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Ridin’ The Waves 🏄‍♀️ | Javy “Coyote” Machado Imagine

Takes place before, during and after the events of TGM

TGM masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Javy “Coyote” Machado x pro surfer!reader (romantic), dagger squad (platonic)

Content Warnings: fluff, profanity, pop culture references, details of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 9.1k

Requested 📨 yes/no (for @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby)

Premise: From the moment she could walk Y/n L/n belonged to the sea. Riding the waves that started as a hobby, only to lead her to the world’s greatest sporting stage. It would take time before her dream of Olympic Gold would happen as surfing had yet to be recognized by the IOC. But in her pursuit of becoming the greatest female surfer of all time, Y/n found who she believed was the closest person to paradise.

Note: I gotta say writing athlete/Olympian!reader imagines with the dagger squad are truly some of my favorite. Gosh I cannot wait for next year because that means…..2024 Olympics 👀 Guys I’m almost done with my semester! I have less than two weeks and all i have left to do is a paper and final project !! Almost to the finish thank goodness and then I move in with my friend before starting my summer job! Hope y’all enjoyed this work and let me know what you think!

Be sure to watch the video I linked during the Rock’s segment. I didn’t make it up it actually was a segment during the opening ceremonies on NBC’s coverage.

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“Is this heaven?” He laid on the surfboard beside her, feet in the water with the warmth of the sun hit his back. A cool breeze was starting to set in as the most beautiful sunset was before him, painting the sky an endless murrel of pink and orange. Only the subtle echo of the low tide filled his ears. Javy pressed his cheek onto the board, finding her smile which made his own appear at her words.

“More like paradise.”

Everyone had their own definition of paradise. Maybe it was the quiet plains of Montana or the mountains of Appalachia. Maybe it was strolling down the streets of Paris with the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Rain pouring down on New York City with a steaming cup of tea in hand or driving down the Pacific Coast Highway with “California Love” blasting through the radio. Reading a book by the fire next to their soulmate, dancing with strangers at a concert. Ask anyone what they viewed as their own personal paradise and the responses will vary.

Y/n L/n felt she was in paradise almost everyday of her life. Waking up to the view of the ocean while birds flew overhead. Feet hitting the sand as she ran to the waters with her board, anxiously waiting to ride the waves. Salt water coating skin and hair, sun beaming down.

Paradise.

From the moment she could walk the beach became her second home. Having grown up on the island of O’ahu Y/n learned how to surf before riding a bike. Her parents surfed. As did her siblings. Getting an instructor wasn’t needed with a family who knew everything there was about the art of surfing. Y/n received her first board at age four, and from then on her life was devoted to the water. Owning more swimsuits than t-shirts and shorts by the time she reached fifth grade.

She was a natural at best. Always predicting when and where the best waves would be. Timing the push up so perfect others—even her family—were unable to keep up.

“C’mon, leave some for the rest of us,” her brother would groan, missing a wave due to her swooping in at the last second. Y/n only laughed in return.

“Gotta be faster than that.”

Her parents, surfers themselves, were basically her coaches. On weekends they were waking her up at the crack of dawn, breakfast on the counter and telling her to be on the beach when she was done. Then of course she had to apply sunscreen, the substance coating every inch of her skin. Once on the beach a thirty minute run and stretching was mandatory before she could get in the water.

Skipping such a step would have her sore all night.

“We’re gonna work on your 360, cutback, and tube ride before finishing the day with cleaning up your alley oop.”

“If I don’t make a lot of mistakes can we watch Lilo & Stitch after dinner?”

“Yes, that is a fair deal.”

Mistakes? What are those? Mistakes weren’t in Y/n’s nature and if they occurred it was a rare sighting. Only time Y/n ever did mess up on a maneuver was when she was first learning it. Once she had it down it was impossible to lose.

All the friends she made loved going to the beaches after school and on weekends—getting all their homework done during the school hours so their entire afternoon was free. They signed up for competitions together, Y/n entering her first at age 14 for the 2004 Juniors season after competitions in regionals since age 11. “You’re gonna win the comp, Y/n.”

“Oh stop playing,” she brushed her best friend off, only to hear the murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group.

“I’m serious! You catch the best waves and ride them perfectly. Those judges are gonna be amazed on Saturday—I bet you’ll even get a sponsor.”

Her best friend was right. Not only did Rip Curl—THE Rip Curl want Y/n to be the face of their new campaign, but the surfing world would know her name for generations to come.

“Welcome back to our coverage of the 2004 ISA World Junior Surf Championship here in beautiful O’ahu, Hawaii here on ESPN. We’re dwindling down on the final competition with the defending champion from last year's event, sixteen-year-old Carolina Kanoa, and newcomer, Y/n L/n. If you’ve been watching the competition then you know all eyes have been on the fourteen-year-old native of Kapolei here on O’ahu, who scored the highest in her heats and received all tens in the quarterfinals after a perfect run.”

“It was quite the sight, Tom. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so effortless in this competition. Y/n’s delivered a captivating performance each wave she’s catched—always getting the first one in her heats and pulling out a big score putting her high on the leaderboard. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see her on top of the podium today.”

“For anyone watching at home who are new to surfing or just want a little refresh on the scoring system, here is how it works: a panel of five judges determine a score one through ten, ten being the best, for each surfer on their wave based on degree of difficulty, innovative maneuvers, combination of major maneuvers, the variety of said maneuvers, and the speed, power, and flow. The highest and lowest score are thrown out leaving the remaining three, which are then averaged out. Now a surfer can catch as many waves as they please but only the two highest scoring waves will be added together to give the total score for that heat. From there competitors are eliminated until there are two finalists.”

Treading water, Y/n paid close attention to the scene in front of her. With only three minutes left on the clock, she was one wave away from crowning herself the Junior World Champion.

“Give me a sign,” she breathed in the salty air. Her thoughts were answered seconds later by a chill running down her neck, gaze snapping to the left where she saw the water draw back. Springing into action, Y/n paddled towards the forming wave, timing it at the perfect moment to end the competition on a bang. She heard the crowd cheer when she stood up, increasing each maneuver she did until finally riding out the end of the wave right as the bullhorn sounded.

Her heart pounded, “Did I just win?” Damn sure she did. Nothing could describe the feeling of holding the championship trophy at the top of the podium. And what made it ten times better, an ambassador of Rip Curl offered her a sponsorship. Before long Y/n’s name and face were plastered across all their campaigns. After winning the ISA Junior World Championships three years in a row—making her a household name in surfing—Y/n went on to senior international competitions. From there her glory only skyrocketed.

ISA World Surfing Games, World Surf League, Rip Curl Pro, Big Wave Tour, Vans Triple Crown of Surfing. Y/n’s little shelf of trophies turned into a full length china cabinet. Traveling back and forth from O’ahu to America. Sometimes even going to South America and Japan for international comps. By age 19 she had created her own maneuver earning her even more attention due to the level of difficulty.

“I don’t see what the fuss is about?” She chewed on a piece of spam, leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter. “All I did was add a couple of extra spins on my aerial.” Her mother gave her a bewildered look.

“That move in itself is difficult, Y/n. Not many perform it in competition and the fact you successfully landed one—with your little spoof nonetheless, people are gonna be amazed.”

“Well, I guess I just got lucky.”

Following high school Y/n turned professional and moved to Honolulu to attend the University of Hawai’i at Mānoa where she studied sports management with a minor in sports science. A family friend had an old Volkswagen Type 2 and Y/n was happy to take it off their hands, fixing it up to have the perfect beach van. Once classes were done for the day Y/n was packing it up with her board, cooler, boombox, and her closest friends.

“You sure this thing isn’t gonna break down on us?”

“Don’t insult Sandy. She’s as good as new,” okay that was a stretch, the van was literally 60 years old, “and I filled her up on gas this morning so we shouldn’t find ourselves on the side of the road.”

“Thanks for the confidence, Y/n. Much appreciated.”

It wasn’t uncommon for people to recognize her on campus. Having generated a public image in surfing—which many of her peers were also involved in—meant she was bound to hear, “Hey, you’re Y/n L/n?” “Oh my gosh I’ve been watching you compete since you were a junior competitor.” “Congrats on winning the Pro this year.”

There were times professors kindly asked, “Can you sign this for my kid? They’ve been into surfing lately and you’re their favorite athlete.” Taking photos with supporters happened occasionally as did giving advice to those wanting to get into surfing. It was a nice feeling for the woman to be able to inspire people and share the sport she loved.

Expanding the art of surfing to the world.

Four years of college seemed to fly by fast. Y/n was surprised she managed to pull through with a 3.6 GPA and graduate Cum Laude with everything in her life. A lot of the competitions were during the school year so Y/n had lots of work on her plate—thankfully some instructors were reasonable and allowed her to get an advance on the material. But she completed her degree with immense relief, aiming to get a career in sports going either by becoming a trainer or manager following her retirement from surfing.

“Y/n, It’s so great to see you again this year at the World Surf League World Championship. You recently graduated from the University of Hawai’i, you’re set to compete in today’s finals to defend your title—how many would this be for you? Number seven?”

Y/n chuckled with the reporter, brushing away a stray piece of hair. “Lucky number seven, yes. I’m so happy and grateful to be competing today—excited to hit the water and try to catch the best waves possible. Regardless of the outcome today I’m just really happy to be here again. I always look forward to this time of year—being able to compete and after working so hard in school this last semester, it’s definitely a relief to not have to worry about finishing a paper last minute once this comp ends.”

“There’s been recent talk of surfing possibly becoming an Olympic sport after much demand following the London Games this year. What are your thoughts? Do you think it’ll be featured in Rio and if so are you going to try and make the team?”

Since becoming a professional sport in 1959 following the first West Coast Surfing Championship in Huntington Beach, California, surfing had yet to reach the greatest sporting stage. The Olympic Games. Held every four years where thousands of athletes from around the globe come together to compete for the chance at gold. Duke Kahanamoku, the father of modern surfing and three-time Olympic freestyle swimming champion having won gold at the 1912 and 1920 Games respectively, first advocated the sport to be in the Olympics back in 1920. Had it not been for him, surfing may not have become as popular in the world as it was.

When it came to the Olympics, Y/n loved sitting by the tv to watch Team USA. Witnessing historic moments and record breaking finishes she was in awe of every athlete who came across the screen. Swimming, diving, track, gymnastics, soccer. So many sports events in a single fortnight. She hoped surfing would become an official sport in the Games. For she too had dreams of an Olympic gold around her neck.

Pausing for a moment, Y/n smiled at the thought of her becoming an Olympic Champion, “I think a lot of us can agree that we’d like to see surfing become part of the Olympic family. It’s one of the oldest sports and has its own professional circuit for decades now—I mean we’ve got people here today from Japan, Italy, El Salvador and Australia. Why not include it? And you can definitely expect me to be training the moment it is.”

It would be four years before Y/n could make do with that promise. On August 3, 2016, two days prior to the opening ceremonies of the Games of the XXXI Olympiad, the IOC announced surfing would finally be an Olympic sport.

“Exciting news for the surfing world,” the headline appeared on the screen of ESPN’s afternoon coverage, “the International Olympic Committee has just confirmed the sport will be introduced for the first time in its history at the Tokyo Olympics taking place in 2020–marking 100 years since surfing legend Duke Kahanamoku first started advocating for it to be featured. Professional surfing isn’t new to international competition having debuted at Huntington Beach, California in 1959. Since then there’s been several meets featuring surfers from all over the world—the most recent being the 2016 Rip Curl Pro where ten-time World Surf League champion Y/n L/n claimed the title once again for the fifth time since her senior international debut in 2007. L/n is just one of many professional surfers who’ve advocated for surfing to be in the Olympics over the years and expressed interest in competing for a chance at gold. With the confirmation by the IOC this morning, I’d say we’ll be seeing her at the trials in four years.”

The morning after the announcement Y/n headed to the beach to find her father propping her board into the sound. “So four years, huh?” Y/n crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the wind breeze past them.

“Seems like a long way, but it’ll be around the corner before we know it.”

“We better get started then.”

Morning, afternoon, evening. Every day Y/n was on the water catching waves left and right. Perfecting maneuvers, getting air in her aerials. When taking breaks she’d go on runs and to the gym. She still participated in yearly competitions and surfed with her friends, but her training habits became more intense as she prepped for Tokyo. When she wasn’t sleeping, eating, or competing she was on the water.

By 2019 Y/n had accumulated the most titles won by a female surfer with ten ISA World Surfing Games—formerly the World Surfing Championships, ten Rip Curl Pro trophies, five QuickSilver pro Gold Coast, five-time triple crown winner, and the 2016 champion of The Eddie Aikua Big Wave International. Winning The Eddie and becoming the first woman in history to do so after the event returned from a seven-year hiatus had Y/n on the front page of several sports magazines around the world. It was a huge accomplishment. Pushing Y/n as the favorite to win gold in Tokyo.

Towards the later end of the year, October in fact, Y/n found herself on the sunny beaches of San Diego, California. August to November were the best months to surf in the area, being it was late summer going into fall where the heat wasn’t excruciating. Still one had to wear a wetsuit to even touch the water.

Y/n was in town to visit an old friend from college and to help the Pacific Beach Surf Club with their beach cleanups and participate in a charity competition. Having traveled in San Diego a few times she was no stranger to the club and welcomed with open arms. Volunteering in their cleanups was the least she could do to prepare the beach for the charity event.

When they finished they all changed out of their clothes into wetsuits, wasting no time to hit the waves. “Hey!” Her friend yelled from where she was treading water, tone teasing, “be sure to leave some for the rest of us, yeah?” Y/n threw her head back in laughter.

“I make no promises!”

Anytime Y/n surfed out of training or competition she felt so free. No pressure to be perfect. No shouting from her father. No commentary from the sportscasters or questions from reporters. Only her, her board, and the beautiful sea.

She cheered on her friend and the people in their cleanup group when they caught waves. Complimenting them whenever they did a cool trick. In return they whistled and hollered for her. They soon developed an audience from the shore. Children and adults alike stop to watch them in awe. Instantly drawn to Y/n who glided effortlessly, guiding her board into a tube ride.

Unbeknownst to the surfer, a group of navy pilots had stopped their game of dogfight football to observe the show.

Jake whistled, “Damn she’s good.” Mickey agreed.

“I don’t think I’ve seen someone surf like that. She’s a natural.”

“Probably has been doing it for years,” Bradley commented, fixing his aviators. Natasha and Bob hummed in agreement.

“I think I’m in love,” Javy breathed out, simply in awe of what he was witnessing. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen showcasing talent on a board he could only dream of possessing.

He wondered what her laugh sounded like, seeing her head tilt back at something her friend said. Even from the distance her smile was breathtaking. Hair pulled back into a tight bun, body adored in a wetsuit to combat the cool water. A cheeky smirk thrown at her peers when she started paddling toward a forming wave. Standing on the board like a pro and making all kinds of turns and tricks Javy knew he’d wipe out the second he attempted them. Speaking of wiping out, she hadn’t done it once.

Jake nudging him from the side snapped him out of his daydream, “Go talk to her.” At the nod of his head, Javy realized she was running across the sand, stopping when she got to an area of coolers, towels, and backpacks.

“No!” He hissed, eyes reading, ‘are you crazy?’

“Why not? Just go up and start complimenting her. Ask her how long she’s been surfing. That’ll start a conversation.”

Javy scoffed, “Easy for you to say, Mr. Ken Barbie Doll who doesn’t need a confidence boost when talking to women.” Jake went to rebuttals but the sound of Reuben coughing stopped him.

“Uh guys….” He lifted a finger, their gazes following to find a family of four approaching the young woman. They couldn’t hear what was being said, but seeing her take a notepad from the little girl before scribbling in what appeared to be an autograph followed by the father snapping a photo with his phone, it was enough to conclude she was someone.

“Are…is she signing autographs?” Javy wondered aloud. He watched her sign the little boy's boogie board, posing for a photo with him before kneeling down to be on both the children’s level and smile for the camera. Hell even the parents wanted a photo, one of her friends coming over to hold the phone while they positioned themselves on either side. Then finally the whole family had a group one, saying their goodbyes and thank you’s to the woman who waved as they left.

“So she’s kinda famous,” Bradley said the obvious, everyone in a daze. Probably trying to figure out who the woman was, as none had recognized her as an actress or singer.

While they were busy investigating, Y/n unzipped her wetsuit leaving her bikini underneath and pulled on shorts with a graphic t-shirt overtop. “What are you guys doing after this?”

“We’re gonna grab some drinks at The Hard Deck. You down?”

“The Hard Deck?” She repeated with a tilt of the head. Never had she heard of the place.

“It’s that bar over there,” Y/n turned to the direction her friend was nodding at, eyes landing on a building not far from where they stood. “Great vibes, but I must warn ya it’s always filled with Navy fellas.” Y/n perked up slightly. Having lived on O’ahu all her life she was familiar with Navy personnel. After all, Pearl Harbor was located just on the coast of the island.

“Really?”

“Yeah, Miramar is not too far from here. It’s where the pilots train so expect to see some in flight suits.”

At around 6 the group packed it up and headed for the bar. Upon entry Y/n saw exactly what her friend had warned. The place was buzzing. Servicemen and women on every corner, music blasting from the jukebox. They approached the bar top to order a round of beers before settling over by the high top tables, splitting the group up since there were about eight of them.

“Check it out, Machado,” Payback clapped his friend’s back, making him turn to where his attention was. Javy’s eyes widened upon seeing the surfer.

“Did they just get here?”

“Looked like it. You should talk to her—especially since this is the second sighting in mere hours.” The pilot rolled his eyes.

“I don’t wanna come off as a creep, Fitch. What am I supposed to say ‘Hey, sorry if this is weird but I saw you surfing earlier—can I buy you a drink?’ She might throw me to the sharks.”

Natasha shook her head, “men.” A moment later Penny arrived with a tray of beers, placing them down on the seat beside Bob where the guys were shooting pool, “delivery for my favorite dagger squad.”

Thanks were sent her way followed by Jake asking, “Say Pen, you know those guys?” The bartender glanced over her shoulder to see who he was referring to, nodding with a smile.

“Oh that’s some members of the Pacific Beach Surf Club. They were cleaning up the beach earlier for tomorrow's charity competition. Expect the place to be packed if you drop by, it’s always a madhouse. This year they’ve got some of the best surfers participating.”

“Do you know if she’s one of them,” Javy tried to act cool when pointing out the woman.

Upon Penny’s smirk, the answer was clear, “Unless my eyes are deceiving me, I believe that’s ten-time world surfing champion Y/n L/n.”

“Ten?!” Mickey repeated, “Holy shit.” Around him the others were matching his expression. Javy immediately grabbed his phone to type in the name. Sure enough the image of the woman seated at the table appeared on his screen. Clicking on the Wikipedia page he started to read aloud for the group the opening paragraph.

“Y/n M/n L/n, born y/b/m yb/d, 1990 is an American professional surfer from Kapolei, O’ahu, Hawaii and a ten-time World Surf League Women’s World champion, the most titles won by any female surfer to date. L/n made her debut at the World Surf League Junior Championships at age 14 in 2004 in her native O’ahu, winning three consecutive times before turning to senior international competition where she’s won a total of forty world titles—including becoming a five-time triple crown winner. As of 2016, L/n is the defending champion and first women to win the Eddie Aikau Big Wave Invitational. She is set to compete at the first ever U.S Olympic Trials in hopes of making the Tokyo Olympic Team where surfing will make its debut at the Olympics.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Jake peered over Javy’s shoulder, watching him scroll down to view Y/n’s career statistics. Mickey appeared on the opposite side, whistling under his breath. Natasha took out her own phone to search herself, Bradley, Bob, and Payback all glancing over to see.

“She’s literally called the greatest surfer of this generation,” Bradley pointed out. “Talk about intimidating.”

“Now you gotta buy her a drink, Machado,” Payback concluded, igniting another glare from his friend. “Say you pulled an Olympian.”

“I’ll take it to her,” Penny offered, and before Javy could stop her the woman was back behind the bar. They watched her take a Corona from the cooler, add a lime and proceed to the table the athlete was at. “From the gentlemen by the pool tables,” Penny smiled at Y/n, nodding to the group, “the one the blonde is pointing at.” Turning her head, Y/n saw the guy in question pushing his friend’s hand down, a reddish hue on his cheeks when they made eye contact followed by a wave.

‘Well hello there,’ she thought, smiling at the handsome man. He was in a pair of basketball shorts and t-shirt reading NAVY in bold letters. The group he was with all scattered to make it look like they weren’t eavesdropping when Y/n approached, Corona in hand, “Hi.”

“Hello,” even his voice was attractive. Everything about him was. From his clear smooth skin to his dazzling smile. Toned arms and legs.

“Thanks for the beer.”

“Anytime,” he tipped the one in his hand, Y/n clicking hers against it. “Sorry if this is weird at all. I saw you surfing earlier and was trying to muster up the courage to come talk to you….but couldn’t find the words to say.”

Y/n smirked, gesturing to an empty pool table, “how about a game? Maybe it’ll help loosen your nerves.” Moving to a cue Y/n sees his grin widen, “I’m Y/n by the way.”

“I’m Javy, but you can call me Coyote.”

“Coyote?” She repeats with a chuckle, “That’s an interesting nickname.”

“Callsign actually,” he politely corrects before explaining he was a naval aviator. Grabbing his own cue while she sets up the rack, he added, “Wasn’t my doing.”

“Then how’d you get it?”

“Um…” he made a face, as though he was embarrassed to say. “I’ll tell you if you win this match.” A sound between a scoff and a laugh escaped her.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be.” Javy raises his hands in defense, laughing with her. “And if you win?”

His own smirk appears, “You give me your phone number…maybe even let me take you out.” Biting back a grin and fighting the warm feeling in her chest, Y/n removes the rack leaving the pool balls neatly centered.

“Challenge accepted, Coyote.”

It was safe to say both came out as winners that night. Though Y/n won the game and got the scoop on Javy’s callsign origin, he walked away with her number and plans to have dinner the following night after her charity event. Javy made the promise to come out and watch her surf, excited to see her in action. Hearing Y/n talk about the sport and her accomplishments was even cooler in person than reading it off the internet. From her amateur days to becoming a full blown professional. Winning countless championship titles, being the first woman to win The Eddie and her dream to win gold at the Olympics.

Javy was smitten.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” She smiled when they reached her van at the end of the night. They talked for hours to the point they lost track of time. It was 11 o’clock and she had to be up at five.

“You said it starts at noon?” At her nod Javy continued, “I’ll be there. And I look forward to our dinner plans after.” Y/n felt the heat rise, hoping it wasn’t displaying on her face.

“Me too. Thank you for a fun night, Javy,” feeling bold, Y/n leans to place a kiss on his cheek. The action leaves him stunned, smile growing bigger as she pulls away. “See you on the beach.”

Now Javy had loved the beach before meeting Y/n. But his love for it and the ocean only grew the moment he watched her ride the waves. Cheering from the sand as she dropped down and glided the tide with ease. It made him want to stay there forever.

He understood quickly why she was regarded as the greatest female surfer of all time. Yeah it was a charity competition and not a world championship, but Y/n treated the waves no differently. She was a beast. Total control of her board, little to no mistakes.

Their dinner date was filled with laughter, flirty sarcasm, stories so outrageous one would think they were bluffing. Javy spoke of his time at Top Gun and his friendship with Jake. Y/n told him about her college days. Both engaged in conversations about dreams and aspirations. Yeah they had their dream careers, but one can always dream bigger. Dream about friendship, dream about love.

Dream about the future.

When the night came to an end, Y/n laid her head on the pillow with a smile on her face, “I think this might be paradise.”

23 July 2021–The Hard Deck, San Diego California.

“It’s almost time for USA!” Javy hushes everyone, grabbing the remote to increase the volume. The place was packed mostly with the squad's friends, colleagues, the Pacific Beach Surf Club, and college students from UC San Diego. Togethery they were gathered to watch the opening ceremonies of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics.

The Tokyo Olympics.

Finally after a whole year of waiting the Games were finally being held. A global pandemic sure would be the only thing to stop the most iconic two-week sporting event in the world.

And Javy’s girlfriend, 12x World champion Y/n L/n, was there to be part of surfing's Olympic debut. Gold on her mind.

The two had been long distance the majority of their relationship, but FaceTimed nearly every day with promises to visit as soon as restrictions were lifted. Y/n traveled to San Diego in the winter of 2020 to mark the couple’s one year anniversary. Then Javy flew to Hawaii in the spring, spending two weeks in Kapolei where most time was spent surfing and late night drive on the beach.

“There’s no place I’d rather be,” he sang at the top of his lungs, windows rolled down .

“Than on my surfboard out at sea,” Y/n followed, smile wide on her face with her hair blowing in the wind.

“Lingering in the ocean blue.”

“And if I had one wish come true.”

Together they sang, “I’d surf ‘til the sun sets beyond the horizon!”

Y/n tilted her head back, “‘Āwikiwiki, mai lohilohi. Lawe mai i ko papa he’e nalu.”

Belting out together once again, their voices echoed in the night, “Flying by on the Hawaiian roller coaster ride!!”

“‘Āwikiwiki, mai lohilohi. Lawe mai i ko papa he’e nalu.”

“Pi’i nā nalu lā lahalaha. ‘O ka Moana hānupanupa.”

“Lalala i ka lā hanahana. Me ke kai hoene i ka pu’e one.”

“Heel, hele mai kākou ē.”

“Hawaiian roller coaster ride!”

During the Olympic surf qualifying event in Huntington Beach the whole squad was in attendance to cheer Y/n on. Javy embraced her in tears, lifting her onto his shoulders to the hollars and whistles of their friends and family.

Y/n was officially an Olympian.

Now usually during the parade of nations of the opening ceremonies Greece is the first to enter the arena followed by the countries in alphabetical order with the hosting nation entering last. Having waited a whole year due to the Covid-19 pandemic, the world was excited to get the Games started. But to everyone’s surprise the order of the parade of nations would proceed differently than prior Olympics.

Greece still entered first, followed by the Refugee Olympic Team and then the nations paraded in based on where they fell on the Gojūon system. Japan would be the last country to march in, but for the first time ever the hosting countries of the next two Olympics entered before the hosting country. And what were those two countries?

France and The United States of America.

Paris was set to host the upcoming 2024 Games just three years away, and then in 2028 Los Angeles gets the honor once again of bringing the world together. The last time LA hosted was in 1984, and the last time America itself hosted the Summer Games was Atlanta 1996.

“Okay everyone shut up!!” The tv was turned to the loudest volume possible, all in attendance falling to hush whispers.

“Everything changes,” Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s voice echoes through the speakers, his silhouette figure walking into an empty arena. “The longest wait of their lives is over.” The beat of the music gets louder, building in pressure. “And the combination of their blood, sweat, and tears,” his face is revealed under the light, “finally arrives.”

The beat drops in time with the image of fireworks rocketing from the Rio arena, an announcer’s voice stating, “this is the moment that you all have been waiting for.”

“It’s not easy to bring the entire whole planet together,” the Rock states, “and it certainly wasn’t tonight. But, here we are.”

“Finally!”

“It’s finally here.”

“The Olympics are finally here,” Gold Medalist Simone Biles grins.

“Yeah, I’m hyped up.”

“Can’t wait to show the world what I got.”

The image shows Dwayne once again, “Tonight we are all so lucky to witness the hardest workers in the room.” Then it changes to athletes training, from gymnast Sam Mikulak to sprinter Noah Lyles. “The athletes who are a brilliant tapestry of talent, commitment, and drive.”

“Drive, drive, drive!”

“Now what was once considered unthinkable just one year ago has become a glorious reality. We come together united to celebrate the Olympians who exemplify the very best in all of us.”

🎼 legs are shaking, hands aching, 🎼

Simone Biles appears, determination in her gaze as she races down the vault runway. “It’s Simone’s party and everyone else is just a guest,” Tim Daggett’s voice cuts in during the clip of Simone at the World Championships, followed by the Rock.

“She is absolutely the greatest gymnast the world has ever seen. But even if there’s nothing left to prove, there’s a chance to launch herself even higher into the rarest air of immortality.”

As Simone lands her vault, it transitions into Katie Ledecky entering the pool. “The most dominant swimmer in the world.” “It’s just ridiculous!”

“She swims like a machine created to wreak havoc and decimate with impunity.”

“Katie Ledecky smashes her own world record!”

“But in reality she’s about the nicest person you’ll ever meet,” the rock’s face returns, bearing his own smile like Katie. “And kindness matters. Always.” Track star Noah Lyles running takes over. “He makes running as fast as you can look the way it’s supposed to look.”

“NOAH LYLES, WORLD CHAMPION!”

Dwayne grins, “Damn fun.” The next athlete featured was the one they were all waiting for.

“On dry land she’s impressive, in the water she’s simply lethal,” the Hard Deck erupted in cheers, Y/n flashing onto the screens showcasing her drop in during the WSL World Tour.

“That’s my baby!!!” Her name appeared in big bold letters like the others, ‘Y/n L/n. Kapolei, O’ahu, HI.’

“Monstruos wave for Y/n L/n, but she handles it like a pro.” The clip shows her pointing to the sky in victory following her win. “She’s here to prove why surfing should’ve been in the Olympics ages ago,” the Rock looks proud, “and look cool as hell while doing so.”

The tone of the video shifts, bringing forth the raw and emotional reality of athletes who’ve given every inch of their soul to be on the world’s greatest sporting stage. “They’re kids from Minneapolis—.”

“Kenny Harrison!” A girl crosses the finish line in joy, soon embraced by her father. “Raleigh.”

Fellow surfer and native Hawaiian Carissa Moore is shown, “And Honolulu.” A baby in a stroller being pushed by her mother. “They’re working moms with unfinished business.” Allison Felix with her daughter.

“This is what makes all the sacrifice worth it.”

Simone Manuel becoming the first Black woman to win an individual Olympic gold at the 2016 Rio Games. “The barrier breakers who’ve proven the power of the platform.”

“I can’t begin to tell you what this means for the sport of swimming in the United States.”

“There’s Jordan—!” A montage of Gold medal winning teams flashed. The Fab Five. The women’s soccer and basketball teams. The women’s rowing team. The Fierce and Final Five of U.S Gymnastics. “And the teams that have dominated for generations with no intention of changing the script for this one.”

“Get the gold medals ready. Again!”

“These awe-inspiring multi-talented athletes are taking on the world.”

🎼 ‘You bring me back to life.’ 🎼

Between the music and feel good montage, some of the viewers in the hard deck were having trouble holding back tears. Chills racking up their body. It made them want to get out and start training to be a world class athlete.

“They really are the best of us. They’re bringing us together.”

“That’s a new world record!”

“And they’re about to give you, at long last, the greatest two-week spectacle the world has ever seen.” Close ups of Team USA’s Olympians rolled, Javy wiping his eyes when Y/n appeared. “It is their Games. It is our Games.”

Absolute chills.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am so grateful to have the honor of presenting to you….Team USA.” At the last word the Rock disappears, cutting to Team USA entering the Tokyo dome—the American flag flying high, “USA! USA! USA!” Though they couldn’t hear the cheers from the Hard Deck across the ocean, that didn’t stop the building from erupting in whistles. It was only the opening ceremonies so one could imagine what it would be like come the 26th and 27th.

When Y/n hits the waves for a chance at Olympic gold.

Tsurigasaki Beach, located 40 miles from Tokyo, was the place where it would all happen. The damp sand beneath Y/n’s toes felt comforting. Although the overcast skies made her worried. Tropical Storm Nepartak caused the waves to be more aggressive and unpredictable. It was going to be an interesting day of competition.

After qualifying with a big score in her heat the previous day, Y/n was set to compete in the quarterfinals that morning. From there the semi-final contestants would be decided, going straight into the event before finals that afternoon. Three events in one day if she made it all the way to the end.

“I’m going to be so sore tonight.”

Shortboard in hand, Y/n raced to the water the second the horn sounded. Instant shivers along her arms from the cold feeling. Cloudy skies prevented the sun from heating the water, “goodness gracious.”

Quarterfinals breezed by. Y/n started off strong with a score of 7 for her first wave, going on to claim two more, another 7 and an 8 bringing her total score to a 15. Putting her, American Carissa Moore, South African Bianca Buitendag and Japan’s Amuro Tsuzuki into the semifinals.

“Stellar performance by Y/n L/n of the United States. She had a bit of trouble on her second wave—which we can’t blame her for; many competitors have been having difficulty today due to the impact of tropical storm Nepartak on the tide. L/n’s score of 15 puts her at the top for the quarterfinals, but that can all change when we return for the semifinals in the next hour. It looks like she’ll be up against Japan’s Amuro Tsuzuki for one of two spots in the gold medal match.”

“That’s how you do it,” Javy clapped at the tv, the footage replaying Y/n’s competition highlights. “Semi-finals here we go.”

During the semis the pressure was on. Y/n could feel it all over, anxiety coursing when the horn sounded. Thirty minutes on the clock, ticking down to eliminate either her or Amuro. Usually her luck turns out for the better whenever she gets the first wave, however, Amuro beats her to it. Catching the next one Y/n focuses on pulling speed and managing her flow into the maneuvers, receiving a score of 6.2 on her first wave, 8.3 on her second and 7 on her third. Unfortunately a wipe out early on her fourth and final wave results in a score of 3.

“Is that gonna be enough?” Jake cringes, noticing the look of unease on his friend's visage. Y/n appeared shaken from the wipe out. Very rare has she ever messed up greatly in competition. But there’s always a first for everything.

Javy had a paper in front of him, writing down Y/n’s scores and the ones of her competitors to predict what she needed and if she was qualified to the final round.

“Her six and seven will be dropped, putting her at 11.30,” he taps the pen on the bar surface, “if Amuro doesn’t get another wave in the next,” Javy checks the time, “two minutes then it should put Y/n through to the finals.”

Amuro did in fact catch another wave before the horn sounded, ending their round in the semis, but it wasn’t enough. Her total score accumulated a 7.43, eliminating her from the final competition.

“One more,” her father/coach took a hold of her shoulders. “You’re almost there, Y/n.” Almost to the gold. “Rest up, you got one hour.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Picking up a water bottle and plotting on the sand Y/n downed the liquid and munched on an apple. To pass time she scrolled through Tik Tok, sent a selfie to Javy—who sent one of him and the squad back—and called her family in O’ahu to calm her nerves. She had already talked with Javy that morning before quarterfinals, promising to FaceTime him after the finals.

It was nerve racking. Regardless of how the event went, Y/n was guaranteed the silver medal. USA would take home both Gold and Silver in surfing’s debut being fellow American Carissa Moore beat out South Africa’s Bianca Buitendag in their round.

One competition left.

Bidding good luck to Carissa, Y/n took her position and waited for the horn. Thirty minutes on the clock. Thirty minutes to a gold medal.

“Here we go,” Payback announced in time with Y/n paddling out to sea. Javy rubbed his hands together, eyes glued to the screen.

“And the two Americans are off in the first ever gold medal match for surfing. Carissa Moore, the 2019 WSL World Champion, and twelve-time title holder Y/n L/n head-to-head to declare who will become the woman to win surfing’s first gold medal. Both have exemplified great performances today—it’s not easy doing a quarterfinals, semi-finals, and finals all in one day, but these pros make it look easy.”

“There she goes!” Nat shouted, earning cheers at the bar when Y/n caught the first wave of the competition.

“Kicking off with the first wave, in just two minutes of the clock starting is Y/n L/n. Dropping in beautifully, easing into the wave…..Straight into an roundhouse cutback, which she does flawlessly. Bottom turn, I think she’s gonna try and do a off-the-lip right here….and she nails it! I think she’s hoping to elongate this wave as far out as she can. Carving now and finishing with a 360 into an Ariel. Wow! That was a great start by Y/n.”

“Yeah that’s what I’m talking about!” Javy shouted over the cheers, grin plastered wide only to brighten more when the score came back a 8.7. “HELL YEAH! LETS GO!”

Carissa’s wave was impressive. She managed to hold it down with complicated moves to earn a 8.5. Both women scored huge on the first waves followed by 7s across the board. Nearing the final five minutes Carissa managed to get a 6.43.

“She can’t get anything lower than a 6.23,” Javy felt sweat pool on his forehead, suddenly feeling hot in the bar despite it being the ass crack of dawn.

“She’s got this,” Nat patted his back.

The clock was ticking down. Two minutes to go and Y/n had yet to find a wave. Placing her palm onto the surface, she took a deep breath, “please, give me a sign.” Not a moment later she felt something in her say to look right.

There, brimming about fifteen feet away, was the perfect wave.

Wasting no time Y/n’s chest planted to her board, paddling as fast as possible. Her heart was pounding, salt water splashing. Positioning herself in front of the forming body, Y/n silently called out to whoever was listening for strength.

“Wow she’s going for that huge current out on the west side. Moore is too far back—it’s gonna be L/n on the final wave of the women’s competition. With one minute to go she’s dropping in—.”

Y/n allowed the adrenaline to consume her, giving it total control as she dropped in. The highest wave of the competition yet, Y/n knew she’d be having a tube ride with how it formed. Picking up speed, she knelt slightly, paralleling her chest with the wall of the wave, the water curving around her. Blocking the world from her view.

It was just her and the sea. No one else.

Closing her eyes briefly, she pictured she was back on O’ahu in the water she grew up in. Sun beating down and gentle hum of seagulls.

Like she was in paradise.

The image left as quick as it came. Y/n snapping out of her daydream to exit the tube ride to the cheers of her father on the beach, curing back into the wave to finish on a high note by performing her signature Ariel. Smiling the whole way down just as the horn signified the end of the competition.

“And there you have it folks. The women’s surfing finals has officially come to a close—Y/n L/n ending her Olympic Games with a remarkable last wave. Absolute perfection with speed, precision, and control. That’s gonna be the highest score for her I feel.”

“C’mon, c’mon,” Javy bit his nail, knee bouncing from the anxiety of not knowing. Carissa’s total score was displayed first, 14.93. Y/n’s lowest was a seven, highest 8.7. Her final wave was amazing, but judging was unpredictable. Anything could happen.

Then in the blink of an eye the hard deck exploded.

“I don’t believe it! Tens across the board for Y/n L/n bringing her total to 17.00!! Y/n L/n has won the gold for the United States—Carissa Moore with the silver. USA goes one and two in women’s surfing at its Olympic debut!!! Take it all in, we are witnessing history,” the screen shows Y/n and Carissa embracing, leaning over their boards to congratulate the other, “Team USA has much to celebrate, the world of surfing has their champion. Y/n L/n adds gold to her name—surfing’s first Olympic Champion here in Tokyo!!”

Y/n laughed the entire time she paddled to shore, raising to her feet to race towards her father. She was soaking wet but he didn’t care. “You did it!” He yelled, kissing her head with tears in his eyes. “You’re an Olympic champion! I’m so so proud of you!” Soon they were greeted by Carissa and the rest of Team USA’s surfing members. The two women were lifted onto shoulders, American flags draped over their backs with photographers surrounding them.

It was a moving image. Two women from Honolulu and Kapolei, Hawaii won surfing’s first Olympic silver and gold medal. If only Duke Kahanamoku could be there to witness.

Back at the hard deck celebratory drinks were served and toasts raised to Y/n. Javy barely contained his emotion, eyes watering the moment her name came back the winner. Natasha and Jake embraced him in a hug, the guys whistling and hollering. Penny rang the bell.

“She won! Oh my God my baby is a gold medalist!! This is the best day ever!!”

The entire podium ceremony Y/n was on cloud nine. Placing the gold medal around her neck, she took a moment to stare at it. Disbelief and awe in her eyes. ‘Wow, I actually did it.’

When the national anthem came to an end Y/n did the traditional bite of the medal for the cameras. Posing with Carissa and Bianca afterwards, Y/n was ushered to interviews.

“Hello, Y/n,” the reporter beamed, “congratulations are in store—what an amazing moment for you. You’re the first gold medalist in women’s surfing at the Olympics. How does it feel?”

“It’s absolutely a dream come true. For years the surfing community has wished for this—to be in the Olympics and for me to be part of its debut, winning the gold medal…I-I can’t put into words how much this means to me. I’m so grateful and honored.”

“You’ve been around for a while now,” the reporter mentioned, “2004 was the first time we saw you and you’ve gone on to have a stellar surfing career. Winning the WSL World Surfing Games twelve times now—competing when it was still called the WSL World Championships and became the first woman to win The Eddie Aikau Big Wave Invitational in 2016. This is your first Olympic Games, surfing will be at the Paris Games in three years. Can we expect to hopefully see you there?”

“I wouldn't rule it out,” Y/n winked with a giggle. “Paris is in three years and I would love to return to the Olympics again. After dreaming for so long I don’t want to let it go so easily. Of course anything can happen between now and 2024 but with my family, friends, and boyfriend cheering me on with their endless support…” she gave a cheeky shrug, “I’m gonna work hard and get back in the water once I’m home.”

“We’ll be rooting for you, Y/n. I don’t think the surfing world is ready to say goodbye to you. Anything else you’d like to say before you have to go. Anyone you’d like to say thanks to?”

Instantly the Olympian brightened, eyes locking on the camera. “I wanna give a shoutout to my hometown of Kapolei on O’ahu—the place where this journey started on the beautiful beaches and waters of my home. To my family and friends, thank you for your love, support, guidance and always cheering me on even when the going gets tough. My dad, who’s been my coach since I was seven is with me here to share this win, I couldn’t have done this without him. To my San Diego family watching, you better save me a beer at the Hard Deck when I come visit next week,” she winks, knowing the squad would get a kick out of it. Then Y/n softens, “and finally to my boyfriend, Javy, who’s with our friends in Fightertown. I love you so much, thank you for being my rock during quarantine and pushing me to do my best. I can’t wait to see you and this is for you.” Holding up the medal, Y/n blows a kiss to the screen before saying goodbye to the reporter.

Upon landing in San Diego two nights later, Y/n was greeted by a celebration from her friends. Members of the Pacific Beach Surf Club were there, as were the dagger squad. Javy met her in the middle the second she exited the terminal, lifting her in his arms. “Finally your back!! I’m so fucking proud of you!” Setting her down, he kept his arms around her and the two jumped up and down like school children in a heap of laughter.

Finally they calmed, sharing a sweet kiss. “How was your flight,” he walked when they pulled away, moving to grab her carryon back.

“Long,” she moaned, leaning into his side. “But worth it.” Soon she was surrounded by their friends. Congratulations all around, Mickey asking to see the medal, Jake saying all her drinks are on him, Nat telling her how much she missed having another girl around. “I missed you guys,” Y/n pouted, “man I wish you all could’ve been there.”

“Don’t worry, Y/n/n,” Bradley patted her shoulder, “We’ll be there in Paris.”

“That’s quite a bit away, Roo.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, “but there’s no harm in planning now.”

“Let’s let the woman rest before kicking her training mode into gear,” Javy teased, earning a playful nudge from his girlfriend. Together they got her bags and headed straight for The Hard Deck. They drinked, they danced. Javy and Y/n had a rematch of their pool game.

“This feels a bit like deja vu,” she smirked, chalking up her cue. Javy winked, puckering his lips in an air kiss causing her to laugh.

For a week Y/n stayed in San Diego before flying home to Hawaii with Javy. Again she was greeted at the airport by her family and friends she’d grown up with. The local news station was present, students from schools wanting to join in on the celebration. It felt amazing to be home after two weeks away.

They settled in at her Honolulu home, finding the perfect place to display her medal and ordered take out since neither was in the mood to cook after a 6 ½ hour flight. Once finished with dinner Y/n gave her boyfriend a knowing look, “Wanna watch the sunset?”

She didn’t mean sitting on her porch or even the sand. No, she meant taking the boards and laying out on the sea as the calm surface of the water kept them afloat.

Javy agreed, rushing to get his swim trunks on while she put on a swimsuit. Grabbing their boards they locked up the house and jogged the quarter of a mile to the beach, paddling out to get a front row seat of the descending sun. Colors of bright orange and pink painted the sky. A beautiful contrast to the deep blues of the ocean.

“Is this heaven?” He whispered, finding her eyes staring back at him from where her cheek pressed to the board. All the love conveying in the simple look. And with her gentle words, Javy felt all the worry and unease he ever experienced lift from his soul.

“More like paradise.”

……………….

TGM Tag list: @avaleineandafryingpan , @caitsymichelle13 , @poppyalice2001 , @cutelittlepotatofry , @luckyladycreator2, @americaarse , @elenavampire21 , @back-tooo-black , @wildellaa , @artemissunn , @pinkpantheris

#Spotify #javy machado fic #javy machado imagine #javy coyote machado #javy machado x reader #javy machado x you #javy machado fluff #Javy Machado x y/n #coyote imagine #coyote x reader #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fluff #top gun maverick imagine #tgm imagine #tgm x reader #athlete!reader #surfer!reader

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spiderh0rse · 1 month

Text

freeman's mind notes part 10, e46-50

e46

if he was hardcore... But you said TWO EPISODES AGO that you were

he doesn't mind too much that his new job seems to be killing people

mocks the xenians about earth gravity

thinks in the south, particularly florida and louisiana, you shoot at rescue helicopters to signal them. Well. i can't say anything to the contrary.

minefield >:[

tries to open ANOTHER giant metal door

haven't bombed this place enough? Well, no!

squirrel on the roof could be payback,,,

yells as he almost slips on the stairs

"this must be how old people feel about stairs..." and me! Stairs are a MENACE and a HAZARD TO SOCIETY. what is wrong with RAMPS, HUH?

we hear a sniper round impact the HEV suit

tries to pry open another large metal rolling door

"GRRAAAHHHHHHGHHHH"

not yet shot enough to take off all the orange paint

almost walks into a tripmine in plain sight. He's getting tired.

talks about snipers the way some people discuss clown husbandry

climbs on around this bullshit

figures out Xen's lower gravity

are there coyotes in new mexico? uh. probably

he thinks we'd be better at math and subsequently further along in technology if we had more fingers. I'd agree with that

MAYBE killing scared unarmed people doesn't make him the good guy

asks after a random guys finger amount

e47

he is not going to wait in this room

thinks things are just going to get worse forever

dumbfounded that this guy is afraid of a couple tripmines

either made vaguely uneasy by clowns or expects the other scientist to be afraid of em

doesn't notice the rockets as he shoots the headcrabs

sneezes :(

yeah he's realizing what's up with the rockets now. Doesn't seem too afraid though

checks a body for money. Admits the soldiers would have taken any

thinks a platform might have spikes that come out of it. Jumps onto it, wondering if he can trigger it. Sir.

considers the spike platform may be for an abattoir

squeezes on by some bars and onto the elevator

hivehand looks awful. He shoots it. No hivehand.

"BLAHHHHHHH."

surprisingly DOESN'T shoot at someone that runs towards him

"friends are like weeds that scream"

just wants a VEHICLE

always meant to learn how to hotwire a car

sobs when stuff starts shooting at him unexpectedly

the tank is NOT supposed to be here

its CLEARLY rocket launcher time

hes never joining the military

e48

new intro! a portion of On A Rail.

sobs as the tank shoots at him

"TELL REALITY TO STOP CHEATING"

grappling hook mention

boops out entry of the gladiators

ANOTHER sniper

yells at the soldiers that there's a sniper outside

can't turn off the radio. Smashes it.

he wouldn't make a good surgeon.

he likes when people call him "sir." I'd forgotten about that I just feel like being polite when I address his more insane notions.

Eddie mention! This time to sell the contents of that giant room full of ordinance

"this might be a warzone but theres money to be made here" war profiteer

can Eddie even handle this many guns? He'll sure try. He gets a sparkle in his eye. Same one he had before going to Panama. That turned out! A way!

if he knew where he were going a few hundred people would be alive rn

he's always wanted a Crown Victoria from a police auction. Drive it around with the stripes, put some fake blood on the hood...

does seem reasonably friendly towards that one guard for a bit. Not enough to wait for him but enough to be almost nice

"nee!"

"hoop bup pah!"

admits he's kind of dropped the kill everyone policy he had

he wants to train a chimp on karate to attack everyone but him

man this guy just LOVES roleplaying as Respectable Professions (Meant To Be Here optional)

shoots the guard on accident. Feels a bit bad but mostly just angry

e49

thinks soldiers are less likely to change history than any random people

...okay he can bust down large doors. Okay.

"I'M NOT ALLERGIC TO BEES, ASSHOLE" sentence you do not hear often

just taking so much electricity to the face. Yelps every time he does

wants to hook up the vortigaunts to a generator

screams when the trampoline bounces him up. does a weird little whine immediately afterwards

the last time he was juggled in the air did NOT go well

"everybody wins! :D especially me"

kills SO many snarks and avoids the nests

fucking love how he rambles when panicking

he had to deal with people shooting at him in ventilation shafts in high school

gasps multiple times when grenades are launched at him

walks right on by a battle when it doesn't affect him directly

shotgun chess! Kill them in the right order or else

doesn't really like chess because some guy can memorize board positions and guess what you'll do

DOES like memorizing chemical bonds

decides he wants the aliens to win these fights

"thank you, oh dark ones, i pay homage"

deeply panicked about the explosive-small pipe situation. Doesn't want to think that ambush is tbe only use of that pipe

just glad no puns were made

e50

likes that being stuck in this tube more than other places because it's not immediately deadly

ghost noises

he's a ghost with a shotgun!

I'm pretty sure he believes in ghosts and thinks he owes them murder now. He likes having ghosts on his side

"in the shining they let him out to kill his family but that doesn't really apply to me"

he's getting a bit silly with the ghost thing

wonders briefly if HE'S a ghost

random guard gets to join the Freeman Fan Club because the ghosts do not order his death

ITS ANOTHER LOBSTER

as always the bouncepads don't work well

jaunty "sir yes sir" to the military radio calling in

hes got time for exploding shit. He'll make time.

less communication is the best communication

very good at aiming the airstrikes

would love an airstrike map for the whole world

glad the military is going to leave him alone now

the HEV doesn't do shit against 50 tons of rock

#KHEKSHFH FELIXBINDLE IS HERE #the little blue guy (sopping wet) is felix freeman #gordon's brother from felix's mind #freeman's mind #gordon freemind #mindverse #OH YES :felixbindle: was made by the excellent artist Prinnamon #as seen on tumblr #CORRECTION: felixbindle failed to show up upon posting to my great dismay #hes adorable. check out prinnamon anyways #rmanotes

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namusthetic · 1 year

Text

The Four Seasons

Color guide for the characters' comments:

Winter; Spring; Summer; Autumn;

_______

Winter

Jittery because had way too much sugar

Started buying presents and wrapping them in September

Has a special mug for every occasion

Likes to relax by the fire while reading or scrolling through their phone

Gives Christmas-themed socks to everyone

Sits in weird positions

Loud and affectionate with people they feel close with (even too affectionate... )

Cold and unforgiving when pissed

Has a reading list and is gonna finish it before the year ends (hopefully)

Struggles with anger management

Smiles at strangers on the street

Starts stuttering and their lisp comes out when too nervous or excited (I heard Autumn saying it was cute - oh really? - S-spring!!!!!!)

Loves surprises

Prideful, gets offended easily, but also forgives and forgets easily (it took us a whole afternoon to get them to open the door just because the three of us hung out without them - still don't know why we bothered. - HEY!!! )

Calls instead of texting

Ready to throw hands if any of their friends gets bullied or insulted

Aesthetics:

Hot chocolate and a crackling fireplace, Christmas songs and mulled wine, snow and cold wind, warm scarves and knitted gloves, snow angles and snowball fights, smirks and fistbumps, warm sweaters and tight hugs, doodles on frosty window panes, dad jokes and uncoordinated dance moves

Playlist:

Mr. Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra

Everybody Talks by Neon Trees

Don't Stop Me Now by Queen

Tongue Tied by Grouplove

(I Can Get No) Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones

This Side of Paradise by Coyote Theory

Line Without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery

Eleanor Rigby by Cody Fry

Somebody To Love by Queen

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas by Michael Bublé

Snowman by Sia

Winter Wonderland by Michael Bublé

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen

_______

Spring

Has various nervous tics because of anxiety

Always sitting on the floor

Often with their head in the clouds (AM NOT! - darling, I've literally seen you walk into door frames more times than I can count - ... )

Almost never raises their voice

Starts reading a book, then forgets about it and starts another one

Gets lost in daydreaming and dissociates from reality

Defends strongly what they believe in

"If I were a frog you'd be welcome on my lily pad"

Starts projects but never finishes them

Sensitive, cries easily when animals and environment is involved

In touch with their emotions and nature (and also with summer apparently - if you don't shut up, I swear. - Autumn, help me!! - oh, hell nah)

Spends long afternoons having pic-nics in the park, reading, sleeping and sunbathing

Walks in the woods looking for fae traps and playing hide and seek with foxes

Aesthetics:

Flower crowns, pic-nics and apricot jam, sunshine filtering through the leaves, birds chirping and bubbly laughter, bumblebees and bees flying from flower to flower, soft singing, flower crowns and daisy chains, curious eyes and pastel colors, small frogs and lilly pads, strawberry toasts and herbal teas, sweet smiles and paint-stained hands

Playlist:

Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish

Cool Kids by Echosmith

Ophelia by The Lumineers

Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's

Swing Lynn by Harmless

My Kind of Woman by Mac DeMarco

girls by girl in red

Coffee by beabadoobee

Juliet by Cavetown

rises the moon by Liana Flores

Where'd All the Time Go? By Dr. Dog

cardigan by Taylor Swift

No Plan by Hozier

_______

Summer

Sleeps with the windows open

Goes to the beach at sunrise to walk along the shore

Parties until late at night and comes home in the early morning

Afraid of never being good enough

Plans their day to the second, has a set goal in life

Chatty, makes friends easily but sometimes tries too hard

Just plain gorgeous (agreed!! - *blushes*)

Constantly doing something so they doesn't have any time to wallow in their thoughts

Sees the best in people (even Autumn? - Would you knock it off!?!!)

Doesn't need anyone's approval but cares about their found family's opinion

Has always something urgent to do

Done with everyone's whining (e- even me? - no, not you - pffft, simp. - *proceeds to throw a shoe at Winter* - You asked for it.)

Always tries to be strong by repressing their emotions (yeah, you shouldn't do that - sigh, I'll try not to)

Aesthetics:

Sunshine and linen sheets, freckles and dimples, gold and sand, warm laughter and cold cocktails, strawberry lemonade, pizza and a can of soda, tan lines and stretch marks, afternoon naps on the porch and late night rides, roller skating with their headphones on the promenade, thrift-shopping, a light breeze in the summer heat

Playlist:

Juicy by Doja Cat

Chicken Noodle Soup by J-Hope (ft. Becky G)

Cool for the Summer by Demi Lovato

WANNABE by ITZY

Need to Know by Doja Cat

I'm Legit by Nicki Minaj ft. Ciara

About Damn Time by Lizzo

Levitating (ft. DaBaby) by Dua Lipa

Egoistic by Mamamoo

Next Level by aespa

Truth Hurts by Lizzo

Gashina by SUNMI

Dirty Harry by Gorillaz

_______

Autumn

Lovely and deep, like the woods they like to wander

Started planning their Halloween costume since summer

Chooses their afternoon tea depending on their mood

Likes to sit by the window and read when starts raining

Often misunderstood

Looks dark and broody but is just a cinnamon roll (a cute, little, squishy cinnamon roll!!! - sometimes I struggle to repress the urge to push you off a cliff - nah, you know you love me - who's gonna tell them? - Not me.)

Starts reading several books at the same time and switches between them

Spends long afternoons reading in coffee shops

Struggles with depression and anxiety

Cannot function without coffee in the morning

Gets startled easily if they are focused on something else

Judges everyone silently, that's just what they do (Except Spring, she can do whatever she wants. - is it the cuteness? - It is.)

Waits for the call to end and then texts "What do you want?!?"

Aesthetics:

Eye-rolls, tired eyes, old books and fallen leaves as bookmarks, sentences underlined with shaky lines, large cardigans and knitted sweaters, dark coffee with splashes of milk, Earl Grey tea and butter biscuits, soft sighs and sweater paws, leather messenger bags and worn-out notebooks, the pitter-patter of rain on the sidewalk, fog and drizzle, the distant rumble of an incoming storm

Playlist:

The Less I Know the Better by Tame Impala

Tired by beabadoobee

Devil Town by Cavetown

Coffee by Jack Stauber's Micropop

Blondie by Current Joys

Alien Blues by Vundabar

Little Dark Age by MGMT

Hey Kids by Molina ft. Late Verlane

Take a Slice by Glass Animals

Vide Noir by Lord Huron

Mary On a Cross by Ghost

The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

Zombie by The Cranberries

----------------------🍏

Helloo!!! ✨

Sorry it's been a while since I've posted anything (again, sob) but I'm back!

I chose seasons this time, and I've also added comments from each one, I thought it would be a cute thing to add, I had fun doing it.

For the character's comments I used different colors to recognize them, I hope it's not too chaotic.

Hope you enjoy, and please take care of yourselves,

lots of love 💜

#moodboard #aestethic #character aesthetics #tag your aesthetic #character concept #tag yourself #playlist #song suggestions #types of people #seasons #autumn #summer #winter #spring

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psychhound · 2 years

Text

[ID: image 1: a digital painting of a light skinned woman in dramatic black clothing pointing towards the viewer with light green spirits surrounding her. there is pale yellow text that reads "psychopomp / a sorcerer subclass"

image 2: a screenshot preview of a page formatted in 5e players handbook style showing the opening description and a few traits for psychopomp sorcerer. end ID]

psychopomp: a 5e sorcerous origin

Many higher powers utilize the services of chosen beings to collect the souls of the recently deceased and ferry them to their final resting place. These beings, known as Psychopomps, are tasked to track down lost souls and deliver them to the many realms of death. Psychopomps may have different tasks their deity has asked them to carry out, such as studying the forces that cause death on the mortal planes, hunting down unruly undead, or traveling great distances to capture souls from the far reaches of the world. Though the job of Psychopomp is a dangerous one, at least they know exactly what awaits them in the end.

includes options of three different psychopomp forms: the knowledge-seeking coyote, the combat-heavy deer, and movement-based raven

includes subclass spells at levels 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9 for all psychopomps and for each of the three forms

necrotic damage and death saves focused traits

only $1 for the formatted PDF and plain text document at

itch / kofi / dm's guild

#dnd #dnd 5e #5e homebrew #sorcerer subclass #homebrew subclass #sorcerer

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throatofdelusion12 · 2 days

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there's a second coyote on the painted plains episode.

#the penumbra podcast

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rebelsandtherest · 2 years

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Trailmates

🇨🇦 Happy Canada Day, everyone 🇨🇦

A couple of very old (but really rather young) cowboys enjoy some time on the ol' prairie trails.

Length: 2,361 words

Warnings: Language. Otherwise, it’s pure fluff.

--------------------

Before Edison had stumbled upon a design that captured light within glass, before telephones or wires or cables, the world had been simpler, darker, brighter. Cities lapped up every bulb they could find, and high noon in New York City was painted black with cables, but out here, the world was still too wild for wires, too dark for bulbs, too bright for smoke.

Matthew had always found the plains unnerving, he knew. Unnatural, the Canadian had complained, far more than once. He missed the river, the lakes, the landscape that shaped home. So this year, they’d agreed to plot their trail further east; over and upwards to the water. It was not entirely for Matthew’s sake; Alfred had raised himself along the shores of the great lakes before he knew he had a brother staring back at him from the other side.

That had been then; now they were here together, as they’d always meant to be, Matthew’s heart for the water at peace with Alfred’s true love of sky, forested plains of earth spread wide to frame a never-ending field of stars, a freshwater sea below to reflect and refract.

“Do you ever wonder,” Alfred asked aloud, head cushioned by a saddlebag and the saddle itself, “why stars are so beautiful?” Matthew wasn’t looking at the stars, but rather their reflection on the eddies of Lake Superior's northern shore.

“Sometimes,” he said, watching the unpredictable shapes and halos of starlight on the lake. “But I don’t see why beauty needs a reason.”

“Hmm,” Alfred smiled, eyes dancing across Hercules, Cygnus, Sagittarius. Arthur had taught him the names when he was still small, but their imagined patterns danced across his mind’s eye more vividly than they had in his youth. “No reason,” Alfred agreed. “Just more cause to wonder.”

“You think too much,” Matt yawned, rolling his shoulders and tipping his head further back across his saddle, brown bay horse snuffling audibly in the sand nearby.

“Eh, what’s new,” Alfred smirked, reaching out to scratch the curled neck of the drowsy Appaloosa laid down at arm’s reach. She snorted and shifted, but did not fully rouse. Their campfire was still burning; a determined set of flames still flickering against the sand. The cast iron pot of bread still sat warming on the ashes, and the pan beside still smelled of duck and wild onions. Mixed with the coffee and bourbon they’d shared after dinner, their camp still smelled like a feast, but the crackling of the fire and the lap of the water on the shore was enough to hypnotize a man.

“You aren’t falling asleep now, are ya?” Alfred teased his brother, leather creaking under his head when he turned to look over at him.. “I thought you said you were gonna stay up, remember?”

“What? No, I’m awake,” Matt slurred, eyelids wavering. Alfred smirked, cleared his throat, and sang:

“ Oh buryyy me nooot on the lone prairie,”

“ Crisse de câlice , stop ,”

“Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free,”

“Did you have to choose the most depressing song ?”

“In a narrow grave just six by three—”

“Alfred.”

“Hey, it woke you back up, didn’t it?” Alfred defended. “You’re lucky I don’t have my harmonica with me.”

“Oh, Christ, I’m so glad you didn’t bring it with you.”

“Bring it?” The saddle squeaked louder when Alfred turned his head practically upside down to look over at his brother, who lay further up the beach. You squashed it.”

“ It had it coming,” Matt said, staring up at the stars.

“It was a good harmonica!” Alfred insisted. “Cost me a pretty penny too .”

“It’s your own fault for wasting money on a noise machine. I was doing you a favor.” There was some rustling and suddenly the stiff brim of Alfred’s hat was colliding with Matt’s cheekbone.

“Goddamn—“ Matt yelped and whacked it away, making Alfred laugh. The Canadian grumbled in French and threw the hat aside, further away from his brother.

“Give it back,” Alfred demanded.

“No, you threw it over here,” Matt resettled himself against the saddle, crossing his arms and snuggling deeper into the still-warm sand beneath his bedroll.

“Matt,”

“If you wanted to keep it, why did you throw it?”

“Give it back.”

“No.”

“I’m taking your fiddle home with me.”

“What?” Matt actually sat up straight, startling Alfred’s horse into a sleepy snort. “You can’t—you fucker!”

“If you wanted to keep it,” Alfred teased, “why’d you put it on my pack?” Before Alfred could say anything more, Matt clambered to stand and stomped across the camp towards Alfred, promptly ransacking the pile of supplies Alfred had so neatly arranged hours prior, searching for the hard leather case he’d asked his brother to carry.

“Hey— Hey now, that was—Matt, for pete’s sake, I was kidding, stop ruining the supplies! That was organized, you’ll get sand in the coffee!” Matt ignored him and did not cease his rummaging until he had his fiddle’s roughed-up leather case hugged to his chest.

“You ain’t taking my fiddle,” Matt snapped at him, a rare plains burl creeping into his voice as he pulled the instrument to his chest. He returned to his bedroll and sat, seemingly appeased. His voice returned to its soft Ontario tone when he said, “Arthur gave me this, you know.”

“Oh?” Alfred hadn’t known that. “When?”

“Back in the day,” Matt replied, flipping open the latches to look at the instrument and unable to keep the nostalgic smile from creeping across his face. “I don’t remember the exact year. He bought it from Paris.”

“ Arthur went to Paris? Back in the day?”

“ Ouais.”

“Wonders never cease,” Alfred chuckled. He stood upright with a groan and begun correcting the havoc Matt had caused to their pile of supplies. “You could have at least tried to not ruin the whole thing,” he grumbled, and Matt scoffed. But when Matt took the fiddle out of its case and began pulling the horsehair bow over the strings to test its tune, Alfred fell silent. Matt tuned his fiddle to the sound of the sleepless lake, and Alfred didn’t complain as he re-stacked their supplies.

“What time is it, anyway, you reckon?” Matt asked, once all four strings satisfied him.

“Mmmmm,” Alfred turned to squint up at the constellations, “Sunset wasn’t too long ago. Nine thirty, maybe?”

“Hmm. Not late enough, probably, eh?”

“Not quite.”

With that, Matt began pulling the bow back across his fiddle, slowly this time, lazily shifting across the strings in a key that made Alfred’s heart ache with something he couldn’t identify. He played a bit of one melody, and when he grew bored, another.

He was so absorbed in his aimless play that his arm jittered to an off-key stop when he heard the first plucks of Alfred’s banjo. He looked over to his brother, and in the waning firelight could see the man’s smile as he adjusted the pegs.

“Did Arthur buy you that one?” Matt joked, and Alfred laughed from his belly, just like Matt had intended.

“Maybe he did!” the American said through his mirth, plucking and tuning with a grin still shining bright in the orange light of the camp. “By buying up the grain he couldn’t grow himself.” Alfred tweaked the tune until he was satisfied, and gave a strong full-handed strum that made his horse snort and roll away, kicking out a hind leg in a show of annoyance.

“Hey now, girl, it wasn’t that off tune,” he chided, but still leaned over to scratch her hindquarters in apology. Alfred resettled himself against his saddle, low against his back, and began to strum more quietly, as Matt resumed his fiddling. They played in separate streams for a while, but slowly fell together in an improvised melody, an instinctual ritual they’d been practicing for eons.

“Know any good ‘uns?” Alfred asked.

“Hmm,” Matt shuffled in his spot, trying to find a comfortable position. “Let’s see here.” He cleared his throat, and began to play.

The pull of the bow tugged Alfred’s ears straight home, to wild honey and hearth and the smell of the mountains, to the unlikely frontiersman who’d brought the melody west. To Matt, it sounded different, like salt water and snow, rocky shores and soft souls who pressed onward against the winter wind. Each way, it was easy to fall into time. Like moonshine and coffee, the notes swirled together, and Matthew began to sing:

“All day long on the prairies I rise, Not even a dog to trot by my side;”

Smiling, Alfred adjusted his grip on the fret, and began to strum the banjo as soft as he could, hooking onto the tune of Matt’s fiddle as if they’d practiced for years. Matthew began again, Alfred now humming in until his voice found the harmony,

“All day long on the prairies I rise, Not even a dog to trot by my side; My fire I kindle with chips gathered round, My coffee I boil without being ground.”

“At least we have that,” Alfred said, and Matt gave a snort.

"I wash in a pool and wipe on a sack;”

Alfred snorted this time, and Matt rolled his eyes.

“I carry my wardrobe all on my back; For want of an oven I cook bread in a pot, And sleep on the ground for want of a cot.

My ceiling is the sky, my floor is the grass, My music is the lowing of the herds as they pass; My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones, My parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones.

And then if my cooking is not very complete You can't blame me for wanting to eat. But show me a man that sleeps more profound Than the big puncher-boy who stretches himself on the groun—”

“Oh, christ,” Matt’s fiddle squealed when he jumped. A loud, electric alarm was splitting the night air, and Alfred could see light glowing from under Matt’s saddle. He laughed.

“You gonna get that?”

“Oh shut up—” Matt set aside his fiddle and frantically dug under his things. He tapped furiously at the satellite smartphone to make it shut up, but immediately shouted in pain when the screen lit up at full brightness, right in his face. Alfred laughed happily at his brother’s expense. After much creative cursing, Matt found the button to shut off the alarm and pressed it ten times more than he needed to.

“What was that set for?” Alfred asked.

“It’s midnight,” Matt replied. “You were way off.”

“What?” Alfred glared indignantly up at the sky. “I’m not that out of practice. Wait.” He whipped his head back down to Matt. “The score.”

“I know.”

“What’s the score?”

“Shut up! I’m looking.”

“You’re going down,” Alfred declared, and Matt gave him the finger with his right hand while his left hand frantically tapped through the apps on his phone. There was a long silence while he waited for the browser to load, punctuated only by water and crickets and wind in the leaves.

“HA!” burst the Canadian, and the sound echoed off the lake and back, startling their horses once more.

“NO,” his brother moaned, throwing himself backwards in anger, banjo still splayed across his lap. “What the hell,” Matt’s grin was ear to ear, illuminated by the light of the screen. Still seated, he did a little dance, tapping through to the details.

“Jays 4, Sox nil.”

“Oh, fuck that!” Alfred shouted, and Matthew cackled. “Homefield advantage my ass, ugh! You stupid fuck!” Matt just laughed some more.

“I cannot wait for the dinner when we get back,” Matt said, “god, imagine it, a real shower, no more camp food, shampoo. It’s so kind of you to pay for it all, really, you shouldn’t have,” the blonde didn’t bother to fight his cheshire grin.

“And I’m not going to ,”

“Oh yes you are, you said there wasn’t a limit if Boston scored zero,” Alfred was groaning on the ground, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes. “New shoes, whiskey, poutine, lobster—”

“I don’t think they have lobster in Duluth—”

“Oh, and new flannels,” Matt added, “the moths got to mine.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You made the bet, I just accepted it.” Matt set aside his phone, and the world was dark once more, fire flickering, stars shimmering, waves lapping as they had for centuries before they made stupid baseball game bets. Buoyed by his teams’ win, Matt began to pluck at his fiddle again in meaningless, chipper chords. Alfred remained on the ground, staring up at the sky, left hand fiddling with the fret of his banjo.

“Midnight, you said?” Alfred suddenly asked.

“Yeah,” Matt confirmed, “Why?”

“Happy birthday, Mattie.” Matt actually stopped what he was doing so he could blink in the dark. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“No,” Matt said, picking up his bow. “Of course not.”

“Good, ‘cause I got you something for the morning—it’s not wrapped, but still,” Alfred said, sitting back up and adjusting his banjo. Matthew’s heart warmed.

“You did?”

“It’s not lobster,” Alfred warned, and Matthew laughed.

“God, can you imagine? If we’d’ve had lobster back then, out on the trail?” Matt rested the fiddle more on his chest than his shoulder, playing through their abandoned melody with newfound glee.

“Lord almighty,” Alfred said, letting his prairie drawl come back on through, “I would’ve found new ways to die by the time it made it west.” He sat back up to adjust his instrument in his lap, finding the strings and the song with the guidance of Matthew’s tune. They played together in a variegated cycle, repeating the familiar chorus notes over and over as they found each other’s tempo.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Matthew said in the midst of it.

“One hundred and fifty-five,” Alfred said back to him, “and here’s to many more. After you,” he gestured, and let Matt lead as they continued right where they’d left off.

“My books teach me ever consistence to prize, My sermons, that small things I should not despise; My parson remarks from his pulpit of bones That fortune favors those who look out for their own.”

----------------------

The song featured here is called "The Cowboy", published in the 1911 book "Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads", which can be found for free on the University of Nebraska's Digital Commons.

#hetalia #aph canada #hws canada #aph america #hws america #alfred f jones #alfred jones #matthew williams #my writing #my fanfic #na bros #fluff

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lamuradex · 3 months

Text

Short Story: To Not Be Alone in the Middle of Nowhere

Genre: Horror

Wordcount: 4488

Description: The wanderer must always walk alone. He must walk alone. Noah walks alone.

To Not Be Alone in the Middle of Nowhere

The wanderer walks alone. His name is Noah.

He awakens in the morning, prepares his food, uses his materials to form paints, and redecorates his arms with symbols. Runes and marks of his homeland. Words with little meaning to anyone else.

He checks the dirt for footprints as he dismantles his tent. The pale earth is smooth and featureless, as always. He checks it again.

Noah packs away his tent, bundling his supplies together onto a sled. He wraps the straps for the sled around his middle, and he walks on, dragging it behind him. He marches on through the dirt.

For hours, he marches. Finally, he stops. He gathers his canteen from his things, satiates his thirst, and then he walks on. A few hours later he does the same for food, and then again to relieve himself. He walks on.

As the sun lowers, he finally stops. He looks about in all directions. He is alone. He is always alone. He sets up his camp and sits by the fire. Then, once the sun has set, he enters his tent and closes the entrance. He tries to sleep, but his ears strain to hear. He clutches the icon hung around his neck. But what can he hear? Intruders? Marauders?

Something worse?

But he hears nothing. For hours he lies there and hears nothing. Finally, he falls asleep, and still hears nothing.

The next morning he awakes. He rises, prepares his supplies, and redecorates his arms. He steps out from his tent.

Something is wrong. His fire has been dashed aside, perhaps by a strong wind. His spear, left outside the tent, has fallen over. His sled has been flipped onto its top.

Noah inspects the earth as he packs away his things. No footprints. No marks. Perfect flawless earth. He is alone. He is always alone.

Noah packs up his things and walks on. He watches the horizons on the desolate plains. Deserts, salt flats, whatever you want to call them, they look endless. But he is calmed by the endlessness of it. The sight of the horizon on all sides. Nowhere for anyone to hide.

As the day draws on, he stops to drink. He is alone. He stops to relieve himself. He is alone. He stops to eat.

There is a shadow. Something small on the eastern horizon. Perhaps he is not alone after all.

He continues to walk, watching the shadow, a lone shape low to the ground. As he finally stops to rest, it grows closer. He prepares an evening meal and gleaming eyes watch him from the dark.

They simply watch.

He finally goes to bed and hears something sniffing at his tent. Claws scratching at the flap. Something gnawing at the entrance. And then it stops.

He grips the icon around his neck, but hears nothing else.

Noah awakes the next day and prepares his paints. He repaints his arms, the motions second nature to him now. Every day since he left home.

He emerges from his tent and finds something odd. The earth is disturbed and his things have been rummaged through. He is not alone out here.

He packs away his things and sets off. He sees the shadow again, waiting on the horizon. It gets closer each time he stops, to drink, to relieve himself, and especially when he stops to eat.

That night, gleaming eyes watch him again. Something waiting in the dark. Noah looks out, trying not to look directly at it. He takes some of his food and lays it away from the camp. He eats some himself, watching from the corner of his eye.

Slowly, cautiously, a coyote emerges from the night. It sniffs the food then eats it. Then it runs off with its prize.

The next day this repeats. The camp is packed away and the coyote’s prints are in the dirt. It follows him throughout the day, closer and closer than before. He can feel it following and knows he is not alone.

He hopes that is what he can feel following.

That night, he lays out food again. He leaves a trail, leading up to where he sits. He sits and eats as quietly as he can. The coyote emerges from the night and licks at the ground, sniffing and snuffling closer. Finally, it stops beside him, sniffing for more food. Noah puts out a hand and pets its head. It snarls, and so he stops. But it does not flee. He leaves it an extra bit of food, and the coyote falls asleep by the fire.

Noah falls asleep in his tent, his ears straining yet again.

But he hears nothing.

The next morning he wakes. He repaints the symbols on his arms and leaves his tent.

His heart drops.

His spear is not where he left it, beside his tent. The coyote is dead, the spear jammed through its neck. Noah can see how this happened. The spear fell over, and panicked at the noise, the coyote ran and impaled itself.

That is except for the mark in the coyote’s fur. The one identical to the icon around Noah’s neck.

But the earth is undisturbed, and there was no sound the previous night.

Noah is alone. He is always alone.

Noah packs his things and moves on. He is nearing the end of the plains, the land ahead green with trees. It reminds him of home.

Even as he marches on, the day he left plays in his mind. He doesn’t want it to, and he has trained himself not to, but a little sweet nostalgia allures him to the memory, forgetting the bitterness of such thoughts on his tongue.

He was warned not to go in there. He was warned not to touch the stone. But a teenager will rebel against his elders, and the others dared him to. He remembers the thrill of climbing down into that cave, the chill of the water as he submerged, finding his prize, and their cries of triumph as he emerged clasping the smooth stone.

And then people were angry. His parents. The grand elder. He can recall his confusion at their rage. He couldn’t understand why they were so upset.

It was just a superstition, right?

There are no coyotes as he sits by the fire. Not now. Instead, he sits and watches the trees before him, their branches rustling in the wind. Beyond the forest is the orchard. And beyond the orchard is the mountain. And the mountain is the place where no one can follow him.

Where he can finally, truly, be by himself.

The next day he rises, repaints his marks, and sets off amongst the trees. He clings to the icon around his neck, watching the branches as if they’d reach out and grab it from him. As he walks he finds a stream, so refills his canteen. He finds berries, and so refills his rations. But this place is not quiet. There is noise everywhere, chirping, skittering, yipping. But he pulls his sled on, through trees and roots and mud.

That night he stops. There is only uneven ground, so it is difficult to set up his tent. He chooses to keep all his things inside the tent, to avoid mischievous monkeys or birds stealing anything. He sits tightly amongst his things, listening to the ceaseless noise outside.

Then it goes quiet. Just for a few minutes. Everything is silent.

And during that time Noah strains his ears again.

Until noise returns and he drifts to sleep.

The next day he rises and repaints his markings. They’re slightly scratched by branches, but it doesn’t take long to remedy. When he opens his tent, he finds a pile of bugs, all laid out like a sigil on the floor. A familiar marking, the same one which hangs around his neck.

But he can see how this happened. He’d been absentmindedly scrawling in the dirt with his spear, the same spear he’d used to retrieve the fruit. Spreading fruit juice like that, bugs were bound to follow.

He cannot tell why they died though. Perhaps the fruit was poisonous to them. Perhaps it’s poisonous to him but he doesn’t know it yet.

Either way, the earth around is undisturbed, as always.

He is alone out in these woods.

He is soon packed and on his way again. The weather is more temperate than it was on the plains. The trees and leaves trap heat, wrapping it in moisture, and making it heavy. But Noah walks on. Around trees, through bushes, across wide little streams.

He sees animals throughout the day. Spiders crawling up trunks. Snakes slithering over roots. Most ignore him if he ignores them. A few flies buzz around him, but they soon find other prey. A mosquito takes fascination with him for a while, but he swats it. Up in the trees above, a little shape swings. A monkey. It leaps from branch to branch, following his path.

That night, he settles and sets up his camp again. He glances up and sees the little monkey, still leaping about. Its bright eyes leer down. Noah eats some fruit as it draws closer. He sees it weighing its jump, ready to steal something. But he can’t sleep another night with his supplies crammed in his tent. The smell of the fruit is too strong, and positioning his spear is a challenge. And still the monkey creeps closer.

Noah takes a stick from the undergrowth and wraps a spare bit of cloth around it. He lights it from his campfire and swings it wildly up at the monkey.

The monkey screeches and yelps. It retreats, hurrying up a tree trunk. Noah waves his torch until the beast disappears. He hopes it won’t come back.

As he readies for bed, he takes some large leaves and covers the fruit. With one last thought, he takes his spear into the tent, propping it up awkwardly inside the entrance.

That night his ears strain against the noisy silence. So much noise it becomes the base for all other sound. Then he hears it. Scampering feet. Little eeks and ooks. The rustle of leaves.

Then the forest is silent again. Truly silent. All that remains is the monkey, rummaging amongst the fruit.

With a snap and a sharp shriek, even that falls silent.

The noise finally returns and Noah falls fitfully to sleep.

The next morning he reapplies his paints and opens his tent. The monkey is dead, its body left strewn across the far tree, battered and broken. Its blood spells a familiar symbol in its fur.

It must have just been a predator, Noah tells himself. Just a predator.

Noah marches on, sled behind him. The trees are already parting, leaving greater room to walk. By nightfall he will almost be at the orchard. Then the mountain.

Then he’ll be alone.

As he settles for nightfall, the trees are already quite wide apart. Wide enough that he can set up his tent without trouble. Wide enough that no animals come close.

As he sets up his tent, a chill joins the air. Something colder than cold.

The air is silent. Not even the noise of the jungle.

CRACK!

Noah looks up, but dives into his tent, hurriedly tying the entrance. Too late, in fact.

A branch the size of a log hits the tent’s roof.

The tent crumples, and the log lands atop Noah. His spear is in his hand, but the rest of him is pinned to the floor. He releases his spear and reaches up to the icon around his throat. Golden metal meets his fingers, and he relaxes. The chill to the air vanishes. The sounds of the woods return.

Using his spear, he levers the log off of him. He slips out, his side bleeding from where a branch cut him. It isn’t deep, so he patches it with mud and some torn cloth from his tent.

He moves the log and rebuilds his tent as best he can. He rechecks the various runes painted on its fabric. Luckily, they’re undamaged. He looks up to where the tree branch fell from.

Something is sat on the branch. A shadowy shape. First a monkey, then a coyote. Then it is a young man, before vanishing completely.

Noah heads into his tent and struggles to sleep.

The next day comes, and Noah almost forgets to repaint his arms. The cut in his side aches. It hurts, but there is nothing he can do.

He packs up his things and marches on.

Within hours, he has passed the edge of the jungle and steps out into lush green fields. The occasional tree is spread around, many littered with fruit. He tries to pluck some, but finds it too high, and his side is too sore to climb. He walks on.

That night he sets up camp in a field. No trees to fall on him, no animals to bother him. His side still aches, and he barely eats before surrendering and going to bed. He doesn’t hear anything that night, not that he is listening.

His hand doesn’t leave the icon around his neck all night.

The next day he awakes, but something is wrong. He is shivering, though the air is still warm. He sweats though he feels cold. The wound in his side burns and looks swollen. Even so, he rises, packs his things, and moves on.

The walk is more challenging today. His bones are tired and his thoughts drift in and out. They drift so far that the tang of nostalgia lures him in again.

The memories play out like a performance around him.

He is at home again, wandering back into the village. The elders are furious. His parents look scared. He is forced to carry the stone by himself, the elders refusing to touch it. There is shouting and ranting. Words like “Banishment” are used. Words like “Death”.

He knows that he has done wrong, but not why.

Finally, the words “The wanderer must walk alone” are uttered.

The chief’s guards arrive, and he is forced to leave.

All alone.

In the orchard, the night is rolling in. But Noah’s mind is too clouded. He walks on into the evening. He walks on into the night. He finally collapses, and in a moment of blurred clarity, he wraps the remains of his tent around himself like a blanket.

The inside is sweltering, his body boiling. His side still aches.

The night is silent.

The next morning he is awoken. Not by the dawn, but footsteps and people. They find him lying on the ground, wrapped in his tent. He is drenched in sweat and his side burns like fire. He looks at it, as do they, and they wince. It is yellowing, in parts even green.

One of them carries him on their shoulder. They are large people, all wearing rough and strong clothes. One of them carries a trident, but with four prongs.

Noah falls asleep as they carry him.

He awakens again in a bed. He is in his tent, but he can tell he did not set it up. The knots are wrong and the flaps are unsealed. But he cannot move. His side is on fire, his body drenched with sweat. He looks around and the runes on his skin are gone.

He looks down. His side is exposed, the mud cleaned off, now wrapped in clean bandages. He remembers being briefly awakened to take medicines.

He hopes they were medicines.

He tries to sit up, but cries out in pain and falls back. The sound attracts someone. A young woman enters his tent, sitting down beside him. She has hair like flax and freckles from cheek to cheek. She smiles with missing teeth, but in a way that is quite charming. She also speaks in a tongue Noah does not know. It is lilting and bright, but not one word is familiar.

She spies his lack of recognition. She tries to mime, pointing at his side, and then showing drinking something. She then mimes for him to stay still.

He nods and falls back to sleep.

Evening approaches, and he wakes to see the young woman. She is offering food, which he gladly accepts. Already he feels better and tries to stand, but she stops him. He is still weak. She produces a bit of paper and a quill. She writes something, but he does not know the letters. But she passes him the quill.

He writes something. He writes that he is thirsty, and would like some wine. He knows she will not understand.

That night, once she is gone, his ears strain at the dark. But this is not a quiet place. He hears horses, and people working late, and drinking in a nearby tavern.

And then, for a moment, it is silent. Silent aside from the sound of something being dragged.

Then all is normal again, and Noah falls unwillingly to sleep.

The next morning he awakens, but is still too weak to stand. He searches for his paints, but cannot find them. They must be on his sled.

Around mid-morning, the young woman arrives to give him food and water. And some wine. He looks at her curiously.

She mimes and writes a few words. One is “traveller” and the next “uncle”. The next is a list of places, one of which Noah recognises. He nods and writes “Hello”. She writes “Hello” in her tongue. They both smile.

The joy is cut short however. There are shouts, screams, yells of anguish. The young woman heads out and returns minutes later looking quite pale. She has brought a book with her. She reads it hurriedly, and Noah spies some of his language in the pages.

She scrawls down two words on the paper. “Missing” and “boy”.

Mere minutes later, the tent flap is thrown open, and a man in very stern clothes looks down at him. A finger is pointed in an accusatory way, loud words are said, and the young woman stands out of the way.

Noah however is too weak to stand. He tries to, but fails, and so the accusations are soon dropped. The man leaves, as does the young woman.

Later that evening, she returns. Noah has had all day to think. He desperately asks for the quill. He tries to warn her. He must have his things. He must have his paints. He grips and shows the icon around his neck as if she will understand.

She does her best to translate. She tells him to stay put. She thinks he is just afraid of the kidnapper, and he doesn’t want to be their next victim.

In a way, she isn’t wrong.

She is then called away by a dinner bell, or so Noah guesses.

And he is left alone.

That night his ears strain at the silence. The town is more sombre, no celebrating with such a tragedy in their midst. But amidst the mournful sobs, there is a moment of silence.

And in the silence, two noises. The sound of two things being dragged.

Noah does not sleep that night.

Noah stirs from his dreadful thoughts as the tent flap is opened and the stern man looks in. He says something, but it is not understood. Noah tries to answer anyway. The man shakes his head and leaves.

Around noon, the young woman appears, but she is dishevelled. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are bloodshot.

She writes on the paper three words. “My sisters. Missing.”

Noah stares at her for a long time. She forces the pen and paper into his hands. There is something new written on it.

“What took them?”

She looks at him, her eyes knowing more than her age would suggest. Insistent for answers.

He writes back. He asks that she help him leave. He begs for his paints and his things. He pleads that he be allowed to get away from here.

He does not answer her question.

She looks at his words, and she looks disgusted. She writes back. He is a coward, trying to escape. She helped him, and he will not help her.

He writes one last time to help him leave, and then all will be well. For her, all will be well. He then writes a single word.

Wanderer.

But it is unclear if she understands. He doesn’t know if the word can be translated or if she does just believe him a coward.

She leaves and does not return. Someone else brings his food that evening.

And he sits and eats alone, before tiredness finally takes him.

A noise in the night awakes Noah. A dragging noise. A lumbering noise. Something large, dragging its feet.

He has been in the same place too long.

He hears it moving, long toes dragging in the dirt. He sees a shadow against the moonlight, a form as tall as his tent. Long fingers hang past its knees. A maw of teeth shifts as it breathes.

And then another noise. A confused cry. A shout of anger and fear. The light of a burning torch.

A young girl screams.

The shadow vanishes and a man cries out in agony. A torch flies and ignites a nearby building. Like a shadow play, parts and fractions play out on the tent. A man impaled on long fingers. A jaw distending from a cavernous mouth. An eyeless head turning its gaze on him.

Suddenly, a hand pokes under the tent flap. A young woman’s hand. Noah struggles to his feet and grabs her fingers, but something else is pulling from the other side. She pleads and cries, but Noah is too weak. She slips from his hands, and her screams fall silent.

With all the strength he has, Noah holds the tent flaps shut.

Something stops outside the tent. His spear is on his sled. He can hear the thing breathing, rasping, hacking breaths. Something so old, so terrible. Noah watches as its long fingers press at the canvas, threatening to rip through. It strides around his tent, its long shadow cast over him by the flames.

Noah falls back and clutches the icon around his neck. He sits there until morning.

Then he is finally alone again.

Noah does not sleep. He rises and in desperation draws the symbols back on his arms with dirt and spit. He leaves his tent and he looks upon the village. He falls to his knees and vomits.

The town is in ruins. Almost a dozen buildings, all burnt or strewn with blood. Bodies lie in the streets, some whole, others ripped in half or more. One has his chest ripped open, chunks of gore dripping into the chasm.

And there, in the centre of town, impaled on Noah’s own spear, is the young woman. Her eyes are lifeless. Her hair is bloodstained. Her body is limp.

He is alone again.

Noah does not stay. He packs his things and marches on. He marches on faster than ever. He leaves his spear where it is, but gathers his sled and his supplies. The mountain is just beyond the village. He is almost there.

But his mind will not rest.

No more sweet nostalgia, a bitter taste floods his mind. He has tasted this pain before.

He recalls as he was driven from the village. Without food, without supplies, without explanation. On the call that “The Wanderer must travel alone”. The only one to stop him was his mother, who handed him an icon to wear about his neck.

She said it would keep him safe. He thinks it has.

He left the village, walking out into the woods. He stopped a mere hour away, weeping and mourning, not knowing what to do.

But then there had been a noise. Something in the trees. He had wanted a weapon, something to defend himself.

But it hadn’t been needed. His friends, those that had dared him to go in that cave, had followed him. They wished to go with him.

He had been so happy that night. And they celebrated. One had snuck a jug of wine. Another had brought a book of foreign places to go. Where they could all go. The book told stories of distant lands, and paradise havens, and a mystical mountain where no one could follow.

And his friends also told stories of The Wanderer. They recited all that the village had told them. Of a creature. Of a stone that had held such a thing in place.

But they had laughed. Laughed into the evening. Laughed until they slept under the stars.

The next morning, Noah had awoken to a cold wetness. As he stirred lying in a pool. A crimson pool. His friends were dead, gutted, their blood mixing around him.

He had screamed so loud. But that was when he had seen it.

Waiting just beyond. Waiting in the trees.

The Wanderer.

And he hasn’t stopped since.

The mountain is cold, and colder as he climbs. Snow crunches underfoot and frost bites at his skin. The sled catches in trenches of ice and patches of slush slip from under him like landslides.

But Noah presses on. He marches up the snowy slope, not able to see the top. For a day, he marches, and as the sun sets he presses on. But he hears nothing. No new noise, but no silence either. Just the flurry of snow.

For another day, he walks without stopping. Finally the peak comes into view. He crests the top and looks down, the world splaying out before him. He can see the village and the orchards beyond. He can see the jungle, and the mists amongst the trees. He can even see the plains, and how they bend over the horizon.

And somewhere beyond that must be home.

Noah sits upon the peak, cold seeping into his very bones. And for once, ever since this began, he feels truly alone.

With shaking hands, he reaches up and he removes the icon from around his neck. He places it in the snow before him and breathes in the cold air.

Suddenly, the air grows silent. Silent apart from the crunch of footsteps.

Noah doesn’t dare look round. He knows it will be there. He just hears those dragging steps as they move up the mountain behind him. Fear colder than the snow clutches his heart, but he doesn’t move. He can’t.

He feels long, sharp fingers wrap around his throat. He’s terrified, but it’s already too late.

And as the fingers wrench, and there’s a snap that could only be his neck, Noah can only think one thing.

He was never alone.

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