another glasgow

i finally made up a character for d&d that’s my character i created! (i have another character but thats for rolemaster- i think i prefer d&d much more tho) she’s a half-elf assassin, all i need to do now is come up with a name for her and a background story. its so fun ! 

There is another side to Glasgow today.

After the rioting by a minority group of unionists in Glasgow’s George Square last night, which shamed and embarrassed our wonderful country, a new scene showed its face today.

Several groups of people have now left over 100 bags with donations for Glasgow’s homeless food banks on George Square under peace flags. This is the Glasgow and Scotland that I know and love.

We will continue fighting for a better country. To bring an end to austerity, to food banks, to immoral, illegal nuclear weapons of mass destruction.

anonymous asked:

How about a modern au where Jamie and Claire meet at a bar and have a one night stand

From her perch at the corner of the bar, Claire sipped her third – fourth? – glass of Japanese whisky.

It was surprisingly smooth – the Japanese whiskys were really giving the Scottish-made ones a run for their money these days. And despite the exorbitant prices of this bar – of *any* bar in Tokyo, really – the Suntory was still cheaper than the Laphroaig.

She crossed her legs, wincing slightly at the soreness. Having jumped at the chance to take a few days off from the hospital and travel to Japan, she’d happily played tourist for the past three days while her husband was locked away in meetings from six AM until midnight. It was good for his career to come – the exposure, the chance for face-to-face meetings, and so on – and the hotel room was already paid for.

But Claire was so very *lonely* during the day – an anonymous Western face lost in the sea of humanity that was Tokyo at every turn. Whether strolling up the long gravel walkways under the incredible torii gates heralding yet another massive Shinto shrine – or sifting through the terribly tacky outfits at the Shibuya 109 mall – or standing off to the side to just watch the unbelievable torrents of people streaming through the fare gates at Tokyo Station – Japan was almost overwhelming. There were very few other Westerners she saw during the day – and most of them were men in business attire. Very few women on their own – and almost nobody to talk to.

She’d managed to learn a few words of Japanese before the trip – and a quick *arigato guzaimas* always elicited a tentative smile when she purchased a souvenir or snack. But she hadn’t really spoken to anyone since arriving – a hurried, half-asleep “good morning” and “good evening” as her man slipped out or staggered in, and then a quick conversation with the hotel concierge to help her plan our her day. Hadn’t had an opportunity to share her feelings and observations and excitement at being in such a different, vibrant city.

Fortunately the word “whisky” seemed to be universal – and when she specifically asked for Suntory, the bartender had actually smiled. She wasn’t the only Westerner in this particular bar – but she *was* the only woman. And she was alone.

And she was damned if she would spend yet another night by herself.

So she quickly downed the rest of her drink – ice cubes cold against her upper lip, and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.

The bartender quickly produced a fresh glass, poured a few fingers of the Suntory 18, and gently set a perfectly-folded napkin on the bar.

Claire looked to her right, found the wasabi peas, and slid over the half-empty bowl.

“Excuse me?”

Mid-bite, she turned to see a man – a Westerner – clad in a sharp suit, a glass in his hand, leaning on the corner of the bar.

“May I sit next to you?”

She finished chewing on the wasabi pea, the dry fire of it lifting straight through her sinuses.


“Of course,” she breathed, gesturing to the empty stool beside her.

The man nodded and sat, laying his glass on the bar – ice cubes softly clinking against the sides.

“I saw the bartender serve you the Suntory – I ken it’s supposed to be good, but I canna drink the Japanese whisky. Most likely it’s a psychological thing.”

“Well, from the sound of your accent, you’re a Scot – I don’t blame you. I prefer Scotch myself, but when in Rome…”

The man tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Or in Tokyo,” he teased.

Claire raised her glass, and the man lifted his from the bar to chime against hers with the barest of touches.

“Slainté,” he murmured.

“Cheers,” she replied, and downed half her glass, eyes locked on his.

He swallowed.

“Do ye live in Tokyo? I ask because I canna fathom why such a beautiful woman would be here, in this basement bar in Ginza, all by herself…”

“I’m visiting – here with my husband.” Claire shifted her legs, watching the man watch her bare knees criss-cross, so glad she had worn her little black dress. Glenna had always told her it made her legs look a million miles long.

“Oh, aye? And is he wi’ ye tonight, or…”

“He’s working. He’s been working since we arrived.”

“I see.” The man took a quick sip from his glass. “And ye’re in need of some company? Or is the whisky doing that job?”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning forward just a bit. “It’s doing a fine job – but it’s not the same as…a human touch.

The lad actually swallowed – Claire watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

Just who was this man – this Scot – and why was *he* alone in this bar?

And why did he choose *her* out of everyone? Especially with all those lovely Japanese women giggling in a cluster at the other end of the bar…

A soft touch.

Her heart fluttered as he gently ran the pads of his fingers – cool from the ice in his glass – to cup her right knee.

“Would ye like some company, then? Once ye finish yer whisky?”

His eyes – so blue, so wide – bored into hers.

She felt sixteen again.

So she downed her whisky – pulled a 10,000 yen note from her purse – and dropped it on the bar.

He finished his whisky – plucked two 10,000 yen notes from his pocket – gave one to her, and slapped the other on the bar.

“I never let the lady pay.”

He stood – towering a full head over her.

She reached down for his hand.

“My hotel is just next door – follow me.”

They looked like just any other Western couple as they exited the bar – but as soon as they exited the red-tinged light of the bar and stood at the base of the stairwell that led to Chuo-dori Street, he pushed her into the darkest corner.

And kissed her as if he were the last man on earth.

And she let him. And reciprocated fully, tasting the smoky tang of Scottish whisky on his lips.

It went on for a long while. She buried her fingers in his close-cropped red hair. One of his hands swiftly glided down and under her dress, cupping her arse, with his other hand planted firmly on the back of her neck.

He tore his lips from hers, gasping.

“Don’t stop,” she purred, and pulled him back for more.

And quickly it became too much, as she started to move his hand toward the front of her dress –

But then froze as she heard two half-drunk Japanese salarymen clomp down the stairs and crash into the door of the bar.

Remembering where she was, Claire pulled back, breathing hard. The man licked her lips.

“Five minutes – just up the stairs, next door to the hotel, up the elevator, and then to my room.”

He kissed her – quick and deep. “I need you,” he groaned. “God help me, I must have ye or die.”

So she grabbed his hand and dragged him up the steps. In the neon glare of the street, hundreds of pedestrians rushed by – on their way to and from department stores, designer shops, high-end restaurants, and the other stores that dotted Tokyo’s prime shopping district.

She saw him now for the first time – the neon glare almost as bright as day. Even panting, a bit disheveled, tie now a bit askew around his neck, stubble starting to grow, he was probably the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

And from the look in his eyes, he was equally mesmerized by her.

Grinning like a schoolgirl with her first crush, they twined their fingers together and quickly walked through the lobby of her hotel, trying to avoid making eye contact with the staff. But they had seen everything and nothing – and were doubtless trained to just keep their heads down and smile.

Then she called for the elevator, fishing around in her tiny purse for her keycard as he settled a warm hand on the small of her back.

Then the elevator came – and she pressed the button for her floor, watching him from across the small space.

The hunger in his eyes was staggering.

A soft electric chime – then three rooms to the left, the door soundlessly gliding open, the lights coming up as soon as she gestured to the empty room.

He let the door slam behind him – and she turned, stepped out of her shoes, and dropped her purse to the ground.

Eyes locked on each other, the moment stretched – tension impossibly thick in the room.

Then he slowly walked toward her, took her hands, and stepped towards the bed. She felt the back of her knees hit the mattress and let him push her onto her back, sinking amid the soft, soft duvet.

He hovered over her, and then kissed her sweetly.

“That was fun, Claire,” he whispered against her parted lips. “But next time, ye’ll let me take ye to a proper bar, aye? One wi’ a nice view?”

She smiled, and kissed his chin. “Of course, Jamie – we can go somewhere later tonight. But first, you must make sure your wife is properly satisfied…”

TOP TIP: Have you written a letter to a newspaper in which you stand up for people complaining about having to endure the horror of seeing a man kiss another man in a first-world nation in the 21st frigging century and then follow that up by railing against “pro-gay” people having a voice in celebrating it? Are you worried that people might think you’re homophobic? No problem! Just sign off your letter as “Not Homophobic” and hey presto! No-one will think you’re being homophobic at all because you’ve said right at the end that you’re not homophobic.

First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Jemma had always hidden how smart she was. She kept her test scores to herself, evaded the questions from her friends and played dumb… for a boy. Then, they took the aptitude test in Sixth Form. Three weeks later she found herself on a campus with people who were nearly five years older than her. Little had she known, 756230.7456 meters North in Glasgow another boy took the same test.

She walked through the Campus, feeling like a deer caught at the wrong end of a car. Everyone was a good three feet taller than her (Jemma had not had a growth spurt since primary school) and had… they had friends. She quickly gained friends in her upper class men, getting to know a few of the girls in her Biology class, she sat with them at lunch.

“Who’s he?” she ventured, one week after attending Sci-Ops. It was at dinner, she noticed a boy all alone save for one group of seniors who went over to practically tortured the poor boy.

formerlyanon replied to your post: saccharinesylph: I really, really&nbs…

WOW i really dig how intricate margaret’s pieces are! the rose motifs themselves are lovely too, i can see why you’re so into them

Isn’t she the bomb?? A lot of people think Art Noveau instantly means Mucha, and that’s one example, but there are other art nouveau artists too, and a great deal of them operated out of Glasgow, Scotland. 

I’ve found over time that I actually prefer some of their work to Mucha’s!

So check this out:

(judging u)

Margaret would layer gesso all over her canvas or boards or whatever she damn well pleased, and would soak strings and beads and other things to stick on there to make the raised relief lines. 

Jessie M King is another one of my favorites. Another of the Glasgow Four.

She tended to work in pen and ink, but also did color from time to time.

I have four prints from her framed on my bedroom wall. C: