#North Hope Cove | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eowynstwin · 18 days ago

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peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #remember that hot chef who went viral recently? that's who i'm trying to evoke with pub cook soap

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ariesmusingz · 11 months ago

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૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ╱ one syllable name masterlist ( below the cut is #181 one syllable first names. they are a mixture of feminine, masculine and neutral names, but please use as you see fit. please like / reblog if you found useful. )

air

anne

art

ash

ayn

banks

bay

bear

beck

bee

bell

ben

bess

birch

bird

blair

blaise

bliss

blue

blythe

bram

branch

bree

britt

brock

brooke

brooks

cal

cale

carl

cash

cat

ceil

chance

charles

chris

clare

clay

cole

cort

cove

crew

dale

dan

dane

dash

dax

day

dean

dove

drew

dune

elle

eve

faith

fay

fern

finn

firth

fox

frank

frost

gael

gage

grant

gray

greer

gus

gwen

hal

hank

hayes

hope

huck

hugh

jack

jade

james

jane

jay

jett

joan

joe

john

joy

jude

june

kai

kate

kay

kent

kerr

king

kit

knox

lake

land

lane

lark

lee

leith

lou

love

lux

luz

mac

mae

max

maeve

mark

maude

max

miles

nash

nate

neil

nell

north

nyx

oak

paige

paul

pax

pearl

penn

pierce

pike

poe

price

psalm

puck

quinn

ralph

ray

reed

reese

rex

rose

roy

ruth

sage

saint

sam

sean

seth

shane

shay

sim

sloane

snow

storm

tai

tate

tay

tess

thad

tom

true

truth

vale

van

vaughn

vern

wade

walt

wes

west

whit

will

win

wolf

wren

wynn

yahn

zack

zane

zeke

zen

#name help #name ideas #name suggestions #masterlist: mine #masterlist #rp help #rp #rpt #rpc #rph #content: mine

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whencyclopedia · 1 month ago

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Sydney Harbour Bridge Construction

The Sydney Harbour Bridge – affectionately known as The Coathanger by Australians – was opened to great fanfare and a touch of scandal on 19 March 1932 and was the longest steel arch bridge in the world at the time, with a span of 503 metres (1,650 ft) and standing at 134 metres (440 ft) above Sydney harbour.

Sydney Harbour Bridge During Construction

State Library of New South Wales (Public Domain)

Before the bridge was constructed, there were two Sydneys – the north side, with a population of around 300,000, and the south side and central business district, with 600,000 people. A regular and reliable ferry service took passengers across the harbour, carrying 13 million annually by 1908. There was also a land route from the south to the north shore, which was a time-consuming journey known as the 'five bridges' – horses and cars crossed a series of bridges over the Parramatta River, a detour that added 20-30 kilometres (12-19 mi) to the trip.

As Sydney's population grew and up to 75 ferries crisscrossed the harbour, often in dangerous and foggy conditions, the need for a bridge to connect the northern and southern shores gained momentum. One extraordinary man, Dr John Job Crew Bradfield (1867-1943), envisioned a structure that would unite Sydney – a minimalist, sweeping steel structure embodying modernist design aesthetics, breaking free from the city's convict-era agrarian roots.

Early Designs

Charles Darwin's grandfather, Dr Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802), was inspired by reports of the NSW colony and mentioned the vision of a 'proud arch' in his poem Visit of Hope to Sydney Cove, near Botany Bay, published in 1789. However, the first person to seriously propose a harbour bridge was the emancipated convict and New South Wales (NSW) government architect Francis Greenway (1777-1837). In an 1815 report to Governor Macquarie (1762-1824), Greenway raised the idea and also wrote to the editor of The Australian newspaper, which published Greenway's letter on 28 April 1825:

Thus in the event of the Bridge being thrown across from Dawes Battery to the North Shore, a town would be built on that shore, and would have formed with these buildings a grand whole, that would have indeed surprised anyone entering the harbour; and would have given an idea of strength and magnificence that would have reflected credit and glory on the colony and the Mother Country.

(The Australian, Letter to the Editor)

Greenway's vision was never adopted. The engineering skills and steel technology to span the harbour were not yet available, and the NSW colony was focused on agricultural production and settlement.

The next proposal was put forward in 1857 when English-trained engineer Peter Henderson designed a bridge from Dawes Battery (now Dawes Point on the south side) to Milsons Point. Henderson had worked with Isambard Kingdom Brunel (1806-1859), the renowned and groundbreaking 19th-century engineer who designed London's Paddington Station, the Great Western Railway linking London with the west of England and South Wales, and various steamships.

Sketch of Proposed Sydney Harbour Bridge

P. E. Henderson (Public Domain)

Henderson's sketch for a cast iron bridge supported by two pylons on either side of the harbour is the oldest existing practical plan. The population and economic activity on the northside in 1857 were not significant enough to convince the colonial government. It is also likely that engineering knowledge at the time would have resulted in a bridge that may have fallen into the harbour. Cast or wrought iron, which is not as strong as steel, might not have been capable of withstanding the stresses of a large span in a harbour with strong tides and a city frequently buffeted by high winds.

By the turn of the century, north shore residents had formed the Sydney and North Shore Junction League, championing a bridge inspired by the vision of Sir Henry Parkes (1815-1896), a local politician and five-time premier of NSW. Parkes had called for a bridge to improve transportation and promote urban development. This resulted in Minister for Works E. W. O'Sullivan (1846-1910), announcing a design competition in January 1900. Submissions were received from local and international engineers.

#History #Architecture #Australia #Engineering

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shallowseeker · 2 years ago

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Dean’s grief on speedrun

How long was Cas dead, anyway?

I think they reunited around day 18-24 days ish. The scripts give us some clues. (Based on this post)

==Dean is grieving hard==

He’s not in denial, like Sam seems to be -> “Is he really dead?” “You know he is.”

And because Dean now knows Chuck & Amara, he’s not getting stuck in bargaining stage (his usual MO). There is no door of hope to leave ajar after the cosmic consequences are rendered. (Not even the symbolic going-through-the-motions kind that he never intends to open again.)

No, this time, Dean’s in the throes of an incredibly frightening, paralyzing despair (images).

This is partially due to the fact that he saw it coming, and he fought so hard. He resolved to avoid the looming, cosmic consequences, to “not let Cas walk away, not again (script).” Dean made up his mind to act to protect the, “everything he’s ever wanted (script).”

And still, everything went so wrong.

///

The grief, then, is different. It’s a despair born of crushed hopes and dreams. Not to mention, forgiveness and acceptance—as Dean got onboard to help Cas, regardless of his own misgivings, because Cas “had faith in the kid.” This time, he stood behind Cas when he asked, and it still went rotten.

After everyone dies, Dean pleads with God/Chuck. Chuck is the one who brought Cas back before and the only one who seems able to rebuild angels. He doesn’t answer.

Even though Dean had a special connection to Amara, the one who resurrected his burned-up, supposed-to-stay-dead mother, she doesn’t answer either.

This time, he knows they’re out there, perhaps even listening. And they’re not answering because Dean’s run out of free passes and miracles.

This time, that knowledge crushes him where he stands.

///

DAY 1-2 (Lost and Found)

13x01 starts in the twilight hours after the big Lucifer fight.

Dean takes a shot at Jack, and Jack flees.

Heaven and Hell hunt them relentlessly.

They retrieve Jack from North Cove police station.

An angel stabs Jack in the chest with an angel blade, and he seems astonished to be “fine.”

Sam and Dean take time to grieve and scatter ashes.

The funeral occurs that evening, and they quickly get on the road.

///

DAY 3 ish (The Rising Son)

In 13x02, they're still driving home from the funeral towards the bunker, "12 hours till we get home," and Sam convinces Dean to stop at a motel.

Addition: When they eat, Jack remarks that he's 3 days old. "3 days, 17 hours, and 42 minutes."

Over the course of this episode, per the script, 2 days pass.

They eat dinner, go to a tattoo parlor, meet up with Donatello, and stay overnight in the motel.

Heaven and Hell continue to hunt them relentlessly.

Sam, Dean, and Donatello debate nature vs nurture, with Dean and Donatello leaning towards nature.

Sam psycho-analyzes Dean and delivers euphemisms to Jack about Dean “wanting to protect everyone and getting his wires crossed,” but ultimately, he isn’t forthcoming to Jack about the reality of the situation. (That is, it was Lucifer that killed Cas, and Lucifer who pulled Mary into another world--that Dean's grieving!) These important details might've helped Jack to understand his situation with a lot more clarity and grace. This will cause Jack to cool towards Sam when Dean reveals the truth during an argument.

Demons find them the next morning.

In fact, Dean nearly dies against a common demon, getting cornered on a hotel bed, but he is saved at the last minute by Sam’s interference.

Jack, tricked by Asmodeus, nearly releases the Shadim.

They drive home.

Later, Jack freaks out about being impervious to stabbing. In his new bunker room, he laments, “What the hell am I? I can’t control… whatever this is. I will hurt someone.”

Dean tells him he will be Jack's executioner if Jack loses control.

At most, it's been only 5 days since everyone died.

///

DAY 5 ish (Patience)

13x03 picks up mere hours after they get home, and it covers 5 days total. So, that brings us to a decently solid total of 10-ish days when this episode finishes.

Dean can't bear to be in the bunker with mission-mode Sam and Jack, so he takes off on a hunt.

Clearly in no shape to hunt, Dean dies at the hands of a wraith (and so does Jody). They are both saved by Patience’s interference.

Dean tells Patience there’s no joy in this life. Only pain and death.

Sam and Dean have a huge fight about Jack, during which Dean accidentally gives Jack context to the situation (re: Cas’s death, Mary’s plight). This causes Jack, already exhausted by Sam’s well-meaning training regimen, to cool towards Sam the next morning.

Cas appears to awaken in The Empty on day 9 or 10.

///

DAY 10-11 ish (The Big Empty)

13x04 SEEMS like the very next morning, because Dean AND Jack are both still chilly towards Sam. The air is described as arctic, with Dean giving Sam a, "don't even try it, motherfucker," face. Jack accuses Sam of wanting to use him as an interdimensional can opener and "being just like Asmodeus," and Sam comes clean about the truth.

Sam pushes them all to go on a case together. Jack says he doesn’t want to go at first. Sam wants Jack to go with them for the express purpose of forcing Dean to be around him and warm up to him, which isn’t fair to Dean or Jack…not really.

This storyline covers the family therapy scene (great analysis), wherein an interesting attempt at therapy is made under dishonest constraints.

Dean, still clearly in no shape to hunt, is easily overtaken by the shifter and nearly dies. He is saved by Jack’s interference.

According to the script, 13x04 occurs over 4 days. Commentary//

That means that Dean thawed to Jack, after our total of a mere 14 days. By the end of this episode, they're on shaky terms, and by the beginning of 13x06, calling out to each other in a friendly manner, "How was the case?"

Jack "puts a dent in Dean's armor," per the script, even before he saves them with his powers. Dean is doing everything he can not to like Jack, and it’s clear from the script that he’s failing.

At the end of the episode, Dean tells Sam to absorb the weight of the hunting burden, because he’s got no hope left.

Cas appears to awaken in a field on day 14. Presumably, his ashes are in the middle of nowhere, and he starts walking.

///

DAY 14-20 ish? (Advanced Thanatology)

Here’s where it gets foggier.

I can't tell exactly when 13x05 picks up with respect to the previous episode, but it seems like only a little bit of time has passed.

I would say a week at most has passed, but possibly as little as a day or two, and the case itself, per the script, covers another 4 days.

However, if Cas awoke in The Empty on day 10, and woke in the field around day 14, I think I favor a shorter timeline here with some of the “days” being overlapping back story from the case itself.

Anyway, Jack has been making his way through Sam's DVDs, "Red Sonja, Beast Master, Beast Master II." Commentary//

Sam does not intuit why Dean is up late at night/early twilight hours, making a PB & J (analysis).

Sam tries to remedy Dean’s overwhelming grief by pushing breakfast beer and strip clubs toward him. Alcohol to numb the pain + sexy stuff as a distraction. Now more than ever, Dean seems to perform those only for Sam’s benefit. (It seems Sam did not pay attention to Mia Vallens's therapy, except as a means to validate his own motives for trying to save Mary. Ouch! Poor Sam!)

Sam is not great with empathy here, bless my neurodivergent man-child. He’s dealing with a loss of his own, of course, and he’s been shown to be an impatient, mission-motivated griever (analysis).

Anyway, he’s completely at sea with Dean’s powerful grief, and he seems tragically unaware of Dean's close calls/being off his game over the course of the last few hunts.

Sam, perhaps understandably, wants Dean to be there for him n’ Jack, as caretaker and comrade, but Dean is too mentally wounded to bear the weight of that expectation. (Btw, I don’t think Sam really “gets” the Cas thing till 15x09 The Trap: Sam’s future is symbolized by Eileen-as-hope (analysis) and Sam realizes Dean’s future is built around Cas-as-foundation.) Dean dies...again//

Dean attempts suicide.

He tells Billie he doesn’t matter.

After he revives, Dean tells Sam, “No. Sam, I’m not okay. I’m pretty far from okay… And I would take the hit… And now Mom and Cas… And I – I don’t know. I don’t know.”

This is an elegant parallel to season 7’s grieving Dean, about his not being able to “shake” what happened with Cas, and admitting, “he doesn’t know why.” (Cas is different. Cas has always been different.) In season 7, he also says, “I’ll do what I can,” in response to Sam telling him to get his head in the game and stay alive. Cas is a core wound in both scenarios.

///

==Death & resurrection==

So, that would bring our guesstimate to Cas reuniting with the boys around 20-24 days. So, at most a little over 3 weeks but possibly closer to 4, especially if the backstory timelines of actual “case days” overlap, like 13x05 potentially does.

I am reasonably certain Cas awakened in the field near day 14. I’d personally put the actual reunion at 18-20 ish days, and certainly not longer than a month. They reunite in early June, I think. Blackberries are a summer fruit, and there are wild blackberries in the field where Cas awakens.

Dean drives to Cas and meets up with him, "in the middle of nowhere," so it seems Cas's grave and subsequent walk to civilization was in quite a remote area.

///

Going back through this, I was pretty astounded how Dean kept dying or nearly dying in those days following Cas’s death. He was definitely in no state to be hunting.

(images from CSN, SPN wiki, fangirlism.com)

#shal meta #dean/cas #tfw + grieving #dean + grief #spn season 13 #jack kline #the don't talk about cas sam wont' touch the cas thing with a ten-foot pole and i love that about him so much #saaaaam you are so focused on things that are ACTIONABLE like saving mom

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choicesficwriterscreations · 1 year ago

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March MC of the Month: Evie Ayana

Please welcome March 2024's MC of the Month! Each month, we highlight one MC or OC on our Meet My MC / OC List. They are selected randomly on the Wheel of Names, and eligibility requirements can be found here. We accept MC / OC profiles on an ongoing basis. Please feel free to send yours in!

This month’s MC of the month is…

@cadybear420's Evie Ayana!

More below...

1..In your own words, tell us what you like most about Evie.

It’s hard to choose a specific thing… but most probably her drive to keep moving forward.

Before coming to Berry, Evie dealt with social anxiety a lot in her old schools. She didn’t have many close friends, she struggled to talk to people she liked, she had a little more insecurity about joining certain social/group activities, etc. And she’d lived in the same house all her life up until moving to Cedar Cove, so she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about moving up north from the Bay Area and leaving behind what friends and memories and familiar places she did have.

She does start out as a little more impulsive and “holding herself back” when she first comes to the school– unsure how to respond to Brian at first, unthinkingly introducing herself as “Emma’s wingman” to Caleb, gives Hugh a startled look when they make eye contact at the school assembly. She didn’t have quite as much drive for change yet and wasn’t expecting much from the school, but she was definitely going to stick with the few friends she did make (such as Emma).

But one thing she did somewhat hope for was that Berry High was a new change of pace. And as Principal Hughs said on the first day assembly in canon, “That’s the great thing about a fresh start. You can be anybody you want to be”. This was perhaps the core motivator for Evie to start changing things. Soon enough, she comes to realize that Berry is sort of this “fresh start” for her, a chance to find herself in a brand new environment. She wants to be someone who is sure of herself, someone who can get shit done. And a school that strives to be welcoming to all is the perfect environment for that. That’s kind of what the OG HSS Trilogy always was to me. High school, but if it were, y’know, actually good.

So, Evie is partly motivated by the fact that the environment at Berry is much more welcoming, and partly motivated because of the opportunity of a fresh start in a new town. And so she starts to push herself out of her comfort zone a little and soon becomes a lot more outspoken, protective, proactive, and helpful towards others. Evie becomes a lot more confident through her journey at Berry High.

One major motivator for Evie is that her first friend and the one who takes her under her wing when she’s lost and nervous at the start of her first day, is Emma Hawkins, a socially awkward wallflower. So right away, she has some companionship with someone she can relate to a bit. And not only that, but seeing someone as socially awkward as Emma have no problem extending kindness to her, kind of motivates her to do the same with others.

Another major green flag for Evie is also probably in her involvement in sports. In Evie’s old high school, she had considered joining football, but was nervous about it due to the team being all guys and not co-ed. Evie is fairly secure in her enjoyment of certain sports and wanted to join the football team at her old school, but was nervous about not being allowed to join and seeming like an idiot for trying to do so. She had heard that some schools might make exceptions for girls who wanted to join, since there generally wasn’t a girls’ football team, but she was still very nervous about the possibility of “sticking out like a sore thumb”.

But since she was most familiar with Caleb of all the people she saw in the cafeteria and knew him to be a friendly guy, I had her sit with him and the other jocks at lunch that day to maybe get the chance to know more about the football team. Much to both of our surprises and delights, the sports teams at Berry are all co-ed and Caleb and Julian encouraged Evie to join football. And the best part? As she was on football, basketball, and baseball, she was treated like yet another part of the team. Rather than being pathologized, patronized, sensationalized, or tokenized for being a female football player/jock on a team of mostly guys… she was just treated as normal (Sonic Boom Knuckles would be proud, haha). As per canon, Brian did make a few comments to her during that one mini-race, but Caleb nonchalantly shot them down.

And lest we not forget her beloved Aiden Zhou. He’s passionate and dedicated to his creative craft; but also shy, reserved, socially awkward, and afraid of coming off as a screw-up or a failure in social interactions. A major reason why Evie is so drawn to him (along with her finding him incredibly attractive) is that she sees a lot of herself in him, and she can relate to him. She sees how passionate he is, and that inspires her to do better herself. It inspires her to keep doing better. And as she works to improve herself and move past her own struggles, she can sort of connect with Aiden and help him with his struggles as well, as she understands to some degree what that sort of social anxiety feels like.

2...Do you feel Evie is like you at all? How are you alike or different?

Evie is very based off of how I am, especially when it comes to the little details. She’s a cat lover, she’s a picky eater and especially hates spicy food, she’s fairly into sports and writing, she’s obsessed with scented products and cute stuff, she’s pretty horny-on-main, and a lot more. I had Evie be a jock in each of the three books because I myself was involved in sports when I was in high school (though I was more of a track-and-field/runner and I didn’t really have a lot of experience in football, basketball, or baseball; meanwhile, Evie gets experience in each of those). I can’t play an instrument to save my life, and cheerleading is absolutely not my thing, and so the same applies to Evie.

But in a more general sense… Evie is partly based off of who I am, and partly based off of the kind of person I aspire to be.

When I was in high school, I sort of dealt with social anxiety a lot, and even now I still struggle with it a fair bit. I did get along with a fair amount of people, but it was on a very superficial level with most of them and so I wouldn’t exactly have considered myself “well-known” back then. So I’ve imagined the same for Evie.

The difference, of course, is that Evie is much more outspoken, social, and heavily proactive in the school community than I was when I was in high school. I mean, I was a bit like that myself every now and then. But with Evie, she sort of gets more opportunities to be that kind of person, and she had somewhat more drive for it. And that’s what allows it to manifest. That doesn’t mean her anxieties go away by any means, she just becomes better at managing them.

Though, one thing I’ve liked about generally being more shy and reserved is that it did sometimes help me stay a little more aware of boundaries, if that makes sense. Evie is much the same, and although she becomes a more confident person throughout her story, that doesn’t mean she also can’t be aware of boundaries– and that especially shows with how I had her approach her crush on Aiden in the first book.

Evie took a slight interest in Aiden when she first met him; it started out as superficial, but it developed into an actual more deep attraction when he invited her in to listen to him play. She’d sort of push herself to talk to him and hang out with him, but for the most part, she knew not to explicitly flirt with him (not that he’d really have minded in the game but yeah). Occasionally she’d be a little bit forwards with him by accident (see: teaching him how to do “sexy moves” at Brian’s party), but wouldn’t express explicit attraction to him until when he asked her to homecoming and admitted he did like her.

And once she knew that he liked her back, she was much more comfortable with explicitly making romantic gestures/moves onto him. I’d never gotten that far with any of my high school crushes, but if I had, I certainly would have been the same. (It’s also worth noting that the more I replay the series, the more I feel like Aiden and I both share similar qualities as well, so naturally I envision Evie as someone who can relate to him).

A final MAJOR way in which Evie and I are very similar is how very GNC we are. I’d say Evie is a lot more openly masc/butch leaning than I am, especially appearance wise (as much as I wish I did, I do not have defined muscles like Evie does, lol). She prefers to keep her hair short; she loves masc clothing like pantsuits, tuxes, boxers, and swim trunks, and she takes pride in her more masc body figure. Similar to me as well, there are a few feminine-associated things (for lack of better wording), such as flowers, glittery/sparkly patterns, heart shapes, general cute stuff, etc., that you can pry from her cold, dead hands. But there are certainly a lot of feminine-associated things she has a distaste for indulging in, such as wearing short shorts or high heels or doing cheerleading– not because they’re “feminine,” but quite simply because they just aren’t her thing. We also both have major bottom dysphoria and would rather die than ever get pregnant.

3.. What is most important to Evie? What is their motivation in life?

Stability.

Not just being sure that she can end up in a good point in life and nothing changes from that, but also being sure that if things do change, she will be able to manage it. Even when things are at their worst point, she wants to do what she can to fix the problem and make the situation better.

For a lot of her life, Evie has been very unsure about what specific thing she’d want to be doing in the future, and while she agrees with the “it’s okay if it takes a little longer for you to decide” sentiment that people tell her, she does also know that she can’t spend her whole life indecisive, and the fact that she’s still figuring things out frustrates her sometimes. And as I’ve mentioned before, her and her dad’s move to Cedar Cove was initially very hard on her. Even as she gets settled in Berry and Cedar Cove, she worries about anything that could possibly disrupt it.

A big contributor to her drive for stability is her parents’ history. After her dad Scott and Emma’s mom Julia had gone their separate ways with university as per canon, he’d eventually meet a woman in his year but with a different major. Her name was Rani, and he’d fall in love with and marry her after they’d both got their graduate degrees. Rani eventually became pregnant, but it was only a few months into the pregnancy when she realized she was not interested in being a parent.

Scott, of course, had always wanted to be a dad, but he respected Rani’s decision. So, due to this contrast of life goals, the two divorced on amicable terms. Rani was okay with carrying the baby AKA Evie to term (though Scott was okay with it if she wanted to terminate the pregnancy), and after that she’d simply take on the title of being Evie’s Auntie Rani. And it was heartbreaking for both of them because they were otherwise a perfect match.

Evie knew the full story growing up, and while she did not resent Rani at all for leaving, knowing that story had amplified her own cautiousness– particularly when it came to her own romance. She’d crushed on Aiden, wanted to be official with him, and fell in love with him long before he did with her for each of those points, but she didn’t want to push anything too suddenly onto him. Often, she’d wait until moments, such as when Aiden confessed to liking her after asking her to homecoming or when he confessed he loved her at prom, before she’d start taking things further. She wouldn’t express romantic gestures and attraction to him until after he said he liked her. She wouldn’t confess her love to him until after he confessed to her.

That doesn’t mean she’d never initiate, though. She’s the one who took Aiden outside to talk about becoming official, even though he ended up being the one to ask her to be his girlfriend. After their moment on Hearst’s rooftop, she had started making plans to ask him to be her date to homecoming (but of course, Aiden beat her to it). And she was the one to (as per my headcanons) dip him in their first dance at homecoming and (as per canon) initiate their first kiss during that dance.

And make no mistake, all those moments– learning Aiden liked her, having a steady relationship with him that year, to the point of them becoming official in late February and him confessing he loved her at the end of prom, and seeing Aiden become a more confident and self-assured person throughout their relationship… she was incredibly happy about all of it. But in the back of her mind, she sometimes couldn’t help but think it to be too good to be true. Sometimes she feared that they’d end up the same way her dad and her Auntie Rani did: a seemingly perfect couple at first, all until one singular but major area of incompatibility.

Later on in their relationship, she would start to become fussy over making sure Aiden actually enjoyed what he was doing with her, telling him she didn’t want to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. This would become a point of contention between them, as Aiden would be a little upset at Evie not being fully sure in his choices. But in the end, they’d be able to work it out together. To this day she still isn’t fully sure about what she’d do if she and Aiden ended up separating, but she would become better at being able to manage any difficulties or disagreements between them. She would do what she could to better the situation. The two would eventually get married (Evie being the one to propose), having talked about it prior and both being sure that they were happy with each other.

As for everything else in her life? She does slowly become more welcoming to change. As of now, I don’t imagine her going through a lot of sudden changes in her life, but she does become more comfortable with the idea. A year after they marry, Aiden and Evie move out of Evie’s old house and into a cozy apartment in the Bay Area, and then move back into Cedar Cove but in their own home when they decide they want to have kids. Events like these where Evie does have a bit more control over the situation, do help her get used to the idea of major change.

4.. What are Evie's biggest pet peeves/dislikes?

Evie loathes gender essentialism, gender complementarianism, TERFs, and the like (Then again, any person with common sense would loathe those things, haha). But especially as someone who is very openly and proudly GNC, she just absolutely loathes them. She hasn’t experienced a lot of direct bigotry from TERFs herself, but to put it briefly, she’s been paying attention to their behaviors, and she’s not having any of their bullshit. Especially not with their blatantly two-faced behaviors towards GNC cis people (especially cis female athletes with even the smallest bit of “masculine” features, AKA people like her3). All the more reason why she sings her praises to Berry for having co-ed sports.

For something on a lighter note… she can’t stand spicy food despite her South Asian heritage. A bit of mild spice is alright, but very spicy food is just… she doesn’t get the appeal at all. She’s generally a very picky eater, even being averse to most South Asian dishes. And overly spicy food is probably the bane of her picky eater existence.

I imagine she just also dislikes… bullies in general. In her old schools, she would get bullied quite a bit, but she never quite knew how to stand up to them. So at Berry, she does try to change that, starting with standing up for her friends (like Emma) who get bullied. She aspires to be a protective girlfriend to Aiden and an overall reliable friend. It’s not always easy– such as when Isa and the hall monitors screw over Aiden and band and cheer, when band and cheer turn on the basketball team, or when Max and Kara frame her for sabotage. But she doesn’t let it stop her. She always tries to get through it, one way or another.

5.. If Evie could change one thing - anything - what would it be?

I’m not fully sure, honestly. I imagine there are lots of things she’d want to change.

Although it’s a bit more general, Evie would change… a lot of her past. She has way too many moments of “I look back on this thing I did in the past, and I fucking cringe at it.” She knows she’s grown from all that and has become a much better person, but it’s just hard for her to not feel bad about herself over her past mistakes.

For something that’s a little more specific, her parental situation is something she’s sometimes wished she could change. To reiterate, she does not resent Rani for leaving and understands why she did. But there have been times when she’s wished that Rani and Scott never separated. From what Scott had told her, Rani sounded freaking awesome to her, and she imagined she’d have loved having her as a mom, along with Scott as her dad.

Rani would sometimes visit them, taking on more of a title of being Evie’s Auntie. But she wouldn’t visit often because it could be very awkward knowing the past, especially so when she and Scott hadn’t fully moved past their feelings for each other.

Evie and Scott have had a very healthy relationship, but the situation with Rani has created some confusion for both of them. With Scott, he’s often feeling guilt. He’d told Rani that he was okay if she didn’t want to carry the pregnancy to term– Evie knows this and understands, but he sometimes feels guilty for having felt that way about Evie, even though it was before she was born. But he also sometimes feels guilty about giving Rani a pregnancy she ended up not wanting and seeing her carry that pregnancy to term even after realizing that, even though she had agreed to it at first and agreed to carry it to term anyways.

I headcanon a big part of why he’s extra sweet to Evie, on top of her being his daughter, is the fact that he sort of considers himself lucky to have ended up with Evie. Rani chose to carry the pregnancy to term, even though both she and Scott were well aware that she was in every right not to. He’s always wanted to be a dad, and he got just that. So he tries his best to not take her decision for granted.

With Evie, she’s certainly fine with having just Scott, but she’s known the story of Scott and Rani’s separation ever since she was very young and it’s hard for her not to feel like she missed out on having Rani as a mother figure. But she also sometimes feels guilty for feeling that way, knowing Rani did not want to be a mother.

At one point or another though, she does come to terms with her parental situation. Rani would come to visit more often when she could as she and Scott were eventually able to move on from each other.

6.. What is Evie’s favorite quote or song?

I don’t think Evie can really pick just one song, haha. Though Evie can't play an instrument for shit, let alone compose a song and a lot of the musical terminology Aiden uses is mostly just pure jargon nonsense to her… she's quite the enthusiast for good songs and soundtracks.

She excitedly raves to Aiden about her favorite soundtracks from movies, video games, TV shows, etc. Often, she'll even recommend a show or movie to him partly on the basis of it having a bomb-ass soundtrack and almost 100% of the time, he will enjoy it, and they'll rave about the best parts of the soundtrack together.

So it’s a little hard for Evie to pick just one song (or one quote, for that matter). Probably something Aiden composed for her, but I’m not sure.

7.. Is there anything else you’d like to share about Evie?

I guess I’d like to ramble a bit about how fun it is to build the character of my OG HSS MC, both within the game and outside of it.

In Choices, I generally tend to prefer MCs with a more open-ended backstory and especially choices in what kind of personality they have and how they respond/behave/act. I know even the most choice-based story can’t account for every single granular detail about what we want for our MCs, but most of the time I just like being able to decide *who* my MC is whenever fitting. I like being able to make choices for the MC, and create my own backstory for them that sort of informs said choices, maybe even make two different versions of the MC that feel like completely different people from one another. (Truth be told, I’m a fan of any MC that’s allowed to have a spine and be proactive in the story, but the ones that are flexible in their character score extra major points with me).

OG HSS is definitely a series that allows for stuff like that, which is part of why both the trilogy and the MC are my favorites of all Choices. There’s a lot of variety in the kind of story experience you can have, and probably only two or three moments where default dialogue made me go “Evie would not say that”. Honestly, I don’t think the series would have had nearly as much of an impact if MC had only one activity they could do, or one singular specific backstory for Scott and their mom and their old school.

Although I haven’t really played as a MC other than “Evie Ayana” in any of my 7 playthroughs, I have tried a couple of different choices and routes for her. Once I’ve had her as a band kid instead of a jock, and I loved all the extra moments she could get with Aiden. Twice I’ve had her romance Michael, and as much as Evie would be attracted to him, they do not have all that much romantic chemistry (and so I’m making a new HSS MC for his route). One time I’ve even had Evie try and side against her own team at the basketball game in Book 2… and oh my God, it was so puke-inducingly out-of-character for Evie that I had to scrub it from my HSS screenshots history.

Once I’ve deliberately made mostly bad choices for her (outside of her activity), and it was quite interesting to see outcomes such as losing the baseball game, losing homecoming crown and guest-of-honor-– and most notably, how she can lose her tryouts spot to her respective Hearst rival if she’s been mostly awful to the Hearst kids, even if she’s otherwise good at the actual tryouts. Like hello? I can make my MC not be nice? And face consequences for it? I like. I’ve sometimes seen the HSS MC get flak for being “too perfect” or “too much of a fantasy” or “not having much personality”, and I’m just like, “Honey, with all due respect… they’re only perfect because you made them that way.”

I’ll admit, with the most recent playthrough I did to record Evie’s official storyline, I did make the choices that would lead to the “good” outcomes. But with most of it, I was just making whatever choices felt right for the kind of character I wanted for Evie and then let things take their course. I wanted her to be someone who was fairly good at her sports. I wanted her to become someone who tries to step up and be a leader, and someone who is outspoken about her opinions and stays true to them, but also knows her boundaries. But sometimes she can act without thinking and that does make her very self-conscious a lot of the time, even as she becomes more confident throughout her time at Berry. Some of it was more intentional– I did want her to be fairly competent at her activities. But other stuff like the homecoming/prom crowns felt more like bonus things for her.

Fun Fact: during my most recent playthrough, where I was recording the official choices and outcomes in the story for Evie, I kind of wanted a way to represent her lack of experience in baseball since I headcanon it’s Evie’s first time doing the sport. So what I did was I just took my glasses off and backed away from the phone screen a bit when the minigame choices were in session. And Evie did miss a few of the throws, but performed mostly successfully in the end, getting the tryouts spot and winning the baseball game.

I’ve actually gone through a couple of different “canons” for Evie, throughout each of my 7 playthroughs of the story. I’ve tried different routes and options for the sake of trying them out, but there are quite a few choices I’d imagined as “canon” for her that are now different. When I first played the trilogy, Evie was actually named “Cady Heron” after the main character of Mean Girls, my favorite HS-based movie (Scott calling her “Cady-bear” all the time is how I came up with my username). She had the blonde beachy waves hairstyle in the first book, and was a bit more openly flirtatious with the characters she liked (Aiden, Michael, and Maria), she told Koh’s secret to Isa out of panic and thinking that it would get Isa off of Koh’s back. I imagined her having figured out clear goals for herself by the end of the first day: take down Brian and Zoe, and get with Aiden+Michael+Maria.

But upon developing her character, I was sort of trying to make her a bit more like me. With that in consideration, Evie would have been someone who wouldn’t be so openly forward and would take secret-keeping pretty seriously. In my “Evie’s official choices” playthrough I did have her slip the secret to Isa, but it felt so wrong, and so I had to restart the chapter right after the choice in order to choose otherwise.

And I am planning to make a couple more OG HSS MCs too. One will be a male MC named Alan Parke, a cheerleader who is a total diva– he’ll romance either Maria or Emma, and he’ll be very flirty, preppy, and pompous. Book 3 would be a sort of a character arc for him where he may have to set his self-aggrandizing habits aside as he comes to sympathize with fellow male cheerleader Kieran, with whom he’s competing in tryouts. Another will be a female MC named Violet Jones, the one I’ll have to romance Michael. She’ll be a lot more suave and no-nonsense– she hates self-policing and is a lot more quick to call people out on their crap whenever she can, and will certainly have a lot more romantic chemistry with Michael than Evie did.

And I’m definitely gonna have one or two MCs that are utter screw-ups at everything in the game– crap at their activities, they don’t win the dance titles, they’re cold to the Hearst kids. And I also wanna do a couple of playthroughs that switch activities between books. Some that are more slow-burn in their romances. I’m even planning an “AU/alternate timeline” playthrough where Evie tries band (and is mostly crap at it). Agh, there are so many route combinations I wanna do in HSS!

Bottom line: it’s just really fun to give my MCs their personalities and make them feel like my own, and it especially applies with Evie. It brings me joy to build her character and share/discuss it with the fandom here (as well as seeing how others build their MCs too)!

#cfwc mc of the month #high school story #cadybear420 #meet my mc #choices fic writers creations #playchoices #choices stories you play #march mc of the month

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antiquatedplumbobs · 1 year ago

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Spring 1916

It was a cool spring evening and Will Sewell was rushing home. He'd come to town on important business: accepting Joe's job offer.

The older man has been ecstatic and insisted the two share a celebratory drink, the very reason Will was now running late. Taken with Joe's infectious excitement, Will found himself unable to stop smiling even as he made his way home. Of course, he’d have to wait a bit before starting: Joe still needed to find an investor, an endeavor that was proving difficult, with the war in Europe making everyone a bit skittish. That was good for Will, though — he had yet to tell his father the news and wouldn’t turn his nose up at a bit of extra time to do that.

He was nearing the train station, his mind still occupied with fantasies of the future awaiting him, when he noticed a young woman standing by the notice board. She was dressed somewhat shabbily, and had only a thin sweater and straw hat to protect against the chill off the bay. He would not normally stop, running late as he was, but something about her caught his attention and he found himself impulsively stopping to offer assistance .

She turned, looking up at him with a suspicious, unfriendly look. A look Will hadn't noticed, being too distracted by what he thought might have been the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen.

“I thank you, sir, but I am quite alright on my own,” she said stiffly, turning away. Will realized belatedly that an unsolicited offer of help from a strange man might unnerve a young, unaccompanied woman.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes shifting to the ground. “It looked like you might be a bit lost, and — well, it’s going to be dark soon; I just thought you might need some help.” He turned to go, discomfited at the thought of having upset her.

Wait!” He turned at her call. She was biting her lip and looked deep in concentration. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I could use some directions.” She looked a bit like she’d just eaten an entire lemon; asking for help did not seem to be a comfortable experience for her. “Do you know the Cavalier Hotel?”

“Oh sure, that’s just up that-a-way,” he said pointing. “You’ll want to take Front Street, then when you see the cannery, take the lane to the north, and then it’s just up the Cove Road. It’s a bit of walk, but manageable.” She looked in the direction he had pointed, not looking all that comforted by what Will considered to be very good directions. He held a grin back and said, “I could show you the way, if you’d like.”

“That would probably be for the best.” She sighed. “I’m not good with directions.” They began making their way, and Will cast a surreptitious glance at her, intensely curious about this tight-lipped, brusque young lady.

"What brings you to Brindleton?“ He asked, trying to make conversation as they began to leave the town.

"I saw an advert saying the hotel was hiring chamber maids,” she replied, sounding almost defensive, as if expecting him to argue.

“The Cavalier’s a mighty busy spot — lots of wealthy tourists stay there. I’m sure they’d be lucky to have you,” Will said earnestly, and she looked up, perhaps surprised at the honesty behind the words.

“I hope so," she said with a small smile. There was something about that smile — perhaps the way her nose crinkled up, or the way her eyes seemed to shine brighter than a sun-soaked ocean — that entranced Will. It seemed all too soon the Cavalier Hotel was looming above them, the walk having flown by. As they reached the gate, she turned to look at Will.

“I do thank you for showing me the way, Mister —” Will realized he’d never introduced himself, and flushed as he answered the unspoken question.

"Sewell, Will Sewell."

“Pleasure to meet you Mr. Sewell, I’m Hattie Willager.” She gave him that lovely smile of hers, and then she turned away, heading up the drive towards the bright electric lights of the hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next / previous / first

#ts4 #ts4 legacy #sims 4 #sims 4 legacy #decades challenge #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #sims 4 historical #ts4 storytelling #sims 4 storytelling #sewell legacy #sewell legacy 1910s #william sewell #sewell 1910s

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grits-galraisedinthesouth · 1 year ago

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Don't blame the staff. This was all about the candidate & his wife.

Insufferable Dishonest DeSantis can't even drop out with humility. In 2021 this man ran all over Florida (AFTER DJT left the White House) parroting Fauci to Floridians: "This continues to be a pandemic of the unvaccinated." "A shot today keeps the covid away." But as he BACKS DOWN, he DOUBLES DOWN on his lies about DJT. There were 7 governors who chose NOT to close their states:

Wyoming

Indiana

Nebraska

South Dakota

Utah

Arkansas

North Dakota

+South Carolina which re-opened after 2 weeks. Where you at Ron? Did Dr Fauci force you to close Florida? Stop blaming Trump for your failures.

Acccording to the guys who funded Ron's first FL campaign, he has a habit of re-writing history to only give credit to his version of "God." He likes to think that everyone else is simply a useful tool and the outcome for his life would have been the same with or without their help. Quote "he has a habit of rewriting history, there's Richard Petty, there's Tom Petty, and then there's Ron DeSantis petty. "In a blistering 2021 piece, Politico reported on the existence of a so-called “support group” of “scarred” former DeSantis aides who meet to exchange stories on what they described as a nightmare boss that treated anyone not in his inner most circle “like a disposable piece of garbage."

While I vehemently disagree with Hayes, these clips from the campaign trail represent more evidence of Ron's unlikable personality.

youtube

https://x.com/RonDeSantis/status/1749159384112845285?s=20

Police officers stationed around FL beaches to inforce social distancing. Did Fauci do that?

DeSantis hired David Kerner

DeSantis refused to allow multiple FL counties to graduate from phase 1 to phase 2

DeSantis empowered FL inspectors to threaten FL business licenses for owners who were cited for ignoring the covee rules. Florida collected thousands of dollars in fines from local businesses who "broke the rules."

DeSantis in 2021 (when Trump was out of office) traveled around FL calling the pandemic "a pandemic of the unvaccinated" So I guess he agreed with Fauci. Also: "Vaccines are saving lives...Floridians SHOULD GET a covid-19 vaccine" "so here's what i think, the most important thing with the DATA: if you are vaccinated---- fully vaccinated--- the chance of you getting seriously ill or dying from covid is effectively zero. If you look at the people who are being admitted to the hospitals over 95% of them are either not fully vaccinated or not vaccinated at all. These vaccines are saving lives. They are reducing mortality. "

DeSantis Tax Collector MANDATED that employees get the jab as a CONDITION of continued employment.

DeSantis even advised schools: "A needle today helps keep the covid away"

Daily Mail revealed DeSantis taking donations from bundler whose portfolio includes Moderna the maker of mRNA jab & AbbVie, maker of puberty blocker Lupron. Lupron is given to trans children in Florida to "pause" puberty.

Ron-you never should have taken Rupert Murdoch's $10 million to defeat Trump. You went along with the J6 plan to put Trump in prison. You also should have put the DOJ in their place when you were informed of their plans to raid Mar a Largo. You should have told the DOJ "NO" when they came to you with plans to set up offices in FL to harass unarmed, innocent Americans who unknowingly "trespassed" on Jan 6th.

Ron & Jill Casey- I sure hope the multiple millions of dollars in your bank accounts were worth the price of your souls.

#Dishonest DeSantis #Fauci #trump 2024 #Jill Casey Black #good riddance #florida #presidential primaries

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possibly-an-ace · 24 days ago

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Rating all Subnautica biomes on how nice they are and how good having a base is for each one

Safe shallows: good to start, nice and centre of map for travelling, boring and basic thou. West one occasionalky has reapers follow you into (terrifying when that happens) 6/10

Kelp forest: good materials, again near the centr of the map, crocodiles are annoying and always steal my probes, good for scrap and salt early on. 4/10

Grassy plateaus: nice, relaxing, good amount of resources and wrecks, centred but better can be angled towards preferred edges of the map for good resources. 7/10

Mushroom forest: beautiful, scenic, near later game stuff and island. Cuddle fish egg. Dont go east because of the reapers. 9/10

Crash zone: why would you live there, close to aurora (free food), reapers. 1/10

Crag field: forgettable, has bone sharks. 3/10

Bulb zone: dont like the bulbs, lost river entrance, near to aurora and island, electric eels and potential reapers. 2/10

Mountains: reaper, has gun island, warpers, just go for the biomes next to it. 1/10

Underwater islands: cool, fancy, near the gun island and other resource stuff. 6/10

Blood kelp islands: cooler and even fancier than the other islands. Near gun island and lost river. Ghost leviathan. 7/10

Sparse reef: moody, weird atmosphere. Fun to live in - no enemies but all the atmosphere, near multiple entrances to the lost river and the floating island. 7/10

Blood kelp trench: has all the fear. Cool atmosphere, solid 8/10

Grand reef: awesome, its blue with blue and more blue. Cool enemies and biome shape, old but cool degasi base, lost river entrance and floating island. Cuddlefish egg. Very nice 10/10

Sea treader's path: good loot, boring, not much there ngl, sea treaders are cool thou when you find them, accidentally goes to the dunes thou. 4/10

Dunes: too many reapers, not worth it, its just sand innit. Cuddlefish egg but reapers. 0/10.

Mushroom caves: nice and purple, scary snakes but worth it. Fun. 8/10

Gun island: nice food, cool alien gun, scary reaper to fall to when you jump off the cliff at the north. Annoying crabs and warpers everywhere. 6/10

Floating island: nice food, plants to steal, degasi was there. Annoying crabs again. Good food again and nice pool in the middle. Above my favourite biome. 9/10

Void: cool, atmospheric, ghost reapers, living in the danger zone. Bit far from literally anywhere on the map. Did i mention cool? 9/10

Bone fields: cool scenery, good resources, hope you like ghost leviathans. 3/10

Corridor: crab squids boo, rather boring, near blood trench, eh. 4/10

Ghost canyon: near grand reef woooo, cool bones and good resources again like the whole of the river. 6/10

Ghost forest: cool trees, up by the blood kelp islands. Annoying eels, dont forget the eels. 7/10

Tree cove: beautiful, awesome, blue and safe. Next to lava zone entrance. Good resources. Did i see beautiful? 10/10

Junction: middle of the river, near everything for it. Got lava dragon bones which look cool, good resources. 7/10

Disease research facility: too many warpers. Not anything to look at other than the facility. 3/10

Mountain corridor: has a bit to the lava zone, ghost leviathan, leads to the bulb zone and mountains, i get lost here. 3/10

Inactive lava zone: has kyanite and other stuff. Has cook lava lakes and falls. Sea dragon 7/10

Active lava zone: both the lava lakes and falls are pretty. Lots of lava. Sea dragons. 8/10

Shallow twisty bridges: nice and centralised, good for a starter base. The bridges are nice and twisty and it goes surprisingly deep. Al-An is there, bonus points. 8/10

Deep twisty bridges: very nice, even better than the shallow twisty bridges. Annoying to get trucks in and out thou. 9/10

Kelp forest: sea monkeys are adorable, good biome and centralised. Nice and green and has cool caves. 10/10

Thermal spires - it doesn't look nice, has some good loot for early on thou. Annoying enemies, theyre too loud and too common. 3/10

Tree spires - very pretty, has vent gardens which are cool to look at. The leviathan is annoying. 7/10

Purple vents - the purple flames are cool, annoying leviathans thou, has some of the mercury ii to loot thou. Nice and centralised. 5/10

Rocket island - has good stuff to decorate your base with. And penwings - very cute. 7/10

Sparse arctic - its kind of sparse with not much going on. 5/10

Lily pads - it feels alive and moving. Has some of the mercury ii in it. Quality place to live. Annoying sharks minus a point because they keep turning off my stuff. 9/10

Arctic - Good views from iceberg stuff. Looks rather nice. Has marguerit's base (free food). 9/10

Glacial bay - has good views above and below water. Eye jellies are cute. 8/10

Glacial basin - i like the snow stalkers and free decorations. Penwings are cute too but you can get them anywhere. 6/10

Arctic spires: spires are cool and pretty, worms are annoying. 4/10

Crystal Caves - cool crystals and nice views but the leviathan is rather boring. Plus i get lost in the place. 7/10

Fabricator cavern - crystals are cool i guess. Its a pain to get out plus the leviathans. 6/10

Void: not as cool as the original, leviathans dont look as cool or interesting or scary. Looking out into the dark is atmospheric thou. 6/10

#subnautica #subnatica below zero #i spent far too long on this

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delucadarlingwriting · 1 year ago

Text

Beneath the Surface - Wayhaven Secret Santa 2023

Written for the lovely @lovelyfoolish as part of the Wayhaven Secret Santa! I was really excited to get to join in this year, and I was even MORE excited to see LF has a taste for M/N love triangles too ;3c Thanks to @wayhavensecretsanta for organizing this!

Lovelyfoolish, I really hope you like it!

Summary: Nate's happy for Mason and Mina. No, really.

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Mason/Mina + Nate

Warnings: Drowning

***

Nate hears Mina coming well before he sees her. His senses are not so finely honed as Mason’s, hearing individual heartbeats from a distance requires some concentration on his part usually. Mina is, as ever, a special case though. He can practically pinpoint her location from anywhere in the warehouse. She’s not close yet, but the gentle thump thump, thump thump, thump thump of her heart and tap, tap, tap of her shoes is growing louder by the second. Nate listens, rubbing a soft cloth over the surface of his violin with care, and tries to pretend he isn’t expecting her when she finally comes in.

Mina’s eyes are bright, her pulse pounding faster once they lock gazes. He holds her eye for only as long as needed for politeness, before looking back to his task. There’s only a small speck of dust left, and he wipes it away as slowly as he can, allowing himself a few extra moments to find serenity before they speak. Once he has it, he sets the cloth aside and faces her with a smile.

“Hello, Mina,” Nate says.

“Nate,” she replies, her gaze on him like a chokehold. She relieves him some by looking at his distraction laid across the table. “You play?”

“Some, though not in quite a long time,” Nate says. Though the violin is easily transportable, it has always stressed him out to take it with him on missions. It’s spent quite a long time collecting dust in his quarters at the Facility, only brought out for routine care and maybe a play session or two every few years.

“I do too,” she says.

“I’d love to hear that,” Nate says.

“Maybe we can duet,” Mina suggests, stepping close to peer at his instrument. Very suddenly, Nate feels self-conscious.

“It’s quite old, and in desperate need of a luthier’s care,” Nate says, his eyes finding each and every little flaw in the surface of his violin, the strings that haven’t been tuned yet, the varnish that needs replacing.

Mina nods. “It’s gorgeous. Have you had it long?”

“It, uh, comes from my human days,” Nate says, rubbing the back of his neck. “After…Well, I was lucky enough to be reunited with it after several decades apart.”

One of Mina’s dark eyebrows curves upward, curious. His heart gives a dull thump; if she asks about it, he’ll answer. So he doesn’t give her the chance to ask about it.

“Did you need something?” he asks, taking the violin and laying it with care in its case. She came in with far too much purpose to have only intended to chat.

She sweeps a dark lock of chin length hair behind her ear. “Yes, actually. We got a call from the Agency. There’s been several reports from the bay up North. It seems like it might be our sort of problem.”

Nodding, Nate gets to his feet, ready to face whatever trouble they’re heading for. Mina straightens as well, reminding him of his dearest friend.

“Then we best get going. I’m with you,” Nate says with a smile and a gesture for her to go ahead.. Mina flashes him one in return before turning to march ahead. For half a second Nate waits, watching her go, before he unsticks himself to follow.

***

“An Agency boat would have been a better choice,” Ava says with a frown, arms crossed and bulging as she sizes up the boat in front of them all.

Detective Reele’s home is on the outskirts of town, the view of the nearest neighbors obscured by the treeline. The dirt path that led them off the main road to the old, squat house continues on, curving past the trees, Mina having informed them that it would eventually lead to a private ramp, which leads into a cove, which leads to the ocean. As it turns out, the retired detective is quite an avid fisher.

Farah leaps up, landing on the narrow space at the top of the hull, balanced on just the toes of her high top shoes. Crouching there, she peers into the interior of the boat and says, “Yeah Mimi, it looks like it’s already gone a few rounds with a sea monster.”

“Let’s hope it’s not a monster,” Nate cuts in. Mason throws him a look, a small curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth; he would love it to be a monster. For all that Mason loves to be lazy, he seems to relish the chance for a fight just as much. Not unlike a housecat, though Nate doubts he’d appreciate the comparison. He fights back a burst of fondness as Mason gives a languid stretch before wandering back to lean against the side of the car and smoke.

“A pontoon isn’t ideal either,” Ava adds with disappointment. Nate doesn’t argue there. Given the spare empty beer bottles scattered on the deck of the boat, he assumes it was rarely used for anything beyond recreation.

Mina shrugs. “This is the best I could arrange on short notice. Detective Reele is the only person I know who has a spare boat she leaves around for weeks at a time.”

“Wait, did you ask if we could use it?” Farah asks, eyes shining with clear delight at the possibility that Mina did not ask permission. Mina’s cheeks go crimson and she doesn’t respond.

“Mina!” Nate exclaims, shocked. She waves a hand at him.

“I have permission to use it, that’s why I have the spare keys,” she explains, then gives a short wince. “Detective Reele is offshore right now though, no signal, so I didn’t exactly get to ask if I could use it for a mission. It would be best to not damage it.”

“We’ll do our best to return it to her in one piece,” Ava says. She gives a hole in the bimini a scrutinizing stare. “In as many pieces as it’s in currently, in any case.”

Mina laughs, the sound low and light and enchanting. He isn’t the only one to notice though. Hip leaning against the hull, looking out on the bay, Mason’s mouth is curved upward, shoulders looser than they were before. Nate makes himself take in this image of Mason, happy and at ease, and commits it to memory. He needs the reminder of why he holds back.

A cold wind comes blowing off the bay, sending shivers through them all except Mina. She sedately flips the collar on her jacket up and sets about helping Ava with the hitch.

It’s an hour north of driving to get to a secluded area where they can load the boat into the water. Mina fills them in on the area, apparently a popular vacation spot in the summer, and fairly safe. Lots of sandbars to break the rougher tides before they come closer to shore. Good for swimming, less good for boating.

“These reports started in July,” she says, flipping through the manilla folder in her lap. Nate tries not to notice how Mason’s hand is completely obscured by it, the angle of the rest of his arm suggesting he’s got it resting somewhere on Mina’s thigh.

“Right around the auction?” Farah asks. Mina nods, Mason’s jaw tightens. Nate understands entirely. That had been an unbearable time. As ever, Mina faced the troubles with her chin held high and shoulders back, while Nate wanted nothing more than to squirrel her safely away and fret until the problem was over.

“That must be why it wasn’t really pinging any radars for so long,” Mina says with a frown, brows drawn together. “Damn. Everyone was too busy worrying about…”

“No one was seriously injured,” Mason says, leaning into Mina’s space as he points to a part of the report. “See? That’s why it wasn’t a priority. Everyone was busy worrying about that rat bastard and his pet annunaki, who were hurting people.”

Even the word annunaki gives Nate an unpleasant chill down his spine. It isn’t the first time he’s felt helpless to save Mina. Murphy had given them a run for their money, particularly at the end. He’d almost lost her then. It hadn’t felt the same at the time though. Murphy was—is—a vampire. Like him. Like all of them.

An annunaki is so much more as to be untouchable. Not to Mina though. Her bravery in the face of danger puts a lump in his throat, both admiration and acidic fear coursing through him.

That’s over though. On to the next gaping maw.

***

“You holding up alright there, Natey?” Farah asks, bent over the side of the boat so far her nose could almost touch the surface of the water. Nate presses his lips together. The team knows exactly his feelings on being off solid ground, and while he does appreciate Farah’s concern, he wishes she’d do what he’s doing and ignore the problem entirely.

“Do you get seasick?” Mina asks as she drops off the dock and into the boat. Nate gives a strained smile.

“Something like it.”

Mina gives a sympathetic nod. “That must’ve made travel hard for you before planes were a more common mode of transportation.”

Mason barks out a short laugh. “Are you kidding? Planes are worse.”

“For you, that somehow doesn’t surprise me,” Mina replies, a sharp, clever glint of amusement in her eye. Mason just shakes his head with an eye roll that is more fond than annoyed. To Nate, Mina asks, “Is it the leg room?”

“You do know Nate hates cars because they go too fast, right?�� Farah laughs. Nate groans and runs a hand down his face, heat flooding his cheeks and neck. He will never understand just why Farah is so doggedly persistent in her drive to embarrass him.

Mina makes a short, disbelieving noise. “Nate, you can run faster than—”

“I am aware.” He sighs deeply. “Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean I’m incapable of bearing it. I don’t like boats. I will be fine on the boat. Can we change the subject?”

“I agree,” Ava says, her boots hitting the deck with a thump that doesn’t even half betray her size. She gives the dock a slow, smooth push, sending the boat and all on it floating away, toward the bay.

Nate’s stomach drops, but it’s better than it used to be, all the more because a boat is not a ship. And it’s fine, because Unit Bravo is with him.

“Nate,” Ava says as she stands at the helm. He steps up beside her, looking down at the electronic map mounted just to the side. It’s barely half a mile out. The water is calm, lapping at the hull as Ava pushes the throttle forward.

Salty sea air fills Nate’s lungs as he inhales, letting it expand his chest before letting it all out in a harsh huff. There are parts of this he misses. It’s not the sea itself that hurts, moreso the line it has slashed across his life now and his life then. How different things would be had he made another choice.

“You like boats, right Mina?” Farah asks over the dull roar of the engine and the wind whipping through the air. She’s sprawled herself out over the curved bench seat against the starboard side of the boat, while Mason and Mina are sharing a single seat across from her. Nate feels a hot stab of envy and puts his eyes right back on the navigation device. It’s been good to see them figure out their relationship. He’s happy for them. It just always takes him a moment to remember that.

“This headwind is holding us back,” he says. Ava makes a short noise of agreement.

“I hesitate to push this thing harder,” Ava says with a grimace. “It hasn’t been well maintained. We’ll get there either way.”

So Nate has no choice but to continue listening to the conversation behind him.

“Boats are fine,” Mina says. “It’s mostly about the water though. I’ve always had a fascination with the ocean.”

“Are you a good swimmer?” Farah asks.

“Pretty good,” Mina replies. Nate has learned “pretty good” means Mina is very good, but isn’t likely to brag about it. He fidgets, hoping she won’t need to demonstrate her prowess in the water regardless.

“Maybe you can go and charm the thing harassing people,” Mason says. Nate frowns, though he knows Mason isn’t serious.

“Maybe so,” Mina replies, a smile hidden in her tone. She’s so reserved, but something about her is so magnetic that if, heaven forbid, she came face to face with the creature causing trouble it wouldn’t surprise Nate one bit if she did charm it.

The sky darkens rapidly as they go, water slapping at the hull of the boat and spraying up, burning Nate’s nose and leaving a fine layer of salt on his skin. His heart thumps faster, though with the whirl of emotion in his stomach, he can’t be sure if it’s anxiety, excitement, or just the anticipation of a mission that hasn’t kicked off yet. If he pays attention, he can hear Ava’s heart running at nearly the same pace, though with decidedly less uncertainty dragging her down. His old friend may not admit as much, but he knows she lives for a hunt. Her shoulders and back are taut, aching for a chance to let loose.

A glance back allows him the chance to check on the rest of the team. Farah’s excited as well, though flightier, a touch more cautious without the advantage of experience on her side to give her the same level of confidence as the rest. Mason is calm, more so than usual. The addition of Mina has certainly helped Mason bristle against the grain of the world a little less. It makes Nate happy in a way. He’s always worried about Mason.

Then there’s Mina. As even and still as the surface of a mirror, a quiet depth hidden behind her dark eyes, she’s clearly in her element here. The jerking of the boat appears to barely move her. A smile tugs at her mouth, and Nate is lost for a moment, tracing the shape of her lips with his eyes and wondering what it would feel like with his tongue.

He bites down—hard—on his lower lip, the pain ripping those thoughts away as he turns and stares out at the glittering horizon. If things were different he wouldn’t mind those thoughts. It wouldn’t stick to his ribs.

“Nate,” Ava mutters, glancing up at him. Her jaw is set, eyebrows dropped in a way others might think stern. He sees the worry though. Of course she knows.

“It’s fine,” Nate replies. Ava frowns and says nothing more. There’s nothing else she would need to say to him. He knows.

“How much longer of this?” Farah asks, her tone going surly. Nate looks back to see her nose wrinkled, a hand brushing over her ringlets, once meticulously defined and now going frizzy. “This is going to be a major pain to deal with later.”

Nate looks down at the electronic map. “Based on the coordinates of the previous attacks, it should be another few m—”

His words are cut off as the boat pitches upward, like a giant fist has punched the bottom. For a stomach dropping moment, the boat hangs in the air, and he only just has enough time to grab for the folded up bimini before they go crashing back down to the water. The impact rattles his teeth, but he manages to keep his feet, though only by half ripping the bimini’s rods out. Wincing, he hopes Mina doesn’t get into too much trouble for it. When he looks around to the others, it seems no one else was able to stay upright.

Ava is levering herself up to her feet, while Farah is sprawled, groaning loudly (dramatically, so she’s fine) from the rough flooring. Mina’s sitting up on the ground, alert, while Mason is more or less on top of her, though holding himself up with his arms. He’s snarling, fangs out already.

“What the fuck was that?” Mason snaps. He looks at Nate. “The files said this thing was capsizing kayaks, not—”

Another burst of force from below, this time pushing the boat so the starboard side dips well into the water, while the port side hangs up with the moon. Yelps ring out as everyone scrambles for some sort of purchase.

“Don’t fall in!” Ava yells, still holding the wheel. She fumbles for the keys and kills the ignition

“Definitely not planning on it,” Farah replies, shoulders pressed to the floor, feet braced on the side of the couch she was lounging on just moments ago. Mason’s got a grip around the solid metal rod that serves as the base for the seat he’d been sharing with Mina, his free arm around her middle and holding her close. She is, alarmingly, staring into the depths with an expression of consideration, dark eyes glittering as she searches for something.

Nate has found a perch on the side of the helm. He leans forward enough to gain some momentum before throwing himself back against the deck. It gives against his shoulder, and he winces at the damage he knows he’s done. Still, it does the trick of sending the boat back down, slapping hard against the surface of the water.

“Everyone okay?” he asks, rubbing his head, dazed from the impact. Mina has already jumped up, hands gripping the railing to look overboard.

“There’s something down there,” she says, eyes bright and alert, her chest expanding like a hunting panther. “It’s glowing. I think—Oh! It’s gone again.”

“Big?” Mason asks, hauling himself upright and going to look as well.

“Can’t tell,” Mina says with a shake of her head. Her short bob is in disarray, her attempts to run her fingers through it only making it wilder. “It looks small, but it could just be in the depths.” Everyone gives a shiver at that.

“Step back a bit,” Nate calls out, his stomach swimming at the two of them being so close to the water. Even Farah has darted back to join him and Ava at the helm. Her amber eyes flit around as she falls into a half crouch, a grimace twisting her expression.

Mason hesitates, but puts a hand on Mina’s lower back and begins to head back for the rest of them. Mina though doesn’t budge, eyes sticking to the depths, looking for all the world like she wants to slip headfirst beneath the surface. Bile rises in the back of Nate’s throat at the very thought, and he’s halfway to grabbing her before realizing he’s even taken a step.

A growl escapes Mason’s throat, Nate thinking at first that it’s meant for him, until Mason barks out, “Something’s moving under us, fast. Sweetheart, move.”

Mina starts to back away, but doesn’t manage in time before another thudding impact tosses the boat again but toward portside. They crash down against the surface, water surging up and splashing over the deck. Before any of them can recover, they’re sent flying back toward starboard and then port and then back and forth, not giving them a moment to breathe.

It’s inevitable that Mina’s grip on the railing would give out. Nate dives across the deck to grab her, blood chilling in his veins. But just as he’s about to reach her, she’s snatched sideways and crushed against Mason’s side.

Leaving Nate sailing stupidly over the side, head first into the water.

***

Milton was always the stronger swimmer of the Sewell brothers. He was the stronger of them both in countless ways, despite which Nate couldn’t help counting anyway. Being the elder, he keenly felt the shift from Milton looking up to him when they were children, counting on Nate to watch out for him, to play with him, to be his champion, to Milton suddenly being the one to lead the way. Nate’s illness was always present, but it worsened sharply as he got older. One day Nate was 10 years old, cutting up Milton’s food for him at the dinner table, and the next he was 22, grasping at his younger brother’s shoulders as Milton helped him out of bed to get dressed on the bad days.

A distant part of Nate’s mind had always held some small shame at needing so much. His dignity had suffered at leaning so heavily on his brother’s help. Milton was a good lad though. He’d never once made Nate feel like any of it was out of the ordinary or shameful.

Nate had needed Milton’s help, but more than that, he’d needed Milton’s company. He’s never laughed so hard or felt so buoyant as the days they spent together as the best of friends. The day Milton had left for the Navy had been, at the time, the hardest thing Nate had ever faced. His burning pride for his brother had seen him through though.

His old heart squeezes tight in his chest; centuries later it still hurts to feel the old, good memories splashing up against the jagged cliffside of loss. Of all the things he’s ashamed of having done at sea, the things he would do again and again if given a chance, none of them are why he abhors stepping off solid ground. It’s knowing this is the burial site of his first true companion that strikes him through, cutting a wound that refuses to heal.

I don’t know how Ava has lasted this long, he thinks. She’s lived his life three times over, her wounds just as fresh, and somehow hasn’t gone mad from it yet.

An icy cold hand lays against his cheek, the images in his mind going to inky black for a long moment. A voice he doesn’t recognize speaks to him.

Focus, it says. His thoughts are prodded like a sheep being led along a path, though to pasture or slaughter he isn’t sure. Regardless, he trots along, back to that day he has tried hardest to forget, but cannot.

His mother had read the letter first. Her scream of agony had shaken the house to its foundation. The pain in his joints had barely become a blip in his thoughts as he’d hurried to find her downstairs, so blind with worry and dread he’d nearly slipped down the stairs to get to her side. Though she couldn’t find the words to tell them what was wrong, Nate had known that very moment that his life had just been turned on its head irrevocably.Never in his life had Nate seen his mother so wracked with pain—

Pain.

An explosion of pain bursts bright behind his eyes, filling his vision with sharp blue, shocking him into dragging in a gasp. A mistake that pours frigid salt water down his lungs. Choking on it, he blinks his stinging eyes and sees the present day. He finds himself in a dire situation, under water, drowning (though it won’t kill him)(this does not make it feel any better), and worse than the curved, glowing figure of a water sprite floating in front of him is the darker form of Mina.

She can’t be here. Nate pushes past the agony of his body to kick his feet, scooping the water back to propel himself forward toward her. She’s squinting through the water, focused on the sprite. He thinks at first Mina is swimming toward him, only to realize she’s putting herself between him and the sprite. Panicked, he kicks harder, choppier, unable to help it though he knows it only slows him down. It’s hard to remain calm while drowning and fearing the love of his life is doing something fatally foolish on his behalf.

The sprite just floats there, cautious. Staring. Nate reaches Mina, grabbing her by the upper arm, but his grip is hideously weak. There’s nothing he’ll be able to do to save her if the sprite comes over. It might not peer into her mind the way it did his, but they are capable of so much more than that.

Mina grabs him back, fingers digging in with bruising force. Before he can react she’s leveraged herself behind him, not as a shield, but to allow herself to slip her arms under his, wrapping around his chest. She kicks her legs to send them up, and he tries to do the same. Spots have started to blot out his vision but he looks between them to keep an eye on the sprite. It doesn’t move, but it wouldn’t take much for it to catch up to them.

It must have dragged him deep. Mina’s movements go more and more frantic, aching for the surface as they go. No doubt her lungs are bursting at this point. From the left something moves, and Nate jerks, lashing out with a hard kick instinctively. He connects with something solid, which tells him more than anything that it wasn’t the sprite coming for them again.

He can’t see, but he feels hands on him, pulling Mina away, then taking her place to pull Nate up. This body feels familiar. Strong, broad. Mason. Mina slips away from them both, heading for the surface with greater speed now that she’s unburdened. Nate’s body is so leaden it would take nothing at all to sink him now. Mason grabs him tightly though, and drags him up.

The calm frightfulness of being underwater is burst as they crash through the surface. As soon as they do, Mason adjusts his grip on Nate, his arm bracing against Nate’s stomach, before he squeezes with a force that gives Nate no choice but to give up everything in his lungs and stomach to the water.

“Not—” he wheezes once he can draw the breath to do so. “Not necessary.”

“Shut up and breathe ,” Mason grits out, then starts swimming them both to the boat. Once he gets a few delicious gulps of air, Nate gently pries Mason’s grip away and puts some space between them. Silver eyes flash along with fangs, but Mason doesn’t try grabbing for Nate.

“I’m alright,” Nate assures him, though he’d probably sound more convincing if his throat hadn’t been sandpapered with salt water. Even so, Mason gives a sharp nod, looking over to the boat where Farah is hauling Mina out of the water. Mason’s expression relaxes by a fraction of a fraction.

“Go ahead,” Mason says with a jerk of his chin. “I’ve got your back.”

From there, he only has to focus on swimming. He moves his limbs in a smooth, calm rhythm that takes him to the hull, where he grabs the railing and starts to pull himself up, only to find Ava and Mina on either side, helping to get him on board. Mason follows a moment later.

For a long stretch of time, Unit Bravo simply stands and stares at one another, the only sound being from the three dripping with water. Farah breaks first and jabs a finger at the helm.

“We should go, right? We should totally go.” She turns her pleading gaze on Ava, who resists with tight jawed resolve for all of ten seconds before giving in.

Groaning, Ava pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “It would be best to let Unit Victor take this one.”

“I could try talking to it,” Mina says, soaking wet and shivering, but determination ringing in her voice. It’s then that he notices she’s barefoot and without her jacket. “It couldn’t do anything to me when it tried…doing whatever it was doing to Nate.” She looks to him, but he turns away, hot with shame and hungover from the telepathy.

“Sweetheart, it could crush you if it really wanted to,” Mason says through chattering teeth before tossing Mina’s dry jacket to her.

There’s a short back and forth that ends in Ava restarting the engine and taking them back to shore while Mina gets in touch with Rebecca. Farah stands at Ava’s side, haltingly providing navigation with some gentle encouragement from the commanding agent.

Nate falls onto the couch heavily, head in his hands as he tries to bail out his waterlogged brain. It’s only a minute or so before the firm cushion dips beside him, a slender hand resting on the damp fabric of his jeans.

“Nate?” Mina asks, her voice quiet, almost shy. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m healed,” he says, as it’s more honest than saying ‘no’. Swallowing against his suddenly dry throat, he doesn’t resist the temptation to rest his hand on hers, stilling leaning his head against the other hand as he peers over at her. “I’m more concerned for you. You shouldn’t have jumped in after me.”

Mina shakes her head, water flinging from her soaked hair. A few stray strands stick to her skin, curling around her cheeks like a painted arrow pointing to her lips.

“I’m a good swimmer, and it never even touched me,” she replies, completely missing his point. The was her fingers tighten on his leg stops the argument on his tongue dead in its tracks. “What was that creature?”

“A water sprite,” Nate says, drawing on his knowledge as a crutch. “A subclass of fae, sentient and mischievous, if not outright murderous. They’re solitary, long lived, and widespread. It’s rare they leave a body of water once they’ve bonded with it on a molecular level, as this one has.”

“It must be a new one then,” Mina says thoughtfully. Across the boat Mason stops squeezing water out of his long, shaggy hair to roll his eyes at them.

“Can we get to shore before you two start getting…” He gestures vaguely at them. “You know.”

Nate’s cheeks burst with heat, only for him to realize Mason means he wants them to stop with the deductive chatter. At least, that’s what he thinks until Mason gives them a look Nate recognizes very well, and has not had aimed his way in almost a century. And it is them, both he and Mina. He blinks, straightening up.

Before he can consider that too closely, Mina looks back and makes a noise. Every vampiric head snaps to follow her gaze, finding a pale blue dot maybe twenty yards behind the boat, keeping pace. Mason’s frame goes rigid, eyes tracking the sprite as it follows. Nate thinks he ought to stand up and do something too, but his limbs are so heavy that all he can do is squeeze Mina’s hand. She squeezes back, warm and steady.

“Keep an eye on it,” Ava says, voice low. Mason gives a sharp nod without letting his gaze falter for a moment.

Several minutes pass as they go, wind whipping past them, chilling Nate through. The sprite doesn’t bother them though. It just follows, like it’s curious. Nate hopes it’s curious.

“It’s fading,” Mason says, just as they get close enough to shore to make out the vague shape of the dock jutting out into the water to meet them.

“I wonder if it wanted to talk,” Mina says, voice so quiet she might not have meant to be heard. Nate shudders; he has no desire to speak to the sprite, though he hopes nothing too dire has to happen to contain it. Then again, had the sprite done what it did to Nate to Mina or another human instead…He presses his lips together into a tight line. Dire may be necessary.

Agents are waiting for them as they approach the dock, but Nate doesn’t mind them much as he hauls himself out of the boat. With his feet on the wooden planks, he feels a bit steadier.

“May I?” he asks, holding a hand out to Mina. She looks up at him, a mysterious smile on her face as she accepts without a word. Her hand slips into his, and he’s dizzy once more. He helps her out of the boat, then stands back as she goes to speak to Rebecca. Mason slides past through the shadows, hovering close. It takes every ounce of willpower for Nate to resist the urge to flex his hand, restless from the touch.

Ava calls to him, and he starts to go to her, but she holds a hand up to stop him. Her eyes search his briefly, then she frowns.

“Nevermind, Farah and I can handle this,” Ava says, glancing back at the agents waiting to speak to the team. Their newest member is already regaling a few with tales of what happened. It may be a trick of the light, but Nate swears his friend has a hint of dimple around her mouth. Noticing him notice her, Ava scowls and says, “Go get yourself together.”

Nate huffs a laugh and slips his hands into his pockets. “I see.”

“Go,” Ava says more firmly. Nate goes.

He doesn’t go far though. Just up the path, away from the buzz of activity and engines, just far enough that he can’t hear the lap of water against the shore.

The road is mostly compact dirt, lined on either side with soaring trees that leave a slash of night sky visible over his head. With the coming of night a chill has entered the air, Nate’s breath clouding out in front of him. His clothes aren’t dripping anymore, but he’s a far cry from dry. It makes him ache for the familiar comfort of his copper tub, big and deep, filled to the brim with hot water.

It’s going to be a hard night. Nate doesn’t bury his memories, but he doesn’t linger on them if he can help it either, and never has he had to relive them in such a way before. It was so vivid. His heart gives a painful squeeze as he remembers just a few months ago when that carnival was in town. Had Mason’s vision of his past in the Hall of Mirrors been like that? Nate staggers as he goes, catching himself on the trunk of a tree, overwhelmed by the dear hope that that isn’t how it had worked. Even if Mason doesn’t remember what’s happened to him, how Nate had found him in that awful place—

A branch snaps behind him, jerking him out of his thoughts. He looks back to find Mina, her eyes widening when she spots him in the darkness.

“There you are,” she says, relief so thick in her voice it makes Nate’s pulse quicken. “I swear I looked away for a moment and when I looked back you were just gone.”

“Sorry,” Nate says, forcing a casual chuckle. “I needed a moment. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Of course I worried,” Mina says, though she doesn’t meet his eye when she says it, her cheeks darkening minutely. Seeing her react like this when she’s normally so collected has Nate closing the distance between them until there’s only an arm’s length of space. She tilts her head back, an expression of determination fitting itself on her face. “What did that sprite do to you?”

“Pardon?” Nate asks, leaning back. Mina steps closer.

“It was touching you, and your eyes were glowing,” Mina says. She sets her jaw. “It tried grabbing me to do…something, but it got scared when it didn’t work.”

Nate’s throat goes very dry. “Thank goodness for your abilities.”

“Nate, please,” Mina says, waving his words away like smoke. “I don’t think it just said hello, did it?”

“No,” Nate admits. “It wanted to see…pain.” Hissing out a breath, Mina reaches for him, but he puts a hand up to stop her. “Not physical. Memories.”

“Still,” Mina says. She looks back over her shoulder. “Have you heard of anything like that?”

Melting out of the shadows, Mason puts himself at her side, a grimace on his face. “Yeah, actually.”

“It’s a common means of feeding for them,” Nate explains in a near whisper. His breaths come faster now. It’s bad enough to be alone with Mina, but it’s all the worse to have Mason here. He’s too raw, his edges jagged. If he doesn’t get them away, he’ll slip. They’ll see him.

“You didn’t mention that before. Are you okay?” Mina asks, her voice curling around him with all the enticing warmth of a lover’s embrace. Nate’s mouth wobbles, and Mason’s eyes widen.

“Yes,” he says, voice cracking.

“You don’t sound okay,” Mina presses, more persistent than Nate would have anticipated. He glances over his shoulder, knowing it exposes his discomfort but not being able to help himself.

“I promise I’m alright,” Nate says, face burning hot. That’s one way to beat the chill of the air, he supposes.

Mina’s dark brows draw together in frustration.

“Are you allergic to having others take care of you?” she snaps. Nate rears back.

Mina is a consummate professional. He’s always known her to be even keeled, not prone to outbursts. In the time they’ve known each other, she’s never once raised her voice at him. It steals his voice for a long moment as he grapples with what he could have done to make her so upset with him.

“No, not at all,” he sputters. Mason laughs, the sound low and growling, soothing rather than mocking. Nate looks at him, mystified. Mason is one of the most perceptive people he knows, and even if it took him far too long to learn his own feelings toward Mina, Nate can’t imagine he’s as blind to others being drawn to her.

“Then let her help, handsome,” Mason says. Nate’s thoughts come to a screeching halt at that.

Handsome? Since when does Mason…? He looks at Mina, but she either doesn't notice or doesn’t care. She is, instead, focused entirely on Nate. That regard pins him in place. He doesn’t so much as breath as she reaches out, slender fingers carding through his still drying hair, pushing it out of his face. His heart pounds so hard it hurts, and now his head is throbbing as well.

Nate covers her hand with his. “What are you doing?”

“Checking on you.” Mina frowns, pulling her hand away slowly. She tries to at least. Nate presses down on it before she can, meaning her palm slots against his cheek. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“But…” Nate looks again to Mason. His grey eyes are as unfathomable as what lays behind a misty morning fog. Mason just shrugs, a lazy smile on his face.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says.

That seems an impossible task. The events of the night dissolve entirely in the face of this development.

Mina’s hand slides down, fingers curling under his chin, pressing down with her thumb until he looks her in the eye. He’s expecting another scolding, but her eyes have softened. Not since he realized his own feelings for her has he held her gaze for this long. He couldn’t dare to, not without risking her seeing everything.

Perhaps she saw enough anyway. He leans forward, dizzy and brimming with hope, needing to feel her mouth on his more than anything.

But she doesn’t let him. Her smile is kind when she slides her hand over his mouth and says, “Not yet.”

Mason snorts. “Why not?”

“He’s just been through something,” Mina says, frowning at Mason. Mason shrugs.

“It’d make me feel better.” Mason gives a toothy grin. “Among other things.”

“I’m sure it would,” Mina says dryly. Nate can’t help laughing against her palm.

With a gentle touch, he wraps his fingers around her wrist, drawing it up to his mouth. He glances at her, waiting to see if she objects, but when she doesn’t he presses a soft kiss to the delicate joint. Her pulse jumps against his lips. A heady emotion fills him from his toes to his scalp, stoking warmth in his guts. There’s little he wouldn’t do to be able to draw more reactions from her.

“She’s right,” he says, much as he dearly wants to agree with Mason instead. There are too many questions in his mind though, and he’s still not steady on his feet. When Mason frowns, uncertain, Nate adds, “I’d like to talk first.”

“Of course you do,” Mason says with a gusty sigh. No doubt if he had his way there’d be very little talking happening, but quite a lot of noise.

Two points of light appear behind Mason and Mina, filling Nate’s vision with white before he can adjust to the brightness. The team’s car rumbles, the boat trailer clattering as it approaches slowly. Hanging out the passenger side window, Farah calls out, “Hey you three! Let’s go already. It’s seriously gotten boring now that no one’s drowning.”

Nate tries and fails not to roll his eyes.

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” Mina says, hand dropping down to her side. His skin tingles from her touch. “We can talk then.”

“That sounds perfect,” Nate says, heart skipping a beat. He looks at Mason. “If you’ll be there as well.”

“Of course I will,” Mason says with a frown. “I’m part of this.”

Though it’s not something Nate has ever considered before now, he finds no reason to object to it now.

HONK. HONK HONK. HONKHONKHONK.

“Fuck! Farah!” Mason shouts, hands clapped over his ears as he stomps toward the car. In the cab, Farah is leaned over into Ava’s space, grinning madly. He meets her eye and she winks.

Mina laughs, the sound sending a pleasant shiver along the back of his skull. “Alright, come on then. Tomorrow we’ll figure this all out.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, following as she leads the way. Mason, still surly, is waiting for them with the back door open.

#darling writing #twc #wayhaven #twc mason #twc nate sewell #the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensecretsanta

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littlemissbigears · 8 months ago

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Chosen Characters as songs from my Chosen vibes playlist ✨part 4✨

Carry on Wayward Son covered by The Arcadian Wild

My Shot from Hamilton

Tread the Dawn by The Gray Havens

High Hopes by Panic! At The Disco

The Story of Tonight from Hamilton

History Has Its Eyes on You from Hamilton

Constellations by The Oh Hellos

Just Begun by WILD

Wild I Am by Vocal Few

Monsters of the North by The National Parks

Twinkling Lights by Annalise Emerick

Come Further Up by Sarah Sparks

The Graduate by The Arcadian Wild

May it be covered by Voces8

Eyes Open by Taylor Swift

Wellerman covered by The Wellermen

We Will Run by Hollow Coves

Coastline by Hollow Coves

The Woods by Hollow Coves

Can’t Go Back Now by The Weepies

Not Home Yet by The Gray Havens

The Nights by Avicii

Here We Go by WILD

Go by Vocal Few

Long Way Home by Steven Curtis Chapman

Revival Anthem by Rend Collective

SING IT FROM THE SHACKLES by Rend Collective

Beautiful Things by Benson Boone

Out Of The Woods by Taylor Swift

epiphany by Taylor Swift

Forever Winter by Taylor Swift

Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men

The Gardener by Sarah Sparks

Shasta’s Complaint by Sarah Sparks

The New Song of Trumpkin by Sarah Sparks

Hello My Old Heart by The Oh Hellos

Cold Is The Night by The Oh Hellos

The Great War by Taylor Swift

Slow And Steady by Of Monsters and Men

Carry by Branches

evermore (feat. Bon Iver) by Taylor Swift

Man in Room 39 by The Arcadian Wild

In My Blood by Shawn Mendes

#the chosen tv series #the chosen tv show #the chosen #the chosen season 4 #*watching Thomas in season 4* oh I know what songs are for you #*quietly adds Beautiful Things to the playlist*#John is the upbeat sunshine playlist because *gestures to him* how can he not have the sunshine upbeat songs #Spotify

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deepsea-writings · 8 months ago

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summer nights like this...

character: azul ashengrotto

tags: sfw, fluff, romantic

warnings: none i think

gn!reader

a/n: i wanna kickstart this account with a little scenario i thought up a while back, enjoy ♡

It was a cold summer evening when Azul Ashengrotto decided to go to the surface. He usually spent his time at the very bottom of the ocean riff, and when he wasn't, he made sure he was with either Jade or Floyd — though usually both. And yet, this time around, a tad frustrated by it all, he swam all on his own.

His long tentacles drifted through the water as he swam up to the surface. The dim rays of the setting sun hit his face. It was calm, not a boat in sight. And yet, that rather annoyed him. With a frustrated huff, he started swimming, towards no particular direction. He hoped he'd be able to remember the way home.

After what seemed like centuries, he finally saw another person, despite being far away from land. Their body stuck out like a sore thumb in the blue sea that was meeting with the lilac sky. The way the sun was setting made that person seem almost majestic, the way they admired the stars that were starting to appear.

Azul tended to stay away from others and yet, as if they were a siren, beckoning him closer. He drifted softly through the waters, making small ripples in the deep blue waters. Hearing his little advance, they turned their hair to look at him, making him freeze in his spot.

"Hello," they greeted, with a tiny expression of distrust. "May I help you?"

"Ah, well, uhm-" Azul mentally cursed himself for stuttering, but he couldn't help it. The way their eyes shone under the soft rays of the setting sun, making them stand out, brought such immense heat on his cheeks. Their hair was wet, and he could see the blurry vision of a tail as his eyes trailer downwards. "Good afternoon," he ended up saying, avoiding eye contact.

"Indeed," the person hummed thoughtfully, before he looked back at the stars. "It must be half past eight, no?"

Azul took a second to think, before he responded, "I suppose so?"

That person hummed softly before he turned to Azul. "I know a small cove. Care to come with?"

Azul took a moment to look at them. Surely, he should be getting home, his mother would be worried. However... He wasn't quite ready yet. He merely nodded before he started following them.

The sun had fallen completely when they reached the cove. It was calm, serene, away from the crowds. There didn't seem like there were humans for a good few kilometres. Taking his place on a rock, azul took some of his tentacles out of the sea, covering his torso, almost out of reflex.

"I'm Y/N," the other merperson said, laying their body on a rock across from Azul. "Are you from the Coral Reef?" When Azul nodded, they continued, "Your accent seemed so. I'm from warmer colder sea, further up north."

Azul nodded. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." His words almost seemed professional, like he was talking to another person he wanted to sign a contract with. His mind wandered at what abilities this gorgeous person could possibly have. A part of him wanted to make a contract for their beauty, but he didn't let his mind wander to those thoughts. "I'm Azul, by the way," he said somewhat rushed.

That person nodded, looking back up at the starlit sky. "I wish I had legs," they said in a small murmur. "It's not easy for me to see the stars daily. Long trip, too tiring."

Azul nodded in understanding, his tentacles lowering themselves to touch the cold waters, his guard also lowering. "Legs aren't all you make them seem."

"You're a cephalopod, you're not used to bones," Y/N said softly, looking back at Azul.

Azul left a dry laugh, smiling at them. "I suppose. But I promise you, living with legs on the daily isn't the bed."

The person tilted their head. "What do you mean?"

"I attend NRC, and since it's a land school..."

Y/N nodded with understanding, smiling softly. "I'm jealous. I attend some school up North, near my hometown."

"Don't you ever feel cold?" Azul asked impulsively, before he mentally cursed himself. His shoulders untensed with relief as he heard Y/N laugh. And gods above, what a beautiful kind of laughter.

"No. In fact, right now it's just the right temperature— you're not too cold, are you?" They approached closer, a concerned streak to their gaze. Reaching towards him, they stretched their hand, before stopping themselves.

"I'm fine," he said with a smile, a genuine one. "Why did you invite me? Not that I'm complaining, however..." He expected a million answers, really. But no the one they were about to say:

"Oh, I, uh," they trailed off for a moment, looking back at the stars. "I thought you were cute."

For a few seconds, it was as if the air had been knocked out of Azul's lungs (?). And yet, he showed a genuine smile, before it evolved into a giggling fit, before a full-on laughter. His cheeks were burning completely, and yet, he was laughing. "Really?" He asked between shaky laughs.

"Hey, don't laugh!" They splashed him with water before they joined in on his laugh.

As their spirits seemed to die down, they smiled softly to one another. Y/N slowly intertwined their tail with one of Azul's tentacles, and their smile turned into a grin as they felt Azul squeeze back.

Meanwhile, Azul freaked out mentally, yet he wasn't going to leave this one opportunity slip away from his fingertips. Pushing away every sign of insecurity, he looked at them and smiled. "I'd love to see you again after tonight," he whispered, his voice charged with emotion.

They nodded softly. "I'd love to, Azul."

#achiwrites #azul ashengrotto #twst fluff #twst x reader #gn!reader #azul x reader #twst azul #twisted wonderland

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the-umiran-amulet · 1 month ago

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King Sirius scowled down at his desk as he sorted through the plethora of paperwork that had covered nearly its entire surface—requisition forms from the military, petitions from the civilians, expenditures, new laws that needed drafting or refining or reviewed or signed into effect. What vexed him the most though were the reports coming in from some of the collectors he’d hired to enforce the new drafts and taxes. Several of them had returned empty-handed—even their authorization papers and records of refusals had been taken. Burned, they said.

He should have known from the moment Callaghan approached him at the treaty signing that the man would be sticking his nose into matters he no longer had the authority to handle. And it seemed he’d roped that strange mage into helping him, too. It concerned him that Vitruvius was also reported as traveling with them, along with a young acolyte, the only surviving member of the Temple of the Four Gods. The young man, at least, was described as being completely out of his depth, but Sirius had no doubt that, even blind, Vitruvius would prove as persistent a nuisance as Callaghan.

He finished sorting his paperwork into neat piles according to their contents, and drummed his fingers on the desk as he thought. If a dishonorable discharge wasn’t enough to discourage Callaghan, he doubted a warrant for his arrest would work either. The man knew how to fight too well; none of the enforcement teams they encountered had been able to best him, even outnumbered as he was. He doubted any town guards could accomplish such a thing either, and Callaghan would surely resist arrest.

An idea came to him then. He grabbed a blank sheet of parchment and began to write. When he finished, he folded and sealed the letter, and called for a courier. “I need you to deliver this letter to Lord Wilson. And don’t dawdle—this is a matter of urgency.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

They came across more encounters in that vein as they continued north, past Tiletown and on to Conehurst. The twins and Benny were always quick to put an end to the confrontations—some mostly peacefully, others less so—with the occasional help from Emmet or Vitruvius. But the fact that they were increasing in frequency was causing some alarm.

It was when they finally reached Conehurst that they got an idea of just how well the king was taking their interference.

It was late enough in the evening when they arrived that they could find no passage to Pirate’s Cove. “Can’t really stay at the inn tonight either, not if we want to be able to afford passage,” Benny sighed. “I’ve got just enough coin left to cover that, and to buy some more food to last us until we reach Gotham City, and that’s it.”

“And we’re entirely out,” Cary grumbled. “All right. We’ll have to set up camp a bit away from town; the guards here don’t take too kindly to anything they deem loitering.”

“We can’t even go to the inn for supper?” Emmet pouted.

“I’m afraid not,” Benny said, and patted his shoulder. “But maybe our wealthy benefactor will treat us to something amazing once we get there.”

“I hope so…”

They got their camp set up, and had a simple supper of the leftover dried fruits and meats they still had packed. No one really had the patience to wait for the twins to hunt, and then have to cook it afterwards. Magic lessons were also skipped for the night as everyone was eager to get some sleep and start their day bright and early the next morning. The sooner they got to Gotham, the sooner they could get back and start making a real difference.

An hour passed, perhaps two. Vitruvius’ eyes opened as he returned to consciousness. Something about the sounds outside the tent had changed, and the disturbance was enough to rouse him from his slumber.

It was quiet, he realized. Very quiet. He slowed his breathing, listening carefully, but even his sensitive ears couldn’t pick up any sounds. He rolled onto his stomach and reached to nudge Callaghan, who was lying head to head with him. His fingers poked uncomfortably into the crook of their neck, and they jolted awake—thankfully without making a sound. He heard them draw in a breath, likely to ask why he’d woken them up, but seemed to notice the lack of nighttime sounds quickly enough and gave his wrist a squeeze in acknowledgement. They grabbed their sword just as the tent flap was tugged open, and were on their feet in a blink.

The fight was over almost before it had even begun. The sharp clanging of metal on metal and Cary’s enraged snarling woke Benny and Emmet in an instant, the acolyte letting out a squeak as he scrambled away from the skirmish. Benny was quick to summon a ball of bluish-white flame to his hand to shed some light on the situation. “What the hell’s going on…?” the mage mumbled, blinking blearily as he tried to wake up enough to process the sight before him. Cary had someone pinned under him, one knee on the man’s chest to keep him from moving, the stranger’s wrists in one hand and his sword in the other, pressed against the intruder’s neck just enough to be felt but not draw blood. The other weapon was nowhere to be seen, knocked out of the intruder’s hand during the brief fight.

“Who are you and what is your purpose here,” Cary demanded with a growl. The man he had pinned to the ground glanced around the tent, seemingly calculating his odds of escape, and settled for glowering back at the soldier, apparently figuring he wouldn’t get far before a blade or a fireball were thrown at him.

“We’ve got nothing worth taking, if that’s what you’re after,” Vitruvius added.

The stranger snorted. “Because four guys camped out in a single tent in the woods clearly have so much worth stealing.” He hissed as Cary’s blade bit into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

“Don’t test my patience,” the former colonel warned.

Let me try, Alastar nudged. Cary considered it for a moment, then gave a barely perceptible nod, letting his twin take over. Their captive blinked up at them as the soldier’s face switched, eyes wide as he could only lay there in stunned silence.

“Tell us why you’re here,” Alastar said calmly, lacing some of his magic into his voice. He could see Benny shivering out of the corner of his eye, and heard Emmet’s surprised gasp further back. Cary snickered in the back of their mind.

Might want to tone that down, just a bit. Don’t think we need to be entrancing our friends too.

It had the desired effect on the intruder, though. The man blinked slowly, staring in shock as something about the soldier’s voice compelled him to answer. He was starting to think he might have gotten in over his head, accepting this contract; this guy was no normal human being. “You have a bounty on your heads,” he ground out grudgingly. “Somebody paid good money to have the four of you brought in dead.”

Alastar’s blood ran cold. He dropped the sword, his hands suddenly numb, his firm grip on their would-be assassin easing. Cary was quick to take over again in the wake of his twin’s shock, carefully easing Alastar to the back of their mind. “Who?” he demanded. “Why?”

“I don’t ask for the reasons behind the contracts I receive,” the man spat. “You don’t survive long in this line of work by asking questions.”

“Will you come after us again if we let you go?” Vitruvius asked.

The man turned his glare to the tent’s roof. “You’ll have to kill me to get me to stop. If I had to hazard a guess, whoever wants you dead doesn’t just have a lot of money but a lot of power. I had it made exceedingly clear to me that failure would not be tolerated. It’s either your heads or mine.”

“Shit,” Cary muttered, feeling like the ground had fallen out from under him. Shit, shit, shit. His breath hitched as Alastar’s grief overwhelmed him. Benny’s eyes went wide and he sucked in a sharp breath as he practically threw himself across the tent to their side. The assassin scrambled back to his feet upon being released, watching as the soldier sat down hard on the ground, clearly reeling. Apparently he knew who’d sent him after them.

“We’d very much like to keep our heads as well,” Vitruvius’ voice rang out, calm and even. “Though I doubt most of us here would like to take yours in exchange. Enough lives have been lost to this madness as it is. Can you disappear?”

The assassin could only stare as the suggestion sank in. They were just—letting him go? For once in his long career he wanted to ask, but decided not to press his luck. He had no idea how the soldier had become aware of his presence in time to have that sword already in hand, but he had, and judging by the man’s fury, he wouldn’t survive a second encounter. So he merely nodded in answer, and fled.

“Come on, guys, breathe,” Benny urged as he rubbed Cary’s back. The soldier was sitting hunched over with the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes, his breath coming in short gasps. “You need to breathe…” Cary forced a shaky breath into his lungs. It nearly came back out as a wail.

“What happened?” Emmet asked as he scooched closer, giving them a worried look. “Are you hurt? I didn’t even see him move!”

“No, Emmet, we’re not harmed,” Cary answered, voice trembling. “Not physically, at least…”

“…Then what did happen?”

“Clearly something the assassin said has affected them deeply,” Vitruvius ventured, keeping his voice soft, though his tone was full of concern.

“Sirius,” Cary hissed. “Sirius is the one who put the bounty on our heads.”

“You’re certain?” the wizard asked. Cary nodded. He drew in another shaky breath, then another, finally getting their lungs working properly again. Usually it was his emotions that spun out of control, and Alastar’s calm that evened him back out again. For their roles to be reversed for once, and to such an intense degree… Even with the warnings, he hadn’t expected it would affect his brother so badly. He reached back to his twin. Alastar…

It really isn’t him anymore, is it? Everything else I could rationalize away, but this... For him to actually want us DEAD...

I’m so sorry...

Why? You’re the one who saw it coming. I just kept brushing you off as being paranoid...

I don’t blame you for wanting to hold on to hope. I think, if our places were switched, I’d want to keep clinging to the good thing I’d had, too. But I need you to try to hold it together, just for now, okay? You can grieve once we’re safely in Pirate’s Cove and away from any other Octans. He gave his brother the mental equivalent of a hug, leaning into Benny to add physical sensation for emphasis. Benny caught on after a moment, wrapping his arms around them. We’ll get through this. And I won’t let your good thing go unavenged.

#the lego movie #the umiran amulet #gcbc #benny the spaceman #vitruvius #emmet brickowski #lord business #president business #coppernauts

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productofnfld · 1 month ago

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Grisly Christmas on Gull Island

This may be one of the saddest stories I have ever told—a tale made all the more heartbreaking because it is about a group of people, separated from their families at Christmas, who knew they would never live to see them again.

It is the story of the Queen of Swansea, a ship that met its fate just before Christmas in 1867. Throughout Newfoundland’s history, the sea has claimed countless lives, but rarely has its toll been as devastating as this.

Had the crew and passengers simply perished, it would still be a tragic story. But they didn’t just die. Instead, they became castaways on a cold, desolate island, where survival demanded unimaginable choices.

This tale stands as one of the most tragic shipwrecks in Newfoundland’s history—and one of the bleakest Christmases anyone has ever endured.

The Sad Story of The Queen of Swansea

On December 6, 1867, the Queen of Swansea, a 360-ton Welsh brigantine, set sail from St. John’s bound for the mining town of Tilt Cove in Notre Dame Bay. The vessel carried a cargo of timber, mail, and a small group of passengers and crew—fifteen people in total.

Among them was Felix Dowsley, a pharmacist from St. John’s who had been hired by the mining company to provide medical services for the winter. Also on board were William Hoskins and his sister, the adult children of the mine’s manager.

Shortly after departing St. John’s, a fierce gale struck, driving the Queen of Swansea more than 120 miles off course into the open sea. For six grueling days, the ship and its passengers endured relentless battering by the storm, fully expecting to be lost at any moment. Under the determined guidance of Captain John Owens, however, the brigantine managed to reach Notre Dame Bay. By the morning of December 12, the Queen of Swansea was finally approaching its destination.

Tilt Cove was just 12 miles away—but it might as well have been 200. In fact, they would have been better off if it had been. Notre Dame Bay was in the grip of a blinding snowstorm, with visibility reduced to nothing. The crew strained to see through the squall, desperately searching for Cape St. John, but the storm was impenetrable. Worse still, they couldn’t see Gull Island, a rocky outcrop directly in their path.

At 6 a.m., the Queen of Swansea ran aground on the island. The impact was catastrophic, and the ship was quickly wrecked.

Acting fast, the crew threw ropes to the island, allowing the passengers to scramble to safety as the ship began to crumble beneath them. The vessel clung precariously to the rocks, and the crew tried desperately to secure it, hoping to salvage supplies. Four crew members still on the ship managed to retrieve a piece of sailcloth. But before they could recover anything else, the lines securing the boat snapped.

Fifteen minutes after striking the island, the Queen of Swansea was swept away by the storm. The four crewmen aboard were never seen again. Days later, fragments of the ship and its cargo washed ashore near Twillingate.

At first, no one knew the fate of the Queen of Swansea or its passengers. Had they been rescued? Lost at sea? The truth was a grim mystery. Unbeknownst to anyone, 11 survivors were clinging to life on a barren, wind-swept island just a few miles from Cape St. John.

They had nothing—no food, no water, and no proper shelter beyond the salvaged piece of sailcloth. Their situation was dire, and before it was over, it would become far worse.

In Their Own Words

The survivors faced an unimaginable reality: they were tantalizing close to their destination, and even closer to the small community of Shoe Cove, but stranded—castaways on a barren, freezing rock in the North Atlantic. A few miles of open ocean might as well have been 100.

The island was little more than a desolate rock, offering nothing to sustain life. There was no food, and the only water came from falling snow. All they could do was huddle beneath their tattered piece of sailcloth, pray for rescue—and write.

Despite having no food or water, the castaways had one unexpected resource: paper and the means to write on it. Captain Owens, Felix Dowsley, and William Hoskins all made use of it to document their ordeal. When their bodies were eventually discovered, their pockets held letters recounting the horrors of their final days on the island.

With little colour, Captain Owens logged the specifics of the wreck:

"The captain and mate and seven men and two females land on the Gull Island by means of a rope at six o’clock AM, on the 12th December, 1867, just as we stood, neither bread, nor eatables, nor clothes. Boatswain, pilot, and one of the ship’s crew went away with the ship, and a married man, who was one of the passengers. All these four perished with the ship. This is written on the island after landing, by me." -- Captain Owens, Queen of Swansea

Captain Owens seemed to understand that his notes would have to tell the story of the disaster in his place — that he might not survive to explain it himself. His writings were brief and factual, documenting the events with stark simplicity.

In contrast, Felix Dowsley, the would-be medic for the mine, brought a personal and emotional tone to his writing. Rather than record the sequence of events, he chose to compose a series of heartfelt letters to his wife, Margaret, who was waiting for him in St. John’s.

His first letter, dated December 17, 1867 five days after the wreck— reveals the toll of the island’s harsh elements and his frame of mind.

"Our bed is on the cold rocks, with a piece of canvas, full of mud, to cover us. You may fancy what my sufferings are and have been. You know I was never very strong or robust. My feet are all swollen, and I am getting very weak. I expect that, if Providence does not send a vessel along this way to-day, or to-morrow, at the farthest, some of us will be no more, and I very much fear I shall be the first victim." -- Felix Dowsley, December 17, 1867

More shocking still, Dowsley confided the grim choices the castaways faced in their fight for survival.

If he were to die first, he warned Margaret:

"You will not have the gratification of getting my body, as they will make use of it for food." -- Felix Dowsely, December 17, 1867

The castaways were desperate.

They were on a cold, barren rock and had none of the necessities of life. It certainly appeared their will to survive had pushed them to contemplate some gruesome options.

Reportedly, an undated note found in the pocket of William Hoskins, who was travelling with his sister, said:

"We are starving and frozen and must draw lots so that some might keep alive longer should help come." -- William Hoskins, December 1867

A short time later he supplied the addendum:

"We have drawn, the lot fell on my poor sister. I have offered to take her place. The Horror of it all!" -- William Hoskins, December 1867

But neither Dowsley, nor any of the others succumbed as quickly. The following day he penned another note to his wife:

"I have been out to see if there might be any chance of a rescue : but no such thing. I am almost mad with the thirst; I would give all I ever saw for one drink of water, but I shall never get it. We are all wet and frozen. I am now going under the canvas to lie down and die. May God pity and have mercy on my soul!" -- Felix Dowsley, December 18, 1867

Again, Dowsley misjudged his fortitude. He survived long enought to write a thrid letter on Christmas Eve.

The Despair of Christmas Eve

On December 24th, nearly two weeks after the wreck, Dowsley penned his last letter to Margaret. His final text, legend has it, was written in blood.

It is, I think, perhaps the saddest of his notes:

"We are still alive. We had no relief since, and nor we are not likely to have any. We have not tasted a bit of food up to this of any kind with the exception of the dirty snow-water around and under our feet which we are very glad to devour. O what a desolate Christmas Eve and Christmas Day! I fancy I can see you making the sweet bread and preparing everything comfortable for tomorrow. Who would ever have supposed this would be my sad ending I did not think we could have lived so long, but now our case is hopeless... I would write more but feel unable. Your loving, but unhappy husband." -- Felix Dowsely, December 24, 1867

With that, no more was heard from Felix Dowsley nor any of the other castaways. What happened after that date, must be pieced together from the evidence left behind.

The Story Ends: April 1868

It was April 1868 when Mark Rowsell of Leading Tickles stumbled upon the remains of the Queen of Swansea castaways.

Returning from a sealing voyage, Rowsell found himself near Gull Island. The sea was calm, two of his men took a small boat to try their luck at bird hunting. They fired, wounding a bird mid-flight. The animal struggled upwards, disappearing out of sight on Gull Island. Not wanting to lose their quarry, the men rowed ashore and clambered up the rock face.

It was then they noticed a frayed, weathered rope dangling from the steep cliff. They followed the rope, and on the hilltop they found them — the remains of the castaways.

Most of the bodies were together under the piece of tattered sail — two were some distance away.

All of the bodies were frozen solid. Some, according to reports, showed evidence of flesh having been stripped away.

Shaken, the hunters returned to their vessel to report to Captain Rowsell. When he went ashore to confirm their findings, he knew there could be no doubt — these were the missing passengers of the Queen of Swansea. Leaving the scene undisturbed, Captain Rowsell set out for Tilt Cove —carrying with him the weight of what he’d seen and the horrible truth it suggested.

Rowsell returned with a crew from Tilt Cove. With them they brought crowbars and rough coffins. As carefully as possible they tried to separate the frozen bodies. Their remains were brought to Tilt Cove. It was there, the letters were recovered from the corpses.

It’s impossible to know how much beyond Christmas Eve Dowsley, or any of the other castaways survived, or the true circumstances of their deaths.

We can only be sure that one-by-one they died, in a manner that resulted in their bodies being divided into two distinct groups — one covered by the sailcloth, and one not.

It must have been horrific.

Cannibalism, Truth and Tact

Thanks to the writings of Captain Owens and Felix Dowsley, the story of the Queen of Swansea disaster has been well preserved. Their firsthand accounts provide a vivid, albeit harrowing, glimpse into the events that unfolded on Gull Island.

However, the notes written by William Hoskins—purported to include references to the drawing of lots—were reportedly lost not long after their discovery. The surviving references to Hoskins’ notes, at least as I interpret them, suggest that the group may have been considering the unthinkable: sacrificing one or more of their number to survive.

Dowsley, in his own writings, makes no mention of this possibility. However, in one of his letters to his wife, he does leave behind a hauntingly cryptic statement:

"I don't know how I have written what I have, but this I can say, the facts are worse than what I have named. " -- Felix Dowsely, December 17, 1867

Dowsley’s letter is far from an outright ‘admission’ of anything, but it does suggest there were darker, unspoken events on the island beyond the already grim realities he described — cold, starvation, and the possibility that his own corpse might be consumed.

Even so, I think the claims attributed to William Hoskins’ lost note must be viewed with a degree of skepticism. Mostly because we don’t have a good account of what was said, it wasn’t mentioned alongside the writings of Dowsley and Owens in most early reports, and it brings an additional drama that would have been very tempting to storytellers.

Many local accounts of the Gull Island tragedy make no direct mention of cannibalism. One standout, and I think relatively reliable source, is Rev. M. Harvey.

In a piece for the Maritime Monthly he wrote:

"This much is certain, that the fierce cravings of hunger at length drove some of the unhappy sufferers to that extremity from which nature revolts most strongly. Two skeleton forms, lying apart from the other dead bodies when discovered, and almost denuded of flesh, told a sad tale." -- Rev. M. Harvey, The Castaways of Gull Island, 1873

The international press was far less restrained. Reports circulated widely, with some alleging that the bodies recovered from Gull Island had stab wounds. An article in the English newspaper The Intelligencer, for instance, was particularly blunt.

What is the truth? Well at this point, the story of Gull Island may forever be clouded by the folklore that has developed around it.

Fires and Folklore

There are other aspects of the Queen of Swansea story that remain questionable. Often when people tell the tale, they say the people of Shoe Cove saw lights and fire on Gull Island that December. However, because the island was uninhabited and unused during the winter months, no one thought to investigate.

Some have even suggested that the villagers were reluctant to venture out due to a superstitious belief in Jack O’Lanterns—mysterious lights thought to be malevolent spirits or omens of danger.

While this detail adds an additional element of tragedy to the story, it is likely untrue. Both Captain Owens and Felix Dowsley wrote that they had no fire on Gull Island, casting significant doubt on the idea that any light or flame could have been seen coming from the island.

Legacy

The story of the Queen of Swansea has remained in Newfoundland’s memory for nearly 160 years, a powerful reminder of the harshness of the North Atlantic. While some details have been blurred by time, one fact is clear: the men and women stranded on Gull Island endured one of Newfoundland’s most tragic events.

Separated from their families at Christmas, they faced starvation, freezing temperatures, and despair, knowing rescue would not come. Their final letters, filled with sorrow and farewell messages, reveal their courage and heartbreak during those desperate days.

The Queen of Swansea is more than a tale of shipwreck; it is a story of loss, despair, and the cruel fate of those left so close to safety yet utterly alone. It remains one of Newfoundland’s saddest tragedies and one of the bleakest Christmases ever recorded.

#shipwreck #tragedy #Christmas #2024

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