#breagha

[combeferret]

she blep

[sbeep]

Art collection of Iodwyn of Mag Turga (yod-win, it’s a name that uses Welsh pronunciations), one of my witcher OCs. Also featuring her some-time gf Breagha, because all witchers need a sorceress in their lives too. She’s from the school of the Viper and she suffers from chronic grumpy disease.

[brewed-pangolin]

Series Masterlist

MDNI 18+

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader

Synopsis: No timeline specified within the fics. Purely random escapades (and sexcapades) with your adventurous loving Scot.

fluff, explicit smut, established relationship, unprotected p in v, outdoor sex, some exhibitionism, maybe some angst down the line

Soap's 4Runner *

4Runner Wingman ***

Domestic Bliss *** wc 2k

Tailgate Movie Night *

Breathe *** wc 1.6k

Drumming in the Deep **

Scottish Thumper ***

Chasing Cars *

A Sound of Thunder *

Ribbed for Her Pleasure *** wc 2k

Me Breagha *

In the Devil's Den Part 1 * Part 2

Soap's Birdie *

Corner Lot Creamery *** wc 1.3k

[hunterbunter3000]

ok so I've had this in my memory for ages and i can so imagine Sweetheart having this as a tattoo on her back, like the angel wings tattoos that are the complete length of your back so and the crescent on her neck like oml like its barely visible from under her shirts and it just makes her neck look that much more delectable plus the contrast from the womb tattoo to the angel like wings is a sight to see, makes the boys go feral (especially soap once he sees it, he didn't notice before cuz he was too short lol)

IM GOING FERALLLLL

THIS IS AMAZING FOR SWEETS HOLY COW

The original idea was that she was going to have two pieces, high and low tattoos, the low one was something like this:

But then I scrapped that, and she was just gonna have a regular back tattoo (like a big one or one in the middle of her back), and it was gonna be something like this:

B U T that changed and the new idea was that the back tattoo was traveling on her body, like coming to her collarbone and neck, and coming down her arms (which is talked about in the 18+ Gaz ask), something like this:

BUT GOOODDDDDD YOURS IS SO SICK GREMLIN

Like I can see her getting it because a friend told her that it'll look so cool, not telling her what it means. (As you said, it looks like angel wings) and then that friend dies, not telling her the meaning. (Her friend told her to get it because Sweetheart is like an angel)

Sfw

(Just kinda sensual teehee)

Cw.: biblical talk (angels), so much praise, overstimulation (sweets cries), bit of angst and feels, (idk if this counts as angst? I'm still learning what's angst and what's not😭) soap is so down bad he's speaking in Scottish Gaelic-- it's translated by Google so I'm sorry beforehand! He talks so damn much, I went overboard ���� the translation is at the end!

So skip ahead to the now, she's taking care of some wounds she got from a mission, with her shirt off and hair down, wrapping her ankle with concentrated eyes. She doesn't hear Soap knock on her door, and she doesn't hear his little gasp. She also doesn't hear him walk slowly towards her, but she does feel thick, warm fingers move some of her hair and trail down her back. She jolts, turning around abruptly. Her tense shoulders relax, seeing it's only her best friend.

She needs to be more vigilant.

"Jeez, Soap," She chuckles, "You scared me."

His eyes are wide, skin flushed with pink and breaths uneven.

"Tha mi duilich..." he mutters breathlessly. Sweetheart cocks an eyebrow. "Whatcha say?" Soap sucks in a breath and closes his eyes tightly. It's like he's telling himself something.

"Sorry, I'm - I said I'm sorry." Sweetheart nods, "Oh, that's cool! Is that like- Gaelic or somethin'?" Soap nods as if he's in a trance, eyes still focused on her back. Her glowing, hunched over back with the mark of an angel. It has to be. Different scars align on her skin, some in different lengths, some overlapping others, and many that are jagged.

But the beauty of the tattoo is still relevant.

Sweetheart calls out his name softly to get his attention but fails. His mind is hazy, and too many thoughts going through him. The waves of heat pulse on his skin and insides as he gets closer to her back.

Sweetheart doesn't feel comfortable, but she doesn't feel uncomfortable at the same time. She sees him get on his knees and reaches out for her, but freezes. He turns his head and shuts his eyes again, having mental turmoil with his actions. He stares into her eyes, asking her if he can touch it. Feel it.

Admire it.

Her eyes flutter, looking back at him one last time, she shifts her hair to one side, combing the curls with her hand, showing more of the tattoo that goes up to the nape of her neck and around her shoulders. Her actions speak a million words to him.

You can touch it. But please, be gentle.

She hears him whine- whine-- and his palms are clamping on her back immediately.

"Tha e cho breagha. Fuck, bidh thu mar bhàs dhomh, leanabh." His hand slides around to her tummy, tracing the heart to her womb tattoo since he remembers where it's located, engraved- burned-- into his memory. "Ach bheir thu air ais beò mi le seo," His voice is but a whisper over her back, the woman confused if he's talking to her or the tattoo. She feels plush lips where the blade is located. Oh god--

He's kissing it.

Sweetheart shivers, a whiny moan bubbling in her throat, but she covers her mouth with her shaky hand. She hears him mumble Gaelic again, but it doesn't feel like he's talking bad about it. It feels good, warm. Like he's praising it.

Worshipping it.

His other hand feels her skin all over her side, up her back till he reaches her shoulder. "Bha fios agam gu robh thu a 'falach rudeigin fo na turtlenecks sin, brèagha. Bha an corp seo an-còmhnaidh a’ falach rudeigin. Air do ghualainn," His fingers trail on the lines of the angel-like wings, "Air do ghualainn," They snake upwards and around, the pads feeling the bumps of scars and the outline of ink. "Suas do mhuineal."

Sweetheart whimpers, shivering under his touch. Her shoulders cave in, and she bends more forward. She feels his lips trail up her heated skin, wet with love and praise from the scotsman. She knew he loved her tattoos that she showed him, but she never thought he would do something like this.

Did he really like them that much? Did he really like her that much?

Soaps breath shudders on the halo, feeling her goosebumps form and hairs sticking up, hands raking up and down the spiked angel wings.

"Tha mi a’ guidhe nach do dh’fhalaich thu uam, a ghràidh. Tha gaol agam oirbh uile, agus chan atharraich sin gu bràth."

"I'm- I'm sorry...?" Why is she apologizing? She felt like she needed to apologize for something she did but didn't understand what he said. She was going to speak again, but the gentle lull of his shushing in her ear stopped her.

"Òr 's a tha mise air do chràdh agus an dubh a tha air do chorp naomh. Tha am peant dubh maireannach a th’ agad a’ toirt ort coimhead ethereal. Fuck, chan eil fhios agam carson a tha thu a’ còmhdach seo. Bidh thu a’ faighinn cho togarrach rium a h-uile uair a thig thu faisg orm, agus a bhith faicinn an ealain a th’ agad air do bhodhaig na urram ann fhèin. Tha do bhòidhchead tarraingeach, aingil. Chan eil fios agad dè an ìre de chumhachd a tha agad thairis air na fir a tha a 'coiseachd air an talamh seo."

If he keeps going, she's gonna pass out at this rate.

His growly, Scottish drawl always made Sweetheart heat up and melt. But this - this carnal, whispering preaching onto her skin - it's too much, overflowing her cup to the point that it spills all over the floor.

"Mar a chuirinn seachad mo làithean uile ag innse dhut mar a tha thu mar thiodhlac bho na nèamhan. Cha bhithinn leisg a dhol air mo ghlùinean agus mo dhìlseachd gu lèir a thoirt dhut a h-uile latha." He mumbles, lips talking against her skin like he's muttering scriptures to the ink.

With his blue eyes half-lidded, his hands slide down her shoulder blades and back up, his touch so gentle like feathers and silk, down to the small of her back, where the blade ends.

"Tha mi a’ guidhe nach do dh’fhalaich thu uam, a ghràidh. Tha gaol agam oirbh uile, agus chan atharraich sin gu bràth."

"Johnny..." Sweetheart calls out, mysterious want laced in her voice. She doesn't know why he acts like her tattoos are sacred. She doesn't know why she feels tears forming. Her eyes flutter back when his thumbs massage her hips.

He hums, "An ann air sgàth sin a fhuair thu seo? A chionn gu bheil thu bho na nèamhan? Tha e ciallach nam biodh tu. Archangel, a 'stiùireadh shaighdearan gu cogadh le do bhall-airm, ceannardas, agus làmh an uachdair."

Her breath hitches. Archangel?

Why did he say that?

He thinks she's an angel? One of the heavenly hosts, a dispenser of justice and bringer of hope.

Oh my God.

If he thinks that she's like an archangel, then that's the best compliment she has ever gotten.

She feels tears coming down her cheeks, the heavy feeling in her head and warmth coursing through her veins. She remembers when her old high school friend from home told her to get this piece as a tattoo since she had trouble figuring out what to get. She was so excited, kept asking her every day what it meant or what significance it had with Sweetheart, but all she kept saying was, "You'll figure it out."

Sweetheart asked sporadically when her friend was in the hospital. Her answer was always the same.

Sweetheart stopped asking completely when her friend was buried next to her family. She didn't give an answer anymore.

She covers her mouth again to stop a choked sob, tears streaming down her face.

Her friend knew.

"Fiù 's nuair a tha thu air do dhòrtadh ann am fuil an nàmhaid, tha thu fhathast a' seasamh àrd ann an neart, misneachail, nad ghlòir gu lèir. A ’coimhead thairis air a h-uile duine, a’ cuideachadh neach sam bith ann an fheum leis a ’ghàire radanta sin."

Soap knows.

"Ged nach fhaicear do sgiathan, bidh iad fhathast a 'deàrrsadh fon t-solas a tha a' gluasad bho do shàil. An dòchas agus an gaol a bheir thu do dhaoine ... bheir e orm tuiteam air do shon eadhon nas motha a h-uile uair."

And now Sweetheart knows.

He kisses her shoulders, neck, and spine- all the way down to the tip of the blade. He could kiss this skin forever, hearing her soft moans and whimpers. Soap hears her little hiccups and moves to face her. He tenderly cups her jaw and slowly lifts, seeing her big, glistening eyes look up at him. Her damp cheeks, creased eyebrows, and wobbling bottom lip melts his heart. He looks at her with such fondness and love in his eyes, Sweetheart is sure that she will pass away. He brushes her hair out of her face as if she's made out of the finest china.

"Oh, mo ghràidh, mo leannan."

He cranes his neck down, soft swollen lips meeting her forehead. Sweetheart's eyes close, clumped with tears, leaning into his kiss and clutching his hand.

"Mo aingeal dìon."

꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱

Translation:

It's so beautiful. Fuck, you'll be the death of me, baby. But you'll bring me back to life with this. I knew you were hiding something under those turtlenecks, beautiful. This body was always hiding something. On your shoulders... Up your neck. I wish you didn't hide from me, my love. I love you all, and that will never change.

You have nothing to apologize for, my darling, my heart. Words can not describe how much I ache for you and the ink that's on your holy body. The black permanent paint you have makes you look ethereal. Fuck, I don't know why you cover this. You get me so excited every time you come near me, and to see the art you have on your body is an honor in itself. Your beauty is alluring, angelic. You don't know how much power you hold over the men that walk this earth.

How I would spend all my days telling you how you're a gift from the heavens. I would not hesitate to get on my knees and give my devotion to you every day.

Hmm, is that why you got this? Because you're from the heavens? It makes sense if you were. An archangel, guiding soldiers into war with your weapon, leadership, and dominant hand.

Even when drenched in the enemy's blood, you still stand tall in strength, confident, in all your pretty glory. Watching over everyone, helping anyone in need with that radiant smile.

Even though your wings are not seen, they still shine under the light that radiates from your halo. The hope and love you give people... it makes me fall for you even more every time.

My dear, my sweetheart.

My guardian angel.

Bonus.!

Bruh, I totally blocked out the others HAHA

They haven't seen it yet, but Soap boasts about it 24/7. He described it the best he can without giving anything away. But he talks consistently that he saw it and he touched it and-- other stuff.

He doesn't tell his team that he practically went to church on her back tattoo, but he sees how jealous they got so that's good enough for him. Thank God Krueger doesn't know.

[konigsblog]

Farmer soap with his herd of highland (heeland) coos !!!! - ✨

definitely does have highlands cows :( brushing their soft fur and getting covered in their auburn coat as the rain begins. getting himself soaked and his boots covered in wet mud as he heads inside to you; curled up in bed and bare for him.

god, you're teasing him. you know he can't resist you when you look like that. fucking your asshole nice and slowly while whispering praise in your ear, his sweet bonnie pressed against his chest, thick and wet shaft rubbing against your gummy walls till you're mewling to cum, meekly grinding your hips against him and rolling your eyes back!

“always so tight, bonnie...” and although i don't think regular soap would speak gaelic, farmer!soap is in the highlands (where gaelic is spoken) so, he probably would...

soft chants and grunts, muttering out some scottish praise which makes you gasp and moan gently. his nose buried in the back of your neck, huffing at your sweet essence. “mo leannan bòidheach, cho math dhomh. an-còmhnaidh a’ toirt fois dhomh às deidh latha cruaidh a-muigh air an tuathanas... cho breagha.”

translation: “my beautiful sweetheart, so good to me. always relaxing me after a hard day out on the farm... so gorgeous.”

[seraphinashaw]

Hii Sera,

What's your opinion on scene/emo people, since you lived in da 2000s?

Biodh latha no oidhche àlainn agad (Tha thu cho breagha, cuimhnich sin ♡)

-☆anon

hi gorgina xx

emm since i grew up in the uk we rly didn't encounter very many emo ppl over here LOL. cuz scemos weren't a lived experience for me like they were for americans 😹😹 it was mostly punks n goths over here!!

fun fact... kelly was the first emo i'd ever seen irl 😹 it was bewildering LMAOOO i had to stop myself from like. staring as if he's an exotic animal or smth it was SO weird. all i could think abt was his stupid haircut, i'm so serious it was so mystifying to me it was like a topic of discussion between me and my mates at the time.

scemos have grown on me since then tho! i have come to appreciate kelly's dumb haircut 😹

also emmmmmm this is a bit embarrassing but i don't kno gaelic... so i used translate on ur message 😹 but u have a good day too bae xx

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Man from Black Water, Chapter 8

A/N  Here’s one more (long) chapter before I return to the salt mines tomorrow.  From here on in, I can’t promise the updates will come as frequently, but I promise that they’ll come.

In this chapter, we see both the good and the bad of Jamie and Claire’s temperaments. 

Previous chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Thanks for reading!

The next morning, Claire came across Jamie in the stables. She heard his voice before she could see him, low and melodic as he spoke to the colt in an unfamiliar tongue.  Gaelic, she surmised.

“Tha thu breagha, a charaid,” his deep voice crooned, and while she didn’t understand the words, the affection he felt for the animal was clear.

“What is it you’re saying to him?” she asked as she leaned against the stall door.

The big Scot paused his rhythmic currying of Hamlet’s dark coat to peer over his withers at his unexpected visitor.

“Mostly nonsense, but I was jes tellin’ him what a handsome lad he is,” Jamie confessed with a grin that transformed his stalwart face.  Hamlet wasn’t the only handsome lad in the stables that day.

Lips as soft as rose petals tickled Claire’s palm, searching for a treat.  She dug a sugar cube out of her pocket and offered it to the colt, who gobbled it up.

“He is a sweet thing,” she remarked as Jamie finished his task and came to join her by the door.

“Aye, there isna a mean bone in his body,” he agreed.

“Curly will find one.”

“Curly!  Dinna tell me tha’ bas-, baw-, good-fer-nothin’ is responsible fer breaking this animal?” Jamie struggled to find a word to describe the brute that was fit to be uttered before a lady.

“You’ve got to be firm with a young horse,” Claire opined, secretly relishing the young man’s ire.  It felt good not to be the only one angry at the status quo.

“Aye, but no’ cruel.”

“Are you saying you could break this colt?” she challenged.

Jamie narrowed his eyes at the single-minded lass before him, at war with himself.  He hated the idea of the colt, or any horse for that matter, being mistreated by the likes of Curly.  His pride, still smarting from being left behind during the muster, longed to have a task at which he knew he could excel.  And there was no denying that spending time in the company of a beautiful young woman with spirit and intellect held its own appeal.

“What about yer father?” Jamie inquired, sensing there was more to Claire’s motivation than the desire to see the colt well-treated.

“He’ll be gone for at least two weeks.  If Hamlet is broken before he gets back, what can he say?  Of course, if you think it’s too much for you…”

Looking back, Jamie realized he’d never stood a chance.  When given the opportunity to show off to a pretty lass and thumb his nose at his intolerant employer, there was never any question that he would walk away.

***

It was Brian Fraser who had taught his son how to break a horse to saddle.  The trick, Jamie’s father had explained, was to work with the animal’s natural disposition to please, while slowly introducing them to the foreign sensations of pressure from the girth, the feel of the saddle, the guidance of a bit across the tender bars of the mouth, and finally, the weight of a rider upon their back.

Jamie was fortunate that Hamlet knew and trusted him. Despite that, he refused the urge to skip steps, unwilling to scare the young horse in his rush to master him.

“What does the blanket do?” Claire asked from the rail of the paddock where they met each day after their respective obligations were dispensed with: Jamie to the other Netherton livestock and Claire to whatever domestic activities at which a genteel lady was expected to gain proficiency.

“It gets him used tae feelin’ somethin’ upon his back, and tae catching sight of it in the corner o’ his eye,” Jamie explained as he scratched the colt behind one ear.

“That makes sense, since horses have near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree peripheral vision.”

Seeing the Highlander’s look of bewilderment, Claire hastened to explain.

“That means they can see almost directly behind…”

“I ken what it means, Sassenach,” Jamie interrupted.  “I’m jes surprised tae hear ye say it.  Why do ye ken sae much about horses, if ye dinna mind me askin’?”

Claire considered lying, used as she was to male ridicule when she mentioned her interest in veterinary medicine.  Instead, she decided to trust Jamie with her covert passion.

Instead of responding straight away, he continued to caress the colt, a far-off look in his seafaring eyes. A nod, as though striking a bargain with some invisible arbiter, and he replied with,

“Aye, that’s grand.”

“Grand?” Claire stuttered open-mouthed.  “You don’t mean to lecture me about how it’s unsuitable for a woman and that I’ll never secure a husband if I pursue a profession?”

Jamie shrugged away her rhetorical concerns.

“I reckon ye ken better than anyone wha’ yer suited for or no’. And as fer a husband,” he added with a boyish grin, “ye’ll jes have tae find a man wi’ a herd o’ sickly beasts.”

***

Hamlet flourished under Jamie’s thoughtful care, each day seeing the young colt grow more and more comfortable with the accoutrements of being a saddle horse.  Within a week, he was accepting the bit in his mouth and surcingle around his ribs with only a few placid flicks of his expressive ears.

“He really is a handsome lad,” Claire commented as they sat on the paddock fence watching their charge canter about after his lesson, enjoying his renewed freedom.

“Aye.  Does yer father plan tae race him?”  Most days, Jamie managed to forget that the horse he was working was worth more than a lifetime of his labour, but just then it was making his wame a bit queasy.

Claire scoffed.  “My father neither knows nor cares the tiniest jot for horse racing.  He only bought him so that some other wealthy landowner could not.  For Henry Beauchamp, it’s the appearance of things that matters, nothing else.”

Despite his own feelings about his employer, Jamie felt compelled to defend the man, if only to erase the forlorn look from his daughter’s face.

“I’m certain he cares fer ye greatly, Claire,” Jamie declared, reaching out to initiate contact with the petal-soft skin on the back of her hand for the first time.

“I used to believe so.  Now I know I’m just another one of his objects on display.”

***

It rained in miserable torrents for the next three days.  Claire was confined to the manor, and Jamie, Donas and Rollo were occupied moving the estate’s livestock to drier pastures. Accustomed as he was to the docile longhorn cattle native to the mountain glens, the Highlander had his hands full with Netherton’s herd of Angus cows, wily and fractious beasts that delighted in escaping any enclosure.  He ended each day tired, waterlogged and as irritable as the animals he cared for.   The fact that he missed spending time with Claire and Hamlet only added to his sour mood.

On the evening of the third night, he stood in the stables beneath the orange parabola cast by an oil lamp, carefully wiping Donas dry with a cloth rag.  The gelding leaned into his touch, whickering softly.  Claire stopped, undetected, just inside the door and watched the stable hand’s strong features caressed by flame and shadow.  

In Victorian society, men styled their hair and grew elaborate facial hair.  By contrast, the Highlander’s natural russet waves and closely shaven beard were an anachronism, but no less appealing for it.  His body was tall and lean, with the tautly coiled intensity of a cat, and his hands as he groomed his horse were a juxtaposition of rough and gentle. Despite the chill of her damp clothes, she could feel prickles of heat rising beneath her skin, foreign and delicious.

She must have made a noise loud enough to be heard over the percussive rain on the metal roof, or else he could sense the heaviness of her stare, for he looked up and their eyes met for the first time in days.  She watched his lips part and expel an indistinct word that nonetheless echoed in her rushing pulse.

“Sassenach,” Jamie shook his head as though waking from a daydream.  “What are ye doin’ out in this uplowsin?  Ye’re fair drookit.”

Claire turned the unfamiliar words around in her mind, searching for their meaning.  Considering the weather and the miserable state of her hair, uplowsin and drookit were easy enough to work out.

“What’s a sass-en-ack?  You’ve called me that before.”

Jamie blushed so fiercely that he was surprised steam didn’t begin rising from his damp clothing.

“Tis a Highland word fer a Lowlander, or an English person such as yerself,” he prevaricated, leaving out the part about the word being a close cousin to an expletive.  Based on the shrewd gleam in Claire’s golden eyes, she’d already guessed.

“Well, I suppose I cannot fault your observations,” she conceded graciously, letting him off his self-baited hook.  “But I’ll have you know I was born on Scottish soil, somewhere along the road between here and Dundee.”

An expression of timeworn grief darkened her pretty features, and Jamie didn’t have to ask how a gentlewoman came to be born on the route to the nearest doctor.

“Would ye like tae help me feed the horses their supper?” he asked instead.

The stables grew warm from the body heat of their occupants. Jamie tossed sheaves of hay down from the loft while Claire gamely scooped rations of grain into feed troughs and topped up pails with cold water from the well.  All the while, stories were traded back and forth about two childhoods lived not forty miles apart and yet so vastly different they may well have been from different centuries.

With Jamie’s chores completed and the hour growing late, the pair ran out of excuses to remain sequestered away in the refuge of the stables.  Rain continued to lash the roof and Jamie cast his gaze about for a means of protecting Claire from the elements as she returned to the manor.

“Take my coat, Sassenach,” he offered when no other alternative presented itself.

“What are you going to wear?” she protested.  “As far as I can tell, the rain is just as wet between here and the bunkhouse.”

Gracious the lady of the manor might be, but submissive she was not.

“I’m from the Highlands, lass.  A wee bit o’ rain doesna bother me.”  

This was an outright falsehood, but Jamie felt gallantry justified the lie.

“I’m not some fragile bauble made from spun sugar who will dissolve into a puddle.  It’s just water, Jamie.”

“And tis jes an overcoat, Claire.”

They stood staring at each other across ten feet of stone floor. Even in the dim lamplight, Jamie could make out the pretty flush of anger on Claire’s skin, the rapid rise and fall of her bosom and the inky dilation of her pupils.  It stirred something in him he was used to suppressing, something base and a little bit feral.

“I suppose,” she conceded when their stand-off showed no signs of ending, “you could come with me to the manor.  That way, I could return the coat to you straight away.”

Jamie consciously loosened his shoulders.  Provoking the lass was counter-productive, no matter how lovely she was in her pique.

“An’ I suppose we could drape it o’er our heads, so we both dinna get wet,” he allowed.

Like a fast-moving storm, the clouds of Claire’s ire parted, and her laughter rang out like a ray of sunshine.

“Well, that’s one calamity averted.  With our combined intellects, no petty obstacle will stand in our way!”

“Aye,” Jamie chuckled as he huddled as close to her shoulder as he dared and stretched one coat tail over her head with his long arm.  “We make a braw team.  Stubborn as oxen, the both o’ us.”

“The trick is to ensure we’re always pulling in the same direction.”

***

After two weeks of preparation, the day Jamie would attempt to ride Hamlet finally arrived.  He first lunged the colt in endless circles, trying to exhaust his youthful energy. With Claire holding the bridle, he then carefully lowered a saddle onto the glossy black back and tightened the girth in careful increments.  Sensing the nervousness of his handlers, Hamlet pivoted his ears forward and back but was otherwise still.

Aunt Rosemary and Mrs. Crook had both come down to the corral to witness the momentous occasion.  Even Rollo had joined them, his head cocked to one side in apparent interest.  It seemed fitting to offer some form of encouragement, but the addition of onlookers to their usual trio made Claire shy. Instead, she joined the other women outside the fence, fingers gripping the top rail, as Jamie led the colt over to the mounting block.

With a surprising amount of nimbleness for such a large man, the stock hand lowered himself onto Hamlet’s back for the first time. Bending low, he spoke softly near the horse’s ear.  Although she couldn’t hear the words, Claire knew they would be in Gaelic, the language Jamie spoke in his heart.

With a gentle nudge and encouraging cluck, Hamlet began a sedate walk around the enclosure.  As he rode by, Jamie took a moment to send a cockeyed wink in Claire’s direction.  Everything was going exceptionally well, and he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit smug.

Pride goeth before the fall, as any good Presbyterian would concur. After several easy laps of the corral, Jamie encouraged the colt into a trot.  Less at ease with fifteen stone of man bouncing on top of his sensitive spine, Hamlet’s ears flattened against his poll and his tail began to swish violently. The afternoon breeze conspired to blow an oak leaf from a nearby tree, and that was all it took to send the anxious animal into a panic.

From her spot beyond the fence, Claire watched the whole scene unfold like a savage pantomime.  First, Hamlet veered sharply to his left, causing Jamie to clamp down on the colt’s flanks to maintain his balance.  In reaction, the frightened horse broke into a gallop, but the tight confines of the corral hemmed him in.  By that time, Rollo was barking, and Mrs. Crook was crying out in fright while covering her eyes.  With every instinct urging escape, Hamlet spun once more, ran straight across the ring at a gallop and sailed over the five-foot fence that separated the corral from a neighbouring field.  With the sickening thud of a bag of bones hitting the ground, Jamie fell face down into the dirt and didn’t rise again.

***

A loud, repetitive noise dragged Jamie from the abyss of dreamless sleep.  Keeping his eyes shuttered against the pain of the morning sun, he gathered his cloudy thoughts.  His mouth was as wooly as an old sock.  His head, the apparent source of the clanging noise, felt like the anvil of a busy blacksmith.  Everything from his eyebrows to his toenails ached.  It reminded him of the one time he’d drank too much of Murtagh’s whisky.

“Good morning,” Claire greeted far too loudly as she entered the bunkhouse carrying a tray of food.  “It’s nice of you to rejoin the living.”

Painfully aware that he was in his bunk wearing only his workshirt and that he desperately needed to take a piss, Jamie gingerly lifted himself to a seated position beneath his blanket.  The wood paneled walls of the room swam in his vision.

“What happened?” he croaked as softly as he could manage.

“You don’t remember?  You came off the colt and hit your head.  How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ignoring Claire’s attempt at being a nursemaid, the Highlander took stock of his own injuries.  His whole right side was bruised to the point that it hurt to breathe.  Possibly a broken rib or two.  Judging by the tenderness of his cheek, he’d lost some skin as well. Worst of all, though, was his dignity. He’d undertaken the breaking of the young horse as a demonstration of his manhood, and here he lay abed like an ailing bairn.

“Where’s Hamlet?” he finally thought to ask.  God help him if Beauchamp’s thousand-pound horse was wandering the vale of Ericht for anyone to steal.

“We caught him,” Claire replied, sounding very self-satisfied.

“Is he alright?”

“Flighty, but not otherwise harmed.  The drovers are expected back tomorrow, but he should be fine by then.  If not, we’ve decided how to handle my father.”

Jamie rolled onto his side with a grimace, needing to look directly at his erstwhile co-conspirator.

“Who’s we?” he asked, already knowing the answer and hating it.

“Mrs. Crook, Aunt Rosemary and I.  No-one else knew you were working the colt, and as far as my father is concerned, he could just as well have been set off by a pack of wild dogs or a thunderstorm.”

“Aye, but he wasn’t, was he?” Jamie growled, suddenly much less pleased to be deceiving his employer if it meant being complicit in a web of lies.

“Well, what would you have us do?  Tell him his Highland labourer took it upon himself to endanger his prized colt?”

“Took it upon myself?!”  Jamie felt his shame, fear and vexation congeal into raw fury.  “Ye damn near goaded me tae break tha’ horse, woman.  An’ now ye expect me tae cower behind yer skirts like I’m the one who’s tae blame!  I’d sooner swing from my own noose, ye meddlin’ wee besom!”

As his voice rose, so did the twin flames in Claire’s fierce gaze. By the time she reacted, he could practically feel their heat singeing his skin.  The tray of food landed with a crash on the floor between them.

“You are a foolish boy, Jamie Fraser.”  

With those damning words and a swish of her skirts, Claire left him alone with his self-recrimination and a pile of broken crockery.

[busyskin]

bruce wip - i love drawing him, he’s cho breagha even when he’s making a weird expression lol

+ all I was able to do of vampire!clark before my apple pencil called it quits - im fully creasing oml he looks so sad

[mountainashfae]

Winter: I wanna hear about Breagha.

Me: I am holding back my funniest piece of lore so I can watch it FLOOR you.

[dapperbasil]

Valerie, you've got a great group of sires, but if you had to be taken in by any other kindred, who would it have been? (Clans disregarded)

"Oh well uh, thing is you've gotta find some kindred that's willing to put up with me for that. If I had to guess it'd probably have been a Brujah, with my fucking anger. Maybe that'd have been nice, have someone who knows what its like to frenzy at the drop of a beanie. Realistically I think the fam were my last real chance, so I'd either have stayed with Breagha or if my frenzies kept up, well I probably wouldn't be here.

You know they almost thought I was one, with how bad that first frenzy was. But when my hands stopped working right and were all webbed together, it was clear I wasn't. That was back when everyone just called me 'Kid'. Those were rough years, and I think the only reason it got better is because the fam accepted me for who I was and actually gave a damn."

[madtoreachformore]

hello!!! i've recently gotten into islander the music and you're literally like one of the 3 people on tumblr who's ever posted about it!! I haven't been able to see it live so im desperate to hear anything about it, especially the plot since I can't find a script or anything so i've just been trying to piece it all together myself !! i'd be so forever grateful if you'd tell me anything you know about this amazing musical !!!!!

hey! I’m always so glad to see people interested in this little whale show. as for the plot, I’ll try my best to explain it without going all over the place and becoming confusing, so bear with me because it's long lol

character wise, whoever plays Eilidh also plays Breagha, a few villagers and the whales, and whoever plays Arran also plays Eilidh’s mom, the radio announcer, Jenny, Eilidh’s Gran, a few villagers and the whales.

the show starts with two people walking on stage and they sing “The Splitting of the Islands”. then they start splitting into different characters, with the radio announcer speaking about the bad weather and announcing this community gathering to discuss whether the villagers should leave the island or stay.

they then sing “There Is A Whale” and Eilidh sees a dying whale calf on the shore (the way they play the whale is that one of them makes whale sounds over the mic and the person interacting with the whale talks to an empty space in the middle of the stage) but she has no way of helping it and when she tries to leave to get help, the calf sings to her and she sings back to it until it dies.

they jump into singing “Video Call”, where Eilidh speaks with her mom, who has left the island and now lives on the mainland in order to work. Eilidh resents her mom for leaving and their relationship is strained. the following scene is Eilidh speaking with Jenny, a marine biologist who comes to the island to study their flora. Jenny is collecting the whale calf and bringing it to the mainland. Eilidh sees Jenny as a friend, but Jenny is somewhat dismissive of her due to being so busy with work.

Eilidh then goes back home to get her Gran so they can go to the village gathering. her Gran likes playing dead and scaring Eilidh; they talk about the whale calf that Eilidh found on the shore, and they go to the gathering, where they welcome all the villagers and discuss leaving the island due to lack of jobs and tourism, or staying and trying to make a living (“Spikkin”).

it then jumps back to the radio announcer going over the bad weather for the following week. they sing “There Is A Girl” while the actors set up the stage for the next scene, where Eilidh meets Arran who was washed up by the shore. Arran is a finfolk and doesn’t know anything about humans and land. Eilidh isn’t aware that Arran isn’t human and thinks she’s just a shipwrecked foreign person that lives at sea, and they sing “Same but Different”, where Eilidh ends up getting mad at Arran for thinking she’s making up stories and making fun of her for being an island girl. they argue and she leaves Arran, storming out of the old school building they’re in. they both sing “Finfolk Song”.

Eilidh goes back home where her Gran pranks her again pretending to be dead. they talk about Arran and Gran believes she is a finfolk and could have been friends with the whale calf Eilidh found at the beach, and Eilidh leaves again to find Arran.

meanwhile, Arran is still at the old school building, and Breagha walks in. she’s a heavily pregnant young villager and very skeptical of Arran at first. Breagha’s baby is constantly kicking her and she’s in pain and uncomfortable. Arran sings a lullaby (called “Blessing”, it’s not on the cast recording) to help calm down the baby, but she cries while singing it. Breagha thinks she’s upset because she can’t go back to the mainland due to the ferry being broken, but Arran confesses that she’s upset because she hurt her people and she can’t go back to them. Breagha gives her some advice and they walk back to the village to find Eilidh.

they sing another song to the same tune of "Spikkin" as villagers, talking about the festival and the vote they have to take in order to stay or leave the island, while Eilidh and Gran look for Arran, and Arran and Breagha try to find Eilidh. the two girls eventually reunite, and Eilidh sings the song the whale calf sang to her to Arran to find out if she’s really a finfolk. Arran recognizes the song and they talk about the whale - Arran was her keeper. Eilidh apologizes for doubting Arran and they agree to become friends.

Arran confesses the finfolk left her and she’ll stay on the island, Eilidh is delighted with the news until her mom leaves her a voicemail (“Answerphone”). Eilidh deletes the message and takes Arran to the festival instead, but they move outside due to the noise. Eilidh’s mom keeps trying to call her, but she ignores the calls, attempting to teach Arran how to dance instead. Arran asks why she’s ignoring her mom and Eilidh gets defensive and tries to change the topic. she asks why Arran left the finfolk and Arran confesses that the whale calf died because of her so she ran away. Eilidh’s phone rings again, but instead of her mom, it’s Breagha calling to tell her Gran had passed.

Eilidh stands in the middle as villagers give her their condolences. her mom shows up on the island for the funeral but Eilidh doesn’t want to talk to her and runs away. Arran finds her and Eilidh shares her plan of running away and Arran tries to convince her to stay. they both hear Jenny getting ready to leave for the mainland with Breagha as she’s about to give birth, and Eilidh asks to come with. Arran tries to tell Breagha it’s dangerous to be out at sea at that moment, but Breagha ignores her. Jenny begrudgingly allows the two of them to come on the boat.

the actors start to narrate what happens when they’re at sea with bits of dialogue in it. a storm comes in but it’s too late to go back to the island, and a wave flips their boat, causing them all to fall into the water. Eilidh starts singing the whale song in a panic, with Arran joining in when she realizes what she’s doing. a whale appears and rescues them, bringing them back to the island’s shore. they sing “There Is A (Baby) Girl”.

Arran talks to the whale afterward - it’s the calf’s mother, and Arran apologizes for her mistakes and for running away. she sings the whale song and the whale eventually sings it back, indicating Arran is forgiven and allowed to come back.

Eilidh meets Arran after the whale leaves, and they talk. Arran asks Eilidh to come live with her and the finfolk, but Eilidh declines and says she has to figure things out with her mom. they say goodbye, promise to meet each other again in the following year, and hug. the show ends with them singing “New Horizons”.

feel free to reach out if you have any other questions about the show or the plot, I'm not sure how confusing this will be to visualize to someone that hasn't seen the stage version lol

[brewed-pangolin]

so we know Soap loves to go off roading, but is his 4runner a manual or automatic 😫

Unfortunately, it's automatic. Toyota stopped making the manual transmission 4Runner's back in 2000, if I remember correctly.

I believe they'll be bringing them back this year (2024, maybe) but with the 4 cylinder engine.

Not that I'm bashing the more streamlined power capacity, but my man ain't gonna be driving that.

He needs horse power. Torque. And proficient towing capacity for a midsized SUV.

Full blown 4Runner ramble under the cut.

This is why he went the '22 TRD Off Road. 4.0 liter, V6 engine that purrs like a kitten on the road and growls like a beast while tackling the trail.

I've already made a post about his desired tire of choice here. (I love throwing the pavlovian effect on the squad. It's so much fun)

He does have lift kit. Yet only added an extra inch to remain compatible with the KDSS (Kinetic Dynamic Suspension System. 4Runners are made to go off road, not much need for after-market additions when they're already almsot perfect)

Now you're probably going to ask if he has the snorkel. And the answer is, hell yes. Water won't stop this beast of vehicular engineering. It'll plow through it with ease, like the parting of the seas.

And I see him keeping the black trim and black on red TRD rims. He also went with the Nautical blue paint job because of course he did. Pair that with the full black out tint, and this is sexiest thing you've ever seen while out backpacking through the woods (besides the man sitting in the driver seat)

I could go on for hours about this man's vehicular baby (he calls her his breagha (Scots for pretty/beautiful)). But I'll leave you all with this.

Much love, and get off the beaten path 💛 (pun very much intended)

4Runner Wingman Masterlist

[kazs-scheming-face]

’s e gàidhlig cànain breagha gu bruidhinn a tha ann

[csodaturmix]

The inherent homoeroticism of drunkenly doing your academic rival's makeup

[combeferret]

🐶 ☀️

[room42]

Canada Soccer hires Breagha Carr-Harris as head of women's pro soccer

Canada Soccer hires Breagha Carr-Harris as head of women’s pro soccer

Canada Soccer has announced the hiring of Breagha Carr-Harris as the federation’s newly formed head of women’s professional soccer. Carr-Harris previously worked with Maple Leaf Sports and Entertainment across all of their brands (Toronto FC, Toronto Maple Leafs, Toronto Raptors, Toronto Argonauts, Toronto Marlies and Raptors 905). She also has more than 10 years of experience as a coach with…