#spain being around port

[zvaigzdelasas]

There is an overwhelming case for the UK to intervene to stop a US oil tanker carrying 300,000 barrels of jet fuel for use by Israel in Gaza from docking in Gibraltar, according to a letter from a cross-party group of MPs addressed to David Lammy, the UK foreign secretary.

Protests in Spain led by trade unionists and political activists have already resulted in the owners of the Overseas Santorini abandoning plans to dock in the Spanish port of Algeciras. According to Marine Traffic, the ship is now destined to reach Gibraltar at 3pm UK time on Tuesday.

The Gibraltar government, however, insisted it had received no formal request to dock.[...]

Campaigners said the Overseas Santorini was carrying military-grade JP-8 fuel, delivered as part of a contract with the US government, that powers F-16 fighter jets. According to a UN investigation, it was probably an F-16, which are built using UK parts, that bombed British doctors from Medical Aid for Palestinians at a compound in Gaza in January.

The MPs, including members of the Scottish Nationalists, Labour and Green parties, have urged the government to “prohibit and prevent Gibraltar being used as a haven for the transport of military fuel used in Israel’s assault on Gaza”.

The letter said: “The jet fuel will be unloaded and used to fuel the Israeli air force’s F16 and F35 that drop bombs on the people of Gaza. The 300,000 barrels of fuel are sufficient for around 12,000 F-16 refuellings.”

It added: “The case to prevent Gibraltar’s facilities from being complicit in Israel’s breaches of international law are overwhelming. Tens of thousands of Palestinians have been killed in Israel’s assault.””[...]

In May, the Spanish foreign minister, José Manuel Albares, said Spain will not authorise ships carrying weapons for Israel to call at its ports after the country refused to let a ship call at the south-eastern port of Cartagena.[...]

The campaigners said the oil is being shipped by the Valero company from Corpus Christi, Texas and is aimed to reach the port of Ashkelon in Israel. For years, these regular shipments have stopped at Algeciras and Limassol, Cyprus.

On Monday, the business secretary, Jonathan Reynolds, announced he was making a free trade agreement with Israel one of his priorities in securing trade deals. But ministers are expected shortly to announce limited restrictions on arms export licences to Israel if the arms are deemed capable of being used in Israeli offensives in Gaza.

29 Jul 24

[shadow4-1]

Got You! - Ghost x Reader Oneshot (NSFW)

please mind the tags on this one! this one is especially dark! tags: heavy noncon, slight dubcon, some torture, predator/prey dynamics

Summary: Being on the frontline as a Kortac hacker is just another job for you. But after a mission goes sideways, you find yourself in the clutches of a broken yet monstrous man they call Ghost.

You typed quickly and quietly on your tablet. A thick cord wormed its way from a port in its back all the way into a wall of servo units. The wall blinked and hummed, some lights flickering as you did your job and did it well.

"I can't believe they're paying so much for such little data." You murmured to yourself, eyeing the storage left on your removable drives. It was less than a couple gigabytes of intel. Off in the distance, you heard a few pops of gunfire, your fellow Kortac members keeping the area secure for you in particular.

"What a weird place to put this shit." You murmured again, glancing around at the room.

You couldn't remember where, in what country you were exactly. This was your third intel op for the week, it was all beginning to blend together. First time had been Russia, and then Spain, and then...Morroco? You were in Morroco, right? Based on the soft rug beneath your knees, the cotton drapes, and the casual color scheme, you supposed so.

All that mattered was getting the hell out of dodge. You half glanced back down at your tablet, another five minutes to completion. Most of the lights on the racks of servers had turned red, a sure sign you were doing your job correctly. Although, the more you looked around the stranger it all felt. Yes, you were a talented hacker. You'd worked hard to get where you were, but your instincts had never let you down either. Something about a server room being in the living room of a Moroccan household didn't seem right.

You heard some more insistent pops of gunfire. They weren't as far away as before. Your heart began to thump with the beginnings of anxiety. Leo, your main escort, was sure to be just outside of the cinderblock house. A part of you wanted to run to him, but you had to stop yourself. Three minutes, and you'd be able to get the hell out of there.

The pops of gunfire quickly became sprays. You heard something shatter across the street. Fuck.

"Leo!" You hissed out, grabbing your tablet, readying to rip the cord out of the back. "I almost got it!"

Thirty seconds. Come on. Come on!

Leo burst through the door, slamming it behind him. He huffed with adrenaline, forcing the door to lock and slamming a nearby bookcase against it. The gunfire was outside. You heard some yelling and returning fire. A man cried out in pain, you guessed one of yours. The glass of the living room window exploded.

Luckily for you, the servo units blocked your body from the main impact. Unluckily for your tablet, it was knocked from your grip. It skidded across the floor, screen shattered with a hole in the center.

A sniper.

You tried to reach out for your trusty tablet, but Leo had other ideas. With one of his large, tan arms, he hooked it around your center and yanked you upwards. Before you could even question him, he began to pull you towards the direction of the back of the house. Sprigs of his usually neat, slicked back hair fell across his forehead. He looked worried, an expression you were not used to seeing on the normally jubilant man.

"Leo, wha-"

You were cut off by the sound of the front door and bookcase splintering inwards. Daylight streamed into the dark house, making it harder to see. Leo practically picked you up and carried you as he ran. There was a long hallway with multiple doors that he locked behind you until finally, your path ended in a bedroom. The layout of this house was strange, but you hoped that it would help throw off your pursuers for just long enough that you could escape. It seemed Leo was thinking the same thing.

"Come on, girlie! The window, quick!" He huffed out through his thick, Australian accent. You happily obeyed, trying desperately to lift up the sill of the nearest window.

"It won't move!" You cried, throwing your entire shoulder against the small ledge. You yelped out in pain, multiple nails had pricked your palm. "It's nailed shut!"

There was a sickening crash from somewhere on the other side of the door. Leo stood tall, his rifle in hand, ready to blast a hole through whoever was planning on coming through. He looked over his shoulder, his brows furrowed in determination. Somehow, his energy was what you needed to keep from falling into a pure panic.

"Try the other one, girl! Kick it out 'f ya 'ave to!" He commanded, his low voice like a spell.

You climbed up onto the bed in the corner of the room. Sure enough, there was a skylight within reaching distance. You threw your body up the wall, the metal bed frame squeaking and shaking beneath you. You clawed and scratched, your fingertips barely making it to the ledge.

"I can't reach!" You cried. "M' too short!"

Leo made an aggravated noise in his throat, but it wasn't directed towards you. Out in the hall, there was the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked open. You glanced down at Leo, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes.

So this was it, huh?

Fucking weeks, months, of being stationed with this random man, and this was how both of you were to die. Cornered and helpless in a foreign country. A part of you supposed that maybe it was meant to be. Leo had always been kind of sweet to you in comparison to the rest of the men you worked with. Hopefully, your shared end would be quick.

Leo's eyes quickly swapped between you, the skylight, and the door. He blinked and then jumped up onto the bed with one stride. You squeaked as he pushed you to the wall, lifted the butt of his rifle, and knocked the glass out with a singular, smooth motion.

"Leo wai-"

He didn't wait. He dropped his rifle on the bed, hooked his hands underneath your thighs, and lifted you easily. Despite his help, you only managed to be tall enough to get your arms through the windowsill, but it was enough.

The door to the bedroom was thrown open with so much force that it caused the plaster of the wall to crack. Leo turned his back to the wall, letting your legs kick off his shoulders.

"It was a pleasure!" He called up to you, voice cracking.

"LEO!" You cried.

A folley of shots flashed from a muzzle in the doorway. Leo let out a garbled growl, reaching for his knife in its holster. He surged forward with his weapon, blood spots leaking into the back of his canvas vest. Leo was dying, and yet he kept fighting.

Fighting for you.

You refused to let his sacrifice be in vain. You turned your attention back to the roof beneath your fingers. The skylight was part of the floor of the flat roof of the house. If you managed to get your body through the sill, you could potentially be able to run from rooftop to rooftop to safety.

You used what little leverage you had in your arms and legs to push yourself up. It hurt, the glass dug into your fatigues and was no doubt embedding itself into your skin, but you hardly felt it.

Leo called out your name in a gritted scream.

You had to keep going.

Tears pricked in your eyes. You kept squirming and clawing your way up, pulling your right knee through the window. That was the final amount of leverage you needed. With a hard kick, you threw yourself a couple feet away from the skylight. You sucked in a well needed breath and turned over to fall on your knees.

You'd made it.

All you had to do was stand up and make a running jump to the next banister. You presumed it couldn't have been more than five feet away. Totally doable, even for your smaller stature. You got your right foot underneath you, using your hands to push up from the floor.

Something wrapped around your right ankle, squeezing so impossibly tight you felt the joints squeak. You cried out in pain, trying to right yourself, but falling onto your left side. You looked down at your legs to see what had ahold of you.

Fear froze you in place.

Through the darkened hole of the skylight, surrounded by broken glass, was the dark figure of a man's head. He was covered in all black, save for the bleached white skull he stared at you through. His eyes were so dark and smothered in kohl that only the whites of his eyes were truly visible.

He looked alien.

And he had a terrifyingly casual hold of your ankle with only one hand.

"Got you..." He hummed, his voice deep and dark and dangerous.

The panic finally kicked in, in full force. You screamed and threw your entire body weight away from the strange monster of a man. It seemed he anticipated your move because he tugged back at the same time you tried to surge forward. You gained absolutely no ground.

Tears began to blind your vision and you clawed and kicked with your free foot. You miscalculated. The extra foot was his next target. With his other hand, he snatched your free ankle into his grip.

You fell to the ground, kicking and screaming. Your leg muscles burned, your heart felt like it was about to explode with panic. You tried so desperately to use what was last of your strength to wiggle free, but it was no use.

With one very hard yank, he pulled you backward. In what felt like slow motion you watched as you were torn away from the sunny afternoon, the terracotta bricks and laundry clotheslines of freedom. You fell down and down and down into the darkness of the bedroom prison that was sure to be your tomb. Your nails caught on the texture of the wall as you belly flopped onto the bed below.

All of the air was forced out of your lungs. The fall had only been a few feet, but the impact of hitting your ribcage on the metal bedsprings of the mattress was enough to wind you. You sputtered and coughed, subconsciously curling up on yourself. The blankets tangled into the soles of your boots as you tried to put distance between yourself and your attacker.

A beat passed, and you gasped out, finally getting a lung full of air. You panted hard, putting your arms over your face, expecting a flurry of blows or a knife in your ribs.

"Who do you work for?" The man asked as he slowly stepped off the bed with heavy, measured footsteps.

Hysterically, you sobbed, refusing to look at his masked face. Despite your fear, you felt him come around the side of the bed to lean over your face. In a complete panic move, you kicked yourself backward, only serving to push yourself deeper into the corner of the bed against the wall.

It seemed the masked man's patience was dwindling. He roughly grabbed you by the shoulder and shook you with enough force to slam the back of your head against the wall. The pain, luckily, did clear your head enough to actually answer the question he asked.

"K-KORTAC!" You stammered out. "I-I work for K-Kortac! C-cyber tech o-operator!"

The man looked down at you with an odd sort of interest. He looked down at your legs, seemingly off in thought. The light that filtered down from the broken window cast him half in shadow and half in light. Behind him, on the floor, lay a body in a growing pool of blood.

"Leo..." You hiccuped out in recognition, feeling an intense pull of hysteria.

The man didn't even glance back at your fallen comrade. Instead, slowly, his eyes panned up your body until his gaze landed right on the Kortac chest insigna of your kit. Tears plinked down your lashes and into the canvas material.

The mystery man clicked a button on a comm unit tacked to the front of his vest. A man on the other end yelled out a callsign through static.

"Ghost! Ghost! How copy?" The voice had an accent you couldn't make out in your addled state.

"Copy, Soap." The masked man (Ghost, you presumed) spoke back. "Get to exfil now. Don't wait for me."

"But Ghost-"

"I said don't wait for me, sergeant." Ghost nearly yelled in annoyance. "Exfil in 40, out."

He stopped pressing the button on his comm unit and looked down at you once more. His expression was unreadable. You tried to make yourself seem as small as possible before him.

Ghost slowly glanced over his shoulder with only his eyes. He seemed to give Leo's dead body a short once over before he focused his attention on you again.

"You shag 'im?" He asked.

"Wh-...what?"

"You shag 'im?" He asked again, this time using your name to make the question somehow even more personal.

You looked up at him in a mix of horror and revulsion. What kind of question was that? This man had pursued you like an animal, murdered one of the few men you respected in cold blood, and now wanted to know if you'd been fucking that man while his dead body was still warm?

"F-fuck you." You choked out. Despite feeling drained off all your physical strength, you still had some mental fortitude left.

Ghost let out a soft huff. Whether or not it was a noise of amusement or annoyance, you couldn't tell.

You screeched as he grabbed the front of your kit with one hand. He lifted you out of the corner and slammed you back down in the center of the bed. The metal base squeaked and groaned but held up beneath the impact of your body again. You yelped out as he took his other hand and pulled out a wicked looking knife from his belt. The edges glinted with red, drying blood.

You tried to bat away his hand but he was significantly stronger than you. Even with all your might, he didn't budge. Running on pure fear and self-preservation, you dipped your head down towards his wrist. You clamped your teeth down hard against his gloves. He brought the knife up to your kit but stopped.

He made that noise again. And this time, it seemed to border on amusement.

The world turned black for a second.

When you came to, you could taste copper in your mouth. It ran hot down your nose and out the corners of your lips like drool. You groaned out pitifully, your body giving up any and all fight.

The bastard had knocked your lights out.

Despite all of your senses swimming in pain, you could feel your body physically lightening up in weight. With a bloody gurgle, you glanced down. Your kit and utility belt had been cut away, leaving you in just your fatigues.

"There we go. Good girl." He grumbled, putting his knife away. Something about the tenderness of his voice did not match up with his actions.

You whined out a cry, and he let you. He made no move to deck you again. Instead, unzipped your pants, hooked his fingers into the waistband, and yanked down.

You tried to pull your legs up and away but barely managed to twitch them. Your pants grew tangled around your still boot clad ankles. Ghost took absolutely no time in ripping it all off your body, making you sob as he twisted your already sore ankles.

"Stop..." You hiccuped weakly. "Please."

Roughly, he pushed the hem of your longsleeve up and over your breasts. He jerked it up over your shoulders so hard the fabric snapped and ripped. He threw the ruined garment to the side, seemingly too enraptured by the sight of your near naked body.

Weakly, you put a hand up to his chest as he put his knee up on the bed. There was no strength behind your push, and it seemed to amuse him. He let out a cruel chuckle and pinned your hand over your head as he positioned his entire body between your thighs.

Tears spilled so freely down your cheeks and neck that they soaked the bedsheets beneath your head. This was wrong. He had to know this was wrong. He couldn't do this. Could he?

"Please...no..." You whispered.

He didn't say anything, just breathed in slowly and steadily, eyes roaming over your entire body. He didn't move to touch you, or rip off your panties, or do anything else as monstrous as he'd done before. He just stared at you with an odd sort of fondness.

With his gloved hand he cupped at your face. You whimpered and cowered in his touch, but it was sweet, almost lover like. He wiped as much tears and blood from your face as he could, even taking the corner of a blanket to dab the excess body fluids away.

You were so confused and scared. What the hell was wrong with this guy? If he wasn't going to kill or rape you what did he want?

The hysteria finally set in.

How fucking funny was this? You couldn't find a decent man for years. Leo was the only one to come close, and even then, he was dead. And the two of you had barely been considered acquaintances. This big, fucking hulk of a monster knocked you out, ripped off your clothes, and now wanted to be tender with you all of a sudden?

You giggled once. Then that giggle turned into a chuckle. Soon enough, you were laughing softly against the hand cupping your face.

"I...what do you want?" You managed out between hysterical pants.

He didn't answer, just leaned his body down low over you. The bed protested hard beneath you both but stayed together. Slowly, he began to put his entire weight down on you.

At first, you wheezed, your beaten body unable to handle the load on top of it. Eventually, after enough time, you began to melt beneath him. Despite the discomfort of everything, his body felt warm and solid... and almost safe in a fucked up way you couldn't explain.

Ghost slid his other hand between you, cracking your legs apart. His still clothed core pressed up against yours. You knew that the too hard lump straining against the fabric was definitely not a gun.

"Why?" You asked meekly. "Why are you doing this?"

The man buried his mask clad face into the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply before slowly breathing out.

"Mine." He admitted, giving your body an experimental thrust.

He groaned low in his throat. Again and again he thrust hard against your center, his cock grinding into your panty clad entrance.

What did he mean he "mine"? He was trying to fuck your forcefully pliant body. This man was a fucking lunatic. What in the godforsaken world di-

The head of his cock brushed up against the mound of your cunt. Despite the layers of clothes between them the head found its way just deep enough between your lips that he brushed up against your clit. Tears pricked in your eyes. Again and again and again, he pleasured you with each cant of his hips. You cried at the feeling. He wiped the tears away sweetly.

Why didn't he just rape you hard? Why did he have to drag this out, make it sweet? If he wanted your body so bad why didn't he just take it? He obviously had no qualms about using force.

"Thas' it, love." He murmured softly. "Just like that."

Was this some kind of sick fantasy? Did he truly believe you were into this? Or was he just pretending you were to fulfill some kind of fucked up need for human closeness?

He kept rutting against you, mumbling quietly against your neck. Most of it was filthy name calling, the rest was too damn sweet for the act he was committing.

"Fuckin' pretty thing you are. Not getting away from me." He muttered, seemingly half out of his mind. "Never getting away from me. Ever again."

You were so confused. Since when had you ever met this man before? You were certain you would've remembered him and all of his monstrous qualities. You tried hard to squirm away from his touch, but he kept you right where he wanted you to be.

"Never again, love. Not letting you slip through m' fingertips again." With his free hand, he pulled the front of your sports bra down. One of your breasts popped free of its confines and into his view.

"No please..." You begged.

"Should've thought of that before you ran off." He growled.

Words relaying your confusion immediately died in your throat. Ghost tugged the bottom portion of his mask up and then proceeded to pull your nipple into his mouth. He bit you hard, making you scream before letting up. He lapped at the aching bud, forcing it to harden into a throbbing peak. As if just to spite you, he traced your areola with his tongue, making your entire body shake with whiplash from the pleasure.

"Stop please!" You begged. "You're hurting me."

Ghost made that huffing noise again, his breath cooling the saliva against your nipple. He pulled your other breast out and pressed the two together. He swiped the flat of his tongue over both buds. You squeaked and tossed your head back.

"Thought you could hide behind your lil' computer, love?" He growled out, his drool leaking between your tits. "Thought I'd never find you?"

"Wha-?"

"Thought you could just drop off the face of th' Earth n' I'd never find you again?" He nearly yelled. "Should've known a slag like you was just in it for a paycheck."

"I don't...what?" You tried. "What do you mean?"

Ghost sat up to glower over your face. His jaw was set hard. You could see the veins in his neck since he'd pulled his mask up to his nose. You blinked tears out of your eyes. What you thought was the shadow of his jugular turned out to be the corner of a neck tattoo. One you immediately recognized.

"S-Simon?"

Despite his obviously bad mood he still managed to crack a smile. It was genuine and yet still so full of malice. His grin was still as beautiful as the night you'd met him. And the night you'd chosen to run away.

"I was scared!" You cried out in admittance.

"You were scared?" He chuckled. "When every night you were in my bed n' cummin' on me?"

It had been years since you'd seen him. You'd been mere weeks out of university, adrift and broke, but with a shiny new certificate in computer science. Just to get a free meal here and there, you'd found yourself going out on dates with random men. You'd never had much luck with men, and so it was easy to forget their many faces.

But Simon's you could never forget.

He'd been quiet, almost too quiet. He'd exclusively asked you questions about yourself in a much meeker voice. Come to think of it, he'd sounded like a different person the whole time. Did he do it on purpose so as not to intimidate you? Or was it a side effect of the pills he was taking while he'd been on medical leave?

He'd made it clear the two of you weren't going to be long term. And you were okay with that. It wasn't until you got a job at a programming firm that he started getting leery. When you made it clear your fling of a relationship wasn't going to work he'd retreated. And then he came back...lurking in the shadows.

"I-you were stalking me!"

"You still have no idea what I've done for you."

For a moment the two of you looked at each other. The pure terror of a moment ago was starting to wash away. This man was no longer a complete, deranged stranger willing to murder you in cold blood. He was still unhinged and dangerous, but he'd shown he wasn't going to kill you immediately. Your chances of getting out of this situation were much more likely. You appreciated those odds.

"What did you-"

"Y' think i' was a coincidence?" He hummed, cocking his head slightly. "Getting that job. N' endin' up here?"

"Simon-"

"You were meant for me." Ghost said with pure conviction. "You were meant to be next to me...under me."

The egoistical side of you wanted to fight, to scream, to make it clear you'd never want him ever again. The other side was absolutely certain that to live through this encounter was to appeal to him. You'd done it before and it'd worked. It was partially why you'd slept with him so much back then. And why you'd forced yourself to cuddle into his iron grip afterwards.

"On your back. On your knees..." He kept trailed off, eyes drooping in arousal. You felt a hard twitch between your legs.

Your stomach lurched at the thought of your dead, fucked out body being haphazardly tossed on top of Leo's. You needed to live. You'd do whatever you had too. And you knew what'd it take.

"S-Simon...I-look I'm sorry." You swallowed hard, tasting nothing but copper. "You scare me sometimes, but I-I still really care about you."

"Don't lie to me, lovie." He scoffed. The usage of his old nickname made you shudder.

"Simon...I've never stopped thinking about y-you." You sighed out, feeling your skin flush with embarrassment for admitting such a thing. It was marginally a lie since you mostly thought about him with fear in your heart. But there was a part of you who missed his body, his hands, and how'd he'd fuck you apart night after night.

"Please....I-" You slowly moved to sit up on your elbows. As you did your core inadvertently brushed against him. A warm jolt of pleasure shot up through your spine and you couldn't help but bite your lip.

There was a new tension in the air.

"Always such a fuckin' minx." Ghost growled.

"J-just for you." You admitted, forcing your gaze away from Leo's body. "I swear..."

"I know." Ghost hummed, cupping your face in his palm. The sweet gesture made your lashes flutter.

"You're a good girl." He said, as if off in thought. "Just needed a break. N' now you're back, back w' me."

"I..." You blinked, feeling tears well in your eyes. You were playing right into his hand. You knew it, and yet...a part of you didn't care.

He'd pulled strings, murdered and God knows what else just to give you a life outside of him. It'd all been one big, nasty lie just to make you feel good. Just so your inevitable fall back into his arms would feel earned. Because you didn't earn anything. Your entire life trajectory had been an unearned lie. But somehow, someway, you'd earned his affections. And that was all that seemingly mattered in your life.

"Mm...missed you, love." He sighed.

With that he kissed you softly. He was too sweet, too loving. It made your heart ache. You couldn't stop the few sobs that escaped. He didn't seem to care as he licked over your blood tinged tongue. He tasted like he'd always had. Like fresh cigarettes and bitter pine. Your head swam.

"Fuck. M' missed the way you taste." Ghost sighed, licking his lips.

He roughly tugged your panties, making the stitching pop, forcing the elastic to dig into your flushed skin.

"W-wait I-" You squeaked.

It didn't matter. With an easy flick of his wrist the entire garment came off with a rip. The amount of strength and tension used on the cotton practically burned your skin as it was forced off of you. You cried out in discomfort, trying desperately to close your legs, but it was of no use.

Without another second to lose, Ghost hooked his arms up beneath your legs and forced them up. He pushed them back so hard and so quickly he forced the air out of your lungs. You gasped, trying to right yourself.

"There w' go." He growled, staring at your now bare cunt, your knees up to your ears. He kissed your mound, nuzzling his nose into the dusting of hair, breathing you in.

A part of you felt disgusted. You'd been sweating out in the desert, sweating in fear of him, and it seemed he was drinking it all in. Truly a beast he was.

"See you haven't shaved." He hummed, giving a few broad laps to your folds. With each lick, a bit of his thick saliva grew matted into the light dusting of hair. You whimpered.

"Good." He chuckled.

You yelped when he slipped his tongue into you. It was thick and wide and he'd never had any issues getting you open this way. He much preferred to lick your cunt lips apart to accommodate him than sully his fingers. You hated this despite how good it felt. His fingers were always a bit less personal. This way? You had no choice but to watch as he devoured you like a starving man.

You supposed he was.

He'd made it clear you were his and his alone. And if that was the case, then he was only yours too. At least, you'd hoped so. You hoped no other woman would ever be subjected to this torment.

You cried out, legs shaking from the stress but also the pleasure. You tried so hard not to watch him drill his fat tongue right between your lips. He was drooling, his saliva spilling down and down over your neglected clit and onto your squashed tits. He wiggled his tongue in a way that brushed over that rough spot he liked torment. He bullied the tip of his tongue as deep as he could, letting it point right between the gummy ridges of your g-spot. You couldn't help yourself.

It'd been years.

Every man you'd ever talked to had scorned you or disgusted you. You'd never wanted to touch one until Leo had come into your life. And even then, he was untouchable. You'd been too nervous to flirt. At the time you didn't know why, but now, you'd subconsciously known you'd had a skull on your back. Perhaps you were getting a slight kindness for staying untouched all this time.

You cried as you came. Your hips bucked and writhed. Your spine protested, your head swam from the lack of blood flow. Everything floated away for a gorgeous second before your soul slammed back into your addled body.

"Fuckin' 'ell..." Ghost purred. As he talked a wetness spilled out of his mouth. For a brief second you wondered if he was really drooling that much. "C'mon, lovie. Give it to me."

"Wha-"

Ghost latched onto your clit and sucked so hard you screamed. You felt two of his fingers slip inside you with no resistance. They bullied that spot again while he forced pleasure out of your nub. The first orgasm didn't have a chance to fade into an afterglow. The second orgasm came quickly. It burned. Your belly muscles didn't even have a chance to relax.

"Simon!" You mewled, absolutely lost.

He wouldn't stop. He kept taking and taking and taking. He let his teeth graze at the sensitive flesh of your clit. You saw stars again. This time, the orgasm was so violent you screamed. Every bone in your body shook. Your eyes rolled up into the back of your head.

You came to with the warm splashes of wetness against your breasts. A familiar and yet foreign pressure in your belly was being released. More warm wetness dripped quickly onto your neck and chin. You let out a weak cry.

When you finally managed to open your bleary eyes you realized what'd happened. The entire bottom half of Ghost's face was shiny with slick. He huffed against you with pure excitement in his eyes. Your cum coated the inside of his mouth with the telltale sheen of cream.

"Knew you were a squirter." He grinned at you.

It was as if your orgasm was a feast for him. He hungrily lapped every ounce of your relief off of your body. To get to your cummy chest he released your legs. They fell apart, and you groaned in relief. Fresh blood finally flowed to your head, and you grew dizzy.

"Ah ah, no goin' soft in th' head on me now, lovie." Simon hummed as he laved his big tongue over your wet breasts. He slapped your cheek. Not enough to really hurt you, but certainly enough to clear up the stars in your eyes.

"Simon..." You hiccuped.

"Only got a few minutes left." He mused, eyes scouring over your entirely bare body.

Despite wanting to fight him, your extremities felt like jelly. You couldn't even catch your breath. All you could do was lay there in complete submission.

Without a warning, Ghost used his strength to flip you completely over. He forced you up onto your knees and pressed your face into the now tainted sheets.

You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, but there wasn't much of a point anymore. No one was coming to help, and even if they did they'd be dead before they could process what was even happening to you. Ghost was going to take you. And you'd asked for it.

It beat death, right?

He entered you roughly from behind. Luckily, he'd prepped you well, so there wasn't any pain. Just the warm, muted burn of him stretching you open for the first time in years. You'd forgotten what the feeling of sex was like. You couldn't help the low groan that escaped your lungs.

Ghost was right there with you. He hissed loudly, gritting his teeth as he sunk right into you. His big, gloved hands palmed roughly at your ass. He forced your cheeks apart to no doubt give him an excellent view of where you joined together. You squeaked when you felt a couple of his thick fingers spread your lips apart even further.

"Fuckin' 'ell." He groaned. "Missed this tight lil' cunt o' yours."

You whimpered.

"Next time I'll make sure you get the fuck you deserve, lovie." He growled. "But m' runnin' short on time."

"Si-."

A hand roughly grabbed your throat and squeezed. You opened your mouth in shock but nothing came out. No words, no air, just a silent shock.

Ghost began to move, fucking you roughly. He wasted no time in forcing his fat cock back into those parts of yourself you didn't know existed. He kept his grip tight. You couldn't breathe in or out. Tears and panic began to well in your chest.

With the smallest amount of energy you had left, you tried to claw his hands away, but he just choked you tighter. The mix of fear, lack of oxygen, and pleasure was too much for your brain. Black spots began to form in your vision.

"There we...ngh-go." He huffed. Every thrust was punishing. You could feel his sharp hipbones and hefty balls slap into your core. Your only saving grace from the stinging contact was the cushion of your innate softness.

You began to choke. The pressure building in your chest and behind your eyes was immense. The entire room was spinning. Drool spilled past your open, air hungry lips. The black spots began to completely fill your vision. Everything started to float away into that dark, sleepy place.

"Fuck." Ghost panted, his thrusts becoming uneven. "Fuck!"

The moment he came, he let up on your airway.

Everything had turned black for you. When you finally came to, completely out of it, the entire act was over. It hurt to much to move, but you could feel the wet cream between your legs. It had been awhile but you could never forget the feeling of being stuffed with Simon's seed.

His comm unit made a static-y noise and he answered it.

"M' on m' way. Five minutes to exfil." He hummed. "N' I managed to catch a lil' bird."

Ghost didn't wait for his teammate to respond, instead he lazily got off the bed. He eyed your body, smirked, then pulled his mask back down.

"I hope you learned your lesson, lovie." He said, lovingly rubbing your cheek. "Time t' come home."

You couldn't make any noise, your voice stolen from you. You couldn't even swallow. All you could do was lay there and look at him as he took to work getting you dressed again. He was haphazard and rough. Anything he couldn't put back on you, he didn't. The last thing he adorned you with were ziptie handcuffs to your hands and feet.

Ghost then threw you over his shoulder and headed back out the way he came. He didn't even bother to walk over Leo's corpse. Instead, he opted to step directly onto the dead man's head. You closed your eyes and desperately tried to block out the sickening, wet sound.

The sunlight burned but its blinding, white rays were welcoming. You'd never thought you'd see the light of day again, and so the blistering heat of it was welcome. Something told you to relish in it, as it might be awhile before you'd get to see it again.

The position over Ghost's shoulder made it impossible to look up. The only thing you could see were the back of his legs and feet. However, you could hear the sound of men yelling and running around. They began to get washed out by a helicopter whirring, it's blades cutting the air and cooling the sweat on your skin.

Ghost stepped onto the helicopter and unceremoniously dropped you to the metal plated floor. You couldn't even groan in pain as your leg took the brunt of the fall. All you could do was lay there, restrained and in so many different versions of pain.

The small grouping of men in tactical gear hungrily eyed your body. Each one was more distinctive than the last. One of them slow whistled and when he spoke you recognized him as the man over the comm unit.

All of the men, including Ghost, stood around you. They discussed your fate, each one getting more and more creative as they went on. The one in charge, the one with the beard smiled sweetly down at you. He wiped a stray tear away from your face with the back of his curled index finger.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Simon. We'll get 'er to sing for us."

In that moment, you realized you should've asked Leo to shoot you when you had the chance.

[pascalispretty]

history stopped in 1936

Javi G x F!Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angst, Spanish Civil War AU, war and its horrors, brief and vague descriptions of sex, it's implied that Javi and reader are speaking Spanish the entire time, references to drinking and smoking, unbeta'd so please be gentle!

Summary: The Spanish Civil War threatens the slice of paradise you and Javi have found together. (AO3)

A/N: Hoo boy. This was written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge, and the moment I saw the moodboard, I knew I wanted to do something Atonement-inspired. You don't need to know who the opposing sides were in the war, but if you'd like to learn more, I'd recommend George Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia". The title comes from an essay of his. As always my love to @misscharlielulu for her support.

Mallorca, August 1936

Spain burns and, across the Balearic Sea, rumours are carried like ash on the wind.

You and Javier had fled Barcelona in the middle of the night, just after St Jordi’s Day. The streets had still been littered with rose petals as you had made your way to the docks, and the waiting ship. The atmosphere in Barcelona had grown tense, shimmering with electricity like the air just before a thunderstorm.

In July, your fears had been vindicated when news trickled across the sea, whispers of a violent uprising. Nobody could say for certain who had seized power – the anarchists, the communists, the Carlists, or some as-yet-unknown political spectre.

By contrast to the news reports that trickled over from the mainland, Mallorca felt safe. The ocean separating the island from the peninsula made the war feel further away, something that was happening in another world. Even when Barcelona fell or when, days later, Franco invaded with his African army in Seville - it all felt so far away, separated by miles of sparkling blue water.

On your island sanctuary, you and Javi managed to find a measure of happiness. Reminders of the war were never far away, and you were all probably smoking and drinking too much, but it didn’t matter. You could still watch movies on the projection reel he’d bought before he met you. Tucked up against Javi’s side, watching Clark Gable or Errol Flynn, you could forget the war on the mainland entirely.

It was only when the war came to Mallorca that you realised how deluded you had been.

With censored newspapers and downed radio communications, rumours run like wildfire across the island. Days after Seville falls, the stableboys hear that the Republicans have landed on the east coast – the housekeeper tells Marta that it’s Russians sent by Stalin, and the man who delivers the mail insists its Italians. There’s fighting in the streets of Palma and to the ports in the east, but nobody can agree on who exactly is fighting who.

You clean up after breakfast, a hastily made pa amb tomàquet that masks the staleness of the bread. Even for a family as rich as the Gutierrez’s, you cannot waste food anymore.

They say the fighting is in Palma, and Porto Cristo. Drawn onto a map, the Gutierrez villa would form the apex of the triangle; it’s about as far away from the fighting as you can get while still being on dry land. You try to breathe. It’s just another Tuesday morning. You’re breaking leftover breadcrusts into a bowl for the dogs when Javi appears.

“Leave that, my love. Come out into the garden with me?” He asks, wrapping a large hand around your wrist. You don’t need much convincing; you wipe your hands down on a towel and twine your fingers with your husband’s as you walk out across the patio to the greenery beyond.

The gardens are a riot of colour. In the hazy, golden light of summer, the colours seem almost over-saturated. It’s a world away from the dark, medieval splendour of Barcelona. Foxgloves and red poppies and bright marigolds fill the carefully planned beds around the pond, a riot of Technicolour hues that somehow work beautifully in concert.

In the sunlight, Javi’s curls look gilded; he glows, in spite of the anxiety furrowing his brow. A stone bench sits beneath a gazebo, and he leads you over there. The wooden structure is heavy with jasmine; the smell perfumes the air, blending with the salt of the nearby sea.

“Is something wrong, Javi? Is it Marta?” You ask, worry colouring your voice. Javi’s mother, Marta, was a complicated woman. She had loathed Lucas, her nephew by marriage, but had been unable to get out of bed for days when news had reached her that he had been taken into Montjuïc Castle as a prisoner. Even across the ocean, you had come to know that nobody came out of Montjuïc alive.

Javi shakes his head, his hand cupping your elbow as he guides you to sit down on the bench beside him. Even now, it’s unlike him to look so morose.

“I’ve been talking to my father.” This much you already knew. One of the stableboys had come to fetch Javi in the middle of breakfast: his father had requested his son ride out with him. Whatever they discussed, it’s knocked your husband’s relentless optimism, and that worries you more than anything.

You hold Javi’s hands and wait patiently for him to tell you what’s bothering him, but he seems unable to find the words. Your mind careers from calamity to disaster in his silence. Someone somewhere has issued a warrant for Javi’s arrest. The army is on the move and will reach the cliffs by nightfall. His father, Jordi, has had another heart attack.

“My father- that is, my father and I-” Javier starts. You squeeze his fingers, your heart beating a rapid tattoo in your rising panic.

“Please, Javi, just tell me,” you plead. He looks out over the cliffs and his shoulders slump resignedly.

“My father thinks you should leave.” A punch to the gut could not have winded you more. You sit there, blinking at him like an idiot, unable to understand what he just said.

“My father thinks you need to leave, and I do too.” He turns away from the ocean, cupping your face in his hand and forcing you to look into your eyes. “You need to leave Mallorca, leave Spain. Tonight if possible.”

“You want to send me away?” You manage, sounding rather more pathetic than you’d hoped. Javi shakes his head, his lovely brown eyes full of sorrow.

“I want you to be safe. And it’s not safe here, not for you.”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than-”

“It is more dangerous for you. The worst thing they do to men is shoot them.” The unspoken implication hangs unpleasantly in the air. Javi sighs and glances back towards the house. “My father thinks he can persuade my mother to leave.” You want to scream. You want to ask who made Jordi such an authority, who made him king of his own tiny dominion and gave him the power to dismiss you.

In your gut, you know Javier’s father is right. He’s been weathering the storms of Spanish politics since before you were born, a wily fox of a man who had declared months ago that the political powderkeg was about to explode.

 “I won’t leave you,” you insist, your voice firmer now. Jordi might be right; an army will come here someday. But you’d rather face them than abandon your family. “Until death do us part, Javi.”

“Please, sweetheart. It would only be for a little while. The war can’t last forever.” He manages a smile; a soft, crooked grin that wants to make you give in. You’d do so much to make him smile again.

“Your father will never get Marta to leave. She won’t leave him, and you won’t leave them.” The half-smile falls from Javi’s face.

“They’re old, sweetheart. I need to take care of them. But you – you’re strong. I know you can do this. You’ll go somewhere safe, and as soon as we’ve weathered this storm, you’ll come back.” Both of his hands are cupping your face now. Somewhere overhead, seagulls are screaming. His optimism makes you want to scream too.

“No, Javi, no, I can’t-” you start again, clutching his wrists in your hands.

“You can, you must,” he talks over you. In frustration you pull away, marching over the grass towards the house. One of Marta’s cats yowls at you as you pass it, pleading for attention, but you’re too upset to pay it any mind. Javi is hot on your heels, by turns pleading and stern. The door to your bedroom bangs against the wall as you fling it open.

You want space, but Javi won’t give it to you. He’s in your face, his hands roaming over you, clutching at your shoulders, your arms, your wrists. His rosy view of the world had been charming when you’d first met – now it makes you angry beyond words.

“I’m not leaving you,” you insist sharply, bringing your hands up to push your husband away from you. His hands circle your wrists instead, refusing to let you escape. “I’m not leaving you!” You repeat it in English, in your broken Catalan, in French. You tell him over and over in as many languages as you know, all the while struggling to break free of his hold.

The kiss takes you by surprise. He keeps one hand at your wrists; the other cups the back of your head. There’s no elegance to the kiss. He presses his mouth to yours, full lips meeting your own, your breath mingling with his. You’d almost think he’d done it deliberately to throw you off balance, if not for the surprised little intake of breath he makes.

“You are leaving tonight,” he says, once he’s broken the kiss. His fingertips grip the nape of your neck, your foreheads press together. You try to shake your head against his, but his hand at your neck grips tighter. “If I have to throw you into the boat myself, you’re leaving tonight.”

“I’ll hate you forever if you do.” It’s a childish assertion. His soft brown eyes fill with quiet devastation, and you immediately want to take it back.

“I’d rather have you hate me and survive than love me and die.” The two of you grapple again; him trying to keep his hold on you as you try to escape his grip. You have no real notion of why you want to break free – you could hardly hide in a cabinet until he gave up and allowed you to stay.

When the two of you tumble back onto the bed, it is an accident. You had tried to kick out with your legs, but had only succeeded in knocking you both off balance. His arms wrap around you as you lie on top of him, doing your best to squirm free and failing miserably.

You and Javi rarely argue. Any petty squabbles you do have are usually easily and quickly resolved. And when you do fight, you’ve gotten used to burning out that tension with sex.

So it feels like the most natural thing in the world to start pulling his shirtfront open. He takes your cue, his hands falling from your wrists and setting to work on the buttons of your dress. There’s a frantic energy to you both; for all you had been fighting him before, you can’t pull him close enough now. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to memorise every inch and curve of him before he sends you away.

You sink your fingers into his curls and drag him down closer. It’s not making love, not the soft, slow sex that you and Javi usually have. This is something harsher, more demanding. The bedframe rattles with the force of your movements, and you know you should be embarrassed. The servants or Javi’s parents could hear, your actions unmistakable when the noise of the bed combines with the moans escaping from you both.

When you’ve both come, and are lying satiated in each other’s arms, the fire has gone out of your conversation. Javi rests his head on your breasts, humming contentedly as you play with his curls. You admire the Monet painting that faces the bed, the hazy floral landscape that you wish for all the world you and your husband could escape into. The canvas lilies almost seem to sway in the breeze with the haze of heat rising through the room.

“What if you forget me?” You say softly. As much as you know Javi loves you, you can’t deny that the thought scares you. That you will leave, but after long years of war, Javi will have moved on. He’ll find some pretty Mallorquin girl that never went into exile and never come to rescue you from your banishment.  

“I could never forget you,” Javi says, tilting his head back to look at you. Those beautiful eyes of his are so full of sorrow that you want to cry yourself.

“You say that. What if this war lasts as long as the Great War? Longer?”

“It doesn’t matter. ‘If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever’,” he says in English.

“Byron?” You ask, and he shakes his head. Of course he would quote poetry at a time like this.

“Tennyson. It’s true. I could fill the whole island with flowers, all the thinking of you I shall do while we’re parted.” Javi’s hands rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking lazy circles onto your skin.

“Wouldn’t that be something to behold. A whole island, full of flowers. You could live four lifetimes and never run out of scenery to paint.”

“I would write to you every day, you know,” Javier manages eventually. You know he would. Javi has always had an excellent turn of phrase – there were half-drafted screenplay ideas all over your apartment in Barcelona.

“And one letter in twenty might reach me,” you retort. The postal service hasn’t exactly been running efficiently of late, never mind the inevitable censorship everything seems to be going through.

“I would keep you here with me if there was any way I could be sure you’d be safe.” He says gently, and you sigh. “And I would like you to go willingly. But you’re going either way, I’m afraid.” Even issuing orders, there’s undeniable tenderness to it.

“Between the both of us, we might fill all of Europe with flowers.” You try to imagine it; two paths of flowers creeping across the continent, growing every time you and Javi think of one another.

“The whole world, even.” Javier clutches a little tighter at your thighs, and you can hear tears thickening his voice. You hold each other tighter, and you know now that neither of you will loosen your grip until the very last moment.

****

Later, there will be a forget-me-not pressed into your hand as you and Javi say your final goodbyes at the dock. Your clothes are weighted down by the money and jewellery sewn into the hems, but it’s the flower you treasure the most. You refuse to cry as you sail away; you stare insistently at the dock, long after Javier has faded from your sight. You know he’ll be doing the same, standing on the pier and keeping a watchful eye on the horizon until the sky starts to lighten with the dawn.

Later, in spite of your denials, there will be letters. Javi writes to you often, mostly of trivial, household matters that won’t be censored. In every one he tells you how the gardens are growing. In every one, there is a flower drawn into the margin. You hoard them like a dragon hoards gold; when your homesickness makes you feel physically ill, you surround yourself with his letters and tracing the lines of his pen.

Later, there will be a screenplay. It’s smuggled off the island and brought directly to you by a man who only speaks brusque Catalan, and you nearly weep just to hear the language spoken again. The screenplay bears a pseudonym – Javier Peña – but every line is clearly your Javi’s work. It tells of a great love story flourishing in the face of a brutal war, of love conquering all. You cry over the last twenty pages, a handkerchief clasped to your face so you don’t smudge the ink.

Later, the war will end. Spain will survive, though she will not be saved. You will never walk through a garden of flowers without thinking of Javi.  

****

 “But what really happened? The answer is simple: the lovers survive and flourish.” – Ian McEwan, Atonement

TAGLIST:

@avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse @totallynotastanacc

[ltwilliammowett]

The final door is no. 24 and that means today is Christmas Eve and so let's see who greets us today and it's the old lady herself. HMS Victory is here to wish you a Merry Christmas.

HMS Victory in Snow

More about her here:

Our famous lady was designed by Sir Thomas Slade, Senior Surveyor of the Royal Navy. She was launched in 1765 and used around 6000 trees of which 90% were oak, the remainder being elm, pine and fir. She was not commissioned until 1778 and this long period of weathering resulted in her timbers being well seasoned which was a major reason for her long life. She was a First Rate Ship of the Line with an outfit of 100 guns on 3 decks.

She was in active service for 34 years. She served as the flagship to a number of distinguished Admirals and fought at the first Battle of Ushant in 1778 (Keppel), the Second Battle of Ushant in 1781 (Kempenfelt) and the Battle of Cape St Vincent in 1797 (Jervis). In 1797, she was pronounced unfit for further active service and was due to be converted to a hospital ship. However, when HMS Impregnable was lost in October 1797 leaving the Admiralty short of a First Rate, the decision was taken to refit Victory which took place at Chatham between 1800-1803.

As part of an extensive reconstruction, extra gun ports were added, increasing her guns from 100 to 104, the magazine was lined with copper, the masts were replaced and the paint scheme changed from red to the black and yellow seen today. She sailed for Portsmouth in April 1803 and Nelson hoisted his Flag onboard in May 1803 as Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet. Admiral Lord Nelson was Victory’s most famous Admiral.

On 21 October 1805, she led the British Fleet under his command into battle against a Franco-Spanish force off Cape Trafalgar. Nelson was shot at the height of the battle and died at 16.30 when victory was assured. SHe suffered a lot of punishment, 57 men were killed and 102 wounded, and the ship was so badly damaged that she had to be towed to Gibraltar for emergency repairs before returning home with Nelson’s body onboard.

After further service in the Baltic and off the coast of Spain, she was placed in reserve in 1812 and was moored off Gosport as a depot ship. Flagship of the Port Admiral, Portsmouth from 1824, she became flagship of the Commander-in-Chief in 1899. She then slowly deteriorated at her moorings until a campaign to save her was started in 1921 by the Society of Nautical Research (SNR).

In 1922 she was moved into No 2 dock Portsmouth, the oldest drydock in the world, for restoration. The work was completed in 1924 and preservation continued under the supervision of the Society for Nautical Research. The ship subsequently underwent another extensive restoration programme to make her appearance as close as possible to that at Trafalgar, for the bicentenary of the battle in October 2005. She is still in commission as the flagship of the Second Sea Lord/Commander-in-Chief Naval Home Command.

[toseehowthestoryends]

Hal Gates = Henry Avery

So, I've seen the theory that Hal Gates = Henry Avery, and I laughed at it until I did the research.

And holy shit, it fits.

What made me start scratching my head was when I stumbled upon a second draft script for the pilot that is a little different from what aired. It straight up says that Hal Gates is in his 60s in Episode I/1715. For some reason, I figured him a bit younger, but since Mark Ryan was only 58 when the show started airing...it starts to make sense.

Henry Avery was (probably) born in 1659. He'd be 56 in 1715.

Short history: Henry (Hal?) Avery was a British-born sailor who spent some time in the Royal Navy as a master's mate, became a privateer, and then a pirate captain when the crew of his ship mutinied and elected him. Then he became the most successful pirate of his age, the "Arch Pirate," and the subject of the first-ever worldwide manhunt after only two years as a pirate captain.

Then he escaped with his loot around 1695, twenty years before Black Sails begins, never to be seen again.

But there are theories that he disappeared to New Providence Island.

(More on that below the cut). Isn't that fascinating? We don't know where Hal Gates comes from, but we know he's been around for quite awhile. He's the right age (practically spot on). Hornigold implies that Gates has been at sea for around 50 years, which would mean he first went to sea around 1665, give or take a little. The first mention of Every at sea is around 1671, but what's 5-6 years when you're rounding?

The Black Sails universe credits Avery/Every as one of the founders of the Nation of Thieves, saying "this is a place for free men," on New Providence Island. He's also the man who found Skeleton Island.

We know Hal Gates sailed on his crew and had his journals (his "prized possession," which he gave to Flint for safekeeping. Why give those to someone who was supposedly a minor member of his crew (someone who was "terrified Avery knew his name")? That doesn't add up very well. Why would Gates even have those journals?

"They say it started with a man named Henry Avery. Sailed into the port of Nassau, bribed the colonial governor to look past his sins, encamped his crew upon the beach, and thus began the pirate issue on New Providence Island." (Thomas Hamilton to James McGraw)

Avery vanishes into thin air, after supposedly giving Hal Gates his journals and leaving some of his crew on New Providence Island, including - presumably - Gates. Unless, of course, he is Hal "Gates." Then we've definitely seen him, the man who didn't really want to be a pirate captain until it was thrust upon him. That's a weird attitude, unless, of course, he's retired and is just going to see as a quartermaster because he missed the action?

More Avery/Every history beneath the cut.

Black Sails spells his name as Avery, though the common spelling is actually Every. So, what's his story?

Henry Every, also known as Henry Avery, Jack Avery, John Avery, Benjamin Bridgeman, or Long Ben, was the "Arch Pirate" or "King of Pirates" in his day.

He was probably born in Newton Ferrers, England (near Plymouth), in August 1659. His last name may have been spelled "Evarie" at this time.) Sometime between 1671 and 1689, he joined the Royal Navy under the name Henry Every and made it to the rank of master's mate before being discharged in 1690.

He also married to Dorothy Arther in 1690. Even in the navy, he was known as a family man, sending his money home instead of wasting it.

Then Every joined up with a new shipping company, and became first mate on a privateer warship, Charles II. The Spanish Expedition Shipping company was basically a bunch of English privateers who headed out to help Spain (then an English ally) hurt the French (never an English ally) in the West Indies. But Spain didn't deliver the promised letter of marque, failed to pay them, and left them sitting around as virtual prisoners. The crew of Charles II mutinied. Next you know, Every was unanimously elected captain and they changed the name of the ship to Fancy.

Over the next two years, Every and his crew embarked on a legendary series of raids that culminated in him commanding a squadron of pirate ships and taking a prize worth about £600,000 (about $135 million today). This was a 25 ship convoy owned by the Grand Mughal (Emperor), and it was the biggest prize ever taken by a pirate at the time.

The result? The first ever worldwide manhunt for one Henry Every. Britain's privy council and the East India Company offered a bounty of £1,000 (about $224,000 today) for his capture, plus a free pardon to informers.

It was due to his actions that Parliament declared pirates hostis humani generis ,or enemies of all mankind.

What happened to Every after this? What we know for sure is that he disappeared, forever to be the one pirate who got away scott free with his treasure. Sightings were reported for years, but none were reliable. Some say he died in poverty after squandering his treasure or being unable to sell it. But there's a strong theory that he disappeared in a place we all know very well: New Providence Island.

According to this theory, in Every and Fancy headed to St. Thomas and sold some of their treasure. Anchoring about 50 miles off New Providence Island, some of his men went to talk to the governor and ask leave for the crew to come to the island in exchange for hefty bribe. Their captain, "Henry Bridgeman" promised the governor a gift.

Every's crew spent months in the Bahamas and Fancy was stripped of everything valuable, ending up running aground and sinking, perhaps at the governor's orders. Eventually, the governor learned about the price on Every's head and put a warrant out for his arrest, but he seems to have tipped off the crew. Of 113 men, only 24 were captured (and 5 executed). Every was never seen again, having told his men multiple stories about where he intended to go.

And then he vanished, never to be seen again.

Unless he didn't.

[laikaflash]

A Mirror Across Timelines: Mitsurugi

(For the September community prompt. This will also be on Ao3 with notes and stuff later.)

As strange as it had been for Mitsurugi to find himself in Beijing, he was brimming with strength. Not a moment ago, he was in a Spanish port town and what had happened there was far too invigorating to have been a dream. In a flash of white light, he was spirited away to a place lit by a strange fiery glow. All around him floated towers and arches that twisted and broke into rubble, all being pulled into a blue maelstrom. The air itself thrummed with power when he dueled the silver-haired shapeshifter Iska Acht who brought him there. Then came a voice that rumbled through the chaos like distant rapids, but its words were no clearer to him even as the second white light faded. Whatever it was that had awakened there—warrior or demon—Mitsurugi wondered if it was waiting for him in Ming.

Passing shop after shop along the wide street, Mitsurugi looked around to get his bearings. Although he could recognize many characters, his pronunciation of any of them would stand out as much as his armor did. Passersby gave him a wide berth and he caught more than a few uneasy looks from them. Mitsurugi maintained a nonchalant attitude that had served him well in his travels, but there seemed to be something more to their wariness. Was Hideyoshi carrying out his ambitions of conquest?

Amid all the chatter, he caught the word wōkòu—Japanese pirate. Mitsurugi jerked his head to his left and saw two young men hurry into an alley and disappear. He scowled, knowing it would make no difference to them that he had slain pirates on his way back to Japan several years ago. Shading his eyes as the sun glared through a gap in the dark clouds, he hastened his steps. Though the clouds were rolling northward, toward the mountains, the air felt heavy enough to rain at any moment. Much to his relief, ahead was a red-fringed banner that bore the character for wine.

He had not realized just how hungry he was until he walked into the tavern. Mitsurugi had no desire to explain in halting Chinese how he had gotten here from Spain, but the tavern-keeper had noticed the reals among his few wén coins and seemed to give a knowing nod. After a filling meal of fried rice and enough wine to ease his nerves, Mitsurugi bought a night’s stay in a small room upstairs. As he settled in and began to unfasten his armor, thunder rumbled outside and rain followed.

Whoever this new opponent is, he thought to himself, maybe the silver-haired child will lead me to him.

A white flash, like lightning striking nearby, startled him to his feet. But no sound came. A blaze of crimson light filled the room. Mitsurugi grabbed his sword, with only his cuirass remaining to shield him. His heart pounded fiercely as he recognized the power that coursed through him once more as he prepared to draw. The red light vanished as though it had been snuffed, leaving only the soft light of the paper lantern overhead.

Now a swordsman stood before him. His short, black hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard. A katana was tied at his sash, yet the top of his frayed, black kimono hung off his left shoulder like a monk’s robe. The hems of his black hakama were equally tattered. A large necklace of prayer beads hanging from his right shoulder seemed to complete his monkish look. Yet, his bare right arm bore what were almost certainly dueling scars.

“Are you here to fight me?” Mitsurugi challenged.

Sardonically, the swordsman raised a thick eyebrow. “Here?” he asked with a barely suppressed laugh. “Don’t you know who I am?” He pointed to a single, round scar just below his right shoulder.

Mitsurugi sheathed his sword and instinctively touched the same spot on his cuirass. “How…?” he gasped. “How is it possible?”

“You should know.”

There was no mistaking the scar from the tanegashima duel. Mitsurugi remembered how Iska Acht changed her form three times to test him, but it had been nothing like this. If this was a trick, he suspected that his older self would not have bothered to kick off his geta. “I mean… How did you get here?”

“Ah, that. The Astral Chaos brought me here, and there’s no telling where it can take you. I could’ve gotten lost there if it wasn’t for you. Tell me, where are we now?”

“Beijing. The outer city.”

The swordsman took a glance from the lattice window. “So it is. What year is it? You look about twenty years younger than me.”

“Eighteenth year of Tenshō, unless something happened while I was gone. Or, an Earth Ox year.”

At this, his older self cracked a wry smile. “Hm. Say, is that Shishi-Oh?”

Mitsurugi hesitated, noticing that the grip on the swordsman’s katana was black. “Yes.”

“May I see it for a moment?” The swordsman’s voice lowered to an almost reverent tone.

Mitsurugi’s heart sank at the thought that his finest sword had been lost. Even so, he unsheathed it. The older Mitsurugi gazed upon Shishi-Oh as though it were a son he had not seen in years. His expression turned somber and wizened.

“Cherish it. Hone it and wield it well.”

“Of course.” Mitsurugi gravely nodded and sheathed his sword. “I need it in top condition. There’s an opponent I’m supposed to meet. He must have something to do with this Astral Chaos. I heard something—”

Surprise flashed in the older swordsman’s eyes. “What did you hear?”

“I couldn’t make it out. That silver-haired child, what’s her name…? Iska Ahha…” He felt his throat catch on what was meant to be a guttural sound, along with slight embarrassment for it. “Acht, that’s it! I thought this Iska Acht would bring me to a worthy opponent, but well, here I am. Whatever that voice was, she had different ideas.”

The older swordsman thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “You’ll meet him, this new opponent.”

“Where did—uh, where might I find him?” Mitsurugi felt as though he had been talking to Edge Master, rather than himself.

“You won’t find him right away, but you will need one thing. Head to the fortress at Xiwei on the western border of Ming, and in time, you’ll meet your greatest opponent yet.”

Mitsurugi grinned. “That’s more like it! But what am I supposed to find there?”

“A shard of the very sword that started this. You’ll know you’ve found it when you feel it.”

With his brow furrowed, Mitsurugi wondered if it was that same power he had felt in the Astral Chaos. “If that’s so, I’ll prepare to set off at once!”

The older swordsman grinned back at him. Then crimson light filled the room once more. A regretful look crossed his face he stepped back into his geta. “I'm afraid I can’t stay much longer.”

Mitsurugi stood transfixed at the glowing portal, half-expecting Iska Acht to appear. He almost wanted to reach out to his older self, but he gratefully bowed.

“Fare well.”

Mitsurugi felt a chill as his older self stepped into the twisting chaos. At once, the crimson light was gone, and in one last flash of white, the room was once again as it should have been. He fell silent as the sounds of people in the tavern, noises of the street, and rain returned all at once to his ears.

“Damn,” he hissed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I could’ve asked him what changed in his time!” But he knew it would be a long time before he reached Japan again, and he was no stranger to long journeys. Mitsurugi quietly settled on the bed and began to plan. Soul Edge itself seemed nearer than it had ever been.

[exalok]

modified map of the Empire of the Isles: elevation (land and sea), lakes, major cities, trade routes (red: heavy traffic, yellow: light traffic)

modifications explained below the cut

the main change, which prompted most of the other changes, is that i placed tyvia and morley on one tectonic plate, and gristol and serkonos on another.

i'm not a geologist and possibly there are other explanations to how the isles were formed, but my reasoning went thus: the temperature difference between the north of tyvia and the south of serkonos is too huge for a single archipelago -> the distance between them must correspond to something like that between finland and spain -> the isles are the size of a continent -> a continent, as far as i know, does not split apart unless through the movement of tectonic plates -> there is divergence happening

it could also have been convergence but wow that would mean so many more volcanoes. instead you get block rift mountains

the main tectonic rift is between tyvia+morley and gristol, as evidenced by the very deep chasm -- it's probably smaller in width than it should be, but i'm not going for full realistic accuracy either -- but there is also tectonic drift between tyvia and morley (according to the north american tectonic plate this is a thing that can happen, because that thing branches off in all kinds of directions. could it cause a continent to split on this small a scale? who knows. i'm pretending the answer is yes. can you tell already i just wanted to go hog wild on the tectonic plates) and there are convergent plates above tyvia and below serkonos

CONSEQUENCES: volcanoes volcanoes volcanoes (and fault block mountains)

now serkonos is half dormant volcanoes, half huge old magma flow from a massive volcanic event at some point in the distant past; tyvia has a volcanic arc as its northmost feature but it's partly calderas; the south of tyvia and the north of gristol is very mountainous (but the area between gristol and morley isn't because the tectonic forces along that axis are transformed [dunno if that's the proper term, basically lateral] rather than divergent

does this also mean there are probably earthquakes everywhere? yes. oh god

OTHER FEATURES: a couple of meteor craters (the shapes were already there, i just decided they would be craters) east of baleton and west of caltan; a void rift deep in the ocean right near whitecliff, pulling in the landmass around it; minor modifications to certain outline areas because i added in mountains. i like mountains. they make things less flat. OH and this was already present in the canon map but the line of islands east of gristol is now a bunch of extinct volcanoes formed as the result of a hotspot at the morley-gristol tectonic limit, now closed; and i just fully deleted an island west of gristol for the hell of it. also the lakes were either already there, or hadn't been colored in right on the canon map, or were Very Weird Interconnecting Rivers i decided to fill in because why not

TRADE ROUTES. obviously all capitals would be trade centers, or at least trade-rich considering their population level, but i've decided several other cities are either merchant towns for reasons such as being nearest to another isle, being conveniently placed to connect to many other cities and thus either the center of trade (like yaro or driscol) or a waypoint (like caltan), or being an exporter of stuff and conveniently placed right on a trade route thus favoring its development (like potterstead, but that's entirely my personal fanon)

some trade routes are heavily used because they lead to many ports of interest, or because they lead to a major port, or because it's the only way to get to a certain major port efficiently (for example, the trade routes to the east of serkonos are little used because if you leave from karnaca you have to get all the way around the trail of volcanic islands, can't dock at whitecliff directly because, see name, it's on a huge cliff, then avoid the dishonored bermuda's triangle [void rift, huge myths around that place, few people risk going through there], then get all the way up to driscol); the heavily trafficked trade route that stops right at the top of serkonos actually leads to the serkonan canal, which isn't even present on the canon map (probs because they hadn't invented it yet when they drew the thing), and is a much faster way of getting to karnaca, but deep-keel boats can't take the canal and series of waterlocks and have to go around the old way; wei-ghon does a lot of trade because it needs to to support its population way in the north, and a lot of tyvian trade goes by boat due to the poor travel conditions inland and the huge fuckoff mountains

not pictured: trade routes to pandyssia

[arcielee]

Dancing in the Dark

Tom Bennett x OFC Summary: War is spilling over Europe and a route is being created to help POWs escape occupied France. Sometimes love does not last forever, but lasts long enough. Warnings: Smut implied, sad af, some misogyny cause it's the 1940s

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 - ende

Chapter 6

The days were quick, with an easy routine for Tom to help aita and the boys around the farm, while Vera remained with ama and Giulia to complete household chores and prepare supper. The end of the day meal was an exchange of stories from the day’s events and a glass of wine for dessert. Bernard would often give an update to the next steps, letting them know that his uncle had the passports prepared and how he would meet them at the Port of Gibraltar with tickets for one of the merchant ships.

Vera found herself lost in thought about Tom and their last night in Pamplona; she found she craved to feel the warm touch of his hands and the softness of his kisses. They were curled up in the bed, with her head on his chest while his fingers played with her curls. 

“A merchant ship,” he hummed. “I do not miss being at sea.”

“It is cheap,” she turned her head, resting her chin on her palm to look at his face. “It is best to be…” she thought for a moment. “In-conspic-us?” 

He smiled and tilted his head down to kiss her hairline. “Inconspicuous.” He looked ahead again for a pregnant pause. “Vera,” his voice the low timbre of the late night. “Would you still love me if I was just a pig farmer?”

She giggled at his question. “Tom. I will love you no matter what,” she stated as a fact, her eyes curious to his question. “Even if you were a Schweinebauer.”

His lips curled and he hummed again. “What if we stayed in Pamplona?”

Her expression froze at his words.

His expression was hard, but he did not press and instead pulled her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face into her dark curls.

“Spain is untouched by the Nazis,” he continued. “We could stay put and I can find work–”

“For how long?” Vera asked him, her words slow. “How long does Spain remain untouched by Germany?” She pushed to sit upright, her fingers trailing his bare chest and causing his skin to raise to her delicate touch. “Tom, we owe this to Webster and to the people depending on us to verify this route. I…” her words failed her and she could not finish her sentence.   

The following morning was somber; she woke and dressed in her knitted skirt and blouse that Giulia had been good enough to wash for her, though her heart would miss the comfort of the ruffle skirts leant. Her knapsack was packed and she looked to see Tom, who was dressed and waiting for her. 

He reached for her hand and they went downstairs to be greeted with hugs and whispers of good luck from aita and ama, then Bernard and Giulia gave them their papers and walked them to the station. Vera did not mind when Guilia hugged her. “You could have kept the skirt,” she whispered. “Green is your color.”

“When I come back,” Vera promised.

The train ride rumbled and Tom held her hand without a word and her own expression was stoic, but her eyes were glassy; she peered through the compartment window and watched the scenery change with the train ride. Vera eventually pushed back and rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes to hold back her tears, a soft smile when she felt him kiss the top of her head, him resting his cheek against. Her hands fidgeted with the gold band on her finger and he eventually took her hand, bringing her palm to his lips for another kiss. 

They arrived at Gibraltar, exiting the train with the crowd and eyes watchful for the uncle. “How will we know?” Tom asked her, but she held his hand and pulled him towards a tall man with ice-blue eyes that twinkled. 

“Êtes-vous Vera?” He asked, peering at them both. Are you Vera?

"Oui," she nodded and gestures towards Tom. "Et voici mon mari, Tom."

I am. And this is my husband, Tom.

She felt choked with her words and knew she would miss saying them. 

The man introduced himself as Lucay, the young brother of Lyam. He was tall and a bit leaner, with the hint of silver beginning at his sideburns. He congratulated them on their arrival. “You will be home soon,” he said with a smile. 

They had enough time for a small meal and he walked them towards the docks and watched to verify they boarded the ship. There were maybe a hundred civilians in total who were ushered towards accommodations and assigned to rooms. 

“I feel they may have spoiled us at the villa,” Vera said when they entered the cabin; it was smaller than the motel room shared before.

“I had more space on the Exeter,” Tom looked over before setting down her knapsack he carried. “C’mon, lets see her off.”

The deck was alive with the crew, preparing to weigh anchor, and the waves crashed along the side as the convoy began to shift. Vera felt her stomach lurch and Tom wrapped an arm around her. “Easy, love,” he whispered in her ear. “Take deep breaths and it should pass.”

“Should?” She asked, her eyes pleading. “How did you manage this?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Kept busy with hobbies while I was on duty.”

Tom and Vera kept to themselves and continued the ruse of newlyweds fleeing France, spending their days below deck to hide from the sweltering sun and walking the deck when the sun set. At night, he would lay his head in her lap and she would continue to read The Hobbit to him. 

“‘And why should not they prove true?’” She read, her tone soothing. “‘Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your benefit?’” 

“Why shouldn’t he?” Tom interjected with another one of his questions.

She paused and leaned over to kiss his mouth. “We are at the end,” she smiled and continued, “‘You are a very fine person, Mr Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after.’

“‘Thank goodness!’ said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco jar.”

He watched as she closed the book and asked, “That it then?”

“Yes, it is over.”

“But what about his book?” 

“I am not sure if Mr. Tolkien plans to–”

“No,” he waved his hand. “Bilbo’s book. There and Back Again.”

She smiled at him, her heart seized in her chest for a moment and she leaned over to kiss him again. “That did not answer my question,” he said when she broke away and she laughed, setting the book down and grabbing his collar.

The morning began with a bleak streak of sunlight battling the fog that rolled from Britain, the beginning of autumn brought a cool, crisp wind that ripped at their clothes. The deck was hectic, as supplies began to unload and the passengers ached for solid ground. Tom held on Vera’s hand as they weaved through the mess, pushing out and away from the crowd.  

They found a small café and grabbed lunch. Tom did not touch his food and her chest felt heavy, knowing what was to come. “Come with me to Manchester,” he started.

“Tom–”

“I know you feel this obligation to Webster, but risking your life? For what reason?” His brow furrowed, his tone grew heated with his words. “This guilt you carry with you for some bloke you didn’t even love, but I am here, alive, and in front of you.” 

“It is more than what I want, Tom,” she cried, the frustration that hovered over them spilling into tears. “We have been fortunate, but I cannot just walk away when lives are dependent on me.” She took a breath. “It is not just the doctor, but Henriette, Jacques, those soldiers in the hospital beds who also just wish to be home… I have to do this, Tom. It is the right thing to do.” 

He stared at her, the red tinted his cheeks and the tips of his ears, bringing out the copper tones to his golden locks. “Fuck,” he cried out and paused. “Vera, my dad would love you, Lois too.” He shook his head with a grim smile. “So fucking honorable.”

She wished to reach across and touch his hand, but his body language spoke otherwise. A moment passed filled with the sounds of cutlery touching the porcelain plates and chewing quietly. They paid and pushed to exit the café, Vera following him outside and Tom stopped, turning to her and still looking just as aggravated. “So what do I do now then?” 

“You will take a taxi to Manchester,” she sighed, pressing some bills into his palm. “That was the point, so you can have the freedom to do what you want. Tom, I–” but her voice broke off. 

Vera did not want to speak because she was unsure if she could trust her feelings at this moment. War had its chokehold around them and it made every moment so precious with the uncertainty of tomorrow. But she did know that if she left with him, she would hate herself for it as much as she had grown to love Bennett, Thomas. 

“I must do this,” she said instead. “I understand if you hate me for it, but as long as this war goes on, I must do my part.” 

She looked up to face Tom, expecting a backlash response but instead saw the glow of his brilliant blue eyes watching her. His lips pressed into a thin line and relaxed, his tongue wetting them. “I hate that you are like this,” he began, but he took a step to close the distance between them. “You are so damn stubborn, too.”

“You are cocksure,” she replied, her eyes narrowing onto him. “And arrogant.”

“I am,” he agreed, smiling when he saw her reaction, her stoicism cracking. “You have a silent reserve that forces me to self-reflect and I cannot stand it. It is like you have this heart that is too pure for this world right now and I want you to be as selfish as I am feeling.” Tom reached for her hands and she relished in the warmth they held; his palms were large and calloused, but also gentle. He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, holding them for a moment, his thumb pressing into the golden band she still wore, before bringing them back down. “I cannot convince you to leave with me?”

Her jaw and her throat tightened with tears but she forced a small smile. “You cannot.” With his sigh, she added, “But I will come back to you when this war is done.”

“Who knows when that will be,” he sounded defeated. “Who knows where I will be?”

Vera shrugged. “I will find you,” and she kissed his cheek, turning to walk away and to find a bank, as Webster’s notes instructed. 

And Tom watched her skirt swish with her steps, a small smile on his lips.

Ende.

-----

previous | masterlist 

[helianskies]

11 and 3 for nedport!

i got excited for a second and then i realised you picked number 3 and :(

...but fine. if you insist >:3

11. what are their first impressions of each other?

ned: oh god please not another one—

port: um who let in the street urchin??

but really, ned would be wary of portugal at first by all accounts. he's already got strong opinions on spain when they meet and this young nation can't handle another toni. he therefore plays it carefully and keeps his mouth shut around the iberian, cards close to his chest. port might be calm and lax on the outside, but ned can see there's more to him than meets the eye. he doesn't want to test him.

meanwhile, port probably looks at ned and is briefly pitiful of this other poor kid toni has dragged home with him, but is not too heavily invested in ned as an individual. still, he first sees ned and labels him quiet and timid. no threat. mild. just... there. he's just a little lost lamb trapped in the lair of an iberian wolf. coitadinho... (shame he couldn't see the future, huh!)

3. which one outlives the other and how do they cope (this hurt to write but...)

ned outlives port.

port is not too surprised as the times draws near and he feels his connection to his land becoming tenuous, weaker, frail... it starts with the grey hairs, the aches in his body that won't go away - that only get worse, rather than get better. it scares him, but he isn't the sort to say what's wrong. he doesn't want to burden anyone with worry. which is why, when ned realises what's happening - why port is quieter, more distant - he is sworn to secrecy.

not that that makes it easier for ned, of course. but he also knows that if their time is destined to become limited, then he will do what he can to keep port happy.

so, they'll go travelling. no explanation is given to anyone who asks beyond, 'we just thought it was time to have a break'. ned and port will revisit old haunts. they'll try new things while doing the things they've loved doing together for years - maybe even centuries. ned will look after port, and port will make sure ned knows exactly what his wishes are for when the time comes.

of course, port can't keep his condition a secrst forever. but ned helps him keep it for as long as he can. then, once the cat is out of the bag, port packs up and moves in with ned (after ned nags him about it for a while). they continue to live. ned does everything in his power to keep port comfortable, and to spend as much time as possible with him. years will go by. the hairs turns more grey, the bones become more brittle. but ned stays. and port will always he grateful.

when the times comes for ned to be on his own again, 'coping' does not come into it for a while. everything feels empty - his home, his life, his soul. he's lost. he's a wreck. he breaks things in roaring tantrums and stays in bed for days on end. really, port would be having a go at him if he were still around, telling him to pick himself up, to stop being so melodramatic (which would be rich coming from him!).

it's only when ned finds himself in the presence of others - toni, arthur - even luciano - that he can start to try and come to terms with it. they have to be there for each other. he can't get through it alone.

the wounds never fully heal. but every year, once a year, he'll take himself on a trip to a place that port loved or would have loved, and he'll find somewhere peaceful and beautiful to sit down and rest so that he can share it with him. because port will never truly leave him. he's always there, watching over ned. he's in every breeze, every sunset, every wave. port will be with him right to the end, and evetually, ned finds peace in that.

[ ship ask game here! ]

[female-malice]

A pod of orcas has attacked and sunk another boat in southwestern Europe after relentlessly bombarding the vessel and its crew for almost an hour on Halloween. It is the fourth time that orcas from this region's population have sunk a vessel in the last two years.

On Oct. 31, the Grazie Mamma — a mid-size sailing yacht owned by Polish cruise company Morskie Mile — was attacked by an unknown number of orcas for around 45 minutes oof the coast of Morocco in the Strait of Gibraltar, Morskie Mile representatives wrote in a Facebook post translated from Polish.

The orcas repeatedly hit the yacht's rudder causing major damage and allowing water into the vessel's hull. Despite receiving aid from the Moroccan Navy and being towed toward safety, the boat eventually sank as it entered the port of Tanger-Med in Morocco. All passengers were safely evacuated to rescue boats before the ship sank.

The unusual attack is the latest example of one of many unnerving new orca behaviors that have highlighted the striking intelligence of these deadly predators. 

Since 2020, orcas have been regularly harassing boats in the Strait of Gibraltar — a narrow strait between Spain and Morocco that connects the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea — and the surrounding waters off the coast of the Iberian peninsula. (continued)

–

I love them so much 🥰

[cookieshower]

This question is 10+ years late, but I’m reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally curious to know. How did you first get into SpaPort / PortSpa and why do you like it more than the others?

oh this is gonna be a mini story time 🛐

how: since i got into hetalia toni is already a blorbo™. you know those things like uhh if a ship has both of my blorbo in it i will love it more? yeah...

in 2011-2014 there was a popular heta fan comic in deviantart called Maaf, it's mainly focused on maritime southeast asia ocs and bits of their history with other canon charas. it's kinda non linear (chronological??).

around that time port's 2nd design is revealed (the ponytail with scar), later the author of Maaf drew him in the story... note that the author doesn't write some parts of the story, chunks of it is provided/suggested by readers from said countries, port included.

ofc teen me (occasional yaoi enjoyer) & some readers went: oh ☺️ so that is spain's brother ☺️ they bicker a lot ☺️ wanna see more❣️ then i saw more arts of them by few dA artists... saw their tumblr accounts, followed, and from there i discovered many more in The spaport tumblr✨✨. i was just a minor lurker gnfjnfs, gradually left heta in 2014, made no drawing/content.

dragged back to heta bc of new season & SEA charas › jan 2022 i watched a certain anime and 2 main charas reminds me of #them › wow suddenly i miss #them a Lot..... › marathoned all their remaining tumblr arts and fics i've never seen before and dusted off my tumblr

why:

the 3 principles of good heta ship (credit to oomf): neighbours that share borders, one have invaded the other, family bond/related. this formula is always correct!

then there's canon materials and "why are you only meek with him"... toni only showed his weak side to port??? this exclusivity?!? oh it's over for other ships /lh.

TO ME a lot of ship dynamics/trope fit them heheh. sun and moon, dumb and dumber, sensitive and oblivious, writer and artist, i can fix him, etc. i think being a foreigner means i understood their irl relations less and i wont go "actually..." [insert better english sth sth ignorance is bliss].

they also reminds me of a favourite ship that involves my country so 🤒 even their language differences(?). then other fav ships reveals even more of spaport history bits from different pov. not elaborating the 3 ships here bc it will be Long and off topic lol but these kept adding as i learned more!! so yeah there's the many indirect connections.

ok that's what i can think of, excuse the incoherent texts :3c

[lonestarbattleship]

August 4, 2023 Restoration work on the Battleship Texas

"I am 'declassifying' Hunter Miertschin's 'Top Secret' picture from a few weeks ago.

Atlantic Theater Map Declassified

On behalf of our crew, our colleagues at Texas Parks and Wildlife Department's (TPWD) Cultural Resources branch, and OnAim Conservation, I am pleased to announce that the stabilization, conservation, and partial restoration of the Atlantic Theater Map in the Captain's Cabin is complete!

This map of the WWII Atlantic Theater was painted on a bulkhead in the Captain's Cabin after September 1944 (based on references in the map). It shows the ports of call Texas made during WWII (white dots with anchors in them), where she performed shore bombardment (noted by little explosions), national capitals (yellow triangles), and a few surprise discoveries as the map was conserved.

The 1966 newspaper photo of Chief McKeown, with the map in the background. This is the only known photograph of the map prior to it being painted over.

Sometime after 1966 (which is when the only known historic photo of the map was taken), the map along with the rest of the Captain's Cabin was painted white. That act was not great, but not terrible either. What was truly terrible is a window was cut into the bulkhead right in the middle of the map sometime in the late 1970s, after the map and compartment were painted white. We believe that because the map had been painted over and the loss of institutional knowledge of the map, those who made that decision did not know it was there.

Fast forward to around 2000 when the map beings to reveal itself as the white paint begins to flake off and the map is rediscovered during the planning for the Captain's Cabin restoration. When the Captain's Cabin was restored, the window was welded up and the map was partially uncovered exposing the Mediterranean and most of Europe. In 2009, I discovered the 1966 picture of Chief McKeown with the map in the background, which spurred a lot of excitement about what possibly survived. However, due to budgetary constraints we were not able to perform any real conservation treatments to the map.

This is the map in 2002. You can see Italy, Southern France, and the Mediterranean emerging. At left you can see the frame of the infamous window.

The map sat partially uncovered and untouched until last summer. In partnership with TPWD Cultural Resources we hired OnAim Conservation to stabilize the remaining paint on the bulkhead, just prior to the tow to Galveston. This initial step preserved what remained and protected it from any vibrations from the tow and/or shipyard work. It also set the stage for uncovering the rest of the map and recreating the missing sections.

This is the map in 2011. During the 2002-2003 Captain's Cabin restoration, it was partially uncovered. But work stopped out of fear of damaging the map further.

All through July 2023, the incredibly talented husband and wife team of Zak Miano and Ariane Roesch (who own OnAim Conservation), with the expertise and hard work of artist and conservator Bob Pringle, performed the tedious work of uncovering the map by removing the remaining white paint, revealing that much more of the map survived than anyone thought. They also discovered that whoever painted the map, had painted the State of Texas in Africa in burnt orange!

This is the map as it appears today. The gloss is from Damar varnish that was used by OnAim to protect the paint and bad lighting.

Europe afte the remaining remnants of white overpaint was removed and the the destroyed sections of Spain and North Africa were recreated. You can see the explosions where the ship did shore bombardment at N. Africa, Normandy, and Southern France.

We made the decision to use French Morocco as Morocco was a 'protectorate' of France and French Morroco showed on a lot of 1940s maps.

Once the map was uncovered, OnAim added Kati Ozanic-Lemberger to the team to recreate the destroyed section and features of the map. In consultation with TPWD Cultural Resources, it was a unanimous decision to touch up the paint of the surviving sections of the map, fill in and blend in missing areas within surviving sections, and recreate the large missing sections. We made this decision for two main reasons, 1) it would preserve the existing map longer 2) it would allow us to tell the story of what happened to this map. The artistry of OnAim is phenomenal in how they blended the recreated areas of the map with the original, infilled and blended missing patches, and emphasized the surviving features that were being last. The map blew me away, but the skill of these folks was just as impressive.

The big surprise: TEXAS!

The Eastern seaboard of N. America, with all of Texas's Dec 7, 1941 to September 1944 ports of call. Another discovery OnAim made was the remnants of 'North'. THis do not show in the 1966 photo, Referencing period maps, we opted to infill the missing sections of 'North' and create 'North Atlantic Ocean'. As that seemed the most logical as to what was there -there was no 'South'. Because this was largely on the destroyed section we would not be harming the original map.

The faded areas are what survived of 'North'. The more solid and brighter blue is what was infilled. Same with the gray for the oceans.

I also want to add that Ariane, Kati, Bob, and Zach were working directly under the work going on the Signal Bridge. They performed their magic while having to deal with the sounds of needle guns, grinders, hammers, et al, right above their heads and occasionally getting smoked out from welding and cutting smoke that would get sucked into Captain's Cabin. How they kept steady hands and focus amid the normal cacophony of a shipyard environment is astounding.

Custom matching and blending colors

The detail work....

Bob and Katie recreating the destroyed section of the map.

The on OnAm team: Kati, Ariane, Zak, and Bob

As to the future of the map, we plan to have it on exhibit in the Captain's Cabin shortly after we reopen and are planning to incorporate it into an AR experience."

Posted by Travis Davis on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page: link

[preblesboys]

Ooooh, tell me about Preble’s Boys!! If you’d like to ofc

Gladly! Thanks for taking interest!

The formation of the US Navy really took place during the Quasi War with France in Adams’ Administration, then there was the (first) Barbary War with pirates during Jefferson’s Administration.

Presidents Washington and Adams paid tribute to these pirates like other countries like England, Spain and Portugal as bribes not to attack their merchant ships but Jefferson wasn’t having it. He sent two commodores prior to Commodore Edward Preble to handle these pirates to the northern coast of Africa but they turned out to be too meek and other countries began taking the new born United States as a joke.

Enter Commodore Preble who (let’s be honest wasn’t really liked by his men at first because his bipolar personality), quickly established himself as a man not to mess with. He always had his ships cleared for action at ANY given moment (which was something the other American Commodores didn’t do) and was not intimidated by threats.

One event goes is how when he first met the emperor of Morocco, when asked why he wouldn’t bow, the conversation went as,

“Are you not afraid of being arrested?”

“No sir. If you presume to do it, my squadron in your full view will lay your batteries, your castles and your city to ruin.”

The whole court looked out the window and there the ships were guns pointed. Commodore Preble meant business here.

Now to “Preble’s Boys”. These men were under Commodore Preble’s men starting from Stephen Decatur, Isaac Hull, Charles Stewart and the list goes on. These men were trained differently from various experiences such as serving under different commodores to coming from merchant ships but they all would truly learn how to be part of the US Navy under Preble. He was particular and REALLY DID RUN a tight ship. Nothing got past him and he tended to supervise just about everything! How can this one man know what’s going on everywhere at all times??? Micromanaging did get annoying but when you have a master strategist like him getting victory after victory in the battles of the Mediterranean, you give a little. The officers under him like Decatur and Stewart learned from him and started getting victories of their own like the Burning of the USS Philadelphia to keep the captured American frigate out of the pirates’ hands with Decatur and Stewart’s blockade which turned out to be effective.

This old man began rubbing off on a lot of his officers and when the War of 1812 rolled around, just about all the naval battles expected for the Capture of the USS Chesapeake and the Battle of Lake Erie were won by a “Preble’s Boy”.

These men learned to be proactive, be mentors to their own men, always be ready for action which included constant drilling to perfection, trust their own instincts when something needed to be done, in David Porter’s case when he sailed into the Pacific during the War of 1812, he set up American bases in for the most part, unfamiliar territory which was similar to what Preble did. Preble didn’t want to set up base at a British port because he knew his men would get into trouble such as dueling so he found a different and slightly isolated base in Syracuse which greatly benefited him in the long run.

Overall, Commodore Preble left an impression on these men and these men made the US Navy, the navy of a new nation respectable enough for the world stage.

[dailyanarchistposts]

I.8.10 Why did the CNT collaborate with the state?

As is well know, in September 1936 the CNT joined the Catalan government, followed by the central government in November. This flowed from the decision made on July 21st to not speak of Libertarian Communism until after Franco had been defeated. In other words, to collaborate with other anti-fascist parties and unions in a common front against fascism. This decision, initially, involved the CNT agreeing to join a “Central Committee of Anti-Fascist Militias” proposed by the leader of the Catalan government, Louis Companys. This committee was made up of representatives of various anti-fascist parties and groups. From this it was only a matter of time until the CNT joined an official government as no other means of co-ordinating activities existed (see section I.8.13).

The question must arise, why did the CNT decide to collaborate with the state, forsake its principles and, in its own way, contribute to the counter-revolution and the loosing of the war. This is an important question. Indeed, it is one Marxists always throw up in arguments with anarchists or in anti-anarchist diatribes. Does the failure of the CNT to implement anarchism after July 19th mean that anarchist politics are flawed? Or, rather, does the experience of the CNT and FAI during the Spanish revolution indicate a failure of anarchists rather than of anarchism, a mistake made under difficult objective circumstances and one which anarchists have learnt from? Needless to say, anarchists argue that the latter is correct. In other words, as Vernon Richards argued, “the basis of [this] criticism is not that anarchist ideas were proved to be unworkable by the Spanish experience, but that the Spanish anarchists and syndicalists failed to put their theories to the test, adopting instead the tactics of the enemy.” [Lessons of the Spanish Revolution, p. 14]

So, why did the CNT collaborate with the state during the Spanish Civil War? Simply put, rather than being the fault of anarchist theory (as Marxists like to claim), its roots can be discovered in the situation facing the Catalan anarchists on July 20th. The objective conditions facing the leading militants of the CNT and FAI influenced the decisions they took, decisions which they later justified by mis-using anarchist theory.

What was the situation facing the Catalan anarchists on July 20th? Simply put, it was an unknown situation, as the report made by the CNT to the International Workers Association made clear:

“Levante was defenceless and uncertain … We were in a minority in Madrid. The situation in Andalusia was unknown … There was no information from the North, and we assumed the rest of Spain was in the hands of the fascists. The enemy was in Aragón, at the gates of Catalonia. The nervousness of foreign consular officials led to the presence of a great number of war ships around our ports.” [quoted by Jose Peirats, Anarchists in the Spanish Revolution, p. 180]

Anarchist historian Jose Peirats noted that according to the report “the CNT was in absolute control of Catalonia in July 19, 1936, but its strength was less in Levante and still less in central Spain where the central government and the traditional parties were dominant. In the north of Spain the situation was confused. The CNT could have mounted an insurrection on its own ‘with probable success’ but such a take-over would have led to a struggle on three fronts: against the fascists, the government and foreign capitalism. In view of the difficulty of such an undertaking, collaboration with other antifascist groups was the only alternative.” [Op. Cit., p. 179] In the words of the CNT report itself:

“The CNT showed a conscientious scrupulousness in the face of a difficult alternative: to destroy completely the State in Catalonia, to declare war against the Rebels [i.e. the fascists], the government, foreign capitalism, and thus assuming complete control of Catalan society; or collaborating in the responsibilities of government with the other antifascist fractions.” [quoted by Robert Alexander, The Anarchists in the Spanish Civil War, vol. 2, p. 1156]

Moreover, as Gaston Leval later argued, given that the “general preoccupation” of the majority of the population was “to defeat the fascists … the anarchists would, if they came out against the state, provoke the antagonism … of the majority of the people, who would accuse them of collaborating with Franco.” Implementing an anarchist revolution would, in all likelihood, also result in “the instant closing of the frontier and the blockade by sea by both fascists and the democratic countries. The supply of arms would be completely cut off, and the anarchists would rightly be held responsible for the disastrous consequences.” [The Anarchist Collectives, p. 52 and p. 53]

While the supporters of Lenin and Trotsky will constantly point out the objective circumstances in which their heroes made their decisions during the Russian Revolution, they rarely mention those facing the anarchists in Spain on the 20th of July, 1936. It seems hypocritical to point to the Russian Civil War as the explanation of all of the Bolsheviks’ crimes against the working class (indeed, humanity) while remaining silent on the forces facing the CNT-FAI at the start of the Spanish Civil War. The fact that if the CNT had decided to implement libertarian communism in Catalonia they would have to face the fascists (commanding the bulk of the Spanish army), the Republican government (commanding the rest) plus those sections in Catalonia which supported the republic is rarely mentioned. Moreover, when the decision to collaborate was made it was immediately after the defeat of the army uprising in Barcelona — the situation in the rest of the country was uncertain and when the social revolution was in its early days. Stuart Christie indicates the dilemma facing the leadership of the CNT at the time:

“The higher committees of the CNT-FAI-FIJL in Catalonia saw themselves caught on the horns of a dilemma: social revolution, fascism or bourgeois democracy. Either they committed themselves to the solutions offered by social revolution, regardless of the difficulties involved in fighting both fascism and international capitalism, or, through fear of fascism (or of the people), they sacrificed their anarchist principles and revolutionary objectives to bolster, to become, part of the bourgeois state … Faced with an imperfect state of affairs and preferring defeat to a possibly Pyrrhic victory, the Catalan anarchist leadership renounced anarchism in the name of expediency and removed the social transformation of Spain from their agenda. “But what the CNT-FAI leaders failed to grasp was that the decision whether or not to implement Libertarian Communism, was not theirs to make. Anarchism was not something which could be transformed from theory into practice by organisational decree … [the] spontaneous defensive movement of 19 July had developed a political direct of its own.” [We, the Anarchists!, p. 99]

Given that the pro-fascist army still controlled a third or more of Spain (including Aragón) and that the CNT was not the dominant force in the centre and north of Spain, it was decided that a war on three fronts would only aid Franco. Moreover, it was a distinct possibility that by introducing libertarian communism in Catalonia, Aragón and elsewhere, the workers’ militias and self-managed industries would have been starved of weapons, resources and credit. That isolation was a real problem can be seen from Abad de Santillán’s later comments on why the CNT joined the government:

“The Militias Committee guaranteed the supremacy of the people in arms … but we were told and it was repeated to us endlessly that as long as we persisted in retaining it, that is, as long as we persisted in propping up the power of the people, weapons would not come to Catalonia, nor would we be granted the foreign currency to obtain them from abroad, nor would we be supplied with the raw materials for our industry. And since losing the war meant losing everything and returning to a state like that prevailed in the Spain of Ferdinand VII, and in the conviction that the drive given by us and our people could not vanish completely from the new economic life, we quit the Militias Committee to join the Generalidad government.” [quoted by Christie, Op. Cit., p. 109]

It was decided to collaborate and reject the basic ideas of anarchism until the war was over. A terrible mistake, but one which can be understood given the circumstances in which it was made. This is not, we stress, to justify the decision but rather to explain it and place it in context. Ultimately, the experience of the Civil War saw a blockade of Republic by both “democratic” and fascist governments, the starving of the militias and self-managed collectives of resources and credit as well as a war on two fronts when the State felt strong enough to try and crush the CNT and the semi-revolution its members had started. Most CNT members did not think that when faced with the danger of fascism, the liberals, the right-wing socialists and communists would prefer to undermine the anti-fascist struggle by attacking the CNT. They were wrong and, in this, history proved Durruti totally correct:

“For us it is a matter of crushing Fascism once and for all. Yes, and in spite of the Government. “No government in the world fights Fascism to the death. When the bourgeoisie sees power slipping from its grasp, it has recourse to Fascism to maintain itself. The liberal government of Spain could have rendered the fascist elements powerless long ago. Instead it compromised and dallied. Even now at this moment, there are men in this Government who want to go easy on the rebels. You can never tell, you know — he laughed — the present Government might yet need these rebellious forces to crush the workers’ movement … “We know what we want. To us it means nothing that there is a Soviet Union somewhere in the world, for the sake of whose peace and tranquillity the workers of Germany and China were sacrificed to Fascist barbarians by Stalin. We want revolution here in Spain, right now, not maybe after the next European war. We are giving Hitler and Mussolini far more worry to-day with our revolution than the whole Red Army of Russia. We are setting an example to the German and Italian working class on how to deal with fascism. “I do not expect any help for a libertarian revolution from any Government in the world. Maybe the conflicting interests of the various imperialisms might have some influence in our struggle. That is quite possible … But we expect no help, not even from our own Government, in the last analysis.” “You will be sitting on a pile of ruins if you are victorious,” said [the journalist] van Paasen. Durruti answered: “We have always lived in slums and holes in the wall. We will know how to accommodate ourselves for a time. For, you must not forget, we can also build. It is we the workers who built these palaces and cities here in Spain and in America and everywhere. We, the workers, can build others to take their place. And better ones! We are not in the least afraid of ruins. We are going to inherit the earth; there is not the slightest doubt about that. The bourgeoisie might blast and ruin its own world before it leaves the stage of history. We carry a new world here, in our hearts. That world is growing this minute.” [quoted by Vernon Richards, Lessons of the Spanish Revolution, pp. 193-4f]

This desire to push the revolution further was not limited to Durruti, as can be seen from this communication from the Catalan CNT leadership in August 1936. It also expresses the fears driving the decisions which had been made:

“Reports have also been received from other regions. There has been some talk about the impatience of some comrades who wish to go further than crushing fascism, but for the moment the situation in Spain as a whole is extremely delicate. In revolutionary terms, Catalonia is an oasis within Spain. “Obviously no one can foresee the changes which may follow the civil war and the conquest of that part of Spain which is still under the control of mutinous reactionaries.” [quoted by Jose Peirats, Op. Cit., pp. 151–2]

Isolation, the uneven support for a libertarian revolution across Spain and the dangers of fascism were real problems, but they do not excuse the libertarian movement for its mistakes. The biggest of these mistakes was forgetting basic anarchist ideas and an anarchist approach to the problems facing the Spanish people. If these ideas had been applied in Spain, the outcome of the Civil War and Revolution could have been different.

In summary, while the decision to collaborate is one that can be understood (due to the circumstances under which it was made), it cannot be justified in terms of anarchist theory. Indeed, as we argue in the next section, attempts by the CNT leadership to justify the decision in terms of anarchist principles are not convincing and cannot be done without making a mockery of anarchism.

[trickphotography2]

Looking at a couple of my fic ideas, and wondering who you best see for this fic:

Reader is a DODEA teacher in Spain. A ship comes into port, and the Dagger goes on liberty to a club called the Black Cat, where he runs into Reader. After they leave, they walk around Rota/Puerto, have adventures and talk until he has to go back onto the ship.

(I have a feeling where this is going to skew, but I’m interested in input.)

(Also, I’ll be writing Rota from my memory of being there from 7th-10th grade, and I know it’s changed a LOT since then 🙃)

[artemisianmusings]

Update on Wallace Harrison

I have made a lot of progress over the last several days and am SO excited to share what I've found so far. After scouring quite literally thousands of records on ancestry.com and newpaper archives, this is what I've managed to learn so far:

Wallace was born in June 1900 in Preston, Lanchashire, and moved to Auckland, NZ when he was around 11.

I did also find his parents and grandfather's names and it turns out he was named after his paternal grandfather!

He lived in California for a while, starting in the 20's.

There, he met Caroline (Carol) Wurtenberger and they got married in 1929.

They lived there until the 40s when they ended up in New York until the 50's. Carol was an art teacher/art professor in both places they lived; Wallace's occupation was listed as "painter" "commercial painter" and "unemployed" through the years.

In 1933, Wallace was shown in an exhibition at the Valentine Gallery. The exhibition catalogue for his pieces was written by writer and friend of his, Maurice Sachs.

A review of this show in the New York Times praises his works and states that the influence of both Matisse and Picasso are evident in his work.

At some point in the 40s, he taught both Helen Frankenthaler and Charlotte Park. Possibly in conjunction with Cooper Union University, though I'm still trying to confirm.

Him and Carol took a trip to England in 1930

In 1954, he left America and headed off for France, arriving in a port in Cannes.

In '56, he left France and moved to Spain. He lived there until his death in 1980 in Palma.

This little project of mine is FAR from over, there's still a million questions plaguing me (who the fuck is henriette!!), but I'm ecstatic that I've been able to even get this much. And there's even bits that aren't super important that I'm leaving out, such as where Carol was from, where she worked, her family, etc. It's very exciting and it really does feel awesome that like this has actually panned out and my efforts have results instead of it being a complete dead end like i was beginning to think.