#scottish heritage we up

[mollyrolls]

this is so niche i’m going to actually age myself with this but

[headspace-hotel]

I looked up some stuff about the "domestication syndrome" in animals because I read a couple times in books the idea that domesticated animals are neotenous, meaning they retain juvenile traits into adulthood. The idea being that humans have essentially created more helpless, more exploitable versions of wild animals to "dominate" and abuse nature.

I thought, "Okay, that sounds like something that couldn't be proven. How much do we even know about the juvenile brain development of, say, wild goats or boars, anyway?"

So I found this review of the literature that goes back to the fur farm fox domestication study and it's even worse than I thought: We don't even know that a 'domestication syndrome' in animals exists at all, let alone whether it is a retention of juvenile traits into adulthood.

So the fur farm fox domestication study: you may have heard of it, it claimed to have demonstrated that within a few generations, by selecting for tameness, the researchers bred "domesticated" foxes with a whole suite of traits that appear in many domesticated animals but seem unrelated to tameness, such as piebald coloration and floppy ears. The idea is that the genes for tameness and for these other traits commonly seen in domestic animals are linked, that is, an animal that inherits one is likely to inherit the other.

There's some major problems. First of all, all the foxes used in the study were from fur farms, and had already been selected for some level of docility and for coat color variation. The foxes didn't get white spots on them because they were selected for tameness, instead the pre-existing population they were selected from had those genes in it to begin with. Also, the effective population size of the foxes in the study was pretty small, meaning a small amount of genetic drift could have a big impact.

Second, there isn't very much evidence for most of the "domestication syndrome" traits in most animals. Even where the "domestication syndrome" traits can be found, they are often particular to specific breeds, and it's unclear whether they are linked to domestication as such or just the development of that specific breed.

This study only deals with a few animals, mostly small animals. It would be even more interesting to see a breakdown of even more animals (particularly more large animals). Off the top of my head, almost none of these would apply to horses, and only in specific cases would apply to cattle. Even in dogs, extreme changes in skull morphology have happened relatively recently with breeders in modern times going after extreme phenotypes.

Particular to cats: extreme skull changes and floppy ears occur as part of some "breeds" because they are specific painful genetic disorders that breeders of cats decided to perpetuate VERY recently. Scottish Folds were deliberately developed from cats that just so happened to have a disease that causes them to be in constant suffering due to their messed up joints, it's not just a variation that regularly pops up in cats to varying extents. Likewise with the smushed-face Persians. Their brains are getting squished into where their spinal cords should go because their skulls are so messed up from selective breeding for an extreme look.

What domestication means has been majorly shaken up in the past hundred years. With companion animals, breeders are in a race to make the most screwed up animal with the most extreme, striking traits possible, and with livestock animals, lots of heritage breeds with more variations have straight up gone extinct because they've been flattened into industrial monocultures to produce meat and milk as efficiently as possible, health and genetic diversity be damned.

To study domestication itself, you would have to study landrace breeds, right?

Basically there isn't one thing that domestication is

[sleepymccoy]

Please choose your favourite of my (imo) niche star trek headcanons

Now that I'm writing these, I wonder if any of them are straight up canon that I've forgotten lol

I'm gonna further defend my headcanons under a readmore, but it's up to you if you want to read that or just vote on the summary 😘

Scotty's actor is Canadian. Also he's so Scottish? Like, he's called Scotty, he drinks scotch, he is Scottish, so on. Too much. I think he has Scottish heritage, maybe his mum is Scottish, so he knows the phrases and his accent work is comedic but solid. But he himself was born in like Quebec

I have a whole post on McCoy's ex wife being Vulcan, it rules, give it a read here

The way America crumbles in trek history I think opens them up to invasion. I don't think Russia is still in charge, I think they've moved on from that and country borders are less political more cultural in TOS times. But I think briefly Russia had everything and Chekhov is joking about that when he says shit like that saying is Russian. We know, Chekhov, everything was Russian once, get over it. His joke is less about things being Russian and more like someone making the same joke about how everything was Roman once

TOS writers had a little cheat sheet of characterisation rules I saw here once and one said that Sulu has many varying interests, so if you need an info dump that's not one of the other main guys things, use him. So I've taken that and gone with he isn't actually into plants, it was just a six month project to better learn how to take care of them. He spent a lot of time complaining about them to Chekhov. Basically a hyper fixation and once he figured it out he lost interest, but retained all the knowledge

Cos Rand has that trick of heating up the coffee with a phaser on low. That's resourceful with ship technology that uses batteries, not mainframe power. I think she knows what matters when a ship breaks, and food and comfort need prioritising cos she grew up on a ship that was always broken. Broken ships are easier to tolerate if the coffee is served hot

I think Chapel's fiance kinda sucks in that ep, even if it was just a robot copy, and I think she loves being in space. I think she feels both relieved and guilty about it all, it's bad

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

GAYLE RANKIN TALKING ABOUT ALYS RIVERS IN EPISODE 4 OF 'HOUSE OF THE DRAGON' S2.

DID YOU READ THE ALYS RIVERS PORTIONS OF FIRE AND BLOOD?

"The first audition, I did not know who I was auditioning to play."

"I was auditioning to play 'AR.' And then I was kind of told who it was, and I was able to go into the book and read the portions, which are really fascinating."

"There’s so much hearsay and back and forth about Alys from so many different perspectives — mostly male perspectives, too — about who she is, what she is, where she comes from, what she’s going to do, and what she’s not going to do."

"It made me so excited."

BEYOND THE TEXT, DID YOU FIND INSPIRATION FROM ANYWHERE TO HELP CREATE YOUR VERSION OF ALYS?

"Absolutely. I’m from Scotland originally, so I really felt strongly that I wanted her to be Celtic, like Scottish, where I’m from generally."

"I found that to be really interesting because it was like this pagan aspect with that."

"The other option would be for her to be English, and there’s not that many Scottish characters."

"Beesbury was Scottish, but no one in the House Strong is Scottish, so what are we saying about her relationship to Harrenhal and being a member of the Strong household?"

"I enjoyed adding that part of my own heritage to the character because I thought it really helped with specificity in terms of the pagan aspect of her craft and also grounding her."

"It also made her more mysterious because it’s like, wait, where’s she from? It was like a jumping-off point, and Ryan [Condal] and everybody at HBO were really excited about me using my own accent."

"I think it gives her this unique power in some ways because she is untouchable and doesn’t have a familial lineage."

"It also makes her vulnerable, too, because she’s out there in Harrenhal on her own for years."

"What’s she been doing? Where did she come from? — I have a backstory as an actor."

"That’s kind of my process, and that huge part of it for me to really ground her and make her a real woman."

HOW WOULD YOU RANK HER POWER COMPARED TO THE DRAGONS AND WHAT SHE MIGHT BE HOLDING IN?

"I think what’s interesting, and if you’ve read the books, where Alys ends up is in a pretty powerful position."

"Prophecy is like the missing piece to take over the throne."

"Prophecy and magic and witchcraft and that kind of power have amazing brute force."

"Dragons are magical in their own way, but there’s something about being able to manipulate and understand and know things about the world."

"It’s kind of speaking to a bigger theme inside the story, which is that it’s an extremely female-centric power story."

"The fact that these women know things and know how to do things, and they aren’t being helped or respected, like Mysaria and Alicent and obviously Rhaenyra."

"These women know what they’re doing."

"They know, and Alys definitely has another kind of knowing."

"I think it’s cool to add that to the pot."

ALYS HAS ONLY INTERACTED WITH DAEMON SO FAR. WHAT DOES SHE WANT FROM HIM?

"I think as much as Alys is in charge, there’s also something bigger that’s at play."

"I think she knows that, and it kind of allows her, weirdly, to be with Daemon in this experience."

"I think we’re going to start to, hopefully, get to see them actually interact."

"As much as Alys has all this power, there are things about her that she wants and desires and has her eye toward."

"There’s a long game, I think, for this character."

"My interpretation and hope to get through is that she also has a human yearning and yearns for human connection."

"I think someone with a lot of power like that, who’s been alone for a long time, how is that going to play out when they get to spend time with a human being?"

SHE TOLD DAEMON THAT SHE'S "NO SO BAD" ONCE YOU GET TO KNOW HER. THAT WAS A REALLY HUMAN MOMENT IN THE MIDST OF THIS OTHERWORDLY EXPERIENCE AT HARRENHAL.

"She desires to be known, I think, and that’s really interesting that she desires to be known by the scariest motherfucker around."

"She’s kind of here for it."

"There’s something really progressive about that because the thing about Alys is she’s able to see something in Daemon that’s important to be seen."

"She’s fearless."

"I think when you wait around for 400 years, when you get an opportunity to get involved in your life for your purpose, which I think Daemon is a part of her life and her purpose, like, go for it."

"She’s going for it."

IN EPISODE 3, SHE TOLD DAEMON THAT HE'D "DIE" AT HARRENHAL. DID SHE SAY IT AS A WARNING OR JUST A FACT?

"I think it’s good that we’re asking that question because I think that exposes a lot about her."

"I don’t think she knows really how Daemon is going to play out in her life."

"As much as she knows everything, I don’t know if Alys knows everything, you know? I think there’s a learning happening with her, too."

"I think there’s warning, there’s fact, there’s empathy, there’s power dynamic playing out."

DO YOU THINK ALL OF HER POWER IS CONTAINED AT HARRENHAL? IS THAT SOMETHING YOU'VE THOUGHT ABOUT?

"I’m sure it’s something that she’s thought about."

"I think it’s something that she’s probably worried about and excited about and challenged by."

"I think that’s an exciting question for the show because, ultimately, it doesn’t seem like it is, but I don’t know if she knows that."

"I don’t know how that would change her."

WHAT CAN YOU TEASE ABOUT WHAT'S NEXT FOR ALYS REGARDING HER DYNAMIC WITH DAEMON? IT FEELS LIKE WE'RE AT A TIPPING POINT AFTER THE HALLUCINATIONS AND VISIONS.

"I think that’s what’s interesting is that there is a tipping point."

"What happens? How do power dynamics start to shift? — Hopefully, the audience will be hungry to see how we are going to start finding out more about Alys and there might be potential for that."

I WANTED TO POINT OUT THAT DAEMON JUST ACCEPTED THAT CUP OF WHATEVER ALYS WAS BREWING IN EPISODE 4, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. HE DIDN'T SEEM SCARED BY IT, AS IF THERE WAS A CERTAIN TRUST THERE.

"There’s something quite comforting about their dynamic."

"I think no one has ever challenged Daemon, and it’s interesting how Alys kind of flip flops between maternal energy and friend energy and kind of a little sexual tension, and any different kind of tools she has but also things that she wants to experiment with."

AEMOND AND ALYS HAVE A VERY PROMINENT RELATIONSHIP IN FIRE & BLOOD. IS THERE ANYTHING YOU CAN SAY ABOUT THEM POSSIBLY MEETING THIS SEASON?

"I can’t."

"I think my whole thing with talking about Alys and talking about the journey is I think patience is going to be a really… I think it’s going to pay off because I think all of these things are so informative of one another."

[gogandmagog]

Reflecting today on the simplicity of the name ‘Ingleside’ for a house, compared to a good many other homes-with-names in Maud’s catalogue. Ingleside, together with the Disappointed House and the House of Dreams, are rare examples of the very special Montgomery houses… in that are actually given names by the characters in her books, as most houses that we meet in the series have already had their names decided, long ago.  In Anne of Ingleside, Anne says:  “We [she and Gilbert] had quite a time deciding on a name. We tried out several but they didn't seem to belong. But when we thought of Ingleside we knew it was the right one.”   Justaposing this against the importance of names and homes to Lucy Maud, Ingleside seems so schematic. Even if you double-up this thought with how choosy Anne is about places and their names.

Ingleside. Ingleside.

Ingle.

Side.

So then I thought I’d google what an Ingle is, or what it means:

And like... a ha.

And like, if it weren’t for the fact that Ingle is a even a Scottish word (Maud was very proud of her Scottish heritage, and very pleased to marry a Scottish man too, not even mentioning all the Scotchy surnames for her characters in all her books), I might’ve brushed this off as stretching. But now when I look at the word Ingleside, or DOMESTIC FIREside, I think of this name as a preservation or sequel of the name House of Dreams, because it points to the fruition and continuation of that dream that Gilbert had and the castle-in-air that Anne always inexplicably saw Gilbert in, despite herself, back in Anne of Avonlea. “I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it...” 

Gilbert’s final proposal, Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery

[unwhitewashthebadbatch]

Filming on a television series, believed to be the first mainstream prime-time production to have 30 percent of its dialogue in te reo Māori, has just wrapped in Taranaki.

The Warner Brothers Discovery-backed drama Tangata Pai is being made in partnership with Te Atiawa iwi and Ngāti Te Whiti hapū.

It tells the story of five people whose worlds collide when a bomb is detonated at a peaceful Māori protest against a licence to mine a sacred site.

Writer-director Kiel McNaughton, who has whakapapa to Taranaki iwi and Parihaka, said the show had parallels with past struggles and contemporary issues such as seabed mining.

"In terms of Māori needing to stand up. Stand up for their rights, stand up for their land, stand up for what we believe in.

"And we are having to do that now and we were having to do that 140 years ago, so for me it's about looking at what's changed. Has anything changed?"

McNaughton, who is still on his reo journey, said it was important to normalise the use of the language.

"What's exciting about this is that it is being embraced by a broader network which has a much larger audience.

"And being able to get this 30 percent reo content, which shouldn't be intimidating for a non-Māori speaking audience, so for us to have that on Three and for Warner Brothers Discovery to support this is really exciting."

Former journalist Mereana Hond, who is from Taranaki and Ngāti Ruanui iwi, is overseeing the use of te reo and tikanga.

She said Tangata Pai would include subtitles to make it accessible to as many people as possible.

"The fact that it is 30 percent te reo Māori is what sold it to iwi that have chosen to be a part of this.

"This is a collaboration, it is a partnership, there is a memorandum of agreement between iwi and the producers to create something which tells our stories in a different way."

Theres heaps of background talent here in Ngāmotu, so that's been terrific to engage the local community and have them come and be a part of the series and the filming.

"And then we have lots of crew that we've brought from different parts of the country. The majority I would say from Auckland."

Warkia - who has Scottish and Papua New Guinea heritage - agreed with Hond that one of Tangata Pai's strengths was its illustration of how disputes could be dealt with.

"The idea of maungaarongo which is very much about creating space for people to speak even if they have very different opinions.

"Creating a space where they can specifically discuss all of those differences, and that is healthy and important and shouldn't be avoided."

Filming of Tangata Pai, which has Te Māngai Pāho and NZ On Air funding, has now moved to Auckland.

It will screen on Three and Three Now next year.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Highland Fling [Avenger!/Kilted! Loki x Fem. Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: (7) An insufferably smug Kilted! Loki has a convenient history with the mission location, a scottish castle. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Language. Smuttish. "Friends" w/ benefits. Kilted! Loki. Jealousy. Humour. (w/c 3.6k)

How you had let yourself go along with this idiotic plan was beyond you. A scouting mission to a wedding in the highlands of Scotland with only Loki Laufeyson for company. But Rogers had been insistent. The last hour had passed quietly as you prepped in one of the castle bedooms, changing into a simple swing dress that was definitely not red.

Rolling mountains were visible outside a small window cut into original brick, fog wafting over the rusted mossy landscape. “You have other lovers, Agent... or only me?” Loki drawled smugly while straightening his cravat, spoken as casually as asking you to pass the salt.

Steam from the curling iron stung your eyes as you tried not to let your expression change in the mirror, eyes flickering to him stalking over from the four poster bed. Loki’s reflection took up top to toe of the ornate mirror, a tweed waistcoat and jacket snug to his torso. Muted green, of course. A kilt hung perfectly from his natural waist, the thick apron at the front making a flat expanse over his thighs. The pleated sides swung beautifully as he paced towards you, heavy wool held in place by leather straps and buckles tight to his hips. He adjusted a black sporran hanging over his crotch, the leather detail catching your eye. Intricate metal ornaments set against the black rabbit fur clunked as he spread his legs, the dark green and grey tartan looking unreasonably delicious falling over his thighs. Loki’s lashes fanned against his skin as he lowered his chin, smoothing the rough waves of his hair behind his ears. The wedding party was of an old scots clan, so only a traditionally extravagant show of their heritage would do. Every man would be wearing full kilt regalia. But none, you suspected, would look as incredibly panty-wetting as Loki. “Yes, actually.” you lied, running your eyes casually over his muscular frame, wrapped in woven wool. His carved knees were visible at the hem of the kilt. Just the sight of them made you want to sink to your own. “Just, one...you know other...um-” “Lover.” he purred seductively, enjoying the brief furrow of your brow. You released the curl you’d been holding, shaking it out and setting the iron down. “Yeah...lover, yeah. He’s good. He’s uh...nice.” You could feel your heart beat faster as Loki’s chest pressed against your shoulder-blades, the scratch of tweed nipping your bare back. “How tiresome, I’m am sorry.” he murmured condescendingly, twisting your fresh curl around one long finger. You swatted the hand away with a tsk, rummaging in the small make-up bag sitting on the bed-side table. Your mouth felt dry, the deception making your cheeks heat. You swallowed, turning back to the mirror non-nonchalantly. “What about you?” Why did you ask him that, you fucking buffoon? It’s Loki. He’s got a fucking waiting list.

A sly smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “What do you think?” he said, the implication unmistakably clear.

You let your eyes fall back to your own reflection, inspecting your make-up. “Oh I’m sorry, I thought we were having an actual conversation for once.” you said, tilting your chin as you pressed your eyelashes back. “We have conversations all the time Agent, ‘tis hardly my fault they irritate you so.” You sighed, realising victory was a lost cause. There was a churning in your stomach. “I have a bad feeling about this, Loki.” you murmured, scanning your reflection. He chuckled softly. You could hear his dexterous fingers toying with the buckles at his hips. His warm breath ghosted the bare skin of your shoulders. “All we need to do is assess whether the best man is still in league with Hydra. The signs will be obvious.” Loki took a step back, a flash of green in his raised hand drawing your attention.

A buttonhole appeared, a simple thistle with a ribbon of green and gold wrapped intricately around the stem. He continued to speak as he fastened it to his breast, the tilt of his jawline and the concentration on his face making gratuitous wetness gather in your underwear. “If he is, we can use his connection to our advantage. You are a family friend of the wedding party, a normal and understandable guest. And I…” he stepped backwards, the buttonhole in place, drawing his hands upward from his groin to his chest. “Am your delightfully plain yet devoted boyfriend, Edgar.” “Edgar? Christ.” you murmured dryly before you turned towards him, narrowing your eyes. “You look the same.” How is it possible, you thought as a shiver of desire rolled up your spine, that he is more attractive than his own reflection. Now that you were facing him, the scent of his cologne wafted in tendrils up your nostrils, memories of him fucking you slowly over an earth-shattering orgasm filling your head. That cologne. I didn’t change my sheets for days, you remembered; stomach flipping. “Ah...yes.” he purred slowly, amusement sparking as he registered the glaze in your eyes. “Well everyone else shall see my illusion, but I thought I would leave my true form on display for your eyes only. I know you love to stare when you think I’m not looking so at least this way, our ruse that you are attracted to Edgar will have some semblance of realism.” The spell was broken. Your mouth fell ajar, speechless at his audacity. He was right. But that wasn’t the point. You frowned, concern growing as Loki began to smirk. “Why would I not be attracted to Edgar?” His gaze crawled down your body and back to your piercing stare. “Poor Edgar is rather punching above his weight class, Agent.” You whined in frustration, harshly tugging the lapel of his jacket. “Make him hot, Loki please...come on. Don’t be a dick this one time.This isn’t funny, people I haven’t seen in years are at this wedding.”

“I cannot I’m afraid.” Loki sighed, creases at the corner of his eyes betraying his mirth. ‘Bland and inconspicuous’ were Rogers exact words. And darling, nothing is more inconspicuous than a paunch and a bald spot.”

“A bald…” you trailed off, squeezing your eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath. He was trying to get a rise out of you, and you wouldn’t let him. “I hate you.” you scoffed flippantly, twirling the lipstick between your fingers as you turned toward the mirror. You leant forward, feeling his eyes burning into your reflection. Pressing your newly coated lips together, your gaze flickered up where Loki stood in his signature power stance. His arms were crossed, chin tucked to the cravat rising from his waistcoat as he observed you flip the lid back on the golden tube with a click. “Let’s try that again. Once more with feeling, Agent.” he murmured, swiping a strand of hair back from your collarbone. “Make me believe it.” Loki’s fingertips trailed the delicate skin, lingering a moment too long to be anything less than an act of war. Reluctantly, you turned your eyes up to meet his smoulder in the reflection, resisting the urge push your ass back onto the sporran. “I hate you.” you said, red lipstick punching every syllable. “That’s better.” he smirked. “Now let’s go and pretend to be in love...shall we?”

It felt odd, having Loki – or Edgar -be nice to you. Affectionate, even. Without a hint of innuendo or snideness. Edgar followed you diligently around the room as you greeted old friends, and you surmised pretty quickly that Loki had undersold just how far Edgar was punching above his weight. During one conversation, Loki’s large palm had slid unexpectedly up your cheek and coaxed you into a soft kiss. His tongue had played at the parting of your lips, pressure building and ebbing as he massaged them with his own. “I’ll be right back...darling.” he whispered softly.

He was gone before you realised your eyes were still closed. “He seems...sweet.” an old acquaintance cooed as your pretend boyfriend skulked to fetch another round of free wine. “He is.” you lied, still processing the kiss as you noted the bemusement in her eyes. She looked from you to Edgar, bumbling around the drinks table. “What does he do again?” she asked politely, draining her glass. “Oh, erm...he’s an accountant.” you replied, noting her eyes glaze over. If she knew that he’s actually the fittest man she’d ever see in her life who happens to be a sex god...and an actual god, she’d cream herself with jealousy; you thought wistfully. Your stare was drawn irrevocably back to Loki, holding up each pre-poured glass to inspect it in the light. His long arms bulged beneath the restraint of the tweed jacket, his perfectly fitted kilt swaying with classical eroticism. The line of his calves tightened beneath thick knee-high socks, traditional laces winding up his muscles. Suddenly Loki knelt down on one knee, brushing the kilt up. His thumb and forefinger gripped the muscle, the taut skin of his thigh coming into view before he readjusted the laces at his ankle.For the first time, you noticed a ceremonial sgian-dubh dagger tucked in those stupid socks. Maybe I’ll let him use it on me later, you thought; remembering with a snap that you were in company. Or maybe he won’t ask first.

Loki’s chin tilted towards you, fluttering his eyes upwards to meet yours. He winked.

You felt saliva pool beneath your tongue before you swallowed, turning back to the woman with a manufactured smile. “I think it’s great you’re so into him. He must be a really nice guy.” the woman said, her saccharine lilt making you wince. It was going to be a long night.

Hours later, after the speeches and the meal; you conceded that Loki had officially run out of ways to irritate the everloving fuck out of you. He had spent the entire dinner turning every conversation at the table toward the nuances of asset depreciation and the politics of taxable turnover. Now that they were no longer obligated to stay, everyone at your table of ten had left. “It’s just my personality, darling.” Loki said knowingly under his breath, as you watched the last person splutter their excuses and make a beeline for the bar. “Mischievous?” you huffed through a fake smile, giving the deserter an apologetic wave goodbye. “I find it hard to believe you’re naturally this much of an asshole.” “But you seem to like it so much, Agent.” he grinned, fiddling with a crumpled napkin on the table as his eyes fell briefly to your cleavage. You pursed your lips, scanning the room. “This is a total bust, there’s no hint of Hydra security anywhere. Best man is a dead end.” you murmured, landing back on Loki. “Well, it was a longshot.” he whispered seductively, his fingers dancing over the table to where yours sat. They clasped around your hand, toying affectionately with your rings before raising them to his lips. Turns out, he was actually pretty good at this whole acting thing; but then, you shouldn’t have been surprised. “Perhaps Rogers was misinformed on the lead.” he murmured against your skin.

You let out a staggered breath as memories of the earlier kiss blossomed in your mind. He’s not going to kiss you, no one’s watching, you thought as his blue eyes sparked into yours, the gold specks decorating his irises flickering in the candlelight. You shook your head. “-...like that little quip about charity.” you sniped, yanking your hand away. “No-one’s naturally that much of a dick.” “Are we still talking about that? Agent, that was weeks ago.” he huffed, reaching for the untouched wine in front of him. Silence reigned between you as he drummed his fingers on the table, looking towards the dancefloor before his gaze swung back. “And why did it bother you so much?” “Are you…” you lowered your voice to a hiss, placing a finger on your temple as you leant toward him on the table. “Are you serious? You pretty much said I’m a pity fuck. That’s low, even for you.” There was silence as you both stared ahead. You looked at Loki from the corner of your eye, feeling a wave of renewed anger as a tepid smirk tugged at his lips. “If I was Nat I’d have smashed a bottle over your head.” Loki’s eyes flashed as he turned; smelling prey. “You are every bit as ferocious as Ms Romanoff, Agent...so why didn’t you?” Your stare hardened further. “Because firstly, I don’t want my boss to know who I’m fucking and secondly, I don’t want him to know I’m fucking you.” “Ah.” Loki hummed thoughtfully, biting away a grin. “And there we have it. You’re ashamed of your growing feelings for me. Reason, at last.” “Oh my god, you are fucking unbel-”

“Darling...eh-he-he...oh, delightful...delightful joke…” Loki patted your leg, letting out a chiming laugh while several guests passed behind your seats. He leant forward, tightening his grip on your thigh. You clenched, his firm squeeze filling your head with filth. Loki’s hand slid upward, the rustling of your dress giving way to his touch making you breathe faster. His nose grazed your ear. “You’re forgetting yourself, Agent." he chided. "Concentrate.” The god’s lips brushed your cheek as he released an innocent breath that sounded almost like a moan before returning upright in his chair. He was smirking, naturally. “Edgar could be an asshole, they don’t know” you shrugged, crossing your legs. You could feel the arousal you had been fighting sliding between your thighs as you reached for your drink, before slumping back in the chair. “I think Edgar and I will be calling it quits, actually.” “Edgar is not an arsehole, darling. He is a fine, if rather...unfortunate looking, fellow. And you’re lucky to have him.” Loki said calmly, enjoying the view of your glare from his peripheral vision as he sipped his wine. He set it down with a theatrical sigh. “Besides, this might be a perfect opportunity for you to confront your prejudice toward me.” Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?” “Charity.” he said, as if it explained everything. Your felt your heart beat faster, stirrings of a memory you couldn’t yet place. Your brows knitted together. “Yes? And?” The blue of his eyes darkened in the low light from the antique candle centrepieces as he leant closer, his eyelids cast down before they fluttered innocently upward. “Does the mortal child looking for a marrow donor not ring a bell in that pretty head of yours?” Your stomach dropped, suddenly remembering how he had stepped in at the eleventh hour to help with the nationwide campaign to find a donor at your reluctant request. Apparently, he was a big draw for female demographics aged 18-45. ‘Could you be her hero? Remember, not all heroes...wear leather’. Fuck, you’d hated that line. You felt your core flutter at the memory of watching him make love to the camera, his chiselled face set in a rare, wide-eyed sincerity as he wrapped in one take. “I thought not. How quick you humans are to seek the conclusion you wish to find.” Loki’s smug glee was palpable. You spluttered, your mind whirring. “But...the way you said it.” “With my voice?” he intonated, laden with sarcasm. “The assumption that I was referencing our trysts? That was created...here.” he tapped your forehead lightly with one long finger. You scoffed, grabbing your clutch. “Your witchy mindfucks won’t work on me, Laufeyson.” you hissed, pushing up from the chair. “Is that right?” he said, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Yes.” you spat, taking a step towards the door before Loki grabbed your wrist. “Let me escort you, we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves with a scene.” He scanned the room. People were making their way to the dancefloor as the party began, shards of mirrorball light bouncing against the chunky ancient stone brickwork. With a grimace, you conceded he was probably right.

You tugged your arm from his grip. “Fine.” you said, waiting for him to stand. God, I’d forgotten about the kilt, you thought; as it swung into view. The flat apron of tartan at the front creased, the unstoppable bulge of his cock flashing momentarily against the thick fabric. That wool has like...layers, you thought, bamboozled by the ridiculousness of his anatomy. “Come.” he muttered, jutting his arm. You slid your own around it, making your way together to the heavy doors. The music grew fainter as Loki walked purposefully through a series of winding corridors, medieval style torches hanging from the brickwork flooding the small spaces with an orange glow. “Where are we going? I don’t think we’re supposed to be here...” you murmured, your head swirling with sensory overload in the flickering gloom as Loki squeezed your fingers around his bicep. “I want to show you something…” he whispered, as a dripping sounded from the stretching darkness beyond. You were acutely aware of every click of your heels underfoot breaking the silence. He led you deeper away from the modernised area of the castle, the stone wall beneath your fingertips feeling moist as you trailed along it. You and Loki side-by-side took up the entire passage, a sliver of ebbing light appearing from around an upcoming turn. “Is your cock pierced again- is that why you’re making such a fuss?” you blurted with a need to fill the intimate, crushing silence. Loki’s low chuckle echoed. “You liked that, didn't you Agent? I could tell.”

You were suddenly glad for the darkness, feeling your cheeks flush. Turning the corner, you gasped as an old chapel room came into view, a window cut into the high wall sending a single beam of dust-filled light across the floor. Stern arches raised on either side of the walls, a stale musk of history heavy in the air. As you stared up at the vaulted ceiling, you felt Loki’s arms slide around your waist from behind. “I was almost wed in this chapel once.” he murmured coyly, releasing a groan into your ear on the exhale. He rubbed his cheekbone possessively against your temple, his voice deepening. “What are the chances?” “Wed? Wha-” “Hush, Agent.” he purred, spinning you to face him. You stared up at his insufferably perfect face, the sharp features carved like marble; set for a scene which had clearly already been decided. You shivered, rough brickwork scratching your skin as he nudged you backward. “You already know that I have enjoyed occasional Midgardian dalliances, throughout my lifetime” he hummed, trailing his knuckles down your neck. “Sex and violence are so much more potent, within this realm. So...raw.” “And motorcross…” you gasped, shrugging his tweed jacket over his biceps and casting it to the ground. You popped the buttons of his waistcoat, as he chuckled; letting it slide away. “Indeed” he purred, pushing you back against the wall before untying the cravat from his neck and tossing it aside. Loki un-tucked his shirt from the kilt waistband, before gracefully fingering the buttons and letting it join the pile of discarded clothing on the bricks below. Only the kilt remained. He placed a palm flat against the wall behind you, inhaling dramatically against the skin of your neck. A whimper snuck past your lips as you felt the lustful god buck against you, his chiselled torso flat against your fragile body.

“I spent some time here in the mid-1700s. There was mischief afoot amongst the Scots which I felt obliged to...encourage.” he hummed, playing with the shoulder of your dress. You frowned. “Are you talking about the Jacobites?” Loki chuckled, placing a sucking bite against your skin before answering. “Indeed. Norns, I haven’t heard that stupid name in a long time.” His forefinger caressed the hollow of your neck, making you tilt your chin upward with a moan. “Loki…we shouldn't-” you whispered, as your fingers combed his hair back, tugging gently. “-It’s all a bit dull, really.” he continued, as your palms slid down his shoulders and over his chest. “I was caught ravishing the clan leader’s daughter. Against this very wall, in fact." He bit his lip, running his eyes ravenously down your keening body. "She was howling my name with such enthusiasm the entire warrior guard kicked down that door ready for slaughter, axes in hand. Naturally, her father tried to marry us on the spot.”

Your mind spasmed, thinking of Loki rutting into another woman as she came against this stone three hundred years ago. “Needless to say...events did not fall in their favour.” Loki hummed, his knuckles trailing appraisingly over the dent of your cheekbone. He really is a timeless wanker, you thought; realising your hand had begun to palm his engorged cock beneath the kilt.

The god’s fingers curled around your throat, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Does it arouse you, thinking of me with another?” he groaned, rocking against your hand. “She’s dead.” you gasped, feeling him grow thicker beneath your touch. “Mmm...it’s still possible to be jealous of a dead lover, Agent. Would you like the chance to best her? She was rather memorable.” You gathered a clutch of thick wool containing his throbbing girth in a tight fist, squeezing harder than you ever had in your life. "I can't stand you Loki, I don't care who you fuck now...never mind hundreds of years ago." Loki hissed above you, shoulders rolling back, his mouth falling open. “Ahhhh” he gasped, eyelids fluttering shut as you doubled down. “If you are trying to make me suffer, Agent...I must confess, that is not the way to do it.” “So you’re a true Scotsman tonight, huh?” you goaded, raising an eyebrow as you tugged the rough wool covering his cock. “At least...in one respect. If lacking in others. I guess that’s something.” Snideness coloured your words, enjoying the twisting of his eyebrows as he searched for the insult beneath his pleasure. There was no hint of underwear beneath the garment as Loki flinched, his knees beginning to buckle as you roughly jacked him against the fabric. “Oh, Agent” he hummed, fingernails scraping against the wall behind you as his eyes rolled back. Loki let out a single animalistic grunt, before swatting your wrist away from its grip. He had found the insult.

His fingers wrapped around your forearm, suddenly pulling you across the chapel floor towards an imposing stone staircase in the corner. A thin rope stretched across the opening, a worn sign hanging lamely in the middle before he tore it aside. Battlements, it read. You gasped as the world upended. Loki had thrown you over his shoulder. With arms hanging by his ass, you watched the kilt swing methodically as your half-hearted cries of protestation choked the air, blood thundering in your ears. You felt rough layers of clothing manifest over his bare torso as you squirmed, the tartan changing in waves beneath your palms as he bounded up the rough-cut stairs two at a time.

“Tonight you’ll see just how much of a true Scotsman I can be.” he muttered darkly, before kicking the heavy door at the top of the staircase wide to the night air with a shuddering thud.

Continued in Highland Fling - The Battlements Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

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[scleroticstatue]

A "back in my day wouldn't have autism, no it was just normal when great grandpa had autistic behaviors" video came up in my feed, and for some reason I feel compelled to share a story of my great aunt.

So, one family reunion, my dad's side got together for a week around the Fourth of July at this lakeside town in Michigan. We all decided to go see the parade, and my aunt decided to dress in three different and very clashing patterns of plaid (via kilt, socks, and hat) to show her Scottish heritage on America day, and in her mind, this was the height of American patriotism. Keep in mind that while we do have Scottish heritage, none of the plaids she was wearing were family clan tartans. They were, like, Walmart plaids. This has no real relevance to the story, but it is a very important part of it in my mind.

Well, we head down to the parade in our kitschy family reunion t-shirts which state "[Family Name] Established here," and while they will eventually have dozens of signatures from other family members on them, they don't at this moment, and we could very easily be mistaken for some restaurant or organization. We settle in to watch the parade, but the timing is off (a time before cell phones and Google maps meant little towns had logistical struggles occasionally) and so, about a third of the way through the parade, there's a gap on one float and the next.

Well, my aunt sees this as the perfect time to get everyone standing and moving. If by moving, you mean moving into the street and marching in the parade. And either all the adults in the room didn't comprehend what was happening until it was too late, or they were so used to her antics no one even considered stopping her. So me and my various cousins and aunts and uncles joined the parade, like some unknown business attempting to advertise themselves, waving at the onlookers we had started the morning as.

Anyway. As long as you act confidently enough, no one will question you. Even when they should.

[onekindredspirit]

The Ferret

The Ferret is one of my favorite second hand booksellers. This is a small branch of the original Ferret established in 1979 in Wellington city, the capital of New Zealand.

The Ferret has a good selection of books on photography. Not the technical sort but artist's monographs, which I collect.

I bought two books by the Italian photographer Luigi Ghirri - Cardboard Landscapes and Thought Landscape. I also purchased a book of essays by the English/New Zealand critic and photographer Peter Turner and a survey of the work of Tracey Moffatt, an Australian photographer of First Nation descent.

You may notice I mention each photographer's cultural heritage. We carry cultural memory deep inside us, and so many generations of that inheritance. It's meaningful to me personally and informs my understanding of others. The French blood of my farming ancestors called me to the countryside, my Scottish blood makes me a capable stone wall builder and adept at the swing of an axe.

It's relevant to say that the poet Allen Curnow, who in 1941 wrote the poem Wild Iron, was a New Zealander. He reveals his cultural identity, to me at least, in his sparse use of language and in writing about nature. It was lovely to see the poem hanging on the wall of the Ferret. I was very taken by it. The iron he writes about is corrugated iron, a ubiquitous building material in colonial New Zealand. The roof of my barn is clad with Belgium "iron", imported by settlers in the early 1890's.

But the poem is not about "iron", it's about the weather. The Southern gales were once 5 to 7 days long when I was growing up here. Straight from Antarctica, a hail of horizontal ice and rain. Wellington city once had ropes and netting on strategic street corners to which pedestrians would have to cling to stay on their feet. That weather has gone, to be replaced by sudden and dramatic weather events that take lives.

A few nights ago I was woken by the sound of the lemon tree outside my bedroom window hitting the side of the house, its leafed branches scratching at my window panes. For one hour the Southern gale blew then died away. It is becoming a memory, like so much that we have and are about to lose.

I was young when I planted that tree more than 35 years ago.

I am still here. Don't worry. I will take care of you.

One Kindred Spirit

[headspace-hotel]

I hope I can express this properly and sensitively, but I think oftentimes people need to have Categories and Identities and to be healthily exploratory and playful and elastic about them, else they can get vulnerable to some negative things, sometimes really awful things

I wish I could remember where I read it, but there was something that wrote about whiteness in America as an abyss.

Whiteness is something that sheltered white Americans' ancestors, and at the same time devoured them. They used to have a distinct medley of heritages: Irish, German, Scottish, Italian. "Whiteness" ate it up, the languages, the cultures. There were privileges if you destroyed it, and punishments if you held onto anything that was "Other." In a white supremacist society, white people wanted to be "white" first before any other possible identity or connection they could have.

Yay! You're white. You're on top. You win...what? Turns out the prize for "winning" is just that you get to perpetrate the violence of the game instead of being on the receiving end of it.

And that's the nasty twist—there is no prize. The deeply embedded vice of "Southern pride" is not just what the Confederate flag stands for, but also why they've got to cling so hard to that symbol of traitors and losers: they need to be on top of something so bad that even a pile of shit will do. My ancestors were ultimately dirt poor, loads of them ending up in prison or breaking their bodies down doing hard labor, but they were white. Their reward, and their pride, was being stepped on by the violence of poverty only, instead of also by the violence of white supremacy.

"White pride" is all about hate because white supremacy didn't give these folks anything to be proud of. It stripped away the culture and heritage their ancestors had in favor of "whiteness." All those jokes about how white people have no culture, well, it's true isn't it? This shit is how we ended up a primarily monolingual nation. And what looks like happened is that white Americans wound up just...scavenging most of their culture from those they oppressed. Food, music, all of that stuff. Our white ancestors didn't GIVE us anything that was their own to start with.

And this is something that really strikes me about the white supremacist and fascist movements nowadays: the starvation and hollowness behind them. These folks are empty inside. They were given nothing by white supremacy except a very vague sense that they deserve something, and they see people of all different cultures celebrating and flourishing in their unique heritages and identities, and they feel like...they've been cheated.

Equality is so threatening when you're in this situation because it feels like you've got less than everyone else at the end of the day. Not just because of comparison to previous privileges, but because your whole identity was "person that gets to step on everybody else" and your whole inheritance was "shit stolen from everybody else" and in a world where all is set right, you have no identity and nothing. You are nothing.

Anyway I was looking just now at a blog that seemed really white-supremacist-leaning and it was 99% about like, Norse and Proto-Indo-European paganism and "traditionalism" and that's what got me thinking about this again.

This person had apparently done DNA tests on themselves or something, and were really fixated on figuring out their Norse and Germanic ancestors and separating out their genetic and racial identity at a level of precision that seems really pointless that far back in time. And honestly all the paganism stuff seemed like totally arbitrary speculation as well.

And how to become satisfied as a person like this? I am just as much Germanic or Norse as they are, but I don't believe that distant ancestors determine who you are to such an extent that I have some sort of innate cultural tie to Vikings or Visigoths or what have you. I know what percentage Celtic or Anglo Saxon or Norse I am—zero. I learned about those things in books the exact same way I learned about all the cultures and past kingdoms of the world that I presumably don't have ancestors from.

I feel like the experience of being a baby ally and obsessing about apologizing for being white is the same kind of thing in another direction, or another outcome of the same process. Some people seem to get really twisted up for a time over how to stop being guilty about being white.

It's part of the same thing as this guy who is trying to genetically identify his ancestors from like 3,000 years ago. It's the emptiness and meaninglessness of "white" identity apart from white supremacy.

I talk about deradicalization sometimes and I've had the notion a few times that fascism appeals to people who are hollow and starving in terms of identity, and if it wasn't for the sense of emptiness and hunger, they would be less easily radicalized. But it's also a little bit awkward to talk about the deeply unsatisfying nature of white supremacy, because...well, that is pretty low on the list of things bad about white supremacy.

I think this concept is worth talking about in general, though: People want to feel like they come from or are part of something meaningful. They are drawn toward Identities and Categories and Belonging to groups. This is something I think is commonly true about humans, I think it is normal and not a bad thing, and I think we could stand to be a little more upfront about its reality.

I think this means that wanting, and seeking, a sense of cultural identity as a white person (particularly an American) needs to have some kind of non-horrible outlet for it. Because right now, it's nothing but a way to get radicalized, and the dominant other option people take (becoming the Guilty White Person) is liked by no one and helps nothing.

And maybe it doesn't need to have anything to do with race or culture or your ancestors or any of these things that can lead a person down such terrible paths. Maybe more of us should be furries!

As just another thing to consider, I'm reading the book Ecology of a Cracker Childhood and the author of the book uses the word "cracker" not like, with the gravity of reclaiming a "slur" or something like that, but seemingly because that is just the word she most strongly identifies with, the word that best articulates who "her people" are. This feels very solid and levelheaded to me, something that comes from someone with a good sense of themselves.

Personally I've thought a long time that more people should reclaim "redneck." Not in the sense of reclaiming a slur exactly, but in the sense of putting it in neutral usage among the folks it always referred to, instead of letting it increasingly be associated with any Southerner (regardless of working class background) that is the sort to wave a Confederate flag around. The very idea of gatekeeping "redneck" away from racists is just absolutely hilarious to me, I won't lie.

[scotianostra]

November 5th 1877 saw the opening of the original Mitchell Library, Glasgow, now the largest public reference library in Europe.

The first incarnation of The Mitchell Library was on the corner of Ingram Street and Albion Street with a collection of 5000 volumes. By the time it moved to its temporary home in Miller Street in 1891 the library boasted more than 150,000 books and could accommodate 4,000 readers.

When The Mitchell Library first opened one of the first decisions of the Library Committee was to put together a collection of items relating to Robert Burns as a memorial to Scotland’s national poet. Highlights of the collection include over 900 editions of the works including two copies of the 1786 Kilmarnock edition, two printings of the 1787 Edinburgh edition and 200 books of selected poetry. 15 original manuscripts in the poet's hand, including the only surviving letter written by Burns in Scots and the only copy in existence of ‘The Ordination' Translations of the poet's works into more than 36 languages

The library struggled at Miller Street and so, following the substantial bequest of Robert Jeffrey’s library of 4000 books, including Audubon’s Birds of America, a permanent home was found in North Street and the doors to The Mitchell Library as we know it today were opened in 1911. Today, the library is home to more than one million items, and welcomes over 500,000 visitors every year.

The early years also saw the foundation of the library’s two main special collections; the Scottish Poetry Collection and the Glasgow Collection. Other notable books among it's prized collection are a 12th Century Psalter, or book of psalms, the oldest book in the library, a late 14th century French Book of Hours, Thomas Annan’s Old Closes and Streets, a facsimile of Audubon’s Birds of America - one of the greatest works of ornithology containing life-sized, hand coloured depictions of 1065 North American birds - and Robert Burns, Poems Chiefly in the Scots Dialect (Kilmarnock edition)

The Library also holds an extensive collection of maps and atlases with some 35,000 sheet maps and 300 atlases. These range from a 1647 edition of an early world atlas, Theatrum Orbis Terrarum by Joan Blaeu, to current editions of maps published by the Ordnance Survey.

As well as maps they have a rich and extensive collection of newspapers, from our earliest newspaper The Glasgow Courant of 1715 to today’s copy of The Herald in the Mitchell Library.

Art and Design is an area that the library have collected and curated since it opened, providing an impressive collection of materials for lending and reference particular in relation to Scottish interest.

The Glasgow Collection of local and family history has grown to provide a distinctive record of Glasgowssocial, economic and cultural heritage, and is a living and growing part of the city’s collective memory. It offers endless research and discovery opportunities to both scholars and the local community.

The library holds over 5000 books for lending and reference, online resources to 1200 musical scores, sheet and recorded music.

They contain over 2 million books, maps, drawings, photographs, postcards and many other items from all parts of the world, dating from the 12th century to the present day.

Pica are the original building at Ingram Street, and pics of the "new" building inside and out including a close up of the statue of "Literature" on the top of the dome.

[flagellant]

Putting this on anon, because I'm pretty sure this is an opinion that might upset people, but it's still relevant to the discussion you're currently having/stuck in.

I, personally, don't believe you CAN appropriate Japanese culture, for the same reason I don't believe you can appropriate American, British, Russian, or Chinese (Beijin central official government) culture.

Because these are imperialist powers who have literally murdered and waged war to FORCE people to adopt their culture. I feel like once a group walks up, says "You will adopt this culture or WE WILL KILL YOU," everyone is allowed to do whatever the fuck they want with it.

Now, I love Japan, I love Japanese culture and artwork, and yes, anime, but I think that anyone who high on the bandwagon of "Oh, you can't do that, that's ApPrOpRiAtIoN of the Japanese culture, needs to read some fucking Japanese history. Ideally stuff written by the Japanese.

The people worried about appropriation of Japanese culture are the same ones who dog-piled on a designer for making a Kimono in an Clan Tartan (she was half Japanese, half Scottish) because they were CERTAIN she was a non-Japanese """Appropriating""" Japanese culture.

Also, I follow all the Japanese official government twitters, and about once every other week they just tweet out a whole slew of "Come join us at such and such, learn about traditional Japanese culture! Come participate in our festivals! We really, REALLY want everyone to come be part of our cultural heritage! We'll send you free books on the subject!"

Closing clarification. I absolutely believe that Cultural Appropriation is a real thing, it is a real problem. Especially when dealing with smaller cultural groups that have been suppressed in the past, one must tread with care and the utmost respect. I very specifically have worked to remove terms taken from certain cultures from my common usage and vocabulary because people from those cultures have asked. Spirit Animal, Golem, (The cannibal spirit repeated referenced in Hannibal), these are terms that have important cultural significance, and diluting and misusing them is wrong.

But, again, if a major historical factor in a culture is "We are literally going to murder you and your family if you DON'T adopt our culture," I think you lose pretty much all right to claim/complain about appropriation of your culture.

Okay so you do realize that the reason the Japanese official government twitter posts "Come learn about all these traditional cultural and historical things" is because they want people to learn about Japanese culture so that they DON'T continue appropriating it, yes?

All I'm going to tell you is you seriously need to remind yourself what, exactly, cultural appropriation is. It doesn't just mean feeling entitled to a closed culture's practices. It means the theft and misinterpretation of a culture due to a lack of knowledge and respect for that culture within its own context. Wearing a kimono as someone who isn't Japanese isn't appropriative. Dressing as a geisha for Halloween is appropriative. A foreigner seeking to become a geisha isn't appropriative; Memoirs of a Geisha is appropriative.

I am trying to say this in the most well-intentioned way I can, and I hope you understand it as such: The reason you think this opinion will upset people is because it's an opinion which literally any fucking East Asian person would see and go "What the actual living fuck is this bullshit." If you are as invested in respecting these cultures and in not perpetrating racist and dismissive attitudes towards its people as you claim, I would really suggest you need to do a better job and actually find fucking someone, anyone, who is East Asian, because the concept of "It's impossible to appropriate Japanese (and by extension of your definition Chinese) culture" is literally why the term cultural appropriation exists in the first place.

[aoioozora]

The Ghosts: Ancestry Headcanons

The Ghosts are all American, but what is their heritage and ethnicity?

The Walkers

I have a huge feeling that on Elias' side, they're English with some traces of Germany and Scandinavia in their blood. Good ol' Anglo-Saxon Vikings.

We don't know anything about Mama Walker but I'd like to think she's a mixed-race, half-white (maybe English too?) and half-latina (Mestizo), so the boys are also mixed.

Thomas Merrick

He's definitely from the British Isles and I feel like from his personality alone, he could be more from the North.

Taking in consideration of his surname which, and I quote, "derives from the personal name Meuric, which is the Welsh form of Maurice. The surname Merrick is ultimately derived from the Latin personal name Mauritius, which means "dark."" (source)

I wonder if it's a coincidence that he is more tanned than the other Ghosts.

So he's totally either English, Welsh, and maybe a little bit Irish.

Keegan P. Russ

Also North European, perhaps also Anglo-Saxon like the Walkers, but maybe leaning more on the Saxon.

Again taking the surname in consideration, Russ is usually short for Russell, and Russ is also the German and American form of the Slavic Rus which means "brownish-red", "blond", or "Russian" (source)

Keegan being a bit Slav wasn't quite on my bingo card but considering him being so aloof, gruff, and quiet, I might have no doubt he could have a little of it!

I also feel like he could have Spanish blood too because for some reason, he has a very Spanish-looking face if you know what I mean???

So in short, I think he could be a mix of mostly Anglo-Saxon, some Spanish, and a dash of Slavic.

Kick

Kick's is the hardest to ascertain because his face is not visible at all and we don't know his name, but for some reason, I've always felt like he was Asian somehow.

But canonically, his eyes are amber, and a quick Google search tells me that amber eyes are most common among people of Spanish descent but are also around in South America, South Africa, and Asia.

I'll have to put South Africa out of the list because from Kick's pictures alone, he's obviously not Black. That would leave out Spanish, South American, and Asian.

Considering that migration and inter-marriage is and was a thing, Kick could just be a mix of Spanish and Asian, though I feel like he would be more Asian from the Middle-East (considering his black hair/eyebrows)

Alex "Ajax" Johnson

He's Black, so he could be Jamaican or from another Caribbean country previously colonized by the British

His surname is Johnson, which is very obviously English/Scottish so it all adds up.

Riley

He's a German Shepherd, can it get any more obvious?

[herbs-and-poultices]

It was fun last year, as far as I know no-one has tried to have me burned for heresy, I could use a fun diversion right about now, and I haven't yet run out of ballads. So here is this year's:

Vaguely Whumptober-Themed Anthology of Folk Songs from the British Isles / Transatlantic Tradition: Part 1

(What’s a random American gal with no English/Scottish/Irish heritage doing listening mostly to songs like these? Blame my parents for raising me on murder ballads and ceilidh tunes.)

1) If only we could hold on: White Squall (X)

A Folk Revival (20th c) composition from closer to home.

I clung there to the stanchions and I felt my face go pale As he crawled hand over hand along the rail I could feel her keeling over with the fury of the blow I watched the rail go under then, so terrible and slow Then like some great dog she shook herself and roared upright again Far overside, I heard him call my name

2) You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back: Dowie Dens of Yarrow (X X)

An old traditional ballad.

A humble ploughman braves mortal combat with nine high-born rivals for the hand of the lady he loves. He wins, only for her brother to stab him in the back. Literally

3) Wrongfully Arrested: Long Black Veil (X) / Over the Hills (X)

An American country ballad and a Celtic rock/metal ballad (covered on hurdy-gurdy!!) which share enough similarities to have come from the same centuries-old traditional ballad. They are both actually original compositions, but the genres owe much to the old tradition.

Ten years ago, on a cold, dark night Someone was killed 'neath the town hall light There were few at the scene, but they all agreed That the slayer who ran looked a lot like me

4) Hallucinations (visions): MacCrimmon's Lament (X)

A haunting tune from the 1745 Jacobite Rising. Stretching the prompt a bit, but for a good cause ;)

A lament for the death of the piper Donald Bán MacCrimmon, sole casualty of the Rout of Moy. It is said that the tune was composed by Donald Bán himself following a premonition of his own death. Lyrics were written later, in Gaelic, Scots, and English.

5) Healing Salve: Witch of the West-Mer-Land (X X)

A Folk Revival (20th c) composition with much the feel of an old trad ballad.

A mortally wounded knight seeks the aid of an enchantress, who tends his wounds with a combination of herbs and magic, saving his life.

6) It's not (my) blood: The Douglas Tragedy (X)

An old traditional ballad.

He lichted doon tae tak’ a drink o’ the water that ran sae clear An’ doon the stream ran his hairt’s blood, and sair she began tae fear 'Rise up, rise up, Lord William,' she said, 'for I fear ye are slain' '’Tis naethin’ but the shadow of my scarlet coat that shines in the water sae plain'

This is the type of family strife / star-crossed lovers ballad that ends badly for all involved. And I do mean all.

7) It's us or them: Henry Martin (X)

An old traditional ballad.

A desperate young man's first attempt at piracy does not go as hoped, when his quarry refuses to surrender. After hours of fighting, he ultimately sinks his would-be prize outright -- perhaps as the only way to save his own ship and crew.

8) Forced to Stay Awake: Captain Coulston (X)

A broadside (19th c) emigrant ballad.

He said my boys do not go down, you need not think on sleep For in a few hours more we shall be slumbering in the deep For a pirate ship is coming down upon the western sea To rob us of our property going to Amerikay

9) Obsession | Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble: Lily of the West (X X)

A broadside (19th c) murder ballad with versions on both sides of the Atlantic.

An unreasonably jealous young man with a deadly weapon and a remarkable inability to take responsibility for his own actions. What could possibly go wrong.

10) Blow to the head: Follow Me Up To Carlow (X)

An Irish rebel song. I would be remiss if I didn't include at least one.

White is sick and Grey has fled, now for black Fitz William's head We'll send it over dripping red to Lizzy and her ladies

11) Loneliness | No trace: Lament of the Fisherman's Wife (X)

A Folk Revival (20th c) composition, but a tale as old as time.

Now she has come down to condemn that wild ocean For the murderous loss of her man His boat sailed out on Wednesday morning And it's feared she's gone down with all hands

12) Starvation: The New York Trader (X)

A broadside (19th c) - or possibly older traditional - emigrant ballad.

Our cruel captain as we did find Left half of our provisions behind Our cruel captain, you'll understand Meant to starve us all before we reached the land

13) Multiple whumpees | "Death will do us part": Lord Thomas and Fair Elender (X X)

An old traditional ballad found on both sides of the Atlantic.

At his parents' urging, a young man marries for wealth rather than love. (Or the conventional racist beauty standards of the time -- elements of this tale are very dated.) The wedding ends in a murder and a murder-suicide.

14) Hunting Gear: Van Dieman's Land (X)

A transportation ballad. Gotta have one of those too.

Come all you gallant poachers that ramble void of care That walk out on a moonlight night with your dog, your gun and snare The harmless hare and pheasant you have at your command Not thinking of your last career out on Van Diemen’s Land

15) Painful Hug: Young Hunting (X) / Love Henry (X)

An old traditional ballad with versions on both sides of the Atlantic.

Another jealous murder, with a twist.

He bent down o’er his saddle bow To kiss her ruby cheek, But she took out a little pen-knife And wounded him full deep

[sirfrogsworth]

I just wanted to highlight this beautiful artwork that my good friend, Chis a.k.a. @whosthewhatnow created for me.

This drawing was inspired by this post about my dad and his animal magnetism.

If you don't recall, I said...

"I’ve always said I don’t believe in heaven but I do believe in dog heaven.

It is my hope FrogDad gets special permission to go there and hang with Otis, MacGyver, Reggie, and Buttons."

I also mentioned this in my eulogy...

I said that we had pet newts as children. However, when I went to look up pet newts, none of them looked like what we had. In fact, I couldn't find any lizards that looked like what we had. Perhaps they were some kind of lizard that was a popular pet in the 80s but fell out of favor with pet stores.

In any case, the mystery lizards are sneaking into Doggie Heaven.

And, of course, there is my dad's famous John Deere riding mower that he used to take Otis on countless walks.

And Chris included all of the beloved doggos of my childhood.

My first was a Welsh Corgi named Buttons.

She would walk me more than I walked her...

Then we adopted a Cairn Terrier named Reggie.

Reggie was found at an illegal breeding facility and rescued. He was kept in a cage nearly all of his life and it pained him to walk on hard surfaces for several months until his paws healed. We suspect he was abused by a large male, because he was terrified of my dad when we brought him home. He would run under the bed anytime my dad entered the room. This was probably the ultimate test of my dad's dog whispering powers. He slowly and patiently worked with Reggie, devising all kinds of creative trust exercises. He would lay on the floor with his belly exposed and start crying and acting sad. Trying to show Reggie he was harmless and pathetic and nothing to fear. And every time Reggie got close, my dad would bribe him with cheese.

And just like every other dog we've had, my dad won Reggie over and they became best friends. They were constant cuddle buddies.

No other large male could ever get close to Reggie. My dad ended up being the only one he would ever trust.

We felt Reggie could use a companion to help cure his trauma and depression and maybe help him socialize a little better.

So... we got a puppy!

My first ever experience with a puppy. He was a West Highland White Terrier--commonly referred to as a "Westie."

We wanted a name that paid respect to his Scottish heritage and we loved this popular show on the boob tube in which a man fixed things with chewing gum and a paperclip.

So I suggested we name him after that favorite TV hero...

Angus MacGyver!

Or "Mac" for short.

MacGyver was a bit like Otis 1.0. He was a tiny ball of energy. He loved to play. He was mischievous, but always cute about it, so he rarely got in trouble. Though he was not nearly as smart as Otis. If dogs could take IQ tests, Otis would have tested as a genius. I am embarrassed to admit how often I was outwitted by a hairy loaf with legs.

But MacGyver was just a normie. Not dumb. Not a genius.

Reggie didn't know what to do with a puppy at first. But once Mac grew up a little and calmed down a lot, they did end up being proper pupper pals.

Doggo dudes.

Canine cohorts.

Scottish scalawags.

Reggie mostly just sat at a distance as MacGyver did dumb things. Mac would get into trouble and when we caught him, Reggie would just stare at us like, "I was an impartial observer. I had no part in these shenanigans."

And last, but certainly not least... I think you all remember this troublemaker.

My dad was all cuddles and play time.

But my mom and Otis had a very special relationship as well. Otis would "help" my mom with her chores. They'd go from room to room and my mom would do her cleaning and dusting and vacuuming. And Otis would disrupt all of it--to her delight. She liked to talk to him like he was an adult human. She swore he could understand her. They'd just gab and clean.

Their antics doing chores together inspired one of my favorite Corg Life comics that Chris also drew.

So, thank you to Chris for always creating such beautiful things for me.

If you need any artwork, I highly recommend hiring him. He even does watercolor paintings.

Chris Gugliotti [ Facebook | Instagram | Tumblr ]

[mikhailwrites]

The fire in your eyes / Ghost x Soap

Kinktober #19 - Uniforms

Military Parades. Everyone hates them. Instead of doing something useful and productive, you need to dress up and march in front of staring crowds. Nobody cares if it’s so hot the road is melting or so cold your eyes are freezing over. However, there might be a silver lining to this one: Johnny fucking MacTavish proudly displaying his Scottish heritage.

I'm writing this at 3AM, terribly sorry if it's even less coherent and has even more mistakes than usual. Btw did you know SAS has its own tartan? Well, now you do.

The door to the rec room opens, Ghost immediately checks them. And has to look away and back again. As if to make sure he’s truly seeing... that. Johnny. In a kilt. Not just the kilt, in fact, the whole getup.

Gaz whistles, eyeing the other Sergeant. “Looking sharp, mate! Got a date? Some pretty bird to impress?”

“Damn right, I do,” Johnny smirks as he momentarily looks at Simon. Oh, he likes to play with fire. But he does look sharp, Gaz is right about that. “But we gotta address the elephant in the room. Ghost in a uniform? What did you bribe him with? And the chest candy, too? Had to be expensive.”

“That would be classified, Sergeant,” Price appears out of nowhere, rivalling Ghost’s namesake. “I hope you boys are ready to make a good impression today.”

“Yes, sir!” they answer him in unison. They don’t have to like parades, but they all understand why they must be at their best.

It all goes smoothly; they’ve rehearsed it, after all, for countless hours. Even the weather takes pity on them and graces the parade with an overcast and reasonable temperature. They march, they do the show, people are applauding, a few are shouting some profanities as if a good portion of the parade doesn’t have a near-death experience. As if they didn’t hear the whistle of a bullet flying way too close to their head.

Ghost keeps his mind carefully clear. He performs as is expected of him, enjoys the fleeting moments he gets to see Johnny and tries not to count passing minutes. Then there’s a hymn, another march, and, yes, finally, they’re free. He needs a drink, as do the rest of One-Four-One. Drink, and then he gets out of the uniform. Every time he catches a glimpse of himself, he startles a bit until his brain catches up. God, he hates this.

As Simon nears the pub they had earlier agreed to meet, there is an unusual amount of noise and ruckus coming from inside—the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood, shouts and thuds. Ghost tags Price standing a little out of the way, leaning against the wall and smoking one of his usual cigars.

“Someone already managed to start a fight?” Simon asks as he comes closer, mildly impressed.

“Uh-huh,” Price nods. “We did.”

Ghost blinks a few times. Alright, he didn’t see that coming. “What happened?”

“Someone insulted Soap’s kilt and, if I got it right, even went as far as to say something about his mother. And you don’t just insult SAS soldier’s mum, do you?” Price asks a wholly rhetorical question. Ghost only nods, but then he looks around the deserted street.

“So, why aren’t you inside?”

“Plausible deniability. If I go there, I’ll have to clean up the mess and employ some disciplinary measures. You know the drill.”

“Want me to sort it out, sir?”

“Please do.”

That’s the only permission Ghost needs. He takes off the jacket, handing it to Price. He might not like it, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to get his measurements taken again for a new one.

It’s an absolute chaos inside. Luckily, Ghost thrives in chaos. He sweeps the pub from left to right, taking a quick and rough account of the situation. Gaz is to his right; two men are holding him up as the third takes a swing at him. It’s not a bad punch, Gaz’s head jerks to the side, blood from the split lip dripping on his uniform. As the assailant prepares for another swing, Ghost intervenes. This is his teammate right here, the man who’s saved Ghost’s life on numerous occasions.

Ghost moves quickly, sliding behind the man’s back and grabbing him by the collar, slamming him into the overturned table. The two blokes holding Gaz up look at Ghost, then at each other. There’s a hint of recognition. They let Gaz go immediately and try to charge Ghost, both of them at the same time. Not a bad thinking.

Ghost dodges one fist aimed at his stomach and trips the man. The other one lands a hit on Ghost’s kidneys. It hurts, but he’s used to pain. However, before Ghost can react, Gaz is there, kneeing the bloke in the stomach before sucker-punching him. Okay, that’s one-half of the job done.

“Where’s Soap?” Ghost barks out loud enough to be heard over the racket.

Gaz looks around. Numerous fights are going on, as is expected. There’s tension and rivalry between the military branches and the units. This sort of gathering is a powder keg. “I don’t…,” Gaz starts, trying to find their other Sergeant. “Oh….”

Ghost follows Gaz’s gaze, and… yeah. Oh.

Soap is lying on the ground, one guy’s neck held between his thighs while simultaneously doing a proper fist-assisted dentistry on another bloke who’s struggling to crawl away. Johnny looks like a rabid dog.

“You gonna need help with him?” Gaz asks, not making even a single move.

“Nah, get out of here, Price is waiting outside,” Ghost shakes his head, loosening his tie, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and tucking the sleeves up.

First, he frees the half-choked bloke before he kicks him further from Johnny. Then he grabs Soap and forces him to his knees, thus letting go of the second guy in the process. Ghost quickly glances at their uniform. Royal Marines. Of course. Ghost almost wants to kick them some more.

Instead, he does the reasonable thing worthy of an officer. He takes Soap and, much to the Sergeant’s protests drags him away. Soap is loud, cursing Ghost in that incomprehensible language of his, but even he isn’t so out of it as to hit Ghost, who also happens to be his commanding officer as well as a partner of sorts.

Ghost pretends not to notice and appreciate the searing heat in Soap’s blue eyes. Johnny doesn’t lose his shit nearly as often as many would think, yet when it does happen, it’s an absolute masterclass of carnage. And Ghost loves it. However, he can’t be thinking with his prick right now. They need to get out before someone with actual power shows up.

The ride back to Hereford is a short and quiet one. They stop at a petrol station and get some ice. Gaz is nursing his split lip and bruised jaw, Soap is pressing a handful of ice on the back of his head, where he claims someone hit him with a chair. He’s bleeding from the shallow cut on his forehead, and his left eye is beginning to swell. He got a thorough beating, but Ghost can’t help but think that he didn’t really save Soap. If anything, he saved those two poor bastards Soap was beating up. The Sergeant would probably eat them alive if someone didn’t stop him.

They get out of the car, Ghost immediately grabbing Soap and dragging him away. Price sighs, and Gaz chuckles.

Ghost is leading them to the barracks, to his room. The door closes, lock clicks in place. Johnny is dirty, bruised and bloody; his uniform is ripped in several places, too. He’s a damn mess, but Ghost has always had some seriously crossed wires. He’s been hard in his trousers for a while, and there’s no way he’s waiting a minute more to do something about it.

“Uh… Listen, LT, I’m sor…,” Soap doesn’t get to finish his apology before Ghost is on him, damn near devouring his mouth while his hand clutches at Soap’s thigh over the thick layers of tartan. Johnny lets out a slightly exasperated laugh as he backs up and falls onto the bed. Ghost follows, never allowing more than an inch of space between them. The new position allows him to reach under the kilt finally. He kneads at Soap’s bare thigh, remembering that he nearly choked a man with it. Fuck!

Ghost quickly undoes his belt and shucks his trousers down under his arse. “Lube,” he growls at Soap because the Sergeant is closer to the nightstand. Johnny does as he’s told, fishing out the bottle and handing it over with the same practised move as if he would hand Ghost a magazine.

“Prep?” Ghost asks, clipped and right down to the business.

“Fuck it, want you in me thirty minutes ago,” Johnny smirks. The fire in his eyes is back now. He didn’t get to rip the Marines apart, but now he might get that anger channelled in a different way.

“Wanted to be in you the moment I saw you in the morning,” Ghost retorts.

“You tell me the sweetest things, Simon. Hurry up!” Soap smiles, licking his lips as he watches Ghost fumble with the lube.

It burns a bit at first, then it hurts a bit more, but Soap is no virgin. Ghost is holding back a great deal, trying to go reasonably slow. Soap groans, but instead of pulling away or making any attempt to stop Ghost, he nudges him closer, whining as he forces himself to take more. Ghost is mesmerised, completely lost in him.

Johnny writhes under him, unable to stay still. Ghost’s prick halfway in is both too much and not enough, and it’s frustrating. Finally, he makes up his mind, hooks his legs behind Ghost’s back and demonstrates just how much strength there really is in his legs.

Ghost gasps and moans, Soap whines, arching his back off the bed, struggling to take a breath for a few seconds. “Christ, Johnny,” Simon wheezes, struggling to control himself and the situation. Scratch that; he doesn’t control the situation at all. Soap does, especially once he adjusts and simply uses Ghost to take what he needs.

Simon doesn’t mind. He would be willing to give this man anything he could desire. Anything at all. Simon would cut out his own cold, cold heart and gift it to him. He would burn down the world. For now, it seems that his cock will suffice.

Soap, for the lack of better words, fucks himself on it, and the kilt, rumpled and tucked up, leaves exactly nothing to the imagination. Johnny shivers as the glistening glans of his hardon rubs against the wool, but Ghost does nothing to help him.

If he did, it would’ve been over way too quickly. Instead, he leverages Soap’s hips, changing the angle significantly. Soap yelps before hissing an ecstatic “Yes!” Soon enough, more words follow. Please and harder are especially frequent, and Ghost does give it to him.

Snapping his hips forward at a punishing pace, he gets a lovely gasp each time he bottoms out. Johnny is clawing at the sheets with one hand and at Ghost’s forearm with the other. Come morning, he will probably look like a wild cat mauled him.

It’s a sweet kind of pain. Johnny will feel him for a few days; it’s only fair Ghost will, too. Simon feels the tension build up inside him; his thrusts are slower but firmer, forcing a breath out of Soap, who looks like half of his mind is wandering elsewhere. Eyes hooded, mouth hanging open, face slack in that special way only a good shag can do.

“’M close,” Ghost warns. Or maybe it’s a promise, what with the way Johnny’s legs hold him tighter, trying to force him deeper. Simon blindly searches around until he finds the lube, pouring a little into his palm before he grips Johnny’s neglected prick. It’s hot and hard, velvety, with prominent veins that make Ghost’s mouth water as he remembers how it feels in his mouth, on the tip of his tongue. How Johnny tastes, how his hand in Simon’s hair feels. Simon cries out, a broken sound of utter relief, as he pumps into Soap with each pulse that wrecks his body, coming inside him for what feels like an eternity but is mere seconds.

His hand slacks, but Soap covers it, tightens the grip and continues to fuck into Simon’s fist with quick, erratic thrusts. He’s close, his breathing ragged, his brow furrowed with desperation and concentration. Simon moans as Soap rides his oversensitive cock.

Even in his post-orgasmic state, Ghost feels the faint rush of excitement as he watches Soap coming undone and, a few seconds later, actually coming, soiling his uniform, jacket, kilt, shirt, all of it. Ghost lets them both breathe for a few seconds before Johnny lets go of his hand; Simon, in turn, let’s go of Johnny’s cock, and brings his hand to his mouth. Johnny makes a small, helpless noise as he watches Ghost lick the cum off his fingers and palm.

Simon collapses on the bed next to Johnny, exhaustion catching up to him quickly.

“You’re beautiful,” Simon whispers, unable to stop himself.

Soap stares at him for a moment before he snorts. “Aye, damn right I am, what with the black eye, all bloodied and bruised.

“You’re prettiest when you’re bloodied and bruised. And angry, I like you angry,” Ghost continues, his filter completely fried. Johnny would probably tease him about it later, but for now, he can say whatever he wants.