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questforgalas · 16 days

Text

Tags/Warnings: None except massive creative liberties taken for the Hereford I'm creating versus actual Hereford based on the google searches I've done. Sorry Hereford

Masterlist

WC: 5k

Flower symbolism: Ghost's bouquet: Orange lily (hatred), thyme (courage), dark crimson rose (mourning) Soap's Bouquet: Heliotrope (devotion), marjoram (joy), sunflower (adoration)

This fic is rated Mature

For those who prefer Ao3

Years from now, when life decided to show a little of its kindness everyone seemed to always be talking about, and Simon softly swung on the porch, the late highland breeze rustling the soft grays blending with fading blonde, a perfect cuppa lovingly made in hand, he’ll look back on those moments when fate’s hand had gently nudged against his back. A gentle guide through the darkness he had made his sanctuary. Consuming him. Light forgotten years ago after wandering alone for so long. But the gentle hand nudged him along, letting him stumble away from familiarity until a pale sliver broke through the impervious dark.

One moment sat at a rickety kitchen table on a foggy morning in Lithuania, staring at a sleep-mussed mohawk unable to decide which direction it wanted to stick, blue eyes starting to chip away at barbed walls.

Another stood at the front doors of Hereford, welcoming Johnny home for the first time.

Hereford may have been a mighty name within the military, but it was small. The grounds were easily monitored by the pair of watchtowers standing above the sturdy concrete wall that drew the boundary between the base and the unassuming countryside beyond. Those coming and going only needed to pass through one gate manned by a veteran guard whose idle chatter did a better job deterring unwelcome guests than the host of soldiers living within. The short drive merged into a roundabout encircling a flagpole dutifully watching over the souls below, flag flapping in the morning breeze carrying the faint calls and answers from the training fields.

The largest building on base was home to the administration offices. It was one of the oldest buildings on campus, originally home to an old, abandoned school building that was long forgotten in the mid-century when the town decided to move the school closer to their center square. By the time the military found it, the sun had dulled the red bricks, and ivy threatened to break through the second floor windows, but the building previously forgotten in the countryside stood intact with a layout ready to house a sizable operation. So, the military moved in, the walls were erected, and sleepy Hereford gained a little hum.

In the middle of an October morning, the brick felt cool against Simon’s shoulders while he stood within the shadows cast across the front walk, kissing at the curb where Price and Garrick stood. If the sergeant and captain looked behind them, they’d see nothing out of the ordinary. Just their lieutenant in his favorite black sweatshirt, his favorite skeleton print gloves, and the skull balaclava that was like a second skin. Arms crossed against his chest, legs stretched out, and Simon made sure his eyes looked more bored than Price through the annual budget reviews.

They didn’t need to hear the jackhammer that had replaced his heart since Price gave them the signal. They didn’t need to see the twitch of Simon’s finger every time he heard the rumble of an engine nor how every muscle was locked as if ready to jump into a fight.

Or more like run from one if he was being honest with himself.

A litany of curses directed at none other than the man himself sprinted through his mind to accompany another deep breath in hopes to try and steady the erratic thump in his chest or to settle the sickening swirl taking residence in his stomach.

At least Garrick’s piss poor job at hiding his nerves was taking the attention away from the renowned lieutenant literally hiding in the shadows. Price had barely finished giving the order before Garrick bounded out of their kitchen where he and the lieutenant were in the middle of unpacking their spoils from the market, abandoning the half-empty bags on the counter and narrowly missing a collision with the corner of the kitchen island. Though he did remember to grab the dark green jacket hanging off of a kitchen chair - the same jacket he liked to don when the team frequented their favorite pub in town.

“Hugs the muscles just right,” he’d say with a wink.

Standing next to Price, the sergeant vibrated. He tried to sell nonchalance - popping a bubble of gum and heaving a sigh up to the clouds as if he were some teenager being forced to greet his annoying relatives and not one of the deadliest men to walk this planet - but the never ending shift of his feet and inability to just stand fucking still betrayed him.

“0930,” He checked his watch for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. “Should be ‘ere.”

“Relax, Sergeant,” Price assured. At least the captain had enough professionalism for the lot of them. “Maybe give the clock a chance, hm?”

As if waiting for the command, a Jeep rolled up to the gate.

Garrick went still.

Price straightened.

And Simon …

Simon felt time slow as the Jeep passed through the gate, taking approximately half a century to reach the roundabout and another millenia before coming to a halt at the curb where Price and Garrick stood.

The passenger door opened.

First came the voice. The deep timber calming Simon’s jackhammering heart.

Second came the laugh. The thunderous joy chasing away the clouds in Simon’s mind.

Finally came the man. And he was everything Simon remembered.

Of course, such a ridiculous thought deserved the barked out laugh Simon felt in the back of his mind, but Simon reminded his taunting brain that they left the realm of logic back in a cabin in Lithuania.

Soap unfurled from the front seat, waving goodbye to those in the vehicle, and Simon took the moment to fully take him in, confirming that those three weeks emblazoned in his soul weren’t an illusion.

The mohawk that haunted restless sleep hadn’t grown in. The stout highland warrior hadn’t sprouted seven inches. The crystal blue eyes at the front of every waking thought hadn’t morphed to some terrible shade of, well, anything that wasn’t what they already perfectly were.

Soap stood on the curb of Hereford base with a duffle bag in hand.

He was home. Hereford was his home.

And the very thought electrified each cell in Simon’s body.

“No way,” Garrick chuckled under his breath, and turned his gaze on Price. “Y’are really lettin’ a bloody mohawk on the team? Oh, I didn’t think this could get any betta. Fuck was I wrong.”

“Bloody stupid if ya ask me,” Simon responded from the shadows. “Not even close to regulation.”

“Oh yeah?” Garrick looked back. “And masks are?”

“Recruit duty. A week,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on their arrival.

Garrick laughed, “Sure thing, sir. Right on it.”

“Sergeant MacTavish!” Price’s gruff voice brought the attention back front. The captain took a few steps to the curb, meeting Soap halfway, and clasped their hands in a firm shake that the Scot met with equal fervor. “Welcome to Hereford! Or welcome back, I should say.”

“Och, don’ count only steppin’ foot on the tarmac as a true visit, sir. ‘Onored to officially see tha place.” Soap’s gaze wandered, taking in the concrete and fields he’d call home now. “Thank ye agin for tha call, Captain. I ‘ope I live up to tha 141 standards.”

“Wouldn’t ‘ave given ya the call if I didn’t think you were up to it, Sergeant.” Price gave a firm nod and dropped their hands. Then he gestured for Soap to continue on, bringing attention to the two other soldiers waiting.

Briefly, the Scot’s eyes landed on Garrick, giving a charming smile that was a match for the other sergeant’s own, but as Garrick approached them, Soap flitted his gaze over his shoulder. As if finding Simon was as natural to him as breathing, the Scot’s eyes landed on the figure waiting in the shadows.

Simon didn’t hide away from the blue gaze, locking theirs together, and the bright smile on Soap’s face fully unleashed.

And fuck, wasn’t Simon helpless to fight the smile behind his mask.

The moment was broken by Garrick eating up the distance to Soap in two quick steps, hand already out for the Scot to take.

“John MacTavish,” Soap greeted, tearing his attention away from Simon and concentrating all of that charm on the man in front of him.

“Kyle Garrick,” Garrick answered, returning the shake. “But you can call me ‘Gaz’. Glad to ‘ave ya onboard. Been lookin’ forward to not bein’ the only sergeant these two geezers ‘ave to boss around.”

“Aye, got some practice wi’tha’ already,” Soap laughed, eyes flashing at Simon again. “‘Nd ye can call me ‘Soap’.”

“Whateva ya say, fuckin’ new guy.”

“Och. FNG ‘nd I ‘aven’t even stepped in tha door, eh? Tough crowd,” Soap laughed.

Garrick joined in, a soft punch landing on the Scot’s shoulder. “Just takin’ the piss. Come on.” And with that, Garrick slung his arm around Soap’s shoulders, guiding them towards the front doors. They paused when they stood before Simon. “I do believe y’are familiar with our resident Director of ‘ospitality,” Garrick said gesturing towards the lieutenant.

“Aye. Good tae see ye agin, Lt,” Soap said. He lifted his hand, letting it hang in the short distance between them.

“Sergeant,” Simon answered, grasping Soap’s forearm and giving it a squeeze.

“Huh, I just got a grunt when ‘e first greeted me,” Garrick said. “And ‘ere I thought I was your favorite sergeant.”

“‘Nd I thought ya were supposed to be the interrogation prodigy, Gaz,” Simon answered.

“Captain, I’d like to file a complaint. Mental warfare by a superior.”

“As you can see, Sergeant MacTavish, we ‘ere in the 141 value professionalism above all else,” Price said striding up to join the group. His eyes may have been narrowed, but there was no questioning the fondness softening their lines. “Welcome aboard. Sergeant Garrick will show you to the rooms and give the lay of the land. Lieutenant, with me. We’ll all rendezvous at 1130, copy?”

“Copy that” rang out in unison.

“Right this way, Soap. Y’are ‘bout to learn the best part of this merry little gang of ours, and that’s the perks.” With his arm still slung around Soap’s shoulders, Garrick flipped the charm switch to full power, falling into the role of tour guide as he steered them to the front doors. A smile had been plastered on Soap’s face ever since he stepped onto the curb, rapt attention fully on his new teammate and eyes sparkling with something more than the morning sun crawling through the sky. Garrick opened the door for the Scot with a flourish, nudging the newcomer along, but just before the pair disappeared from view, blue eyes flashed back in the direction Simon stood, pausing for a beat as they met the lieutenant’s gaze before Garrick nudged them along.

Once the door shut with a final click, Simon felt himself take his first full breath since the Jeep pulled up to the gate.

“That went well. Surprised Gaz didn’t tackle the poor lad the moment he got out of the Jeep,” Price said. A cigar had appeared between his lips, and the faint click of a lighter popped from behind his cupped hands as the cigar puffed to life. Words muffled around the brown paper. “We’re not that bad to spend time with. Are we?”

“Yar idea for a game at the pub was ‘Who Can Come Up With the Most Battle Strategies in One Minute’,” Simon answered. Price hummed around the cigar. “At least I suggested knife throwin’.”

“Point made,” Price grimaced. “Well then, let’s do what we do best. My office. Got a batch of intel ya might like.”

“Music to my ears, sir.”

With an ease and familiarity that comes from years of blood forged trust, the captain and the lieutenant fell into step alongside each other and made their way to Price’s office. The dull, cream hallways seemed a little more vibrant. The drone buzz of the offices had a little more energy. And the sun, Simon thought, shined on Hereford a little brighter that day.

The countryside’s crisp autumn air gave way to chilly winter frost. Down in town, green wreaths sporting festive red bows hung from every old gas lamp, and the shops lining Main Street wrapped their windows in garlands and baubles and enough lights that could probably be seen all the way from Credenhill. The private residences didn’t disappoint, either. Entire streets dressed in their best, each neighbor outdoing the other with whatever holiday cheer could fit on their front bricks. Each front window on every floor sported a candle on the sill, the fake flames flickering at each other like neighbors waving in passing. Even a few menorahs could be found standing proud in the largest window of houses scattered around town.

Locals milled about the evening, shuffling through slush on the brick sidewalks. Shop owners closed on another day. The din of young locals still unable to pass through the doors of the pubs spilled out from the cafe into the streets amongst the more weathered townsfolk making their way to their favorite watering holes.

It was December in Hereford. Cheer and magic. Bright and social.

Simon hated every bit of it.

The Prancing Dragon was too crowded, more folk in town either on break from uni or back home to visit for the annual festival.

Every first weekend in December, Hereford transformed into a Dickens novel: wooden stalls erected in the town square covered in white lights and more red ribbon than a gift store, a feast of smells enticed all who walked through the food market, and mulled wine was passed out freely, even finding its way to some sneaky young lips. It was the highlight of the year for many who grew up in the area, a signal of the holiday season and a reason for the close-knit town to gather together in cheer and merriment while they all waited for the pinnacle of the evening: the lighting of the town tree.

(Starting about a decade ago, if a night of Hanukkah overlapped with the celebration, a large menorah would be brought in to stand next to the tree, and both would be lit for all. None of the 141 talks about the first time they witnessed it and each suddenly suffered from overly watery eyes.)

Naturally, the anticipation for a storied tradition called home to all who’d wandered far, no matter how long they’d been gone, and the wall, no the mass, of bodies between the back corner booth of the Prancing Dragon and the bartop proved just how many had wandered away.

Tucked far away from the crowd, Simon rested between an icy window and the bench of the booth, his broad shoulders curling in as he wedged into the corner where brick met wood, keeping a vigil on the throng of people invading.

Soldier habits and all that.

“Muppets Christmas Carol is a fuckin’ classic, Gaz, and yer outta yer mind if ye think otherwise.” Next to Simon, Soap sat hunched over a glass of scotch cradled in his hands not too dissimilar to how one would handle a lover. The windows more than likely hadn’t been updated since the pub was constructed before town memory and offered little protection from the cold outside, but the Scot seemed content bundled in a black jumper and blue jeans. A light flush brushed across his cheeks, surely thanks to the other glasses already swimming in his system, and though his words were passionate, his smile was all cheer.

Since Task Force 141 was formed, many soldiers had been welcomed to prove if they were worthy of the final coveted spot. Eager to prove if they belonged with the best of the best, and more importantly, for most, prove if they belonged at The Ghost’s side.

None of them made it past their first mission.

When they would stand before Price, tail tucked between their legs while they gave their excuses for transfer, none could give the captain more than half-baked reasons and muttered apologies. But Price didn’t miss the way their eyes would dart to the hulking figure leaning against the wall, anxiously looking as if the boogie man had finally crawled out from under their childhood beds.

That was all until Soap. Nearly two months in, and the newcomer had fallen into place with the 141 so seamlessly that it was a wonder how they’d managed without the demolitions sniper all these years before. His skills had yet to be fully displayed, a fact the Scot regularly reminded them of, but there was no questioning the comradery forged between the four soldiers.

“Not my fault I’m a consuma of quality films, bruv,” Garrick teased over a pint.

“Always been a fan of the classics, myself. Not quite the season without A Christmas Story,” Price chimed in beside him.

“See, that’s a quality film.” Gaz pointed to the captain, pleased with the addition. “Not Michael Cain runnin’ ‘round with puppets.”

“Absolutely un-fuckin’-believable,”Soap grumbled. “Bunch of eejits wit’ piss poor taste.”

“Careful Gaz,” Simon interjected. “Ya know Scots and their anger.”

“Tha’s tha Irish, ye bampot,” Soap said around a sip.

“What ‘bout you, Lieutenant?” Gaz asked from across the table. No surprise to anyone in the group, a dark green jack hugged around his shoulders, complimenting his dark skin under the dim glow of the pub’s lights. It was early into the night, but a few lads and ladies had already tried to grab the eye of the young soldier, hoping chestnut eyes would glance their way. “What’s your favorite ‘oliday movie?”

“Don’t ‘ave one,” Simon answered honestly.

“Bullshit. Everyone ‘as one,” Gaz insisted.

“Guess I get to prove ya wrong then.”

“Elf? It’s A Wonderful Life? Any Christmas carol?” Gaz rattled off titles, voice raising, full of disbelief, as Simon remained impassive to each one. “Not even the old claymations? Rudolph?!”

“Negative.” Simon sipped the bourbon waiting in front of him, and in the corner of his eye, he noticed Soap’s rapt attention on him, watching as the glass met the lieutenant’s lips he briefly exposed from under the balaclava.

Though the persona of Ghost was a handy reputation to have trailing behind him on base, a crowded pub on the cusp of the holiday season would be less welcoming to a skull adorned mask skulking in the corner, so, like he usually does when given the chance to be off base but not on mission, Simon wore one of the plain, black balaclavas. Easier to blend into the shadows, easier to be forgotten.

“Next thing y’are goin’ to tell us is that y’are secretly the Grinch hidin’ under that mask,” Gaz said.

“Takin’ yar presents right under yar nose.”

“Loyalty means nothin’ these days I see.”

“Maybe I’ll leave ya one.”

“Now tha’s tha ‘oliday spirit. Right generous of ye, Lt,” Soap chimed in.

Simon nodded at the Scot. “See? Soap agrees.”

“‘Cause Soap agrees with everythin’ ya say,” Gaze countered.

“Yoo jist haud on!” Soap sat up.

“English!” rang out around the table.

“Tha’s not true,” Soap continued, unphased by the outburst.

“Whateva ya say, mate. Ya know what is true?” In a fluid motion, Garrick downed the remainder of his pint before thudding it back on the table. “I’m out of a drink. ‘Nother round?

“Cap’s buyin’, aye?” The captain grumbled at the wink thrown his way, but his glass did a poor job at hiding the smile beneath the beard. He downed the final drops of bourbon and prodded at Garrick’s side, prompting him to scoot out of the booth. Garrick intended to take his spot back, but before he could plop back into the worn wood, Price swooped an arm around his shoulders and steered him into the crowd.

Blame it on decades of experience, but a prick of panic jolted through SImon’s body the moment the sergeant and the captain were out of his sight, swallowed by the growing mass of bodies. Instinctively, his eyes darted around the room, clocking their surroundings to determine…

“Wha’, exactly, do ye expect tae ‘appen in a pub in tha middle of Hereford, Lt?” Amused blue eyes cast a sidelong glance his way. Soap wasn’t outwardly laughing, but the glint in his eyes said enough. It shouldn’t have surprised Simon how the sergeant pinned exactly what he was doing without so much as glancing at him. Unnerving, really, how easily the Scot could read him as if Simon were a language he’d studied his whole life.

“Good to know yar surroundin’s, Sergeant. Or ya forgettin’ yar trainin’ already?”

“Oh, aye. ‘Nd which threat exactly is top priority? Tha group of lasses who willnae stop lookin’ at Gaz or the group who willnae stop lookin’ at ye?” The glint in Soap’s eye sparkled now.

“They’re not lookin’ at me.”

Soap snorted into his glass. “Righ’, ‘nd I’m tha Queen of England.”

“Bloody insultin’ to Lizzy.”

“On a first name basis are ye?”

“Didn’ know? Grab pints togetha every week.”

The Scot didn’t bother to hide the laugh this time, a bright, joyful sound bursting from his chest that had Simon pondering what magic in this world he needed to possess in order to bottle it and save it forever. Maybe it was the bourbon, or maybe it was the way Soap always managed to put him at ease with just a smile and a flash of those crystal eyes, but Simon felt himself relax. As he slumped into the booth, his legs stretched out under the table, and in their claim for territory, he felt the knock of his knee against Soap’s. Simon froze for a beat and noticed at the same time when Soap’s glass froze on its way to his mouth. He waited for the Scot to tell him off. Knock his knee away with a laugh and a joke, and continue their conversation like nothing happened. But Soap’s knee remained resting against Simon’s, and the lieutenant watched as the glass continued its path to the sergeant’s lips, trying to ignore the searing heat radiating through his jeans.

“Gonna go talk tae ‘em?” Soap asked, bringing Simon back to above the table.

“Wha’?” he eloquently responded.

“Tha ‘ens. Gonna go talk tae ‘em?” Soap asked again, but he kept his eyes on the table, shoulders stiff.

Simon didn’t answer right away. Dating preferences weren’t exactly what he would consider a top priority topic to discuss in the last few months since Soap joined the force, and it was a topic he personally avoided regularly. He contemplated what to say, which words would satisfy the question but keep the veil over that fiercely protected part of him. Finally, he settled on, “Not exactly my type.” Whether it was because of their hair color or which chromosomes they possessed, Soap didn’t need to know.

The Scot eyed him for a moment, not scrutinizing, but searching, a subtle furrow in his brow that always appeared when he worked through one of the complicated formulas for his explosives, searching for where the math had gone wrong. Simon wasn’t sure if he found what he was looking for, but the furrow softened and he gave a quick nod. “Aye,” he said. “Not ma type either.”

Silence settled around them, a familiar feeling from their days in the cabin. Neither feeling the need to fill the space, content with existing in each other’s presence. The clamor of the pub surrounded them, Garrick and Price nowhere to be seen, and for these moments, in their corner booth at the Prancing Dragon, it was just Soap and Simon.

“So, really not much of a Christmas guy, huh?” the Scot asked, breaking the silence as he absentmindedly swirled the amber liquid in his glass, gaze on the lieutenant.

“Not my favorite, no,” Simon answered.

“Gonna go out on a limb ‘ere ‘nd guess more of a Halloween guy?”

“Easier to fit in.”

Soap chuckled, another beautiful, bright sound. “Aye, course.” Simon watched Soap take a slow sip, euphoria taking over when the liquid touched his lips, “Fuckin’ beautiful,” muttered into the glass. “So really, wha’ is it?”

It took Simon a moment to realize the question was directed at him. “What is wha’?” he tilted his head at the sergeant.

“Why don’ye like Christmas? Bit of a ‘ard thing tae hate, ‘onestly.”

Simon shrugged. “Never been a fan.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Bad present or somethin’?”

Ya could say that. “Or somethin’.”

For a moment, it seemed like Soap would ask more, one eyebrow rising higher above the other causing that furrow to appear again, but whatever sentence got stuck to the tip of the sergeant’s tongue remained there. Instead, the sergeant gave a soft hum as he finished the scotch in one, long sip and continued for them.

“Always been a fan. Growin’ up, all ma cousins lived ‘round tha corner, so tae speak. Ma mum’s brothers and sisters all stayin’ put after gettin’ married, ‘nd Da’s sisters lived just tha town over. Fifteen cousins, if ye can believe it. Would take over tha neighborhood, runnin’ ‘round playin’ games ‘nd causin’ all kinds of trouble.” Simon sat quietly, watching as Soap got lost somewhere that wasn’t the pub. The corner of the Scot’s mouth turned up and his eyes went soft. “We hosted every Christmas. Christ knows why, not like we ‘ad tha room. Mum and Da worked ‘ard, and we ‘ad a good life, bloody good life in fact, but no bells and whistles, if ye know wha’ I mean. But every Christmas Eve, all of clan MacTavish and all of clan Fraser clamored through our door.

“Mum and ‘er sisters would make a haggis. Och, Lt. When I tell ye it’s tha best haggis ye’ve ever ‘ad, I mean ye need to try all tha other haggis in Scotland before ye try ma mum’s Christmas Eve haggis ‘cause it’ll ruin all tha others for ye. Fuckin’ perfection wha’ it is. Anyway, the evenin’ was a lot o’ eatin’ ‘nd drinkin’. ‘Ad ma first sip of scotch at a Christmas Eve when I was a wee bairn, maybe eight. Ma older cousin, Jamie, snuck it tae me. ‘Ated tha stuff.” The chuckle that passed his lips was fond, his fingers tapping at the empty glass. But under the fondness, a melancholy tone floated beneath with a distant sadness Simon had never heard from the Scot before. “Alls tae say, some good memories ‘round Christmas. Was ‘specially fond of Christmas mornin’. The quiet after all the raucous and the merriment. When i’was just me, Mum, Da, Alisa, ‘nd Moira sat round the livin’ room. Openin’ presents.” Soap’s eyes dimmed, focused on a place beyond the pub’s walls, and a look Simon couldn’t place crossed his features. “Great memories.”

That last part was said barely above a whisper, as if meant more for the Scot himself instead of being shared with the world. The clamor of the pub continued undisturbed, oblivious to the quiet moment Simon was careful not to break. Neither of them spoke. Soap tapped away at the glass, and Simon observed. He wasn’t sure where the sergeant wandered off to in his head, unflinching while he bore holes into the grains of wood. The pinch of his brows was harsh compared to the softened corners of his eyes. Broad shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear into the booth or curl in around the sergeant to protect him. Perhaps both. It was then that Simon recognized the look for what it was.

Bitter sadness.

“Ya miss ‘em,” Simon stated.

Soap jumped at the sound of the lieutenant’s voice as if he’d completely forgotten about the man’s presence. “Aye, yeah. Yeah. I miss ‘em,” he responded.

“When was the last time ya saw ‘em?”

“Couple o’ years.”

“What’s keepin’ ya?”

Soap didn’t answer. His entire body stiffened, shoulders rising to his ears as if preparing to strike at the next word said. Simon would recognize the reaction anywhere, intimately familiar with it. “The job or somethin’?” he said, echoing Soap’s out he’d handed him earlier.

Soap hummed, not looking up from the table. “Or somethin’.”

There was more to the story, Simon seeing for the first time that there were many layers below the ones John MacTavish chose to show the world, and understanding better than most that sometimes that was a battle many were willing to die to protect. So, he decided on tactical redirection.

“Really fifteen of you fucks?”

That did it.

A laugh burst past Soap’s lips, loud enough to startle the few groups lingering nearby, but neither soldier paid them any mind

“Aye, tha’s right. Fifteen MacTavishes runnin’ ‘round the country of Glasgow,” Soap said.

“Fuckin’ nightmare,” Simon responded.

“What’s a nightmare?” Price interjected when he appeared at their table, a tray of drinks in his hands. The drinks clattered against the wooden tabletop, and once each found its new owner, Price settled back into his spot across from the sergeant and the lieutenant.

“Soap ‘ere ‘as fifteen bloody cousins,” Simon explained as the three men clanged their glasses together.

“Fifteen of you lot? Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Price responded.

“That’s what I said,” Simon added.

“Breedin’ like bloody rabbits up there.”

“Not much else tae do in a Scottish winter, sir,” Soap said, winking.

Price sipped the fresh bourbon. “Don’t know how you deal with it, frankly. Bloody nasty.”

“Cause I’m not a soft London boy,” Soap quipped. “Speakin’ of, where’s Gaz?”

“Caught the eye of a lass up at the bar,” Price explained. “10 quid he’s not back on base tonight.”

Soap sat up, straining his neck to get a view through the crowd. “Ye got eyes on ‘im Lt? Can ye get a read?”

“Negative. Too crowded. Y’are goin’ in blind, Sergeant,” Simon answered.

“What tha ‘ell. I’ll take tha’ bet.”

Soap was out 10 quid the next morning.

#tay writes #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #ghost x soap #soap x ghost

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johnschneiderblog · 8 months

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Location, location, location ...

I'll kick off a caption contest ...

Me: "They already have an offer above asking; what do you think ...?"

Chris: "Great curb appeal, but I hear the neighbors are warlike."

Eilean Donan - not really on the market - is one of the most photographed castles in the world. It sits on an island at the entrance of Loch Duich, on the west coast of Scotland, and is dripping in Jacobite charm.

The Jacobites (supporters of deposed James II after the Revolution of 1688) made Eilean Donan their headquarters.

We visited the castle during our tour of the Highlands.

We're in Galway now. We'll spend one more night here, then head to Shannon Thursday. We'll fly back to Chicago Friday.

#John Schneider #castle Eilean Donan #Scottish Highlands #caption contest

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infernalodie · 2 years

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Hi it’s sweet cheeks anon, could I request a black male reader who’s dating Elliot secretly and people want to know why he won’t make a move on any of the girls cause the assume he’s straight since he plays football and stuff. Also, I’m sorry if I sound impatient, but how’s it going with the earlier requests you put together, go at your own pace ofc, and you can ignore me if this sounds rude. - sweet cheeks anon 😎

𝟑 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 || 𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭

“𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘴 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱”

Inspo: Dominic Fike - 3 Nights

Pairing: Elliot x Black!Male!reader

Summary: You two were ashamed of nothing or how you felt for one another. But you liked the secrecy that surrounded the two of you.

Warnings: Slight angst but fluffy.

Words 922

Love is a dangerous thing and keeping it sacred is just as dangerous when you lived in Highland. The place was a breeding ground for dramatic heartbreak and outright shameless cheating. It was one of the biggest reasons you hated having to consider it your home.

The only thing that made up for its shitty atmosphere was the very few people you could consider your friends. Lexi was an absolute sweetheart and put up with too much of your shit, but still stuck around. Fez was your dealer, straight forward dude and funny as hell when you got him cross-faded. Rue was a childhood friend and the first girl and last girl you ever had sex with. And Jules was your goddess. They all made living in Highland worth the trouble.

But one stuck out from the rest and it was Elliot. That stoner swept you off your feet the moment you met him at the local corner store. You still remember how you were grabbing some dark chocolate and pop when he came out of nowhere judging you on your candy choice. To be fair, you did realize that dark chocolate wasn’t as fondly looked upon as milk chocolate. But his teasing and joking nature had you hooked instantly. From his constant pestering to his oddly romantic and flirtatious compliments, he made living here better.

“Elli, I’m fuckin’ serious.”

Your scolding tone made said boy pout in protest, but he did listen and snuff out the end of his blunt and wrapped it in the specific ziplock bag you had in your truck. “I don’t know why your dad needs to inspect your car when he’s the fucking mayor,” he complained. “Doesn’t he have a town to run and what not?”

“Yes, but he knows you Elliot and knows what you do in your free time,” you stated. “And the other shit we do in here.”

Elliot was quick to slap your shoulder in disgust as you grinned, smacking your lips together and pushing them out dramatically. He grumbled in annoyance, pressing his lips to yours in a short kiss before connecting his phone to the Bluetooth as you started the truck and began to pull out of the driveway of your house.

It’d been half a year of you and Elliot dating and it’d only been amazing. Nothing ever became a problem considering the stoner listened to your complaints if there were any and you listened to him when you forced him to do his homework. Both of you cared about what the other had to say and were ready to drop everything one another. And it might’ve been that willingness to do anything for each other that kept this relationship healthier than any either of you has had in the past.

The only problem was just keeping it a secret. You weren’t scared about being out there since you had no problem curb-stomping some homophobic piece of shit. But you didn’t want to pressure Elliot into being public if he didn’t want to. Meet-ups at the motel were fine as they were and him spending nights was good as well. Especially with your parents being as welcoming as they were to him and your guys’ relationship. Outside of your parents, no one else knew and you were completely fine with being complacent for a while.

Arriving at school, the two of you walked together from your truck and to your guys’ locker that was right beside one another this school year. A special request you had made with the principal.

“So, my parents want to go out for supper tomorrow night at the dinner in town,” you announced, seeing Elliot side-eye you. “You down to come? My sister is dying to see you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Elliot shrugged. “I don’t mind free food and getting on the good side with the Mayor.”

You elbowed him in the side, but he couldn’t respond when Nate suddenly appeared, slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Y/n, you staying for practice today?” He asked as you forced a smile.

“Yeah, man. We got that game coming up, so I need to be here to pick up the mess your sorry asses leave.” The Jacobs boy laughed and leaned against the locker between yours and Elliots. Practically placing a wall between you and your boyfriend.

“When are you going to get yourself an old lady, man?” Nate inquired curiously.”

A laugh fell from your lips as you grabbed your books. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“A girlfriend, bro,” Nate answered. “You have literally never had a girl under your arm, ever.”

Eyes flickering past the Quarterback, your gaze was met by Elliot. He already knew the facade you had to play, he’d been playing it as long as you had. It hurt every single time doing so because all you wanted to do was grab the boy, pin him to the lockers, and just kiss him. Not care what anyone else had to say and just be proud of who you were and who you were with.

But you had your ways of showing your love to him without indirectly outing yourselves out. “I mean, I have someone that I love. Just don’t see the point in going public when it’s private,” you shrugged. “And I guess I just prefer to have someone special no one else can steal.”

Elliot masked his blush behind his locker as Nate asked who it was that you loved. But that was only yours and Elliot's secret.

#elliot #elliot x black reader #elliot x black!reader #elliot euphoria #euphoria #euphoria imagine #euphoria hbo #poc reader #x black!reader #euphoria s2 #elliot imagine #dominic fike #x black!male!reader #elliot x black!male!reader #euphoria x black!reader #euphoria x black reader #elliot fanfiction #elliot fluff #elliot angst

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scapegrace74-blog · 1 year

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The Man from Black Water, Chapter 15

A/N Just a short bridging chapter today that sets the stage for the final part of the story. I think you’ll like it, because both Henry Beauchamp and Angus get a bit of what’s coming to them.

Previous chapters can be found on my AO3 page.

Henry Beauchamp spurred his horse forward, intercepting the derelict cart and its driver just as it was about to leave his property.

“Ah, ye’ve come tae see yer auld friend on his way. Courteous as always, Henry.” Murtagh re-arranged his tam over his oily hair and drew the back of his hand across his beard, where some of Mrs. Crook’s fine breakfast pastie still lingered.

“You’ve said enough today,” Henry growled. “Turning Claire against me.”

“Ye misjudge the lass. Jes as ye did her mother.”

Invoking Julia’s memory was like pouring lamp oil on the flames of Henry’s anger and he rose up tall in his saddle, hazel eyes flashing.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “once and for all, whose daughter is she?”

To his utter consternation, Murtagh began to guffaw, hitting his empty pant leg like he’d heard a good joke.

“Puir Henry Beauchamp. All the riches in the world, but no’ a drop of wisdom tae enjoy them by.”

Murtagh slapped the reins against his old nag’s back and the old cart began to creak towards the road. He waited until the last minute before looking over his shoulder at the now hunched figure of a broken, pathetic man.

“If ye had truly loved Julia, ye wouldna need tae ask. Of course she’s yours! But ye dinna deserve her.”

Without another glance behind him, Murtagh and his wagon began the long, arduous journey back up the path to the Highlands.

***

Jamie had hoped to gather his few belongings from the bunkhouse while the other stockhands were out in the fields, but luck was not with him. Angus and Rupert were inside, sharing a metal flask of something potent, despite the early hour.

“If it isna the teuchter,” Angus shouted with glee when he saw Jamie enter. Word of Jamie’s dismissal had already spread amongst the labourers and Angus was delighted that the uppity young man was finally being cut down to size.

“Did they throw ye out o’ the big house, teuchter?” he goaded. “Bet they found out ye broke in more than that colt while we was away on muster. Did ye have tae use yer spurs, boy? Did she give ye a nice first ride?”

Months of indignity, disappointment and curbed temper ripped through Jamie’s restraint like an avalanche, burying any remaining patience he possessed. The Campbells, Henry Beauchamp, his own parents dying and leaving him all alone in the world: for once, he just wanted to strike back and watch his opponent suffer a fraction of his pain.

Which is exactly what he did, far more quickly than Angus expected. He’d landed two hard right jabs before the smaller man even raised his fists. Two more blows connected before Rupert’s strong arms grabbed him from behind, effectively pinning down his only weapons. Angus drew his switchblade, a mad gleam in his flat eyes as he brought it towards Jamie’s throat.

“Angus!” The deep voice came from the doorway, where Black Jack had returned to the bunkhouse in time to witness the fight. “Drop the knife,” he commanded, his own blade held casually next to his thigh.

Angus considered his next move, trying to measure whether the sinister Black Jack was really willing to come to the aid of a green Highland whelp.

“I’ve done it before,” Black Jack answered the unspoken question with a snarl. “And so help me, I’ll do it again.”

With a frustrated grunt, Angus tossed his knife aside and attacked Jamie with his bare fists. Several blows forced the air out of the large man’s lungs and he twisted in an attempt to break free of Rupert’s surprisingly strong hold. Pushing back against his captor’s solid bulk, Jamie raised both legs and kicked an onrushing Angus square in the sternum, causing him to fall backwards onto the floor with a cry. The young Scot then loosed himself from Rupert’s grip, felled him with a solid upper-cut to the jaw, and turned on Angus where he lay groaning on the floor. His opponent raised a hand in mute entreaty. Jamie considered stepping on the man’s throat but being wanted for murder was not going to improve his situation. He instead landed one last solid kick to Angus’ ribs, reveling in the satisfying crunch, then stepped over his prone body and out the door.

Jamie needed to leave Netherton before any further calamity could befall him, but he had one last message to deliver.

“A man can be hard tae find in the Highlands,” he said to Black Jack, who still stood on the veranda, calmly carving a chunk of wood. “Ye’re welcome at my croft anytime.” The older man acknowledged him with a silent nod.

As Jamie rode Donas across the yard one last time, Claire came out of the manor house and stood on the front steps to watch him go. Despite the ache he felt in leaving her, Jamie couldn’t help but smile, causing Claire to smile in return. She lifted her hand in farewell, and he replied with a jaunty salute of his tam before riding swiftly away.

***

It was pitch black when a drunken Angus and Rupert stumbled into the Netherton stables, both looking considerably worse for wear.

“Ye see that colt, Rupe?” Angus slurred as they approached Hamlet’s stall. “He’s worth a thousand pounds. Do ye ken how much money that is? More than we’re ever make working a lifetime for old Beauchamp, thas what.”

Angus grabbed a riding whip from a nearby peg and entered Hamlet’s stall, leaving the door open behind him. A few sharp cracks and the young horse burst from the stall, cantered down the stone alleyway and out into the stableyard. By the time the two men emerged from the barn, his black coat could barely be seen glistening in the moonlight as he fled down the lane towards the road.

“That’ll teach him,” Angus jeered.

“Yeah,” Rupert agreed. “Who?”

“The teuchter, ye numpty. Beauchamp will think he loosed the colt tae get even fer being let go.”

Satisfied with their final act of retribution, the two men staggered back to the bunkhouse.

Hamlet came to a halt where the lane met the road, looking left and right as though considering the best route to freedom. A faint scent, friendly and familiar from hours spent being curried and spoken to gently, wafted from the north. With a toss of his regal head, the colt turned and galloped towards the Highlands.

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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missallyblue · 1 year

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You CAN Curb the Urbie!

This is the alternate base for the Highlander I posted earlier, as you can see from the two round pegs for the Highlander's feet. While the earth texture paste is still glossy, drying, and VERY unfinished, the Urbie himbself (yes, that's how you spell it when it's an Urbie) is done in Nighthaunt Gloom over grey primer. After the contrast paint, I washed very gently drybrushed it in Vallejo's Glacier Blue, and lovingly caressed with some Leadbelcher from Citadel to scuff it up and make it look appropriately munted.

Once I'd done that, I washed it down with my usual dark grey wash made using Vallejo's NATO grey, and popped some purple in for the glass.

When I get home tonight the plan is to drybrush the (hopefully) now dry earth paste with a whole heap of Vallejo's Pale Sand (my beloved) and finish it up with some tiny tufts from Gamer's Grass.

Watch this space.

#battletech #mechwarrior #miniature painting #tabletop gaming #tabletop wargaming #urbanmech #urbie

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ricard-blythe-ffxiv · 1 year

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No One Can Hear You

There were some people, rare people, who were fairly skilled at keeping their private affairs well…private.

He found those individuals to be engaging, because it was still a challenge to get to know what was going on behind the curtains, to find out what was really going on in their lives, if he ever needed to. And he always did enjoy a challenge.

And then there were the people, like Kylian Levieux, who thought they were being sneaky. Who thought they were able to keep what they were doing under wraps. And instead, all they were doing was parading their poor choices out for all to see.

It hadn’t taken much - a few questions here, a couple of gil there, a smile, a listening ear, and an afternoon’s worth of attention - and the man’s wife had been more than happy to share all she’d known. Details about his business practices, clients who were displeased with his services, and jilted ex-lovers, as well as some handy little details about the man. It seemed she’d simply been waiting for anyone who’d been willing to listen.

And Ricard was willing to listen.

It was a welcome reprieve from the maelstrom of thoughts and questions that currently enveloped his own personal life where all he could do was wait and see what happened.

What he was not willing to do was wait for very much longer on Kylian Levieux…especially when that was what he had been doing for the last half hour.

“I’m starting to wonder if your man is going to show up…”

Ricard’s gaze shifted from the timepiece in his hand to Delwyn Baines, the Highlander man leaning heavily against the doorway, turning a small vial between his gloved fingers.

“He’ll show up. He’s too money hungry and he’s been abandoned by too many clients in recent days to afford not to.”

“Mmhm. Something I’m sure you had nothing to do with.”

No verbal answer was offered, Ricard simply smiled giving an easy shrug of one shoulder. “Did you get what I asked you to?”

“Aye. Don’t want to know what it's for either. Anything else before I head out.”

“Just make sure those documents are delivered as instructed.”

“First thing tomorrow morning. Don’t cause too much trouble, boss…”

A scoff followed the Highlander out of the room. Ricard exhaled slowly as he tucked the vial Delwyn had delivered away carefully, his gaze once again cutting to the door as he heard voices down the hall, one sounding decidedly agitated.

“...I don’t care how long he’s been waiting, I’m bleeding clients left and right because someone has been telling my clients that I’m taking a bit of their money for myself and most of them don’t seem to take kindly to it. I wouldn’t be late if I wasn’t busy trying to save my business.”

There was a low hum as Ricard lifted his coffee cup, taking a long sip as he listened for Delwyn’s response - he could almost hear the eye roll from the room he was in.

“Look, sir, what ever issue you’ve got - it’s not with me. Take it up with mister Blythe. But to be perfectly blunt, if you were taking money from me, I’d kick you to the curb too. And I mean that in a literal ‘boot up the ass’ sense. Suggest you get in there before he calls the whole thing off. He’s not much the ‘waiting’ sort.”

“W-why I…you utter brute!”

He heard the stomping footsteps, not unlike those of a petulant child who’d just been told no, and leaned back in his chair gently tracing the edge of his cup with his gloved hand. It didn’t take long for Kylian Levieux to appear in the doorway all snarls and glares, attempting to appear intimidating…and he might have succeeded, had his audience been anyone else.

“Looking a bit flushed there, Mister Levieux. We can’t say it’s because you were in a hurry to arrive for this meeting, seeing as you’re almost forty-five minutes late…but given the current color of your face it does seem as though it might benefit you to sit down and have a drink, maybe a scone, take a deep breath or two…”

“Giving out medical advice now, in addition to financial advice, Mister Blythe?”

“Simply pointing out the obvious, Mister Levieux.”

“The obvious? The obvious?!” The man grabbed one of the scones off the table, taking a bite as he paced the room in front of Ricard. “The obvious is that someone shared details regarding my practice with my clients, details that they shouldn’t have had any knowledge of. And I’m curious as to how they came to know about those details.”

“I haven’t the slightest clue what details you’re talking about. Also, given that this is my first meeting with you, Mister Levieux, how would I know about your business practices?”

The older man’s eyes narrowed as he took another bite before continuing his pacing. “You mean to tell me that you - one of the other financial advisors within this city who would directly benefit from these clients leaving my services - had nothing to do with encouraging these clients to seek out other providers?” He coughed, brow furrowing for a moment as his gaze cut to the scone in his hand for a moment before quickly shaking his head and turning to Ricard once again.

“Is that something that you might have done, Mister Levieux? Because I have no need to employ such shady behavior to find and maintain a successful business. No, the way I heard it the rumors of your business dealings have been coming from unhappy clients. Problem?”

Again the man coughed, attempting the clear his throat. “What…what were these made with? Do you know?”

“The scones?” Ricard hummed, dumming his gloved fingers against the table. “They’re strawberry I believe…but I think they mentioned there might be walnuts in one or two of them…why? You wouldn’t happen to be allergic to nuts, would you, Levieux?”

He saw the man’s eyes widen for a brief moment as he tossed the half-eaten scone onto the table and frantically started to search his pockets.

“I suppose now would be a good time to go visit a healer, which you might’ve been able to do if they hadn’t all closed down for the night thirty minutes ago.”

The man’s breathing was beginning to be panicked as his frantic search of his pockets came up empty.

Ricard ran his tongue across one of his canine’s lazily. “But…fortunately for you, I happen to have something for allergies right here…” He pulled the vial Delwyn had delivered just minutes before, holding it out between his thumb and index finger. “And I’m willing to exchange it for a bit of assistance from you. You see…I do have a client who is a former client of yours…last name Gray.”

He turned, pulling out a few documents and a pen, setting them down on the table. “You still maintain control of her financials, and that really is just unacceptable. But let’s do a little business, shall we. You sign over control of her financials, and I give you this lovely little vial and you get to continue living. Sound like a deal, Mister Levieux?”

Levieux reached for the vial, which Ricard pulled back, “Nuh uh, sign first, vial second.”

The man, now clearly panicked and turning red, grabbed the pen and signed frantically, tossing the pen aside before grabbing the vial from Ricard’s outstrched hand and downing it’s contents quickly. He started to sigh in relief before slowly turning back towards Ricard slowly. “That…wasn’t.”

“Bitter Foxglove. A gift from your wife, funny enough. Who is also the person who has been telling your clients about your…scummier business practices. And the one who sent your lovers letters to let all of them know about one another. It was all quite amusing to watch play out.” Ricard stood, pulling a knife - a well-sharpened blade - over and making sure Levieux could see it.

“The Bitter Foxglove will take five to ten minutes to kill you outright, and it will be a rather painful process…your allergy will, of course, cause you to suffocate, or you can go ahead and end things yourself. You can try to scream all you like, no one can hear you.”

He turned, picking up the pen and rolling up the necessary papers, confirming the signatures were in place.

When he turned back, Kylian Levieux was seated, knife in hand and held at his own throat. Their eyes met for a brief moment, the older man’s full of pure panic, his hand shaky as he managed to hold his hand still long enough to pull it across his throat, the knife clattering to the floor as he fell limp.

“Coward to the end.” Ricard shook his head as he turned an exited the room.

The next morning the staff would find Kylian Levieux’s body, the knife, the vial, and the half eaten scone. A few weeks later there would be rumors that his wife was taken into questioning.

And in the background, a simple letter was sent along with a contract bearing Kylian Levieux’s signature releasing his control of his hold on his previous client’s financial holdings.

Lady Gray,

It’s been taken care of.

-RB

Mention - @promethea-silk

#the perceptive smartass #ffxiv edition #stories #tw: self harm #tw: character death #tw: suicide

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rjzimmerman · 2 years

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Gun laws vs. mental health support: ‘We can’t screen our way out of this,’ expert says

From the Washington Post:

As the familiar debate over mental health support and gun restrictions plays out in the wake of another deadly shooting, one expert who studies mass shooting events said that, although both are important, only firearm regulations have proved to have a significant effect of curbing future tragedies.

Lori Ann Post, who researches mass shootings as director of Northwestern University’s Buehler Center for Health Policy and Economics, said assault weapon and high-capacity magazine bans are just two of the gun-control measures that have worked in countries around the world, with Australia’s 1996 gun-control and buyback law being among the most cited examples.

“Saying it’s just mental health won’t work for mitigation. We can’t screen our way out of it,” Post said. Addressing the mental health crisis in the United States has its place, she said, but it’s a “distraction” in the context of finding solutions for mass shootings by making it easy for policymakers to take the focus off measures that work, like a federal assault weapons ban.

The emphasis on mental health issues that a shooter may suffer also unfairly stigmatizes those with mental illness as violent as a result of their condition, she said, warning against conflating mental health issues such as anxiety and depression with personality disorders.

She criticized the federal gun regulations recently passed in Congress for being inadequate in situations like Highland Park, Ill.

“The legislation we just passed won’t work,” she said, using suspect Robert E. Crimo III’s behavior as an example.

“Wearing all black is not illegal. Posing with assault weapons is not illegal. Buying a gun at 21 is not breaking the law. None of his behavior was illegal, even if it was disturbing,” she said.

#Second Amendment #guns #red flag laws

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starsblessed · 2 years

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@dreamingmuses

"Ingo!" Irida calls his name as she runs over, a bundle held tightly in her arms. The sun was already beginning to set in the highlands. It was late, yes, but one could not blame her! Quality could not be rushed, space was needed for such important tasks to be completed. But...that did mean she needed to rush in order to give the gifts in time. Before the day was over...before the day ticked by and was lost to the sea of time she usually paid no mind to.

“This…” She begins, suddenly feeling afraid, feeling hesitant. She mentally scolds herself before standing tall. “These are for you! I was told that today is a day of celebration in the future! ‘Father’s day’... I do not have a father, as you know. But I have been told that it also applies to those not related by blood. To those who protect you, who hold fierceness and gentleness in equal measure, who protect and guide…” The leader’s voice begins to weaken in a way she hates.

Weakness is unbecoming of a Clan Leader. But Ingo had never minded that… “you are the only one I could think of that fit that description. Over these years you have done much for the clan…for…me…so I wished to show my appreciation.” She holds out the bundle she’s been holding. It's Ingo’s coat, one she had asked to borrow and promised she would return for she knew how precious it was to him. And return it she had, but in a different state…whole.

The tattered edges mended, the sleeve cuffs sewn back on with the same pattern Irida recalled them having when Ingo first fell. “I..I also have this..! I had to get the reference from Professor Laventon in Jubilife, but I found someone who likes to carve dolls and had them carve this..!” She shifts the coat to one arm as she reaches into her pouch, usually reserved for herbs, and pulls out a wooden ‘train’ as she had heard Laventon call it. “...happy…father’s day…..Ingo…”

This comes as quite the surprise to Ingo. Not the visit from Irida, something he’s quite used to by this point when she finds the time to come by to check on him... or simply come to spend time... but rather her presenting him with gifts out of nowhere. He had looked up immediately upon hearing her call his name, and met her with a light smile as he spoke a greeting.

“Irida, hello! What a pleasant surprise to have you visit.”

And yet giving pause when he does note the bundle held within her hands.

Perhaps supplies she had wanted to deliver? Or something she was going to be using for herself? As he’s puzzling over it, she begins to speak again. Albeit, with hesitance and anxiety seeming to quickly curb her enthusiasm, causing Ingo to furrow a brow. He’d have reached forward to offer some comfort, or perhaps asked if she were okay, but she seems to quickly shake off the feeling and stands tall and confident before him once more before speaking again.

Ah...

What she mentions comes as a surprise to him too, and brief confusion is evident in his eyes.

...Father’s day. Honestly, he can’t recall giving the holiday much thought as far as his memory will supply, though that doesn’t tell him much when he can’t even remember his own father, or... whether he has one himself. Still, he gets the vague feeling it is not a holiday he celebrates.

But this is not about that. It is between himself and Irida, and not any parent of his own by any means - so that is a thought left behind quickly, in favor of another small smile.

“I see, today is an important day. You did not have to do anything of the sort for me.” He tells her, but makes no effort to turn her away either, nor to reject the offered gift. Even though it is only them present, it would still be considered bad manners to turn away the gift of the leader before him. “But I am simply doing as one should for those important to me. You... are certainly important. I thank you for your kindness, for bringing such joy to my station as well over all this time.”

Unbeknownst to him that the bundle holds his coat as of yet, as he hasn’t gotten a good look of what she’s holding, he only realizes once he has accepted it and unfolded the contents.

He had only known that Irida had wanted to borrow it for some reason or another with a promise of bringing it back when she was finished with it, and certainly he did not expect her to have had it repaired.

Listening to her talk of an absence of her own father however... it does make his heart sink, admittedly. He’d known from the moment he had set eyes on her when she was but a small child that her circumstance was not normal, that she lacked the guidance of those older then her, let alone having the guidance of her parents where she should have.

And he had been aware of her mother’s passing since his early days with Irida and the others, but it was certainly true he had never seen her father around in any form in the clan’s village on his brief visits up that way in the icelands. He would liken Gaeric be the closest she could get until now, but he was less a guardian and more a teacher, a guide.

All of that had been what led him down this path to begin with; yet he had never considered himself to be taking over the role of a parental figure. He had been called her adviser prior so this felt... strange in a way, and yet made him feel... something quite different. A far more deep desire to care for her, to meet this expectation that he was fulfilling a role of one she had never previously had the chance to have as a part of her life.

Maybe deep down just as she now had a word for how she viewed him, he now knew his own opinion on the matter.

Even then, is it not odd? He is not sure how acceptable this is, what with him being an outcast of this place originally and her being the leader to an important clan. To be her adviser and protector had been one thing; no matter what people said, what looks he had been given, he filled the role without hesitance after he had established himself within the clan as a reliable man and warden.

If no one else was going to protect their leader properly, after all, he would gladly fill this role over leaving her entirely on her own like many others seemed to deem acceptable.

This, either way, is certainly an unexpected turn of events. But Irida seemed... entirely serious about it.

He hears loud and clear her sentiments and wishes even as he unravels and holds up what the bundle he’d been handed held.

His coat, every bit as intact as it had been when he had first fallen through the rift, only taking on such wear and tear over his years of time here in Hisui.

His expression softens considerably, as his hands clutch tightly at the fabric of the coat, emotions swelling to the surface. This coat had been one of the few things he had of his previous home, a place he did not remember yet still held onto the only fragments of it that he had access to, and to see it repaired in full like this... He carefully slides it on, giving himself as much of a once over as he can and reveling in how it feels.

...Yes. This feels right, he concludes, tugging at a sleeve and pulling the coat further around himself briefly. He feels whole again, in a way.

“You had it mended...” He comments, voice showing more emotion still then his face can, fingers feeling against the portions that had originally been torn practically to shreds.

“It is more then I could have asked for... This... means more to me then anything else I could have been given.”

And yet it seems like she is not done with his gifts. He glances up with a blink and drops his hands before reaching forward so gingerly to hold the carved figure in his hands. He had remembered something like this not so long ago, had certainly gone on to no end to Laventon about it, maybe off of his own description despite that Ingo had never seen hide nor hair of a train in Hisui itself had this figure been able to be properly made. Perhaps his description alone had been enough, although he had to say he was surprised that he remembered at all. A turning point, maybe, in his missing, fragmented memories... he can only hope.

But he had the feeling that it was something that had always been important to him, even if they might only exist in his modern day. That, he wasn’t sure of at all.

He pauses to look at it now, and then... reaches forward to pull her into a hug.

“Thank you, Irida. I cannot express just how grateful I am...”

With those last words, his voice sounds almost tearful.

#dreamingmuses #muse; ingo #verse; hisui #long post /#father's day /#father's day tw #i'm REALLY SORRY TO THE DASH FOR HOW LONG I WROTE THIS LOL #I GOT A LOT OF THOUGHTS AND INGO CARES A LOT ABOUT IRIDA #PLUS THAT COAT IS REAL IMPORTANT TO HIM #SO NOW IS THE TIME FOR TEARS #he rarely cries when he's older but sometimes things just hit u right in the heart #between irida wishing him a happy father's day and having his most important belonging repaired he is gonna be emotional #suddenly he's realizing a lot of things about himself too #that carved figure is also gonna go right on a shelf where he can look at it always when he comes home

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moraiforaneye · 1 year

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I think that rainy days should be mandatory stay-home days where we make leaf people who ride leaf boats, take warm showers, and drink cozy drinks exclusively

No I do NOT want to drive to the orthodontist at 7:00 in the morning while the streets are flooded,

Yes I would LOVE to make a little plant family on their annual boating trip and watch the daredevil sailor Bartholemew ride the roaring rivers of the Highland Park curbs

-Atropos <3

#rainy day #bartholemewthebrave #oatmilklattesforthewin #idkwhattagsaresupposedtobe #livelaughleafpeople

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ikrutt · 1 year

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Highland and Lowland Curbs, 2023

Some information on the marsupial sophonts of Lidian. Curbs show up in Hunters Unlucky by @alhilton, a xenofiction novel with several sapient species.

Buy the books directly from the author here or download a free 4.5 hour sample of the audiobook here.

#Hunters Unlucky #Hunters Unlucky spoilers #Abigail Hilton #speculative biology #xenofiction #curb #lowland curb #highland curb #thylacine #marsupial #they're described as looking morphologically similar in the book #but I wanted to make them more distinct because of allopatry #they're described as having “bushy tails” but I only have this to the highlands #since I wanted to keep lowlands more similar to the OG thylacine

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fractured-hq · 2 years

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ALESSANDRA “ALICE” ESMEE LESTRANGE

Birthday: 6 December 1952 at 12:06pm.

Gender & Pronouns: Cis-female, she/her.

Blood Status: Pureblood.

Sided With: Order of the Phoenix.

Occupation: Auror.

Faceclaim: Ivana Baquero.

ABOUT THE CHARACTER

SCHOOL

School: Hogwarts Class of 1971

House: Hufflepuff

Extra curricular: Quidditch beater 3rd-7th year

Team Captain 5th-7th year

BIO

Once she had produced an heir and a spare for her husband, as was her duty as a pureblood wife, all that Astraea Lestrange wanted was a daughter she could raise just like her mother raised her. Unfortunately, she only got half that wish. Alessandra Lestrange was a beautiful baby, there was no denying, and that fact filled her mother with hope. But as Alessandra grew older it quickly became obvious that she had no interest in being the perfect daughter her mother wanted her to be. For one thing, almost as soon as she could speak she insisted on being called Alice instead of the beautiful, lyrical Italian name her mother chose for her. Another thing that frustrated Mrs. Lestrange to no end was Alice’s habit of abandoning her lessons in etiquette and music to play out in the garden or, far worse, sneak off the Lestrange estate entirely to explore the nearby Muggle village of Muchalls.

Yes, it turned out that little Alice was nothing like her mild-mannered English mother, something Devonshire-born Astraea blamed on the Scottish highlands the Lestrange family claimed as their ancestral home. There was something wild in Alice that, try as she might, Astraea simply could not tame. Alice was happy enough with her dancing lessons, excelling at both ballet and ballroom styles, but when the time came to sit down and be still she found herself gazing longingly out the window at the rocky landscape. Worse still, Alice was never very good at being quiet, refusing to follow her mother’s edict that little girls should be seen and not heard; she was forever pestering Astraea and her brothers with questions and inserting herself into adults’ conversations.

By the time she turned eleven there was one thing everyone who knew Alice was sure of, she was a born Gryffindor. Her mother lamented it, her brothers teased her for it, and she looked forward to it, but the Sorting Hat had other ideas. It whispered in Alice’s head to remember that it knew best, and promptly declared her a Hufflepuff before she had any opportunity to argue. At first Alice was utterly baffled by her sorting, and her mother heartbroken. In Astraea’s eyes the only thing worse than being a Gryffindor was being a Hufflepuff, but she resolved to make the most of it, hoping that the house of patience and loyalty would help to curb her daughter’s defiant temper. And it did, but it also didn’t. Yes, being in Hufflepuff taught Alice the importance of kindness, something rarely valued in the Lestrange household, but it also unlocked her latent passion for fairness and justice.

As a child Alice had always questioned the rules her mother laid out for her. What makes Muggles different from us? Why are they bad? But if muggleborn wix have magic then what’s wrong with them? Astraea never gave her daughter satisfying answers to those questions, but her fellow Hufflepuffs did. The first time Alice asked a prefect if it was okay to have children of mixed heritage share a dorm, something she was sure her mother would never approve of, they quite cheerfully told her it was perfectly fine, and even went so far as to explain why. What Alice learned in her Hogwarts house made so much more sense to her than what her mother had always said, and the older Hufflepuffs gave much better answers to her many questions about the world than simply, “that’s just the way things are.”

So Alice was happy to settle into Hufflepuff and make friends with her classmates regardless of their last name or blood status and she especially loved when her muggleborn friends would patiently explain the workings of their world. She was positively giddy to sign up for Muggle Studies as one of her electives and many of her friends were relieved that she would finally have a professor to ask her questions of. At Hogwarts Alice discovered the thrill of flying, joining the Hufflepuff quidditch team her third year, and also that learning could be fun, if the topic was interesting enough. She excelled in hands-on classes like Herbology and Potions, but sometimes struggled in the more technical courses like Charms and Transfiguration. Defense Against the Dark Arts was fascinating, but History of Magic was deadly dull, and Alice couldn’t wait to get rid of it after her OWL.

Of course all was not sunshine and roses for Alice, even at Hogwarts. While she was generally well liked and quite popular, there were those at school that Alice simply couldn’t get along with. Some people looked down on her and her housemates as weak, while others mocked some of Alice’s closest friends. Her housemates had taught her the importance of turning the other cheek and giving the benefit of the doubt, that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar and it’s easier to change someone’s mind if you haven’t insulted them, but nothing could completely quench the fire of Alice’s temper. She was willing to give second chances, but third ones were hard to earn. Alice found herself getting into fights and starting arguments that lost her house points and saw her sent to detention more times that she should strictly be proud of, but she was never ashamed to stand up for what was right, no matter the consequences.

For the first time in Alice's life, Roderick Lestrange took notice of what his daughter was doing. Of course he was askance, being sorted into Hufflepuff, openly fraternizing with mudbloods, and picking fights and getting detention was not the Lestrange way. Every summer when she came home from Hogwarts Alice would be punished for her behavior the year before, but negative attention is still attention so she just leaned into it. Long lectures from her father were opportunities to ask more questions, share what she’d learned, and practice arguments she could use on her classmates back at school. She knew if she could stump Roderick Lestrange, then teenagers parotting their parents’ opinions would have no chance. Astraea took a more punitive route, cutting Alice’s pocket money, selling the racing broom she’d saved up to buy, and even intercepting Alice’s correspondences. Instead of allowing herself to be cowed Alice took matters into her own hands, posting her letters from Muchalls and even traveling into Aberdeen to consign some of her clothes so she’d have her own money.

START OF THE WAR

There were several years where mother and daughter were at an impasse. Each attempt Astraea made to shape her daughter into who she should be was met with failure and Alice resisted her mother’s influence at every turn. Eventually it became almost habit for Alice to do the opposite of what Astraea wanted, an instinct as much as a choice. Things reached a tipping point when Alice arrived home from her fourth year and Astraea announced her daughter’s engagement to the rest of the family. It was a last ditch effort at control on the mother’s part, and it completely blindsided Alice. Arguments between Astraea and Alice were not uncommon, but the one that resulted from the proposed engagement was of truly epic proportions. Even Roderick took notice, and he finally put his foot down.

Looking back, Alice does not entirely remember all the details of her last night at home. Words were said that couldn’t be taken back, but what stands out most in her mind is the memory of her father pointing his wand at her. Before the evening was over she’d hastily packed her school trunk with her books, an assortment of clothes, and a handful of jewelry she hoped to be able to pawn for quick money. Typically, Alice liked to be prepared for things and have a plan for how to accomplish her goals, but that wasn’t what happened when she left home. She suddenly found herself alone with no backup plan and no place to spend the night. At her wits end, she showed up at a friend’s doorstep with nothing more than her trunk and a sob story. Luckily for Alice, both her friend and their parents were happy to take her in. They became her new family, giving her a place to stay when she wasn’t at Hogwarts and the kind of love and acceptance that she’d never found with her birth family.

When the time came for her graduation, Alice knew exactly what she was going to do. She’d gone into her fifth year career consultation knowing she wanted to do something where she could change the world, making it a better place. Her head of house had recommended the Wizengamot, and that became Alice’s goal. She liked the idea of writing laws that would shape the world for years to come. She started out small, just one of many all but anonymous clerks, but she was a Hufflepuff to her core; she wasn’t afraid to put in the hard work it would take to achieve her goals. Alice spent two years working for the Wizengamot after graduation, but as the war got worse and worse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wanted to do more. So she quit her job and signed up for the auror training program.

PRESENT TIME

The career change was a shock to many people, both those who didn’t know Alice and those who did. Despite getting in trouble for fighting at school, she’d never been a terribly aggressive person, and she certainly didn’t look like an auror. Short and curvy with soft features and a baby face even at the age of twenty, Alice was not intimidating but her fellow trainees quickly learned to underestimate her at their own peril. She’d always been athletic, excelling at any physical activity from ballet to quidditch, and it showed in her dueling. Alice put as much effort into excelling at her auror training as she had working for the Wizengamot, putting in extra hours and usually one of the last to leave the office. By the time she completed her training Alice was one of the most promising new aurors.

While Alice found being an auror far more fulfilling than working for the Wizengamot, it still was not enough. Never a rule follower by nature, Alice chafed under the restrictions of working for the government. It was after about a year of being a full-fledged auror that she was invited to join the Order of the Phoenix. Finally, Alice began to feel like she was doing absolutely everything she could to make the world a better place. Once again she found herself having to earn her place as many of the other Order members were reluctant to trust a Lestrange, but once again she worked tirelessly to wear down all doubt. Soon, when she wasn’t fighting the war officially as an auror she was fighting it unofficially with her fellow Order members. It left her exhausted sometimes, but it was more than worth it to finally feel like she was doing all she could.

Alice was on the front lines at the Battle of Birmingham. She’d been part of the initial strike force, managed to stay on her feet until reinforcements arrived, and was instrumental in rallying the remaining Order members into a draw, instead of being outright routed. It was the kind of performance that would have earned her a medal if she’d been there in an official capacity, but instead she was identified as a vigilante by one of the aurors who arrived in the aftermath and almost lost her job. Alice is no stranger to being punished for doing what she knows to be right, but something about being formally reprimanded and put on probation when what she was doing should have been part of her job stings more than usual. She’s been warned to keep her head down and her mouth shut, but that’s never been in Alice’s nature, and the changes the new Minister of Magic has been implementing certainly aren’t making it easier.

These days, Alice is getting a lot of practice at biting her tongue and she hates it. At work she can’t even fill out a report without her probationary supervisor reviewing it, and she’s been benched by the Order, as well. Although she understands that there are a lot of eyes on her at the moment, having to sit still and wait her turn while the heat dies down is making Alice crazy. She’s always been someone who needs a cause, a project, something to do at the very least, and right now she has none of those things. Even her habit of mentoring the younger aurors is slowing, as more and more trainees decide they don’t want advice from someone on probation. Still, even now, Alice is determined to do everything she can to make things better, no matter how hard it gets.

Wanted connections

Frank Longbottom: since Alice moved to the auror department they’ve become close and Alice has come to consider Frank a good friend. She’s been keeping her more-than-platonic feelings to herself for fear of ruining that.

Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange: Alice was never close to her brothers growing up, and now that she’s been disowned they’re as good a strangers. Knowing their parents, she’s certain Rodolphus and Rabastan are on the wrong side of the war and she wouldn’t hesitate to bring them to justice if she had the chance.

The Almost-Fiance: the catalyst for the argument that resulted in Alice leaving home; this character could be someone who is or is not aware of their role in Alice’s disownment.

The Life-Line: when Alice’s parents kicked her out, one of her friends from Hogwarts took her in. This character would be someone Alice was already close to, and now sees as a surrogate sibling.

The Probationary Supervisor: since the Battle of Birmingham, Alice has been on probation. This character would be an auror who has been assigned to observe Alice in the line of duty.

Other

Positive Traits: assiduous, generous, idealistic, curious, self-confident

Negative Traits: headstrong, opinionated, single-minded, presumptuous, recalcitrant

ALICE is currently TAKEN and played by BREE.

#alice longbottom #fralice #marauders rp #marauders rpg #marauders era rp #marauders au rp #marauders roleplay #harry potter rp #harry potter au rp #order #c #taken #taken order

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