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#gaelic inspired
autistic-katara · 5 months
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due to the amount of fics where ppl take non-american characters and make them american for no reason other than uwu it’s the stuff i know or whatever i may have to set all my fics abt american media in scotland
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fregget-frou · 7 months
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how much do i have to pay for you to make your own redactedsona (foaming at the mouth)
👁️👁️uh—
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Nothing it is done
:3
They hang around hospitals and suck up all the suffering before someone dies, responsible for a lot of that euphoria before death for a lot of people ^^
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ghul-wein · 27 days
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Broke: Mountain sounds like Hozier
Woke: Mountain sounds like Moistcritical
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@toastedbreadstick @carrionthird I saw your lovely tags so here’s some more gaelic snufkin!! I haven’t drawn these guys in a while, it was really nice to sketch the big marshmallows again ✨
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ohwarnette · 5 months
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it’s really wild seeing some goodreads users still hyping up fourth wing and ry. if you’re choosing to willingly consume and promote that media after being made aware and use the “let people read what they want” and the “don’t bring politics into goodreads” argument, you honestly disgust me.
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shutterandsentence · 28 days
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Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art Thou my best thought, by day or by night Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light
--Christian Hymn
Photo: Rosslyn Chapel, Scotland
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historianofgalar · 9 months
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Old Southern Galarian words for the first 11 Galarian Pokemon
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This is explained in my kid's, @quillpokebiology , Geography" post, but Galarian has multiple dialects/languages. The Galarian I'm speaking is Hammerlock Galarian, but I grew up in a place that spoke Southern Galarian (specifically from the Crown Tundra). So, here are words for some of the pokemon there.
1. Suanáilte: Sobble
Pronounced "Su-ahn-alt-eh." From the words "Suaracha" meaning insignificant/paltry, and "conáilte" meaning blue.
2. Drúana: Drizzile
Pronounced "Ndrú-ah-nah." From the words "driùchd" meaning "Drizzle" or Dew" and "Gruama" meaning "Sad/depressed/gloomy"
3. Scaoilaghairt: Inteleon
Pronounced "Skeel-leerch." Combination of the words Scaoil, which means shoot and [to] fire, while Laghairt means lizard.
4. Sgôrnín: Scorbunny
Pronounced "Goor-neen." It still translates to Scorbunny, but I'll talk about it anyway. Sgôr is actually Lean (referring to Ballonlean), meaning Score, as sgór in southern Galarian means mountain peak/steep hill/pinnacle, etc. Coinín means bunny.
5. Bunineanach: Scorbunny
Pronounced "Bun-ye-nah." "Bun" means foot while "coineanach" means rabbit.
6. Ciceáluith: Cinderace
Pronounced "Kick-eel-lew-ah." It's a combination of the words ciceál, which means [to] kick, while luith means cinder.
7. Cipínaí: Grookey
Pronounced "Kip-een-ee". Uses the word cipín, which means small stick, [music] stick, and the stick that the bodhrán instrument is played with. The "nai" comes from "moncaí" which just means monkey.
8. Batanaí: Thwackey
Pronounced "Bah-teh-nee." Bata I'd another word for sticking, while the naí still comes from moncaí. (It also sounds a bit like Botany, which is the study of plants. I find that coincidence interesting).
9. Bodhráfear: Rillaboom
Pronounced "Bar-ah-far." Bodhrá comes from Bodhrán, which is an instrument that originates from Southern Galar. Fear just means man.
10. Leicag: Skwovet
Pronounced "Leh-cak." Combination of the words "leicean," meaning cheek, and "feòrag," meaning squirrel.
11. Sanntaille: Greedent
Pronounced "Sh-aunt-all-ah," (pronounce "Sh" with back of throat). Combination of the word Santach, meaning covetous, and saille, meaning fat (Kalosians might recognize that one one).
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tbos-main · 1 year
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And then there was that damn dragon, that now fluttered around them like a particularly annoying bird. Nate hadn’t wanted to trust Drako so easily. A noble with a dragon was strange, but not as strange as it was before Prince Adeunus, the youngest of the two princes, had been gifted a dragon as his aineanum. It was said the prince’s dragon was a grand creature, so large that when it flew across the skies, it completely blocked the sunlight, a single creature able to devour entire armies. It unsettled a lot of the commonfolk. The gods gave the Harasaeons their aineanums based on the trajectory of the kingdom during their lifetime. Isha was given her basilisk because she needed an animal strong enough to start a war for her, and with it, she massacred the Gathering of Wisers. Hammari was given her hydra in a similar gesture to her ancestor; a war started, and this time, a war ended. Echis fought at Hammari’s side. It was said he fed from Isenia’s corpse. 
And now the prince had a dragon, a creature just as powerful if not more powerful than his grandmother and his ancestor. It begged the question; why? What was coming that needed such a beast? 
It was a terrifying concept, some stranger with the power to anhialate so many with a creature bound to him by the gods. Nate tried not to think on it. 
nate immediately after this: anyway look at this pathetic excuse of a dragon it's literally the size of an apple and dont get me STARTED on its loser freak of a noble. most unintimidating fuckers in burnos i rate them 2/10 and the 2 points are only bc drako's hot
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saintsaensreads · 1 year
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•Books read in 2022•
A Ghost in the Throat, Doireann Ní Ghríofa (2018)
When we first met, I was a child, and she had been dead for centuries. I am eleven, a dark-haired child given to staring out window … Her voice makes it 1773, a fine day in May, and puts English soldiers crouching in ambush; I add ditch-water to drench their knees. Their muskets point towards a young man who is falling from his saddle in slow, slow motion. A woman hurries in and kneels over him, her voice rising in an antique formula of breath and syllable the teacher calls a caoineadh, a keen to lament the dead.’
A true original, this stunning prose debut by Doireann Ní Ghríofa weaves two stories together. In the 1700s, an Irish noblewoman, on discovering her husband has been murdered, drinks handfuls of his blood and composes an extraordinary poem that reaches across the centuries to another poet. In the present day, a young mother narrowly avoids tragedy in her own life. On encountering the poem, she becomes obsessed with finding out the rest of the story. Doireann Ní Ghríofa has sculpted a fluid hybrid of essay and autofiction to explore the ways in which a life can be changed in response to the discovery of another’s – in this case, Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill’s Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire, famously referred to by Peter Levi as ‘the greatest poem written in either Ireland or Britain during the eighteenth century.’
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wolfmother87 · 1 year
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Deirdre. With the mask on.
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amomentwiser · 2 years
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Soñospiration
When you get inspiration or ideas in a dream-- a tune already in your head when you wake up, some imagery that only the most bizarre dreams can produce, which inspires you to draw or make art capturing it. Riveting stories, strange and whimsical, that make you reach for a pen the moment you cross the bridge between wakefulness and sleep-- because you're soñospired.
(from Galician soño, dream + inspiration)
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tezzbot · 2 years
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just starts learning Another new language like some kind of buffoon
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hymnsofheresy · 1 year
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Advent & Christmas Carol Playlists
christ mass part 1 & part 2 - these are hymns & carols you might hear at a church. part two is a bit slower and more meditative.
blue christmas is a carol playlist for when christmastime doesn’t really feel all that jolly, when the darkness of the winter feels too overwhelming.
play me a carol is a selection of soft piano carols to put in the background while relaxing after a long day.
lofi bells to holly and jolly to is a lofi christmas playlist that you can easily use while studying for those finals. anime girl bopping along not included.
joy to the world contains a multitude of christmas songs from all over the world, from east asia to the americas.
old timey christmas has all the classic christmas carols that people in the 50-60s churned out like they were working at the christmas carol sweatshop.
yuletide is a celtic-inspired christmas playlist. a selection of folk-tunes, jigs, carols, and gaelic hymns.
rise up shepherd is a collection of spirituals, carols, and gospel songs from the black american spiritual tradition.
glory to the newborn kin(g) is a selection of christmas orchestral music
emmanuel quite literally translates as “god with us” so this playlist is a selection of american-folk carols.
ye olde christmas is a playlist for all the tumblr medievalist girlies. although before anyone attacks me, i did put some renaissance carols on there as well
bodacious gnarly hella tubular christmas is a 80s-90s pop christmas playlist. yes it does feature the queen of christmas herself.
dulcimer christmas is self explanatory. if you don’t like the hammered dulcimer, i fear that this playlist will be extremely disappointing.
a-caroling provides all of your wassailing needs. i promise you there is no pentatonix. all my playlists are pentatonix free. let me liberate you from their chokehold on christmas music.
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iamskyereads · 4 months
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Pero Tovar x Fem Reader
summary: A kitchengirl who has dreams and talent beyond your station, you get to be present while a man named Tovar takes a bath.
warnings: Pero takes a bath. Be warned. Mature. MINORS BEGONE. 18+ content. I mean it.
I wrote most of this in one day. It would have been posted sooner but my Christmas tree was delivered and I got excited and thus waylaid. There will likely be a part two.
word count: 3.7k, with a superfast beta by the wonderful @ezrasbirdie. Credit goes to her for the title.
Special shoutout to @pedrorascal and @fuckyeahdindjarin who encouraged me wholeheartedly. 💕
MASTERLIST // AO3
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Even in the crowd and din of the tavern, you see the man enter and pay for a room for the night. He holds his cape around him, aloof and grumpy. He does not speak more than a few grunts, and even less when they bring the meal out to him.
He eats so quickly, it is gone faster than you could blink.
From behind your spot pouring ale for the customers and ladling stew into bowls, he barely lifts his head in your direction, let alone to peer at other folk with any shade of curiosity.
You’ve seen him many times before. The locals call him The Spaniard, but the innkeeper knows his name to be Tovar.
He is a knight in your fantasy, but the truth is Tovar is no more than a common sellsword.
Tonight, he is without the company of the Gaelic fellow, who is the more talkative of the two. He orders a bath and a meal for the evening.
Men pay a pretty coin for the bath services at the inn.
You nearly cut your palms lugging the metal tub up the steep steps to the top room at the inn, and afterwards haul bucket after bucket of hot water for the bath.
The room he rents for the night is smaller than the others, with simple brick and stone walls and a tapestry stitched by your mother and aunts hang above the bed. The inn has been in your family for many generations and when your parents were alive it was their pride and joy to keep it well stocked for travelers, with decorations that were meant to inspire home.
Since their passing, and the new ownership, you still find ways to take pride in the place that was once so full of light and laughter, even though your daily toils exhaust you so much, you fall flat onto your bed by nightfall, barely able to lift yourself to light a candle to practice your sketchings.
The bedsheets have been turned down in expectation of the visitor, and logs are set near the fireplace to be burned. You begin to fill the tub, lined with fresh linen, with the thoroughly heated water.
On your last trip, the room is occupied.
Tovar, the Spaniard, is there, already sitting naked in the tub, a cloth obscuring his face as he relaxes. His legs are almost too long, and the fireplace, already lit, casts such a delicate sheen over his form, you can see every inch of hair on his legs, as whispering blades of grass.
His clothes are piled on a chair by the bed, his sheathed sword leaning upon the wall. He had tossed his boots haphazardly and made a line of clothing leading from the bed to the bath, trousers, mail, gray linen shirt; the cloak is bundled on the bed, beside an array of weapons, glinting silver and deadly.
The bathgirl is there too, preparing a side table with oils. She is blushing at the naked man, who pays neither of you any mind. With a jerk of your chin and a cough, you dismiss her. She obeys, but glares at you as she passes you in the doorway, jealous that you’ve taken over her duties for the night.
For many long moons, you have pined over this Spaniard. His face carries a haunting effect that passes into your dreams; you spend many late nights occupying yourself with charcoal sticks, sketching the face from memory, but the nose alone is never just right.
How does one paint the man made of shadow?
You have no canvas, no brushes or stencils, no murals to inspire the masses, just your own private blocks of wood or cheap parchment, where you hunch over on yourself, until you are stiff in your joints, drawing, erasing, rubbing the lines to soften the edges of the dark haired man with his glittering eyes and his luscious scowl.
You are saving up for real oil paints so you can expand your talents. Mother always said you have an eye for color.
There are many colors that stand out to you in your life—the lavender of your adolescence, the yellow of your youth. But the dark blue hue the Spaniard inspires in you…
That is a new one.
You’d capture him in every color—ruby reds brighter than the cross embossed on the hilt of his sword, browns more pleasing than the newest leatherhide fashions, ochres that would make the beautiful sunsets pale in comparison. The darkest hues you’d save for him alone, darker than shadow and night, with spots of white for the whites of his eyes, smoother than the silk of moonlight.
If you had such talent as the men do, the ones who were hired to lay the glass at the cathedrals and stain the windows with their paints; or the talents of your mother, who learned how to dye the fabrics long before you were born, you'd color this man every one under God's omniscient eye.
And every new one too.
You'd invent colors just to convey the heat that lit upon your belly when his eyes fell upon you, or the exact shade of his lips when he pinched them in a thin line, as he often did when he kept his own counsel, and pursed them in your direction when he caught you staring. You'd crack a seam in the earth, just to expose what was underneath the very red and purple puckered skin that split his cheekbone, ran a shadow over his eye, and cut the skin on his brow, splicing his face into a mean glance—except when it beheld you.
"Girl," he interrupts.
The bath water creates fog that thickens the air between you.
"There is no soap," he says.
Foolishly, the soap has been left upon the side table, just out of his reach. You curse the bathgirl for being a witless simpleton in her duties. You must cross the room in front of the tub, to procure it.
You do so quietly—Tovar has the cloth obscuring his face, and he cannot see you, in your tattered skirts, and stinking of the kitchens, face warm and moist from sitting in front of the waterpot as it boiled, and your eternally charcoal stained hands.
Just as your fingers are closing around the bar, you hear the water splash in the tub, and turning you find Tovar has removed the cloth from his face and is staring at you. Though you are angled away from the fire in the chimney, your face heats up as if it were inches from the flames.
“You’re not the bath girl,” he croaks. His voice is full of gravelly tones, often too soft to be heard in the crowded room of the tavern below. To your own private ears, it is more musical than anything.
Up close his face is very dirty, caked with weeks worth of dirt and grease, making the scar on the left side of his face all the more ferocious. When the scar was young, it must have bled when he smiled or cried. Perhaps that is why he is so stone-faced all the time.
You train your eyes not to watch the droplets of water drip down his neck and chest. His shoulders are so broad, he is crowded into the frame of the tub, and the water moves gently as he sinks further into, his knees knocking the rim. The candles are too low, otherwise you would see his nakedness.
“You are the kitchen girl, are you not? The one who pours the ale and serves the slop,” he says. His black eyes dance around your form.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have seen you many times before.”
“Your soap, sir,” you say, and stiffly hold out the bar.
He doesn’t take it. Rather, he sits up and leans forward, hugging his knees. “Good,” he says definitely. “I need you to wash my back.”
His skin shines golden, though rough with scarring. You have to wet your hands to lather the soap into a foam upon the washcloth, and settle yourself upon a small stool behind him.
Meekly, you start at his shoulders, rubbing the soapy cloth in broad swipes. His back muscles are rigid with tension, and he does not ease them. Under your hands, he is a different metal entirely. Flesh is not your easel of choice. You are unaccustomed to this sudden delicate intimacy. The fragility, the vulnerability—
Tovar groans when your task brings your hands close to his neck.
“You are in pain?” you ask. He makes the same noise when you double down with a little pressure at the same spot, wiping dirt from behind his ears. You leave soapy trails in its place.
“Too many nights sleeping on the cold ground,” he replies gruffly.
You hum in sympathy. “The beds are not much better in this place. If you want softer, you should ask the whorehouse down the road.”
“Yes, but these beds do not have fleas, ángel.” He must be teasing you, for you can hear the smirk in his voice. Then the moment is lost because he frowns, angling his chin at you so you can gaze upon his profile in sharp relief, backlit by the fireplace in the tiny bedchamber of the inn.
There is what has been eluding you in your midnight portraits. His nose is both wide and sharp. Hawkish.
And his lips, there is a small crease in the very center of the bottom one. Full lips, he has. Skin creased and cracked with dryness. You long to draw it between your own lips, moisten the soft palette of his mouth with the brush of your tongue.
He has long eyelashes too. Feminine and elegant. They soften his features beyond compare.
“My back,” he sniffs, not noticing the keenness of your gaze. “I have an itch there.”
Your hands fall to a random spot. “Here?”
“No, lower.” His muscles flex, lengthening and bending his spine as you approach the sensitive spot in the center of his back. “Yes, to the right.”
You know you find it, because his head lolls forward and he moans. Not a pained or wounded one, but a long pleasing one. It makes you stop, heat growing in your belly.
“No, keep going,” he says, all rough and heavy.
You do, and his jaw relaxes and he slumps, morphed into bread dough as you scratch his back until the skin turns pink.
The water blackens as more grime is washed from his body as you continue to wash him, soaping his arms and the tops of his knees.
He extends his leg out so you can get all the way to his feet, rubbing the coarse washcloth even in between each toe. He is strong and sturdy. His hands are wide and calloused, one of the weapons displayed by the bed is a large ax. It takes great strength to wield one of those. 
He talks not at all—what words are there to share?
But you notice he is watching you. In heat or with impatience? You are not sure.
There are lacerations around each wrist, as if they have met with shackles in the past. What dark history lies in this man’s past? Other scars litter his body. The most recent ones are pink and red, the older ones are almost invisible. He has seen days of sun, wind, and the relentless tug of time.
Next, you lather the soap between your hands, and direct him to wet the shaggy mane that is his hair. He must cut it himself to maintain it off his face, and his beard remains coarse, but trimmed close to his jaw.
The strands of his fine, black hair are smoothe to the touch when you dip your fingers through them. He is unused to touch, for he starts as if you have pinched him.
With a hoarse huff, he laughs it off as nothing. Though he is passive to the bathing process, he is not altogether patient. You can tell he is tightly wound, and unable to relax, despite the best efforts of the hot water, the smelling soaps you rub on him, and the continued gentleness in which you handle him.
He winces, as if pained, when you draw the soapy washcloth close to his hips, flinches when you do the same for his backside. His grimace lengthens, lips downturned into a petulant pout. Washing his thighs, your arm grazes something bobbing in the water at the apex of his legs, which produces a strained sound from Tovar, the air whooshing from his lips with some effort.
It only takes a minute to realize it was his cock you grazed. Though, invisible under the dirty, frothy water, you are sure he is affected by your touch on him.
It must have been a long time since he has known a woman’s touch. And how does he pleasure himself when he has no company of women?
Perhaps when you leave here, he will do so. Grip his own cock the way he grips the hilt of his sword.
What would you give to have those hands on you instead? The moans, parries, lunges, thrusts, accompanied breathless spurts for air.
Swordfighting and lovemaking, they must be one and the same.
Hadn’t you just seen the tenderness in which he fingered his knife while sitting, bored, in the tavern? Twirled the metal in his fingers, and held the deadly weapon as if it were rather a precious flower.
What would you do to have those fingers on you? In you.
You must sigh to yourself with these sinful wandering thoughts, because he asks a question which you do not hear, and the previous silence is suddenly taut with anticipation.
“What was that?”
“I merely asked your name, ángel.”
You give him your name in a quiet murmur, and hear him repeat it under his breath.
The bucket of fresh water is beside you, and you gently tip it to pour water over his head. He gasps, melting further, and stretches his neck backward to not get soap in his eyes. You watch it gather and pool in large white foamy bubbles, then fall, in large streams down his strong back. You do this over and over, tipping the bucket just enough to produce a waterfall, until the water dripping from his hair runs clear.
New colors jump out at you. Gold and pink, reds and oranges from the firelight; oh how the candlelight compliments him.
Your fingers itch to draw him. If only you had some to mix, to find that perfect match for the way he glistens a little pinkish, as fresh blooming flowers, freshly bathed. His hair is not so black as you initially thought, and you are surprised to find streaks of bronze amongst the dark browns; even his beard has flecks of gray.
Such nuance of color—such beauty.
It steals your breath away.
There is an oil in a small stoppered bottle on the stand at your knee, prepared with sweet smelling scents, and you dip the oil into your palms, warm it, then rub it over his shoulders and back, down his arms and spine.
“What is that?” he quips.
“Rosewater.”
A grunt.
He is verbose, this sellsword.
“Do you not like it?” You cannot help but laugh.
To your surprise, you see the back of his neck grow red, and the flush creeps to the tips of his ears. He mumbles something, squirming as he does so, and it causes water to slosh over the rim of the tub. You think he is trying to argue against it, but says nothing else.
“What was that?” you lean in, expecting him to repeat himself, louder this time.
He changes the subject. “You have soft hands, ángel.”
The flattery makes you warm all over yet again.
“Cannot help the charcoal,” you parry.
“The charcoal?”
He twists his upper body to discern your face. Perhaps he thinks he has misheard you.
You show him your hands, even in cleaning him, some stains are too thorough to be fully washed away. “Charcoal,” you repeat, morose at the way it dirties under your nails.
“For what?”
You have already revealed too much. You go back to warming more oil between your palms, intending to put it on his hands, but he pins you with such sincerity, you find yourself tripping over your words. He is starved not only for touch, but for conversation too.
“I draw,” you say. Though it’s more like a squeak from a timid mouse.
“Like the monks.”
“Not quite like the monks,” you reason.
“What catches the eyes of a kitchen girl so much that she must draw it?” If you thought him handsome before, he is even more so now when a small mischievous smirk makes his way to the corner of his lips.
“People. Faces,” you say, indifferently, rolling your eyes away from his face, too embarrassed to continue carrying on this topic. 
You slap the washcloth onto the rim of the tub, shooting a pointed glance down at the lower half of his body. “I take your leave then,” you say, standing up off the stool. “So you may dress yourself.”
Tovar seems to have forgotten he is naked as a babe, and still in the tub. “First, tell me more about what you draw,” he says instead, ignoring your dismissal.
“I told you. People. Faces.”
“Even my face?” He queries. It’s coupled with one of his breathy huffing laughs that sends his shoulders shrugging.
“If only I had such broad talents.”
He grips to the edge of the tub, gazing upwards and sideways at you. His eyes shine with mirth, his limbs shine with the rosewater oil. There is more that lies beneath this man than his gruff exterior and stony countenance. Your next drawing will be him smiling—you are sure now you can do it, noting how his clings to one side of his face. His grin pulls to almost greet the bottommost dip of the scar on his cheek.
“You paint in color too?” he asks.
“Not yet, but one day.” Flustered, you sweep your hands over your skirts, smoothing down invisible wrinkles. “Paints are too expensive for a kitchen girl's salary.”
“A woman painter stands before me then?”
You laugh again. A foreshortened embittered chuckle—you think he is mocking your station. “Even no one would believe it.”
“No, ángel, even I have seen things with my own two eyes that the world would never believe.” He says this with such gravity, you are stunned by the quick change of the mood. “Do not doubt that even the most fantastical of things may well be a reality.”
“Like what?” For you are genuinely curious.
“Someday I will like to tell you.” He slips away from you to gaze with emptiness at the fire, forgetting you are even in the room until you back away.
The afternoon has long since slipped into evening. The innkeeper below is surely looking for you, or learning that the bath girl and the kitchen girl have switched stations and will be very cross with you for skipping the dinner crowd.
“Goodnight, Tovar,” you say to him. “I will make sure they bring your breakfast to your room on the morrow.”
“Pero,” he calls back.
It is his name.
You hold it like a secret to your heart.
Indeed, you are punished for not attending to your station by doing extra dishes in the sculleries.
Still, at night, despite your exhaustion and the pains in your joints and feet for standing too long at the sink, you steal away a few candles and practice the charcoal drawings of Pero Tovar’s face. Losing sleep, but each time you get the nose right. They are copied from memory so well, it is almost as if he is in the room with you, and can hear his little moans from when you scratched his back in the tub, or his funny wheezy laugh.
More coins are salvaged into your socks, and hidden in a box under your bed, and more nights you spend eagerly looking at each face in the tavern, hoping to see Pero Tovar’s return.
But it is many months before he returns to this village, and this inn.
You miss each other in the hallway, but he spots you first, sitting in a protective stance over his bowl of soup and piece of bread. His armor is different, finer. Perhaps he found a good paying job for the season.
He says nothing, and yet his stare at you speaks volumes as he shovels food into his mouth.
You grow so warm, you think you might faint.
When your shift is over, you find a bundle tied with string has been left at your bedroom door in the rooms near the kitchen. There is not a soul in the hallway.
It is not heavy, and quietly you lock yourself into your room to open it, guarding this secret missive and this anonymous gift with your life.
You untie the bundle and a cry of shock leaves your lips.
They are small jars of pigments.
Azurite and ultramarine blues, verdigris and malachite for greens, red chalk, and yellow ochre. All waiting to be mixed with egg and water for application.
They must have cost a fortune!
But who—?
You have your answer already.
For across the room is the latest drawing of Pero you finished last night. The thick black of his dark eyes, the shadow over his lips of his mustache, and the thin outline where you rubbed the charcoal down to create the supple lines of his lips. He is smiling at you, a full bodied grin, brought to life. His eyes almost twinkle and dance as the stars above, even in the simple light from the candle by your bedside.
Even the most fantastic things may be a reality.
You smile back at the drawing, filled with glee and adoration.
Tonight, you are going to paint Pero Tovar in full color.
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Next >> Repose
tagging some potentially interested parties: @prolix-yuy @magpie-to-the-morning @fuckyeahdindjarin @lowlights @ezrasbirdie @pedrorascal @littlemisspascal @kteague @shirks-all-responsibilities @ohforficsake @joels-shitty-puns @tinytinymenace @undercoverpena
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moondirti · 1 year
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pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.6k summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)
“Sit still.”
A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.  
Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you. 
He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush. 
Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.
Huh– W-What’re you doing? 
Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it. 
Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.
You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you. 
He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers. 
It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene. 
Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips. 
“Nng-! Christ,” 
“What'd I tell ya?” 
“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.” 
“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.” 
“That’s gross.” 
“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.” 
But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck. 
You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have. 
You just found he doesn’t prefer it.
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A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car. 
It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.
Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper.��
Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.
He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes. 
God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries. 
Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.
But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree. 
You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth. 
The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs. 
It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain. 
Him. Him.
He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid. 
But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–
Oh.
Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat. 
Fuck.
A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful. 
Enticing. 
You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs. 
You speak before you begin to process it all. 
“We’ll be here for a while.” 
Stupid, silly girl. 
He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess. 
In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week. 
“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.
Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning. 
“Gotta save some for next time.” 
“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”
“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift. 
“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–”  A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?” 
You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants. 
Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word. 
Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip. 
And it all goes to hell from there. 
Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him. 
It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants. 
“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…” 
“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.” 
“Please.” 
And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea  (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips. 
You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon. 
Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say– 
Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him. 
Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.
“Fuck.”
“Feart, now?” 
His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up. 
He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.” 
Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose. 
His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again: 
“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”
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A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary. 
“Done?” 
You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch. 
“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.” 
“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away. 
“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.” 
“The glow?” 
“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”
“You’re mad.” 
The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.
“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”
Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt. 
This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons. 
He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again. 
The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever. 
“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”
He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations. 
“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.” 
The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close. 
You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean. 
You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night. 
You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone. 
Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I? 
You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.
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Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny. 
“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.” 
A growl. “Shut it. That’s all you.”
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filmnoirsbian · 10 months
Text
Things read in May
Essays & Articles:
Ursula K. Le Guin on Being A Man
Investigating parents of transgender youth has agency on ‘brink of collapse,’ staff warns
Five Indigenous Speculative Fiction Authors You Should Be Reading
DECOLONIZING SCIENCE FICTION AND IMAGINING FUTURES: AN INDIGENOUS FUTURISMS ROUNDTABLE
Using Dogs As A Tool of Racial Oppression
Rings of Power: The new hobbits are filthy, hungry simpletons with stage-Irish accents. That’s $1bn well spent
First case of HIV cure in a woman after stem cell transplantation reported at CROI-2022
The Trees That Miss The Mammoths
NOPE’S SCIENCE CONSULTANT REVEALS THE NAME AND INSPIRATION FOR THE MOVIE’S ALIEN
Reflections on the Poetry of Eavan Boland
The dire state of trans healthcare in Ireland
How Letterkenny Got Indigenous Representation So Right
Einstein's Parable of Quantum Insanity
Surgical amputation of a limb 31,000 years ago in Borneo
Most Transgender Children Stick With Gender Identity 5 Years Later: Study
Were you a ‘parentified child’? What happens when children have to behave like adults
Fear of a Black Hobbit
It’s a ‘Full-Contact’ Haunted House. What Could Go Wrong?
The Craft: How a Teenage Weirdo Based on a Real Person Became an Icon
Remember When Multiplayer Gaming Needed Envelopes and Stamps?
‘We’ll Never Make That Kind of Movie Again’ An oral history of The Emperor’s New Groove, a raucous Disney animated film that almost never happened.
5 Incredible Sagas of Fandom Scams and Deception
I Used to Love British Period Dramas. Now I See Them as Colonial Propaganda
Why gender essentialism is a white supremacist ideology
Liberating Our Homes From the Real Estate–Industrial Complex
You Don’t Have To Be Pretty – On YA Fiction And Beauty As A Priority
Ten Years Later, There’s Still Nothing Like Tarsem Singh’s The Fall
Tolerance is not a moral precept
Scottish Poet and Publisher Derick Thomson 'Transformed' Gaelic Poetry
Poetry:
The Universe, as in One Last Song for the Lonely Hearts by Michelle Hulan
An Ordinary Evening in New Haven by Wallace Stevens
Heaven by George Herbert
Return from Death by Derick Thomson
Coffins by Derick Thomson
Chemin De Fer by Elizabeth Bishop
Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo by William Wordsworth
The Man and the Echo by William Butler Yeats
The Most of It by Robert Frost
Eros Turannos by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Books:
The Dark Yule by R. M. Callahan
The Invasion by K. A. Applegate
The Whisper by Aaron Starmer
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
Miss Iceland by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir
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