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painted-bees · 6 months

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September 23rd 2010

i) The tide was lower than Magritte had ever seen it.

Perhaps ‘seen’ was the wrong word to use. The inky darkness of night swallowed the barren, stoney features of Smelt Bay, as well as the ocean that lapped distantly at its shore. Rather, she heard it; the white noise of the waves breaking unusually far away. All the better, honestly. She wasn’t here to swim. In fact, Smelt Bay was a terrible beach for swimming. It wasn’t just that the frigid coastline lacked in soft, warm sand; the uneven and slippery rockbed that composed the entire stretch of bay was covered, acre by acre, in countless oyster shells. They adorned almost every rock they could cling to, and their razor sharp edges could slice easily through hand and foot like a warm knife through butter. Which is why Magritte plodded along, slowly and carefully, in her brand new hiking boots.

Raf had cautioned her against clambering around the beach so late at night and, usually, she heeded his anxieties about it. It wasn’t initially her intention to scramble down the bluff and onto the beach; she had only wanted to come out and watch the seafoam crash gently upon the stones. At night, under the moonlight, the contrast between white foam and inky water enchanted her with its otherworldly beauty. However, upon reaching the beach, the tide had been drawn out further than she could see. And so now, she was looking for it.

She had the good sense not to stumble forward in the dark, using her phone's flashlight to illuminate the path in front of her. She loved scouring the beach at low tide. Countless crabs of all sizes scuttled and scurried beneath the unnatural light of her phone. Her eyes met with the occasional, chubby pink and purple starfish that had been abandoned by the retreating ocean. Both the crabs and the brightly coloured starfish were a common sight on these beaches and, while she appreciated their company, they failed to make her pause. What did capture her attention was a fat, orange blob of a creature.

What are you? Magritte stopped to crouch down for a better look, lifting her phone to shine upon it. Oh, just another starfish… Well, no. Not really. It had one, two, three, four…eight…thirteen legs! She stared at it for a moment of deliberation before extending a tentative forefinger to poke its roughly textured, glistening surface. Before her finger could get within an inch of it, a gentle blanketing wave of frothy ocean fanned out between her and the creature, covering both it and her hiking boots in several inches of freezing water.

With a startled yelp at the stabbing cold, Magritte bolted upright as she found herself soaked to the ankles.

“Aw, shit-!” She lifted one foot out, and then the other in an awkward hopping skip, trying in vain to keep her feet up, out of the rogue wave. Apparently, the tide had been a lot closer than she thought. She continued her silly, wet, hop-scotchy walk back towards the bluffs with a self-depreciative chuckle. She expected the wave to recede.

But it didn’t.

Instead, another wave layered itself on top, swallowing her calves, and then another that submerged her past the knee. The arresting shock of the cold was outcompeted by the jolt of fear that kicked her into a frantic scramble. As she abandoned caution, the forceful current of the tide rose past her waistline, shoving her forward and off her feet. The water’s piercing chill bit through her chest, squeezing a sharp gasp from her just as her head was pulled beneath the waves.

Primal terror possessed her to reach forward with her hands and find purchase on any surface she could grab. Her fingers closed around fists full of jagged oyster shells that held like cement to the stones they were anchored to. As the ripping current suddenly dragged Magritte back, the soft flesh of her grasping palms may as well have been wet tissue for how well they maintained their structure. What little air she held her lungs escaped with the muffled scream that boiled out from her throat. She tumbled like a rag doll as she was pulled backward by the powerful riptide. Her knees and elbows painfully scraped across the oyster-laiden ground in intervals that only served to further disorient her.

Panic crescendoed, blackening the edges of her vision just in time for her head to break through the surface of the waves. She treaded water with wild, unevenly flailing limbs, drawing in a sharp gasp that was quickly strangled by a fit of wet coughing. Chest, hands, arms, knees, everything burned. And what didn’t burn felt as though it were being needled by cold knives. She couldn’t stop coughing. She couldn’t draw a proper breath. Her head rushed with the sound of waves. Or blood. Her eyes were useless as strangled tears obscured her vision.

Until, at last, her coughing subsided, and she drew in one…two…three shaky, shallow breaths. She held it for a moment, the best she could.

And…it was quiet.

The sound of water lapping at her jawline and behind her ears outcompeted the volume of waves across the distant shore.

The very distant shore.

She released her breath, surrendering to over-exerted panting. But, even her starving lungs were too constricted by the freezing water to draw in proper gulps of air. Her breaths were short, sharp, and uneven as she attempted to scan the landscape for signs of the shore.

She could not see land; not even the light of distant houses. Beneath the starry sky, the world around her seemed unnaturally dark.

A nervous laugh broke out of her throat, accompanied with a teeth-clattering, quiet little chant. “F-fuck, fuck, f-fuck, fuck.”

The searing hot pain of her oyster-inflicted wounds had, at least, subsided rather quickly. She didn’t attempt to move her fingers, let alone ball her hands into fists. She didn’t even dare to look at them. She could barely feel them at all.

Experimentally, she drew in as deep a breath as she could, and stopped treading water. She felt herself begin to sink, and with more effort than it was worth, she shrugged off her jacket and kicked off her boots. Or rather, her boot, singular. Apparently, she had lost the other one already. Her feet were so numb that she couldn’t feel the difference. Shedding the remaining boot hardly made her more buoyant, but it felt like it helped.

She attempted to curl her lips into a smile. “O-okay, w…well…If I had to choose…between f-freezing to d-eath or drowning, I’d rather freeze. S-so let's focus on that, I g-uess.”

Bleak.

Was there any point in swimming when she couldn’t see the shore? How long could someone survive in water like this? Was she afraid of dying?

Not nearly as afraid as I was just a few moments ago.

She should have felt…more upset than this. It seemed strange. Maybe she was just too cold to think properly, but most likely, the reality of her situation hadn’t set in yet. After all, the situation was salvageable. A boat could come along and haul her out of the water. The tide could wash her up onto the shore. There were lots of different little islands around here, she was bound to wash up on the shore of one, right? What were the chances of that happening before she could freeze to death?

…How long would it take for the hopelessness to set in? If she could keep making light of the situation, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

“And, yan-n-no…it’s been a g-good run.”

…Hasn’t it?

Truth be told, things had only just started getting really good. Well, kinda. This year was a rough patch. Uncle Bill’s passing in late April had really…thrown things askew. But the island was a perfect escape from the fake sympathies, the incessant phone calls, the social obligations…all the stress… It was gonna give them the peace, quiet, and space to properly grieve. We were gonna start playing music again. They had only been on the island for a week. The cottage Bill had left to Raf was so nice. It had a piano. It was cute. Warm.

Of all things, it was the thought of the cottage’s little black wood stove that made Magritte’s eyes water with a sudden stab of helpless dismay.

No, why? That’s so stupid.

Why the stove? Why not the grief of her parents? Why not the fact that she’d never be able to play music again? Why not–

“Raf.” It came out as a croak that she barely even recognized as her own voice. “S-shit. I’m sorry, Raf. M-man. This was my s-stupid idea. It was my id-dea to come here, it was s-s-supposed to be so good. B-but…th-this is r-really…gonna…wreck you, isn’t it.”

There was a long pause as Magritte bobbed uselessly with the waves, trying to will her numb, sluggish limbs to move in a manner that allowed her to survey her surroundings once again for any sign of land. Maybe she should just start swimming in a direction, would that have been better? Would it make her feel warmer? Or…would it just exhaust her faster?

She was already so tired.

I don’t want to be anyone’s traumatic loss, I just want to be warm.

How the hell did this even happen? What caused the ocean to hit her so suddenly, like a river?

It doesn’t make sense. What if this is just a really bad dream? I could wake up in bed, soft and warm, and held…coffee...and…eggs. Over easy in front of the wood stove. Pyjamas…slippers, but like…not the linoleum kind, it needs to have enough structural integrity for breakfast…to support the…workload and drive me to the–

-PIFFF-

Magritte hadn’t realised that her eyelids were closed, but the sudden explosive hissing that erupted right beside her caused them to snap wide open. For a second, she thought that something had fallen off the top shelf of her closet. But almost as quickly as she imagined that, the biting cold water encroaching on the corners of her nose and eyes reminded her of where she was.

-FIFFFFF-

The same sound again, slightly further away. Panic rejuvenated her for a brief moment until she saw the source of the noise. A jet of pale mist erupted from the surface of the water, and in its wake, a dark, triangular silhouette glided smoothly downward. The wet, rubbery flesh glistened in the moonlight before sinking beneath the rolling waves.

Whales.

Magritte attempted to lift her head enough to see if she could spot them again. Sure enough, three or four more of the creatures surfaced silently. The ghostly silhouettes of their dorsal fins were all that gave away their position. These must have been the orcas the neighbours had mentioned. Even Raf once managed to catch a glimpse of them from the shore, but Magritte hadn’t been with him to see it. She had wanted so badly to look at them…

“Oh…well, thanks for showing up, guys.” Her teeth weren’t clattering anymore, but she could hardly bring her voice above a whisper. For some reason, her throat felt so tight. “Please don’t toss me around like a seal… I’ve seen what you do to them…on t.v.”

The whales responded with a series of loud, spouting breaths; some nearby, others further away. As she recalled the image of a half flayed seal rag-dolling through the air, anxiety blossomed in the pit of her stomach, Magritte turned her gaze upward and hung it on the three bright stars of Orion’s belt.

If making noise is encouraged as a way of deterring bears from harassing hikers, maybe the same was true for whales and swimmers. I can be weird and loud, can’t I?

She attempted to sing a song. Her strangled voice rasped, fruitlessly struggling to be heard above the sounds around her.

“What are you hunting up there in the stars?

Is it beasts, or demons, or old battle scars?

Do you remember the warmth of my palm in yours

Is it buried in rubble from all of those wars?

You’ve lost yourself so far, far away

Searching for ghosts and impossible prey.

You’ve flown too far from the earth and the sea,

Please come back…come back…

…Come back to…”

As her words drifted, so too did she; down, down, into the cold, quiet void.

And it embraced her, lovingly.

ii)

Raf’s eyes opened to the sound of ocean waves and a dull ache in his neck. Light poured out from the cottage windows, pooling warmly across the sprucewood deck and the white, woven hammock that cradled him. An earbud filled his left ear, but no music played. Either his iphone had come to the end of his playlist, or it had run out its battery life while he slept.

With a tired groan, he sat up and stretched, gingerly tilting his head to loosen the painful knot in his neck. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he should have expected it after a relaxing joint and some quality tunes. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up. Perhaps it was the chill. It wasn’t cold enough for his breath to hang in the air, but it was chilly enough for him to wish for a sweater–rather than a t-shirt–beneath his jacket.

Or maybe it was the concussive sound of the waves.

The ocean wasn’t visible from his cottage. There was a strip of dense forest that lined the property and separated it from the bluffs. Still, the white noise of the ocean could always be heard through the trees. The salt could be smelled on the breeze, and it could be felt collecting in his hair. It must have been exceptionally turbulent out there tonight, for he could hear the waves crashing with an unusually loud clarity.

Raf lifted his phone and turned on the LED screen to check the time. Its battery life was still good, but as he had suspected, his playlist had played through to the last track.

1:34 a.m.

The corners of Raf’s mouth twitched.

Magritte hadn’t woken him up to herd him into bed when she came home. Was she pissed off at him for declining to walk with her?

In fairness, he had been…difficult to manage the past half year. And it became increasingly obvious that Magritte’s bountiful patience had been running thin over the past month or two. She had begun to adopt his defensive snippiness–not at him, but at the things she knew infringed upon him. Phone calls, text messages, the gestures of concerned friends and colleagues reaching out to see if he was okay. The cold, prying interrogations–thinly veiled by hollow sympathies–querying for available pieces of his uncle’s estate.

The man’s body hardly had time to grow cold before Ephrem representatives began hounding Raf about the company shares he had inherited. His family in Monaco had gone so far as to request the retrieval of Uncle Bill’s body. “He should be put to rest on home soil”–but his will had detailed what was to be done. By his request, Uncle Bill’s body was kept here, in British Columbia. Raf had to take care of it all; the estate, the funeral, and the vultures.

All he wanted to do was hide.

And, in a way, that’s mostly what he did. He managed as much as he could, but once the funeral had been concluded, his energy and willingness to keep on top of things dissolved. He just couldn’t…deal…with the people. Any of them. At some point, they had all stopped resembling human beings, and felt more like a pack of feral dogs with no purpose greater than to sate their gluttony. Every interaction bloodied him with clawing, hungry teeth.

Magritte picked up the slack for him. It was…beyond her ability, honestly. But she did her best, at the expense of indulging her passions. While he isolated and avoided the torrent of his unwanted responsibilities, Magritte had lived those months constantly on the backfoot, attempting to hold things together and never quite managing to see any of it through properly. It was simply too many balls for her poor little arms to carry, and as she tried to pick up the ones she had dropped, more always spilled out.

Last month, it had finally driven her to tears.

Raf had been woefully inadequate at showing his appreciation for her efforts and, even as he watched her sob in frustration, he found it difficult to provide any meaningful comfort. Nothing broke his heart quite like seeing her cry, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to promise any fun distractions. He couldn’t tell her, in earnest, that things were fine. He couldn’t give her the reward of knowing that she had been able to make everything right and good for him. He could only tell her that he knew she was doing her best, that he was glad to have her with him, and that he loved her.

More than anything, he loved her.

Talk was cheap. He knew that better than anyone. But living in ‘survival mode’ left very little in the way of emotional resources, and he had become very cold, irritable, and distant. Still, Magritte sought out his company. She wished to share good experiences with him and did her best to take care of him despite his diminishing reciprocation over the past few months.

Retreating to Cortes Island had been her idea. She had never visited the place before, but when Raf described it as a tiny, isolated little community with no supermarkets nor chain restaurants, no hospitals nor police stations, and with the population of a small school, her eyes lit up.

“It’s perfect! We could just disappear there and take a year–or five–to just…recover from everything!” Her tone had taken on a conspiratorial tone when she added, “We don’t have to tell anyone.”

She had underestimated the scope of work that accompanied ‘disappearing to a small island for a year’. In contrast, the workload was all his mind could fixate on. But– a body of water separating him from the relentless chaos of the mainland was appealing enough for him to commit to the move. And so, they made their hasty preparations, packed up, and left without a word.

A week had passed since they moved into the small cottage, and Raf had to admit that the quiet calm of the island was…a relief.

He had asked Magritte for a month. A month of nothing; no outings, no plans, no obligations–just rest. It was the closest thing to hibernation he was ever going to experience, and she had agreed to it. It didn’t stop her, though, from inviting him out for walks, and to see the ocean with her. It was the bare minimum, and he should have obliged her more often than he did. But truly, all he wanted to do was stay home, smoke weed, listen to music, and sleep.

And that’s what he had chosen to do when she invited him to watch the waves with her, some time after 10pm. She didn’t seem bothered when he lazily declined to accompany her, but perhaps she had grown cranky about it during her time out. Seeing him passed out in the hammock, she probably left him to endure the natural consequences of his poor choices, and went to bed without him.

Honestly, catching a chill and a sore neck was negligible punishment compared to the guilt of disappointing Margie. On the other hand, he had asked her for a month–just one month–to be as lazy and absent as he wanted to be, and she had agreed to it. So if she was pissed off at him–

Her shoes were not at the front door.

Usually, Magritte kicked her boots off before entering the house, and rarely brought them inside. Raf opened the door, expecting to see them on the shoe rack, but they weren’t there either. Nor was her jacket strewn over the back of the couch as it should have been.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and marched quietly up the steep, narrow little staircase to the second floor. Down the short corridor, his bedroom door was still open and he could see through to his window and the night sky that overlooked the foot of his bed. Peeking his head in, the blankets laid smooth and undisturbed across the mattress, folded over to expose the neatly arranged pillows.

Raf pulled himself back into the tiny corridor with a bewildered frown. “Margie?” It wasn’t a yell, but his voice projected loudly enough to be heard throughout the small cottage.

There was no answer, only the gentle hum of the fridge downstairs, accompanied by the rustling of leaves in the breeze outside. And the crashing of waves upon the unseen shore.

With an agitated groan Raf dropped back down the stairs, towards the front door, and hastily put on his sneakers. Something at the beach must have captivated her. Maybe some weird sealife, maybe partying campers. Either way, she had lost track of time, and now he had to go find her. At least she couldn’t be disappointed with him if she had chosen to stay out at a worryingly late hour.

The beach wasn’t more than a fifteen minute walk away, and all he had to do was follow the gravel road down the slope, onto Potlatch Road, and then down to Smelt Bay. There were no lamps lining the street, and so Raf found himself relying on his phone torch to light the path ahead of him. Despite the darkness, it wasn’t an eerie nor dangerous walk by any means. Accompanied by the singing of crickets, he was comfortably familiar enough with these streets, trusting them even with a lone, wandering Margie.

As he made his way briskly down the long, paved length of Potlatch road, his curiosity was tickled by just how close the sound of lapping ocean waves seemed to be. Perhaps it was the way it echoed off the treeline, but it sounded as though it were almost right in front of him.

Raf rounded the broad corner towards Smelt Bay–and stopped.

The pavement directly beneath his feet had become gradually more wet, as though a heavy rain had passed through recently. That would have been strange enough on its own. He’d have definitely noticed if it had been raining, and there wouldn’t have been such a clear, sudden border between dry ground and waterlogged asphalt. He lifted his phone light to shine it further down the road, and frowned.

Ahead of him, the street was covered in a thin layer of water, seafoam lapping over concrete and into the grassy ditch. As he continued a tentative pace forward, the water wasn’t quite high enough to spill over the rubber soles of his shoes. He walked until Potlatch met with Smelt Bay Road, where he was granted an unobscured view of the beach. The ocean’s waves broke over the bluffs, flooding the street and the grassy plots of land that faced the open bay.

“...The hell?” He muttered, barely above a whisper.

The ocean had to have risen a fair few feet in order for it to breach the bluffs. Was it possible for the tide to get this high? He watched as an empty bottle, tangled within a plastic bag, washed across the street alongside a random toque and a mess of uprooted reeds. Debris, both natural and unnatural, lined the waterlogged road. An enormous, sea weathered piece of driftwood that had spent years as a reliable landmark on the stony beach–now sat wedged askew in the ditch. A flash flood?

Tsunami.

Wait–

Anxiety closed its claws around his gut, and twisted.

“Margie?!” He barked out her name in the direction of the beach.

He took a few automatic strides towards the submerged bluff before halting, and he turned his phone over in his hand. Opening his contact list, he hit Magritte’s number and pressed the phone to his ear. Cell coverage on the island was spotty at best, but to his relief, the call connected. As it rang, he paced, his feet kicking up cold water into his shoes.

“Come on, answer your phone. I’m not gonna be mad at you, just answer your damn phone.”

He let it ring until the robotic voice of the phone operator made him hang up.

And then he tried again, to the same result.

What the hell could he do?

What was he supposed to do?

Don’t catastrophize, it’s not the worst case scenario, it never is.

Immediately, his brain had filled him with thoughts of Margie getting bowled over by enormous waves and dragged to sea. But, based on the fact that no one else was out inspecting damages or lamenting their losses, things probably hadn’t happened as suddenly nor as violently as his imagination pictured it. Realistically, she likely saw the tide start to come in and watched it from a distance, perhaps with some other folks who were hanging around the area. Plausibly, she was at a campsite somewhere, talking about it over smores and cheap booze. Or something like that.

But then, why didn’t she answer her phone?

Raf had already turned around and began walking in the direction of the camping lots. All he had to do was find one that still had a fire going at this time of night. But, as his feet left solid pavement and marched onto the dirt road of the Smelt Bay campsites, he found that the tide had flooded this area as well. The inch of water blanketing the ground turned it into a muddy mess. There were no tents pitched in any of the lots. No campfires, either. Two or three of the lots housed a parked RV, elevated off the ground. Dry, and oblivious to the seawater beneath their tires. None of them showed any signs of waking life. Magritte wasn’t here.

Coming upon one of the empty lots, Raf found a sturdy tree stump that had clearly been fashioned for seating, and dropped himself down on it. He buried his face into his hands with a fraught sigh. There had been tents here, he knew that much. The inhabitants likely packed up and abandoned the lots in favour of finding a dry place to spend the night. If the RVs and trailers were still here, clearly there couldn’t have been much of a panic. The waterline hadn’t risen catastrophically.

Still, Magritte was missing.

He tried to call her one more time, and was greeted unhelpfully by the operating system once again.

What if she had gotten home after he had left to find her?

The thought pulled Raf back onto his feet, and what started as a swift walk home hastened into an anxious jog.

The tide, he noted, was slowly receding. A length of road that had been submerged when he first arrived was exposed once again to dry off in the chilly night air. For some reason, the sight of it relieved his anxiety somewhat. There was nothing inherently dangerous about the strange tide; it wasn’t any kind of disaster. Likely, Margie was at home, worried and waiting for him. Her phone battery must have depleted. It would explain why she wasn’t calling him back.

It wasn’t long before he was walking down the long, rough, unpaved driveway; under the boughs of spruce and cedar trees and into the clearing of the cottage's wild, grassy property.

Approaching the house, he called out her name across the yard to no answer. The lights were still on in the living room and kitchen. He climbed the two steps of the porch up to the front door and, calling her name once more, he opened it.

No response.

Before stepping inside, he kicked off his muddy shoes and then closed the door behind him.

“Margie.” His volume was conversational as he scaled the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor and diligently checked each of the bedrooms.

No. She wasn’t here.

Then…where was she?

Not the ocean. Not the ocean. Not in the ocean.

Sitting down on the foot of the bed, Raf stared at the floor and tried to fight off a wave of despair.

There was no way.

There was no fucking way. It would have been beyond cruelty to leave him like this. He wasn’t gonna be able to…it wasn’t something he could handle.

Steadying himself with a deep breath, he scooted over to his side of the bed, took his laptop up off his night table, and unfolded it on his lap. A phone jack tethered it to the wall behind the nightstand and provided a serviceable internet connection. He opened a browser and typed into the search bar; “How long to wait before making a missing person report?”

Apparently the answer was “not at all”.

Raf looked up the appropriate number to call, picked up the phone, and dialled. >>part iii, iv, and v<<

#Hi-Note #this is just the beginning...there is more to come dw haha #Cortes meet-cute lmfao #if u can call it that #Rafael #Magritte #Cortes

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glassjarglassjar · 2 months

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And that reminded me of this:

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert from Open Field-Poems from Group 18 Open Field Press, Northampton Ma. 2011

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stoney field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage had failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

#icarus

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macaw-squawks · 5 months

Note

hello, if you wouldnt mind id love to see a selkie stimboard with themes of colder oceans and stony beaches if that makes sense? seal imagery is also very welcome thank you very much in advance

Selkie stimboard, with themes of colder oceans, stoney beaches and seals!

Requested by; anon

Hope this works, anon! Tried getting a variety of seals in here, plus the main themes ofc :> let me know if you'd like any changes!!

🦭/🧊/🦭

🧊/🦭/🧊

🦭/🧊/🦭

#stimboard #kin stimboard #selkie kin #seal stimboard #selkie stimboard #seal stim #water stim #cold stim #rock stim

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gendervoid-zane · 3 months

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MyStreamer AU:

Biomes/areas where everyone builds their main bases in the Season 1-3 SMP.

-Dante and Travis -> Plains Biome. Don’t live together but are neighbors and technically their bases are connected (think Techno’s and Phil’s cabins from DSMP). They do share farms and a storage system.

-Gene, Sasha, and Zenix -> Ancient City. They share a base.

-Vylad and Lucinda -> Dark Oak Forest. Same biome, but they aren’t technically neighbors. And technically speaking Vylad has another “main” base and a secret base.

-Laurance -> Mangrove Swamp. Vylad’s other “main” base is also here.

-Garroth, Cadenza, and Aphmau -> Cherry Blossom Forest. Same biome and the three of them are neighbors.

-Zane -> Stoney Peaks.

-Nana -> Flower Forest.

-Aaron -> Snowy Taiga.

-Katelyn -> Ocean Monument.

-Vylad (secret base) -> Lush Cave.

#Aphblr #Mystreet #MyStreamer AU

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gaunt-and-hungry · 6 months

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Soft Storms: Reader x Francis Crozier No content warnings.

Your pulse is so very heavy in your body. It is heavy in the way that the thunder outside rumbles low and hungry and shakes the bones of the house. The sea-kissed home is safe, of course, the stones may be old but the strength in their bones will last aeons. Sturdy.

Your pulse is so very heavy in your body. You feel it through your back. You feel it thud slowly and steady through your ribs. You feel it throb gently through your spine and down, down, down into the warmth your back is pressed against. His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, moving the both of you in such a subtle way that the world seems to slow to a tumultuous crawl.

One of his arms is draped comfortably around your body, holding loose and gently. Your fingers are interwoven, linked lovingly together as his thumb runs across the back of your hand slowly. It’s a mindless motion. You’re certain that he does not even realise he is doing it as he reads. He is often reading like this. He feels safe enough to drift into pages with you there. He did not used to entertain volumes like this aboard the Terror. You’re comfortably settled ‘twixt his legs, his knees lazily apart to make room for your body as the both of you lay there along the length of the settee. You feel the press of his left leg against your own, trapped between your body at the back of the furniture. There’s a pulse there along the inside of his thigh and it curiously draws your attention a little as you cradle your cup of tea. Growls of violent clouds send soft jolts every so often through your body to remind you that time is still a moving force.

The clouds shift across the rippling rains outside the window. His broader frame is a security in the threatening winds that scratch pelting rain against the panes, etching obscure weaves of trickling droplets down the glass. The shutters whine in protest as they hold back the storm that rages outside.

Brutality across the oceans crash and shudder the shore, distorted through the windows. You can see that it is roiling like a hungry beast, waves like reaching limbs and furling tendrils that claw frantically to the stoney beach beyond. A glance out the window and that is all it takes for your hand to reflexively squeeze his. He squeezes back, his voice catching along the book closing its covers. He hushes you softly, smoothly, “It’s just a storm, love,” his brogue is buried in your hair, pressed against you. You can feel his lips kiss a spot just above your ear. “It’s just a storm,” he repeats and his other arm wraps about your middle. He is shifting his weight, sitting further up to support himself as he pulls you further up his body. “I know,” it’s a croaked out whisper from you. “Just startles my nerves sometimes,” you confess, a pitifully weak laugh huffing past your lips. The words are meant more for yourself than him as if rationalising it will ease the tension that you feel coiling in your belly. It’s as if he knows where the unease settles inside of you, the warmth of his hands settling both of your hands over your belly as he allows you to relax against him. He keeps you there, steady and stable.

“Would you like to hear the time Thomas and I got aboard the wrong ship as young midshipmen?” he offers, leaning a bit to look you in the eye. His steely blues are much calmer than the storm that rages outside, “It’s an embarrassing story but it is a good one,” he promises with a soft toothy smile. Leather and salt comes to your senses and cold pine.

“I would like that very much, yes,” You whisper; a kiss is pressed to your lips in a soft and reassuring way.

Your pulse is so very heavy in your body. You feel it deep in your body and inside your back. It thrums with the thunder that is slowly fading from your faculties. Your back is pressed against Francis’ and you can feel his heart through your spine.

#francis crozier #the terror #francis crozier x reader #my writing #writing blog

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mrburnsnuclearpussy · 11 months

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Downton Abbey fantasy AU headcanons! Not every character is included here but I do have ideas for them. Long post under the cut:

Downton - still called Downton and a huge castle but it’s in a mountain range and styled like an elvish palace. Basically Downton if it were Rivendell.

Anna- literally a guardian angel sent to Mary from heaven itself :) is literally perfect and amazing idk what else to say shes just nice. Soft white feathery wings and an ethereal glow about her at all times. People remark that they find her presence pleasant and calming, even when she isn’t saying anything. Has the softest feathers, which she uses to wrap around someone (usually Lady Mary) to comfort them. Also she can sing like a Disney princess and probably summon cute animals and stuff.

Bates- a warewolf dude with a mysterious past. After being injured in battle, he eventually returns to find Robert Crawley, the high elf Lord who was once his comrade and who he still has great respect for. However, it’s been many years and he has since then committed several murders and been on dangerous adventures. He has mostly learned to control damage by locking himself before he transformed, but it hasn’t always worked. Was living in the forest alone away from civilisation before he came to Downton where he hoped for a change. His lycanthropy caused him baggage and a tempter, and he often feels guilty and self-sacrifices to make up for it. Quite a different and darker story than in the show, but I think his sinister side is more interesting so I’m running with it. Werewolf form has dark brown fur.

Carson- originally a dragon statue that was built for the palace, he was brought to life with a curse centuries ago by one of the previous earls and has been at Downton ever since, never leaving the estate once as he is bound to it (literally as he’s technically a part of it) and honour bound to the family. Will not die naturally but will one day return to stone when the curse wares off, where he’ll remain at Downton forever. Loyal but that goes without saying, while he answers firstly to Robert he is most protective of Mary, and will do anything for her. A large white/grey dragon with a stoney, marble-like appearance and a stern expression. Has never tried to fly because he sees no point.

Cora- half mermaid, half high-elf. Cora’s mother was a rich mermaid from an ocean kingdom who married an elf. However all her family still live in the ocean, and anyone who isn’t aquatic uses magic to breathe underwater, including Roberts side of the family when they visit. Cora took a while to adapt to life on land, even though she has legs, she had to learn how to walk from scratch. Her legs are scaly and adorned with shimmering fins like a betta fish’s, which resemble silky flowing material. She also has patches of scales and fins on her arms and ears, which are a mix of pink and light blue. Her iris shimmer like a fish, but eyes are more elf-like in shape and size. She can breathe underwater but needs more oxygen than a typical mermaid. She has adapted to the elvish way of life, but her closet and manner still contain traces of the looser, more expressive style of her old home.

Mary, Sybil and Edith- high elves, one quarter mermaid. Each look like elves but with some hints of fish features, such as fin-like ears, areas of shiny scales, and small fins on their limbs. Sybil has the most mermaid features, including the ability to breathe underwater, fins instead of ears, larger patches of scales, and longer fins. Her scales are blue.

Mary has the least fish features and looks most like a typical elf. She has small patches of red scales on her legs with short fins attached, no gills, and only a hint of red scales at her pointed ears. She prides herself on being a high elf rather than mermaid and is haughty and basically just Mary lol

Edith has turquoise scales, no gills, and is halfway between Mary and Sybil in terms of mixture of elf/fish traits. The sisters storyline is similar to the show except they’re pretty elf/mermaid people :3

Robert- a high elf Lord, owner of the Downton estate and castle, a very powerful elf. He practises eleven magic in his study and rides his horsies :3 Works to protect his land from rival families and such, idk what to say abt him really he’s just a goofy dad and a sillay guy. Basically just looks the same except taller and an elf, and wears elvish clothes of course (the whole family does).

Violet- legendary Queen bitch of the elves. Next question. Can’t improve on her so nothing to say.

Isobel- a wood elf like her son Matthew, they move from the city into the estate where she tries to disprove the high elves biases against wood elves. She is practically skilled and can fight when it comes down to it, excellent with a bow and arrow and even better with medicine and magic. She likes to help others and often uses magic and alchemy to find solutions to problems, even when no one asked. Quite peppy just like in the show. Her old house was in a wooded district of the city, built among large trees so it’s kind of a treehouse but really fancy?

Matthew- is literally Matthew but see above, lol idk what to say he’s just Matthew but an elf and he’s good at hunting and fighting with his bow.

Branson- a plucky and strong-willed Griffin! Instead of a chauffeur (there are no cars), he transports others places by flying them on his back. When in uniform he has a pair of flying goggles. An exceptional flyer, he’s the fastest of all the characters, which comes to his advantage when delivering messages and people between countries. He’s a large griffin with a deep brown colour, yellow beak and forelimbs, and rusty red feathers around his neck, chest and head. His tail has a wide fan of long dark feathers, and he slicks back the tufts of feathers on his head when he’s working to make I’m more streamlined.

Mrs Patmore- a satyr with orange hair and orange fur. She is short and stout and basically the same except has goat legs lol. Still the cook, you rarely see because they’re under her cap but she has tiny lil horns and goat ears too, her nose is slightly different and flat like a satyr. Soft, curly fur on legs and funny little tail :3 basically I love her

Daisy- ah Daisy, poor simple halfling girl. There’s not much change to her either other than she is a cute little hobbit who came from underground. Lived in a hole for like the first 10 years of her life and only saw the sun after that. Has worked all her life and never had a caring family, a sad story but we all know Mrs Patmore ends up being her guardian basically so it’s okay in the end 😌

Mrs Hughes- ok I go back and forth but Unicorn???? Reading why: I love her and she deserves to be one, very wise rare unicorn with a healing magic. Can heal basically anyone and has a deep understanding into others souls. Started off living free in the highlands before becoming increasingly bound by duties and promises she’d made to others, and has seemed to be busy ever since. Sometimes longs for a simpler life, but knows she will never leave Downton as she has gained so much responsibility there. Trusted by everyone, she will keep your secrets safe.

Not sure what colour she should be, maybe silver or lilac? Hmmm

Lavinia Swire- a fairy :3 her wings are simple but elegant bug wings, with yellow segments outlined with a fiery orange. She’s tiny and sparkly coz she’s a fairy. I haven’t decided anything else for her yet I’m making this all up as I go along lol

#downton abbey #fantasy #au #headcanons #i cba to tag all the characters lol

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steamedbeefs · 5 months

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Chapter 1 - The Town of Drake's Cove

In the realm of Virelia, signs of summer began to bless the lands, from the flat grasslands that rolled as far as the eye could see to the snow-capped peaks of the Northern Mountains and every place in between. It was in the Dragon’s Woods in particular that summer was in full swing, with its abundance of colourful wild flowers popping up amongst the thick, green grass, with butterflies and busy honey bees pollinating them, filling the air with their buzzing. A warm breeze swayed the mighty oak trees of the forest, the sun’s bright rays filtering down through the leaves, casting patterns of light and shadow on the ground.

Despite the fact that his travelling companions had all peeled off their leather armour and cloaks, made damp by sweat by the summer heat, the elderly Firbolg shuddered, goosebumps exploding on his frail skin. He shrugged his thick cloak over his shoulders, hoping that the earth-colour wool would help keep the chill out of his old bones. However, he pushed on, leading his team of sell-swords down the decades-old beaten path using his equally old map clasped in his large hand. Every few minutes, the Firbolg glanced down at the map, his shaggy, wool-like fur on top of his head hanging down over his eyes as he scanned the crumpled paper.

“Aye,” he grunted, stuffing the map back into his cloak’s pocket, taking steady strides down the road, using his staff as a walking stick. “No more than another few more leagues until we reach town, younglings.”

Falling into step next to the Firbolg, his Halfling hireling tucked a loose curl of her auburn hair behind a long, pointed ear, giving him a quizzical look.

“Are you sure, Captain Skillet?” She asked him, glancing down at his pocket where the map was unceremoniously crumpled inside, fighting the urge to snatch it and read it herself. “You said that it was only a couple of leagues away when we broke camp at dawn, and now it’s lunchtime and you’re saying the same thing again. We’ve been walking for hours and we still haven’t seen any signs of Drake’s Cove yet. Are you sure we’re not lost, sir?”

The other two hirelings, a Triton with a tangle of navy curls on his head and eyes that glittered like gold and a Goblin with a mischievous smile and messy black hair that was cut hastily, named Nalu and Bullet respectively, fell behind their Captain and their Halfling companion. They listened intently to their conversation, as Skillet had been known to get the adventurers lost from time to time, and they both were eager to finally get to the village he was leading them to and get off their aching feet.

The Firbolg only just waved the girl off, chuckling to himself. “I know these woods like the back of my hand, Finch Waveborne,” Skillet had said to her, not slowing down his pace as he spoke over his shoulder. “This forest is where I used to play when I was just a youngling, not much younger than you three are now. The reason I am so adamant to get to Drake’s Cove, the town we are going to be selling our services to next, is because it used to be my home. And, here we are…”

With a flourish of his hand, the Dragon’s Woods began to thin around the adventures, and signs of civilization began to appear.

Drake’s Cove was an old fishing village, weathered by age and the sea surrounding it. Farmlands and small houses made of river stone and thick logs of oak wood dotted the land, their thatched roofs rustling in the wind. The homes were sparse at first, with patches of trees and large expanses of farmland between them, but as the land rolled downwards towards the cove where the ocean lapped at the stoney shore, the houses grew closer together and the farms became smaller. One main cobblestone road ran through the main part of town, in some places covered in mud from carriages or sand from the beach, while footpaths and rotten boardwalks branched off in every direction, beating down the tall beach grass.

Near the cove stood a large inn, with rickety wooden piers surrounding it on both sides, multiple fishing boats moored against them, bumping against the docks with soft thumps as the waves rocked them back and forth. Skillet smiled as the inn came into view through his shaggy fur, and he gestured for his young hirelings to follow him deeper into town.

Drake’s Cove was home to a variety of different races, from bulky Orcs chopping firewood or hauling water from the well at the center of town to dainty-looking Elves tending vegetable gardens and beating rugs on lines with large beaters, each one living together in peace. There was even a Dragonborne living in town from what Bullet could see, and he was exiting the bakery with an arm’s full of fresh savoury breads and sweet sticky buns. Each one raised a hand or gave a small smile in greet as the adventurers past, calling out their ‘good afternoon’s and ‘nice to see you’s to the Firbolg leading the three younglings behind him. Children played in the middle of the road, entertaining themselves by playing pretend with one another, large dogs chasing behind them.

Approaching the inn, the adventurers could see that it was two floors tall, with a high roof made of slate tiles, the only building like it in the whole town. The first floor of the inn was built from smooth river rocks, and the second was made of dark-stained oak logs, with large windows evenly spaced throughout. Even though it was summer, the large chimney billowed out thick, white smoke. A sign hanging from a metal bracket above the large double doors named the inn ‘The Salty Drake’.

Skillet sighed happily when he led the young hirelings to the front doors of the inn, reaching up with one large hand to bat at the sign, making it swing back and forth on the bracket, squeaking sharply. “This here is ‘The Salty Drake’, the best inn this side of the Dragon’s Woods. During my younger years, I spent many a night here after returning from my adventures, draining the poor barkeep of his ale.” Skillet chuckled to himself as he reminisced, the three younglings behind him hanging onto every word. It was not often that their Captain shared any information about his past, so learning about his old stomping grounds excited them greatly. Snapping the three back to reality, the Firbolg gestured to the door. “I know the barkeep well, as he is one of my very best friends. We’ll be able to get a cheap steading here as we work, and be able to fill our bellies with his cooking.”

With a wink as he promised the hirelings a comfortable bed to sleep in and a hot meal, Skillet pushed open one of the large doors and wandered inside, the three sharing an excited look before following their Captain inside.

The inn opened up into a grand common room, which was spacious and comfortable, with a low ceiling and a sitting area around a large stone fireplace that stretched almost half the length of the room, the flame dancing upon the glowing logs. At the back-end of the common room stood a bar with many tables and chairs surrounding it, each table hosting a patron or two as they sipped from their goblets of cold ale or spiced mead shamelessly in the middle of the day. A kitchen could be found behind the bar, with smells of cooking meats and baking bread wafted into the adventurers’ nostrils. The bar itself was clean and tidy, and an older Elven gentleman stood behind it, cleaning a goblet with a rag. He was a Wood-Elf, upon further inspection, with dark skin, long black hair tied into a tight bun on top of his head, a meticulously kept beard flecked with grey, and piercing grey eyes that have been hardened by life.

With the sound of the front door opening and the footsteps of potential customers, the Wood-Elf looked up briefly from his work of cleaning dishes, and a wide grin split his features at the sight of the elderly Firbolg. “S-Skillet?... Is that you, old friend?” He asked, his voice stammering a little as he placed the goblet down on the bar and came around the side to approach the travellers.

Skillet opened his arms as the Wood-Elf approached him, returning his elated smile and wrapping his arms around him, his much larger body swallowing the Elf up in his embrace. “It’s good to see you again, Thefni,” Skillet said as he pulled away, and Thefni straightened his apron, the grin that wrinkled his face never fading.

“I… I can’t believe this… I never thought I’d ever see you again!” Thefni said, looking the Firbolg up and down as if he still couldn’t comprehend the fact that he was standing here before him. “You left so many years ago without saying goodbye. Folks were saying you went to find that great adventure you’ve always wanted, some said you were going to get yourself killed. Where did you go? What did you see? Tell me, friend. Tell me all about your travels, I want to hear every detail!”

Skillet chuckled at the Wood-Elf’s excited ramblings and patted him on the shoulder as he mounted a stool in front of the bar, letting out a small groan as he finally rested his exhausted legs. “I will, I will, old friend, I promise. Maybe tonight, over a nice cold goblet of your finest ale, hmm?” Skillet said with a chuckle in his deep, rumbling voice. “But first, I must introduce you to my hirelings. This is Nalu, Finch, and Bullet…” Skillet gestured to each adventurer respectively as he told Thefni their names, each one giving a small wave or a curt nod in greeting. “While my days of solo adventuring and sword-fighting are far behind me, I’m still travelling the lands of Virelia with my new team of sell-swords. We were wondering if you would allow us to stay here at the inn while we are in town to provide our services. We won’t be here long, mind you, not much more than a week or two at most. Just long enough until we make enough gold to last us until we get to the next town over. What do you say, old friend?”

With the explanation finished and the four adventurers looking at him expectantly, Thefni let out a loud, hearty laugh, one that made the patrons at the tables around them look up from their drinks momentarily to see what was so funny. “Did you really think you had to ask permission to stay here, Skillet? You're just as hard-headed as you were before you left all those years ago. Of course you’re welcome to stay here, for as long as you four need to. There’s plenty of empty beds and ale for you and your crew.”

Thefni then cocked his head to the side and called out across the room to the inn’s barmaid, who was serving ale to a patron that looked like they had a little too much to drink already. “Falkrunn, dear, come show our guests to their rooms, would you?”

Falkrunn was short and stout Hill Dwarf with a tanned complexion much like Thefni’s, her face covered in a splash of freckles. She wore a simple green tunic and brown breeches, and a white apron tied around her waist and her long, brown curls were pulled back in a tight braid to keep it off of the food and drink she served. She perked up when her name was called, excusing herself politely from the drunken patron and silently gesturing for the adventures to follow her upstairs to where the empty rooms for rent were.

While the three young hirelings chased the pretty barmaid upstairs to offload their belongings and weapons, Skillet turned his attention back to the Wood-Elf, who had went back behind the bar to continue cleaning the dirty goblets.

“Say, Thefni…” Skillet began, folding his arms on the bar as he leaned in towards his old friend. “You wouldn’t happen to have any jobs that need to be done while we’re here in town, hmm? It is the least we can do, give you a hand around the inn while we’ll be sleeping in your beds, eating your food, and drinking your ale without paying you any coin.”

Thefni laughed once more. “Come now, Skillet. You know that you’re welcome here, coin or no coin,” Thefni repeated, but now he let out a little hum as he thought about the offer he was given. “Maybe I do have something you and your crew can do, only if you don’t mind that is…”

“Anything, dearest Thefni, anything at all!” Skillet said, trying to coax Thefni’s problem out of his throat.

“I’ve been noticing that my casks in the cellar are emptying faster than they usually do. I have even found some completely empty before I even get the chance to tap them. I believe that there might be rats in the cellar chewing open the casks, or maybe someone might be stealing the ale. Whatever it is, I needed someone to go down and investigate it. How about it, Skillet? Are you up for the task?”

“Consider it done, old friend,” Skillet smiled at the Wood-Elf, giving him a determined nod.

***

Here is chapter 1 of 'The Adventures of the Merry Men', I hope you enjoy :)

2,285 words

#writing #writing on tumblr #writing wip #writer on tumblr #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #short story #short story writing #short story wip #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd campaign #dnd homebrew #dnd oc #dnd stuff #dnd5e #the adventures of the merry men

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g0dspeeed · 1 year

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A Chase

Cappie De la Costa loses yet another bet to Jacob Seed.

Contains sexually suggestive themes

He chased her, swift and sure-footed, down the slopes and over roots and gnarled brush, his heart hammering away so as not to lose sight of her. Jacob Seed knew that he wasn't as quick as Cappie De la Costa, but also knew that she wasn't one for endurance, that he could outlast her if he was able to withstand the burst of power that her strong legs afforded as the wild woman fled through the Whitetail Mountains, rasping and laughing as she did.

That fueled his resolve, the daring grin she sported on those plump lips of hers, taunting Jacob when Cappie chanced a look back over her shoulder.

"Can't catch me!" she mocked. "Can't catch me, big boy!"

Her weak jab cost her precious oxygen. Jacob saw that she caught her mistake as well, how Cappie began to slow and her breathing became choppy. Jacob took advantage right away. He used his remaining strength to lengthen his stride and the gap between them disintegrated. Just as she had to slow down before running off a ledge, Jacob was upon her and grabbed Cappie by wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting. Much akin to a wild animal, the woman writhed in his hold, all sweaty skin and body heat squirming for purchase. She smelled of amber and cigarettes, a heady mix that never ceased to relax Jacob nor to some degree turn him on. Jacob smirked as she fought for a beat then laxed in his arms. He loved it when she surrendered.

"Got ya," he breathed into the top of her hat.

The rise and fall of his chest against her back was soothing like the sea. The more she felt him, the more she leaned back and used his broad frame.

"Only, only because there was a fuckin' cliff!" argued Cappie. She swallowed to help catch her breath. "You cheated."

"'You cheated'," mocked Jacob in return, smirking at the expected piss poor behavior of the sore loser in his arms. "Maybe next time you shouldn't bet so high, darlin'."

They both took a moment to just breathe on the stoney ledge. The forest breathed around them, an exhale of bird song and sunbeams cutting through verdant branches and pinecones. Jacob savored the moment of natural wonder. He savored the delicious way Cappie sagged against his larger body and the rare moment of privacy they shared in the woods.

After a quick glance around, Jacob let his hand slip to the waistband of her joggers. Cappie grinned.

"Why not bet?" she sighed. "It worked, didn't it? Made ya hustle."

As inpatient as she was, Cappie forged ahead of him. Teeth nibbled her bottom lip while she wrapped her own hand around his wrist, and without an ounce of shame, she dipped his hand into her pants, held her breath at how the rough calluses ghosted the bare, sensitive skin. The rumbling groan against her back signaled his discovery of her little secret.

"Knew it," he mumbled.

"I think without them it makes me more aerodynamic–"

Jacob snorted a laugh. His other hand went to his belt buckle. Cappie felt her pulse race at the growl that escaped him, how the cool buckle tapped her back before it gave way.

Cappie was a hurricane, a swirling storm of raw emotion and temperament, that's eye, too, was mercurial in its arrival and powerful in how quick he surrendered to every kiss, smile, and tender touch.

"Think you lost on purpose," chided Jacob as he turned her to look at him.

Her sparkling hazel eyes appraised the man before her, all scarred skin and vibrant blue gaze as teeming as the sea. Hooded and long lashed, Cappie had always found his eyes to be mesmerizing, and how they appraised her back, predatory and pupils blown made her cheeks burn.

"What?" demanded Jacob.

Those ocean eyes darkened at the first pang of self-consciousness, that fire inside that told him nasty things about himself. The moment it snapped from his mouth, Jacob regretted it for that damn insecurity always sharpened his voice into something lethal, threatened whatever good thing bloomed between them.

And she heard it loud and clear. Her smile faltered a tick and that glimmer in her eyes dulled. But just as Jacob started to step away from the moment, from the playful intimacy, Cappie snuffed it out the best way she knew how. With a roll of the eyes, she stepped into his space and cupped his face with both hands, pinching his marred cheeks. His brow furrowed and his lips twisted into a snarl.

"What a big baby," she cooed. "Big, bad Jacob Seed can't take a woman swooning over him for one goddamn second-"

"Knock it off–"

Her lips found his forehead.

"No."

He huffed something passive, but Cappie won the fight, a knockout blow in the form of her mouth slotted to his, deep and teasing with tongue. Jacob melted into it, allowed his hands to reach down and grip her ass, her body pressing into his front with need. A laugh bubbled from her mouth and he drank it like wine. He shuddered as those sneaky hands of hers ran along the hem of his shirt, creeping up the plane of his stomach, along the scars that lined his body like a map.

When she pulled away, Jacob had to catch himself from leaning forward. Cappie laughed at that, too, but Jacob was too turned on to give a damn.

"Come on, big boy," she purred.

Her hand laced with his. With a pep to her step, Cappie started towards the direction of his truck.

"I lost a bet. Let me pay it back," added the wild woman.

And Jacob followed, uncaring that his belt was still undone and of the wide grin adorning his lips like stars.

#oc: cappie de la costa #jacob seed #far cry 5 #fc5 #farcry5 #otp: regulars #cappie de la costa x jacob seed

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