#gaelic memories

[gaelicmemoriesphotography]

Aurora at Gara - County Sligo

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Thinking about the complexities of a "losing your magic" story in a DnD (and similar) scenerio because what it means completly depends of your class. Because while not everyone is born with magic, everyone can have it.

How for a sorcerer losing their magic is genuinally about losing a part of themselfs, to suddently not being able to do something they always did. Losing your magic is like sudently losing a limb or one of your senses. And how besides being always theirs, their magic is ancestral how it can mean losing a connection with a part of their family history.

How for paladins is about morals. About breaking their vows whatever they are, dealing with the fact that they changed or maybe that morals were always way more complicated than they thought they were. (The Oathbreaker subclass changes things but I think it can work if Oathbreaker is one of the ways to embrace the emotional conflict that took your magic). Is almost phylosofical. Is the what makes Thor worthy?

How for druids, clerics and warlocks are different levels of losing a connection. For druids is with nature, with a force beyond their comprehension but that became a part of you for so long and who are you without this feeling? For warlocks is so many things, is losing a boss, a friend, is the price of freedom, is the loss of whatever you had with the sentient being that gave you powers. And for clerics is a mix, is about if their gods are feelings like nature or beings that talk to them, but whatever it is, for clerics, for clerics is a lack of faith. Is about what happens when you doubt your god, when you can't belive it or in it. Is also about what happens when your god doesn't belive in you.

For bards and mages is the loss of a skill. The bards might have the loss of their playing or voice but even if not, even if is just the magic that is gone, well they, just like the mages, studied hard to be abble to do magic. If for a sorcerer is like losing a limb, for them is like waking up in the morning and noticing your accent changed or that you don't speak a language you once did anymore, is trying to ride the same bicycle you used to go to work everyday and noticing you just doesn't know how.

[ceo-draiochta]

How could I forget "Is binn béal ina thost"- The silent mouth is sweet. Easily the best way to tell someone to shut tf up.

[theinkedfoxsl]

how do you...

would it be 廖 静 ???

how is this written... I AM EXPLAINED THIS EVERY FUCKING TIME.

[embraceyourdestiny]

I hope when I type the word amen your brain reads it as “ah-men”

[ancestorsalive]

Waulking Skye Weavers Tweed

“These women have stamina! As well as fantastic singing voices. A few highlights from the day I spent at Auchindrain Township, finishing a length of Skye Wool tweed over several hours with waulking groups Sgioba Luaidh Inbhirchluaidh  and Cuigeal. Make sure you turn the sound on for a taster of some of the many traditional waulking songs (Òrain Luaidh in Gaelic) that are integral to this process and an important part of Scotland’s cultural heritage. Watch to the end to see the finished tweed back in Skye.”

- Skye Weavers

Find out more about waulking on our blog: https://www.skyeweavers.co.uk/blog/waulking-the-tweed

[streetsofdublin]

ÉIRE MEMORIAL RESTORED AND RELOCATED WITHIN MERRION SQUARE PARK

In 1928 Jerome Connor became involved in a proposal to create a memorial to the Kerry poets, which was to commemorate four leading Gaelic poets of the 17th and 18th centuries at Killarney.

SCULPTURE BY JEROME CONNOR I used an iPhone 12 Pro Max to photograph one of my favourite sculptures in Merrion Square Public Park. Éire Memorial (1974) By Jerome Connor (1874-1943)[Restored And Relocated Within Merrion Square Park] In 1928 Jerome Connor became involved in a proposal to create a memorial to the Kerry poets, which was to commemorate four leading Gaelic poets of the 17th and 18th…

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Halloween

REFERENCES (Banshee; Ghost; Ghoul; Goblin; Haunt; Specter; Vampire; Wraith; Origins of Halloween)

Banshee

A female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die.

Banshee came from combining the Gaelic words meaning “woman of fairyland,” but any positive associations with fairies ends there.

Are female spirits that, if seen or heard wailing under the windows of a house, foretell of a death in the family that lives there.

Today, the word is most frequently heard in the idiom “scream like a banshee” or “wail like a banshee,” which shows the power of myth and the imaginative power of language, since probably no one has actually heard one.

Ghost

Most common meaning today is “a disembodied soul” or “the soul or specter of a deceased person”, which came next, a meaning based on the ancient folkloric notion that the spirit is separable from the body and can continue its existence after death. It originally meant “vital spark” or “the seat of life or intelligence,” which is still used in the phrase “give up the ghost.”

An older spelling of ghost, gast, is the root of aghast (“struck with terror, shocked”) and ghastly (“frightening”).

The German word for ghost, geist, is part of the word zeitgeist, which literally means “spirit of the time.”

Ghoul

A legendary evil being that robs graves and feeds on corpses.

Ghoul is a relatively recent English word, borrowed from Arabic in the 1700s.

Because it’s spelled with gh-, it looks vaguely like the Old English words ghost and ghastly (which share a common root in the Old English word gāst, meaning “spirit” or “ghost”).

In fact, it comes from the Arabic word ghūl, derived from the verb that means “to seize,” and originally meant “a legendary evil being held to rob graves and feed on corpses.” The word was introduced to western literature by the French translation of Arabian Nights.

Goblin

An ugly or grotesque sprite.

Usually mischievous and sometimes evil and malicious.

Haunt

To visit or inhabit as a ghost.

However, this is not the original sense of the word.

For centuries, it had a perfectly unfrightening set of meanings: “to visit often” and “to continually seek the company of.”

In the 1500s, it began to mean “to have a disquieting or harmful effect on,” as in “that problem may come back to haunt you.” The meaning here is simply the lingering presence of the problem, not the possibly scary nature of the problem itself; it is applied to thoughts, memories, and emotions.

The noun haunt retains this fright-neutral definition, “a place that you go to often,” as in “one of my favorite old haunts.”

A lingering idea, memory, or feeling may have led to the ghostly meaning of haunt, or one by a disembodied or imaginary spirit.

Specter

A visible disembodied spirit.

Specter originally meant “a visible disembodied spirit” in English—a good synonym for ghost. But, unlike ghost, the notion of being visible is paramount in specter, which came to English from the French word spectre, which developed directly from the Latin word spectrum, meaning “appearance” or “specter,” itself based on the verb specere, meaning “to look.”

Specere is also the root of many English words that have to do with appearance: aspect, conspicuous, inspect, perspective, and spectacle.

Vampire

The reanimated body of a dead person believed to come from the grave at night and suck the blood of persons asleep.

Legends of bloodsucking creatures go back to Ancient Greece, with harrowing tales of them rising from burial places at night to drink peoples’ blood before hiding from dawn’s daylight. These stories were popular in eastern Europe.

Originally comes from the Serbian word vampir, which then passed from German to French, coming to English in the 1700s.

The extended senses of vampire, “one who lives by preying on others” and a synonym of vampire bat, were both in use within a few decades.

Wraith

The exact likeness of a living person seen usually just before death as an apparition. The distinguishing quality of a wraith, compared with other ghosts, is its specificity.

Originally, it referred to either the exact likeness of a living person seen as an apparition just before that person’s death as a kind of spectral premonition of bad news, or a visible apparition of a dead person.

When referring to a living person, it’s a synonym of doppelgänger, or the “spirit double” of a living person (as opposed to a ghost, which refers to the spirit of a dead person). Doppelgänger is now frequently used in a broader sense to mean simply “someone who looks like someone else.”

When referring to a dead person, wraith is a synonym of revenant, which originally referred to a ghost of a particular person and subsequently has been used for a person who returns after a long absence.

ORIGINS OF HALLOWEEN

The traditions of Halloween have their origins in Samhain, a festival celebrated by the Celts of ancient Britain and Ireland.

Samhain marked the end of summer and the onset of winter, and occurred on a date that corresponds to our November 1st.

It was believed that during the Samhain festival, the world of the gods was visible to humans, and the gods took advantage of this fact by playing tricks on their mortal worshippers. Those worshippers in turn responded with bonfires on hilltops and sometimes masks and other varied disguises to keep ghosts from being able to recognize them. Things tended to get spooky and dangerous around Samhain, with bloody sacrifices and supernatural phenomena abounding.

Samhain chugged along for centuries, until Christianity poked its nose in: in the 8th century CE, All Saints' Day, a somewhat new Christian holiday, got moved from May 13th to November 1st.

The evening before All Saints' Day became a holy���that is, a hallowed—eve. Within a few centuries, Samhain and the eve of All Saints' Day had been merged into a single holiday. Protestants of the Reformation and all that came after largely rejected the whole thing, but the holiday persisted among some communities.

19th-century immigrants to the U.S., including many from Ireland, brought their Halloween customs with them and deserve no small amount of credit for the holiday as it's celebrated in the U.S. today.

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Word List: October

[glossysoap]

crescents in his skin ; soap mactavish. 1 of 3

or alternatively titled, ‘moronic wolfy claim’. the prequel to my new werewolf soap mini fic.

summary: you and soap were inseparable, usually. at least until a few months ago when he got injured on a mission. ever since then, he hasn’t been able to even be in your vicinity. maybe it has something to do with his newfound strength. or the way you could swear his eyes shone amber when he was angry.

tags: pov shifting but it’s easy to tell which pov is which don’t worry, future werewolf soap - he hasn’t been turned yet, fem reader, smut, cum play, minor degradation, major praise kink, boot riding, perv soap, best friends to mates lovers, possessive soap, perv soap, yearning, misunderstanding, perv soap, not actually unrequited love. did i mention perv soap?

notes: gaelic is in bolded italics, english translation is right after it in non bolded italics. other than that, fantasies are in italics (though it’s easy to tell either way).

word count: 7,800

If anyone had to pick a word that describes you and Soap, it would be inseparable.

Always attached at the hip. Talking each others ear off, even about the most mundane of things. The two of you would always be seen laughing with each other, your eyes bright and crinkled at the edges as he whispers some cheeky joke into your ear.

Everything that he showed towards everyone else, was amplified ten fold for you.

He would always be touching you in some way. Whether it was on your shoulders, on the small of your back, or enveloping your smaller hand in his — his warm hands would always be on you in some way.

Of course, he was touchy with everyone. It was in his nature. He would clap a hand on Ghost’s shoulder when walking up behind him, or pulling him into a hug after a close call.

All of that was nothing compared to how he was with you.

If you were shivering, you wouldn’t even be able to grab your own jacket before he was taking his own coat off and wrapping it around you. You would feel your cheeks heating up under his intense gaze as he adjusts the collar of the coat, his thumbs grazing the skin of your jaw.

Whenever you were riding along with the task force in the Hum-vee, he would always choose the seat right next to you. If the vehicle came to hard stop, his muscular arm would dart out in front of you to shield you. Your eyes would widen as you looked down at his arm pressed against your stomach, keeping you safe in your seat.

Every sentence that dropped from his mouth and hit your ears was always accompanied by a pet name. Not a platonic one like ‘lad’ or ‘brother’ that he reserved for Ghost or Gaz, far from it.

The pet names he had reserved for you were far less platonic and far more.. romantic.

Nearly every pet name would be murmured against your skin, whether it be his lips against your forehead or on your cheek. Or against your ear as he whispers, “Ye’ did great on that mission, bonnie.” Always followed up by a kiss on the cheek.

“Ye’ alright, darlin’?” He would ask you after a close call, cupping your cheeks and eyes scanning your face for any scrapes or cuts. His big calloused hands holding your face so tenderly made you feel safer than any bulletproof vest ever could.

“Yer shiverin’ love! Here, take my jacket.” He would almost order, leaving no room for protest as he was already shedding his own tactical coat and draping it over your shoulders. Your mouth would be open, about to assure him that you were alright when he adjusted the collar of the jacket. Letting his thumbs graze your neck and jaw as he adjusted the fabric, eyes scanning your face from pure instinct. His cerulean eyes would be burning into your face, committing every detail to memory. How your eyes were widened in a mix of shock and nerves, your brows raised. How you bit your lip when you were focusing on something, and how that always made him yearn to take your lip between his teeth and nip at it.

Bonnie. Darling. Love. Those nicknames were specifically reserved for you and you only. Far from platonic.

Any one of your features would send him spiraling — making his heart pound, and his jeans tighten with a familiar tent.

Your eyes.

The way they would automatically search for him when you entered a room, always instinctively searching him out. The way your lips would quirk up at the corners in a shy smile when your eyes find him.

Good pup, he would think.

It’s almost like your brain already knows you belong with him, friendly boundaries be damned.

The way your eyes peer up at him, all wide and innocent. Always giving him your full attention, treating him with a tunnel vision of sorts as you waited for any order or call.

A single look at your eyes would send his mind into various fantasies of you, in various positions and situations.

You occupied every inch of space in his mind, at any given moment.

Just like you did right now, while he was working out in the gym on base.

His mind was flooded with images of you in compromising positions and conjured up fantasies as he began training.

He imagines your eyes all glossed over with tears, pupils blown wide with lust. Images would flood his brain of the two of you camped out in the Hum-vee, shrouded in the dark of a stakeout. Mission objective already long forgotten.

He imagines you sitting in the backseat with him, with your pants pulled down to your knees and your legs spread open. Your shirt slipped up to reveal your stomach. His tan arm snaking down your abdomen, warm and hairy against your cool skin. You could see every intricate detail of his tattoo on his forearm as his hand slipped beneath your panties. You could only stare down at his descending hand and gasp as he grazed along your wet slit with his forefinger. You could hear him laugh next to you, sporting a cocky grin at how quickly you were already soaked. Only a few moments passed before he slipped his middle and ring finger inside your wet cunt with a quiet squelch, making your breath hitch at the intrusion. It didn’t take long before he had pushed his fingers all the way past the knuckle and to the hilt. The two thick digits spreading you open and filling you so deep.

“Mmm, so tight, bonnie.” He murmurs into your ear, moving his mouth to suck along the span of your neck.

“Soap, oh my god!” The feeling of his tongue licking a stripe up your neck, him leaving messy open mouthed kisses along your skin, mixed with his fingers pumping in your wet cunt at a furious pace left you so overstimulated. You didn’t know where to look, what to say. Where to put your hands. You could only jerk your hips against his hand and let out almost incoherent babbles.

Your head is thrown back against the headrest, face all scrunched up in pleasure and mouth open in breathy moans. His mouth is pulled into a self indulgent smirk against your neck as he watched your body writhe in pleasure with each pump and thrust of his fingers.

He could just imagine your legs twitching and your hips bucking against his fingers, your juices soaking his hand. He could imagine the warm, wet feeling of your cunt squeezing around his fingers as he pumped them in and out at a furious pace. He could practically hear your panting and whines echo through the Hum-vee, paired with squelching from your soaked cunt as his fingers pulled out and pushed back in.

“Soap,” he could imagine you moaning his name, looking up at him with glossy eyes as tears pricked at your lash line. Your hands searching for purchase desperately, trying to grab at the leather seat underneath you but to no avail. “Please.”

In his head, in the fucked up fantasy he had conjured up, he loved the sight so much that he slipped a third finger past your entrance and worked it in along side the other two. Grinning wickedly when he sees your mouth fall open, chest heaving as you felt yourself getting closer and closer.

“No, no, no. No ‘Soap’. No ‘Sergeant’. None o’ that. Just ‘Johnny’.” His fingers quicken, and his smile grows at your widening eyes.

“Say it. Say my name while ye’ cream around my fingers.” He imagined himself all but growling in your ear as he looked at your squirming figure, twitching uncontrollably from the pleasure.

He saw you bite your lip to silence your moans and he thought, not a chance. “Say. It.” He ground out, voice full of gravel. To drive that point home, he curled his fingers just so. Hitting that spot that made your toes curl and that knot in your stomach tighten. He pairs it perfectly with a hard bite in the crook of your neck, teeth digging in to leave a bruising reminder of who you belonged to.

“Ah! I found that spot, didn’t I, pup? This spot, right here.” He smirks, so self satisfied when he sees your mouth drop open and your hips buck.

Your eyes would drop to his arm that was snaked down your stomach, his muscles tensing and flexing as he worked his fingers inside your pussy. Then you would link your arms with his arm, grounding yourself in reality as he drove you closer and closer to the first orgasm of many.

Just imagining you moaning his name is enough to make him hard.

“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!” You would babble his name mindlessly, your hips bucking against his fingers and your legs twitching. “Yeah, there ye’ go.” He would hum in approval against your ear, the sound from deep in his chest as you squirt against his hand. Drenching his fingers and palm, the fluid dripping onto the leather beneath you.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you came down from your high, your heart racing in your chest. You were still shaking and spent, clinging to his arm as he used his free hand to reach between your thighs. Your legs would twitch and jerk away from his touch, overwhelmingly sensitive after cumming all over his hand only moments prior. He shushed you gently, his lips murmuring all warm and rumbling against your ear to calm you down. He used two fingers to sweep along the slippery leather, gathering your juices and coating his fingers with the slick. You cracked your eyes open long enough to see him bringing his coated fingers up to his lips, his cerulean eyes still staring at you. Your half lidded eyes widened as you watched his tongue dart out to lick your juices off of his fingers, popping them in his mouth and sucking them clean with a pop each time.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, knew ye’ would. My sweet girl.” Without giving you a moment of reprieve, he grabs your throat with that same hand he just licked and pulls your face close to his. He applies the slightest bit of pressure to your windpipe, not enough to cut off your airway but just enough to make you deliciously dizzy. You could feel his breath fan against your lips from how close he was, you could smell the traces of bourbon from his mouth.

He all but smashes his lips against yours and kissing you fervently, all messy and sloppy. You yelp against his mouth, the sound quickly turning into a pathetic whine that he swallows. He nips and bites at your lip, pulling just a fraction — enough to tease you. Enough for him to slip his tongue past your lips and force you to taste yourself on him, letting his tongue mingle with yours.

Then the image in his head shifted from the inside of the Hum-vee, to the two of you in his quarters. With you on your knees in front of him.

He saw you on your knees, staring up at him through your lashes as you worshipped his cock. Kneeling in front of him, sitting between his spread legs as his jeans were pulled down just enough to free his erection. While one had was stroking him, your other hand would be laid on his bare thigh, feeling the scratch of his body hair against your soft skin. One hand would be rested on your head, petting your hair while his other hand would be cupping your cheek. His thumb stroking at the soft skin of your face, his eyes staring into yours.

“Look so fuckin’ good like that on yer knees for me.”

He could imagine your shaky hands reach for his hard cock that was resting against his stomach, your eyes glazed over and pupils dilated with anticipation. He could imagine your small, almost inaudible gasp when you finally take him in your hand, feeling how hard and hot his shaft is. How it’s pulsing under your touch, desperate for you to start stroking. He could imagine his own breath hitching as your hand finally moved up and down his uncut length. He could imagine your own breathing grow heavier as you watched your hand pump his cock, twisting near the head and squeezing a bit when you reach the base. Your hand would move on autopilot, as if it was made for his cock. Made for him.

You were made for him.

“Sittin’ all pretty just for me, hm? Isn’t that right, doll?” He would murmur with a possessive lilt to his voice, lips curved into a smirk as his eyes peered down into yours. You could only nod, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

“C’mon, open yer mouth for me. There ye’ go.”

He imagined your tongue sticking out, letting him hit the head of his cock on your tongue with little taps. He imagined you shyly licking the tip, taking tentative laps along the sensitive skin. He imagined your tongue darting out to trace along the vein that ran underneath his shaft, feeling your hands move to wrap around the base of his cock.

“Fuck, good fuckin’ pup.”

He imagined your plump, shiny lips wrapped around his cock as you finally started sucking. He imagined your pretty eyes staring up at him with tears rimming your lash line, eyes glossing over. He imagined your muffled whimpers around his cock as you bobbed your head up and down. His hand would be fisted in your hair and he would be controlling the pace, using your hair as a handle as he fucked your throat.

He could imagine tear tracks running down your cheeks and drool dribbling down your chin as you kept taking him all the way down to the base of his cock. He could imagine the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, feeling you swallow around him and sending waves of pleasure into his core.

“So fuckin’ perfect like this, doll. Taking my cock so well, like a good fuckin’ girl. Always so good for me.”

You would preen around his cock, glossy eyes crinkling at the edges as you smiled from the praise. Even though your vision was blurred from the tears welling up, just hearing his gravelly voice shower you with compliments was enough.

He could imagine you grinding your cunt against his boot while you sucked his cock. He could almost hear your muffled whines and feel your moans sending vibrations to his core. Tear tracks would be running down your cheeks as you kept taking him all the way to the hilt, your nose brushing against the brown tuft of hair at the base. Spit would be dribbling down your chin and down your neck.

“So pathetic. Humping on my boot like a damn dog, so fuckin’ greedy.”

You would whine around his length at his degrading words, but your stomach grew tighter nonetheless. Your pussy squeezed around nothing as you ground down desperately against his boot, just aching to be filled. Your hips would be rocking against his boot, feeling that warmth build up in your stomach with each pass of your cunt against the leather.

“Look at you, already makin’ such a mess on the floor with how wet you are.” He would mock you. “Well, go on then. Fuck yourself on my boot. Cum like the desperate slut you are.”

He can just imagine your muffled cries and eyes squeezed shut as you come apart on his boot, drenching the leather with your juices.

Then the scene in his mind transforms from you on your knees, to the inside of the bases shower room.

Skin slapping against skin would echo throughout the tiled room along with the sound of the running showers. Broken moans and whimpers falling from your kiss-swollen lips, grunts and curses pouring from Johnny’s.

He would have you bent over the sink, his naked body pressed up against yours as he ruts into you. The only thing holding you steady were your elbows planted on the counter as he plowed into your slippery cunt, his big hands gripping your hips enough to leave a handprint in his wake.

“Feel good, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” He could imagine you babbling mindlessly.

“Aww, ye’, I know.” He would croon almost cruelly in that sickly sweet tone of his.

He imagines tears running down your cheeks as he takes you from behind, his cock buried deep in your cunt. Whines and grunts echoed in his mind, along with the sounds of rough slapping skin against skin. Wet sounds mixed in with the cacophony of noises as his cock plunged back inside your soaked pussy with each thrust of his hips.

“So fuckin’ tight for me, pet.”

Mirrors were on the wall across from the two of you, leaving your reflection on full display for him to drink in as he fucked you.

While his mind was filled with these conjured up images of you stark bare and taking his cock, he took this opportunity to imagine what you would actually look like naked. What your body would look like under all of those layers of scrubs or civilian clothes, sometimes even military gear.

The only glimpse at your figure he had to go off of was from a Special Forces fundraiser gala, where you were wearing a beautiful gown. It was a black, off the shoulder dress with a plunging neckline and a slit running up the thigh. Not hitting too high, just hitting mid way up your thigh — just enough to tease Soap with a sliver of leg. Enough to give him a glimpse of a black lace garter hugging your thigh.

“So beautiful. Such a pretty fuckin’ girl.”

So, as his brain painted that picture of the two of you in the shower room, his brain also filled in the blanks with what your body might look like.

He imagines staring into your reflection in the mirror, and seeing your breasts bounce with each thrust, skin shining with sweat and nipples hardened from arousal. He imagines the buds swollen and sore from being sucked and nipped on. He imagines stripes of wetness decorating your breasts from his tongue tasting your skin, dipping between the valley of your tits. He imagines mouth shaped marks and indentations littering your skin, all from his mouth claiming you as his.

For a split second, he even imagines how ropes of his cum would look splattered across your tits.

“Only like this for me, isn’t that right?”

He imagines your chest heaving as you pant and gasp with pleasure, especially when your breath hitches from a particularly hard thrust. He imagines your pulse thrumming hard under your skin, heart racing and pounding in your ears.

He imagines how your ass would feel as he gripped it in his big hands, the soft skin being such a harsh contrast against his rough, calloused palms. He imagines how your flesh would ripple with each thrust, or how it would jiggle when his palm would come down in a swift spank across your ass. He could practically hear your yelp as handprint welts formed on your skin.

“Wanted this for so fuckin’ long.”

He imagines your thighs rubbing up against his as he’s rutting into your hot cunt, grunting with every thrust in and every pull out and every thrust back in. He imagines how shaky your legs would be from all of his ministrations and the onslaught of ecstasy he put you through. He imagines your cunt squeezing his cock so tight, almost pushing him out with how tight you were clenching down on him. Fuck, you were all warm and wet and spongey. He imagines your juices mixing with his and dripping down your thighs.

“Oh, you’re so fuckin’ wet for me. Just soakin’ my cock. Knew ye’ wanted me. Just like I’ve wanted ye’.”

Finally, he imagines your face while he fucks you against the mirror. He imagines how your expression would shift and contort in pure ecstasy, your brows all furrowed and eyes clenched shut. Your mouth hanging open in a gasp and your tongue lolling out as his cock reaches that sensitive spot over and over.

It was the perfect image. You losing yourself impaled on his cock, cunt squeezing him perfectly as you came closer and closer to the edge. Him buried deep inside you, impossibly close to you in ways he’d always imagined.

It was perfect in every way, except for one. Your eyes were closed. You couldn’t see your reflection in the mirror in front of you, you couldn’t see yourself coming apart for him and only him.

And that just wouldn’t do.

“No, no, no. Not a fuckin’ chance.”

With that, he leans down and reaches to grips your jaw. He relishes in seeing your eyes flash open in shock, enjoying the cute little yelp fall from your lips as he snakes his muscular arm around your chest. He uses the vice-like hold on your jaw to pull you up until you were flush against his chest. Your hand darted up to hold his wrist as he held your jaw, your other hand grasping at his arm that was wrapped around your chest. Your nails dug into his skin, leaving white crescent marks against his tan flesh as you searched for purchase — anything to ground you in reality.

“You’re gonnae keep those eyes open. You’re gonnae watch yourself cum on my cock.” He growls into your ear, his free hand snaking across your chest while his other hand was still gripping your jaw. “Oh, fuck—,” You would cry out at the new, closer angle he was thrusting into you with. The hand that was splayed across your chest groped your breast, his rough skin burning at your flesh and his fingers tweaking at your nipple.

“Yeah, ye’ feel that? Feel me splitting you open?” Would be ground out into your ear, the husky timbre of his voice sending chills down your spine.

His hips would snap up into you, his cock hitting you even deeper and making you feel impossibly fuller with each thrust. Your eyes would roll with each cruel snap of his hips, head falling back onto his shoulder.

“Oh, fuuuck.” You cry out, legs feeling more like jelly with each passing second. You knew if his strong arms weren’t holding you so tight, you would’ve melted in a puddle on the tile beneath you. “Johnny!”

You could feel him smirk against your cheek.

“That’s it, tell everyone who’s makin’ ye’ feel so good. Tell everyone who ye’ belong to.” The hand on your jaw would make you face the mirror in front of you.

You would open your eyes to see yourself in the reflection, all manhandled by your best friend while his thick cock pistoned in and out of your slick cunt. His big hand would have a firm grip on your jaw as he controlled where you looked, forcing you to look at yourself while getting orgasms forced out of you. His other hand would be snaked around your chest, muscular arm flexing as he palmed your breast. Both of you would be covered in a sheen of sweat and tears would be running down your cheeks from all of the pleasure building up.

“Johnny, please!” You would all but shout, looking at him through the reflection with blurry eyes. You didn’t know what you were begging for. A moment of reprieve, maybe? One last push to shove you over the edge? You weren’t sure.

“Please, what? Hm? Use yer words.”

“Please make me cum! Please, please, please— oh, fuck!” Your begging would be cut off by your own moan as the hand that was on your chest moved down to rub circles over your swollen clit.

He would only laugh as you squirted on his cock, squeezing him for all he was worth.

He would be pulled, yanked out of his perverted fantasies by the loud crash of a weight hitting the matted gym floor. A lower ranking soldier had finished with their sets and let the weight fall to the floor without any regard for the Sergeants eardrums.

Soap just shook his head and moved to leave the gym, in an attempt to rid himself of the images that were sure to get him painfully hard.

After he cleaned the machines he used, he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and grabbed his thermos.

Soap walked out of the base gym after a hard training, his tan skin all flushed and sweaty. Mohawk all messy and some strands sticking to his forehead. He wore a white wife beater and grey sweatpants, and he held a thermos filled with ice water at his side.

He willed his mind to drift away from the images that made his cock hard, and instead forced himself to think about things that made his heart race. After he left the gym and let the heavy doors close behind him, his mind immediately thought of one thing that fit that description.

You.

You and your annoyed expression that you would wear whenever he shooes away yet another date, usually by slinging his arm over your shoulder and drawling in your ear, “Who’s this, babe?”

The annoyed expression always featured a clenched jaw and your perfect lips downturned into a frown, paired with an eye roll that could rival the Lieutenants.

You also wore that annoyed expression when receiving unwanted attention from other guys. Which is what was about to happen in a few moments.

His heart pounds in his ears as he comes down from his workout, still panting a bit as he uncapped his thermos. He leans against the wall as he raises his thermos to his lips, gulping down the ice water greedily. As he tilts his head back and drinks, his eyes spot a familiar figure behind his raised thermos.

You. You were walking the halls of the base with a stack of files folded under your arm, presumably to deliver to Price’s office.

He makes a surprised noise, swallowing whatever water was in his mouth and quickly screwing the cap back on to his thermos.

With a grin painted on his lips, he breaks into a jog towards you. He couldn’t wait to talk to you, be near you, especially since he was about to ship off for a long deployment the next day.

Once he caught up to you, his grin quickly dissolves into a frown as he sees someone already talking to you. A guy.

The guy was dressed in some run-of-the-mill camouflage that was fit for some random soldier. Not a uniform for an established officer or for someone with a respected ranking. Just some mediocre boy.

Which is exactly what Soap saw when he looked at the guy. Mediocre. No talent. No direction. No drive.

Cerulean eyes skimmed the soldier with a displeased expression. He was wearing an intimidated expression, his eyes were wide as he looked at the Sergeant. His eyes scanning the soldiers wrinkled uniform and crooked patch, already finding uniform violation after violation. Then he scrutinized what was under the piss poor uniform, the lads muscles. Or lack thereof.

The soldier was wiry, to say the least. Barely an ounce of muscle or fat on his bones. There was no way he would make it past basic training, let alone be able to build an actual military career.

There was also no way that boy could ever please you. Not like Soap could, anyway. No one could ever please you like Soap could.

Soap gave him a final once over before chuckling. He could break that man, that boy, in half in five seconds flat.

“That bloke? Really?” He scoffs as he sees you entertaining the recruit. His usually bright eyes are scanning that boy up and down, with furrowed brows and a tight lip. Looking at the recruit with what could only be described as disgust.

“Isn’t even a cadet.” Soap mutters under his breath as he stands next to you, watching the man scurry away with his tail between his legs. You roll your eyes and groan because this is what feels like the millionth man he’s run off.

“Never gonna get laid at this rate.” You mutter under your breath before storming off, not even giving Soap a passing glance as you bumped into his shoulder.

He felt a fire ignite deep in his core at your words. His eyes brightened and he grinned as he broke into a jog after your retreating figure.

“Mmm,” He hums, a rumble coming deep from his throat. Almost a growl. “Never say never, brèagha.” Pretty. Soap called, wearing a boyish grin as he caught up with you in the hallway. “You know where to find me.”

All you had to do was say the word and he would come running, giving you orgasm after orgasm. Making your legs twitch and your toes curl, making your nails dig into his back and leave scratches along the skin.

He longed to feel that sting rip across his back as your nails dug in, leaving marks that would serve as a reminder of your claim on him.

Because he did belong to you, even if you didn’t know it. Body and soul.

You just kept walking, though. Barely even registering what he said. You heaved a sigh and spared him a side eye glance.

“Oh my god, you’re so funny.” Your voice dripped with sarcasm at his teasing, because of course he was kidding. Right?

You were painfully oblivious to his affections towards you, because that’s just how he always was. He always joked like that, especially towards you. Always putting on that boyish charm and acting flirty, buttering you up with compliments and leaving hot fleeting touches against your skin.

You kept your eyes ahead of you, not daring to look at Soap or his damn tank top that showed off his muscles so well. The muscles that were so solid and thick, littered with tan scars that took nothing away from his beauty. If anything, they just added to it. They showed how strong he was. How sturdy he was. All of the many wounds earned and injuries endured, scars left in place as a reminder of where he’s been. What he’s survived.

You also didn’t want to risk a glance at his hands. The rough calloused skin that was always oh so warm, veins prominent as blood pumped through his body. Just a single glance at his muscles or hands would no doubt send you down a spiral of heart racing thoughts, thoughts that would have you squeezing your thighs together.

At the very least, you wanted to hold those thoughts off until you were in the privacy of your quarters. The security provided by the four walls would let you get rid of that.. tension.

“And what does that word even mean anyway? You know I don’t understand gaelic.” You muttered, sparing a quick glance at his hulking figure as he walked next to you. Just before you looked away from him once more, you caught a glimpse of a smile tugging at his lips.

Even as you brushed off his genuine offer as just a joke, his wolfish grin just remained. Still teetering the line between a smirk and a smile.

“Ah, now why would I go and tell ye’ that? That just sucks all the fun out of it, hen.” He would tease, slinging an arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his side.

“Ugh, you’re all sweaty!” You cringed and tried to slip out of his hold but he was just too strong, keeping you trapped against his warm skin. You forced yourself to think that your heartbeat racing was only a result of surprise, not from being in such close proximity to his hulking form. It definitely wasn’t a result of feeling the intense heat rolling off of him in waves, or the musk you couldn’t help but take a whiff of. And it definitely wasn’t due to his big arm weighing so heavily on your shoulders, almost like staking a claim on you.

He only laughed at your struggle, the sound making your stomach flutter even if you were annoyed.

As you continued walking down the hallway with him glued to your side, you went back to avoiding eye contact with him. You could feel his eyes burning into you as he drank in all of your features. That damn smirk never left his lips, matter how annoyed you were or how that scowl was damn near engraved on your perfect lips.

No matter how much you complained or pouted, always because of his overbearing nature and his dedication to batting men away from you, he couldn’t keep his eyes off your lips.

He loved the way you pressed them together, especially when you were focused on a particularly rough stitch, poking the needle through bloodied flesh. Exactly like all of the times you had to patch him up after bullets scraped his flesh, or found themselves imbedded in his muscle. He could feel his heart threaten to beat out of his chest at the mere thought of your hands on his bare skin, sewing the wounds shut.

He loved the way you bit your lip, taking your bottom lip between your teeth nervously when you worried about something. How your brows would furrow and your eyes would widen a fraction whenever you saw him returning injured from a mission. He would always feel his chest fill with warmth, no matter how deep the bullet had buried itself in him, when he sees your worried face hovering over him on the gurney.

He loved the way you pouted when you didn’t get your way. Or, more accurately, when he would insert himself in any situation that involved you and another man. He can’t help it.

Not when you’re jutting your bottom lip out like that, looking up at your best friend with sad eyes after he kicks yet another man to the curb. You can’t blame him for doing that either, he thinks. Not when it’s so glaringly obvious that none of those men could take care of you. None of them could please you, make you feel good. Make you feel safe.

Before he knew it, the two of you had made it to the elevator that you had to take to get to Price’s office. You needed to get on so you lifted his heavy arm off of your shoulders and stepped away from him. “Are you even listening? Hello?” Your voice cut in, making him blink a few times. You were looking at him with furrowed brows as if you were appraising him. Searching to find some reason for his strange behavior.

“Sorry, what?” He grinned sheepishly and felt his face heat up in a blush, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly.

You eyed him warily.

“I said, would you mind running back to my quarters to grab my headphones? I forgot them and I need them to work out. I would go and them myself but I need to get these files to Price like.. now.” You waved the files a bit to emphasize your point. “If I go all the way across base to get them myself, there’s no way I’ll be able to get these to Price in time. And if I get them after giving these to Price, the gym will be closed.” You dug through your pockets to find your key card.

“Yer lucky yer cute.” Soap said, enjoying the flustered look on your face as he snatches your key card from your hand. Then he turns on his heel, jogging in the direction of your quarters.

Which is how he ended up here, swiping your key card against the doorknob and waiting for your door to unlock.

As he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, he felt a strange sense of excitement flood his stomach.

Of course he had been in your room before, but you had always accompanied him. Now, he was all alone. He could look at any of your pictures if he wanted. He could touch any of your belongings without worrying about you catching him.

He couldn’t help how his eyes wondered around the room, taking in every detail of the room you inhabited.

Your familiar scent hit his nose the second he stepped foot in your room. Vanilla and cinnamon, with a hint of freshness and fruit notes. Like a bakery in Autumn, filled with baked apple pie while the leaves outside were turning orange.

The smell was so soothing, so familiar. He smelled it almost every time he brought you into a bear hug and nestled his head in your neck.

The smell was home.

The next thing he noticed were the decorations you had adorned your room with. Among the walls were a few posters and art pieces, paintings with your favorite colors and designs that reflected your personality.

There was also a bulletin board hung right above your desk, with plenty of photos pinned in the tan board. Soap smiled as he gazed at the photos, seeing himself in so many of them. Many of them had captured you as well, a lot of them were candid shots that you didn’t notice at the time of the shot.

Some were taken when you were stitching up a wound on Soap, perfectly capturing your skilled hands holding him still. They also perfectly captured Soap’s wolfish grin and bright eyes as he stared at you while you stitched him up.

Others were taken by Soap as he snapped a sneaky photo of you next to him. You would be sitting or laying next to him, totally focused on something else while he had his arm wrapped around you. Effectively trapping you in his warmth and preventing you from squirming away. Soap would bring the camera up in front of the two of you and make sure he got his own face in the view, flashing one of his blinding grins. The arm that was wrapped around you would move to pet your hair or caress your cheek.

The next thing that caught his eye was your bed. All made up, neat and tidy. Your sheets, comforter and pillows were all made up of your favorite colors. He walked over to your bed and outstretched his hand, feeling the fabric of your blanket on his palm. He could just imagine you laying there on your soft sheets, your hair resting against the silk pillowcase.

He could also imagine your head thrown back against those pillowcases as he thrusted into you, your face contorted in pleasure and moans falling from your lips. Or maybe him pushing your legs against your chest and devouring your cunt.

He felt like it was a perfect mirror of your relationship dynamic, his rough skin against your soft blanket. He was rough and you were soft.

Finally, his eyes landed on your dresser. There were some artificial potted plants placed on top, with bright petals that caught the eye. There was a small white jewelry dish as well, made of glass and marbled with your favorite colors. The dish held a few rings and necklaces, all pieces he could very clearly remember you wearing.

His eyes brightened as he saw your headphones sitting right next to your jewelry dish. He grabbed them and swiftly slipped them into his sweatpants pocket.

He was just about to turn and leave your room when something caught his eye.

He saw a flash of blue sitting at the bottom of an otherwise empty laundry hamper in the corner of your room. He can’t help himself as he all but runs over to the hamper.

His breath hitches as he sees what the flash of blue was.

A dark blue thong. All lace and intricate detailing, so fucking tempting. And you had just taken it off. Before he could stop himself, he reaches down into the hamper and picks up your thong. The thong that was lucky enough to sit on your perfect skin.

It made his mouth water as he stared at the soft lingerie in his grasp, thinking about you wearing it. Thinking about the fabric riding up on your hips, the lace trim decorating your skin perfectly.

He felt that familiar tightness in his sweatpants as he gripped the fabric tight, his knuckles going white.

It took all of his self control to not just lift the panties up to his nose and smell your juices right then and there.

His hand moved by itself as he pocketed the thong, the lingerie almost burning a hole in his pocket.

Before he knew it, he had made it back to you and given your headphones to you. He barely said two words to you before he was jogging back to his own quarters, his heart racing the entire time.

All he could think about was the lingerie stuffed in his pocket, waiting for him to touch it.

The minute he set foot inside his room, he slammed the door and hurried to lock it behind him.

Only moments later he was sprawled across his bed with his sweatpants pulled down to his knees, and his tank top thrown on the floor. He reached down and let his weeping cock spring out of his boxers. The head was red and swollen, fully hard as it laid against his lower stomach, a steady drip of precum was already leaking from his slit. It was pulsing, blood pumping through it as he kept thinking of all the ways he wanted to have you.

His hand wrapped around his cock as he started pumping it at a languid pace.

“Ah, that’s it,” He hissed through his teeth, feeling that familiar heat build up in his stomach.

Using his thumb, he rubbed slow circles onto the tip, spreading the white liquid around the head of his cock. Slowly, he began stroking himself from the head of his cock down to the base.

With every pump of his fist around his cock, a breathy moan would fall from his lips. His head would fall back against his pillows, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead.

His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat that rivaled his post-workout shine, his tan skin was flushed pink as he panted and huffed. His free hand would still be gripping the lace panties with bruising force, as if he was imagining himself holding your ass the same way or pulling your hair the same way.

“Fuck.” His hips would buck into his hand, lifting off the bed as he chased his own pleasure.

He brings your panties up to his nose and takes a big inhale, smelling your musk and juices in one fell swoop. He moans your name so wantonly, so desperately as his hand picks up the pace.

He takes another whiff. Imagining how you would look right in front of him at this very moment. Thinking about the earlier fantasies that plagued his mind did a lot to bring him close to the edge.

All he could think about was how your pretty lips would look wrapped around his weeping cock, how your hands would feel so soft on his sensitive skin. He could imagine your tits bouncing as you bobbed your head on his cock, your nipples poking through your thin top.

He twisted his hand with each stroke up and down his shaft, squeezing at the tip. His white precum was now coating his cock, making lewd wet sounds with every stroke.

“So fuckin’ pretty. So fuckin’ perfect.” He curses, his abs twitching as his hips bucked and squirmed. You were so fucking pretty. You were so fucking perfect.

“Need ye’ so bad. You need me.” His fist moved quicker around his cock.

The more he pumped and stroked, and the more he babbled into the empty room, he felt the knot in his stomach build.

“Ye’ need me to take care of ye’. I’m the only one who can make ye’ feel this good.” His breathing picked up as he felt himself get closer and closer to the edge.

He knew just what would push him right over.

He brought your wet panties down to his cock and started stroking with the flimsy piece of fabric. Immediately, the second that the fabric touched his throbbing cock, his breath hitched.

Even just the thought alone that those panties touched your wet cunt earlier that day was enough to send him over the edge, but feeling your juices on his cock?

That was more than enough to make him shoot ropes of hot cum on his heaving stomach, his hips stuttering as his orgasm ran through him.

Your name falling from his lips as he came with a guttural moan.

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission. you can use this work as a scriptfill for gonewildaudios as long as you credit me and link me.

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[elucubrare]

looking up scots gaelic naming traditions & one of the wiki examples is "An Caillteanach ("The lost one"), a man who had become lost, causing the entire village to spend the night looking for him," which is rough for that guy. the night he inconvenienced everyone in town, memorialized forever.

[gaelicmemoriesphotography]

Auroral Split - Lough Gara

[thenameswinterfics]

CAOINEADH

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Banshee!Reader Settings: Season 2, brief mention of moments from S3 to SKMD Summary: While wandering outside Dunholm with his mother, Sihtric is visited by a creature whose presence brings terrible news to his family. Years later, the Banshee returns to the mortal lands and Sihtric, now grown up and in the service of Uhtred, faces the consequences of a bad omen. But the tragedy also brings them closer together. Word Count: 5,2 K Warnings: Angst, mention of blood, mention of death, mention of main character death(s), human/monster romance, hopeful ending? , me writing Finan's Irish accent. A/N: After a long time, I'm back to writing for my favourite Dane rat boy. I'd somehow forgotten how much I loved and enjoyed writing for him, especially after a period of putting him aside for a while. This feels like I'm republishing a fic of his for the very first time, so I'm terribly nervous. I hope you like and enjoy it. If you find the ending a bit rushed, I'm sorry. I finished it while it was late at night in my timezone, and everything will be fixed eventually when I'm awake and more aware of my actions. Many thanks to @foxyanon , @legitalicat and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with the Banshee lore, for writing Finan's accent, for the emotional support, for the beta reading and last minute corrections, and to @sylasthegrim for the early beta reading and emotional support as well.

This fic is my entry and first submission to the Fan-Frankentober event, organized by @fandomeventcenter. Here the masterlist to take a look at the other works.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header by me (template by @zaldritzosrose) Dividers by me and @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3 (COMING SOON)

Caoineadh: Irish and Scottish Gaelic pronunciation of "keening" (to cry, to weep); traditional form of the vocal lament for the dead in the Gaelic tradition.

By the time Sihtric stopped running, he had no more memory of the place he was in.

His hands, clenched into small fists, rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to scan the surroundings, looking for any detail that might help him orientate himself in the unknown space. He could not recognize the long tree trunks rising from the ground, their dry branches seeming to touch the twilight sky as he watched the sun's rays filter through the few remaining canopies. 

The place was eerily quiet, the sound of the wind blowing and moving the branches and leaves on the ground the only sound to break the surreal yet disturbing atmosphere. He felt a shiver run down his spine and the little Dane suddenly hugged his shoulder, as if to hide his head between them like a turtle. 

It was one of the few times he and his mother had left the strong walls of Dunholm together, Sihtric enjoying the fresh air of the forest while Elflaed was busy gathering flowers and herbs that he had little interest in. Sometimes his curiosity would get the better of him, his big, mismatched eyes fixed on Elflaed's wooden basket and how many herbs she had managed to gather. When his mother felt his eyes on her, she would patiently stop picking and crouch down beside him, patiently explaining what she was doing as she wrapped his small body around her, only to see her son wriggle out of her embrace soon after and play with small sticks nearby. 

Sihtric was usually a quiet and obedient child: when his mother asked him to stay close to her, he obeyed without a fuss. That day, however, something caught his attention, a heartbreaking wail that filled his ears and shook his heart: it was a gentle but sad song that carried pain and sorrow, hiding a sense of concern and care towards to whom it was addressed. Armed only with a small stick and with curiosity teasing him, Sihtric dared to disobey his mother for the first time, and entered into the woods while leaving his mother behind.

And there he was, lost in an unfamiliar place, with nothing to defend himself but a small stick. He was too young to call himself a warrior, barely able to hold a knife, let alone wield a sword that was too heavy for his tiny hands and a shield properly. Hiding and fleeing was the only option he could take in case of real danger, for he had spent his whole life hiding from the wrath of his cruel father; but the surroundings would make the task impossible, as the tall and twisted trees casted long shadows, and the undergrowth cracked with every step he could take.

Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken by the same sorrowful chant that dragged him in the deep of the woods. Holding his wooden stick in his hands, Sihtric moved carefully in the direction of the voice, trying not to make noise while the ground cracked beneath his feet. 

The walk was short, and he found himself in front of a small lake he had never seen before. Squatting on the bank was a young lady in a blue gown, her black hair cascading down her shoulders like pitch-black watercourses, giving the little boy her back as she continued to sing her lament. Sihtric could hardly understand what she was doing, her head almost hidden beneath her shoulders, her hands working frantically to move the water in small ripples.

Holding his breath and trying to be as quiet as a mouse, Sihtric crept up behind her, lifting his small head and trying to find the right angle where he could see what she was doing underwater. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, fear and anticipation creeping into his bones as he felt the keening close to him, the chanting drawing him in even if he couldn't understand it. But as he crept closer, something beneath his boots cracked softly, and the sound was enough to make the lady turn and show her face to the boy.

It was the first time he met you. 

Sihtric watched with frightened eyes as your icy blue gaze locked on his and a low hiss escaped your mouth, your pale complexion adorned by scarlet tears rolling down your eyes. Behind you, piles of clothes lay scattered on the grass, others dripping in the water that had lost its transparency and had become muddy with blood. 

The little Dane found the strength to stand up and try to run away, but he soon fell, tripping over a stone behind him. Your ghostly presence, now calmed down after the initial fright, lightly approached him and crouched down. One of your slender hands rested on his cheek, your touch as cold as the death itself. But the words that came out from your lips were way colder, breaking the silence with your voice as soft as the silk but sharp as a piece of glass. 

“She cannot escape to the Other World.”

“She?” “Escape from what?” “What is the Other World she is talking about?” These were the words that filled the boy's mind, filled with nothing but fear and the coldness of your touch. But soon Sihtric's tiny body was enveloped in a familiar warmth, and two arms lifted him from the floor. It was only when warm, trembling lips were pressed to his forehead that he recognised the touch of his mother, who had searched for him after losing sight of him.

“Sihtric!” Elflaed cried while holding her son close to her. “Why were you here all alone? I told you never to leave my side, never! Oh, my sweet boy!” 

The young Dane watched as he silently pointed to the spot where you appeared before him, but a cold realisation hit him as you were no longer there, gone like ashes in the wind.

Sihtric did not answer, too lost in his mother's warmth and love, and the bad omen you gave him still shook him to the core. He clung to her presence, and each time your words echoed in his mind, he sought comfort in his mother's presence, even when they left the forest and the warmth of her small hut welcomed them.

But a few days later, the opening of the Other World shook nature and its creatures. And his mother's soul was claimed after a long agony.

Standing outside Eoferwic, you looked up at the walls that surrounded the town, admiring the mix of Roman, Danish and Saxon architecture that was unfamiliar to you: you were there when the Romans laid the foundation stone on the ground, and the same souls were the first you guided to the Other World, announcing the sad event in the form of a manifestation to the families you watched over. 

And you were called to do your duty again: to find the same boy you met years ago, to tell him that more of his family's souls will be claimed in the days to come. They will not be gentle and innocent like those of his mother and grandparents you guided through the other world: they were violent, reckless, stained with blood’s innocents and sins far from forgotten. But it was up to the god or gods to decide where their souls would go in the afterlife. 

Your pale eyes scanned the area, and when you found a small stream where you could wash the dirty clothes you were carrying, you walked over and dipped your hands into the cold water. You watched as your fingers swirled around the cloth and the water lost its translucency, a faint reddish tinge staining it.

The night was still, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees, lightly caressing your raven locks. You continued to scrub the clothes in the water as your wailing began, your lament filling the air and mingling with the sound of the rushing water as your eyes watered and scarlet tears rolled down your white face. 

As on that night, something soft cracked on the ground and your wailing stopped. You lifted yourself from the ground and turned towards the sound, and soon found yourself crouched beside a young man, probably trying to sneak up on you without attracting attention. 

He was a handsome man, the most beautiful your eternal eyes could ever have seen; his features sharp, his fair skin adorned with a few scars on his forehead, eyebrow and cheekbone, a knotted tattoo crossing part of his head, his dark hair cut at the sides and combed into three plaits and knotted at the back. These were features that were strangely familiar to you, your mind trying to remember when was the last time you saw him. 

But it was his eyes that captured you the most. There was pain, melancholy and innocence in them - the same light you had found in the bicoloured eyes of the little Danish boy you had reached outside Dunholm. You felt a sudden flicker of recognition, your eyes widening slightly as you recognised that lost and frightened boy in the man he had become. The years had moulded him into a skilled warrior, but the softness of his eyes remained unchanged, you noted. 

You chose a cautious approach, slowly closing the distance between you. You noticed his body trembling and his jaw clenching, his muscles not moving from where he was: it was still unclear to you whether he wasn't moving out of fear or anticipation.

“It has been a long time, sweet boy,” you broke the silence, using the same nickname you had heard his mother call him. Sihtric stood frozen, partly enchanted by your ethereal appearance and your voice, as melodious as the birdsong at sunrise.  

His eyebrows furrowed and his expression changed from alienation to curiosity: your figure was too familiar to him, but he could not remember where he had first met you.

 “Do… Do I know you, lady?” the Dane asked, holding his breath as the silent nod of your head answered his question. 

You took a long pause before answering him, "You do, in a way," you said in a soft voice that carried the weight of your grief. You took a step closer, noticing that the Dane was shifting his incongruous gaze slightly away from you, "But I have known you since you were a little boy playing spy in the deep forest.”

One of your hands reached out and rested on his cheek, the cold touch awakening something in Sihtric that he thought he had buried deep in his heart. He remembered your figure knelt near the lake shore, your icy blue gaze that penetrated deep into his soul, the cryptic prophecy you had given him but he was too young to understand.And then he remembers the mother he lost, and how it was one of the last nights they wandered the Dunholm woods together, and how after her death the Dane desperately tried to find you to explain, but you never showed again.

Instinctively, one of his calloused hands reached for yours, shivering at the cold of your pale skin. But he never pulled you away: instead, he leaned against you, finding the softness of your touch endearing.

“I remember your touch,” he murmured shyly, lowering his gaze as it briefly met yours, fascinated by your pale eyes, “It was you, all this time,” he continued, earning your satisfied hum.

“It is your family that forged our bond,” you announced with a solemn tone, absently doing circles on his skin with your thumb, “It was your mother’s souls that bound you to me.”

The mention of his mother made Sihtric snap back to reality, and pain filled again his mismatched eyes, “My mother’s soul?” he repeated in a whisper, a slight trembling could be heard in his voice, “What did you do to her? Why didn’t you save her?” 

His voice broke down when he asked his final question, and the red tears rolled down your cheeks furiously “Why did you take her away from me?” 

“It is not me who willingly chose to wrestle your mother from your arms,” you murmured softly, your other hand resting on his other cheek, cupping his face completely. Your thumbs gently wiped away his tears, and you could hear him draw in a sharp breath. Under the moonlight, you could see a faint blush in his cheeks.

“It is fate that foretells a mortal's permanence in this world and how their entry into the Other World will come about,” you explained carefully, as if you were talking with a child. “It is my duty to show myself to you and to guide you through the painful parts of death. Your pain is my own burning.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell over you, the weight of your words making it almost impossible for you both to speak. Finally, you summoned the courage to speak again, and your next words sent shivers down his spine. 

“The Other World is shaking, more souls from your family should be claimed,” You solemnly stated, and your words brought a sense of uneasiness and confusion in Sihtric. 

“Lady,” The Dane lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning at the sight of you, his body trembling at the surreality of the information he was receiving that night, “I have no family left outside my mother and my grandparents,”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, amused at his naivety, "Even if they neglect you, there are still ties of blood that fate will sever."

Sihtric clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening at the memory of a father who neglected you and looked at you with disgust only because he was guilty of being born a bastard, and of his half-brother who always looked at him with the same disgust for their father. The news of their imminent deaths brought him an unexpected sense of peace, and the chains of his tortured past will be broken forever: but he would fear how their deaths would affect him, when the damage they had done was far from repaired, and the memories of his past would knock furiously at his door, reminding him that no matter how hard he worked to forge his own path, he would forever be marked as a slave.

The Dane was about to open his mouth to reply to your words when a loud, rough voice called him out from a distance. 

“Sihtric! Come back here, yer little runt!” Finan’s voice brought him back to reality, forcing the Dane to shift his gaze and look at him. 

“I am coming, Finan!” Sihtric replied to him as quickly as he could, so that he could face you and ask you about the fate of Kjartan and Sven in death.

But when he turned his eyes again, you were gone. And a sudden emptiness filled his heart and saddened his soul.

Later in the evening, the atmosphere within the walls of Eoferwich was playful and joyful. Warriors gathered around small tables outside, filling their stomachs with food and ale while telling stories of women, successful raids, or simply myths and legends from their homelands. 

Sihtric's mind was elsewhere that night. It was common for the warriors who shared a seat at his table to see the young Dane so shy and taciturn, a pattern they justified from his earlier days as a slave in Dunholm, his eyes darting around while his body tensed at the proximity of the too many people in front of him.

But this time it wasn't the echo of his past that tormented him: it was you, your stunning, ghostly presence and melodious voice had bewitched him and altered all his senses. It was as if he was seeing you for the first time, for he had seen you when he was a little boy, unaware that his world was about to collapse upon him and that he would have to rebuild it all by himself. Now that he was a young man and more aware of his own feelings and the world around him, it felt like a string pulling him towards you, longing for your touch and the way you spoke of destiny and its inexorable flow. And the mystery surrounding your figure made you even more desirable in his eyes, and he often wondered if he was facing a goddess herself.

Sihtric's thoughts about your figure were suddenly interrupted by Finan's speeches about his homeland, Ireland, its customs and its most famous legends. One in particular caught the Dane's attention, and he shifted his gaze from his reflection in the mug to the Irishman.

“I told yer tha these creatures ain’t nothin’ but an omen of death!” Finan spoke with such emphasis, looking at Clapa and the few men at the table listening to him. When he felt Sihtric's gaze resting on him, he continued his story. “Legends say they’ll appear in front of yer, sometimes washing bloodied clothes, and they’ll cryin’ and wailin’ somethin’ terrible tha will hit ya family.”

Sihtric listened intently to Finan's words and felt his hand tremble as he gripped his mug of ale. He felt all the dots connect at once, especially when he saw you washing dirty clothes and singing a mournful chant, your wailing so tearful that it filled the listener's heart with sadness. He also remembered facing you twice and seeing the tears of blood leave your eyes. 

There were no creatures like you in the Norse legends and beliefs, and Sihtric wondered how a creature from a different faith could become the spirit guardian of his family.

“I found a beautiful lady washing a pile of clothes not so far from here,” The Dane murmured against his will and soon the animated atmosphere died down and he shrugged as he felt all eyes on him. His mismatched eyes found the Irishman's brown ones and with a slight nod he silently ordered him to continue.

“She was singing something,” Sihtric continued, his voice faltering slightly as he could feel the intensities of their gaze on him, “It was a lament, something so heartbreaking that it chills the blood in your veins.”

His gaze rested on Finan while he spoke his last words, “She brushed my skin and was cold at the touch. And then she was looking at me with her pale eyes, crying blood-“

“Cryin’ blood, yer said?” the Irishman asked in an urgent tone, and Sihtric nodded his head. Then he reached for the Dane's shoulder and squeezed, but not too hard: Finan knew what the wrong touch could do to a former slave, especially one as young as Sihtric.

“That woman you claimed to have seen before… Did ya know what a Banshee is?” Finan asked Sihtric, and received a shake of head as an answer. The Irishman sighed quietly, and leaned his face close to the Dane. 

“Tha’s the spirit I was talkin’ about before. They’re bound at yer family and they’ll come wailin’ and cryin’ blood while announcin’ the death of yer loved ones. She can be either a gorgeous woman or a vindictive old witch. Tha’s someone ain’t to be trifled with, remember this.”

Sihtric gulped at Finan's description of the Banshee, which was nothing like what you really were. You were so gentle with him, taking care of his pain and not putting the burden of grief on his shoulders. How could such a sweet creature as you be the dangerous spirit that Finan described earlier?

“She treated me with nothing but kindness, Finan,” the Dane replied almost innocently, and the Irishman grinned at his words. 

“Then ya were a lucky bastard!” he retorted in an ironic tone, gently slapping Sihtric’s cheek and returning to his seat. 

The conversations continued with more stories of the Banshees and Irish legends until Uhtred broke the mood by calling for Sihtric, who obediently rose and reached for his Lord. And after preparing the final strategies of war, everyone fell asleep, thinking of the battle they would face at Dunholm and how you would draw the veil of death over their heads.

After a day of celebration, Sihtric found an opportunity to sneak out of Dunholm fortress through the small door in the east wall used by the servants. He followed the small watercourse that flowed into the forest entrance and, armed with his sword and dagger, he walked into the heart of the forest, his movements light as a feather to avoid any upcoming dangers.

Once again, the prophecy you told him about your family proved true, and on the day of the battle both Kjartan and Sven were killed, their souls taken by you and sent to the afterlife. While the event lifted a great weight from Sihtric's shoulders, free at last to forge his own destiny without the cruel shadow of his father tormenting him, he wondered if you knew the difference between your afterlife and his, and if his father's soul did not rest beside Elflaed's. The image of Kjartan distressing his mother even in the afterlife made his heart skip a few beats: he would rather accept slavery under the cruel Lord of Dunholm than see his mother tormented in heaven, having found the peace she never had in life.

Finding you would be the only way for him to be reassured and to have the answers he wanted. But finding you would also mean surrendering to your cold touch, losing himself in your lifeless eyes that stirred emotions he could not believe he was feeling. Finan had warned him to be wary of spirits like you, but you were nothing more than a comforting presence at his side, a guardian who would watch over him even if he could not feel you.

Fortunately, Sihtric found the little spot where he had found the two of you the first time, remembering the details of the foliage and surrounding vegetation. And there you were, sitting near the shore, gazing out at the shimmering water, your presence quiet and not filled with your lamentations. When you appeared, Sihtric noticed how your pale face was cleared by your scarlet tears and held his breath at how even more beautiful you were without crying, the pale rays of the moon caressing your skin.

"You came," you said with a gentle smile as you stood up and approached him.

"I thought I would find you here, lady," Sihtric replied sheepishly, his cheeks turning red as he saw you closing the distance between us. He swore he had never seen such a beautiful creature as you. 

"I realised I never asked what your name was," the Dane continued, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“Names are not important for eternal creatures like us,” you explained while you cupped your cheek in your hand, brushing his skin with your slender fingers, “you do not need to know my name to feel close to me. I will always watch over you, Sihtric.”

“I refuse to believe a creature as beautiful as yours is deprived of a name that does her justice,” Sihtric replied, closing his eyes while abandoning himself to your touch, ignoring the lump that was forming in your throat. 

You could not remember what your real name was, for you had forgotten it when death took you in its arms. You did not remember your former life as a young woman full of hopes and dreams, and how a violent death, coming from those closest to you, extinguished your light forever.

Ignoring all your thoughts, you shook your head and looked at Sihtric, who covered your hand with his calloused one and pressed his lips to your palm, feeling the coldness of your skin against his. It was a small gesture of affection that set a heart beating that you had forgotten you had, for it beat only with sorrow and grief.

"You claimed the souls of my father and half-brother today," it was Sihtric's turn to break the silence, wrapping his strong arms around your slender waist and pulling you close. Even though you were a ghost, you looked so real in his eyes and he was content to touch you and cradle your form.

"The doors of the Other World have indeed been opened to them," you replied, almost lost in his touch, "but for them there is another path to take, one filled with eternal pain and damnation."

The sight of his body tensing at your words saddened you, so you spoke quickly to reassure him, "Your mother and father have taken different paths in the afterlife. They will never meet again.” 

Sihtric felt another burden lifted from his shoulders, and his body suddenly became light: he was glad to see that his dear mother's soul was enveloped in the eternal light of beatification, while his father was probably rotting in the depths of Niflheim, surrounded by cold and darkness, for he died without a weapon in his hands. But even if he had gripped his sword tightly with his last breath, Sihtric did not believe that Odin would open the gates of Valhalla for him.

“Thank you,” the Dane whispered softly, giving you the first sincere smile you’ve ever seen while watching him growing up. His bicolored eyes shone with a renewed life, tasting that freedom he thought he could never have in his life. 

But a new realisation hit him hard, and the light in his eyes was replaced by a look of suffering: your duties were done, and you would return to the veil that separates the living from the dead, and watch over him silently but without concealment. He was not ready to say goodbye to you, not after he had found a person who would treat you with kindness and make his heart beat faster, it mattered not if that person was a creature from the afterlife or not.

“Do not go, please,” Sihtric pleaded in a feeble voice, his jaw clenching as well as the grip he had on you, afraid that you might vanish at any moment. He moved your body close to his own, resting his warm forehead on your cold one.

“I have to, Sihtric,” you explained quietly, though you felt your eyes burning and your scarlet tears about to escape. “I am bound to the spirit world, preparing families for their upcoming deaths. You are a young warrior, with life burning inside you.”

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth his living body is giving to you, a warmth you used to radiate as well. And when you felt a rivulet of blood escaping from your eyes, Sihtric’s arms were quickly cupping your cheeks, wiping them with his tattooed fingers. 

"One day, when the doors of the Other World open again and the veil between our worlds forms its rift, they will give me the call to take you, and only there will you be mine forever," you added, the words slipping easily from your tongue as you lifted your gaze and locked it in his eyes. You have never had anyone look at you with love in their eyes, not even in your previous mortal life. Sihtric was sent to you to show you that a damned spirit like you could be loved and deserve to be loved. But he was the right person at the wrong time. 

“Promise you will live and wait for me until your hour will come.”

Sihtric took his time to calm down, closing his eyes and breathing slowly to calm the tears that were about to fall and to suppress the pain inside him. He thought he had found the right person to spend the rest of his life with, to take you as his wife and build a family with you. But he had to face the cold truth that you were not a living being and that you would soon have to leave his side.

The Dane opened his watery eyes again and looked at you with burning desire as he gently lifted your head with his hands. "I promise I will wait for you, my love," he swore, clutching his Thor's hammer with one hand, "and when that day comes and death takes him, I will be ready to go. And there I will be yours forever."

You both raised your faces to each other like a magnet drawing you close, sealing your eternal promise with a kiss that poured out all the love you both had carved out of each other, but that your time had not yet allowed. And when you reluctantly broke the kiss, you slowly turned and walked towards the small lake, your body disappearing into a cloud of mist that slowly dissipated into the air, the sound of a bird flapping its wings in the distance. Sihtric watched your disappearance with pain in his heart and watched over the lake until morning, when he returned to Dunholm to be reunited with Uhtred and the others.

Over the years, Sihtric had kept his promise and lived a true warrior's life, the once shy boy growing into a skilled warrior and confident man. He became one of Uhtred's most trusted allies and closest friends, and together with Finan and Osferth they wandered the borders of Mercia and Wessex, the Danelaw and East Anglia, eventually reclaiming Bebbanburg for Uhtred, who reclaimed his birthright and became its lord.

Feeling that you were always watching over him, you only appeared sporadically to bring him and his band of friends bad news: it was your job to inform him of the impending deaths of Gisela and Thyra while he was at Coccham, to warn him of Father Beocca's death before their first attempt on Bebbanburg fortress, and to claim Osferth's soul at Rumcofa. Uhtred was next, succumbing after a long and arduous battle, followed soon after by Finan, too old to even stand properly on his feet.

You were at his side, emptying his heart of grief as his mouth claimed yours in fleeting kisses before you went back to hide in the veil. You watched Sihtric grow old over the years, loving every single wrinkle on his face and every white hair that appeared over the years, while to him you were always the same young woman he fell in love with when he was a young and inexperienced lad.

And when he grew old and grey, surrounded by nothing but the walls of Dunholm, of which he had become lord, he felt the doors of the Other World open and a bird flap its wings, followed by the sound of a gash. With dying eyes and a tired smile, he watched you keep your own promise and claim his soul as he breathed his last, and feeling his body rejuvenated by the effects of eternal life, he took you by the hand as you reached the gates of the Other World, and with a long, desperate kiss, you sealed your eternal life together, and your souls at last lived and rested in peace.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

Sihtric Kjartansson Taglist: @whitedarkmoonflower @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @foxyanon @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

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[cactusisconfused]

Some COD headcanons of mine.

Ghost:

Mans is a crow, will pick up shiny little rocks or trinkets he finds amusing on his excursions, be it in base or on a mission. He gives those findings to soap when they get together.

Ghost loves languages and is surprisingly fluent in a good solid few. He makes sure to learn Scottish Gaelic just for Soap despite the fact that he will always act like he doesn’t understand a single word soap is saying. The only exception to the rule is when ghost proposed to soap and did it entirely in Gaelic. Soap cried (out of love).

Ghost does not have a green thumb, far from it, but he has one little succulent that he’s kept alive since after Roba. (He made a little paper hat for it to wear and when soap finds out about this he gets so excited.)

When Soap and Ghost were in the early stages of dating, Ghost would have to put a pillow between the two because he couldn’t have soap touching him as memories refused to stay away. They ended up compromising and holding hands on the barrier pillow. That was the best sleep Ghost got in a long time.

Ghost and Gaz gossip, all the time. Some rookie did something? They’re both whispering to each other like no tomorrow. Some superior did something stupid and is most definitely gonna get their ass handed to them? They’re talking all about it.

This man can gives the softest but firmest hugs known to man, the kind that feel like they’re gonna break your back.

On his fridge in his flat is a drawing that’s a bit singed around the edges and it’s of stick figures representing a family. Joesph, his nephew, did that drawing, it’s one of the few things ghost has left of his family. Soap finds it incredibly endearing. Price also knows about the drawing and smiles whenever he thinks about- he always knew Simon never died.

Autistic, no further questions

Idk I have a lot of ideas in my head but don’t feel like writing a whole fic. I’m gonna make more of these. :)

[sharpedgedfool]

Here's Blaze! Her name is is Iris Flare, I started giving them just generalised names in English as I started incorporating more than Scottish folklore into these guys so it didn't make sense to have them all named in Gaelic, the Seasons travel constantly all over the world as they come and go with their seasons so I thought I'd be fun to assign different cultures to each of them!

Some more extensive lore under the cut!

Summer is the second most targeted Seasonal Spirit, but unlike Winter who is largely hated, Summer is regarded as a loved season and those challenging her often want to overthrow her place with malicious reasons, she has no gripe about fighting back but can often leave damage in her wake due to the nature of her flames. She does not see as much war as Winter but she fights just as fiercely. Summer is often compared to Winter but is adamant she does not agree with the ill-manner most refer to Winter with. They've never met but she is not disillusioned by the endless praise she receives against criticism against him. She firmly believes that all seasons are just as equal and should not be given favour over another. She hears about Winter mostly from the birds who migrate between their seasons, and she knows that if Winter was so bad then no bird would make the journey there willingly to avoid her own.

In contrast she is close to the other two seasons Spring and Autumn. She is the second youngest of the four, the order being Winter, Spring, Summer then Autumn. Her and Autumn are particularly close as she helped guide him through his first season when he was largely unprepared for it. Her and the other seasons took up the mantle willingly with an expectation on what their duty was. Iris used to be a mortal Royal who stepped up to inherit the responsibility when a rival kingdom set out to slay the previous Season, her family were historically friends of the Fae so she was asked for specifically and knew what she was getting into and did - and still does - take the responsibility very seriously. She doesn't often engage in festivities without request, but enjoys talking with every being of life regardless of status within a court (or outside one even).

Her flames are an indicator of her emotional state, they sometimes change colour and the temperature can range, so mostly she tries to keep calm and dim her flames especially around dry times in the season, her Sari is woven to be flame-resistant and prevents any accidental burns so she doesn't often take it off. Her jewellery are a close replica of the ones she wore as a mortal, it has been eons since so she pays tribute to the memories even as they grow faint. Ironically she mostly enjoys the rain when she can let her flames burn as bright as she likes. She enjoys flying as high as she can, where the only thing that can catch fire is herself, and the chill allows her to push her fire beyond what she could do safely on the ground.

[veltroxx]

Did the man know the video would be broadcast to the world? Did he realize that his interaction in front of the drone’s lens would be seen by an entire nation? Absolutely not. Certainly not. Without a doubt, no.

When the protagonist of Thorns and Carnations threw his weapon at the invincible aircraft, it wasn’t to be admired or to set an example. Bloodied and standing to his last breath, he was challenging his enemy with honor, not seeking to create a heroic image. He wasn’t bound by the fear of defeat or driven to make his final act one of indomitable bravery.

He was simply a true leader, confronting his enemy with nothing but courage. All he wanted was to deny his foe the satisfaction of a victory where brute force triumphs over the sword in the final act. His only goal was to leave his enemy — and his enemy alone — with a look of defiance that would echo in their memory forever.

In that moment, the man didn’t see us. He didn’t care to be seen by us. He saw only his enemy, focused solely on challenging them with his final breath.

But fate had other plans. Fate turned his final stand into an immortal memory, witnessed by the world — a testament to his bravery, heroism, and sacrifice, and to his enemy’s arrogance and incompetence. Free palestine and fuck Israel.

@beekily @dorisdank @white-truesdale @z0mborb

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[emmster]

I LOVE that Solas has only known Soap for a like a day or two and he already loves him so much 😭 look at the little guy, trying to cheer him up, the little boop 🥹 against his cheek, peak Ghost form of affection, imma cryyyy, I love that he’s already picking up Soap’s language too.

And Soap coming in with the Solas Beag, what if I sobbb? 🥲❤️

Awww I’m glad you like it! I went back and forth on Soap’s ghost’s name. But I feel like something that’s Gaelic would be good. Like showing that Guardians have a Swiss cheese memory and stuff falls through the cracks every once in a while.

(Though I am a dragon age fan and the fact that Solas means light in Gaelic makes me want to cry because of that)

Some Ghoap cuddles wip 💖