#irish badges

[letstalkbeautyuk]

☘️ 🧡 💚 Still time to order your badges for St Patrick's Day - we have a great selection in the shop

[mukuharakazui]

"Alphabet mafia" was funny (courtesy of @birthclod) so here are my alphabet mafia + nationality headcanons for Town of Salem's best faction (sorry to the roles without skins </3)

[just-ray]

badge template, if you even care.

[thesixthduke]

[medicinemane]

90 days till I'm done with duolingo forever

Like... it sucks they decided to suck, but it's just... I'll get it to a 2000 streak just to show that it very much isn't that I just gave up, get myself to a nice round number, and then it can piss off and I can go try to learn on something that actually teaches me

[strixessabre]

Add some Bacon to your life.

( Strixes' Sabre )

[paulpingminho]

[ltwilliammowett]

Old naval slang

A small collection of terms from the 18th - early 20th century that were and probably still are known among sailors.

Admiralty Ham - Royal Navy canned fish Batten your hatch - shut up Beachcomber - a good-for-nothing Cape Horn Fever - feigned illness Cheeseparer - a cheat Claw off - to avoid an embarrassing question or argument Cockbilled - drunk Cumshaw - small craft - Chinese version of scrimshaw Dead Marine - empty liquor bottle Donkey's Breakfast - mattress filled with straw Dunnage - personal equipment of a sailor Flying Fish sailor - sailor stationed in Asian waters Galley yarn - rumour, story Hog yoke- sextant Holy Joe - ship's chaplain Irish hurricane- dead calm Irish pennant - frayed line or piece of clothing Jamaican discipline - unruly behaviour Knock galley west - to knock a person out Leatherneck - a marine Limey - a British sailor Liverpool pennant - a piece of string used to replace a lost button Loaded to the guards - drunk Old Man - captain of the ship One and only - the sailor's best girl On the beach - ashore without a berth Pale Ale - drinking water Quarterdeck voice - the voice of authority Railroad Pants - uniform trousers with braid on the outer leg seam Railway tracks - badge of a first lieutenant Round bottomed chest - sea bag Schooner on the rocks - roast beef and roast potatoes Show a leg - rise and shine Sling it over - pass it to me Slip his cable - die Sundowner - unreasonable tough officer Swallow the anchor - retire Sweat the glass - shake the hour glass to make the time on watch pass quickly - strictly forbidden ! Tops'l buster - strong gale Trim the dish - balance the ship so that it sails on an even keel Turnpike sailor - beggar ashore, a landlubber claiming to be an old sailor in distress Water bewitched - weak tea White rat - sailor who curries favor with the officers

Sailors' Language, by W. Clark Russell, 1883 Soldier and Sailor Words and Phrases. Edward Fraser and John Gibbons, 1925 Sea Slang, by Frank C. Bowen, 1929 Royal Navalese, by Commander John Irving, 1946 Sea Slang of the 20th century, by Wilfried Granville, 1949 The Sailor's Word Book, by Admiral W.H. Smyth, 1967

[starsjulia]

spoilt rotten // leah williamson

masterlist

a/n : i flipping love writing leah x spoilt reader so here’s another one

warnings : fluff, playful teasing, kinda suggestive at the end

Leah Williamson was known for her unwavering focus on the pitch—sharp, commanding, and completely in control. As Arsenal’s vice captain, she knew how to lead, how to push her teammates to be the best, and how to give everything for the badge. But when it came to you? Well, Leah was nothing short of head over heels, and everyone knew it.

You were, simply put, breathtaking. A model with a body that could stop traffic, and a face so stunning it made people stare. Your presence was captivating, whether you were at a glamorous event or just lounging at home in one of Leah’s old hoodies. And Leah? She couldn’t help but spoil you rotten, constantly doting on you, treating you like a princess. It was something her teammates never let her forget.

The latest round of teasing came after a grueling win for Arsenal. The team was in high spirits, buzzing from the post-match high as they headed out for a team bonding dinner at one of London’s trendiest restaurants. The private room was filled with laughter and chatter, but all eyes turned when you walked in, your arm linked with Leah’s, her hand resting possessively on your lower back.

Dressed in a sleek outfit that hugged your curves perfectly, you looked every bit the model you were—effortlessly chic, and drop-dead gorgeous.

Leah, as always, couldn’t take her eyes off you. She was practically glued to your side, her thumb tracing gentle circles against the small of your back. Her teammates, well, they were all too used to it by now, but it didn’t stop them from throwing their usual jabs.

“Oh, here she is—our very own supermodel,” Katie called out, her Irish accent coming through as she grinned at you. “Come on then, Leah, what’s it gonna be tonight? More Chanel? Maybe a trip to Milan? She’s got you wrapped, mate.”

You laughed, used to the teasing by now, as you slid into the booth next to Leah. “I’m thinking diamonds, Katie. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, babe?” you teased, turning to Leah with a playful glint in your eye.

Leah groaned softly, rolling her eyes but smiling nonetheless. “Only the best for you,” she murmured, her arm slipping around your shoulders as she pulled you close. Her lips brushed the side of your temple, her voice low enough that only you could hear, “You deserve the world, love.”

Katie snorted from across the table, leaning back in her chair. “Jesus Christ, she’s got you good. You’d buy her the moon if she asked, wouldn’t you?”

Beth, who was sitting across from you, grinned and elbowed Caitlin. “Aye, I reckon she already has. I mean, look at ‘em.”

Caitlin chuckled, her Aussie accent thick as she nodded. “Mate, I think we’ve all accepted Leah’s never gonna say no to her. She’s gone.”

Leah just smiled, unbothered by the jabs, and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “They’re just jealous,” she whispered in your ear, her breath warm against your skin. You shivered lightly at the feeling, biting your lip as you leaned into her touch.

The team broke into laughter, but Leah didn’t care. Her attention was solely on you, her eyes filled with affection as she watched you chat easily with the girls. Even after a tough match, you were the most beautiful thing in the room, and Leah’s heart swelled every time she looked at you.

As the dinner went on, the teasing continued. Between sips of wine and mouthfuls of food, the team couldn’t resist throwing more playful jabs Leah’s way.

“So, Leah,” Beth started, her voice laced with amusement, “how many handbags have you bought her this week? We reckon it’s at least three.”

Leah smirked, her fingers idly playing with the ends of your hair. “Only two,” she responded nonchalantly. “Had to hold back a bit this time.”

Katie let out a loud laugh, nearly choking on her drink. “Hold back? Are you hearing yourself?”

You giggled, leaning into Leah’s side as her arm tightened around you. “She’s just generous,” you said with a grin, flashing Leah a look that made her stomach flip.

“Generous,” Lotte echoed from further down the table, shaking her head. “More like she’s whipped.”

Leah huffed playfully, pulling you even closer so your legs pressed against hers under the table. “You lot are just jealous you don’t have someone as gorgeous to spoil.”

Caitlin raised her drink. “Touché.”

Leah’s hand slid a little lower on your waist, her fingers brushing just under the hem of your shirt, her touch making your skin tingle. You turned your head to give her a knowing smile, your voice dropping to a whisper. “You really don’t mind, do you?”

Leah’s eyes darkened just slightly, her gaze flicking to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “Not one bit, princess.”

---

A few days later, Leah had invited some of the girls over for a chill night at her place—Beth, Katie, and Lotte were sprawled across the couch and chairs, beers in hand as they chatted casually about the latest matches, the conversation flowing easily. Leah was mid-sentence, explaining some tactical breakdown from the last game, when you suddenly strolled into the room, your voice lilting with that teasing tone you always used when you wanted something.

“Leahhhh…” you called sweetly, padding barefoot across the living room in one of her oversized hoodies. Leah immediately looked up, her heart fluttering at the sight of you. “There’s this new Victoria’s Secret collection that just dropped,” you continued, drawing out your words as you made your way over to where she sat. “And you know how much you love it on me.”

Leah barely blinked, already reaching for her wallet. Without even thinking twice, she pulled out her card and handed it to you, her mind clearly still half-absorbed in the football conversation. “Sure, princess. Get whatever you want,” she said casually, not missing a beat.

You grinned, taking the card with a cheeky kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, babe,” you purred, already planning your shopping spree as you turned and left the room, your hips swaying just a little more than usual as you walked away.

The second you were out of earshot, the room fell into a stunned silence before erupting into laughter.

“No way!” Katie gasped, her Irish accent thick as she clutched her side, barely able to contain herself. “Leah, you didn’t even blink! You just handed her the card like it was nothin’!”

Beth was wiping tears from her eyes as she shook her head. “Mate, you didn’t even ask what it was for. She’s got you wrapped, doesn’t she?”

Leah shrugged, leaning back on the sofa with a lazy grin. “What can I say? She looks incredible in everything she wears—especially Victoria’s Secret. It’s a win-win for me.”

Lotte leaned forward, her brows raised in mock disbelief. “You serious? You didn’t even think about it.”

Leah smirked, completely unbothered by their ribbing. “Don’t need to. She can have whatever she wants.”

Katie groaned, tossing a cushion at Leah. “You’re bloody hopeless. Whipped doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Leah caught the cushion and threw it back, shaking her head with a grin. “Yeah, well, if you had someone like her, you’d be the same.”

Beth grinned, leaning back in her chair. “Fair play. But seriously, Leah, you’re like a bloody ATM at this point.”

Leah just shrugged, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not about the money. I want her to feel special. She deserves it.”

Just then, you reappeared, walking back into the living room with a satisfied grin as you handed Leah her card. “You’re the best, babe.”

Leah smirked, sliding the card back into her wallet before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to sit on her lap. Her arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as she nuzzled into your neck, teasingly repeatedly shifting yourself to ‘get comfortable’.

“Jesus Christ, can you two get a room?” Katie groaned, taking a long sip of her beer as she watched the two of you. “This is getting out of hand.”

Leah just chuckled, her lips brushing against your jaw. “We might just do that later,” she murmured lowly, her voice soft but with enough edge to make your skin tingle.

Beth groaned, throwing her hands up. “And here we go again.”

You laughed, pressing a quick kiss to Leah’s cheek before turning to Beth with a cheeky smile. “I told you—it’s the Victoria’s Secret effect.”

The girls erupted into laughter again, but Leah’s grip on you tightened slightly, her fingers brushing the hem of your hoodie. “Can’t say I mind,” she murmured into your ear, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You turned, your breath warm against her skin as you whispered back, “I know you don’t, babe.”

Leah’s eyes darkened slightly, her thumb brushing against your bare skin under the hoodie. “I’ll show you just how much later.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you bit your lip, the playful glint in her eyes sending a shiver down your spine. But before you could respond, Lotte interrupted with a dramatic groan.

“Alright, alright, enough with the flirting,” Lotte said, rolling her eyes playfully. “Save it for when we’re not here.”

You and Leah exchanged a look, both of you grinning before turning your attention back to the group. The night continued, filled with laughter, teasing, and the easy banter that only comes from close friends. But even as the conversation flowed, Leah’s hand stayed glued to your waist, her fingers gently tracing patterns against your skin.

And though her teammates teased her relentlessly, Leah wouldn’t have it any other way. You were her princess, her everything, and she’d spoil you for the rest of her life if it meant keeping that smile on your face.

[letstalkbeautyuk]

☘️ 🇮🇪 St Patrick's Day Badges

[mysharona1987]

Zionists calling Irish people “Paddystinians” as an insult shows exactly what they think of Palestinians. The mere term “Palestinian” or anything related to it is considered a slur to them. Many have never saw Palestinians as human in the first place.

That Irish people are quite happy to be compared to Palestinians is quite the backfire. It’s not an insult, it’s a badge of honor.

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - i. a badge of honour

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 2 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. synopsis: scotland, 83 AD after the battle of mons graupius. the romans have come up to the boundaries of their empire with a relentless desire to conquer the savages that inhabit the highlands. they won't rest until the Caledonian tribes are subjugated. Marcus Acacius is in charge of your clansmen's fate, but if such fate is similar to your family's, you know you need to do something about it. as the only living daughter of the tribe chief, your people look to you for leadership. power plays, treason, deception, rebellion, war, love, heartbreak, betrayal. and two souls, destined to despise each other, trying to navigate it all. a/n: well, here it is! the first chapter of my new series, set in what is now scotland, during the romans' conquest of the british isles in the 1st century. hope you guys like it! as always, all interactions welcome. thank you so much for reading! <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. death, aftermath of a battle, burial of family members. reader is an original character - female, has a name (callie) and a physical description, family history, etc. i'll try to keep the references to a minimum though. age gap (callie is 26, marcus is 48). mention of infidelity and becoming a widow. marcus’ and reader’s pov. i have taken some historical licenses for ease of writing (use of "clan" as synonym for "tribe", references to irish/celtic gods, the caledonian people speak modern scottish gaelic instead of a (proto-)brittonic language). w/c: ~4.2k. dividers by @saradika-graphics i'll be tagging some people at the end of the chapter who interacted with this post. dw, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you ask me to! also, if you want to be removed from this post, please send me a dm.

A light breeze whistled through the nearby standing stones. The dying sun provided no heat, and the ethereal landscape was cold with hues of blue and grey. Despite the shimmering wildlife that came with the first hints of spring, the meadow was uncannily silent.

The crows cackling in the distance broke such tranquil peace and woke you from your slumber.

Slowly you blinked, something wet and warm covering your eyelids. You felt it slide down your skin, pooling in the dip of your collarbone. Your limbs felt so heavy, you couldn’t lift a hand to rub your eyes clean. In fact, you were so tired that even taking a deep breath hurt.

Your orbs fluttered shut, shattered and defeated.

Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, was calling you to His side. His presence was soothing, so inviting, the most melodic sounds guiding you to Him. With the eyes of your dying imagination, He extended a welcoming hand towards you, a soft smile on His mythical features.

“Come with me, sweet child of the tribes.” A guttural voice escaped His lips, so dark and sombre it enveloped you.

You nodded, gaze down, submitted to Him.

“You can’t just take her, Dhuosnos. Callie is yet to avenge them — her purpose must be fulfilled first before she can greet you as an equal.” A second voice, feminine, otherworldly and reassuring, interrupted your exchange.

Morrígan, Goddess of War, placed Her hand on Dhuosnos’ forearm as to stop Him from reaching you. A stone of relief, but also of disappointment, sat low in your stomach when He took a step back, head bowed towards Her.

Steadily you undid your curtsy, your green eyes locking on Hers. They were black as the night sky, Her pupils and irises indistinguishable from one another. You looked into the abyss of Her sight and felt a deep-rooted longing, one you never experienced before.

“You are not done yet, mo leanabh (my child). Your people await your return.” Morrígan palmed your trembling hand, escorting you back to the earthly plane.

“But…”, you turned around to look at Her, ask for Her advice.

But She had already vanished, a sweet scent of lavander left behind.

You gasped awake, your eyes so widened, the cloudy, sunset sky above felt like it was crashing down on you. You were laying down on a pool of mud. A deep, raspy grunt escaped your lungs as you tried to move your arms. When you couldn’t, you looked down, confused.

Aengus’ lifeless body was resting on top of yours. Your father’s henchman had made the ultimate sacrifice by hiding you underneath him, away from the prying eyes of the Romans. The dense liquid caressing the skin on your face was none other than his blood. A trickle of thick red dripped from the gnarly wound in his neck on to your cheek. His eyes were staring at you emptily, his soul had already left this world when you regained consciousness.

Your father, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis, the Caledonian Overlord, had come to the aid of the Taexalian Overlord, whose territory was succumbing to the legions of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a Roman governor with a high desire to impress his Emperor, Titus Flavius Domitianus.

Your father had gathered as many fighers as the Caledonian lands could give him. Both men and women were called to arms when the tribes were threatened. Being the daughter of the Chieftain would not spare you. You would not have chosen differently anyway, had you been given the opportunity. Fighting for land, clan and honour was your duty as much as your brothers’ and sister’s.

The journey from Inbhir Nis (Inverness) to Cala na Creige (Stonehaven) had been unforgiving, with illness and evil lying in wait. But you all had been warmly welcomed by the Taexali tribe and were fed copiously, the uisge-beatha (whisky) being served like water.

Your combined armies, shy of fifteen thousand folk, had been ambushed at Raedykes during a repositioning exercise by the Roman troops led by Agricola’s most trusted man.

General Marcus Acacius.

His mere name made you sick, anger crawling under your skin.

Fighting off your own opponents, you had seen the Roman General charge against your father like a beast, wielding a gladius over his head. The metallic impact of their swords rang loud across the landscape. The men looked into each other’s souls, an exchange of words shared between them. You were too far to listen, too far to fully see what was really happening as warriors from both sides danced through the grass.

Then you foresaw it before it happened: the heavy Roman sword fell on your father, who was struck to his knees with the General’s blade lodged in his belly.

You tried to get to him, screaming “Athair (father)!” at the top of your lungs. His eyes locked on yours before he fell sideways. You lunged forward but didn’t get to him, Aengus stopping you in your tracks.

“No, Callie, it’s too late now”, he had sorrowfully whispered in your ear before throwing you off to one side to fend off an attacker.

And then blackness swallowed you, an enemy hit you in the head so hard you lost consciousness.

That was how you came to be where you were — with your back flat on the silt and Aengus’ body blanketing yours. The grey sky above you sensed your pain, and, at Taranis’ command, it parted in the middle. The God of Thunder released a downpour to clean the blood, soot and woad’s blue dye off your face and hair.

You cried your sadness away, rainy tears sliding off the corners of your eyes — your anger, your loss, your torment, you purged it all, sobbing until you were devoid of all emotion. Taking a deep breath, which caused a needling pain on your ribs, you pushed Aengus to one side to free yourself from his weight.

The thudding sound he made almost brought more tears to your eyes.

“Sorry, uncail (uncle)”, you muttered, hovering your fingertips over his eyelids to shut them for him. Now he could finally rest.

You stood up, your knees trembling like a newborn calf. A searing pain stabbed your skull, dried blood and dirt gathering on the wound on your scalp. With a straight back, you dared to look around you. The bodies of your own men and women were scattered around the hills of Raedykes. So many lives lost, you heard all your ancestors screaming from above, their cries falling upon you in the way of rain. The green, long grass was reddened with blood, but the weeping sky had started to wash away the atrocities committed by the Romans.

Then you saw him. Your athair.

“No, no, please, no...”, you whispered as your sight became blurry again, dragging your feet towards the fallen body of your dad.

Your soul tried to tear itself apart, become its own entity. You had to summon the last drop of the royal blood that ran through your veins to keep yourself in one piece. You knelt before him, craddling his bloody hand between yours. Unconciously your body rocked back and forth until you hugged him, laying flat on top of him.

Time stood still, like a thread on the expert hands of a wool weaver. It could have been minutes, hours or days, your pain too great to bear, to comprehend.

And then you felt a hand lightly tap your shoulder.

You startled, your mind and body jumping back into survival mode, gripping your sgian-dubh (small knife) close to your chest.

“It’s okay, mo phiuthar (my sister). It’s me, Torcall”, a raspy, masculine voice forced you to focus on the man in front of you.

He was your father’s most important tacksman and also husband to your older sister Mairead — your sweet Maisie, as you always called her. She was the eldest of the four siblings while you were the youngest. Always so witty and quick with a joke, Maisie kept up the spirits even when the circumstances were dire — in fact, before your paths had parted during the battle, she jested about your H-shaped shield being larger than you.

When you turned around, Torcall flattened his hands on your shoulders, slightly shaking you so you would come back to reality.

His blue eyes pierced through you, the situation becoming clearer in your mind. Thousands of your tribesmen were dead. Your father too.

“Maisie?”, you asked in a hush. Your heart clenched when your brother-in-law shook his head no. You were afraid to speak, but you did nonetheless. “Aodh and Somhairle?”

Torcall stared at you, his silence speaking loudly. “They are all dead.”

The air evacuated your lungs, feeling as if a spear had run through you. Learning about the death of Maisie and your twin brothers broke something within you, something fundamental and primal. They were your everything, your most trusted confidants. Despite being of different ages, you all were so tight-knit it was difficult to find one of you alone.

A heart-shattering wail escaped your lips as you bent over yourself, your chest snug against your knees.

Morrígan had unashamedly claimed most of your family that day, except for your beautiful mother. Now Her words made sense: you were yet to avenge them, to fulfil your purpose. She had spared you for a reason, not so you could pity yourself, knees deep in the mud.

To avenge them, you had to kill the hand who showered this tragedy upon you.

General Marcus Acacius.

A raven’s strident, gurgling croak forced you to look up to the skies — a subtle reminder that Morrígan was watching closely. The massive bird was circling above your heads, like a vulture waiting to feast on a carcass. With resolution, you wiped away your tears, your sobs now silent, and nodded at Torcall.

“I understand. How many…?”, your voice faltered before you could finish your question.

“A couple of thousands. We have found cover in the Dunnottar Woods while we regroup and… bury our dead.” Torcall replied, his eyes averted with the last sentence.

You had lost a sister, but he had lost a wife, the mother to his now half-orphaned children. “I’m sorry”, you muttered, your lips pouting once more.

“She died fighting, the death of a warrior.” His proud voice did not waver. “And your father?”

Your heart wept at his mention but managed to control the anxious fluttering.

“The General killed him.” Your teeth gritted with hatred.

“Mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)”, one of your father’s retinue members bowed his head to you once you walked into the circle they had formed in a meadow between the trees.

A few dozen men were scattered around the area, fires lighting the dark night while shades of red and orange flickered, creating fiery, dancing shades. You held a torch and carefully waved it in front of you, looking at the faces who watched you back eagerly.

You saw in your men what was brewing inside you: despair, defeat, sorrow. All your souls grieving in unison — all of you had lost someone that day.

At six and twenty, you did not expect to be in this position. You were the youngest daughter of the Overlord — you were never meant to lead your people. The task ahead of you felt titanic, unachievable.

But you had no other option. General Marcus Acacius had forced your hand.

He came, he saw, he conquered.

And now you had to deal with the gut-wrenching outcome of his departure.

“We’ll go back home to Inbhir Nis. But before that, we must give burial to our people.” You had to make a herculean effort to infuse your tone with steadiness.

Torcall first, and then the rest, bowed their heads to you.

“As you command, mo bana-phrionnsa”, he replied, and quickly barked orders around in your stead.

Your chest felt heavy with responsibility and grief. What pained you the most was not being able to carry your brothers and sister with you back home. They would not be buried under the cairns near you family home with the rest of your ancestors.

And what was worst — thousands of lives now depended on you. The weight of your tribe's destiny heavily rested on your shoulders now, like Atlas carrying the heavens.

Maisie, Aodh and Somhairle had been lined up on a patch of wildflowers that you had picked yourself the night prior — their arms were threaded together with your sister in the middle. Your clansmen had also surrounded the makeshift burial pit with wood to aid the combustion.

As you placed the last stone on top of them, you also deposited a bright, bloomed thistle. The flower that blossomed in every nook and cranny of your beautiful motherland, despite the harsh winter or conditions it faced. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, it would always come back, stronger and more brightful than ever.

Devotion, bravery, determination, and strength — the thistle was a badge of honour for the Caledonians.

With a renewed brawn unbeknownst to you, you threw the lighted torch and watched as the fire consumed the bodies underneath the stones.

There were no tears left within you. Only purpose and resolution.

The way back to Inbhir Nis was tiring and soul-crushing. Hiking through the Cairngorms had been a difficult task with so many people behind you, but luckily you all managed to make it through without any losses.

With each mile covered, you saw the devastation left behind by the Romans. If this was any indication of what awaited ahead, you should start bracing yourself for what you would see. It seemed that the Romans were set towards the northwest — Inbhir Nis was right in their path.

You quickly recognised the landscape as you walked towards Loch Moy. A thick, dark column of smoke towered above the pine trees. Your heart raced as you picked up your dark green skirt and ran towards the loch, ignoring the calls of your brother-in-law.

You could run through those woods blindly — this was the land where you were born, the land you were named after. Your name was an unusual one — Caledonia, in honour of the earth beneath your rushing feet. Just a few people called you Callie, mainly your family and closest friends. With your bright, fiery red hair, green almond eyes and a face dotted with freckles, you were the epitome of your people. That was probably why when someone new learned your name, they always said it suited you.

Dodging the last few trees, you made it to the edge of the loch. In the shallows, the crannog of Naimh, your community’s healer, was burning down to its foundation. You covered your mouth with a sombre expression, your eyes itchy because of the dense smoke and unspent tears.

The Romans had gotten to your settlement before you did.

“Callie, wait up”, said Torcall behind you, struggling to catch up with you.

He halted right behind you, the silence between you was almost tangible.

“The rangers have returned from their reconnaissance mission.” His voice was plain, contained. You turned your heard towards him, slowly, hardening yourself for his next words. “Your mother is dead.”

The last glimmer of hope within you vanished. A single tear skidded through your cheek — angrily, you wiped it off.

You were alone in this world. Everyone you cared for had been taken from you.

“Is everything to your liking, Dominus (Master)?”, the male roman servant asked in a low hush, head bowed, eyes fixed on the cobblestone.

“Yes, now leave”, Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The General looked around him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. He was accustomed to much more elegant surroundings. Although the barbarians did try, their architecture was nothing in comparison to Rome’s.

The castle he was in was small and it only had two floors. It was mainly made of sturdy, grey rocks and dark wood. The design was not very sophisticated, all square and rugged edges. It had two towers and a barbican. The decoration inside was bare, with just enough furniture and no luxuries.

The only warmth was brought by the colourful tapestries adorning the cold, thick walls — one had caught Marcus' attention at his arrival when he first entered the dais. It told a story he had not heard before.

A dragon-like figure lurked beneath the rippling surface of a lake, attracting the attention of the villagers. At dusk it would emerge, a guttural sound echoing in the dead of night, as if it was calling another. Any bìrlinns (wooden vessel) left on the shore would appear destroyed the next morning. Fishermen were worried and called upon the town's druids, afraid of the Loch Ness monster. To appease the beast, every full moon, the druids would whorship the creature, bringing oblations and sacrificies to quench its thirst.

Marcus made a mental note of keeping his distance from that Loch Ness. As a devoted Roman, he was wary of the mystic creatures that skulked in the depths of human fear.

Although he missed his home, he had several debts to pay. The Emperor would not accept no for an answer, so he had to be a reluctant participant in this incursion — in fact, neither Domitian nor Agricola had really asked him to tame the highlanders up in Caledonia. They knew his skills would be most needed in combat, having been praised by bards and poets alike after his many years in the battlefield.

At eight and forty, Marcus Acacius had had his good share of tragedy and death, both personal and in war. His life had not been easy, having to forge a name of his own since childbirth and then having been recently betrayed by his own spouse.

The thought of Livia still angered him — she had had the audacity of blaming him for her infidelity, accusing him of always being away, of loving Rome more than his own family. Her cheating had been going on for as many years as their arranged marriage, throwing a doubtful shade on his paternity to both his children.

His life had come crumbling down in the last few months, so maybe coming to Britannia had not been such a bad idea. Female adultery was a crime penalised with death and that was a decision that Marcus had yet to make — outing Livia’s unfaithfulness would condemn her to Pluto's realm. Did he really want that for who had been his wife for more than thirty years?

Pinching the bridge of his hooked nose, Marcus walked towards the only window in the room. The roman took a deep breath and exhaled steadily — he needed to think of something else.

His mind went back to the battle of Mons Graupius. The spilling of blood never became easier with time — if anything, it had become harder, splintering his soul further. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the piercing, pained shriek of a woman as he imparted death on Murdoch of Inbhir Nis.

Her hair was dyed with black soot and tied back, her face covered in a blue paste and ash. He was too far to catch the colour of her eyes, but he thought them dark azure. The fierceness of her expression took him aback, her voice shouting a word he did not recognise. But his eyes did not have time to linger on the feral woman a few yards away, because a savage attacked him.

His hand stilled on the rocky window’s sill. The barbarians called this place Inbhir Nis. The stone castle was that of the chief’s family, atop of a hill with views to the scenery underneath. It was rudimentary and lacked many commodities — nothing comparable to his villa in Rome. The tribal settlement was formed of huts made of stone, timber and hay.

Agricola had decided to burn down the outskirts of the town and killed the wife of the clan chief making a macabre example of her, so the people would submit to the Roman’s yoke quickly, crushing any opportunity of rebellion. The message was clear: Rome would not tolerate being challenged. Anyone who did, would face the most painful of deaths. The governor left to go northward, leaving Marcus behind to rebuild the area to Rome’s standards. The emperor had deemed the location an important enclave for his empire, being the main town in the Moray Firth.

Marcus was standing in what he thought was the bedchamber of Murdoch. With the Overlord and his family alienated, the primitive people of the highlands needed educating and he had been given the task of doing so. Not a welcomed one, but he had a duty to Rome that had to be fulfilled.

With a heavy sigh, he undid the brooch at the base of his neck, relieving himself of the heavy, white sagum (cape) that was part of his attire. He threw it on the uncomfortable bed. He unfastened the golden, laurel-shaped bracelets around his wrists, and then proceeded to undo the tight knots that held his armour in place.

Then a knock on the thick, wooden door broke the silence of the room.

“Come in”, thinking it would be his male servant, he didn’t turn around.

“Dominus, dinner is ready”, a very soft voice with a very marked accent made him look over his shoulder.

A pair of very bright, almond-shaped, emerald-green eyes locked on his, framed by what he would describe as fire hair — so red it looked like a hellish aura crowning your head.

So bright were your eyes, he almost felt his soul being examined by your hypnotising gaze. Marcus had never seen eyes like those.

How dared he stand where your father did? Anger shimmered under your skin, but you kept it in check. When you realised you were holding his gaze for longer than what was appropriate for a servant girl, you averted your eyes, inspecting the stones under your feet.

Torcall called you mad for doing this, but you had made up your mind. If you really wanted to overthrow the Roman General and win back your family’s castle and land, you would need to sew yourself into his everyday life. Gain his trust, learn his secrets and use that information against him. Your people were counting on you for freedom, and you would not allow yourself to disappoint them. Even if it was the last thing you did.

“Who are you?”, his raspy voice filled the atmosphere as he resumed the task of undoing the ties on his armour.

Did he have no shame, undressing himself in front of a maid? Mind you, you were not an innocent servant, having been widowed recently. But still. The romans had no modesty, you assumed.

You had to think quickly. You had learnt that the governor and the general both thought the whole chief’s family dead, so you could not out yourself. A very few, selected people called you Callie, almost always in the intimacy of your home, when strangers were not around. Your nickname was precious to you because it was only used by those you loved.

“My name is Callie, Dominus”, you offered your nickname in a rusty Latin. It had been a while since you had to use a language that was not your native one.

“Callie.” The way your name rolled off his tongue gave you goosebumps. You didn’t like the way he pronounced it — it lingered in his mouth for too long, dragging each letter. You wished your words back, but you couldn't change it now.

Instead of clenching your jaw, you nodded. “Yes, my lord, I’m one of the servant girls who tended to the clan chief’s family before you.” You explained, your head still bowed.

You ventured your eyes up for a second, catching a glimpse of his naked torso. Unconsciously, you pursed your lips. The way your heart pounded loud for that one second made you furrow your brows in confusion.

He might be a gorgeous man, but he was a killer. And you had no taste for soulless murderers, that much you knew about yourself.

“Call my attendant, Atticus, to help me get ready for supper. I have no need of you. And ask the kitchen staff to heat some water and bring it up here.” His tone was emphatic, unwavering.

His rejection, in other circumstances, would have been most welcomed, but you needed him to trust you, to confide in you so you could plot his demise — to destroy him. This was not a good start to your plan, but you needed to play the long game.

“I could certainly help you with a bath now, Dominus, but your wish is my command.” You forced the words out, when in reality you wanted to spit them to his murderous face.

He just nodded in your direction, his movements stiff and measured. “Just my attendant will suffice, now go.”

With your fingers laced on your back, you curtsied, walking backwards towards the door of your father’s bedchamber. You could not seem too eager, or he would become suspicious.

When you were in the corridor with the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath and straightened your back.

You would not take no for an answer. Marcus Acacius would yield to you, whatever the cost.

@devilbat2 @subterralienpanda @lordofthundersstuff @just-mj-or-not

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[brainrockets]

Met someone at Big Bad Con cosplaying young Grandma Wren after a panel given by an Irish fellow with a philosophy degree. We all nerded out about WBN and then later my brother brought me a badge sticker someone had made with a Fox quote on it. 😍 Such a fun con.

[konaiiro]

AU if Ian is in the military and Mickey is inevitably waiting for him. 

Started as a sketch then i got carried away. For A.U.gust (Hosted by @gallavichthings). Some accompanying drabble bc I fell in love when drawing them:

The last time Ian Gallagher was back home, he was doing time at Cook County for breaking parole. Only for a couple months, but Micky had missed the man by a week when he had left for another tour. A failed drug test had just costed him more than he was ready to pay. Ian had come to visit him anyways, wore his camouflage gear with badges and all; the security guards always loved a man in uniform. Still, it hadn’t been the same through the glass. So close he could see Ian’s chest rise and fall, his dimples sliding on to his face with amusement as Mickey had ranted on about his cellmate - so close to touch but all he could do was pretend until the fifteen minutes were up. 

This time, Ian hadn’t even told him he was in town - only finding out when he opened his front door with a beer in hand with a singlet and boxers on. “Hey, Mick.”

He knew his face must’ve looked stupid because Ian cracked up before going in for a hug. Micky let him, not giving a shit about his family inside and folded his own arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. He had never gotten changed so quickly, desperate to get Ian to himself, as the man lounged on his bed and pretended he wasn’t watching Mickey by fiddling around with the decade-old kunai knifes. They stopped for booze and a pack of smokes on the way. After a quick makeout against the alley wall, the two of them continued on, pushing and shoving to give each other a reason to touch. It didn’t really matter where they went, as long as it was just them where Mikey could do more than take glances at Ian’s army issued cargos. He looked good - ginger hair shaved on the sides, his shirt fit snug, skin tanned as much his pale Irish genes let it. There was the scar too - a slash across his cheek that won’t fade completely. Ian hadn’t mentioned it, so he wouldn’t either. 

They dumped their haul on a secluded bench and drank a disgusting whiskey-and-orange juice combo. Ian said it was good enough, but Mickey blamed that on the moonshine shit that he must’ve usually had on hand in the middle of trying not to get shot. They didn’t talk about his tours, in the same way they didn’t talk about court mandates or prison or deals gone wrong. The closest was if there was a stupid story to get a laugh out of each other. No point in talking about all the fucked-up stuff in their lives - they’ve only got until Ian has to leave again. The two of them drank some more, smoked a bit, kissed, jerked each other off until Ian turned around, placing the barely alive joint into Mickey’s mouth before bending him over the bench. They had a lot to catch up on. 

Before this last tour, Micky had been in prison. Two tours ago, they had first held each other in Ian’s childhood bedroom, knuckles split and bodies bruised from the brawl with Terry. He tried not to think about how his life was now segmented into pieces by the brief lapses of Gallagher being back in town - even if it was true. Micky thought about the inevitable homecoming party for Ian at the Alibi tonight and tried not to think about how two weeks was not a long time at all. 

[cyan-stargaze002]

TWISTED FATE:

What is Twisted Fate?

Twisted Fate is an AU that is based on the question: “what if they parted ways when they graduated, not seeing each other in years and finally re-encountering?”

What are their professions? (Content warning as there’s mentions of rac!sm/specisism, mental abuse and hate crime)

Sam is a graduated criminologist that loves his work. But sadly, his workplace discriminates him just for being a dog and his Irish accent as well. They also thought that he was really “funny looking”. His coworkers called him “Scooby Doo” because of it. He loves his profession but he wishes to get out. As for Max, he had multiple jobs and one of them is becoming a stag film actor, but this altered his emotional and psychological behaviors after his past relationships were mean to him, mentally abuse him or his boss wanted to exploit him. He had the miracle to leave, but the after effects still linger and now he works as a security guard…but a bad one.

Where did they re-encounter?

Easy, at a bar. Both finished their jobs and decided to treat themselves, unknowingly sitting next to each other. Sam was the one that noticed Max since he will always recognize that high pitched voice that speaks nothing but chaos! Both were so happy to re-encounter. They talked about their lives, reviving child/teen hood memories and other things

Will they fall in love?

Yes, they do! Although…it’s going to be a rocky road for both of them. Sam has self-doubts and insecurities that makes him overthink if it’s ok to confess his feelings to his little buddy. He always had that feeling since they were kids, but tried to hide it or ignore, thinking that it was “just a phase” when it wasn’t. As for Max, his past relationships affected him badly that made him develop NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder) and also stages of anxiety and self-doubt too. He also thinks that doing “favors” (if you catch my drift) will be the way to win the person’s heart (which is not true) here is a mini comic to demonstrate the before-events in Sam’s POV:

Will they become Freelance Police officers?

They do! It will take some time. They both decided to quit their current jobs and work being the exciting and crazy freelance police! Their outfits don’t change but they add small badges on their jackets.

NOW for general QNA:

Can I make fanart (any media) of them?

Everyone is more than welcomed to make fanart of these fools, I love them! Just make sure to credit me when doing so.

I have more questions, where should I ask you?

You can ask me in the ask button and on discord! (In the pin post, there’s a webpage that leads to all my social places) on Tumblr, some asks will be doodled, some written!

I am an adult, can I do 18+ content of them?

Sure! You can go basic but remind you, I have limits when viewing 18+/NSFW content. You can ask me if you wish ^^

Can I ship them with my OCs?

There’s a 50/50 for that. Yes, you can draw your OC with them being in platonic terms. In romantic terms,it will be a no since both Sam and Max are canonically together in this AU.

Will you write more of them?

Absolutely! I really love this AU so I will work more with it! Your support will also be helpful if you wish more content of them!

That is it for now, Adiós!!

[spot-the-antisemitism]

are they? well even if they are white americans who are the descedants of british people thinking they can reclaim a slur for Irish and arab people is laughable. No sweetie you can't reclaim the a slur of the people your ancestors oppressed and wear it as a badge to support a different group

Source: tiktok and Al Jazeera

and everyone's favourite assadist Iranian bots sharona and sayruq

AWWW baby's first harass Jews minding their business is going badly

stick to reblogging grifters in your circlejerk and leave jews alone, tankie punk