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callooopie · 6 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 · 11 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 · 4 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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nino-rox · 1 month ago

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ANOMALY | CHAPTER THREE

Stiles Stilinski x Original Male Reader | M.O

Warnings : Explicit content, Teen Wolf AU, Teen Wolf x Original Male Character, Teen Wolf SPOILER ALERT, Gore.

Disclaimer : This is a Fan-fiction story written for entertainment purposes only, no part of the story implies or affirms anything regarding real world events or individuals. Please be of the appropriate age ( i.e, Adult as per your country’s stipulations and regulations) before interacting with this post

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Woman with curly hair is Scott’s mother. Woman with straight hair and a killer gaze is y/n’s mother - inspired by Addison Shepherd {Grey’s Anatomy} Played by Kate Walsh. Thank you for the support ! Please request for part 4 ! Also doesn’t Jackson look so hot like HELLO ?? Not proof read yet!

A loud bang woke him up; the sunlight coming through his window blinded him as he opened his eyes; it took a few seconds for him to realise.

The morning arrived slowly, the pale light filtering through the thin curtains. Your shoulder throbbed, pulling you out of sleep like an anchor. The dream—no, nightmare—lingered at the edges of your mind: the cold air clinging to your skin, the scent of wet earth and leaves, those yellow, slitted eyes watching from the dark.

You groaned, shifting onto your side, but the movement sent a sharp pulse of pain shooting through your arm, travelling all the way down to your fingertips. The ache was relentless, like something festering beneath your skin.

Dragging yourself to the mirror, you peeled off your shirt. The bruise had spread overnight—dark veins curling outward from the centre, spidering across your shoulder like cracks in the glass. It looked swollen and angry, almost as if it were growing, spreading with every heartbeat.

You brushed your fingers along the edge, hissing as pain jolted through you. The skin was feverish—hot to the touch, like it didn't belong to you anymore. There was something wrong with it, something alive.

You grabbed your shirt from the floor and tugged it back on, wincing as the fabric scraped over the bruise. It felt like the weight of the bruise had sunk into your bones, dragging you down.

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand, Maria's name flashing across the screen.

"Still alive? Or has Creepyville swallowed you whole?"

A slight, tired grin tugged at the corners of your mouth. "Barely. Already having nightmares."

Her reply was instant: "Werewolf nightmares? Please say yes."

"Just weird pain. No claws yet."

"Lame. If you grow claws, send pics immediately," she wrote.

Her humour cut through some of the weight pressing on your chest, though the ache in your shoulder refused to ease. You slipped on your shoes, grabbed your bag, and headed out the door.

The drive to school was uneventful. Beacon Hills stretched out in front of you, all quiet streets and thick woods, the kind of place that looked normal on the surface but felt... off. The bruise on your shoulder throbbed with every turn of the steering wheel, and by the time you pulled into the parking lot, you were ready to crawl back into bed.

The school building loomed ahead, old bricks and rusted metal, students milling around in clumps. You slipped through the crowd, blending in with the chaos, your hood pulled low over your face.

When you slid into your seat in AP Biology, Stiles grinned at you from across the table, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"You look like death," he whispered. "Let me guess—rough night, or did you finally meet our resident monster?"

You rolled your eyes. "Something like that."

Stiles leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Careful. Beacon Hills has a way of... finding people."

You shot him a sceptical look. "And you're, what? The local monster expert?"

He grinned. "Something like that. Stick with me—I'll keep you safe."

You snorted despite yourself. "Safe from what, exactly?"

"From everything," Stiles said, as if that explained anything. "Besides, you seem like the brooding, mysterious type. You and I? We're going to get along just fine."

Before you could respond, Mr. Harris began the lecture, pacing in front of the whiteboard.

"Today, we're discussing genetic mutations—small changes that can significantly impact an organism's structure," he announced.

The words settled uncomfortably in your chest. The bruise on your shoulder pulsed, almost like it was trying to remind you of something.

"Some mutations are beneficial," Harris continued, "but others..." He trailed off, glancing around the room. "Well, not every change is for the better."

Stiles leaned over again, whispering, "Feeling mutated yet?"

"Not yet," you muttered, rubbing absently at your shoulder. "Give it time."

Class dragged on, each minute heavier than the last. By the time the bell rang, the ache in your shoulder had spread, wrapping around your muscles like a vice. You followed the stream of students out into the hallway, your steps slower, heavier.

The locker room was warm and humid, the scent of sweat and damp tile hanging in the air. You pulled off your hoodie with a sigh, wincing as the fabric scraped over the bruise.

The door swung open, and Jackson Whittemore walked in, shirt already gone, his presence filling the room like a storm waiting to break.

Every movement was deliberate and controlled, his muscles shifting beneath smooth, tanned skin. His scent—woodsy, with just a hint of spice—wrapped around you, clinging to the steam-filled air.

He glanced at your shoulder, and for a moment, the smirk slipped from his face. Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, maybe concern—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"That looks bad," Jackson murmured, stepping closer.

"It's fine," you muttered, though the words felt empty.

Jackson didn't move away. He stood close, too close, his shoulder brushing against yours. His presence was heavy, magnetic like gravity pulling you in.

Without a word, his hand rose, his fingers grazing the edge of the bruise. The light and deliberate touch sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the pain.

"You should get that checked out," Jackson whispered, his thumb tracing slow circles along the bruise.

"I'll live," you whispered back, though your pulse hammered in your chest.

For a moment, the air between you buzzed with unspoken tension, thick and electric.

Jackson's thumb pressed harder, dragging across your skin in a way that made your breath hitch. His gaze flicked to your lips, lingering long enough to make your heart stutter - even if only for a second.

"You should stay away from people like me," Jackson murmured, though the way his thumb lingered told a different story.

His breath was warm against your neck, his scent filling every corner of your mind. For a second, it felt like he might close the distance between you, his gaze dark and intent.

"Like I said," Jackson whispered, "it would be safer for you if you stayed away."

"Well past safe and saving," you murmured.

Jackson chuckled, the sound vibrating in your bones. "Is that so." He whispered into your ear, his breath tickling your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

But neither of you moved, and the air crackled with anticipation.

It was dangerous, reckless, and utterly stupid. You knew it would end badly, but Jackson was magnetic, irresistible, like gravity pulling you closer and closer, and you would do anything to get your mind off the pain.

Your bodies were almost touching, just a hair's breadth away, the tension between you thick and electric. Jackson's breath was warm against your neck, his scent filling every corner of your mind as he gently placed his hand on your waist, his thumb gently stroking the exposed skin.

The hot water blasting from the showers onto you was the only sound you could hear; the warmth was comforting, making you feel less alone, like someone else was there with you, protecting you from whatever was outside.

The water dripped off your skin, the warmth enveloping your body.

You couldn't help but wonder how this boy did what everyone else had failed, making you want him - even if just in the moment.

"What are you doing?" You whispered, though you already knew the answer.

"Whatever I want," Jackson murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

Your breath caught in your throat, his words sending a shiver down your spine. He pressed closer, his skin burning hot against yours. His hand trailed lower, his thumb grazing your v-line.

"Are you going to stop me?" Jackson asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"No," you whispered.

Jackson's breath was warm against your neck, his scent filling every corner of your mind as he gently placed itself on your waist, his thumb gently stroking the exposed skin.

You were trapped between the wall and his body, his hands roaming freely over your bare skin.

"Good," Jackson growled, his voice vibrating against your neck.

His lips brushed against your ear, his breath on your neck as he began to gently kiss your neck, his hands slowly moving downwards.

Your hands wandered down his muscular torso, exploring his body.

"I didn't think you'd actually want this," Jackson whispered, his voice thick with desire.

Jackson let out a low chuckle, his lips trailing down your neck.

"Who said I did?" you replied. However, you couldn't stop your body from responding, your arms instinctively snaking over his neck, drawing him closer.

"I know you do," Jackson murmured. "I can smell it on you."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, your breath hitching as his hand slid lower, hands squeezing your ass, pulling you flush against him.

A cough interrupted the moment. Both of you turned to see Stiles standing in the doorway, his face a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

"Sorry," Stiles said, though his tone didn't match his words.

Jackson stepped back, leaving you buzzing from the ghost of his touch, glancing before leaving you alone with the buzz-cut boy.

"Stiles, It's not what it looks like."

"Yeah, right. Whatever, man," Stiles muttered, though his tone didn't match his words.

Stiles couldn't help but wonder why all the hot guys were attracted to Y/N; he didn't mean that he had a crush; hell no, he's not that desperate; he's not gonna be the 4th wheel. But something about Y/N did intrigue him.

"Stiles, wait," Y/N called, running after the buzz-cut.

"What?" Stiles snapped, though he instantly regretted his harsh tone.

Y/N looked taken aback, his eyes wide and confused.

"Nothing," Y/N mumbled, looking away. Stiles was only just starting to notice the massive bruise on his shoulder, feeling a bit bad for snapping.

"No, I didn't mean—sorry, I just meant...look, I get it, okay? You and Jackson. And whatever. It's fine," Stiles said, his voice softer now, but you REALLY should stay away from him.

As Stiles completed that sentence, he noticed something else: Y/N was very … naked; a blush crept up his face as he turned around to leave - still upset by what he saw - he wanted to ask about the bruise…he wanted to worry, but it was just not the moment.

The ache in your shoulder followed you out of the locker room, heavier now, as if the memory of Jackson's touch had settled beneath your skin.

Later that evening, you made your way to the hospital; it felt colder than usual, the sterile scent of antiseptic cutting through the warmth that still clung to you from the locker room - Y/N would never admit it. Still, that little random thing greatly distracted him from his shoulder - and y/n was grateful.

Y/N mentally prepared himself to speak to his mother and "explain" the 2-foot bruise spanning his body as he walked to the reception.

Y/N: Hello, I'm looking for Addison Shepherd, I was wondering if you knew where I could find her

Nurse: Hi. Are you sure you have an appointment with her?

Y/N: No, I'm her son, Y/N. I was hoping to speak to her if she's free

One thing Y/N never hated about himself was that his formal, polite social self could kick in no matter the situation…or the pain - while really, somewhere deep down, he wondered what made him such an excellent liar.

Nurse: She's in surgery; she'll be done in about 40 minutes; maybe you can wait? Oh, and also Y/N? You're Scott's new friend, right? I had no idea Dr.Shepherd was your mother! We're all so happy to have a woman of her calibre working with us.

Y/N Forced a smile instinctively.

Y/N: Haha, I'm so glad to hear that! She was a bit nervous about her first day here… oh, how do you know Scott?

Nurse: Oh well, he's my so—

Person: That's Scott's Mom

… the sudden answer caught both the nurse and Y/N off guard as Y/n turned towards the exceedingly familiar annoying voice.

Nurse: Jesus, when did you get here? You need to stop sneaking up like that.

Stiles: Awww … but it's my signature move.

The buzz-cut boy said, grinning and making a pouty face, to which Y/N just shot a weirded-out look that said… "Ew… grow up."

(Author's Note: Scott McCall's mother's name is Melissa McCall)

Nurse: Anyway, I'm Melissa, Scott's mom. I'm glad to see that you're running about making friends so soon already

The lady said, smiling politely, a smile which racked Y/N with guilt as he didn't really consider the odd duo his friends… it's not that Scott and Stiles weren't great. It's just that, in Y/N's life, he grew to associate the term friendship with a relatively close and protective personal bond…Scott and Stiles…?….they were just… classmates.

Stiles: Well, of course, he's making friends already. Look at the great crowd he hangs out with!

Stiles said excitedly, pointing to himself, a gesture that simply made Y/N feel worse for not considering him a friend…

Y/N tried, but despite being an excellent liar, he couldn't match Stiles' enthusiastic tone when he replied to the boy, which was something Melissa was quick to catch.

Y/N knew Melissa noticed it and quickly changed the topic of conversation.

"Oh, by the way, how come you're at the hospital ?" Y/N asked Stiles while shooting him a questioning look.

Internally dreading that he was stuck in this conversation after a highly awkward morning with Stiles.

Stiles: My dad is the sheriff; Scott and I are waiting for him here.

Melissa: Scott's here?

Stiles: Yep, he's in the cafeteria

Melissa: Oh, I should say hi, I'll see you two boys later. Stay safe!

Stiles and Y/N waved her goodbye.

After she left, stiles turned around.

"So are we gonna talk about what happened, or— Am I Pretending that I never saw you naked in the locker room with Jackson Whittemore?" Stiles asked you sarcastically.

Y/N couldn't quite figure out why Stiles would bring it up? After he already made it clear, nothing really happened. Was he upset? Was he mocking him? Either way, Y/N was not in the mood.

Stiles: Uh, Too soon to joke about it?

Y/N: …

Stiles: Got it. So what happened with the, you know…bruise the size of Texas.

Y/N: Why the hell are you so nosy?

Stiles: Because it's the size of Texas?

Y/N: …

Stiles: okay! Wow, you are not in the mood

Y/N: It's been a day.

Stiles: Right.

The two boys fell silent, the air between them heavy and awkward. Y/N shifted his weight, and the bruise on his shoulder ached with every movement.

Stiles couldn't help but keep glancing at it. As if he could see the bruise through your clothes.

"It's fine," you murmured.

"Really? Because it looks—"

"Fine," you interrupted.

Stiles frowned. "If you say so."

Y/N didn't answer, and the air between you crackled with tension.

Stiles shuffled awkwardly; not knowing what to say, he decided to 'wing it.'

"Okay," Stiles said, breaking the silence. "Then tell me about you.

"What?" you asked, justifiably confused by his statement.

"Because that's what people do. They talk about themselves," Stiles replied, grinning.

"I don't."

"Why?"

"Why are you asking me all these questions?" Y/N shot back.

Stiles shrugged. "I'm bored."

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't hide the slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"So. You moved from LA. What was that like?" Stiles asked.

"Hot," you replied, deadpan.

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, I bet. Must've been a big change, though."

"Not really," you said, though the words felt empty.

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, but he didn't press. "Okay. What did you do there?"

"Stuff."

"Omg, no shit, really? Fascinating… ." Stiles shot a look at you.

"I'm not much of a social bee personally."

—silence—

When Y/N said "he's not a talker", he did it to try and justify why he said the word "stuff" so vaguely; since he isn't used to talking so much personally in informal social settings, it didn't come easy to him to always respond in the most appropriate ways in personal conversations - But unfortunately what it came off as to Stiles was…I really, really don't wanna be talking to you."

Stiles looked a little taken aback by what Y/N said - essentially misunderstanding the meaning as "stop talking to me" - when the truth was actually quite the opposite, and the truth is that Y/N was Just slowly actually getting used to the sarcasm and constant state of "joking-need" enjoying the little conversation, he found himself wanting to get annoyed by Stiles stupid quips - it was a new feeling for Y/N, one that scared him a bit.

With a hint of sadness, giving up on speaking to you, Stiles got up from the creaky waiting room couch, "Uhm, anyway, I think I go," he said, almost coldly, turning and leaving, giving a small wave.

Y/N couldn't help but watch the boy walk away, a strange emptiness filling his chest.

(Author's note: SOS GUYS SEND HELP. I DON'T KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING; I'M JUST WRITING AS IT COMES TO ME LIKE I'M POSSESSED BY THE FANFIC GHOST)

An arm rested on his shoulder before Y/N could spiral into his thoughts and emotions.

He looked up, his mother standing before him, a soft expression on her face.

"Mom," you murmured.

"You know, it's never good when you come to see me at work," she said, her voice gentle.

"I'm sorry."

Addison sighed. "Don't apologise. Come, I'll show you my new office."

Y/N followed her through the labyrinthine halls, past doctors, nurses and patients.

As Y/N walked through the cafeteria, he saw a familiar buzz-cut, accompanied by his taller, athletic, crooked-jaw friend and Melissa.

They were having a light and carefree conversation, smiling and laughing, and the air between them was calm and comfortable. That was until Stiles' eyes met y/n's.

Suddenly, everything froze as if time itself had stopped. For a second, all Y/N could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. All he could see was the look on Stiles' face—that mixture of surprise and hurt, his mouth open slightly, as if he was going to say something, say hi.

But y/n didn't give him a chance. He didn't like how Stiles made him feel so on edge and overly concerned for someone he hadn't considered a friend; he wasn't used to feeling so...restless.

Without a word, y/n turned and walked away, the ache in your shoulder heavier than before, his gaze lingering like a ghost on your skin.

— Stiles — POV—

I think he really hates me, Stiles thought to himself as Y/N coldly walked by.

"Oh, there's Y/N and his mom, too, Scott. Why don't you go invite Y/N over for dinner tonight ?" Melissa chimed in, noticing both the boys look towards y/n.

Scott: I mean, sure, but what if he says no?

Melissa: he seems like a nice guy, and his mother is right there; I doubt you'll get a no.

Stiles: Oh, I'm so coming too. Where's my invite?

Melissa: Coming? Coming where you already basically live in my house

Stiles: Are you asking me to move in? <3

Scott: NO, NO, SHE IS NOT, AND you can come. I'll go ask Y/N.

Stiles watched Scott follow Y/N out of the cafeteria as they turned the hallway, wondering what the boy would do. Would he casually approach the man and ask him, or would he just stand awkwardly?

Scott saw Y/N enter an office and start stalking; not wanting to interrupt, he decided to wait outside the room; though he felt like he was eavesdropping because of his werewolf super hearing, it just couldn't be helped; he couldn't really "turn it off" on a whim.

Y/N's POV —

After walking out of the cafeteria, I sighed deeply, which made my mother shoot me a questioning look.

"I'm just tired, the packing, the moving, the having no social battery left, nothing out of the ordinary." I quickly said, hoping my mom wouldn't press too hard about it because I didn't have the energy to deal with it.

"So this is the new office, not as big or fancy, but it's warm, isn't it."

The walls were a bright white, a large desk and chair sat at the far end, and a large bookshelf full of textbooks and medical journals sat behind it.

Despite the cold air conditioning, the room had a comforting and warm vibe.

Addison: Apparently, the hospital has been kind to me. Apparently, I have a reputation.

Y/N: HA That you do. And kind? I could fit two cars into your previous office.

Addison: You, young sir, must learn to be grateful for the little things.

Y/N: Yes, yes, WE KNOW.

y/n chuckled, pulling his T-shirt off abruptly; unbeknown to him, a curious Scott could see and hear everything from outside.

Addison: oh wow. What is THAT, a bruise? And a big one.

Y/N: Umm, yeah, it kinda appeared, no big deal.

Addison: No big deal? It's quite literally a 'BIG' deal. And how did you manage to get yourself into this?

Y/N: Well, I kinda don't know… I just got home and went to bed, I had a horrible nightmare, and I woke up, and this colossal mark was here, so I think maybe I was sleepwalking or something? I don't know, really, but yeah…

Addison: Are you sure it was sleepwalking? Tell me more about the nightmare.

Y/N: I - I-Don— I don't know. It felt real, like I was awake or something. I was in bed, but then I wasn't... I was in the woods. I know it's not real, or I think it isn't because I remember the pain and getting caught in a bear trap, but I'm fine. However, there was something there when I was caught in the bear trap. It was, I don't know, this sounds crazy, it was … I don't know … it was a monster? It looked almost human, reptilian, kinda like the lizard man from Spider-Man. I KNOW, I KNOW, IT SOUNDS CRAZY, but it attacked me. My whole body couldn't move or breathe, and this is where it gets weird when I supposedly "died"/or rather "woke up" from the nightmare I was in the room, but where that ..thing… attacked me … I had this huge bruise. And I know this sounds like a cock and bull-bullshit story, but I swear I'm not lying.

Addison: Well, you are right about it. It sounds crazy, but I trust you. You know there's a thing called Phantom pain.

Y/N: MOM, I didn't imagine the pain. It's real! I have a bruise!

Addison: Oh honey, it stemming from something in your head doesn't mean it's any less real, or painful. Sometimes, when our body goes through a traumatic experience, it can leave this sort of "lasting pain." When someone gets their leg amputated, they feel a lot of extremely real pain in their "leg", the leg that's not even attached - despite this, their body produces actual pain and chemicals biologically, so the pain is very real. I'm no expert on Sleep studies, I'll have you shown to someone in a week or so, but my best guess is that the nightmare, which could have been caused by a thousand reasons like stress from moving and this and that probably inherently was traumatic enough for your body to "read it/ experience it as real pain" so even if it happened in your dream, it was damaging enough to your psyche for it to physically manifest as an actual bruise.

Y/N: So what I'm hearing is I need a shrink.

Addison: Honey, you'll realise this when you grow up, everybody needs a fucking shrink…Now I have to get back to work. I'll write you some meds for the pain, and to help it heal, don't physically exert yourself. That includes, you know, things with other people.

Y/N: Trust me, girls aren't exactly lining up for dates right now, so you don't need to worry about it.

Addison: Aww, I love you, baby.

Y/N: Love you too.

When Y/N was done with his mother, a tall boy stood there waiting for him. It was Scott McCall.

Y/N: Uhh, Hello, Scott...

Scott: Hey, sorry, I was just waiting for you.

Addison: Who's this?

Scott: I'm Scott McCall, I am in a couple classes with your son and we were talking earlier I was just wondering if y/n wanted to come over for dinner?

Y/N: oh, umm, yeah, that sounds nice, but I wouldn't want to impose.

Addison: Oh, nonsense! He would love to come over for dinner, and it's always lovely for Y/N to make friends, isn't that right?

Y/N: MOTHER: I have friends.

Addison: Sure, baby, and that reminds me, when was the last time you called them

Y/N: Why does everyone in this world have it out for me

Addison: Mhm.

Scott: Well, that sounds great! We're leaving in 10 minutes. Can I drive you?

Y/N internally sighed. There was no winning today. Maybe Destiny just really wants Y/N to hang out with these two boys…FUCK.

THANK YOU FOR READING ! Please Like for Next Part ! Lots of Love - Nino

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whitedarkmoonflower · 25 days ago

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Paris, Pyramids, and Werewolves: Eacon4 Friday evening

Just like last time, I went to the convention with my friend. She still hasn’t watched The Last Kingdom all the way through (don’t ask), but she loved the event last year. Plus, we don’t get much time to see each other, so when I asked her to come along again, she was immediately on board.

We were late. Again. Honestly, Paris traffic is like a personal vendetta against me. I hate it, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Somehow, though, we made it—just barely. We grabbed our tickets with about five minutes to spare, bolted upstairs to our room, and I slapped on some makeup like my life depended on it. Quick mirror check, and then we dashed back down for the cocktail party.

We stumbled into the room, still catching our breath, and were promptly shepherded to the last free table. No time for drinks, no chance to collect ourselves—just, “Here’s your spot, good luck!” There were only three of us at the table: me, my friend, and a lady we’d just met. And before we could even blink, the actors arrived, and Jeppe was suddenly at our table.

Let me tell you, Jeppe was a total vibe from the start. He casually mentioned that he’d spent the day exploring Paris and—get this—managed to find a restaurant that served food before 8 p.m. A legit Parisian miracle! We laughed, totally impressed, because, let’s be real, finding a decent early dinner in Paris is like spotting a unicorn.

Then, out of nowhere, he pulled out a box of chocolates. Yes, chocolates. He told us they were from his home country and boldly claimed they were the best milk chocolates ever. They were these cute little chocolate hearts, and we, of course, thanked him and graciously accepted.

Now, here’s the thing: Latvians are fiercely proud of their chocolate. Like, fiercely. We’re convinced it’s the best in the world, and we’ll die on that hill. My friend and I exchanged knowing looks, silently agreeing that poor Jeppe clearly hadn’t experienced Laima yet—our pride and joy, named after the Latvian goddess of happiness. But this was not the time or place for a chocolate debate, so we kept our opinions to ourselves, smiled politely, and thought, You don’t know what you’re missing, Jeppe.

Jeppe asked where we were from, and, as expected, the moment I said Latvia, his immediate reaction was, “Oh, like Arnas?” I couldn’t help but laugh—I’m so used to people mixing up Latvia and Lithuania that it didn’t even faze me. “Nope, not Lithuania. Latvia. Close, though. We’re neighbors!” I explained, and Jeppe was so sweet about it.

He also mentioned that he’s currently performing in Jesus Christ Superstar, which immediately had us all going, “WOW!” because, seriously, how cool is that? But before we could dive deeper into that conversation, his time with us was up, and it was Cavan’s turn.

Now, Cavan came over with this sweet, slightly nervous vibe, like he wasn’t quite sure where to start. Naturally, we ended up talking about Paris again (it was clearly the theme of the day). He mentioned that he’d been trailing Toby around because, apparently, Toby knows all the best spots. One of their stops was the Musée de l'Orangerie, and Cavan was absolutely mesmerized by Monet’s Nymphéas. The way he described it, you could tell it left a real impression on him—he was genuinely moved.

And then Toby arrived, and let me just say—I was not ready. This man is royalty personified. Everything about him, from the way he stands to the way he moves, just oozes regal elegance. And the voice. Oh. My. God. That voice. It’s like dark velvet and warm honey had a love child—rich, smooth, a little mysterious, but still soft and inviting. Honestly, words don’t do it justice. And the way he speaks? It’s like he’s performing Shakespeare by candlelight, even if he’s just answering a question about breakfast.

We asked what he’s working on, and he told us about a new series he’s filming, set to release next year. It’s about an aristocratic family in England during World War II, centered on the Mitford sisters. He was so excited as he talked about the story, the complex lives of the characters, and especially one of the sisters who ended together with England’s most infamous fascist, Sir Oswald Mosley. You could tell he was genuinely invested in the project, and it was impossible not to share his enthusiasm.

I’d love to say I remember everything Toby said, but honestly? I was completely hypnotized by his voice. He could’ve been reciting a grocery list, and I’d still have been standing there, utterly transfixed. No exaggeration—I could listen to him talk forever.

Then came Jacob, and wow, what a difference a year makes! Gone was the shy, uncertain vibe he had last time. He’s grown so much, and you can tell he’s been working on himself—his voice, his stance, everything about him radiated confidence. He walked in like he owned the place, and honestly, it was so great to see.

Naturally, our chat turned towards Seven Kings Must Die and his role in it. Jacob shared that when he first got the part, he’d actually broken his leg. So, while stuck at home, he had nothing to do but dive headfirst into The Last Kingdom world—reading the script and binge-watching the show, immersing himself completely in that world.

He laughed as he told us how he was initially informed that his character, Osbert, was brand new, so he didn’t expect to find any reference to him. Then, while filming had already started, Jacob finally made it to Season 5—and bam! There’s Osbert, walking on the shore with Hild. Except… that Osbert looked nothing like Jacob and even had a completely different accent.

Jacob, being the perfectionist that he is, decided he needed to match that one-line accent for authenticity. Can you imagine? I mean, if someone tortured me, I couldn’t tell you what accent that Osbert had. The level of dedication is both hilarious and impressive, and we all had a good laugh about it.

Next up was Timothy, and again—what a transformation! I still remember how shy and unsure he seemed last time. But this time? Total 180. He was confident, cracking jokes, and he was actually the one asking us questions like how we got into watching The Last Kingdom and whether we’d watched it together. The vibe was so fun and relaxed, and it was clear he felt much more comfortable in his own skin.

Next up was Eliza, and oh my gosh—what a whirlwind of energy and charisma! The moment she arrived, we were all immediately hugged—or more accurately, squeezed—while she bubbled over with excitement about seeing everyone again. She kept gushing about how gorgeous we all looked, which, let’s be honest, made us feel amazing.

We congratulated her on her baby, and naturally, the conversation shifted to kids. She told us her little girl was staying with her at the hotel because she wanted her Last Kingdom family to meet her too. Apparently, she barely got any sleep the night before because the baby had kept her up, but you’d never know—Eliza was absolutely glowing. She raved about how gorgeous her baby was and how thrilled she was to be a mom. Then, with her signature humor, she laughed about how playing Aelswith had given her a crash course in motherhood—and even grandmotherhood—so now she’s just putting all that “acting experience” into real-life practice.

You could practically feel the love and pride radiating off her. We joked about how this phase of parenting is actually the easy part, and how traveling with a toddler is a whole different beast. I even shared a story about how, when my son was two, he decided a shopping mall was the perfect place to play hide-and-seek with me. I thought I’d lost him, but nope—he was just testing my heart health. Eliza cracked up and totally got it.

Then it was Mark’s turn, and I almost didn’t recognize him without the beard! By this point, my head was spinning—from the excitement, the endless conversations, and, let’s be real, the champagne. I hadn’t eaten a thing because, honestly, who wants to risk being mid-bite while chatting with actors? So the mini sandwiches on our table just sat there, silently judging me.

Mark started off asking about holiday plans, which, of course, led to him sharing his own. He’s heading to Egypt for a Nile cruise, and let me tell you, he was clearly excited about it. He asked if anyone at the table had been to Egypt, and as luck would have it, my friend and I had just been talking about it. She’s dreaming of a trip there, and I visited about 20 years ago.

I told him honestly that the pyramids hadn’t left much of an impression on me back then, and I explained why. The route to get there took us through a very poor part of Cairo, where people were literally living in cardboard boxes. Seeing that level of poverty made it hard for me to fully appreciate the grandeur of the pyramids.

I can’t remember the exact order of the guests after that, but Micky was just the sweetest. Seriously, so lovely. We asked him what he’s up to these days and if he has any new projects. He almost looked apologetic when he said he’s not acting anymore but is now teaching acting. Of course, we were like, “WOW, that sounds amazing!” He seemed genuinely happy to hear that and told us a bit about his work as an acting coach. He was super interested in us too—asking where we’re from, what we do, and just being all-around delightful.

And then there was Magnus. I think I might have fallen a little bit in love. He was so easygoing and natural, like he’d just wandered in from a chill pub night. The first thing he noticed? Our glasses were nearly empty. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a bottle and refilled them for us. Naturally, we toasted together, and he laughed, calling this whole setup “speed dating,” encouraging us to fire away with questions.

Except… he didn’t really let us. Turns out he wanted to do all the asking. He wanted to know where we’re from, what we do, and of course, the classic: our favorite Last Kingdom scenes and characters. My friend admitted her favorite was Erik, which he was very pleased to hear. You can probably guess mine, and the other lady at our table admitted to being a Finan fan. Magnus just laughed and said he didn’t expect anyone to name Cnut anyway. His humor and warmth made the whole interaction feel so effortless and fun.

And last but not least Arnas. I have to say, he looked pretty tired. It was such a contrast to last time when he practically stormed over to our table, champagne glass in hand, hugging everyone, making toasts, talking and laughing non stop. Back then, he was like an overexcited puppy, especially when he found out there were Latvians at the table. I still remember how he confessed he’d never been to Latvia, even though we’re neighboring countries. My hands were shaking so much while trying to clink glasses with him that I almost missed.

This time was completely different. He was calm, no big excitement, just low-key and collected. I wasn’t sure if he’d even remember me. Our interactions last year were so sweet, but let’s be honest—he meets a lot of people, and it had been a whole year.

But then he walked up, greeted us, and suddenly said, “Oh, Līga!”

I swear, I just stood there grinning like an idiot.

Arnas: “You gave me that dragon book of yours to sign last time, right?”

Me (finally finding my voice): “Wow, you remember!”

Arnas: “Of course I do!”

He then turned to my friend but looked confused when he didn’t recognize her. She didn’t interact with him last time because she was too busy fangirling over Cristian. We told him how sad we were that this convention is supposed to be the last one in Paris, and then shared our “secret” plan: a 10-year reunion in Bebbanburg.

Arnas pretended to be surprised about the idea of a 10-year anniversary. We quickly declared that Alex would definitely be invited to the party, and the conversation shifted to Alex, who’s avoiding conventions. That’s when Arnas lit up as he suddenly remembered Alex’s grandmother, who had once even visited the set.

He started swooning over how she was the most lovely and charming lady he’d ever met and that he wants to be like her when he’s older. He said something like he would want to have those genes, to which my friend, without missing a beat, suggested the only way to ensure those genes would be to marry Alex and pass them on to their kids. Arnas paused, and then agreed it was a solid plan. We all burst out laughing—it was pure chaos, and it started to feel like the playful energy from last time. You could see Arnas lighten up a little.

Finally, I mustered up the courage to ask him the question that had been bugging me: “So, are you playing a villain in Mutiny?” I admitted right away that I know he probably won’t tell this to me anyway, but I just had to ask.

As expected, he didn’t spill a thing. Instead, he just smiled mysteriously and said, “Oh, you’ll see.”

And just like that, it was over. The group pictures were next, and before I knew it, Eliza had pulled me into another hug and dragged me to her side, yelling, “We’re doing hearts!” So naturally, we all did hearts. It was chaotic and hilarious, as usual with her.

By this point, I was feeling pretty dizzy from all the excitement and conversations—and mildly panicking about the werewolf game. The night before, I had won a ticket to Jacob’s team for my friend, and as the sweetest birthday surprise, she had gifted me a ticket for Arnas, Jeppe, and Cavan’s team. No pressure, right?

After a bit of queuing, we took our seats in a circle set up for the game. Our team was small—just me and four other ladies. Arnas arrived first and immediately announced, “You’re all doomed, you’re going to lose because I’m the werewolf, and I’m getting you all!” We laughed, and I shot back, “That’s not up to you—it depends on the role you get.” He grinned, and to my absolute shock (and slight terror), he chose the seat right next to me, making my heart jump straight into my throat.

Cavan and Jeppe hadn’t arrived yet, and while I was busy internally spiraling—trying to convince myself to stay calm and mentally cursing every goddess of fate for making me say something that probably prompted him to sit next to me—Arnas turned to me and casually asked, “So, what’s your absolute dream book to translate?” I have so much respect for Arnas for genuinely paying attention and remembering the people he meets. Not only did he remember my name, but he also remembered the book I gave him to sign and that I had translated it. Honestly, how does he even do that?

I told him I’m currently looking for a publisher for a beautiful German book for teenagers. I explained how there aren’t enough good books for kids and teens in Latvian, and the few publishers out there tend to focus on profits, which makes it hard to pitch books for a smaller audience. He wished me good luck, which was so sweet, and just as I was about to get emotional, I was saved by the bell—or more accurately, by Jeppe and Cavan arriving and the Nevastalgia girls jumping in to explain the rules of the werewolf game.

In the first round, I got the role of Cupid. My job? Pair up two players as a “couple,” meaning if one dies, the other does too. Naturally, I paired Jeppe and Arnas. Little did I know how lucky that choice would turn out to be. It turns out Jeppe was the Witch, and on the first night, the werewolves (of course) targeted Arnas. Jeppe had to use his healing powers to save Arnas, which kept both of them in the game. Talk about a power couple!

I love this game and tried my best to focus, but my concentration took a hit when Arnas casually placed his arm on the back of my chair. Seriously, how is one supposed to concentrate when that happens? To my surprise, the other ladies on the team were very quiet, so it was mostly me, Jeppe, and Arnas arguing and accusing each other of being werewolves. Jeppe, by the way, was absolutely thriving. He bickered with Arnas the entire time in classic Haesten style, teasing him non-stop. Cavan was a bit reserved at first but got more into the game as it went on.

Unfortunately, both games ended the same way—with one villager and one werewolf left alive, meaning the werewolves won. Poor Arnas didn’t even get to play as a werewolf either time and was eliminated super early both rounds. The final moments of the last game were intense. I knew the other lady was the werewolf and tried to convince Cavan and Jeppe, but while Jeppe believed me, Cavan didn’t. So we lost again.

But honestly? It didn’t even matter. The whole thing was hilarious. The banter, the accusations, and Jeppe’s jokes had me laughing so much that by the second round, I completely forgot about Arnas sitting next to me and finally just enjoyed the game and all the ridiculous fun that came with it.

#eacon4

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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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goodqueenaly · 7 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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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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secular-jew · 9 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 · 8 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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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 · 4 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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