Tumgik
#scottish patter
Text
Tumblr media
Just a legend spouting truths
79K notes · View notes
jerry-hornes-foot · 1 year
Text
Been seeing a lot of patter about Scotland on here recently, like non Scottish folk sharing Scottish memes/videos/news
So if any of my non Scots mutuals want a taste of #scottishculture boy oh boy have I made the mix for you lmao
2 notes · View notes
blobsky · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
2 notes · View notes
scotianostra · 1 year
Text
Apparently new sculptures have appeared in Glasgow and the public have spoken....
Tumblr media
6K notes · View notes
reiverreturns · 2 months
Text
burns night is actually so fucking funny when you think about its traditions and ceremonies objectively. yeah we've hired a bagpiper specifically to play music as a cooked bag of oats and offal is walked into the room. a man in a kilt must read it poems and toast to it with whisky before anybody is allowed to eat. the poems also have specific knife choreography btw and if you fuck it up you've ruined the whole night. after dinner we must sing our mandatory songs in scots and do boys vs girls speeches like we're all back in school. and speaking of school, remember the very specific style of country dance you were forced to learn since you were 5 so you can dance a jig or a reel by muscle memory alone? guess what you're doing next. some of you may be lost in the virginia reel but that's the way oor rabbie would have wanted it on his birthday.
4 notes · View notes
iceman-soup · 2 months
Text
ghost x soap
Of course it's fucking raining now that Soap and Ghost finally on leave. Sure, it's not unusual Scottish weather (they're staying in Johnny's small flat in Glasgow), and it's not like they were gonna do much today anyway, but still. It has them waking up in an already lazy mood, Simon shuffling to cuddle into his boyfriend closer and groaning.
The bed is too comfy and warm to get up, and Si doesn't want to move away from Soap's sleepy embrace. They're both conscious, quietly making incoherent noises of complaint at that fact back and forth at each other. Eventually, Johnny presses his lips to Ghost's forehead and rolls them over, sitting up on Simon's stomach to look out the window like a curious rabbit, then leaning down and littering his unmasked face with pecked kisses.
Simon laughs, running his hands through Soap's mohawk. Raindrops patter against the window as he flips them over again, hugging Soap tight then sitting up opposite him, pulling on a pair of comfy military-issued socks and one of his hoodies. The Sergeant sits up too, also pulling on one of Si's hoodies, and much fluffier socks with little skull prints all over them that Gaz had bought him as a gag gift which he ended up adoring.
"Mornin', love," Soap smiles, voice deep and groggy as he leans forward to rest his head on Ghost's chest, who hums in response and nuzzles his cheek against his hair. After a couple moments just sitting like that, the two reluctantly flop out of bed, padding their way over to the tiny kitchen before realising they barely have a scrap of food in the flat, only just having a few general ingredients and a small selection of tea and coffee.
Simon groans again, scanning the fridge as if something new is about to spawn in, before turning around, picking his boyfriend up and setting him on a counter, then passing him flour, eggs, milk and some oil, and getting out a frying pan for the stove.
"What're we making?" the shorter man asks, swinging his legs and playfully kicking Ghost whenever he gets in range.
"Secret," is the only reply he gets, but it's quickly obvious by the way Si mixes some flour, milk and two eggs together, creating a thin batter which he splashes into the pan, just about remembering to put oil in first so as to not completely fuck it all up. Then Chef Riley takes charge, and suddenly Johnny is being bossed around, ordered to get plates and get cutlery and cut up a lemon and put some caster sugar in a small bowl and set it out all pretty on the tiny dining table. In his own home, he complains lightheartedly.
The first pancake served is happily accepted by the Scot along with a quick kiss. The shit weather had only gotten worse, but that meant a perfect background noise for them to eat (although it did make conversation a little difficult). Once the batter is all used up, Ghost puts Soap on washing up duty, whilst he dries and puts everything away. And then it's essential to curl up on the sofa together, wrapped in one of Johnny's blankets, watching a randomly-selected war film and criticising even the slightest inaccuracies to make each other laugh.
423 notes · View notes
simonrillleyyysss · 5 months
Text
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ COUNTING THE DAYS
🩷🎀🩹
2/11/23
soap x housewife!reader
warnings; not proofread,IMPLIED YALL LIVE IN SCOTLANDDDD OR EXPANSE OF THE UK,minor kissing,soap is sweet, toddler mentioned, implied fem reader but not confirmed, just cute stuff,uk slang / terms?? baby is like 4-5? maybe?,simon mentioned, petnames, reader is called sugartits
note; ever seen those babies with a scottish accent on tiktok??
Tumblr media
two and a half weeks;
thats how long johnny has been away for, almost three weeks—and each day was as tiring, more draining and fear ridden, the tip of the pink marker crossing over the calendar labelled, ‘halloween’ caught your attention, lips sealing together as you listened to your darlings footsteps gently patter around downstairs.
throwing on your robe, you slowly left your bedroom—johhnys, bedroom. slumping down the stairs to the living room, where your beloved daughter had managed to lift a box of cereal, taking small handfuls of cheerios, smiling at you contently.
‘get your own brekkie?’
you chirped, kissing her forehead.
‘aye!’ got it.’
she nodded, accent fusing with her high voice, your hand gently combed over her messy hair, her pumpkin themed jammies barley hanging onto her body, chewing on the cereal.
‘come on, let’s get you proper meal.’
lifting the wiggly child, you wrestled her onto the table, setting her down atop it as you lifted a peppa pig themed bowl, filling it with cereal before pouring a bit of milk into it, handing the bowl to her as you lifted the spoon.
‘say ‘aahhh..’
‘don’t wan’et!’
the curly headed girl protested, whining as she gestured to her candybag with desperation, a sigh leaving your lips.
‘not good for you in the morning, honey.’
‘i want them!’
‘need to save some for daddy.’
‘when’s daddy back?’
‘soon, gorgeous.’
you reassured silently, helping her eat the cereal.
three weeks and two days;
that’s how long johnny has been gone, no word from him or his peers whatsoever.
you knew this could happen, he’s busy—in the military, no time; and that you shouldn’t overthink it, but it’s a natural thing that can’t be controlled or tamed, yet you had to accept it.
the soft buzz of the tv in the background was more comforting than that of the silence of your bedroom upstairs, busy sliding the school cardigan over her shoulders, you wiped her skirt down and gave her a soft smile.
‘look so pretty! you excited for your first day back?’
‘not really, nawww.,’
she shook her head, pigtails bouncing with the fluid motion.
‘gonna walk you to school today, okay?’
you gently hoisted her small frame into your arms, her bright eyes and toothy grin was a double of soap—sighing, you gently moved her fringe out of her eyes and kissed her chubby cheek, closing the front door behind you.
four weeks, and finally an update;
there was a knock at the door, around 7 or so— you had just finished cleaning the dinner plates from earliers feast, daughter busy drawing at the kitchen, you quickly threw off your gloves and walked to the door, slowly sliding the bolt across and opening it.
there, stood mactavish—a broad figure stood behind him, blonde hair buzzed with scars covering his face, but your attention was diverted onto soaps arm, wrapped in gauze and hanging from a sling.
‘johnny.’
you mewled weakly, arms wrapping around his neck in a flurry of emotions, sniffling into his neck; sighing and gently kissing his jaw.
‘what happened?’
‘wella-‘
‘idiot thought he could play superman on the field, shot in the forearm. fine, though.’
the blonde replied gruffly, slowly blinking.
‘broughta’guest, well…didnae’ really hava’ choice, came t’help mae’ with me’ gear.’
johnny shrugged, ruffling your hair and stepping inside the house, letting the stranger step behind him.
‘simon.’
he introduced himself briefly, nodding his head in acknowledgement before setting soaps gear down at the frontdoor.’
‘big’ol lad ere’ practically saved mae’ arse!’
the hawked man boasted, nudging his side with his sound arm.
‘thank you…for putting up with him.’
you smiled softly at simon.
an hour and 11 minutes;
simon , or ‘ghost’ was sunk into the soft cushioning of the sofa, listening to the child infront of him introduce the toy horses to him.
‘an’ this one’s..this ones dakota.’
‘dakota is..a lovely name, innit?’
‘aye!’
she nodded, reaching out to trace her fingers along his crooked nose, scars covering the pale skin of his face.
‘wha’ happened?’
you gasped in embarrassment, slapping her hand away from his face and pulling her back to you as you were walking past, just after lifting johnnys empty mug to dump it into the sink, now heading to tend to soaps needs again.
‘where on earth did your manners go?’
‘don’t worry—it’s fine.’
he reassured, waving you off with clear dismissal before lifting the small child to place her on his knee, bouncing it slightly as he explained.
meanwhile, johnny was sprawled across the sofa with exhaustion, eyes shut as his vision barely fixated onto the screen of the tele infront of him, pink blanket laid across him.
‘feeling any better, honey?’
you cooed gently, hand rubbing over his cheek dotingly, sat at the edge of the couch in worry as he mumbled, nodding slowly.
‘aye’..feelin’ much better, bonnie’…missed ye’, ye’knoe at’, right?’
‘i know that.’
‘good..didnae’ want ye’ te’feel like shite.’
with a wince, he shifted as you swatted his forehead—before your hands moved to comb over his mohawk, gently kissing his jaw.
‘may be sore, but you know you’re not allowed to curse when she’s awake.’
‘aye.. i know, lassie’.
two days, 23 minutes;
his hand free was slung over your bare hip, stirring as his lips connected with the back of your neck affectionately, gently kneading the plush of your stomach, his other hung by his stomach, wrapped in bandage.
‘awake?’
you whispered, slowly spinning over to stare up at him, hands cupping his face tenderly, stubble itching your lips as you pressed your lips against his, nuzzling into his chest.
‘aye..course’am’,sugartits.’
a hearty chuckle followed, dragging his teeth up your bottom lip, grazing the soft skin.
‘behave.’
‘or wha’?’
‘you have a sore arm, can’t.’
you insisted, kissing his collarbone.
‘course ye’ can, jest’ use your hand, besides—me’ good arms fucked, innit?’
‘arsehole.’
‘yae’luv’it.’
442 notes · View notes
elexaria · 2 months
Text
it was hard for simon to grieve when johnny died. price turned an eye when they got back to base and the first thing simon did was go and lay in johnny’s cot, curled up into a ball. they were close, they were best friends.
he feels a pang of guilt at johnny’s funeral, the sound of bagpipes overwhelming his already heightened senses. one of the mactavish sisters stops in her tracks and makes her way over to simon, who’s stood smoking by the floral donations. “i’m sorry for yer loss, ghost.” she whispers out to him, teary eyed and sniffly. he blinks down at her, albeit slightly confused. “pretty sure i’m the one supposed to be sayin’ that to you.” he replies with a dry writ, clearing his throat as he nods down at her. she lets out a quiet laugh, albeit a saddened one. it’s a brief interaction on an unfortunate occasion, but it lets simon come to realise something— johnny loved him.
simon’s not one for wakes, but he’s not one to pass up a good buffet. yet, for some reason, he finds himself awkwardly stood in the corner of the room, his weary eyes watching everyone converse. johnny’s mom, eileen, makes her way over to simon— and it’s crazy how much johnny looked like his mam, same smile, same deep blue eyes that simon became rather fond of.
“my john even got his beard from me,” eileen jokes, laughing her head off as she rubs her peach fuzz. it makes simon’s lips twitch, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. the chuckles dissipate, when ms mactavish reaches out to stroke simon’s cheek. simon riley’s not one for showing his face, but he wanted to do this for him. at first, simon has to fight against every muscle that wants to recoil out of her touch, to scuttle away further into the corner he finds himself stood in. but instead, his nostrils flare as he peers down at the little scottish lady that’s affectionately rubbing his cheek, and it’s almost as if johnny’s still there. “he loved ye, simon. i wish we could’ae met ye when our john was still around.”
simon can’t bear to watch as johnny’s room is packed up, he feels sick to the stomach. it makes everything worse, seeing him being physically scrubbed from base, from the only resemblance of a home simon’s ever had. laswell leaves a small box outside of his quarters, giving him a curt nod as she lets him pick it up and bring it into his room. it brings a smile to his face, just for a moment, as he cradles the cardboard box in his arms— a threadbare scottish flag johnny had pinned up on his wall, some of his old action figures he had kept from childhood, a few sketchbooks. and a note.
his stomach knots up at the sight of the letter, shakily placing it besides him as he flips through the sketchbooks first, the pads of his calloused fingers stroking fondly over every graphite smudge and ink blot on the pages. finding himself laughing hysterically over johnny’s drawing of price’s dick tickler moustache, and he nods in agreement that it should, indeed, be neutralized. the little scribbles of football scores, shitty and dirty limericks and even coffee cup rings on the pages just… it makes simon feel like he’s inside johnny’s mind, and it feels homely.
simon’s heart aches when he comes across the sketches of himself in johnny’s sketchbook, eyes welling up as he fights back the onslaught of tears that threaten to patter down onto the precious pages below. they were so beautiful. they made ghost, a husk of a man, look… alive. and he begins to breathe heavier, seeing small love hearts and silly cartoon drawings of johnny and simon doing stupid shit— like the time johnny and simon came up with a wager that if neither of them settled down come their mid-30s, they’d move to the countryside and get a dog or two.
why the fuck did you have to go and die for, johnny?
the sketchbook tour comes to its conclusion, the final sketchbook only half way through before, well, the artist passed. and so, the letter sits, almost as if there’s a spotlight casting down on it — screaming out to be read. it really gets on simon’s nerves how his hands will not stop shaking, but he pulls through and begins to open up the envelope that reads ‘for ghosty and ghosty only’, the underside of the envelope reading ‘i mean it!!’ with an angry face. it makes simon’s stoic expression crack into a grin, rolling his eyes as he continues to open it up.
the letter reads:
“well pal, if you’re reading this, it means i’m dead as fuuuck. oh well, it’s something we have to accept in our line of work, innit?
maybe i’ll get really lucky, you won’t have to read this letter and we can just laugh about it when we’re retired, living our best lives in the countryside with our wee dugs. cos you know you’ll never settle down, monsi, i’m the only bastard out there who can handle you!!!
but … on the odd chance i’m wrong (which is rarely the case cos i’m handsome and smart), it was great knowing you. you’re the bestest friend a mug like me could ask for, and i’m glad we found each other. gay, i know. whatever. i fucking love ya, pal. always and forever. dickface!!!
in another lifetime, maybe we can find each other again. although, don’t know if i can handle you being a brit again in this alternate universe haha. i don’t love you that much!!!
all my love,
yer johnny xx”
an emotional chuckle escapes from simon’s lips, tear stained cheeks flushing a light crimson colour as he sharply inhales, eyes shutting tightly as he holds the note to his chest. and for the first time, in a very long time, simon allows himself to cry. heaving his chest, snotty nosed as he really sobs it all out.
his entire life, he’s been beaten down, abused, witnessed family (both blood and found) being killed. but losing his best friend no, his soulmate, is the very thing that breaks his heart the most.
maybe, in another universe, johnny missed that bullet. and right now, in that universe, johnny and simon allow themselves a moment to breathe, comfortable in each other’s presence.
in another universe.
131 notes · View notes
sgiandubh · 5 months
Text
A tale of two brands
Sophie Mancini's Departures paper on S in NY started a flurry of comments even before the whole content was made available on blogs. That people - mostly in Mordor - jumped in to add their two booing cents on the matter, based on two or three Instagram Story screencaps only, is a testimony to Tumblr's community deep interest in S's slightest PR/sales move and the easiness with which people like *urv managed to push their own agenda, in the process, to her unsuspecting, bicep-loving crowd.
Many of these comments asked just one question, more or less kindly and more or less openly: who are you, Sam Roland Heughan? Some of them, more along my alley, took a different angle: who are you talking to, Sam Roland Heughan?
Let me count the US crowds: the Wall Street yuppie crowd? the old money, WASP Knickerbocker / Colony Club crowd? Tribeca's sophisticated, culture-ish snob crowd? the UN international crowd? the laid-back (-ish) brownstone Brooklyn crowd? the DC politico types? the Boston Brahmin crowd? the Silicon Valley Bitcoin crowd? the Florida Latino crowd? the Bible Belt crowd? the Deep South charmingly old-fashioned crowd? the yee-haw, witty and ambitious Texans? the gourmet, nature-loving Seattle crowd? I am sure I am missing some (it's been a while I haven't traveled to the States and I have to say I miss all 50 of them, plus and perhaps above all my beloved DC :), but you get the idea. And the problem, or rather its first layer.
The second question this very poorly written article prompted is: what are you talking about, Sam Roland Heughan? I mean, what destination are you trying to promote? Scotland, through your Scottish gin, which I truly believe is exceptional? The Big Apple, like a counterpart to Sting, you know - a Scotsman in New York? That's not very clear, since that superficial girl just whirled you to a couple Chinatown speakeasies, rat pitter-patter included (bye-bye, Knickerbocker crowd right there) and that's pretty much it. New Zealand, that you mention at length, Maori tattoo story re-hashed, just because the book comes out next Tuesday? Ha-wa-wee, perhaps in a belated attempt to mitigate Tunagate? California, even, because it takes you back to humble beginnings? Granted, the Frisco one, not LA: that would be a horrible faux-pas, in a NY centered paper, much like me whimsically and idiotically mentioning Istanbul (instead of Constantinople), in a conversation with my Greek friends.
My head spins. And then let's add to that a ladle of recycled talking points, yours and C's altogether, like this gem:
Tumblr media
Aspirational. Mmmhm. She said that. You said that. Multiple times, in multiple contexts that probably didn't even call for it. This is *** PR right there. I am not JAMMF. I am not Claire. But we aspire to that. Stop thinking we are these characters. No sane fan ever did: the insistence is unnecessary and has a real backfire potential. Stop thinking, period. But let it be my shipper sin, then, not to believe an iota of it and stubbornly think you people are, by now, way past the aspirational stage.
So, I took a long walk down memory lane today, while driving, trying to understand what the hell your personal brand is. Once upon a time, things were clear: you and C were a single brand. S&C - the fresh-faced, candid, witty and funny and oh, so in love new kids on the block. The spark was real and it was strong (it still is, only dampened and muted by PR-prompted shenanigans) and OL's audience was under its spell. People loved you, both of you, and some of us still do. You showed us as much as you could and for a while, it seemed to be convenient for just about everybody. That created expectations, but at the same time, you could have sold us land concessions on the Moon and we would have bought them, no questions asked.
And then, things happened. We know what: IFH, EFH, Remarkable Week-end. The spell was broken for many, who left in droves. Fans turned into bashing other fans. The S&C brand was progressively compromised and along with it, your Barbour Ambassadorship (for different reasons). Let's stop a bit at this point, in fond remembrance: that was the perfect pitch, for the perfect kind of corporate brand, for the perfect niche, for the perfect guy. A guy who had a credible, authentic story to tell, with a really strong potential to attract people outside of OL's crowd. Image and message perfectly aligned. Best case scenario.
So, with ***'s and your own PR benediction, what once was your solid gold starting point was ridiculed, trampled, shot to shambles, in a (failed) attempt to be sent to complete oblivion. You then had to think of something and try to branch out of both the blessing and curse of it.
MPC suddenly became more important than just any other charity project, of which there were a few (Cahonas Scotland comes to mind, the blood cancer one, as well). Cue in Sam the Athlete, Sam the Healthy Living Evangelist. The project was turned into a lucrative business, with a strong charity side. People bought subscriptions, people changed their eating and lifestyle habits, people lost weight - but really, I shouldn't write 'people', but 'women'. This was a women-oriented endeavor. A problem, again, on the long term.
Ha-wa-wee 1 happened, to more scandal and shrieks (that, I believe, was the reason you lost the Barbour project, another gold opportunity squandered because ten Internet bitches knew better). Then we were told another avatar was born: Sam the Entrepreneur. With a genuine, carefully curated, labor of love first alcohol product that clearly used the discarded S&C brand: The Sassenach and believe what you want, but just buy it. Mommies obliged. Antis obliged. Shippers obliged. All wallets are created equal, as I (often) use to say. And then COVID-19 came, putting a very real, very dangerous logistic strain on it.
Yet, you still had to somehow mitigate delays and losses. The Sassenach went exotic, with that limited edition tequila that probably won't be remembered by many outside OL's fandom, and that is a pity and a shame. The reason it won't be remembered is that you almost did not promote it, spare one or two Tick-Tock and Instagram clips. Does that justify the investment, the trips to Mexico, the very expensive retainers and commissions your tequila friends took for their trouble? I very much doubt it. That was, until being proved completely wrong, a flop. It brought absolutely nothing in terms of personal branding, spare perhaps a new faction in this paranoid cesspool of a fandom: the Gay Crowd, fueled by the image of a Lonely Bandana Cowboy, instead of the intended Sophisticated Traveler and Connoisseur. Yes, people are stupid, like that. Your PR and Sales team, too - and this comes from a place of deep understanding and appreciation.
We are now talking gin and boy, am I glad we do! This is perhaps an opportunity. Finally, a more democratically price-tagged, carefully tailored (again) drawing card product. But who is selling it to me? The California Boat Party Host? In that case, I won't buy it, but never mind me: maybe the fun-loving California Millennials would (we know the Smuggling Mommies would do it, anyways). The Sophisticated Traveler and Connoisseur you tried to show us again in Mancini's abysmal Departures paper and who is invited to important events, in recognition of his efforts?
You can't have the two of them, Sam, whatever those incompetents told you. You're either a 43-years old midlife crisis-stricken and shirtless clown or an Old World Industrious Thespian, with a stature and a status to match. A real Entrepreneur, not a cartoon scuba diver/beach boy Influencer. Eye Candy vs. Brain Power: after all, you are a '3x NYT best selling author', aren't you? Your pick, not mine. Stop the Sri Mataji-style Hugging and Booze tours: it's nonsense and that geriatric crowd is nowhere near what you need to make your dream come true. Do some real soul searching and stop listening to clueless 28-year old journalists, who tell you tacky rings are fun: they aren't. They make you look like an ageing Atlantic City Sinatra wannabe:
Tumblr media
Sam Roland Heughan: currently at crossroads, trying to not choose between two opposite personal brands. Tricky position and an even trickier context, with the strike still lingering on and the pressing need to find an after OL strategy.
I promised you a tale of two brands and I think you wonder, by now, what happened to C, the other half of the primary SC brand?
The answer is, I honestly believe, not much. She has no personal brand, so to speak. Until now, she is just an Enthusiastic Dilettante. Book Club - started, unfinished and with that, farewell to any fan engagement. Cinema production rights - bought and then silence. Botanical Gin - first batch released (?) with no promo, no interviews (mentioning it in a podcast does not count), no reviews. Then teasing, then crickets again: a bit late, now, for the end of year celebrations. And I have to say I miss her or the part of her I never witnessed in real time (is such a thing possible?). I miss that starry-eyed, funny and witty girl. That girl was somehow completely swallowed by an Acrid Matron, who thought it was intelligent to yell at an Internet nobody, on Christmas Day, 'I am not married to Sam!' (ok, you aren't, but you're still lying). And I honestly don't know which one is best (or worst, for that matter): try to build something and make mistakes and try again until you hopefully find your way, or say nothing, do nothing and of course, never be controversial.
Now I am really interested to see how is she going to promote her gin. But you know what, I am not holding my breath, for some reason.
159 notes · View notes
emmashouldbewriting · 11 months
Text
HELLO TUMBLR PLEASE LOOK AT MY NEW BOOK OVER OK THANK YOU
It's releasing on May 16th and please enjoy this convenient image that sells it to you so I don't have to.
Tumblr media
edit: it occurs to me the blurb might be useful so here:
Literally colliding with the hottest guy in the world and agreeing to be his date to his sister’s wedding? Done… for some reason.
Finding out he’s actually an aristocrat and will one day inherit an ancient Scottish dukedom and castle? Yep, that’s a surprise.
Sharing a bed with him at said castle because his family thinks I’m his girlfriend? Okay, I’m sure I’ll survive. Even if he does make my heart pitter-patter and my lady bits—uh, never mind.
Dealing with his family feud, his bridezilla sister, and his grandma’s gobby cockatiel who fancies himself the castle alarm system? It’s… well, it’s… something.
Oh, and a snowstorm, keeping my real identity a secret, trying to figure out where the heck I know the Glenroch family from, and why his mum keeps looking at me weirdly?
Yeah, that I’ll need some help with…
69 notes · View notes
mikhailwrites · 6 months
Text
Ghost x Soap / Silence in Between
Introspective Ghost stashed away to Soap's cottage in the Scottish Highlands where he later stumbles upon Johnny's old journal.
Excerpt from Chapter 1 on AO3.
Stretching out on a remarkably comfortable couch, Ghost removes his face mask and sips his semi-passable tea. In a moment, he's hit with a blend of scents: burning wood, tea, a faint hint of stagnant air, and wet grass. Rain patters softly on the roof and windows, enveloping everything in timeless tranquillity. Ghost closes his eyes, and the fatigue gradually melts into relaxation. Travelling in civvies always takes its toll on him. The world beyond the military base, interacting with people outside the military realm—it's all so foreign that he must constantly remind himself of what's considered acceptable and expected.
Ghost reaches for the folded comforter on the armrest. It's a tartan pattern, mostly red with light blue accents. He wraps it around himself, and the wool is thick, soft, and ever so slightly itchy against his skin. It carries the scent of cold, reminiscent of a crisp autumn morning. There's also another scent, one that seems familiar yet elusive, refusing to be placed or named. He doesn't dwell on it, too weary to think too deeply.
Chapter 1 on AO3
22 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
53 notes · View notes
the-starry-raven · 25 days
Text
Stormy Skies
TW: Fluff, oc x canon, a bit of a poor Scottish accent, a hint of angst with some gender dysphoria
TAG LIST: @forestshadow-wolf @queermentaldisaster, there was someone else *let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list)
The booming thunder mixed with the pitter patter of rain outside would normally be a calming sound. It would except it wasn’t doing anything this time around for the brunet, his eyes staring into themself through the reflection of the bathroom mirror. His hands were grasped tightly on the edge of the sink with small tremors as his grip tightened when his gaze shifted down to his chest and torso. The still slightly visible, jagged scars under his pectoral muscles still visible after eighteen months, lower on stomach to his right side were just a few of many new bullet wound scars, the injured flesh still healing. His eyes shifted back to his face and his eyes narrowed as a frown formed on his lips, his shaking becoming more prominent; his mind distracted that he hadn’t heard the front door of the flat open and close nor the footsteps getting closer.
“Mykie? Where ya at?” A familiar Scottish voice spoke up from the bedroom, making Mykyta jump a bit. He looked over at the doorway of the bathroom just as Soap got over there. “There ya ‘re, lad. I was wonderin’ where ya were.” He smiled before it faded when he saw the tears starting to spill down the shorter man’s cheeks, making him worry. “Och, why the tears m’eudail?” He asked softly as he gently wiped the tears away with his thumb.
He flinched when he was touched but melted into the taller man’s touch after a few seconds. “The usual.” That was the only thing he needed to say. “I look at the mirror and what I see hurts, Johnny…” He whispered as he felt a new wave of tears roll down his pale cheeks. “Even after everything I still see it.” His voice was wobbly as he spoke up.
“Hm…well all I see ‘ere is a bonnie lad. My bonnie lad.” Johnny spoke as his hands slipped down to his waist and gently pulled him closer as his arms wrapped around him. “Yer a handsome lad ‘nd nothin’ more; ah promise.” He whispered softly in his ear, his voice soft and full of love. “Now how ‘bout we go ‘nd cuddle for a wee bit, aye?” Mykyta rested his head on his chest as he nodded, he could his left leg trying to give out as old wounds had been aggravated once more from the past mission. 
“Sounds good, perfect weather for cuddles too.” He mumbled as he melted into his touch. He was his safe haven whenever he needed it, especially in times like this. It didn’t take a second more before Mykyta was picked up, causing him to yelp. “Johnny-!”He gripped onto his shirt as the taller man chuckled as he held his lover.
“Aye, love?” Johnny asked innocently as he looked at Mykyta with a goofy grin on his lips, and he started to walk towards the bedroom and he earned a laugh from the smaller brunet. “Got somethin’ to say?” He raised brow teasingly. He loved hearing his laugh and it brought a smile to his face each time. 
“Don’t drop me.” Mykyta huffed with a small smile making an appearance on the smaller man’s face. He yelped and laughed when they were now laying on the bed, Johnny looking at him with a goofy grin still plastered on his face as he rested his head on his chest. “You goof,” He snorted as he ruffled his hair.
Johnny chuckled as he looked at him and kept his arms wrapped around him, the sound of the storm faded into the sound of his lover’s heartbeat as his head rested on his chest. “Could just stay ‘ere forever,” He hummed as he looked at him with a loving look in his eyes. Mykyta nodded as he sighed contently, the thoughts from earlier faded away as he snuggled with him. There was peaceful silence between the two besides soft whispers of ‘I love you’s and other soft promises and the soft, comforting pitter patter of the rain outside with the stormy skies.
7 notes · View notes
kyun-desu · 15 days
Note
looks at u autistically and asks for a cat npt... korean & jp names r okay in there but mix it with open, kr & jp :3.... thamk yeeww
Tumblr media
CAT NPT PART 2!
CAT THEMED NAMES
Cat ( english ) , Felinus ( late roman ) , Catra , Jocantha ( english ) , Kissa ( english ) , 子猫 ( koneko ) , 峰子 ( mineko ) , 寧子 ( neko ) , 猫葉 ( nekoha ) , 四猫 ( shineko ) , Kisu ( finnish ) , 나비 ( nabi ) , Catell ( welsh ) , Catherin ( english ) , Catrina ( scottish ) , Catima ( english )
CAT THEMED PRONOUNS
cat / catself , mew / mewself , meow / meowself , purr / purrself , paw / pawself , furr / furrself , whisker / whiskerself , pounce / pounceself , kit / kitself , kitten / kittenself , soft / softself , nya / nyaself , nyan / nyanself , neko / nekoself , pitter / patter , paw / beans , zoom / zoomself , zoomie / zoomieself
CAT THEMED TITLES
the kitty , [prn] with the whiskers , the feline , the kitten , [prn] who loves catnip , the playful kitty , [prn] who purrs , the soft [cat/kitty/etc] , the one with the soft furr , [prn] with the soft purr , [prn] with the toe beans
5 notes · View notes
scotianostra · 1 month
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
On 16th February 1885 Will Fyfe was born in a tenement at 36 Broughty Ferry Road, Dundee.
His father was interested in theatrical entertainment and operated a Penny Geggy. Penny Geggy might not mean anything to most of us, but the older Glaswegians amongst us might recognise it. It means one of the old booth theatres which used to charge 1d admission, that’s a penny in auld money, pre decimalisation! This gave young Will valuable experience as a character actor, as he travelled around the Lowlands of Scotland.
Fyfe was an actor, music-hall entertainer, and pantomimist, one of the most popular character comedians of British stage and screen of the era, he made his debut as Little Willie in East Lynne. A precocious actor, he played the aged Polonius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet when only 15, after which he toured with other companies.
Though his ability was considerable, he devoted himself to the music hall, going into revue with his sketches of Scottish characters—the Glasgow drunk, the village idiot, the sailor, the centenarian, the railway guard. Although he was born in Dundee the Glasgow people took Will Fyfe to their hearts with his own song and still sung to this day at drunken parties all over the world “I Belong To Glasgow"
Legend has it Fyffe offered the song to Harry Lauder who is said to have refused it on the grounds that it glorified drink (though Fyffe offering Lauder a song he had written for himself makes this an unlikely story). In fact, "I Belong to Glasgow” is fondly satirical about drink and the brotherly sentiments that sprang awake from its effects regularly at 10 on a Saturday night. In his patter after the second verse, when the wife waiting at home has been ignored
Despite discouragements, Fyffe proved his mastery of the art of comic and of truly pathetic impersonation by reaching top billing when he appeared at the London Pavilion in 1921. During the 1930s he took part in a number of films, notably as the Scottish shepherd in Owd Bob.
For a man who liked to laugh and bring laughter to so many, Fyffe had a tragic end to his life, by falling from a room window in his own hotel in St Andrews. He was taken to the local cottage hospital, where he later died. The accident is said to have been due to dizziness, he had recently had an operation on his right ea, he was 62 at the time of his passing.
8 notes · View notes
hyuckkaiji · 5 months
Text
to dream of the sea in all its cruelty - ominis gaunt x f!reader x garreth weasley
Tumblr media
chapter one; "so I close my eyes to old ends and open my heart to new beginnings." - nick frederickson
Tumblr media
summary; "What you want is of no consequence. Do not be foolish. You will marry the Gaunt boy, or you will learn what it means to be truly alone."
word count; 3.3k
warnings; chapter; none // series; mentions of death, child death, blood and gore, physical violence, depression, suicidal thoughts, forced marriage
note; this is a slow burn, angsty fic. I'm a slUTuh for angst, and love triangles, ominis gaunt, and weasley's. The reader is romancing our favorite ginger in the beginning, but best believe ominis comes swooping in and steals her away. reader is NOT mc. uni!hogwarts. following the game plot over and extended amount of time and from reader/ominis pov
Tumblr media
The soft patter of rain against the roof sounded through the silent carriage in place of voices. The windows littered with droplets that slightly obscured the view of the deep green bathed in dreary grey light.
Your eyes trailed the passing trees, catching on every glimpse of orange or yellow in the sea of swaying emerald leaves. Autumn was coming, it’s cool breeze already taken over the Scottish country side. Replacing the comforting warmth of the summer with a chill in the air.
The door of the carriage swung open, a frantic looking ginger boy the culprit. He rushed in, closing the door swiftly behind him before ducking down. “Don’t say anything, yea. I am not here.” He looked up at you, eyes wide but a smile playing at his full lips.
“You’re dead, Weasley! By the gods, I mean it Garreth.” The look on the girl’s face alone made her anger palpable, her eyes were scanning every visible carriage window, searching for, presumably, the boy before you. Garreth Weasley, the name fit. The girl's white cotton shirt was drenched with an odd purple liquid, it had clearly splashed on her face as well from the streaks left after she has wiped it away.
You opened your mouth to speak, to say what, you weren’t sure but the boy shushed you before any words could escape. “Please.” His eyes were quite lovely, a soft green like a field on a summer day. You opted to say nothing, only watching as the girl stormed off in her search.
“She’s gone.” Garreth let out a breathy laugh, letting himself collapse. “I owe you one, she is a woman of her word. She would have killed me.” He had evidently been afraid enough to hide, but that didn’t stop the mischievous smile that played at his lips, the glint in his eye that told you he didn’t regret his actions.
“What did you do to her?”
“It was just a potion. Merlin, I told her not to touch it but Imelda only listens to Imelda.” He picked himself up off the floor, deciding to sit on the seat directly across from you. His posture comfortable as he leaned forward, arms resting against his knees.
He was looking at you with a gaze that playfully predatory, tracing your form, consuming you in a way that made blood rush to your cheeks. You looked away from him with a small cough, “Excuse me.”
“You’re new.”
“That obvious?”
He hummed in response, “I would certainly remember you. Besides,” he leaned back, still watching you, “You’re American.”
You laughed, “I suppose that will give me away every time in a place like this.”
“I’m Garreth. Garreth Weasley.”
“I caught that. From … the girl.” You waved your hand awkwardly in the direction of the window. “I’m y/n. Asturias.”
“Pretty.” He smiled at you, the first full smile since he’d come before you, sweet and inviting. Muggles have a saying, the devil is beautiful, evil can be welcoming , presenting itself to you dressed as all that you desire. The logical part of you is pushing at your fluttering heart with a stick, trying to catch your attention, trying to make you see logic but all you see is his smile.
Garreth pulls a watch from his pocket, slightly frowning at it before shoving it back where it came from. “We should get changed into our robes, we’ll be arriving soon.” He stood making his way to the door, pushing it open but not leaving before turning back to you once last time , “I’ll see you around.”
Those words were the last solid thing you could grasp, the last rock you try and catch yourself on before being swallowed up by the rushing water whisking you away to the treacherous drop of the waterfall ahead of you.
It was a blur of voices, fluttering robes, and your own anxiously beating heart. You had not been afraid at Ilvermony, you’d known many of the faces around you, known them since you were just a little girl. Only eleven, eleven and the embodiment of excitement as you had started your schooling. But this was different, you knew no one, you were alone in a place you never thought you’d be.
Torn from the life you knew, your home, and tossed in the lions den of the Scottish highlands. You could only focus on your breathing in a failing attempt to ground yourself, in and out, in and out, in and- “Asturias.” You caught the end of your name, breaking your trance. You looked up to see the red-haired professor watching you, waiting for you.
You rushed forward on unsteady feet, trying to make amends for making her wait. Taking a seat on the worn old stool before you, in front of a sea of watching faces, all eyes trained on you.
“It’s all right dear, we do not bite.” The older woman whispered in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, eyes still scanning the crowd until they landed on the ginger with the pretty green eyes, Garreth. He smiled at you encouragingly, giving you a small wave.
The woman set an old hat on top of your head, the voice enveloped your mind. Whispering to itself as it rummaged through your thought, searching for the information it required. “Hufflepuff.” The voice of the hat carried through the hall, followed by clapping and a few whistles from the hufflepuff table.
You made your way to the table, eyes searching for a spot to sit when a girl called out to you. “Here.” She waved you over, scooting to make room for you. She was a small girl with golden hair tried back into a bun though a few wisps escaped, framing her round face. She smiled at you, giving you a quick once over with eyes the color of a stormy sky. “Adelaide Oakes, it’s a pleasure.”
The blur continued. Countless voices overlapping and filling the hall to the brim with an unmelodious symphony. Every scrape of a utensil against an emptying plate setting your nerves on edge. Adelaide prattled on about anything and everything that came to mind, a sweet girl, but you were too lost in your own head to be of any use to the conversation. Only nodding, humming, and sparing a few sparse replies so she didn’t feel disregarded.
“And then my uncle-“ Adelaide’s voice fell silent as so many others did around you, she turned searching for what had caused the disturbance, you followed suit.
A girl trailing behind the headmaster, her robes yet to hold a house color. Her dark hair fell in an intricate braid to the small of her back, a few strategic strands framing her face. She was tall and slender, holding herself with an air of elegance, her steps smooth and graceful even following a pace she did not set.
The same red-haired professor has pulled the old stool back up to center stage, waiting with hat in hand. The headmaster motioned with an irritated hand. “Welcome, have a seat.” The woman greeted warmly as the girl sat where you had, all eyes on her just as they had been on you. You felt bad for her, worse for contributing to the sea of stares but you watched on nonetheless.
“Slytherin!” Cheers broke out only quieting at the Rosen hand of the headmaster.
“It has been quite the night, welcoming two new fifth years alongside our incoming first years. I’m sure you all must have plenty to do before classes begin tomorrow.” His voice was clipped, impatience dripping from every word.
“I said, I’m sure you all must have plenty to do before classes begin tomorrow!” The students muttered but complied, leaving their seats in groups, dispersing and finding their friends as they made their way out the great hall.
“Come along, I’ll show you the way to our common rooms. The boards show who rooms with who. And who knows, maybe we’ll be put together.” Adelaide looped her arm with yours.
♡・* ゚ ゚*・♡
“Set it there.” The young boy motioned with a loose hand to the wooden table before him. You scurried forward, small hands grasping at the flickering candelabra, setting it where you’d been instructed.
The soft orange glow of the swaying flames played over the boy’s olive skin. He was looking around, though you could see nothing but the table and him. You scooted closer to him, taking his hand in your own. “Are they here?”
“No sister, you’re safe.” He turned back towards you. Trying to maintain a soft smile but you could see the fear in his brown eyes, the window to the soul as muggles say.
“Are you safe?” His smile faltered but he shook his head, letting dark waves fall into his eyes. He cupped your face, bringing you closer before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Do not fret sister, you are safe.”
“What about you?” the candles flickered out, leaving you in darkness. A cold empty feeling settling in your stomach. Your hands shot out to grab hold of your brother but only meeting empty air.
“Isaiah!” You lurched forward, hands grasping for him, panting uneven breathes.
“Are you alright?” You opened your eyes to see one of your roommates coming towards you, the others already having left for the morning. Her hands encircle one another, twiddling away nervously, concern etched into her soft features. Poppy, that’s her name. Poppy Sweeting.
“I-I’m fine, thank you. I apologize for disturbing you.” You muttered the words, raking a hand over your face in embarrassment. She didn’t look convinced but nodded anyways, “No worries.” She paused, looking you over, “You should get ready. I’ll show you to our first class.”
You freshened yourself up and dressed quickly, following poppy through a labyrinth of stairs and halls in awkward silence. Your mind still running circles around your dream as you tried to focus on memorizing your current path. “Charms class.” Poppy motioned with a introductory wave of her arm.
She gave a quick smile before scuttling off to sit next to a curly hair Gryffindor girl. Most of the students were already seated and chatting animatedly with their friends. You stood, searching the room for a free place to sit, though there were a few you were not met with friendly faces.
“Here! Behind you, there is an open seat here.” A dark skinned Gryffindor with a foreign accent called out, waving you over to sit beside her. “Hello, I am Natty. So you’re one of the new students? Have you met professor Ronen yet?”
Before you could respond the professor cleared his throat, demanding the attention of the class. “Shall we begin.” He chuckled, beginning his decent down the stairs. “Welcome to year five of charms. Now, this will be a crucial year in your education on the art of charmwork, but I am confident that we will take hold with the passion and rigor requisite of such a challenge.”
He did a small hop off the last step, slightly crouching as he motioned enthusiastically. A jolly man certainly. “Right! Now, everyone please open your textbooks to page five one seven.” He strolled over to his desk, standing before it to face the class. “But. Before we begin. Can anyone tell me the difference between the incantations of the color change and growth charms?”
There was a few groans, many students dropping their heads on the desks. No one raised their hands, not ready to fully transition from summer to class time just yet. “Anyone?” Natty slid her book over to you, pages open to the information you’d need to answer his question.
You had all but glanced at the page when professor Ronan noticed. “Ah, ah, ah. I’m afraid it is too late to study now.” He pulled out his wand, summoning the book to him with a wordless spell. Natty gave you a sheepish smile in turn.
Professor Ronen hummed, stepping down to walk between the desks. “My, the summer months must have really taken a toll on you all.” He chuckled. “By the looks of it, you all spent your holidays practicing Oblivate on one another.” He gave a hearty laugh to his own joke though the merriment did not resonate with the students.
The rest class was quite enjoyable, the professor’s enthusiasm was almost contagious. He even ended the class with a friendly competition of summoning, calling you and natty to compete against one another. Natty won by ten points.
“Gods, you are good.” She laughed patting you on the shoulder, “You may well give me a run for my title in summoners court. If you care to join.”
You spent the rest of the day being escorted to your next classes by those willing to help you. Though the more time went on the less sure you were that you would ever memorize the paths you needed to take in the vast castle. Even worse when you had received an owl from professor Weasley to see her after classes were finished, in the transfigurations classroom, as if you were just expected to know your way there. But nonetheless you persevered.
“You trust me with her?” A laugh deep and soft could scarcely be heard through the wooden door.
“I trust that you’ll do as I ask you.” Professor Weasley’s voice was stern even muffled and distant.
“You watch over me like a hawk. I can do nothing without your scrutiny and now watching from a distance is no longer enough for you? You must take my time and make it wholly yours!”
You couldn’t listen any longer, feeling more guilt over your unintentional eavesdropping than over interrupting this private conversation. Besides, you were asked to be here.
“What are you doing here?” The question startled you, yanking your hands away from the door before you could even open it a smidge, as if you had been caught, as if you were doing something wrong.
The girl stood there arms folded over her chest, it took you a second to place, the other new fifth year transfer. “Arabella Davis.” You let out a nervous laugh. She eyed you with suspicion, did she really think you were doing something wrong?
A beat of silence passed as she watched you, eyes raking over you like a beast stalking their prey. Her icy blue gaze bit into you, tracing you like the serrated edge of a blade, making goosebumps rise in her wake.
“I asked you what you’re doing?” You couldn’t help the awkward laughter, it was a bad habit. Your parents had spent years trying to correct it, it was improper they said and yet you never failed to revert back to it. In countless situations, the noise bubbled up and out of you on its own accord, especially when you were at a loss for words.
“I’m uh, I’m here to meet Professor Weasley. I have something to discuss with her.” Arabella sneered as if she didn’t believe you, “You’ll have to come back another time. I have a scheduled meeting with her.”
“So do I!” You were never quick to write people off, never quick to pick them apart and find what you disliked but in the face of that which should be your peer, the tides were turning. You snapped at her, mirroring her stance defiantly. Who does she think she is?
“Enough! You will take the girl!” Professor Weasley’s voice was loud enough to be heard clearly, snagging both yours and Arabella's attention, your heads turning towards the abrupt noise simultaneously.
You didn’t wait any longing, stepping away from your catty classmate and pushing open heavy wooden doors. “Professor?” Though you had called out to one person your gaze caught on another. Of course you couldn’t have known who your Professor had been arguing with but you hadn’t expected him.
Garreth’s eyes caught yours for only a moment before looking away, raking a rough hand though his curls, an exasperated huff passing his lips. It shouldn’t have hurt your feelings, really, you knew that.
You had one conversation with the boy, one conversation where he was decently nice, you should not be bothered by his reaction. You don’t know him and he doesn’t know you, but you are and you can’t stop the way your heart tinges in your chest.
“Miss Asturias, Miss Davis. I’m so pleased you’re both here.” You give the Slytherin girl a triumphant glance, though you’re not sure if she even saw it. “Mr. Wesley will be escorting you Miss Asturias and Mr. Sallow you, Miss Davis.”
The slight tinge all but turned into an ache. The confirmation that it had been you he had been so angry about hurt. Had you done something wrong, made a bad first impression? Maybe you just need to stop latching onto people that show you an inkling of kindness like they’re your lifeline. A bad habit, one you’ve been no more able to break then your badly timed laughter.
You looked over to the other boy mentioned, Sebastian Sallow. He had been in your defense against the dark arts class, he had dueled Arabella on Professor Hecate’s order. It had been a fair match but the brunette boy still won in the end.
How awkward it must have been to have a front row seat to a family squabble, you felt for him. But he didn’t look too off put by what he’d been witness to as he stood, smiling at Arabella. “My new charge.” He laughed, “Seems you cannot escape me.”
The lot of you had been sent off to Hogsmead for some supplies and other essentials. Arabella had quite the list, seemingly having nothing she required, not even a wand of her own. It made you wonder, she is a strange girl and not one you were sure you wanted to be around. Your list was much shorter only needing to get a few things.
The two Slytherins had broke off from the group almost immediately, and without a word to you or Garreth. Leaving the both of you to walk in a heavy silence, though the view made up for the lack of conversation. Your mother often told you sometimes the only way to truly appreciate the beauty of nature is without the stain of words.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, quite and almost reluctant as if he’d been forced to say the words. “You have nothing to apologize for.” You glanced at him to find him already watching you, making a blush crawl up your neck.
“I do. This,” he motioned awkwardly around himself, “has nothing to do with my you. My aunt is just,” He sighed, “My time has not been my own in five years, and I know she means well. She does. But Merlin.”
You waited a moment for him to continue, when he didn’t you responded, “I get it.” The silence fell over you once again but this time comfortable and warm like a blanket on a chill winters night.
You understood his plight, much to your displeasure. You understood it all too well. You had lived your life like a porcelain doll up on the shelf, safely behind the glass of your parents watchful eyes for far too long. That was exactly why you where here now, near a witch grown and still being dragged along by your parents like you were a child.
You suppose that’s the way they see you, still the frightened little girl clinging to your mother’s skirts. Still the sobbing hiccupping child trying to wash away the blood, trying to revive that which had long been dead.
10 notes · View notes