#Gaelic lord

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1595 – Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, defeats the English forces of his brother-in-law, Sir Henry Bagenal, at the Battle of Clontibret, Co Monaghan; he is proclaimed a traitor at Newry in June.

Hugh O’Neill (Aodh Mór Ó Néill), was a Gaelic lord, Earl of Tyrone (known as the Great Earl) and was later created The Ó Néill. O’Neill’s career was played out against the background of the Tudor conquest of Ireland, and he is best known for leading the resistance during the Nine Years’ War, the strongest threat to English authority in Ireland since the revolt of Silken Thomas. In May 1595 he…

[dimity-lawn]

I went to the zoo today and (among other things) saw flamingos (alas, his Lordship must have been in a secret tunnel, for they were all brightly colored), The Great God Om, and Dr. Horace Worblehat The Librarian.

I got a number of weird looks for cooing over various venomous reptiles and going “Aren’t you a sweetie? You’re so handsome!” in a babyish voice, but on the other hand I started singing a Gaelic song about the sea and two seals turned to look at me at the same time, which (to quote a certain angel who sauntered vaguely downwards) “was a thing”. Also: I saw an echidna (woo monotremes!), three sand cats (baby! Even if it’s an adult it’s a baby), and got to pet some rays and a ball python. All in all, I’d say it was a good day (except the heat and crowds).

[radicalposture]

i downloaded babel to have a nose and do you ever pick up a book and within five minutes you can tell the author is an american who was obsessed with harry potter and is using their literary career as a way to work through the fact that they still love it but they’re not allowed to publicly admit that anymore

[adorablediscoveries]

Handcrafted Cedar Fairy Doors by SugarBushFairies on Etsy

[gaelicfoxfire]

Welcome to Hell, Hater....

[writerthreads]

Fantasy names ideas (with meanings!)

By Writerthreads on Instagram

I always have trouble coming up with names for side characters, so hopefully this can help you as much as it helped me! The names in brackets are additional ones that are similar.

Male Fantasy Names

Aldric – (Germanic) old ruler / wise ruler

Caelum – (Latin) sky / heaven

Druvan(/Dhruv) – (Sanskrit) steady / immovable

Fenris – (Norse) named after the mythical wolf Fenrir

Kaelen(/Kaelan) – (Celtic) warrior / mighty

Leofric – (Old English) beloved ruler

Maelor – (Welsh) prince / lord

Rurik – (Slavic) famous ruler

Torin – (Gaelic) chief / thunder

Zarion – (Hebrew) full of sadness

Baldric(/Balrik) – (Old Norse) mighty warrior

Garron – (Irish) strength / protection

Ithran – (Arabic) crowned / majestic

Jorah – (Hebrew) autumn rain / early rain

Oberon – (Germanic / French) noble bear, associated with royalty

Female Fantasy Names

Ariella – (Hebrew) lioness of God

Brienne – (Celtic) noble / strong

Elysande – (French) noble / gracious

Isolde – (Germanic / Celtic) ice ruler / beauty

Lyra – (Latin) derived from the constellation Lyra, lyre

Mirabel – (Latin) wonder

Seraphine – (Hebrew) burning one / angelic being

Taliyah – (Arabic) blooming / rising

Yvaine – (Old French) evening star

Althea – (Greek) healer / wholesome

Calantha – (Greek) beautiful flower

Elira – (Albanian) free spirit / liberated

Selene – (Greek) moon goddess / light of the moon

Eleanor – (Greek / French) shining light

Gender-Neutral Fantasy Names

Aeris – (Latin) air / ethereal

Elynor(/Aenor) – (Greek) light / shining

Lior – (Hebrew) my light

Orin – (Celtic) pale / fair

Rune – (Old Norse) secret / mystery

Selwyn – (Old English) good friend / companion

Vesper – (Latin) evening / evening star

Aenor – (Germanic) strength / honor

Ilan – (Hebrew) tree / oak

Soren – (Scandinavian) stern / severe

Next up, country name ideas?

[orangerosebush]

Recently, I did a re-read of the AF series, and I am working through some thoughts I have on the Fowls and what allowed them to maintain power -- especially in the sense of being landed -- in Ireland after arriving during the Norman conquest in the 12th century.

Colfer establishes that Hugo de Folé and Virgil Butler arrived in Ireland during the first Norman crusades in the 12th century (1169).

“The first record of this unusual arrangement [between the Fowls and Butlers] was when Virgil Butler had been contracted as servant, bodyguard, and cook to Lord Hugo de Folé for one of the first great Norman crusades.” From: Artemis Fowl. By Eoin Colfer.

At once, these origins of the Fowls would make them ambiguously part of the Old English, a term from the modern period (post-1600) used to describe the descendants of the first Anglo-Norman conquerors who largely inhabited the Pale (Dublin and surrounding areas) and surrounding towns. Hugo de Folé and Virgil Butler would have likely been Catholic.

However, the origins of Fowl Manor complicate this.

The original Fowl castle had been built by Aodhán Fowl in the fifteenth century overlooking low-lying country on all sides. A tactic borrowed from the Normans. From: The Arctic Incident. By Eoin Colfer

In the 15th (c. 1401-1500) century, Aodhán Fowl acquired land for Fowl Manor in the Pale (Dublin and its surrounding areas); the estate has remained in the Fowls' possession ever since, which is important to note.

The Fowls' historical proximity to the Pale likely was what allowed them to maintain power over the centuries.

Between the 12th and 16th centuries, the Lordship of Ireland (1177-1542) placed swaths of Ireland under the control of Anglo-Norman lords loyal to the King of England.

However, by the 14th century (1300s), English rule of Ireland beyond the Pale (Dublin and its surrounding areas) was weakening. Beyond the Pale, (Catholic) Hiberno-Norman lords' fiefdoms had a degree of independence from the English, often adopting elements of Gaelic language and culture.

This changes around the 16th century with the Protestant Reformation and the Tudor conquest of Ireland. In 1536, Henry VIII of England decided to reconquer Ireland and bring it under crown control. Charles II, Henry VII's son, made the re-established Church of England even more explicitly Protestant.

Between the 16th and 17th centuries (c.1550s-1620s), Irish land was transferred to a new wave of (Protestant) settlers from Great Britain and Scotland to strengthen the Crown's weakening control over Ireland and Anglicize (and thus "civilize") the island; the land transfer was facilitated through the creation of plantations, such as the plantation of Ulster.

The Old English, which would have included descendants of de Folé and Virgil Butler, were supplanted by the New English, the Protestant landowners introduced by the Tudors in a number of ventures at plantations.

It is important to note the historical nuance that:

There was no equivalent in Ireland to the English Test Act of 1672, and there were plenty of precedents for exemptions to the Act of Supremacy. The legal position of Irish Catholics was, in many practical respects, better than that of English Catholics; many fines and penalties fell into abeyance under Charles [II], and the Catholic hierarchy co-operated openly with the Dublin administration. From James's [James VI and I] accession, the Church's position was obviously improved; priests emerged into the public eye and were allowed salaries, though they were not as yet endowed. Protestant superiority remained, in many areas, axiomatic; Catholics continued to occupy a curiously edgy position of formal inferiority combined with tacit toleration. But the ambiguities of their situation reflected the logic of local conditions just as much as the shifts in central policy. [...] But the 'Test clause in the 1704 [Popery] Act, obliging holders of public office to take sacraments according to the usage of the Church of Ireland, gradually excluded Presbyterians from town corporations even in Ulster. Despite the regium donum and the Toleration Act, their equivocal relationship with the civil power remained, and would provide a key theme in the radicalization of the Irish political world after 1780, when the threat of Catholic disaffection apparently receded. [From: Modern Ireland, 1600–1972. By R.F. Foster]

Still, the Popery Act would have had consequences for the historical Fowls and Butlers as Old English families. Beyond the Test clause in the Popery Act, it also limited Catholics' ability to buy/lease land, as well as limited inheritance from a Catholic to be by gavelkind i.e., divided equally, and thus shrinking with each generation, the estate between all sons, rather than according to Primogeniture.

It begs the question of how Fowl Manor remained in the hands of the family, rather than becoming the estate of a member of the New English.

As anti-Catholic sentiment was largely grounded in the political context of loyalty to the Crown (as opposed to the Pope), certain members of the Old English gentry could have (and did!) find ways to join the wave of the Protestant Ascendancy.

"The Anglo-Ireland of the day in fact encompassed sizable middle and lower classes -- a heterogeneity that Foster finds "exemplified by that quintessential Ascendancy institution, Trinity College: defined by Anglicanism but containing sons of peers, of shoemakers, of distillers, of butchers, of surgeons, and of builders" (Foster 1989, 173). And not all the "Anglo-Irish" were, strictly speaking, "Anglo." Early in Bowen's Court, Bowen's historical account of her family's Cork home, we learn that "Bowen" derives from the Welsh "ab Owen" or "ap Owen" (Bowen 1942a, 33). Other Anglo-Irish men and women traced their ancestry to the Old English and to Catholics who converted to Protestantism in order to reap the accompanying social, political and material rewards. Violet Martin (better known as Martin Ross) descended from the Old English Martins of Ross, who had owned land in Galway and had converted to Protestantism in the eighteenth century (McMahon 1968, 123). As Thomas Flanagan concludes, "there were many ways of being Anglo-Irish" (Flanagan 1966, 59). So what, then, defined Anglo-Irishness? In [R.F. ] Foster's view, it was Anglicanism. Anglicanism "defined a social elite, professional as well as landed, whose descent could be Norman, Old English, Cromwellian or even (in a very few cases) ancient Gaelic. Anglicanism conferred exclusivity, in Ireland as in contemporary England; and exclusivity defined the [Protestant] Ascendancy, not ethnic origin" From: An Anarchy in the Mind And in the Heart: Narrating Anglo-Ireland. By Ellen M. Wolff

And what do we find out in the first book of Artemis Fowl?

"Beside [Angeline] was a facsimile of [Artemis'] father, constructed from the morning suit he'd worn on that glorious day in Christchurch Cathedral fourteen years ago." From: Artemis Fowl. By Eoin Colfer

Christchurch Cathedral (in Dublin) is Anglican in denomination!

I just think it is so cool that across a few sentences from Artemis Fowl and The Arctic Incident, it is possible to situate the Fowl family within a semi-realistic history of Ireland.

[spurbleu]

cw. pregnancy pains. angst if you squint.

johnny is unsure how to help you these days.

bull in a china shop, where precious saucers and cups lay broken at his boots. callouses scrub off hand painted cherry branches. blossoms wilt.

he’s become an awkward observer of sorts. rendered silent when hot compounds of mercury foam behind your teeth. yellower, than they had been a couple months ago. he thinks its endearing- a smaller indication that you’re changing. he thinks it’s beautiful.

you cried when he mentioned it. not his brightest moment.

but he’s smart enough to know the anger isn’t meant for him, although he wouldn’t blame you. no, its a rankling hot in your belly- gnawing where ever its young teeth fit- and it fits a perfect grip on the shore of his neck, where the uneven growth of his buzz curls.

after all, he did put the thing in you.

little bugger. inherited his temper, a rearing buck with alters that prod at the sensitive parts of you. bullies a home into your womb, throwing fits against the softer skin of your stomach. shapes secret flesh and makes a home- one that had originally reserved for Johnny alone.

he’d be more mad, if he wasn’t the teacher.

today, he’s sat on the dining table. winter’s nail drags under the threshold, floe mannerless and bitter. your back is turned to him, hands busy with dinner. your belly is hidden, and for several breaths he is taken back seven years.

you made the mistake of being nice. one he thanks God for every day. he prays, clutches on to the crucifix his Ma gave him, that the Lord forgives your one sin.

two, if he counts the thing that gives you a second heart.

remembers how just seven months ago, he hissed and rutted over you- thick gaelic pooling at the gums of his bottom teeth- baby rattle. as if the countless times before this was just a way to stretch you wide for a second mouth. his mother calls that fate, but he terrified it might’ve been a curse.

an act of violence on the person who taught him how to leave it at the door.

because, how could it not be? you’re carrying half- possibly more so- of him now. your body is no longer just yours. its his and theirs and nothing stops the irreversible guilt that festers when he lays next to you.

it was absent when he promised you then- how you’d look so perfectly round with his children. how he couldn’t wait. how he wanted this- and you must’ve too.

words bit him in the fucking arse, didn’t they?

he’s unsure what propels him forward, the sound of your subconscious humming or this new guilt. but suddenly he’s behind you, pressing his lips to your jaw. you flinch, but don’t push him away.

he has seconds to think of an excuse that explains his interruption, a way to apologize for an ignorance he was born with- and in the breath of his nerves he recalls a tip Price gave him.

something about “lifting the weight” from the belly.

his hands find the warmest part of your stomach, just below the pouch, and lifts.

an unforgiving focus renders your body shudder, a lean into his chest, an sigh that curves below his jaw much like your fingers before you kiss him. he colors every shade of relief, of love in your posture, because he can’t stand the idea of missing it. wants to brand this into his head forever, so when he inevitably leaves for another month, he’ll still be able to picture you, waiting.

it takes him a second to realize your glowing.

light peaking behind the thin layer of skin, lamp on his canvas. warmth pulses in the thicket of your veins, and it’s almost too much. hot like a stove that burns, and despite every instinct to pull away, he’s tugged closer.

never told you that during the vows, but he’s shit with his words anyway. this is better, and he thinks you know it.

relishing that once you taught him gentle, it’s all he ever tries to be for you.

for the both of you.

[scotianostra]

On November 15th 1746 a young piper called James Reid from Angus was executed at York in Kaycee-joe England

Reid's crime was playing the pipes as an "Instrument of war". Now there are versions of this story that say Reid was hung, drawn and quartered but on researching this I could find no proof this was the execution method.

Reid served as a piper in the 1st Battalion, Lord Ogilvy's Forfarshire Regiment, raised in October 1745 in support of Bonnie Prince Charlie's uprising. He was among several men from this regiment left as part of the garrison of the English border city of Carlisle when the Jacobite rebels abandoned their invasion of England.

Reid was captured when the city surrendered to government forces in December 1745. At his treason trial, it was put forward in his defence that as a musician, he did not carry arms and had not struck a blow against King George. The court, however, ruled that "a Highland regiment never marched without a piper, and therefore his bagpipe, in the eyes of the law, is an instrument of war"—a legal distinction unique to the pipes.

Reid was not the only piper captured but seems to be the only one on record as being executed as records show one was pardoned, perhaps due to the fact he was "a blind Highland Pyper" another was transported and a third "discharged"

Another myth connected with this story is that the pipes were included in the disarming Act of Proscription which came into force on August 1746, the act did indeed ban the wearing of the kilt but no mention was made of our national instrument.

The pipes in the picture will be very similar to those played by the unfortunate Reid and were said to have been found on Culloden Moor. They are inscribed in both Gaelic and English with “These pipes belonged to John McGregor, piper to the Duke of Atholl, played in the Battles of Prince Charles Stuart’s army 1745-46.”

They are displayed in the Jacobite Room within Blair Castle.

[mercy-love-joy]

Lord of Destruction and Flames

Burning Spice Cookie based on "Apophis" and "Messier"

Inspired by @cuppajj and their idea of GC as Ra while Burning Spice is Apophis. I decided to make it with Messier from Elden Ring because Messier has those snakes, Apophis is a giant snake, bada-bing-bada-boom

I am proud of this and I would to add some notes on the design choices here:

Three snakes to represent the three angles of a triangle

A snake skull to add to the snake motif

The only thing you can see in the helmet is the burning desire to bring destruction to the world

Do you think Burning Spice Cookie would talk with a Welsh accent like they do in-game or do you think he would have that booming voice a god would have when addressing an enemy? (I headcanon that he has a Welsh accent and speaks Gaelic because Silent Salt spoke Garlic)

[we-do-bones-bracket]

Round 5 Match 2

Propaganda:

Harrowhark Nonagesimus (spoilers)

She is THE bone lady. The supreme bone lord. Her entire shtick is bones, as corroborated by multiple other characters throughout the books. She can literally do things with bones that no other necromancer is capable of, and that's before she [spoiler-fueled power upgrade].

Our girl decorates with bones. She gets turned on by growing someone a new bone arm. She's the greatest bone magician there ever was. She's so good with bones it makes god nervous.

she's a necromancer, specifically a bone adept and my god does she love bones. she can make skeleton armies out of powder and puppet dead people so that they look alive. she grew one of her frenemies a new arm just right there on the spot because why not. she's also super edgy and wears black all the time and i love her

Made soup out of her own marrow to make skeletons explode out of someone's stomach. Noone is doing it like her

She does bones, motherfucker.

WE DO BONES, MOTHERFUCKER

Skulduggery Pleasant (spoilers)

he's so we do bones he brought himself back from the dead. AND THEN changed his name to skulduggery to match with his skeleton lifestyle better. he's irish. he used to be great at motivational speeches but now he sucks so bad at them. his skull isn't actually his skull it's someone else's. he wears bespoke suits. he drives a variety of classic cars. he is an incredibly powerful wizard, but also just has a gun that he uses. he can speak Irish Gaelic. his ribcage HAS been used as a xylophone. he's 444 years old.

He's a skeleton in a formal suit and hat. He's a detective. He both carries a revolver and throws fireballs at people. For a long time the accepted reason he was a skeleton was "he's just to ornery to die". He wore someone else's skull for a while, complained that it was noticeably uglier, and was correct. He's sassy enough to trade insults with a teenage girl on a regular basis. How can he not win.

He's literally a living skeleton that does magic, is a detective, and drives around in a cool car. Vote for him

Walking skeleton noir detective, no one is doing bones like this guy.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1920 – Tomás Mac Curtain is elected Sinn Féin Mayor of Cork city.

After Sinn Féin’s sweeping victory in the November 1918 general election and the setting up of the First Dáil in 1919 it was clear that the British government and the Republicans were on a collision course. The War of Independence began with the Soloheadbeg ambush on the same day that the First Dáil met. Tomás MacCurtain took an active role in the War of Independence. Originally from…

[whencyclopedia]

The Dagda

The Dagda (also Daghda, Daghdha, Dagdae, or Dagda Mór), usually written with the definite article, is one of the most important gods in Irish-Celtic mythology. He appears as a multi-talented warrior-leader of the Tuatha Dé Dannan, invaders of ancient Ireland who win a battle against the resident Fir Bolg. Another battle follows, this time against the seafaring Fomorians, and again the Tuatha Dé Dannan are victorious. It is the Fomorians who set the Dagda his famous challenge of eating a huge amount of porridge from his own magical cauldron. With his mighty club, inexhaustible cauldron, and great talent playing the harp, the Dagda was a universal god in Irish mythology considered to dwell in many places, including at Newgrange. As his warrior character, the Dagda is killed by Caitlín, queen of the Fomorians.

Names

Dagda means the 'good god' and the name often appears with a variety of spellings. The sense of 'good' in this context is 'many-skilled' as the Dagda was considered a master craftsman, warrior, magician and ruler. The god may also be referred to as Eochaid Ollathair, meaning 'father of all' or 'mighty father', Ruad Rofhessa, meaning 'lord of great knowledge', or Deirgderc, 'red eye' (referring to the sun). Although recognised by scholars as an important early Irish-Celtic deity, his precise significance is not known. Some have identified him as a sky god and ancestor deity similar to Cronus in Greek mythology. In any case, it is thought that these ancient Celtic gods were not specifically a focus of religious rituals in their particular honour. In contrast, his character as a divine warrior is better represented and seen in the mythological tales of early Irish history which were first written down from around the 8th century CE onwards.

We do know that in the religion of the ancient Celts the Dagda was a prominent figure in the festival of Samhain (aka Samain) which, on 1 November and including the evening of the 31st, celebrated the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. This was also a time when the spirits of the Otherworld could be best contacted. If the Dagda and the war goddess the Mórrigan, sometimes known as the 'queen of demons', came together at this time, then their sexual union would guarantee the fertility and prosperity of the tribe and its harvests and livestock in the coming year. The Dagda was also thought to have had intercourse with two other goddesses during Samhain, these are Boand (aka Boann, goddess of the Boyne River) and Indech (daughter of a renowned warrior of the same name). For this reason, in Gaelic oral traditions in Ireland and Scotland, Samhain was considered the most auspicious time to become pregnant.

Continue reading...

[fraserbraw]

home again, to his love.

john mactavish x f!reader

nsfw, MDNI, chubby reader, oral fem receiving, suggested p in v, johnny being so obsessed with his pretty little plush wife

john & johnny used

1.3k words

nsfw below cut <3

his footsteps sounded softly against the dirt pathway leading to your house, his heart beating from out of his chest.

john’s throat works at the sight of you in the distance, eyes drinking up your figure as if he was the desert and you were the ocean.

“‘m home,” he rasps out. you had been expecting him next week. “forgot t’ call.”

your breath leaves your lungs as his voice fills her your, your mind immediately jumping from the bread you were baking to him.

you rush over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest. your husband, your johnny, came home to you.

whispered prayers and thanks in gaelic left your lips as you held him close, thankful to the lord for bringing him home to you once more.

john holds you, eyes closed as he breathes in the scent of you. the smell of you brings a calmness to the turbulent sea of emotions and stress that he holds inside. “i’m home,” he whispers back—he’s back, back with you again, where he knows he belongs.

warmth fills his eyes and heart as feelings of love overflow him on this happy night, his head tilting down to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. “i missed you,” he says, “too much.”

you press kisses to his neck and jaw and face, finally crashing against his lips. you hold him close to your body as you absorb all of him.

“lord i hate when you go for so long.”

“i hate leavein’. it just ain’t a choice when yer in me sorta line o’ work.” his hand moves up your back, fingers gently stroking through you hair.

“how’s me bonnie been doin’ whilst i been gone?” he asks, that familiar scottish lilt in his words.

“i hope y’ ain’t workin’ yerself too hard here. i seen how thin yer gettin’ in the shoulders. i’ll have ta fix tha’.”

that accent always made you melt. you clung to him as if he was your life force, because in a way, he was. you needed each other, almost more than you needed air.

“i’ve been alright. cooking, mostly. isn’t the same when you’re not here to eat it.”

he hums and lets his hands find your shoulders, massaging right between them as you lean against him. he presses a kiss to the crown of your head before speaking.

“y’ got any leftover, love? m’ starved.”

you let out a soft groan as he massaged the soft tissue of your neck, your head falling against his chest.

you always smelled like a bakery. you owned one, so it made sense, but herbs and flour and warmth seemed to seep from you like the air you breathed.

“i’ll make some more for you. no one i’d rather cook for.”

john’s smile is like the sun cresting the horizon, breaking through clouds of stress and worry. he holds you close in the early morning light, your breaths slowing in that cozy moment that feels like hours.

“aye, love,” he rumbles, “i’ll eat all y’ make for me.” he kisses the top of your head, pulling you in even closer. “what else have you been up to? did ya finally watch that old western i told ya bout?”

you nuzzle into him. you felt like you could never get close enough. if you could crawl inside of him, you would in a heartbeat.

“mhm. watched it last night. i liked it.” you left out the fact that you had watched it every night since he left, clinging onto any part of him that you could in his absence. you knew the movie by heart.

with your face buried against him, john’s hands roam about underneath your shirt, tracing along your skin as he begins to kiss down your neck and move lower.

“tell me, darlin’, what else you been doin’ with yerself?” he asks, his mouth reaching your shoulder and nibbling on your collarbone. “have ya been usin’ the time wisely, hm?”

your eyes fluttered closed, your mouth slightly agape as he kissed all over you neck and collar, as his hands wandered under your shirt and teased just where he knew you would fold.

“mhm.. thinking about you a lot.”

that was all you could say. that was all you needed to say. you knew he would get the message. most nights, you would try to work yourself to an orgasm, wearing something of his. it never worked. not when it wasn’t him.

“ahh, love,” he groans against your skin, “y’ been missin’ me, hm?”

his hands go for the shirt you wear, working to pull it over your head.

his face is buried in your necks and shoulders, hot breath falling against the sensitive skin as his hands run along your skin; he couldn’t believe he had been away for so long.

“y’ been touchin’ yerself for me?” he asks, his words like smooth whisky.

soft whimpers escaped you as he pulled your shirt off, revealing your bare chest. it was a rare occasion when you wore something under your shirts or sweaters, so he knew he would be greeted with the sight of your exposed breasts.

you weren’t a skinny woman, not by any means. you were plush and soft and curvy, just how he loved you. your voice was soft and sweet as you answered him.

“m-mhm.. not the same when it’s not you..”

john’s smile stretches wide; he knows he’s going to be enjoying this.

he moves to his knees, pushing your skirt up over your hips and slotting himself between your legs. he looks up at you through his eyelashes, nosing against your clothed cunny.

you let out a soft gasp as he drops to his knees and lean more against the wall he had you pinned to. you could already feel the wetness of your own arousal begin to soak into the cotton.

“johnny..” you whispered, hands holding up your skirt.

“hmm?” he hummed, pressing kisses to your cunt. his arms wrapped around the backside of your thighs and his fingers played with the soft plush of your hips.

“somethin’ the matter, bonnie?”

you bit your lip and gazed down at him. your eyes closed and you leaned your head back as he licked a stripe up the cotton, the roughness of his stubble scratching so fucking good against your thighs.

his fingers slipped into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down and off of your legs. “told ye i was starved, didn’t i?” he taunted, pressing an unusually soft kiss to the outside of your excited and very much deprived pussy.

you didn’t even think to respond as he lapped at your cunt like a man starved. he ate you like it was his last meal on earth, lapping up anything that he possibly could.

mewls and moans left your lips as he devoured you, lapping at your entrance before moving to your clit. he ran the flat of his tongue over the bundle of nerves and swirled around it. it sent shivers down your spine and trembles through your thighs.

you had to fight off the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. your hand found his hair and tugged, louder and louder moans coming from you.

“f-fuck, johnny, i’m close-“ you moaned, breathy and full of pleasure. he only tightened his grip around your thighs.

“cum for me, bonnie. let me taste you.”

his voice sent vibrations through your cunt and spiraled you over the edge, cumming all over his face. he hummed happily and drank up all that your blessed body gave him.

of course, he didn’t stop there. no, he kept going, eating your pussy and groaning at the taste until you physically pulled him off with a “t-too much, johnny, fuck.”

he let you regain your balance for a second before standing back up and pulling you into his arms. he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and flashed that devilish smile at you.

“le’ me show ye how much i missed ye in the bedroom, aye?”

(a/n: thank you all for all the support <333 i’ll do a m!reader for the next post, feel free to suggest any and all ideas)

[hircines-hunter]

WIP Wednesday

Hi I have so many things to posts I might as just share more Bryn and Esti being soggy kittens. I’ve decided many things. Bryn is half Reachfolk. I am playing off the Scottish accent. And ESO has a lot of it in the Reach Zone. I am using some Scottish Gaelic for him. I’ll post a snippet

Tagging @umbracirrus @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @thequeenofthewinter @oblivions-dawn @moicaire

@madamefluffnstuff @pocket-vvardvark @sulphuricgrin @illumiera @firefly-factory

@skyrim-forever @fangsandsoftgrass and anyone else that wants to do it! Feel free to tag me! And there’s no obligations to participate! :3c

Brynjolf raised his hood against the rain. He followed the shoreline, looking into the lake for Estinan. He spotted movement and a blur of fiery fur leave the lake. The orange werewolf ran into the forest. “Lass! Estinan!” He yelled her name, chasing after her.

Estinan’s ear swiveled when she heard her name. She cursed. He managed to follow her. She slowed down and looked around. She spotted movement in the shadows.

Instincts took over.

Estinan pounced. She landed on Brynjolf. Teeth bared. A low growl hummed from her lips.

Brynjolf looked up at her. Not even an ounce of fear in his eyes. “Na gabh dragh, lassie.” He reached up and ran his fingers through her fur. “No worries, lassie. You’re alright.”

Estinan blinked at him. “Tha gu math.” A huff left her throat.

Brynjolf stared at her before laughing. “O’ course, the lassie would know Reach.” He moved against the mud and sat up. “You’re alright. You’re alright….”

Estinan moved away, sitting on her haunches. She looked around. “Give me a few minutes. I can change back….” She huffed. “Are you hurt? I…. I don’t have the best control.”

“Emotions get the best of everyone. I’m fine. Just covered in mud and rain. Nothing I’m not used to.” He looked at the lake. A sigh left his lips. “Well, now you know about me. Where did you learn?”

“Around. Most I know from rituals. For Lord Hircine.”

“They don’t teach those words with rituals, lass.”

Estinan’s chest rumbled. “I’ve picked it up, is all. I’m not fluent.”

“Still….” He looked back at her. “How long have you been a wolf?”

“Forty-something years. You’re used to werewolves…. Who was from the Reach?”

“Ma. Da was Nord. Ma had Nord in her blood, more than Breton. But she was full Reach.” He looked at the lake, grabbing a rock and throwing it. It skipped one time due to the rain. “I miss them both.”

They sat in silence. Only the occasional thunder and the rain disrupted their silence.

Estinan finally spoke. “I know that feeling. I miss my parents, too. I’m sure they’re still alive. But I’m considered dead to them.” Estinan whispered.

Brynjolf turned and looked back. He watched as she shrunk to her small, elven form. She shivered against the rain that pelted her naked body. He stood up, removed his leather top, and draped it over her shoulders. “Sorry, I don’t have anything warmer for you, lass.”

Estinan pulled the top closer, feeding her arms through it. “Thank you. I…. I’m sorry.” She wiped her face. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I…. I can gather my belongings and leave the Cistern. You won’t have to worry about me again.”

Brynjolf looked at her. He blinked a few times. “I already told you. No worries. Please, lass, you don’t have to worry about it. Let’s get you back home.” He whispered. He took a few steps towards her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her along the shoreline back towards Riften.

[bywandandsword]

Current brainworm, none of the Celtic cultures' creation myths have survived, even though they almost certainly had one. The closest we have is the Lebor Gabala Erenn from Irish mythology, but it isn't a creation story, it records the various settlements of Ireland, ending in the Gaels. However, it is thought that there are reflections of an earlier creation myth in the LGE and in the Tain, and there are similar themes that validate that the Gaels at least viewed the creation of the landscape in this way from various other stories. Additionally, we can compare other Indo-European creation myths to figure out what elements the Gaelic creation myth almost certainly would have had. These include:

Before creation, there is a void of some kind

In that void, fire interacts with water/ice to create the first life

A primordial bovine, most likely a cow (bulls were more common in IE cultures that emphasized pastoralism over crops. The Romans had a she-wolf, because they had to be edge lords)

One primordial being or possibly a set of twins who are sustained by the milk of the cow

One of the twins/the primordial being is dismembered to create the physical world

So already we have the makings of a general creation story, and if you're familiar with Norse mythologies, you might recognize it. In fact, it's thought that the Norse creation myth has retained the most elements of the original IE myth

However, scholars point out that the primordial being that is killed is called *Yemo, meaning "twin", which means there was likely originally two first beings. In the one sacrificing the other, the act renders the brother doing the sacrificing as the First Priest, who creates the concept of death, but in doing so turns that death into the living world. The sacrificed brother is then typically rendered as the First King and Ruler of the Land of the Dead. By setting up this order for the world, the First Priest establishes that life cannot exist without death (whether it be harvesting crops or butchering livestock), and typically, these myths continue and establish the role of the priests in society, who's job it is to ensure the continuity of the original sacrifice and maintain the living world

Now, here's where we get into my speculation;

I think it's likely that the Irish creation myth involved a set of twins. Off the top of my head, I think that possible reflections of this can be found in the brothers Amergin and Donn and in the Donn Cuailnge and Finnbhennach from the Táin. With Amergin and Donn, Donn insults the goddess of the land and is drowned. In doing so, Donn becomes a god of the dead and all the souls of the dead have to gather at or pass through Tech Duinn. Amergin however, secures the support of these goddesses and is able to go on and give order to the Gaelic rule of Ireland by deciding who will rule what and serves as the Chief Ollam (bard) of Ireland. In the Táin, after the main Plot has gone down, the Donn Cuailnge and Finnbhennach fight and the the Donn Cuailnge ends up killing Finnbhennach. As the Donn Cuailnge passes through the landscape, pieces of Finnbhennach drop off his horns and form/name part of the landscape. I think it's also interesting how in both these stories, one of the duo is explicitly associated with the color white (Amergin is called "white knees") and the other one is dark, but the opposite one dies first in the stories

Also, if we look at myths like the creation of the Shannon and the Boyne rivers, where in the goddesses Sionnan and Boann, respectively, die in the rivers' creations, we further see that the death of one figure to create an element of the landscape is a relatively common one, so a creation story similar to the one I hypothesize the Irish had wouldn't have been outside of pagan Irish belief

Additionally, if we look at the duíle, kind of like the Irish elements/natural features, we see that the nine elements/features are each explicitly associated with body parts. Stone is associated with bones, the sea with blood, the face with the sun, ect. I think this could be a call back to that earlier creation myth

Off the top of my head, that's what I've been mulling over. Idk, I might be completely off the mark, but if anyone wants give their thoughts, I'd love to hear them. I'm certainly not an expert in Irish mythology and there may be some key factor that completely sinks this idea