bag, feeling at odds with yourself for letting your second language slip.

“Es necesario en los Estados Unidos, no?” He didn’t question why you weren’t forthright with your ability to speak Spanish, rather, he’d questioned you about something related.

“The United States has a lot of Spanish speakers in the country. I don’t know if it's mandatory to learn it in school in every district, county or state, but in my school it was.” You took another look around the med-bay, double-checking your supplies and what you’d taken, before you zipped the top.

“Tu español es muy bueno.” Rudy held the door open for you when you finished.

“Gracias.” You stepped by him as he allowed you to step out first. It was while you were stepping by him that you tilted your head, eyeing the edges of his second soulmate mark.

The words were lined with an edge faint black, as if he had come in proximity to his soulmate, but the words themselves weren’t spoken. They were in Spanish, and while you had said the words in your head, you whispered them under your breath.

“Todo puede ser lanzado al aire al menos una vez?” You whispered faintly under your breath, almost entirely incomprehensible.

You glanced toward the mark again and then looked away, your eyes drawn toward Soap & Ghost as they stood by the fleet of humvee’s. They were geared up, as usual, bearing weapons that were far more formidable than your own, even though yours had the same potential to maim and kill.

“PT!” Soap called your rank from across the open space, directing you toward a series of vehicles parked and waiting. “Move your ass!”

“Yes sir!” You walked directly to your CO’s, your gun by your side and ammo stashed in the pockets of your tactical vest.

There was a certain amount of tension in the base that was directly tied to the mission to find Hassan. It was a tension that overshadowed any previous anxiety you had, with the knowledge that this could be someone’s last day breathing.

This could be your last day breathing.

“Get your head screwed on right, lass. This could get ugly.” Upon approaching Soap, he motioned with a single nod to get into the vehicle beside Ghost, the position open for you.

You’d tossed your bag to the floor of the humvee and climbed inside, taking your place beside Ghost, while another soldier had taken his place to the right of you.

Ten minutes had been enough time for you to grab what you needed, to secure necessary and life-saving tools to keep them safe. It was also enough time for you to reveal yourself as someone who could not only understand Spanish but speak it fluently enough to carry a conversation.

You hadn’t been aware of Soap or Ghost wanting you to keep your ability to speak Spanish a secret forever. Nevertheless, there was a certain expectation that you’d act as their translator, and it was impossible to do so without someone, at some point, knowing you were bilingual.

“You good, kid?” Soap turned in the front passenger seat, looking back at you as Colonel Vargas drove. “You ready for this?”

“You’re three years older than me, if you call me kid, can I call you senile?” Your back and forth with Soap was ordinary for the two of you.

It was partially due to his boyish charm that never faded, and your relationship that was like brother and sister. You were friends, but it also felt like you were family.

Your comment drew a cold response from Ghost, a side-eye that you had grown used to when in his company. At this point, you hadn’t even known if he was aware of what he was doing, or if it was some natural reaction to the people around him.

However, if Ghost had given you a dirty look, then Soap was almost gleeful about the comment.

He had laughed, as he usually did, and shook his head, flipping you off over his shoulder. He was eased, far more than you were, yet not as calculated as Ghost was at the moment. He was the neutral point between the two of you, the balance between your anxiety laced anticipation and Ghost’s cold composure.

The drive away from the compound and base was quick. The trip toward the hills outside the city, that had been overrun by the Cartel and had been the hiding place of Hassan, had taken less than twenty minutes. The overhanging cliff side and rolling hills had come upon you, with a single road in and out of the encompassing stronghold.

As the vehicles had come to a stop, Colonel Vargas voice came through the earpiece in your right ear, the order firm. “Team leaders circle up on me. Weapons hot Vaqueros. Let’s move.”

You had followed Ghost out of the humvee, your medical bag and supplied thrown across your shoulder to drape on your hip. The XM7 rifle was heavier than you anticipated now that you were on the cusp of the first assault to find Hassan.

“You’re with me, private.” Ghost addressed with his usual calculated and neutral tone, an order that you couldn’t disregard.

You regarded his order with a nod of your head, and adjusted your grip on your rifle. You’d been placed here as a medic and your job was to keep them alive, you had the tools and the training to save their lives to the best of your ability in the field.

You had 6 weeks of basic training, you had been taught how to handle weapons. Alex Keller had taught you everything he could in six weeks to prepare yourself for missions like this. It was always a possibility that you would have to lean more into the military training rather than medical, and this was one of the moments you had been trained for.

Regardless of whether you wanted to classify yourself as a soldier or not, you were going to have to defend yourself if someone had come upon you without being stopped by the soldiers that had come before you.

“Where are they holding Hassan?” Soap approached Alejandro and Rudy, and almost immediately got an answer.

“White two-story building. Back of town.” Alejandro raised his hand, directing Soap’s attention to the village tucked behind 7 foot white sun-stained walls.

With the direction given, the soldiers had begun to move, their weapons raised and their guards up. They approached the first gate that kept the village contained, a thick wooden double set of doors that had remained barricaded.

“Todos los vencedores en espera.” Alejandro had spoken into the comm system, his voice echoing in your head as you approached the last soldier, hanging behind like you had usually done.

“Tres, dos, uno...ejecutar.... ejecutar!” The order was given, and the doors had been kicked open, the soldiers pouring into the compound.

A sense of resolve had taken over every sense you had, and your instincts lead you. You tuned out the world, centred your mind, and followed Ghost and Soap as they stormed the abandoned town like planned.

The houses were empty and used as storehouses or labs for whatever the cartel wanted. The civilians had fled the town, no safety within the walls of the village that was now taken over by the Las Almas Cartel.

“Down! Get down!” The first rounds of gunfire erupted, and you ducked behind cover as commanded, the tang of smoke from the ammunition spent stinging your nose.

This, all this around you, was the shadowy underbelly of the beautiful city.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

You kept yourself quiet, studious as you dug through your bag and compartmentalized the hours between hitting the ground in Las Almas, and the moment you were in now. The gunfire in the abandoned village had resulted in finding out that Hassan had been there in the hideout, until he was moved.

Further up the river and in a secondary hideout is where they had found him hiding, with the assistance of Commander Graves and the Shadow Company. The joint Taskforce had succeeded in securing the terrorist to be questioned; however, there was little to be said about the methods of interrogation he may be hit with.

You had done the task given to you, you had succeeded being a combat nurse after another gunfight. Bullets were removed, gashes and wounds were secured and cleaned, and no one had lost their lives. It was a “success” by the standard; however, there was more to this task than anyone had even known.

You, as you sat on the sidelines and dug through your bag, had rattled nerves. It wasn’t just due to the gunfight you’d survived, it wasn’t just a circumstantial effect of patching up soldiers in the field.

No, this was something entirely different. And when all eyes were off you, you looked at your arms and felt your chest constrict.

“Maldito cabrón,” had been harshly yelled through the gunfire by the leader of Los Vaqueros, a fact that hadn’t hit you until you had a moment to think.

“Maldito hijo de puta,” had come through the communication system, something spoken by a voice you thought was Rudy Parra’s.

Both men, both Mexican special forces officers, had spoken the keywords to solidify themselves as your soulmates. And those key identifying words were ensconced in thick black lines, emboldened and complete. It was a moment that was life altering, coming at the worst possible time for you, and for them.

Still, you remained quiet about this revelation, and you distracted yourself by paying attention to the brief interrogation of Hassan, and the sound of his feet being dragged across the gravel. The only light had come from the yellow hued headlights of the truck and humvee that were driven here, one of which was Hassan’s escort.

“On your knees.” Soap had grabbed Hassan’s right arm, escorting him to the focal point before a camera as Alejandro removed his hood.

“Y’all got a clear picture?” Graves crouched under in front of a truck, adjusting the angle to get Hassan completely unveiled by the camera.

“Crystal.” General Shepherds voice echoed through the comm, and you leaned forward with your elbows on your knees, hands tucked under your chin.

“All set.” Laswell was the next to speak, the next to address in this interrogation effort, while Hassan was kept hostage.

“Alright. We are live, folks.” Commander Graves stood straight and walked toward Hassan, almost arrogantly, before stopping in front of him.

You were aware of Ghost’s position near the back of the truck, a position he took as a guard in case Hassan decided to bolt. Soap and Alejandro were standing behind Hassan, far enough away not to distort any recognition tactics.

“You speak Arabic?” Hassan’s hands were held behind his back, a set of stiff cuffs keeping him bound.

“No.” Graves stopped in front of Hassan, hands on his hips and a look of compressed disapproval on his face.

“Farsi?” Hassan’s lips began to form a smirk, another arrogant expression that was almost fitting for the mad bastard.

“No.” Graves replied with annoyance, and as he did, you could hear howling coyotes and the noises of nature at night in the background.

It was another reminder that although beautiful, there was more wilderness to this place than you realized.

“Of course not. Then I’ll speak your bastardized Medieval English because you are all uneducated street dogs.” He looked around at you all, that same cocky half-smirk on his face, even as Graves stepped closer.

“Ahh, see...we’re getting off to a bad start, Hassan.” Graves, ever disappointed, kicked some gravel toward Hassan and shook his head.

“You’re talking to a Quds Force officer.”

“You're the commander of a foreign terror organization.” Graves continued the interrogation, a sight that you had briefly tuned out when you looked back at your wrists, and the soulmate identifying words that had now become a reality.

Fate had decided that it was time for you all to be intertwined. Fate, the fickle bitch, was not going to wait any longer and this was the time for you three to come together.

Regardless of circumstances or opportune timing.

Wildlife and coyotes yipped again, signalling more scurrying from the distance as the night carried on. You had lifted your head, directing your attention from the soulmate marks to the man being questioned. The terrorist still on his knees while Soap and Alejandro were nearby.

“I’m a hostage here, this is illegal.”

“You’re a prisoner of war.” Alejandro’s accent and husky voice had drawn your attention to the fearless leader, and dull heat boiled in your stomach as the recognition re-centred itself.

“Iran is not at war with Mexico. I’ve broken no laws. These men and their commanders are the lawbreakers.” He pulled against Alejandro’s hand, tugging twice before he was settled back into a place of submission at the colonels hands.

“You and your beloved general Ghorbani broke every—“ Soap had spoken, and a physical and verbal reaction from Hassan had made both men nearly lose their hold on him.

Hassan had stood with rage, he spoke with fury as he cut Soap off. “DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME!”

“You executed him, and you will pay for your crimes—“ Hassan had looked at Soap, at all of you, like you were the scum of the earth.

You averted your eyes and shifted positions where you sat, just as heat blistered your stomach from the inside out. It was a visceral reaction to the settling bond that had been melded. Nothing more complicated than breathing, it was almost as natural.

The curse words in Spanish, inked on your skin as a gift from Fate, had now been completely visible and strengthened after being spoken. You wondered if you had managed to say the trigger words for them. If you’d managed to give them what they needed to feel this same heat.

“—without proof, we need to turn him loose, see where he leads.” Shepherd spoke again, a kind of finality in his tone.

“He’s right here, you can’t be serious.” Soap had taken an approach you knew was palatable, one that even you had felt.

If they let him go, would they find him again?

“Did we get anything from his phone?” Ghost spoke after looking down at the phone in his hands and then glancing toward the camera.

Laswell had remained silent for a single moment before she replied with something good, something minutely hopeful. “Affirmative. We got a hit.”

“Good, now take him back and let him go.” Shepherds order was forcibly accepted, and with a nod of his head, Ghost had signalled to Alejandro.

The bag was pulled, with force, over Hassan’s head and the terrorist was yanked to his feet. “Hasta el culo. vamos.”

He was being led away by Alejandro, the interrogation over. With this whole incident wrapped up open-ended, you had also risen to your feet. You yanked your medic bag up from the gravel road and slung the strap over your shoulder, feeling the thud against your hip.

“You really have to let him go?” You questioned Ghost, glancing slowly from Soap to himself, stepping toward the vehicle. “That’s bullshit.”

“That’s an order.” Ghost spoke plainly, matter-of-factly, tugging on the door handle to the truck. “Get your ass inside.”

“Todo puede ser lanzado al aire al menos una vez.” You muttered under your breath as you got into the truck, sliding to the rear driver's side.

“English, L/N.” Ghost took the rear passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.

“Everything can be airdropped at least once.”

#Alejandro Vargas x female!Reader #Alejandro Vargas x reader #Alejandro Vargas x nurse!Reader #Alejandro Vargas x female!Reader x Rudy Parra #Rudy Parra x reader #Rudy Parra x female!Reader #Rudy Parra x nurse!Reader #Rudy Parra x female!Reader x Alejandro Vargas #Rudy Parra x reader x Alejandro Vargas #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #COD fan-fiction #Happier Than Ever #Happier Than Ever series #Happier Than Ever masterlist #Happier Than Ever part 4 #soulmate au #soulmates

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twosides--samecoin · 2 months ago

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Hi!! Happy weekend! I’d love to hear about some of your ocs headcanons 🍬🌻💩 :]

Here's Jack and Olivia, 2/3 of Long Time Running's main cast - with a bonus heacanon unique to my Dogmeat! You can read the fic -> here <-

Jack Ward is my canon M!SoSu. He was a professional boxer and retired when he was conscripted for the Anchorage campaign and sent to FoB Juneau.

When Med-Tek failed, Jack pushed RJ on a vertibird destined for Vault 150 - a remote Canadian Vault that tested Duncan's illness on its residents. Two weeks later, Olivia Dallaire, my OC F!SoSu, stepped out of a vertibird and onto the hill overlooking Sanctuary and Boston. She'd be an Olympic judoka if there was still Olympics.

🍬On the topic of family: One of the themes in my fic is about the intersection and contrast between found family and adoption as well as miscommunication. Jack sees a younger version of himself in Olivia, but in a subversion of the failed-coach-training-his-actually-promising-protege trope, Jack had the title fight successes and Olivia really never will. All the same, he takes a shine to her. After meeting Father at the Institute, Jack let go of the idea of recovering his family. When he met Olivia, he felt like, "My god, this is the child Nora and I were supposed to have". Problem is, she's uh, a grown-ass 23 year-old woman. Who just immigrated to a different country and has her own trauma to unpack. And the sudden reemergence of his want to be a dad is moving faster than his ability to discuss being family with her. He faces serious role strain between his best friendship with RJ and the fatherhood he feels toward Olivia when he sees RJ differently as he begins to feel protective over her.

💩 Something ridiculous: My Dogmeat can break the fourth wall. The characters cannot hear him in the fic, but the reader can read his thoughts. One of my childhood fave movies is All Dogs Go To Heaven. The main dog is a German Shepherd, voiced by Burt Reynolds. This is how I hear him.

I was born in '94, so those 80's-90's "talking animal" genre movies were really formative for me. Anastasia, An American Tail - themes of lost family, adventure, immigration. Even RJ's story has strong Secrets of NIMH parallels. I'd reached a point where my fic felt self-serious, like it was so grounded in harsh reality and dumpster fire mental health that I forgot to have fun. Saluting Don Bluth by imagining Charlie B. Barkin and Anne-Marie the Orphan as Dogmeat and Olivia was me throwing my hands up and saying, "Fine! Fuck it! We can have fun!"

🌼 Happiness, how'd you get to be happiness: Lately, getting to know each other has been a source of happiness for both Jack and Olivia. Jack as the canon SoSu has all the problems we do when we play the game - wrangling several warring factions that all expect his presence; ignoring Father/the Institute; managing a small empire of settlements. Olivia as the SoSu of her own Vault is navigating immigration and being around people again. The heart-meltingest fluff I have published so far is father-daughter moments. Excerpt below the cut!

Long Time Running Chapter 13: Sabré Olvidar:

Jack glanced at Olivia’s marigold cable-knit sweater and jeans, rolled up at the cuffs. He realized most of her clothing from home that wasn’t her Vault suit was oversized and patched several times over.

A deep flush of sadness erupted within. He coughed and returned to the topic of conversation. “Well, um.. What.. What do you think of the animals you let go?”

“I just thank them for giving me a pretty view. I mean, just look at them.” She let go of their hug and stepped back. “If you look at it like this, the window makes them look like a painting.”

She beamed at the radstag pair - four heads and too many legs.

Jack obliged the request and stepped back. The window framed the radstags, trees and tall grasses well, like a living photograph. He appreciated the scene with the same intensity as a painting in a museum.

He broke his gaze away and looked around at the cabin. “Well.. What brings us down here today, anyway?” he asked.

“I was thinking,” she turned away from the radstags. “Um, there wasn’t anyone here last time I visited, and there’s no one here now, and.. Y’know, it’s pretty close to town.. Does anyone own this place?”

“Truth be told, Miss Olivia,” he replied. “I don’t think anyone’s taken interest in this cabin since the bombs fell. Doesn’t seem to me like anyone owns it.”

She wrung her hands and shifted her weight as she looked around. “Um.. can I..”

Jack awaited the question with patience and a smile. “Yes?”

“Can I have it? Please?” she pleaded.

His heart melted anew. Oh, Jesus, not that face, not that face. He decided to mess with her and put on an apprehensive tone. “I dunno.. It’s a big responsibility, being a homeowner..”

She hung on his every word with wide-eyed worry.

“The cost for materials, the labor.. In this economy, too.. Ouch.” He grimaced, both to ham up the theatrics and to force his mouth away from a smile.

“I-I’ll work, I’ll get a job, I promise-”

He could no longer keep up the act. “Oh, fine, sure. It’s yours!”

Olivia gasped and threw her arms around Jack’s torso. Coffee spilled out of her mug with a graceful dive and landed on the floor with an audible splash.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you- Oh, I have so much work to do-” she let go of Jack and listed the repairs. “I need a door and I have to clean the fireplace and I need to find new windows and-”

Jack beamed as she bounced around the room. Her braid whipped through the air as she tallied up her needs. Getting to know his little bundle of contradictions was fun.

“-nails and lumber and.. And that spot on the porch that’s sagging.. I have a lot to do if I want this ready for winter.”

“Alright, then, that settles it,” he said. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Where to?” she asked.

“Well, like you said, winter’s on the way. Let’s get building.”

She smiled, somehow wider than her smile already was. “Yeah! Let’s do it!”

She ran out the door and jumped off the stairs instead of walking down. “Where can we go shopping for supplies?” she asked, turning back to him.

Jack followed and took the steps as normal. “We’ll see what we have in Sanctuary before we look elsewhere. I’ll have to get you a workbench down here.”

Olivia hopped and skipped ahead. “My own workbench, I-”

She wasn’t watching her step and nearly tripped.

«Tabarnak!» she swore. Olivia threw her hands up in mock-offense. “Who put this root here, eh?”

She laughed off the transgression, tucked the stem of the hubflower behind her ear and turned her pirate smile toward Sanctuary.

Jack Ward, ol’ 111 himself, was thoroughly charmed. Miss Olivia Dallaire contained multitudes.

Sweet, funny, capable, sensitive. A reader, a fighter, an animal-lover and an occasional jokester who stopped to smell the roses.

He remembered the leadup to Arturo’s last title fight, when he lived at the house with Jack and Nora.

One night in the later stages of her pregnancy, Nora laid on the couch as Arturo and Jack sat on the floor surrounded by the pieces of a yet-to-be constructed crib.

Arturo lectured their unborn child on the syntax, phonetics and style guide of French Canadian cursing.

«Esti de câlice de tabarnak!» Arturo exclaimed. "That is what we say when the baby crib is hard to build! You better like it!"

Jack wiped a tear from his cheek as he followed Olivia to Sanctuary.

Arturo would have been so proud to be your uncle. So proud.

#thanks for the ask!#jack ward #olivia dallaire #fic excerpt #snippet #my writing #my art #fallout screenshots

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shybunny · 2 years ago

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🔞 this post contains erotic writing intended for adults. do not interact with this post if you are a minor/under eighteen

🐲 dragoness, wlw, heat/rut, size kink, fisting, cunnilingus, enemies to lovers, humping the furniture, cumming under clothing

i lost the ask but this is for the anon who wanted me to write a lesbian dragon

There have been reports of a dragon stealing sheep and causing mischief on the edges of the kingdom. You don your armor, buckle on your sword, mount your horse, and ride out into farm country to investigate. The farmers are overjoyed to have a renowned dragon slayer come to their aid. They put you up at the local inn free of charge, and ply you with all kinds of humble gifts.

On the next morning, you ride out to the cave where the dragon is rumored to stay. The frightened shepherds in the nearby hills claim that they’ve heard all kinds of moaning and groaning coming from inside. You don’t know what you’ll find, but you prepare yourself for the worst.

You creep through the warm, humid darkness with your sword at the ready. You can hear a lot of low grunting and panting, and you follow the sounds to the deepest part of the cave. Finally you stumble upon the beast herself, and the sight of her makes your whole body grow hot. Your sword slips from your fingers. Her long body is mounted on top of a low rough rock, and she’s thrusting her large hips against it, her long tail whipping back and forth. Her thick juices are dripping down the rock beneath her bucking hips, and the guttural moans you heard are rolling out of her own open mouth.

She hisses when she catches sight of you, but she doesn’t slow her frantic rutting. You realize she must be in one of her rare mating periods, and unable to find a mate, she’s trying to take care of herself. You can’t stop watching her. You feel your own cunt getting hot and wet at the sight of her desperate need.

When she notices that you’re still staring, she bares her long teeth in a feral smirk. She slides off of the rock to the stone floor and rolls onto her side, exposing her scaley belly. Then she lifts her leg and presents the long swollen slit of her cunt to you. It’s dripping wet with her juices, and her large clit is peaking out of its hood at the top of her glistening folds.

You can’t resist the invitation. Against all sense, you approach the dragon, and fall to your knees in front of her cunt. You reach out to her and hesitantly stroke your hands through the soft wet folds, feeling her shuddering under your touch. With her heavy gaze on you, you curl one hand into a fist and work it through her dripping entrance, slowly sinking your whole forearm into her. Your other hand goes to the hood of her clit, stroking the sensitive organ through the thick skin. She groans gutturally, and her large hips buck against you, trying to fuck herself on your arm. Her long neck bends around so she can snake her head beneath your tunic, between your legs, and she starts to lap at your cunt through your thin hose with her long wet tongue. You’re both moaning against each other as you fuck each other, her huge tongue stroking hot and wet against your cunt, her walls trembling around your arm. The faster you rub her clit, the harder she licks your cunt, the harder her walls clench around you, until her big hips go rigid with tension and her cunt grips your arm like a vice, and as she moans long and loud between your legs, your throaty voice joins with hers and you cum through your hose, cumming against her tongue through the thin material.

Her whole body shudders as you drag your arm out of her cunt, glistening up to the elbow, and then you let yourself fall back against the stone floor. She raises her heavy head over yours and strokes your cheek with her tongue.

“Well done, little one,” she says in her smokey, good-humored voice. You feel her tail curling possessively around your leg. “I may have to keep you.”

#dragon x reader #exophilia #mating cycles #heat/rut #size kink #wlw nsft #nsft text #nsft #smut #request 🐇

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thelensart · 1 year ago

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Hello, Aceweek!!

Basically all of my characters could be read as ace in some kind of way, but let’s focus on one of them.

This big, tall pine tree right here is Uxue. She’s a solitary shepherdess who, in her story, fights against a curse laid upon her by her own mother, an overprotective and stubborn sorceress who, with the best intentions, cripples her ability to make a name for herself.

I always thought of Uxue is canonically autistic, and most of her personality traits, body movements, mood, and way of directing herself regarding the world, is based off my own experience as a very socially retracted autistic trans woman, reason why I gave her such an unusual look, although I never thought of her as a transgender. She’s not very talkative, certainly isn’t social at all, instead preferring to work her days away in the hills with her sheep, from place to place, but always in the familiarity of the wilderness. Her best skill, or “special interest”, one might say, is gunslinging. She’s quite a good shot and revolver-trickster, although the curse laid on her doesn’t quite let her reach her full potential. This in particular is a parallelism, through fantasy magic, to the way many of us in the spectrum feel about our special interests, unavailable to develop them under the crushing weight of a system that demands productivity out of us.

As for her asexuality, the bread and butter of this post, from the moment I began to sketch her first drafts, I wrote her as asexual on a gray area, which correlates with her autism, just like in my very own experience. Her general reclusiveness, the harshness she feels on interaction with another people, does cause her a certain yearning to be loved by someone quite close, and that someone is a shepherdess from a land afar, called Marcela. She visits her from time to time, to spend some lovely days out shepherding together. I never thought of them as girlfriends, nor as close friends, because I never felt like labeling these two would be half interesting. While I never actually made it canonical, both of them can be read as aromantic. My own experience with aromanticism, discovering I was on that spectrum, that romantic love was a world I didn’t quite understand but I was capable of loving someone back very dearly, influenced that ambiguous subtlety between the two quite a lot. Regarding explicit sex, while Marcela certainly isn’t asexual, and in fact, is quite promiscuous, she understands Uxue’s needs due to her good socialization skills, and such needs are to stay away from conventional sex. Uxue, much like me, doesn’t generally like being touched, yet she loves physical contact with someone she trusts a lot, and feels comfortable engaging in soft displays of affection and vulnerability. Much like a lot of us autistic folks around, Uxue has a hard time displaying affection in standard ways, but I intentionally wanted to write her as a woman of many faces. She might be solitary and sometimes uncaring, but she is terminally, tragically sweet, even though one might have to peel off a lot of layers before seeing that side of her. This is something I wrote for her after yours truly met the person who did tear down my own barriers. Here are these two on my sketchbook:

But what’s these strange names and strange clothes Uxue is rocking around? As an end note, if I may, I’ll nerd out about the place she’s from. In this universe, a vague post-apocalyptic fantasy, the factions’ culture, dressing customs, and bestiary, are based off very loose interpretations of Iberian pre-roman folklore and more recent, regional folklores. Uxue belongs to a tribe which is vaguely based off the valley of Roncal, in Navarra. Here are some very loose sketches of her general Basque-inspired vibes.

Her name, in Basque, means “dove”. One must point out that Navarra and the Basque country, while sharing a language, have different cultural customs and identities. Although, in the story, Uxue’s faction, especially regarding the bestiary, is an amalgamation of both. Uxue is a good gunslinger because her tribe has a tradition of solving the problem of menacing creatures, all pulled from Basque-Navarrese folktales, by prioritizing speed and aim. This was an idea that came to me after investigating the area to make the factions. Near Roncal, there’s the royal arms factory of Orbaizeta, one of the most important weapon manufactories of Spain during the late 18th to late 19th centuries. Today, it’s abandoned and overgrown. That and a general knowledge among the Spanish that Basques have a tradition of steelworking, gave me the idea of a post-apocalyptic culture famous for the quality of their guns and the skill of the wielders.

And that's all, folks!

Don't get spooked!~

#acespec OC #ace week 2023 #oc #artists on tumblr #asexual characters #queer #LGBTQIA+#queer artist #art

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