#I know none of them have Irish accents but listen

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Rye Whiskey

♢ Summary: Celebrating Sean's return to camp includes a drunk Arthur, which allows you to discover this whole new side of him. ♢Words: 2057 ♢Warnings: None except for the whole alcohol/drinking theme, basically it's just a one-shot of a fluff idea I had watching the video of drunk Arthur saying nonsense to Saddie. ♢a/n: I recommend reading it with the mindset that Arthur is in the same state as in "A Quiet Time" and listening to Rye Whiskey to put you in the mood! Wrote a little sequel for this! Read it here. ♢Credits: These gorgeous dividers are from @cafekitsune!

♪ "O Mollie O Mollie, it's for your sake alone,

That I leave my old parents, my house and my home!" ♪

Even if one didn't know Sean had returned to the gang, they could have noticed it right away hearing his cheerful singing, his thick Irish accent rolling the words even more musically. As the main entertainer of the gang, he was absolutely delighted to have a party thrown for him, and honestly, his big toothless smile made your heart feel warmer. Tonight, in the fresh air of New Hanover, it was only laughter, guitar notes, and drunken sounds that were echoing through the camp, everyone finally having a real good time since they had settled at Horseshoe Overlook after such a long period hidden in the ruthless cold of the Grizzlies.

You were sitting around one of the campfires, with Javier, Sean, Uncle, and John. Karen had also joined, gladly sitting on Sean's lap with a bottle in her hand; you were sure there was something between them, and the poor man probably deserved some sweet time after what he had been through. Talking about bottles, the floor was flooded with a large amount of them around your little singing group, almost like a big pond of green shining glass you all fed every few minutes when someone would empty one.

You had your fair share of drinks already, a slight blush burning your cheeks, the alcohol keeping you warm under the night's cold breeze and happy despite the gang's precarious situation. Funny, how whiskey would make everything easier and more entertaining, no matter who or where you were looking at.

Alright, you had to admit it, maybe you were a bit tipsy, but so were John, Javier, Sean, and Karen, their happy faces softly lit by the golden flames. But Arthur, -Oh Lord, Arthur was far beyond drunk, he was wrecked. Looking at him from where you were sitting and singing along, you could see just how much of a mess he was; at least three of his shirt's buttons were undone, said shirt opened messily; his hair scattered under his hat and looking a bit sticky, almost as if he had put his whole head into a barrel of beer; he had a constant smile on his face, and his body was swaying slightly as if he was an unstable bottle being tossed around by the waves of a tormented sea. You chuckled to yourself; he was quite a sight to see, and you wondered if you actually had ever seen him that drunk. A few weeks back, Lenny had told you about the wild night he and Arthur had at Valentine's saloon, but the man in question had slept in jail and came back to camp completely sober, which made you unable to see his incredibly drunken state and made you wonder what the hell he must have done to end up in said jail.

♪ "If the Oceans were whiskey, and I were a duck, -Quack quack !-

I'd dive to the bottom, and get one sweet sup !" ♫

You chuckled at how Arthur had added the quacking part, finding it quite endearing. It was almost as if it was a whole new side of him, and you couldn't stop watching. His deep voice sounded surprisingly good as he was singing with the others, and you caught yourself liking hearing it. After all, you always had a sweet spot for him, so you wouldn't complain about having the opportunity to look at him as much as you wanted without him noticing it (or at least, being too drunk to understand what exactly was happening). His bright blue eyes, sparkling with the orange ashes of the fire, along with his light brown hair and stubble, his black opened shirt, his thin lips curled into this big stupid smile... It was all making your heart melt more and more. You almost lost it when he started drinking again, roughly grabbing a nearby bottle, probably without even knowing what it was containing, and bringing it to his mouth, the golden liquid sliding in his throat, making his Adam's apple bob, some glistening drops of it flowing from the bottle all the way down his scarred chin, then his throat, ending up lost in the dark hairs of his chest.

You're suddenly pulled out of your starring trance by his loud voice cutting through the song's lyrics: "Lenny, mah boy! Come and sing with us."

"Arthur... You had too many drinks again..." Lenny answered with an amused giggle as he was passing behind him, catching his inebriated eldest as he had got up to greet him, but ended up stumbling on the way and almost tripped on him, it only made Arthur laugh at himself.

There was no need to specify that Lenny had trouble holding him upright, Arthur being under normal circumstances quite a weight to carry, and even more so when he was in such a state not making any effort to prevent his face from kissing the ground. Quickly, you got up yourself, and took a few steps towards the men, helping Lenny on his difficult task.

"Look who it is... Miss Y/L/N !" Arthur greeted you with foggy eyes and a wide grin as if you two hadn't seen each other for years when you had talked only a few hours ago. He instantly put one of his arms above your shoulders and the other around Lenny's. "C-come ooon, let's dance !"

Lenny sighed before laughing a bit, letting Arthur bring him into his drunken enthusiasm; you chuckled along with him, not complaining about being so close to the handsome cowboy you had your heart and eye on for a while, even if he was barely able to register what he was actually doing and with whom. As Javier started playing a lively song, Arthur, Lenny and you were throwing your legs up in the air; you laughed some more noticing how your favorite cowboy had a hard time actually following the rhythm. You couldn't believe just how euphoric he was tonight, almost as if the bottles had turned on a switch in his mind, making him go completely wild without any of his usual gruff restraints. Maybe that was what the alcohol did to everyone. Maybe that was what it was doing to you right now but you couldn't be sure if it was, precisely because you were happily drunk and carefree.

The night continued and you blushed realizing Arthur hadn't let you go, his arms always ended up around your shoulders or on it as he was sometimes leaning against you. His manly scent, a sweet mix of smoky tones brought by tobacco and gunpowder, and woody ones, supported by pine and leather traces. Your head was starting to feel dizzy just by smelling it, your mind even more intoxicated by it than the alcohol you had been drinking all night.

"Maybe..."

You brush away your thoughts, he was really drunk, and he could have been like that with anyone. You spent the rest of the night having fun, drinking some more, laughing, singing, the whole gang having more and more fun as everyone had loosened up thanks to the booze. However at some point, the main man of the party, Sean, disappeared with Karen, and people started going to bed. After all, it was almost morning already, the stars of the night not as bright anymore as they were around the middle of the night, subtle sun rays making their presence known behind the outlines of the mountains, but not appearing just yet.

It was now only you, John, and Arthur left around the campfire, the dark-haired man looking down at his brother at heart, an amused grin on his face. Arthur was half asleep at you and John's feet, bottle in one hand, his other arm curled up around your leg. With all the proximity and physical contact he had given you through the whole night, your heart and body had gotten warmer, and you had to make enormous efforts to keep your thoughts in line, not wanting to have any false hope about him and his behavior.

"He's so goddamn drunk... " John sighed.

"Clearly."

"Come on, let's carry him to bed." John said to you, getting up with difficulty from the log you both were sitting on.

"Aah, you guys are no f-fun!" Arthur protested, his voice even hoarser than usual due to his intoxicated self. "Come on, one more drink!"

"Nope, you're going to bed." John's own croaky tone answered his partner. He then looked at you while bending down, expecting you to help him lift Arthur's poor body.

You leaned over, helping John. Arthur was barely able to walk, leaning heavily on you and John, one of his arms above John's shoulder just as earlier with Lenny, but his other one around your waist. Your cheeks burned. Even if it was just drunken attention... You liked it.

The three of you started to walk to Arthur's tent, as fast as you could considering his feet were more brushing the ground than actually stepping on it. You just weren't capable of having any coherent thoughts at this point, your whole being living for the warm sensation of his big palm on your waist, feeling how his fingers were gently rubbing against your clothes.

"You two... Are the b-best..." Arthur slurred out in a rough voice when you had reached his tent. As gently as you both could, John and you were trying to lay him in his cot.

"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Arthur." John answered with an amused chuckle, placing one of his legs in its rightful place on his bed.

"Y/N, you're beautiful..." Arthur added in an almost unintelligible rumble, as you were pulling back from him. "I l-love you."

Your jaw dropped. What did he say? Did you hear that right? You froze, eyes glued to the outlaw, who was already turning around to sleep on his stomach, lips parted, a light snore emerging from his noose; he had instantly fallen asleep as if he had permission to now that he was in his cot.

John looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't take it seriously, Y/N." He advised you. "He already told that to Abigail and Karen before, even Saddie if I reckon right."

"Oh, erm... Alright, I won't." You answered your friend. Honestly, you probably would have slept better not knowing that; a sharp little sliver of disappointment subtly piercing through your heart. "Goodnight then, John."

"Goodnight, Y/N, thanks for the help." The scarred man greeted you before heading to his own tent. It was so late, you were sure Abigail would reprimand him for that tomorrow morning.

But that was John's problem, and you already had one yourself.

You took a last look at your sleepy cowboy before walking off to your own tent. He looked cute like this, hair messy, clothes completely disheveled; even his snoring was pretty endearing to you. You reluctantly turned your back to him, resisting the urge to actually lay with him in his cot. After all, he wouldn't have complained, wouldn't he? He probably wouldn't even have noticed... These thoughts got stuck in your brain as you lay in your own cot, pretty tired yourself after partying all night, your spirit slowly drifting away in the realm of dreams, sleep troubled by blurry visions of what had happened during the night, a beautiful, charming, stupid smile keeping on reappearing from time to time in your slumber.

Arthur opened his eyes. "It hurts"; were the first words that came to his mind. His back, his neck, his goddamn head, everything was hurting him. Getting old was definitely not a piece of cake. He rubbed his eyes, which felt dry and burnt, just like his thorny throat, even if a slight string of saliva had slid from his mouth. Getting that drunk was definitely too frequent for him lately, the other night with Lenny still engraved in his memory and his tired body, fed up with his poor drinking decisions. He slowly got up, rubbing his face, carefully avoiding his gaze from looking at the sun, its light way too powerful for him in this hungover state.

Looking around the camp, he smiled internally seeing Karen emerging from Sean's tent. Little bastard had gotten himself a good time last night. While thinking back about what happened, he had a hard time remembering all of it, as often when he was that drunk. Maybe it was better that way, considering his impressive capacity to get in trouble and make a fool of himself in those kinds of situations. However this time, something was lingering in the back of his mind.

You.

Your delicate smell, how the soft fabric of your clothes felt under his fingers, how your voice sounded into his ears, how smooth and mellow your leg was. How the hell did he knew about all that? He focused, frowning, trying so hard to remember what had happened, but all he had was these sensations, those pleasant, haunting sensations. He couldn't help but feel flustered all by himself, sat on his bed, cheeks getting slightly flushed, just imagining the reasons why he suddenly knew so much about the grain of your skin and the warmth of your body against his;

He prayed deeply he didn't do anything stupid with you; Lord knows how important you were to him. Hell, he had thought about you a lot already, thought about offering you flowers or maybe a nice jewel, something that would be as pretty as you even if to him, no physical object could ever compete with your astonishing beauty and your adorable, sweet, sunny personality.

But before all that, he needed to have a few words about last night with you. Probably would stumble on his words, look like an idiot again, but at least he would be able to be close to you, just like in those sweet lingering memories in his head.

Sequel here.

a/n : Alright so... Here it is! My first one-shot ever. Please, if you notice anything, any mistakes, or a weird-sounding sentence: let me know! English isn't my first language and I'm actually anxious as hell to publish this! Anyway, thanks for reading this until the end and take care <3

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Love your writing and HCS!! 💞 Can you please do one for a French reader from France? (with no accent when speaking English though, fluent in both languages!) thank you 💞💞

Thank you! Lmk if I get anything wrong. Wrote as overall bc it was easier

French Reader in the 141

Your "rivalry" with the boys isn't as strong like in the Irish reader but it's definitely there

There are a lot of comments that you make about them being "posh British" and they hit you back with the same calling you a "snobby French"

But everyone knows that it's all jokes and that if it gets taken too far, it's time to apologize

Gaz was really confused when he learned that you were French but you didn't have an accent. He thought everyone was playing a prank on him until you explained that you just don't have one

You're the perfect kind of person Price wants on his team though, since he can see your fighting spirit. Though, sometimes you two get into spats about certain things and it takes a lot of self control from both of you to not make career ending decisions

You definitely visit them more often since you're relatively close and they tend to visit you a lot too

They would never admit it, but they like to hear you talk in French

There's just something about the way you speak that just makes them listen, it's most likely because of you professional attitude but they're also amazed by the language since none of them can speak it at all

More often than not, they'll ask if you know any good places to go in France when they want to get away from home and they hope that you join them so they can hang out with you

They like having you around and you're good at your job

[horsechestnut]

Ranking the 2023 Tony Awards Preformances

1- Sweeney Todd: Holy shit. Just wow. The fog, the atmosphere, the choice to do a group number, the incredible jerky choreography, Josh Groban’s entrance. 100 out of 10, no notes.

2- Shucked: Not my favorite musical, but I’ll give it to them, this was a good group number and a clever medley. Alex Newell’s part felt a little out of place, but I’ll forgive it because god can they sing. 

3- Parade: A duet done right! The staging and acting were both engaging enough to keep my attention, and the singing was incredible. Actually made me interested enough to go listen to the rest of the musical, which should always be the goal of a Tony performance.

4- Kimberly Akimbo: Very cute! I do wish they’d done a group number, but I also love “Anagram” so I wasn’t to upset. Also shout out to the ensemble members who got to sit on stage and play Uno for the whole performance.

5- Some Like it Hot: High energy and lots of fun. Gave all the main characters at least a few lines to sing, and I’m never going to say no to watching a fun tap number. 

6- Camelot: A good attempt, but they couldn’t quite nail it. I get it, none of Camelot’s iconic songs are group numbers, but I think they would have been better served by trying to do a group number anyway and maybe shifting into Camelot right at the end. Still, I liked all the parts individually, they just didn’t flow together well.

7- &Juliet: This was fine. There was some really cool dancing, and it was fun, but ultimately it felt more like I was watching a concert than the Tonys, and honestly “Eye of the Tiger” is not a song I ever need to hear again...

8- New York, New York: Started strong, loved the energy, but was starting to drag by the end. Also I don’t know what was up, but the first guy’s accent was... off. I only realized it was supposed to be Irish about ten seconds before he stopped singing and it was really distracting.

9- Into the Woods: Just... why did you pick this song? If Parade was how to do a duet well, this is how not to. It was basically just two actors singing at each other and occasionally walking around for three minutes. Made even worse by the fact that Into the Woods has good group numbers! Shout out to the Milky White puppeteer though, best part of the performance. 

10- Funny Girl: Even ignoring the drama with this show, this was such a dumb choice. Anyone who was going to go see Funny Girl for Lea Michelle was already going to go and we’ve seen her sing this song so many times before. This is your chance to advertise, show us something we haven’t seen before! Also it just feels rude to the ensemble to not let them do anything when most of them have probably been with the show longer than Lea Michelle has.

11- A Beautiful Noise: This was just a guy singing a song. This barely even counts. Even the audience seemed bored.

[deputygonebye]

@luposcainus

there were probably more halfbies out there. who knows? caspian can only tilt his head. “ if there are more like me , we are living a life of good fortune, we do not have to worry about dead breaking in because we smell like it.” he said. the halfbie’s accent was strong. he stands up . he remains calm in all of this. his expression remain blank while putting his hands out. controlling his urge to feed off others was getting easier, but it does not mean it will happen. eating dinner, made that thought of him shiver. he rather eat things that are outside, hunt, like an undead would do. “ do you want to see my half rotten form?” he asked in a sarcastic tone. caspian raised a brow. the walkers were not a bother to him. it was the humans. they changed . they all did. caspian only offered to stay because he saved a life from being eaten.“ dinner it is a thing that i fear the most. any pulsing vein is sure to leave me hungry. ”

Blanketed in the bodies of the dead that they carved, into both chunks and pieces, of blood and flesh alike, when it came to shielding oneself from Walkers, it was the Halfbies who had the advantage. A natural defense against the undead, a scent that smelled of a rotted graveyard to they. It was a sense of peace that none in the camp had come to know since the Outbreak. Neither Shane nor anyone else, always did the Geeks find them, hunted them down through redolence alone. Sweat and whatever else that decided to gather along their skins; a luck that had been blessed onto Caspian. His soul damned or not, for Shane still debated the very idea, it was clear that he was favored, nonetheless. Caspian was within good graces. By the powerful hands of the Lord, by Rick, who stood and listened with such honest fascination, who seemed just about ready to offer the English man a permanent position within the group. Great talents coupled with an even more wonderful gift - Shane could see the gears turning inside of Rick's head.

"Hey! You best keep that to yourself. The kids don't need to see that. Nobody does." Shane recoiled, disgusted at the very thought of a decayed Caspian before his eyes, disgusted by the sarcasm.

"Yeah, well, you think about eatin' any pulsin' vein in this camp instead of the fried fish and canned green bean dinner that these folks have prepared for you, and you'll be lookin' down the barrel of my Mossberg 590. I ain't kiddin', Caspian. One wrong move against any of these people, and you're done for. Now, why don't I fetch y'all a seat."

Roughly handling the nearest lawn chair that he could find, placing it just so near the small fire that the camp had used for cooking, Shane picked Caspian's spot for him. His makeshift dinner table for the night, an easy-to-see seating arrangement, least for the ex-deputy who still refused to fully lay down his weapon. Guard for the meal - an overseer to the feastings - a still curious questioner.

Shane announced, proudly, "here you go. Carol already fixed your plate for you. It's on the paper plate. But I ain't finished with you. I need answers. These things, the Halfbies, where the hell did they come from? Where did you come from? Accent ain't like anything I've ever heard in King County. What is it? Irish? English?"

[johannestevans]

for anyone who types out ofmd characters' accents in their fanfic

when you phonetically type out someone's accent in a piece of prose or fiction, i need you to understand that what you are saying, what you are showing in your work, is that:

this person's way of speaking is strange, unusual, and/or funny

this person's way of speaking is uniquely strange, unusual, and/or funny compared to the rest of the cast of characters

that you can't imagine someone speaking "with an accent" unless you're typing it out sound-by-sound

if you have a cast of characters, all of whom with their own unique accents and inflections in the way you speak, which characters do you pick to spell out their speech phonetically, and why them? why is that character The Other?

if you're doing it because you think it's funny, why is it funny? what's funny about that person's accent versus the other characters?

and to bring this back to OFMD, like

if you write Ed and/or Fang's Kiwi accents out phonetically, but you don't write out Stede's, why?

what is it about Stede's Kiwi accent that is less unusual or funny to you? bc Stede does have a posher accent than Ed and Fang, but he still has many of the same Kiwi inflections when speaking English.

think specifically about the fact that Taika Waititi and Dave Fane are Māori and Samoan, and the distinction between rural and more metropolitan NZ accents, and how race and class intersect here

when it comes to Buttons and the distinction between Scots dialect and writing an "accent", just think about what that means - are you actually using different verb and word forms (eg how Buttons uses the pronoun "ye", which is pretty common in a lot of Scottish-English and Irish-English, but isn't so common elsewhere), or are you just sounding out the words you think are funniest to imagine him saying?

do you sound out Buttons' accent, but not Wee John's? why, why not? when you listen to Wee John's accent, do you know where in Ireland he's from?

have you perhaps searched the history of Ireland, and why Ulster accents, especially Northern Irish accents, are mocked and othered in the ways that they are? especially thinking about the typical differences between how Catholic and Protestant northerners talk, and why they're mocked in very different ways? all the class and sectarian implications of that?

if you're taking the piss out of Izzy's accent, do you know literally anything about the North of England and the historical implications of that?

do you know that accents like con o'neill's, let alone ewen bremner's and kristian nairn's, are still looked poorly on by a lot of posh people and english people, to the extent that broadcasters and presenters are pressured to present themselves with more "neutral", "easier to understand", and generally "less poor", "less regional" voices?

i haven't seen anyone take the piss out of Oluwande's london accent or Frenchie's west country one, and none of Jim's, either, which is good, but like, here. ask yourself this.

when you're about to phonetically write out someone's accent, what is the history of the accent that you're pointing out as unusual or funny?

how do race and ethnicity come into it?

how does class come into it?

how does religion come into it? (i don't care if you're an atheist: religious sectarianism is a huge part of class perception, and of how people talk and their accents)

are you mocking the character's perceived lack of education? do you assume any of the characters in the show are poorly educated because of their lower class or regional accent?

are you mocking character's disabilities or signs of neurodivergence? (eg with Pete's lisp)

this applies to basically everything but like, esp in ofmd where we are blessed to see this gorgeous array of accents and styles of speaking, and then i read fic where it's like "Oh well some of these people just talk funny and i'm gonna make the whole thing about that" is uncomfortable

there's nothing wrong with commenting on accent, comparing accents and speaking styles, or having characters tease and comment on each other, etc! there's also nothing wrong with specifically phonetically spelling out one or two words when a character is commenting on it, or having certain characters notice inflections and stuff

but when you write out someone's whole accent, you're basically saying "this person just talks sooo weird compared to everyone else i have to make a whole thing" about it and. feels bad, man

[meichenxi]

Beginners’ Gaelic resources

My mother’s family are native Gaelic speakers (Scottish Gaelic, not Irish), and the family that lives on the Western Isles still speaks Gaelic with their children. Many of my cousins are native bilingual speakers, but I grew up in England and was divorced from all of that. I tried to learn Gaelic as a child, but my grandparents actively discouraged it and eventually I stopped. 

A while ago it occurred to me: how is it I am learning Chinese when I can’t even speak their language? Or Welsh, or any of the languages of the UK? How can I think about language endangerment in other countries when I can’t speak Gaelic, as someone with half of their family from the islands? It seems bizarre when you frame it in those terms. 

Throughout the last few months Gaelic has been a casual on-again off-again project for rainy days, when Chinese gets too onerous. I’m keeping it light and fun, because I know I’ll be here for the long ride. Here are some of the resources I’ve been using:

1) Learn Gaelic with Jason: https://gaelicwithjason.thinkific.com - Jason is an American who developed an interest in Gaelic from a young age, with a degree from Sabhal Mòr Ostaig on Skye. This course is paid, but it’s one of the best things I’ve found - not just for Gaelic, but for *any* language. It’s a series of complete immersive videos about 20-30 minutes long requiring no prior knowledge, building on each other. Jason really understands the idea of comprehensible input, and I could learn a lot from him as a teacher. He also hosts the lessons in a yurt, is a terrible drawer, and wears a torque. Cool guy. 

You can check out his videos for free here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVX7RajLZmm8i7LEuli05tw

Jason also has an intermediate course where he teaches Gaelic through folk tales from Scotland and Ireland which I will definitely use once I get there. It’s a wonderful way into stories I heard as a kid and have partly forgotten. 

2) Jason’s graded readers: Yes I love this man. He is a god. I’m not going to link to Amazon, but he has two graded readers and working on more. This is my favourite method of learning: of just opening a book and going ‘That..looks like...a verb?’ Very repetitive language, very high frequency, with an absolutely excellent glossary at the back - plus you get to read some lovely folk-tales. I’ve learnt so much from the one I have. 

3) https://learngaelic.scot : this is one of the best websites there is. It is a modern, well-designed accumulation of Stuff - it has flashcards, links to the old BBC Alba video series (highly recommended), grammar explanations, audio, more flashcards. And also tips for each level. They also have a YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCqZrsYGwxA0g1KA3nKB6Y_A

4) Speaking Our Language: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxeyZABaHeI&list=PLX1DGbPK9r2HHyLN062V_ASbIh3xXpyvb - This is a great playlist, very nicely old-fashioned, of Gaelic spoken in context for beginners. 

5) Learn Gaelic dictionary: https://learngaelic.scot/dictionary/index.jsp - This has sound, which is crucial

6) Beag air Bheag podcast on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/34wGOU9sDTE7Vzg0qMexfv?si=2dF4YuqNQy6vdEL_smON4g&dl_branch=1 - Look. I understand none of this. But it’s an amazing podcast for intermediate learners, and I enjoy getting the occasional ‘agus’, ‘sin ceart’ and ‘ooooooo thaaaaaaaaa’. It’s nice to hear different accents and other learners too. 

7) GLOSSIKA!!!!!! I know what you’re thinking but - and it’s a big but - Glossika is free for certain small languages, and Gaelic is one of them!!! I’d really really recommend it, but best probably after the first 200 or so words to get the most from it. Basically it’s spaced repetition listening, and spoken importantly at a normal pace. Use glossika. 

(Also, for other languages, the free PDFs with standard IPA is available, uhh....quite easily...if you look..)

If anyone has any other resources you’d recommend for beginner level, let me know!! At the moment I’m more than preoccupied with Jason’s course and book, and Wiki as ever has all the grammar I need. For vocabulary, I’m not using Anki or anything specific yet, just memorising as I go along. It’s all very chill, and we’ll see how it goes. 

I...don’t know how to say 加油 in Gaelic. But. You get the picture.

- meichenxi out.

[missymurphy1985]

The Premiere

The Premiere of Peaky Blinders, Series 6. You've had a secret lust for your co-star for the last 10 years, would this be your last chance to finally get your way with him?

This was a request from @noctvrnalmoth

Taglist - @queenshelby @peakyscillian @ntmynouis @margoo0 @being-worthy @janelongxox

Lights flashing, cameras clicking, paparazzi calling your name left right and centre... God you hated premieres. But you plastered your game face on and gave the what they wanted like the good little actress you were. Series 6 of Peaky Blinders was premiering in Broad Street, Birmingham, appropriate as the series was based in the city - it felt right that that's where the final premiere should be.

You heard the crowd of fans behind you suddenly go wild as a car pulled up to the red carpet and the man himself stepped out of it. Your breath caught in your throat as you suddenly remembered the cameras were on you, and you quickly switched your game face back on. You couldn't hide the cheesy grin though, as Cillian Murphy stood smiling for the cameras. He made his way to the group of fans be happily signed a few autographs and took a few selfies with them. Thanking each of them for coming out, he waved and made his way over to you.

"Hey Ada," he smiled in his Brummie accent, knowing it made you laugh when he called you by your character's name.

"Tommy Shelby has arrived I see, did you leave Cillian in the hotel room?" He snaked an arm over your shoulder and you posed for more pictures together. Rumours had abounded for the last ten years of a romance behind the scenes between you, but none of them were true. You were good friends, that was all, no matter how much more you wanted.

"He was cramping my style Ada, can't have that at a premiere can we?" You giggled as he squeezed your shoulder, before reverting back to his Irish accent. "Reckon they've got enough photos, it's fucking brass knuckles out here!" He led you both into the hall where a waiter stood with a tray of champagne glasses. He took two and handed one to you. Clinking your glasses together in a toast.

"Here's to the end," he smiled, a touch of sadness in his eyes.

"It's been one hell of a ride though Cill, we've had a blast haven't we?"

"That we have y/n, that we have. Let's go cringe watching ourselves on camera, yeah?"

"Let the clenching begin!" You linked an arm with his and made your way into the auditorium together to the waiting interviewers.

Sitting on a chair each, the two of you glanced at each other and smiled. Both of you hated these promo interviews at premieres but at least you were doing this one together. Answering the questions as professionally as possible, the interviewer suddenly changed the topic to a more, personal, one.

"You must have seen the rumours flying around about the two of you in recent years?"

Cillian shrugged as you tried to hide your blush with a hand, pretending to laugh.

"There will always be rumours like that when co-stars of the opposite sex have chemistry onscreen - we've learned to let it go." Cillian always had an answer for it.

"It's a weird one though, I mean, I play his sister, you'd think the rumours would be about you and Tash, or Annabelle!" You smiled, your eyes meeting Cillian's. Did he just glance down at your cleavage?

"Tumblr has gone WILD about the two of you, fan made stories about you making out in secret onset, sneaking off together? Clear it up for us now - is there any truth to them?" The interviewer probed, hoping for some kind of sexy exclusive. Cillian's famous eyebrow raise quickly followed.

"If there was, we wouldn't admit it would we? The whole point of 'sneaking around' would mean it was a secret, wouldn't it? Be pointless to ruin the illusion now.." he smirked. The interviewer was stunned. So were you - you'd never done anything of the sort.. what was he doing? The papers would go wild with this tomorrow! You hid your face in your hands and snorted. He wasn't having the upper hand in this.

"He wouldn't stand a chance anyway." You smirked.

"Is that so y/n?" He turned to look at you. "These blue eyes didn't make you weak at the knees when we were filming? The strong jawline not having the Tommy Shelby effect?" Those blue eyes were staring you down now, you had no words. Just then the bell rang to signal the end of interviews - the premiere of the new series was about to begin in the auditorium. The interviewer was still slightly agog - what exactly had he just witnessed here?

"That was amazing wasn't it? They did an incredible job editing it all, just brilliant!" You gushed as you and Natasha left the auditorium.

"Not bad at all!! I'm gutted we won't be filming together again though y/n.." she hugged you tight. "And I'm sure Cillian will miss you too." She smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh god don't you start, those rumours have been plaguing me for years!! We're just friends Tash!" She nodded, still smirking, and glanced behind you, seeing Cillian making his way over.

"I'll see you at the party, yeah?" She made her way to the casino next door where the after-party was being held.

Two strong hands clipped your waistline making you jump, nearly spilling your champagne.

"Too easy y/n," Cillian chuckled.

"Asshole," you laughed, slapping his arm playfully. He smiled and, arm over your shoulder again, he walked with you to the casino.

"I'm not staying long y/n, so I'll say it now yeah?" He ordered the two of you a drink at the bar and turned to face you. The loud music drowning out most of the noise. You couldn't hear him very well.

"What?"

"I said, I'm not staying long y/n! I need to tell you something." Louder now, bending down to talk into your ear. Your drinks arrived and you made your way to a slightly quieter corner.

"Should I be worried Cill?"

"Maybe.." your breath caught again. "See, you know those rumours? The ones about us basically fucking behind the scenes?" Your cheeks burned.

"Oh those? Um.. yeah.. what about them?" He cleared his throat, bending to whisper loudly in your ear.

"Didn't you ever wish they were true?" You pulled back. The fuck did he just say?

"What?!" You nearly dropped your drink from the sudden movement.

"Just once, didn't you ever just wonder what could've happened?" His blue eyes so dark, looking right into yours.

"Listen, I'm not asking for a relationship, god knows neither of us need that right now, but this is the last time I'm gonna get this opportunity before we part ways for good. Meet me on floor 7 in 15 minutes. Room 712. If you don't come, I'll know the answer. If you do... Well..." He squeezed your hip, downed his drink and walked away. You stood in shock for a minute, collecting your thoughts. Okay, so he was right about one thing - neither of you were interested in a relationship. This would be a one time thing, no strings attached, which suited you down to the ground.. yes you found him impossibly attractive, but you both just came out of very high profile serious relationships... Maybe a quick fling wasn't such a bad idea? Get it out your systems, move on... You downed your own drink and left the party. What room was it again....

Room 712. The door was slightly ajar. You checked your watch - 18 minutes. You knew he was a stickler for timekeeping but you couldn't resist being a little late. Without knocking, you pushed the door open to find an empty room. Shit... Being late wasn't such a good idea now... Quickly scanning the room, you saw the ensuite door emitting steam from it. He's in the shower... This could work... Opening the door you saw his outline through the shower door, rinsing his hair under the hot water. You quickly slipped your dress to the floor, along with your underwear, and slowly eased yourself into the shower with him, quietly. You snaked your hands over his firm waist and he jumped, turning to face you, wiping water and soap out of his eyes.

"Too easy, Cill." He composed himself and smiled.

"So you did come then?"

"Well, not yet, but I'm hoping you could help with that?" You smirked, and looked down to see his erection already forming.

"Wanna let me get out first?"

"Nope, no need. There's plenty of room in here..." You sank to your knees and took him into your mouth.

"Ah... Fuck me..." He gasped as you sucked him to full erection.

"Now now, Mr Murphy, we'll get to that part soon enough..." Taking him back in, your tongue swirling around the tip, teeth gently scraping the underside of his cock. Sinking his head down, and backing into the shower wall, allowing the water to cascade over your back, he watched as you expertly sucked him, groaning into his shaft and cupping his balls lightly, giving them a sharp tug now and again. He couldn't take much more and lifted you to your feet.

"I'm not finishing in your mouth y/n.. I have a much better destination for it..." He knew you were on birth control, you'd spoken about it before when you were both going through yours respective breakups. Both of you also getting your checks done after your partners had cheated on you. All clean and ready to go.

Moving you against the wall of the shower, he angled the water away slightly, pressing his lips to yours. Snaking a hand down between your legs he was impressed to find you already wet for him. Smiling against your lips, he slowly inserted a finger deep inside, causing your hips to buck against him.

"Yes... Cillian yes..." Pushing a second finger in, he tipped them up and towards him slightly, catching hold of that sweet spot inside. You jumped again.

"Too easy y/n..." You couldn't help your hips rocking against his fingers, groaning deeply as he fucked you with them, picking up the pace. Your orgasm built quickly and he felt your walls clenching, but he quickly removed them and lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, he pushed his hard length into you. Your mouth opened wide with a loud groan as it hit that magical spot on the first thrust, and you screamed his name as your orgasm finally hit, Cillian pounding into you as you called his name. You just prayed the room next door was empty...

He tangled his hands into your hair as he continued thrusting up into you, your nails were clawing his shoulders as you moaned loudly - a second release quickly building.

"Need to move, my legs are killing me!" He groaned into your neck, and begrudgingly lifted you off him, keeping your legs round his waist as he turned the shower off and carried you into the main room. Sitting in the chair, he sat you back on his lap, a leg either side of him

"Want me to ride you Cill?" He nodded as you ground your hips against him, not taking him inside you just yet. If this was the only chance you had to do this, you were making it last as long as possible.

"Fuck.. don't tease me y/n..."

"Want me to ride that big cock of yours Cillian? Bounce up and down, back and forth, round and round.." your hips mimicking your words making him gasp. Your mouth teasing his now, tongue tracing his lips. He kept moving to kiss you fully but you kept pulling back.

"Jesus y/n..." You sank down onto him, taking him inside you. Riding him hard, your second orgasm burning inside desperate for release. He pushed you back slightly and moved your fingers down to your own clit. "Rub it... Wanna watch you..." You happily complied, head thrown back in pure ecstacy as you rode both him and your fingers to your orgasm. Shuddering with the release, feeling your juices coat him, he picked you up again and lay you down on the double bed, relentlessly pounding into you now while you clutched at his back, nails surely drawing blood now. He was like a man possessed, harder than he'd ever been before.

"That's it... That's it... Fuck... Cillian!" You were screaming his name as he grunted against your neck.

"Gonna cum y/n... Fuck..." With a loud groan followed by your name he came hard, filling you completely as a third orgasm took you along with him. Pulling out slowly, catching his breath, he remained on top of you.

"My shoulders are fucking shredded y/n..." He laughed, feeling the sting from where your nails had scratched him.

"Sorry... You were just too good..." You breathed, still coming down from your high. He rolled onto his back and pulled you into his arms. You lay there silently for a while, playing with his chest hair.

"That was worth the wait.." he smiled and kissed the top of your head. All you could do was nod, words suddenly becoming impossible. You'd never been fucked that good before in your life.

"Let's make a deal," he tilted your face up to look at him, gently leaning down to kiss your lips. "If we work together again in the future, and we're both single, we do this again. What do you say?" You smiled. You were worried for a second he was going to profess his undying love for you - definitely not what you wanted from this.

"Deal. Hey, there might be a role for me in the movie yet," you winked, biting your lip. He smirked down at you and rested his head back on the pillow.

"Can't wait." You sat up to get ready to leave, you both knew you couldn't stay. One of you had to go back to the party so as not to arouse too much suspicion.

"This was fun, right? And we're okay?"

"Yes, and yes. All good. Stay in touch? No matter what?" He watched you get dressed and fix your hair, reapplying your lipstick.

"Definitely." You leaned over him to steal a final kiss, and headed out the door smiling, both of you silently praying Ada had a place in the movie, and vowing to remain single for the foreseeable future.

[kanonsarchivedblog]

Stress Relief

Word Count: 2,070

Genre: Smut

Rating: E

Character: Edward Nygma/The Riddler

Author's Note: I have absolutely no reason to have written this, other than the fact that my partner has drug me down into the depths of DC Hell. And I started listening to Codot's work again.

That, and I really adore the concept of Eddie being demisexual and viewing sex/seduction as a form of a weapon to get information.

Warnings: None

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❝You say I'm bawling; I say I'm begging while you take my photo, If fake my breaking smile.❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Please, don’t stop.” The voice was a gasp- a tease, a smirk curling their lips up, breathless and bloodied. “Choke me harder. I know you can. You aren’t that weak, are you, Riddler?” They had taunted, even as their voice hitched, genuine fear flitting through their gaze as the cane pressed harder against their windpipe, making them splutter and gasp.

They got away.

But that’s because he let them. A game, that’s what this was. A fun little game that they enjoyed playing. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. Oh, he’d played this game many times- both with and without the acts of violence. Tilting his head left, then right, listening to the satisfying pops that filled the air as his neck popped. He rolled his shoulders slowly, feeling the tension that settled between them, deep in the tissue, nearly in the bone. He’d be sore, come morning. Nothing that a good hot shower and a decent night’s rest couldn’t help. Maybe one or two glasses of wine to spice things up.

A chuckle slipped past split lips as he worked his gloves off, flexing his fingers once they were freed of the leather grip. He’d gotten the information he wanted- that yes, that damned fool had escaped and was planning on paying a jester a visit. Which meant getting her out of the city soon, lest they end up with another fight blown out of proportion on their hands.

Someone would kill the Joker one of these days.

Who knows, maybe he’ll do it himself. Wouldn’t that be funny? To finally rid Gotham of that ridiculous copycat who couldn’t tell a joke to save his damned life, so he ripped Scarecrow off and created his own “toxin”- a laughing gas. What an idiot.

Dinner could wait. A hot shower sounded far better than anything else at the moment. Rolling around in the muck of Gotham’s side streets and alleyways was not his ideal form of cleanliness. This suit would need to get dry cleaned- soon. Tomorrow, hopefully. Perhaps he could have Echo drop it by with her and Query’s clothing. He’d shoot her a message later on about that; at this time, she’d be at her yoga class. Query would be cooking them dinner- or out getting dinner. One or the other.

Emerald gaze settled upon the reflection within the mirror, giving him pause. Bruises had already begun to form on freckled, pale skin; Gotham was no place to get sun, sadly. Then again, if he got too much sun, he’d burn- and that would be bad. Curse the genetics of the Irish. Head tilting slowly, his gaze tracked across the bruises that littered his front. The dot of the question mark scar had a bruise forming over it; an accent piece. Snorting, he shook his head and made to turn, only to pause-

Bruises around his throat were forming. Huh. He didn’t realize that when he was getting choked out, it had been that tight. Curious. Reaching up, he idly pressed against the tender flesh, a soft sound escaping him. Swallowing roughly, he turned away from his reflection to reach into his shower. Hot water poured from the showerhead- a rain showerhead, specifically. It actually hadn’t been his idea- the house came with them pre-installed, the previous owner having had a penchant for treating themself.

He can’t complain. It’s nice.

Steam began to build as he lingered, carefully examining the other scrapes and bruises that were appearing like a child drawing across a canvas with a red crayon. Nothing too deep- no stitches or butterflies needed. Not worth a trip to The Good Doctor, not tonight. Which works for him- he didn’t want to traverse across Gotham again, not in this shitty weather. As if on cue, thunder rumbled overhead. A thing for the dramatics- not his style. No, that belonged to the Batman and his little birdies.

Bruce Wayne. Just a human who happens to have a penchant for not dying.

Stepping into the warm spray of water, a sigh that would have made a nun blush echoed throughout the bathroom. It was nearly euphoric- the warmth, how his muscles began to relax. Ivy had given him eucalyptus to hang from the shower head, and oh, how they helped; the room already smelled like a spa thanks to the leaves. Reaching up, Edward drug his hands through red locks, wincing as his fingers brushed a tender spot near his temple where he’d been hit earlier. Not a concussion, thankfully- it’ll most likely just form a goose egg.

“C’mon, Eddie- you can do better than that!” The voice tickled at his mind as his eyes closed, letting the water run over his aching muscles. “Don’t tell me you’re getting lax!”

No. No, he wasn’t lax at all. The suit hid what lay beneath well. His hands wandered across his abdomen, tracing the relaxed muscles that lay beneath his epidermis. He kept to a strict regimen; it helped when he had a private gym in his house. Aerobics on Monday and Wednesday, paired with balance training; strength and endurance training on Thursdays and Saturdays. Pair all of that with running through the city from police and his fellow Gothamites, he was perfectly in shape. Nothing near Batman- but then again, he doesn’t think he’d want to look like a linebacker or a quarterback.

No, he was more of a track and field sort of guy. Or baseball. He’d been damn good at baseball.

Hair thoroughly shampooed and now with a deep conditioning mask in, he let himself relax against the heated tiles of the shower wall, breathing deeply. Calming, this was- something much needed. Reaching over, he took hold of the body wash (it was a gift from Kiyomi!) and spread it across the loofah, the rich scents of mahogany mingled with a dark teakwood and the barest hint of bourbon and cinnamon.

His mind began to drift as he scrubbed slowly at his skin. Hands grabbing at his hips, tugging him close- a hand slotting over his mouth to quiet him from yelling, breath against his throat, held back against a chest as the police rushed by, not bothering to look into the dark corner. How they stood so still in that moment, neither one moving from their position. How those hands wandered as Eddie’s head tilted back, the smallest noise escaping as the hand over his mouth drifted lower, settling around his throat and squeezing while the other hand settled just above his belt-

“Fuck.” Edward groaned, nose scrunching as he set the loofah aside to step beneath the warm spray of water. That had been new- something he hadn’t expected to happen. He also hadn’t expected to get the shit beat out of him in a fight immediately after, but good god had that moment been wonderful. Was he touch starved? Certainly not- but even he couldn’t deny how good that had felt.

The pressure around his throat had been perfect- not enough to cut off his oxygen, but enough to make his head swim with the mere thought of it. He could picture it so well- their chest to his back, their hand around his throat. He wasn’t sure who- oh, there were many faces that swam before his vision, many voices that whispered in his ear such filthy delights. His hand slid lower slowly, tracing a slow path before his fingers brushed against himself, drawing forth a soft hum of approval. There was a reason he kept a mirror in front of his bed in his room- and it was for times like this, the rare occasion someone would join him in his bed. It wasn’t as if people didn’t ask or try- oh, they did.

He supposes it’s a good thing each face that comes to mind is someone he has a form of relationship with- whether it be close friends or enemies, well, that was up for debate (and depending on the day, it seemed).

But to Edward E. Nygma, sex could be both pleasurable and a weapon. Only those he truly trusted fell into his bedsheets. Everyone else was left wanting, left high and dry or just on the verge before he slips away, leaving them on their own while he retreats with the information he’d been after. There was a word for this- not the manipulation, oh, he was well aware of how manipulative he could be. But the attraction, the need to have a form of relationship. Demisexual, he believes. Is the name for it.

A shame that there was no mirror for him to gaze into. Perhaps he should install one in his shower.

A gasp pulls free as he grips himself- but that’s not his hand wrapped around his hard cock, not in his mind at least. No- the hand is rough, calloused from years of working with a weapon. The grip is strong as it slides up slowly, thumb circling the piercing at the head- a Prince Albert- before slowly dragging back down, squeezing at the base. “God, yes,” he whispers, lost in his fantasy. He sinks to his knees, but all he can picture is their chest pressed to his back, their chin on his shoulder, watching as his stomach tenses with each languid stroke.

“Look at how hard you are, Eddie,” they would whisper, marveling at the length in their hand. Thick- the piercing sits perfectly, akin to a crown. Apt for the name it shares. “Look at this- yer already dripping.” They’d tease, thumb circling the head, toying with the piercing.

A shudder dances through him as his head tilts back, soaked strands clinging to his face. They’ve gotten long. Long enough to-

Oh, the hand leaves his throat to wind through damp ginger locks- getting a good grip before tugging. Hard. “Fuck! Yes, yes, yes,” Eddie called out, voice ricocheting back to him thanks to the natural acoustics of the bathroom. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” his words spilled out like a sinner kneeling before the crucifix of Jesus Christ, each word holding the weight of a Hail Mary. His chest heaves as the hand strokes faster, squeezing with each tug downward, the thumb circling the sensitive glands just beneath the head with each stroke upwards. His hips cant forward into the grasp, rutting into it with sharp, high whines.

God, he thinks distantly, it’s a good thing I don’t have neighbors that live close.

“There, please- oh, please, let me come,” he pleads with his fantasy, nearly sobbing with how close he is, how high strung he feels suddenly. As if, at any moment, the marionette strings would snap and he would fall into a boneless heap.

“Do you deserve to come?” The voice asks, a growl in his ear as his hair is tugged back on again. “Do you deserve it? What have you done to deserve it? Tell me, Eddie.”

“I’ve been good, I’ve been so good,” he sobs, breath catching as he dangles so precariously close to the edge.

“Come for me.” The voice murmurs, and it’s so real he could swear he felt lips brush his ear before he falls over the edge, painting the floor and his stomach pearlescent. He groans, low and slow, teeth gritted as pleasure rolls over him in crashing waves. Good God, how long had it been since he’d done that? A good while.

He really should take better care of himself. A breathless little laugh escapes him as he blinks his gaze open, staring at his showerhead for a moment. He never did think of one person- he couldn’t. It felt wrong to do that, especially when some of them were in committed relationships. Or, they are now. They hadn’t been before. But that’s still disgusting.

Shaking his head, causing droplets to fling off to the sides, he cleans himself off before shutting the water off. The distant sound of rain greeted him like an old friend, a rumble of thunder finding its home in his bones for a moment.

He’s better than this.

The thought settles in the back of his mind, the words echoing. A familiar voice- one that he wished would leave. “Fuckin’ pretty bird,” he muttered as he grabbed hold of his towel, settling it around his waist as he stepped out. A glass of wine would help ease away the remnants of the nerves he just fucked away.

And keep the thoughts at bay.

Idly, he tapped out Moonlight Sonata on his thigh as he walked towards his bedroom.

[morosemagick]

Meet me by the River Bend | Finan X Reader One-Shot

Warning: None

Words: 3919

Tagged: @osferth (thanks for that prompts list!!)

It's your favorite place in Wessex. This hidden river bend behind your home in Coccham. Most of the townspeople here don't realize it's back there. Deep enough for you to bathe, and hidden enough for you not to worry about men coming to spy on you.

It's your small touch of paradise.

You've been coming here for years now. When your daily chores are done and you're certain no one will need you, you sneak off to your special place. Sometimes you don't even bathe, just going by to dip your toes in and listen to the river's song. It's the best in the summertime when the water is its warmest and you can dress in your bare minimum while you waste your day doing whatever you choose.

You rather this simple life over anything else.

Until one day you notice someone has found your secret spot.

It takes you a moment, but you recognize this face. He's a warrior for Lord Uhtred, the Ealdorman of Coccham. You've seen him before in town, usually walking around with the Lord's other warriors or drinking at the alehouse.

If you're correct, he's the one they call Finan.

Afraid of being seen, you hide behind a tree to spy on him. It's probably wrong, but you're curious to see what this man is doing in your place. You can see him approach the river, squatting down and putting his fingers into the water to perhaps check its warmth. After a moment or two, he rises, shaking off his wet finger, and then wipes it on his trousers.

What happens next makes your jaw drop.

He starts to strip away his clothing. Starting with the belt that carries his blades and then his shirt. You can't help but gawk as he works at every button till the end, then pulling the shirt off his body. As he bends down to drop his on top of his blades, his body turns till his bareback is facing you.

And the sight of it makes you gasp.

Finan snatches the shirt up and puts it back on, and you manage to hide behind the tree. You try to cover your mouth with your hand, but you're certain you've been caught.

You can hear him pick up his sword, and then you hear the sound of footsteps approaching you, "I know you're out there," he calls out as he creeps closer, "Come out now, and I swear I won't hurt ya."

"I didn't mean to spy on you, Lord, I swear it," You tell him, still cowering behind the tree.

"I'm not a Lord, darlin', no need to hide," Finan is smirking when he comes face to face with you, "If you wanted to watch me bathe, all you needed was to ask."

He's much more handsome than you realized now that he's in arms reach, and suddenly you're blushing uncontrollably, "I was not-"

"I'm only kidding, I swear it," He smiles, holding his arms up in truce, "What is a good Christian woman like yourself doin' alone in a place like this?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," you say, straightening yourself to seem more confident, "How did you find this place?"

"I usually bathe more up the river, but it seems others found my space so I came more down for some peace," Finan crosses his arms, and your eyes can't help but look at his bare chest and the blade you almost forgot he was carrying, "And you?"

"I, uh," You point behind him and chuckle, "Live not far from here. This is my secret place."

"Is it now?"

"It is," You tell him, and he smirks at you, "And I would prefer if you bathed somewhere else."

Finan chuckles, and takes a step forward, "And if I choose not to?"

You're already backed into the tree, so there's nowhere else to go as he hovers over you, "I.. I'll-"

Finan’s smirk becomes a full smile as he laughs and backs away, "I am teasing, darlin', I'll get out of your hair. I wouldn't want anyone to think anythin' of us being alone back here."

"I will not tell, if you don't," The words come out of your mouth so quickly you barely have time to register what you've just told this man.

Finan's brow raises as he crosses his arms again, "Are you propositioning me, lady?"

"No, of course not!" You argue and he smiles again, making your knees feel surprisingly weak, "I only mean to say, if you do not look my way then I will not look yours. We can share this place."

"You wish to share this place with me?" He questions.

"As long as you promise not to look and you stay on your side of this tree," As soon as the words come out you realize what you've asked of this and it's probably the dumbest thing you've done but it's too late because the words have already been spoken, "We keep our eyes to ourselves, deal?"

You put your hand out for him to shake, and a second later he shakes it, "Deal, Lady-"

"Y/N," You tell him with a faint smile, "I am not a lady, I'm just… Y/N."

"Well you have yourself a deal," Finan smirks as he lets your hand go and starts to make his way back to his things, "Just Y/N."

It's the way he looks at you as he walks away that makes you realize you've probably made a very big mistake.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

It rains for the next few days, so you do not return to the river bend until the sun has risen again. You head down at midday to get away from your family for some time. It's hard, being the eldest child. You feel like so much is expected of you, especially in a family of only daughters.

You expect talks of marriage will be in your very near future.

When you arrive at your secret place, Finan is already there. You can tell because there are clothes all laid out neatly as well as a belt with two blades close to the water. As per your pact, you do your best to keep your eyes ahead of you and not spy on the man you've decided to let into your space.

Though you would very much like to look.

You sit by the edge of the water, taking off your shoes so you can stick your feet in the water, and just as you lay back onto the grass you hear water sloshing around and the sound of a certain Irish accent in the air.

"Y/N," You hear Finan call out, and you try your best not to look his way, "Nice seeing you here."

"I'd say the same, but I plan on upholding the promise I made," Finan laughs at your comment, and a smile forms on your face, "I am a good Christian woman, after all."

"Aye, so polite," He laughs some more and you can hear him moving through the water, probably making his way out, "Thank you for not tarnishing my pure reputation."

"I assure your pure reputation will continue to go unscathed," You chuckle and you can hear him getting out of the water, and the sound of swords in sheaths clanging lets you know he's probably getting dressed.

"Do you not wish to bathe today, Y/N?" He asks you, and you can hear his belt clang again.

"No…" You told him in a soft tone, your mood sobering up, "I only came here to escape, that's all."

"Escape what?" When you don't answer you can hear Finan moving around, and before you know it he's standing above you fully dressed, "Escape what, Y/N?"

You smirk at the sight of him, "You've crossed the tree."

"Aye, but my clothes are on," Finan smiles walking to your right and then sitting down next to you, "So are you going to tell me what has happened?"

You sigh and then sit up, pulling your knees to your body as you look out to the water, "I believe my family wishes me to marry soon."

You glance over to Finan, who is also staring at the water when he replies, "Ahh."

"My family is… well, we could use the silver," You explain as you put your arms around your knees and rest your chin on top of them, "I am the eldest, it's my duty to be married into wealth."

"But is being married what you wish?" Finan asks you in a tone that makes you glance his way.

It almost sounds like jealousy.

"I'm not sure," You tell him honestly, "What if he's awful?"

"What if he's hideous?" Finan jokes with brows raised and it makes you laugh, "I'm sure your father will not marry you to a cruel man."

"It's my stepfather who wishes to marry me," You explain, trying to maintain your smile but it's getting hard, "I think he tires of caring for me. I'm almost certain he wishes to be rid of me as soon as possible."

"Sounds like a bastard," Finan mutters in anger, and it catches you off guard. When he notices what he's said, he turns to face you, "I did not mean-"

You can't help but smile, "No, you are right. He is a bastard." Your smile maintains as you turn back to face the water, "I just wish I was free to choose, that's all. It might sound silly but I want to fall in love with a man, not just be forced upon him."

"That doesn't sound silly at all," Finan tells you with a soft voice, "Nothin' wrong with wanting to be loved, Y/N."

"Have you ever been in love?" You turn to ask him and you can see the expression on his face shift, "Finan? Did I say something wrong?"

He looks at your and his lip curls up, and something about the way his eyes stare into yours gives you butterflies like you've never felt before, "I have… a long time ago. Almost another life, even."

"What happened?"

Finan shrugs, looking back at the water as he answers, "I suppose.. it was not meant to be."

"I'm sorry," You tell him sincerely, "That sounds awful," he doesn't answer you immediately, and you wonder if you've maybe struck a nerve with your question. In hopes of redeeming yourself, you add: "Perhaps you will find love again," That catches his attention and it makes you smile, "A better one."

"I hope so as well," Finan answers with a smile much different than the others he's given you during this conversation. Something about it just makes your heart beat double time.

You wonder if perhaps these are the feelings you've been searching for.

You continue to meet Finan daily by the river bend, as long as the sun is out and there is no rain to stop you from leaving your home. You talk about everything and nothing, and over the next few months, you learn so much about each other. Finan tells you about his travels, and what it's like to be a warrior serving Lord Uhtred. Of his friends and fellow warriors, Sihtric and Osferth. You tell him about your family, how your father served in King Alfred's fyrd and did not come home after one battle. How your mother, now a widow, chose to marry a farmer to support her family and had many more children with him. How the man she married treats you more like the help than a daughter.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

Of all the things you speak of, Finan's family and his life in Ireland is never brought up.

You didn't want to push it.

He did, however, tell you of his life as a slave and how he met Lord Uhtred aboard a shave ship. All the things they overcame to be free, and the friends they lost trying to get home. It's how you learn why he chooses to bathe in private.

"There are scars… scattered all over my back," Finan tells you during one of your meetings, "Every time someone sees them, they ask how I got them. I hate talkin' about it… so I bathe alone."

"I didn't mean to-"

"I don't mind telling you, Y/N," he says with a smile, "You are good at secrets, surprisingly enough."

You laugh at his comment, and you stop when you realize Finan is staring at you, "What is it?"

"May I tell you another?" Finan asks in a quiet voice.

"Another… secret?" You question him with a raised brow. Finan nods, his face seeming more serious than you've seen it, "What is it, Finan?"

"I would very much like to kiss you, Y/N," His words make you gasp and you realize he's leaned in closer to you, "May I?"

"But your pure reputation," You smirk but your body is leaning in closer anyway, "We are good Christians, remember?"

"I will not tell, if you don't," Finan smiles as he puts his hand on your face to pull you in.

You glance at his eyes then down to his lips right before you lean in to kiss him, "Deal."

It's not your first kiss, that's for certain, but you've never had someone kiss you with so much passion before. Finan puts his other hand on your face and leans your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands reach out for his shirt to pull him as close to you as you can, and the two of you fall back into the grass as the kissing intensifies. Finan's tongue slips in your mouth and you moan, his hands moving from your face down to your waist.

He's about to go lower, but you stop him.

You pull away from him with a worried look on your face, "We shouldn't..."

Finan looks a touch embarrassed as he gets up off of you, "I am sorry, Y/N,"

"No, it's not that I don't wish to kiss you," You are quick to explain as you sit back up, "It's just…" You don't wanna tell him, but you know you need to tell him soon before it's too late, "My stepfather has someone coming tomorrow… a potential husband."

"You're to be married?" He looks hurt, more than you anticipated and it hurts.

"I have no choice," Your lip quivers because the look on his face is just killing you, "He wants me gone before harvest."

"Perhaps I should go," Finan says as he jumps to his feet, and you jump up to follow him.

"Finan, Finan wait!" You call out as you chase after him, "I do not want to marry this man-"

"I will bother you no longer, Lady," he cuts you off as he keeps going, but you reach out to grab his arm and make him stop.

"Finan, please," Your voice cracks and you feel your breath starting to stutter, "I will never love this man," Finan doesn't look fully back, but his head is turned enough for you to know you have his attention, "my heart already belongs to you."

"I have nothing to give you, Y/N," Finan explains, keeping his face away from you, "No land, no home... I am just a warrior, loyal to my Lord. Every time we leave there is a chance I will not come home. It is not an easy life."

"I do not want easy," Your eyes start to water as your hand drifts down his arm to his hand, "I want you."

Finan turns back and you find he's also been crying, but there's a slight smile on his lips and it makes you feel a bit better, "Do you now?"

"I do," You smile as the tears fall, "Always."

Finan moves back in to kiss you again, his hands moving frivolously across your body as he backs you up until you eventually hit a tree. His hands are making their way down your skirts as he starts to lift them up, and eventually, they find themself between your legs.

What he does to you next, here by this river bend, is far from Christian.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

You get back home later than you usually do, the sun setting as you walk through the door, and to your surprise, your mother and stepfather are waiting for you, along with another man you do not recognize.

"Where have you been!?" Your stepfather demands before you can even put down your things, "You have been gone for hours!"

"I went to bathe," You explain but your response is only a half-lie; you were indeed in the water… with Finan… and neither of you actually did bathe, "I did not realize how long I was gone."

"It's impolite to make your betrothed wait, Y/N," Your mother explains, and you give her a confused look.

"I do not have a-"

"Y/N, meet Oswald," Your stepfather cuts you off as he turns back to point to the other man in the room, "He has agreed to marry you, and for a mighty fair price might I add."

You look at the man, and then your stepfather with a worried look, "I do not wish to marry him."

"He's already paid the bride price, Y/N," Your mother tells you with a somber look on her face, "You leave for East Anglia in the morning."

"East Anglia?!" You take a step back in your shock.

"I have a lot of land, and plenty of space for all the children we will have," The man… Oswald smiles and it makes you shiver, "I promise you will enjoy being my wife."

"I don't want to marry you," You say again, because the first time was apparently not enough, "I refuse!"

"You cannot!" Your stepfather snaps, "You have been sold, you get no choice!"

"I will not marry this man, and you cannot stop me!" You yell, turning for the door and rushing out before anyone can stop you.

It's pouring now but that doesn't stop you as you make your way into the heart of Coccham in search of the man you much rather be betrothed to. Your first stop is the alehouse, where you know Finan frequents often with his fellow warriors, but he's not there. Instead, your eyes come across the other warriors he's usually with, Sihtric and Osferth.

They are drinking and laughing when you approach them, and you know you must look crazy with your body drenched but you do not care.

The monk-looking Saxon is the first to notice you, a kind smile on his face as he looks your way. He must be Osferth, "May we help you, lady? You seem troubled."

"You are Osferth and Sihtric, yes?" You ask as you look between the two of them, shaking in your soaked clothing, "Do you know where Finan is?"

"Ah, you must be Y/N," The Dane warrior, Sihtric, smiles as he turns to face you, "You just missed him, he's gone to meet with Lord Uhtred."

"Please, can you find him for me?" You ask out of breath, hoping they recognize the panic in your voice, "Tell him to meet me by the river bend, he will know what that means."

"Is there something wrong, Y/N?" Osferth asks as he and Sihtric exchange worried looks.

"I have no time to explain, please, promise me you'll tell him," You tell him and they both nod to each other and rise.

"We will, lady, we swear it," Sihtric tells you as he taps Osferth's shoulder and the two of them leave the alehouse with haste.

You only hope they find him in time.

It's still pouring, but it doesn't stop you from waiting in the rain for Finan to arrive. You wait behind a tree, the same one you hid behind the first time you saw him. You have been alone for a while, and part of you is starting to worry he will not show.

------------------------------------<3---------------------------------------

Perhaps you have made a mistake?

Perhaps he does not love you as you thought?

The fear makes you nauseous. You had just given this man all you had to give, your womanhood slipped through your fingers to the sound of his soft words and even softer fingers. Now you wonder if all that happened was only so he could find his way between your legs.

Tears form in your eyes, and now you feel silly for waiting out here in the rain for a man who probably doesn't love you.

You want to move from where you're leaning against the tree, except you can't because your body slides down to the ground and you can help but sit there and cry. Crying like a child, as the tears on your face blending in with the rain hitting your face.

"Y/N?" The voice you hear calling out for you makes you jump for your feet, hiding behind the tree in hopes not to be seen. It's your stepfather, and he has found your secret place, "Y/N you show yourself this instant!"

You cover your mouth so he doesn't hear you crying, or breathing for that matter, and pray to God that he doesn't find you. You can hear footsteps walking nearby and your heart is beating double time as your eyes shut tight in fear, but then you feel a hand across yours.

"Do not fear, Y/N, it's me," Finan's voice whispers as your eyes open quickly. There's a serious look on his face, his eyes peeking around the tree, "He's leavin'."

You both stand there in silence for a while, Finan's eyes watching your stepfather and yours watching Finan. Sometimes passes, and then Finan sighs as his eyes drift back to you.

"He's gone," Finan tells you as his hand moves from over yours to over your cheek, "Are you alright?"

"You came for me," You tell him in shock as your hand lowers to your side.

"Of course I did, Y/N," Finan smiles as he rubs your cheek with his thumb, "I love you."

"You do?" Your eyes are watery again but this time your tears are joyous.

"Aye," He nods as he leans in for a quick kiss, "I do, and I will not let you marry the man that bastard has chosen."

"His name is Oswald," You explain to him with a frown, "He's already paid the bride price…"

"And I plan on offering more," Finan explains with a smirk, "I have borrowed silver from Lord Uhtred. Whatever that man had paid, I will pay double."

"I cannot possibly be worth that much," You chuckle in disbelief over what he's told you, but Finan just smiles, "I am just Y/N."

"No," He shakes his head as he leans in to kiss you again, "You are everything, Y/N."

It must be true because you return back to your family's home with Finan where he offers just that for your hand in marriage and your stepfather and Oswald agree for the exchange. You do not return to that house again, because that place is no longer your home.

And the next time the sun shines again, you and Finan return again to the river bend. Where you share this special place with those you both care for the most, as they gather together to watch you two marry.

Here, in this place, special to you always.

[remedialpotions]

The Forbidden Forest

For my friend @jamezbot 🤖 and his love of this particular, super-canonical, not-at-all-ridiculous ship.

I cannot emphasize this enough: this is a crack fic.

***

It was the clicking of Ron’s fingers in front of his face that finally snapped Harry back to reality.

“Mate,” said Ron, half-laughing as he sat back down on his bed, “what’s wrong with you? I’d say you look like you’ve seen a ghost, but that’s actually not all that strange around here-“

“No,” Harry interrupted. His voice felt hollow, detached from him somehow. “Definitely not a ghost.”

He still struggled to believe it - even after all of the bizarre things that had happened in his life - but what he had seen had been very, very real.

“Where’ve you been, anyway?” Ron swung his long legs over the side of his bed, feet flat on the stone floor. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Erm-“ Harry gulped. “Just... out. With Ginny.”

A grimace flashed over Ron’s face, then he said, “then why’ve you got this look on your face? Did you ditch her?” he demanded. “I swear to Merlin, Harry, if you-“

“No! No, nothing like that.”

“All right, well then - oh fuck, it’s not Malfoy, is it?”

“No, no - all right, listen. Something - something happened,” he began. “But if I tell you, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone else.”

“What, not even Hermione?”

“Fine, but just her.” Harry paused, eyes darting around the quiet dorm room. Neville’s garbled snores sounded from behind the closed curtains of one bed; Seamus and Dean’s beds were both empty. They’d both been out past curfew more and more lately. “So listen, Ginny and I were out on a, erm, a walk-“

Ron’s features twisted into disgust. “Ugh, come on, mate, I know what happens on these so-called walks-“

“That’s not the point! Just listen.”

“Harry,” Ginny laughed against his lips, her fingers curling in his hair, “we’re going to get caught-“

“So what?” Harry kissed her again. “What’re they gonna do? Expel us?”

“I know, but-“ Ginny glanced toward the greenhouse, where lantern light flickered behind the dingy glass. “Professor Sprout is still - mmm - still in there-“

Even as Harry couldn’t stop himself kissing her again, it did occur to him that he didn’t particularly relish being found in such a compromising state by anyone, let alone a teacher.

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”

Ginny grinned, her face still close to his. “I know.”

“I’ve got an idea, though. Come on.”

Ginny extracted herself from his lap, and they stood, then started off hand-in-hand across the school grounds. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, bathing everything in dusky blue light. All was quiet and calm; even the Whomping Willow could not be bothered to wave its branches at them as they passed, and Hagrid’s hut was completely dark.

“The forest?” said Ginny as they approached the row of trees that marked its perimeter. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s perfect. No one ever goes in here.”

“You don’t think there’s a reason for that?”

“Can you get on with the story already?” interrupted Ron. “‘Cause I know I said I’m all right with it, and I am, but I don’t love hearing about you and my little sister looking for a place to get off-“

“And I don’t really love telling you about it,” replied Harry. “But if you’d just let me get to the point-“

“Sorry, sorry. Go on, then.”

“So where are the centaurs?” asked Ginny as they wound through the thick maze of trees.

“Way further in,” Harry assured her. “We don’t need to go that far.”

“And Grawp?”

“He won’t bother us.” Harry slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. “He likes Hermione best, anyway.”

Ginny’s laugh sounded through the quiet air. “Poor Ron’s always got competition.”

Harry chuckled and leaned over, intent on kissing her cheek, when the sound of a twig snapping caused Ginny to freeze in her arms.

“What was that?”

Harry shrugged. “Thestral, maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Here, let’s just go over-“ Harry’s words died in his throat, because now he wasn’t just hearing the sound of twigs snapping; deep, very human-sounding murmurs met their ears.

“Oh my God,” Ginny breathed. “It’s Dean and Seamus.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely.” Even in the low light, he could see her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Sounds like two blokes, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it actually does.”

“We’ve got to investigate,” said Ginny, her voice a low, excited whisper. “Please? We won’t let on that we’re there or anything, I just want to see-“

“You want to see your ex-boyfriend snogging his new boyfriend?”

Ginny nodded, gleeful. “Yeah, I do! Let’s go see. Please?”

Harry, admittedly, was curious - he had heard the rumors, he’d suspected, but he didn’t really know, not for certain - and anyway, it didn’t really matter what Ginny asked of him. He’d do it without a second thought.

And so they crept, careful to keep their footsteps light lest they make their presence known, in the direction of the voices. The thing was, the closer they got, the less it sounded like Dean or Seamus. There was no sign of Seamus’ Irish brogue, nor Dean’s London accent. And these voices didn’t sound like those of teenagers, either: they were timeworn and mature.

“‘M so glad ter be with yeh again,” came a gruff voice from within a particularly thick copse of trees. “Feels like it’s been ages.”

Harry’s stomach leapt into his throat - this was Hagrid.

“Merlin’s pants,” Ginny breathed. “Who do you think he’s with? Madame Maxime?”

But before Harry could answer, another voice - this one just as familiar and yet just as surprising - responded.

“I’ve missed you as well, Rubeus. I regret how little time we’ve been able to spend together lately.”

It was a voice Harry would have known on his death bed. It was one that had imparted wisdom and had comforted him in his darkest moments. One that had been a constant source of safety and stability in an increasingly uncertain world.

It was none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Next to him, Ginny positively quivered with excitement.

“We should go,” Harry muttered, trying to steer Ginny by the waist. “We shouldn’t be here-“

“Are you kidding?” Ginny hissed back. “We have to go see this.”

As she crept, catlike, through the forest, Harry had no choice but to follow in her footsteps.

“You’re fucking with me,” said Ron decisively. “And I mean, twenty points to Gryffindor for creativity, but-“

“I’m not,” Harry insisted. “I’m really, really not. When have I ever lied to you?”

“I don’t know, but maybe you’ve decided to start-“

“With this?!”

“I don’t know!” Ron threw his hands helplessly in the air. “Maybe Ginny’s put you up to it, to see what you can get me to believe-“

“She hasn’t. And anyway, the story’s not over.”

“Look!” Ginny pointed into the copse of trees, her face a mixture of shock and utter delight. “Oh my God, this is mad.”

Harry wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t Dumbledore, in spangled, midnight-blue robes, leaning back against the trunk of a tree with Hagrid pressed closely against him. Their Care of Magical Creatures professor positively dwarfed their wizened Headmaster, but neither seemed to mind. Dumbledore, in fact, seemed to relish it as he entwined his long, wrinkled fingers in Hagrid’s bushy beard.

“Are we hallucinating?” asked Ginny. “We’ve got to be, right?”

“I don’t think I could hallucinate something like this.”

As they watched, rapt, Hagrid wrapped a massive hand around Dumbledore’s thin, knobby one. “It pains me ter see yeh hurting, Albus,” said Hagrid as he pressed a whiskery kiss to Dumbledore’s blackened fingers. “Are yeh sure it’s worth it?”

“It is for the greater good.” Dumbledore rose up on his toes, reaching toward Hagrid, and as their lips met, their beards brushed. “Soon, my love, it will all make sense.”

“My love,” Ron repeated weakly. “You’re sure you heard right?”

“Oh, quite.”

“So...” Ron raked his fingers through his hair. “So Hagrid and Dumbledore are-“

“Yeah.”

“D’you reckon they’re... er...” Ron gestured uncomfortably, waving his large hands awkwardly around. “Y’know-“ He laced his fingers together; his implication was clear.

“I didn’t exactly have a chance to ask,” Harry retorted.

“Well, yeah, I just - how would that work, exactly? Hagrid’s so much...” Words failing him, Ron resorted again to gesticulating wildly. “Er - bigger-”

“I don’t know!”

Harry’s sharp words rang out in the silence of the dorm, and they both froze as there came a rustling of sheets from Neville’s bed.

“Well,” said Ron, once Neville had resumed snoring, “makes sense when you think about it, doesn’t it? The way Hagrid’s always talked about him, I just thought he admired him - great wizard, and all that - but I s’pose it must be more.”

“Yeah, I s’pose it is.”

“But,” added Ron, pointing a finger at Harry in mock seriousness, “I really don’t want any more stories about you snogging my sister.”

“I don’t want to tell any more of them, so we’re good.”

[i-go-by-levi]

oblivious (flash fic)

A/N: besties! i wrote again! i’ve had this idea for a while but somehow never got around to actually write it but last weekend my brain bullied me into writing this

@promptsforthestrugglingauthor, “Life isn’t just tea time and fancy little embroidery pieces, you know. You’re not going to just get to sit there forever. You are going to have to marry sooner or later.” - She kept her eyes on the hoop and thread in her hands, humming a soft acknowledgement that she was indeed listening, it was simply that she didn’t have any interest.

genre: comedy(?)  word count: 980 fandom: American Gods character(s): Antheia (fem!OC), Mad Sweeney warnings: none

Some time ago a ridiculously tall man had randomly shown up in the small town near Washington. A man with fiery red hair and an accent so thick most people had trouble understanding him. Antheia had noticed immediately. This man is not your average immigrant, not your average man. This one, had been brought across the great pond by beliefs. Just like her. The dryad just was yet to find out what exactly he was.

Sweeney, he had introduced himself as. From Ireland, though he never shared anything else, never talked about family, a wife, children, or anyone else who might be waiting for him at home. He had started to show up everywhere around the small town: First, in the tiny bakery Antheia helps out in the mornings; the butcher, the inn, the tailor even (probably made that poor old lady break out in a sweat with his unusual measurements); and later -of course- he had shown up in the saloon where Antheia works in the evenings. 

The dryad knew he must have sensed something about them, something that makes Antheia different from the humans around, something that makes them more similar than what meets the eye. Antheia, on the other hand, had known there was no way Sweeney was human from the moment he had entered the bakery. There was just something about him, an aura, a glow if you will. The air seemed to glimmer when he moved, and every woman was immediately intoxicated by his Irish charme.

Or lack thereof.

By the end of the following day everyone had been talking about the tall Irish man. However Antheia’s interest in Sweeney didn’t let go and as much as they tried to act nonchalant they still felt drawn to him. So they had invited him for tea and fortunately Sweeney said something that offered an opportunity to soothe Antheia’s raging curiosity.

“Life isn’t just tea time and fancy little embroidery pieces, lass. You’re not going to just get to sit there forever. You are going to have to marry sooner or later.”

A soft smile curled the corners of the dryad’s lips upwards. His words amused them. How could he be this daft and oblivious? Oh right. 

He’s a man. 

The scent of whiskey and tobacco engulfed them. Antheia had long stopped wondering about the man’s appetite and alcohol tolerance. Beneath the obvious scents, was something else though. Antheia noticed the clear and bitter scent of the woods; soft and mossy earth, covered with sticks and rotting leaves in humid air.

Antheia kept their eyes on the hoop and thread in their hands, careful not to stab their finger with the needle. They hummed a soft acknowledgement while putting the hoop into their lap. The dryad then turned towards him. Leaning onto the armrest of their chair, Antheia brought their faces closer together. His eyes darted to their lips for a moment. The dryad smiled even more.

“Sweeney, I am not interested in marriage. And neither are you, I suppose. You’d be surprised how similar our motives are.”

The words intrigued him. Sweeney’s eyes lit up with interest. “Do tell, lass. What makes you think you understand my motives to deny marriage?”

Antheia pursed their lips. “Sweeney, come on. We,” they point between their chests, “are not like the others in this town. We came to America following beliefs-”

“But so did about every other immigrant. They believe this country holds a better future and life.”

“That is true. But they only followed their beliefs. We are those beliefs.” After a pause Antheia saw the realization in Sweeney’s eyes. “We are what they put their hopes on. We are the stories they tell their children whenever they have a lesson to learn, we are bedside stories, we are morals, we are wisdoms. We are who they pray to.”

Sweeney’s eyes widened. “What are you?”

Antheia knew he had finally caught onto what had been right under his nose, hidden in plain sight. With a smile they reach down to pick up the vase from the table. Antheia leaned back a little and made sure Sweeney watched closely. The flowers looked perfectly fine to him until they rapidly lost their vibrant colors, the heads hung low and the stems were thinning. The bouquet was drying out and Sweeney kept watching with furrowed brows, as it regained hydration. The heads rose again, colors returned, petals closed and soon what was left was a collection of closed buds and light but lush greens. 

“A nature spirit,” there was disbelief in his voice as he seemed to watch Antheia in a whole new light.

“Correct, I’m Antheia. Of the Greek dryads. The people have carried the stories of my siblings and I across the continents until someone decided to come here and spread them further. Times are not exactly easy here on the coast but I am determined to find the right beliefs further into the country.” 

Antheia was breathing heavier than usual, that little stunt should have been nothing to them but a lack of beliefs means a lack of power. Sweeney understood that.

“Now, a truth for a truth. What have I invited into this house for tea? I can smell the forest on you but you are none of my kind.”

“Aye, you are right and wrong, lass. I am none of your kind but I still belong to nature. I am of the fair folk. My name is Buile Shuibhne, tell me, do my stories precede me?”

Antheia watched with delight that Sweeney seemed to be dropping at least part of his facades. His skin seemed to lighten up and he sat taller in his chair. 

“Your stories do precede you, Sweeney. And I recall that there is so much more to your life than you are giving away right now. But those are stories for another day.”

[spencersgfwrites]

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: a new family: found:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

authors note: this is from sherlock's pov btw

Matter, does it not, that John called me a freak the other day. I know deep down he didn't mean it. What does matter now is saving Rosie. That's what I tell myself at least, while I'm making coffee. It is not going as planned, so I'm glad when John comes down.

When his phone bings, I assume it's his work. I realise I'm wrong when I hear him suddenly breathe in. While we watch the video I have to resist from crying. John almost falls, and I catch him, almost as an instinct. I turn him around so he's facing me and let him cry into my dress shirt, not even caring. My heart is still beating fast and my hands are shaking, and I think John notices when he stops crying for a moment. I say the first thing that comes to mind, which in foresight may not be the best idea. When he responds I smile a bit, and rest my head on his, which is still buried into my dress shirt. After a bit, and when John's crying has subsided a bit, I push him back so I can look into his eyes and say "Let's go find your daughter,".

John responds with "I couldn't agree more,", and then it's like we've come alive again. I hurry to go change into clothes, and John grabs his wallet. Soon we are off, and on the cab ride, I watch the video again and again, trying to notice more things. John stays silent and looks out the window. When we arrive at the police station, John asks me if I found anything out from rewatching the video.

"The video was taken midday, most likely yesterday. None of Rosie's injuries are too bad, mostly surface cuts and minor bruises. If you listen closely you can hear a train. So we're looking for a probably abandoned building, within half a mile of train tracks where a train goes by around 1. Also the room is facing West, so once we find the building we should be able to find the room with relative ease." I say and John nods

"But will she be there?" John asks, and there is no question who she is.

"I'm... I'm not completely sure. Even if they are not, we still might be able to find something," I respond, trying to look on the bright side, even though, as Rosie has told me, I'm not very good at it. John just nods and we head in. When we get there Lestrade watches the video, and acts like he understands what I'm saying, but I doubt he does.

"John and I will go ahead, bring your men, and try not to shoot us," I tell Lestrade. John and I are both anxious to go to the building and hopefully find Rosie. Lstrade agrees and goes to get his men ready. John and I hail the cab and tell the cabbie to let us out about a block away from the building.

Once we get there it seems mostly abandoned. John and I slowly walk up to the building. I consider knocking, but decide to go the easier and quieter way and pick the lock. Once it's picked and we're inside it's mostly vacant. We're in a hallway and there is about 5 rooms coming off of it. I walk slowly up to the first door and gently push it. Inside it's completely vacant. The next door is the same, but the third one has something inside. I can't immediately see what it is so I step into the room and John follows. Inside is a chair, and some rope. It takes me a second, but I realize that the rope was never used to tie anything. I realize a second later than would have been ideal, since at that moment a man walks out from behind the door.

"Hello Mr. Holmes," he says with an Irish accent. He is pointing a gun at John, which is smart because as I have been told several times by various people, I value John's life over mine.

"You're not Moriarty's brother!" John says. I refrain from saying obviously, as it probably wouldn't help and would most likely earn me an annoyed look from John.

"How observant of you," says another voice. Someone else walks in the room, and them I recognize. I glance at John, and see he looks like he might kill someone. I debate whether I should try and keep him from doing this, and decide it will be easier for everyone involved if John doesn't kill anyone tonight.

Moriarty's brother seems rather calm. I am about to say something when I hear a gunshot. I immediately turn to John to make sure he wasn't hit and see him staring at me. We hear a gasp from Moriarty's brother and turn to look. On his chest there is a red mark that is getting bigger by the second. KJ drops his gun and runs over. He tries to keep Moriarty's brother from falling. John pushes past them into the hallway and I follow.

Once we leave we see Graham Lestrade standing there with a gun in his hand. John ignores him and walks down the hallway, I on the other hand nod to acknowledge his presence, then follow John.

We look through room after room before finally getting to the right one. Inside Rosie is sitting in a chair. John runs over and hugs her tightly. I want to hug her, but let them have their moment. Instead of just standing there I go over behind Rosie and start working on the bonds on her wrists. I get them off and she throws her arms around John. I am about to leave the room when I hear a voice behind me.

"Sher, come here," it's Rosie's voice, weaker and softer than normal. I turn around and go over to her. She wraps her arms around me and buries her face into my chest. I lean my head on her hair. I glance up and see John looking at us embracing with something in his eyes I can't quite distinguish. Love maybe?

❤ part 9: family

❤ a new family: masterlist

❤ my main fanfic masterlist

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

The Inherent Loss of Immortality

When you live with someone for a long time you start to notice the habits they’ve picked up and never lost. And Esther and Peter had been married for almost 300 years.  

Esther still preferred to pin her hair up, the way she had in the 1820s, and she never used an electric curler as a rule.  She hated modern music (Peter mocked her for being a snob) and thought parties used to be so much more interesting, so much more actual conversation Peter, and better dancing, none of this getting drunk for drunkenness’ sake you see everywhere now. When she was concentrating on something she sometimes tried to ball her hands up in her apron, only to laugh self-consciously when she realized she was wearing trousers.    

Peter fiddled by tying cords into sailors’ knots.  He shined his own shoes regularly and complained about the difficulty of finding fresh herbs anymore.  He slipped into German on occasion when talking about music, a leftover from his time in Austria.  Esther just laughed over his explanations that he wasn’t being pretentious, actually, he just didn’t know the English words for what he was talking about, then refused to speak to him in anything other than Irish Gaelic for an hour.  There’s always time to waste when you’re immortal, no need to rush to say what has to be said.

Esther couldn’t remember her mother’s voice, but she twisted her fingers together in the way she thought (hoped) her mother used to.  She listened to Peter and heard his accent change on “locksmith” and “bungalow,” the ghosts of the people he learnt the words from briefly flickering back into existence.  Peter saw a grimace cross Esther’s face, and struggled for a moment to remember where and from whom she had learnt it.    

To live forever strips you of any kind of coherent identity.  Both had been rich and poor, lonely and loved, foreign and native, travellers and homebodies, friends and family.  Esther butchered her own pigs, and lamented her inability to find a decent seamstress.  Peter played any jig you asked for on his fiddle and refused to eat potatoes because they were “peasant food.”  It was easy for them to forget what they were at times.  

But to live forever is also to know that remembering what you can is important.  So Esther visited her mother’s grave every year on her birthday, taking flowers.  The graveyard was old and overgrown but it received regular anonymous donations. She no longer grieved her mother, how could she grieve someone she barely remembered?  But maybe she remembered warm hands, and soft sung melodies, and she might have known where her backbone of iron came from, and mostly that was enough.  Peter knew he once had a brother, so he searched through family registries and parish documents until he found his family staring out at him in scrawled black script.  He wrote the name Sam on the wall in the kitchen and looked at it every morning.  

And Peter remembered that Esther took her tea black because during rationing in the War she had given up taking it with sugar.  And Esther remembered that Peter always put his right shoe on first to avoid bad luck. And they told each other the stories they had lived through: “Do you remember when Elaine lost her glove?” “Do you remember when Dr Parker came back from China?” “Do you remember that little boy in Florence?” “Do you remember?” “Do you remember?” “Do you remember?”  

Because when you live forever, you become less what you are, and more what you did: I used to run away from chores and hide underneath the overhanging river bank I used to climb to the top of the rigging whenever I could to stare at the horizon I learnt to weave using three different types of looms I made myself a knife before I even left home for the first time I was a painter during the Renaissance I was good friends with Haydn I helped deliver Margaret Ewell’s baby in a hovel and she named the girl after me I taught Robbie Sumpter how to whistle I threw the most extravagant Christmas party in all of London in 1878 and Martha was livid I took vagrant children off the streets and tried to give them a home I was a spy during the War I helped Germans escape across the wall—

 I married you (I married you).        

 When you live forever it’s hard to remember who you are, but someone else can make it easier.  And when so many years have passed, and so much has been lost, that becomes the most you can ask for.  

[sadaboutniall]

happy halloween! 👻 here’s a quickie little yn x niall fic to celebrate my fave holiday! this song is the vibe, if you want some listening to go along with.

the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween

Unsurprisingly, Halloween is perfectly at home in Edinburgh. The night is dark and damp, a pervasive chill hanging in the air as you and your friends rush  drunkenly along the cobblestone street, rain hitting the backs of your necks, and  warm, golden lamplight from flats above trickling out onto the dark stone. The city is as alive as it always is—alive in a way that feels like a million different lives, like it somehow knows both the past and the future, like it’s holding you close but also hurtling you forward. It feels like tonight is a special night—and, although you have no real reason to think this Halloween will be different from any other Halloween, you let that feeling in, let it settle into your bones and carry you forward toward the party. 

It had been Fiona’s idea, going to the football squad’s Halloween party. Your other friends had championed a pub crawl or a scary movie night at the flat, but Fiona’d heard about the football party and, knowing the keeper she’s been crushing on would surely be there, insisted. And now you’re here, drunk in a witch costume on a dark October eve, your pointed hat barely keeping the rain off your face, orange and brown leaves crunching under the heel of your boots  as you pick up the pace and run toward the party, giggling into the night.

The football house is packed even fuller than you’d imagined it would be, the air thick with the smell of beer and weed and Fiona, dressed as Posh Spice, spots the keeper just milliseconds after your group ducks into the party, disappearing in a flurry of rhinestones. It leaves just three of you—Fleur, Amina, and yourself—standing in the middle of a heaving party, first years entirely out of their element. 

“Drinks?” Fleur, dressed as a zombie bride, asks. 

“Drinks.” Echoes Amina, the antennas on her alien costume bobbing as she nods her head. 

The three of you clasp hands so as not to lose each other and Fleur leads the way, zig zagging through the crowd of goblins and ghouls and strangely sexual Boris Johnson costumes until she finds the kitchen, a dark, damp little room with one, singular coffin shaped window above the sink and no furniture save for a wooden table in the middle of the room, without a single chair. Atop the table sits a literal cauldron, cast iron and all, with a pink liquid gently swaying inside. 

“Ick,” says Amina, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Boys.”

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for a hundred years,” you say, voice low. Something about the room makes you feel like you’ve travelled a million miles away from the party, just on the other side of the door. You can’t hear a thing in here—just the pitter patter of the rain against the window, and the creaking of the floorboards as Fleur steps forward.

“That’s probably true,” she laughs, peering into the cauldron. “I bet none of these lads can cook. They must order Nando’s every night.”

“Probably,” Amina agrees, stepping forward to peer over Fleur’s shoulder. “At least they went through the effort of making a mixed drink, though. I’m far too bloated for a beer.”

“Aye,” Fleur’s Scottish accent thickens when she’s drunk, but it sounds even thicker all of a sudden. “Commitment to the theme as well.”

“It smells lovely,” says Amina, shutting her eyes as she smiles. “Like roses.”

“Really?” Fleur says, as you step deeper into the kitchen and join them around the cauldron. “I reckon it smells like chocolate.”

You lean forward, too, despite yourself. The scent of the drink is intoxicating—neither roses nor chocolate but, you think, the distinct smell of a chilly day by the sea: salt air and a rising tide and it’s more like a memory than a scent, a moment in time, the most peculiar sense of deja vu. Whatever it is, it’s not the kind of smell that should be coming from a mixed drink at a house party. Whatever it is, you don’t want to step away from it.

The three of you—the witch, the bride, and the alien—stand over the cauldron for a long moment, breathing it in. There is no sound beyond the rain outside, no semblance of the party raging beyond the kitchen door. It’s just the three of you, this cold, quiet room, and the strangely comforting feeling that you are, after all, not alone. 

“Are there any cups?” Amina speaks first, glancing up at you, across the table from her. Her brown eyes are glassy, her gaze faraway. 

“Cups,” you echo, a little floaty, your mind still by the seaside. “Right. Let me find some.”

The room’s only cabinets flank the sink and the single window, one on each side. You find the first cabinet empty except for a shimmery spider web and an old looking candle, but the second holds exactly what you’re looking for: three cocktail glasses, set on the shelf in a pretty row, glinting despite the dingy light. Perfect.

“Bingo!” You say, turning back toward your friends. “And only three left anyw—guys?”

The room is empty. 

The cauldron still sits atop the table, its intoxicating smell strong as ever, but your friends are not where you left them, twenty seconds ago, when you turned toward the cabinets. Your friends are not anywhere in sight. 

“Guys?” You call out again, taking one step forward. “You’re so not funny. I found cups.”

Silence.

“Fleur? Amina?” You step forward again, toward the center of the room, toward the drink. “You want a drink, or no?” 

Still, silence—somehow more silent than before. Even the rain sounds like it’s whispering. 

“This is fucking freaky,” you say, one last shot, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. “You guys win, I’m fully freaked out, Happy Halloween.”

Silence. Stillness. A sudden, oppressive need to get out of this room. 

Quick as a cat, you do. 

-- 

When you step back through the door and out into the party, alone, it’s like you were never gone. In fact, it’s a bit like time has stopped—the party is just as packed as it was when you arrived, and you’re pretty sure the same song is still blasting through the speakers. Confused but ignoring it, you start to push your way through the crowd, in search of your friends.

A few steps deeper into the crowd and you spot a sliding back door. It makes perfect sense to you, the idea of Fleur and Amina slipping out into the backyard for some air, so you head straight for it, stepping out into the chilly, dark night. 

The rain has mostly stopped, though the leafy  ground is still damp beneath your feet and the air feels wet, like it could begin again at any moment. Although it’s dark, you can see well enough—the yard is illuminated by a group of jack o’lanterns lined up along the back brick wall, and fairy lights strung between trees, casting a warm, flickering aura—and it’s immediately clear that Amina and Fleur are not out here. In fact, no one is. 

You turn around to head back inside, pulling your phone out of your pocket as you do. And that’s when you walk right into him. 

“Lads, are you—oof. Deo, you eejit—shit, you’re not, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” 

“I—” you step back to collect yourself for a moment, eyes trailing up the hard chest you just stumbled straight into. It’s just a guy—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, thick Irish accent—but there’s something about him that keeps you rooted to your spot. Something about him that feels safer than going back inside. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He rushes, when you don’t answer. I should’ve been looking, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no,” you manage. “I’m fine. It was my fault anyway, was looking at my phone. Are you okay? You sounded, like, worried?” You don’t know this man, you have no idea what his worried sounds like. But you can’t stop yourself from saying it. 

“Can’t find my mates anywhere,” the stranger says, eyes sweeping the backyard over your head. “It’s like they fucking vanished.”

“I lost my friends too,” you echo, turning to look with him, though you know you’ll only find an empty yard. “I thought they might be out here, but nothing.”

“Two lost souls,” says the stranger, a smile in his voice. When you turn back around he’s pulling at his phone, saying, “I’m just going to text them and tell them I’m out here. They can come find me.”

“I was about to do the same,” you tell him, glancing down at your phone in your hands to shoot off the text. “There are way too many people in there.” 

“Wanna wait it out together?” He looks up from his phone, a smile on his face. It brings out one tiny dimple, and sets your heart moving a little faster. “I’m Niall.” 

“I’m a witch,” you smile back at him and he laughs, blue eyes trailing down your body once. It sends a jolt of something through you, makes you hope the flush creeping up your face isn’t visible in the flickering light. 

“Have you got any powers?” Asks Niall, his eyes moving back up to meet yours. The blue is stunningly bright, even in the darkness. 

“That’s for me to know,” you say, more smoothly than you ever imagined. “And you to find out. What’s your costume?”

“You can’t tell?” He glances down at himself, dressed in double denim with an American flag bandana tied around his neck. “Bruce Springsteen.”

“Right,” you nod, though it wasn’t obvious to you at all. “Course. You need to work on that accent, though.” 

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow, and adopts a surprisingly good—if over exaggerated—New Jersey accent. “I’m pretty proud of it, honestly. Been convincing people that it’s real all night.”

It’s not all that difficult for you to believe, actually, a bunch of drunk Brits buying into a fake, over the top, American accent without a single question. Instead, you ask him, “is there a tragic backstory, then? To go along with the tragic attempt at an accent?”

Niall laughs, bold and loud into the dark night, and suddenly you realize how entirely unafraid you feel with him—how you’d been on edge since the moment you stepped into the party but now that’s gone, evaporated, replaced, with a warm feeling in your belly and Niall’s infectious laughter. You bring your drink up to your lips and take a sip before you realize yet another thing: you have no memory of filling up your cup before leaving the kitchen. 

Across from you, Niall’s clutching what looks like a pint of Guinness, which is a drink that makes very little sense at a house party. The more you think about it, the less of the night makes sense. You shake your head to push it away, not quite ready to give this up just yet. 

Under the golden, flickering light from the jack o'lanterns,  you study Niall: the way his freckles sprinkle across his thick neck, how his roots are so much darker than the blonde at his tips, the tuft of chest hair peeking out from where his denim shirt is unbuttoned—everything about him leaves you breathless, desperate, longing, attracted to him in a way you’ve never experienced before. You feel, distinctly, that you are both supposed to be here, tonight, alone, together. 

You feel, distinctly, that something went out if its way to make sure this would happen. 

And maybe it’s the drink—the mysterious thing that smells like sea salt to you and roses to Amina—but here, with the wind rising around you and the night settling in, you have the distinct feeling that Niall is on the exact same page. 

“I have the strangest feeling,” Niall says, voice dropping to something like a whisper. Behind him, leaves rustle as the wind blows a strong, measured gust though the garden. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so,” you can’t look anywhere other than Niall’s eyes. “But I know what you mean.”

Niall nods, taking one step forward to lessen the gap between you. He’s so close you can smell him: warm and musky and soft and something else, too—something that reminds you of salt air and days by the sea. “I just feel like,” he says, and you nod. 

“Me too.”

Far, far away someone calls your name, but you can’t stop looking at Niall, stepping closer and closer to him with every distant shout of your name. The shouting grows louder and louder until it’s impossible to ignore, although Niall doesn’t seem to acknowledge it at all. You open your mouth to ask him if he can hear it too, but before you get the chance something shakes your shoulder, calls your name one more time, and you open your eyes. 

“Jesus,” says Amina, a mixture of relief and concern clouding her features. “You are impossible to wake up.”

“I’m—what?” You sit up in bed, head foggy, limbs heavy. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Noon,” Amina pulls out her phone to check. “We’re gonna be late for our brunch reservations, that’s why I came to wake you up.”

“Oh,” you rub your eyes, shaking your head to try to bring yourself back down to Earth. “I was having such a vivid dream, sorry.”

“It’s cool, just hurry up.” Amina makes her way to your bedroom door, but pauses before she steps back out into the hallway. “Oh, by the way, Fiona said there’s a Halloween party at the football house tonight and she’s fucking desperate to go since she fancies the keeper. Could be fun, no?” 

-- 

On Halloween night, dressed as a witch, you stand in the backyard of the football house with your friends. The yard is illuminated by jack o’lanterns and fairy lights and Fiona is off snogging the keeper upstairs and you feel warm and safe and happy, despite the autumnal chill in the air. As Fleur tells your small group a story about the weird couple sitting across from you at brunch today, you drop your head back to stare up at the night sky, sprinkled with stars, and the full moon peeking out over the clouds. It feels like you are supposed to be here tonight. You exhale, watching your breath fog with the cold and curl in the air above you. 

“I’m going to refill my drink,” you say, smiling at the small group you’ve been standing with. You can feel something budding between Fleur and the pretty girl she’s been chatting to, dressed as Britney Spears, and you want to give them a moment alone. Fleur flashes you a grateful smile as you walk away.

Back inside, you locate the entirely normal kitchen, bright and airy and crowded, with a coffin-shaped window above the sink, and pull open the fridge to grab a beer from the stock inside. When you shut the door, there’s someone standing on the other side. 

He’s dressed as Bruce Springsteen, double denim and an American flag bandana around his neck. He’s blonde hair with dark roots, and bright blue eyes. He’s staring right at you, with an unmistakable look of recognition on his face. 

“Hi,” he says, stepping forward to lessen the gap between you and him. He smells warm and musky and safe—with a whiff of something like salt air.  “Sorry if this is a bit weird, but I’m Niall. Have we—have we met before?”

####

sources for images: 1, 2, 3

[evebrennan]

not nothing

TIMING: circa two weeks ago LOCATION: The Artesian PARTIES: @deathisanartmetzli & @evebrennan SUMMARY: Metzli and Caoimhe aren’t just two people having drinks, but they both enjoy art, and maybe that’s better. CONTAINS: Alcohol, parental death, emotional abuse, domestic abuse

It was a bad idea. Caoimhe knew it the moment she’d read Artesian and piano player and Arvo Pärt. Any lingering doubts about how completely awful of an idea it was were chased away as she pushed her way through the doors, picking up the soft piano drifting from the back. She considered the initial offer of a karaoke bar, the tossup between beyond-drunk humans singing their hearts out for no other reason than because they loved to sing and no talent whatsoever was still a far better bet than whoever was plucking at keys one room over. At least at a karaoke bar her chances were fifty-fifty.

Her chances were none. But she wasn’t in the habit of denying herself entirely (she’d been there, she’d done that, it did nothing for the strings trailing down the road behind her), and she let herself step fully into the bar. The door clicked shut behind her and Caoimhe tried not to think about it.

Metzli was exactly the kind of hard to find Caoimhe expected of an internet-initiated meet-up, but she managed to catch their eye before too long. “This was a good choice.” She started, because it was. It was, with the piano filling the spaces between conversation. It was, despite the way her stomach twisted in on itself and she thought about it, thought about the way the pianist fumbled only barely on occasion, but she could– “And it’s Kee-va, by the way.”

“Yeah, I would’ve never gotten that right,” Metzli smiled and chuckled warmly at Caoimhe, settling into their seat and enjoying the table the two received. Far enough from the stage to hear each other easily, and close enough to let silence fall between them to listen to the pianist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Caoimhe. You’re much more beautiful than I could’ve imagined.” Their smile continued, pulling out their charm. 

Metzli wore a navy suit, leaving the jacket unbuttoned for a more relaxed look. Accompanied by a black dress shirt and no tie. It gave off a casual energy. Because that’s what this was—a casual meet up with a woman. “My name is pretty straight forward, just mets-lee. Aztec in origin. And yours?” Getting in the VIP lounge was easy, throw in some money and it speaks for you. Thus, the saying, cash is king. 

The wine arrived promptly, and the waiter filled their glasses as the two kept their focus on each other. 

“Easy, charmer. Just drinks.” Caoimhe reminded, but it was hard to ignore how nice the bar was. She had half a mind to question how they’d gotten them in VIP at all, let alone on such short notice, but the world was full of people with hidden talents. Instead she wrapped a hand around the stem of the wine glass, eyes finding the pianist across the room. The music had shifted to something jazzy and fun and there were no fumbles to be heard. There was an experience to it Caoimhe wondered over for half a second before letting it go.

“It’s Irish.” She finally pulled her eyes away to find Metzli, fingers curling tighter around the glass. The accent was enough of a giveaway, but Caoimhe knew it could be hard to place. There was an edge to it she’d had spent many years trying to iron out, something a little closer to the old forest path leading up to her family’s too-grand home than the home itself. “If the accent doesn’t give it away, all the letters should.”

But she didn’t want to talk about Kenmare, or where her name came from, or how she could practically see her mother’s patient, knowing grin. “You know, I’ve been here for a couple of months now, and hadn’t even considered trying to get in here, yet you’ve managed it in a night.” She wasn’t going to ask them about their origins, but there was a question somewhere in there, regardless. Instead, she twisted the glass between her fingers and grinned, “You sure you’re not wasting it on just drinks?”

Metzli smiled knowingly and teased, “Ah, so you do think I’m charming?” Years of existence had molded them to be confident in their approach with women. With so long to live, striking out wasn’t intimidating. “You know what they say, cash is king,” They began, sipping on their wine and leaning back in their chair. “I don’t normally bribe, but when I came across someone who actually knew who Pärt was, I had to jump at the opportunity.” The answer was blunt and honest, though they did leave out how they needed a distraction from the pain they were feeling. Stuff like that had a way of killing the mood. 

“This isn’t a wasted opportunity by any means. Not when someone of your taste is keeping me company,” Metzli’s smile could be heard in their words, nothing masked but completely unveiled. Recent events had crumbled the structure they had built to hide behind, allowing the true effects of loneliness to set into wounds way past simply festering. “Not to mention, the great selection of wine they have. I do have a sort of affinity to the more luxurious things. Coming from nothing can do that to you, I suppose.” An air of surprise took their face for a moment before falling neutral again. Their ramblings took them off guard and it made them a little uneasy.

Shifting in their seat, they hoped to change the focus. “And you? What are you doing accepting dates from total strangers on the internet?”

“Drinks. Drinks with total strangers.” Caoimhe lifted the drink in question, but her smile belied her amusement. They were confident, she could give them that. Getting to know people beyond first names and passing interests hadn’t been something on Caoimhe’s agenda for some time. Connections didn’t lead to anything good. Connections led to anger, clenched fists outside of coffee shops, reasons for Caoimhe to look in her rearview mirror. She didn’t like connections, because connections had to be broken, they always had to be broken, and doing so never felt good.

But Metzli liked Pärt, and they were charming, and they knew a place where someone could actually play the piano.

“There’s a story there, isn’t there?” She set the drink down and leaned on her elbows, ignoring the soft piano in the background in favor of her company. Ignoring her better instincts to run, like she always did (she’d shown up in the first place, and she didn’t want to think about why). She hadn’t ruined White Crest quite yet, and they liked Pärt. “Came from nothing, and now you’re here. You don’t have to tell, but color me curious.”

Metzli scoffed, playfully and a little dramatically. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not afraid to call this what it is. A date. I’ll say it for the both of us.” They said into their glass, smiling. Caoimhe wasn’t one to get too close to people. That’s what Metzli began to gather. They could relate, uncomfortably so. They had spent their vampiric life alone, not bothering to let anyone behind the several barriers they had built between them and would-be connections. Some could be read like novels, while others like short stories. And nine times out of ten, Metzli chose to be read like the latter. But tonight was possibly the tenth shot and after this Caoimhe may never see them again. So really, what did they have to lose?

“Actually, yes. There is.” Metzli pulled out a small, worn out sketchbook from their pocket, and retrieved the pencil inside of it. Holding it up in a way so that Caoimhe couldn’t see the pages, they began. “I’ll give you the condensed version, and if you want to hear more, you can ask questions.” The pencil glided over the page, a practiced hand moving quickly. “I was born and raised in Jalisco, Mexico. To two parents who fell madly in love and accidentally had me. We were dirt poor, but my parents seemed to make it work for them. Began working when I was about eight years old or so. And by the time I was in my twenties, I had mastered carpentry and was a pretty good ranch hand.” They smiled, looking back and forth from the page and Caoimhe. 

“Unfortunately, parents weren’t the kindest, so I took to sketching in the woods on my lowest days. And on one special day, I found myself returning home to find my parents dead.” Brows creased together, but the pencil never stopped moving. “After that, I traveled and traveled until I managed to find myself here, owning my own art gallery, having an actual roof over my head with a cat, and arranging dates with beautiful women that have taste.” With the final detail made, Metzli turned the sketchbook to reveal a portrait of Caoimhe, of a moment of her now frozen in time on paper. “What do you think?” 

Shit.

Shit.

It was so unfortunate the ones to whom Caoimhe found herself most drawn had stories. Her life would be half as complicated, if she wasn’t so damn fascinated. They wrapped themselves in pencil lines or oils or paints, or notes drawn on staff paper. They smiled around songs sung like stories from ages ago, or danced to something they made up on the spot. They had feelings and hopes and dreams. They held a history, some not unlike her own. Their lives had meaning, full of so much creativity, futures stretched endlessly before them where they could choose to pick themselves up or let themselves fail or do both, because no one had sought to come along and take that future from them.

Caoimhe always sought to take it from them.

She watched Metzli with their notebook, their hands hidden behind the cover, but she could imagine the way they moved. She could muse over whether each line meant something, or if it was something that came so naturally to them they didn’t have to think about it. They had an art gallery, and she wondered at how good it was, how much better it could be, if she just–

Metzli was one of those with a story, a past they’d picked themselves up from. Caoimhe listened as she tried not to think too hard about whatever they were sketching. She tried to imagine them, in the woods with a sketchbook, turning an escape into a future. It was admirable. Humans were always so damn admirable. And Caoimhe liked to think she picked her battles well, but the truth was she didn’t pick them at all. She ran, or she gave in.

“That’s beautiful.” It was. Caoimhe hadn’t realized she’d been looking, sitting still and focused long enough for Metzli to capture the moment. And they’d captured it perfectly, somehow, lines confident despite laying their history out on the table for Caoimhe to do with what she wished. “It’s incredible how people can take things that hurt and make something beautiful out of them, despite everything. I’m glad you were able to get something beautiful out of all of it.” She moved closer, tracing a bit around the eyes. This time, she gave in.  “How do you do this, the shading?”

The way Caoimhe watched and even seemed to fawn over the sketch brought a smile to Metzli’s face that reached their eyes. White Crest was full of people they were willing to discuss the hardest of memories, even if they were being extremely vague about some pretty crucial details. “Ah, the shading there has to be delicate. You see,” Their hand moved to graze Caoimhe’s cheek softly before pointing back at the drawing. “The shading there is light, so there can’t be as many crosshatches, while here,” This time they pointed at her neck and jawline. “Here, the crosshatches are more in number and closer together because of the definition and starkness of the shadow.” Discussing art was very much Metzli’s element, and teaching it had become second nature due to the classes they held at the gallery.

Caoimhe was a lover of the arts in general, and not just music. It enraptured them, beckoned them toward her to delve into her other interests in the arts. Maybe experience them with her and discover new works of art together. As friends or otherwise. “It’s not that beautiful though. The story—Not the sketch. The sketch is only a fraction as beautiful as the subject. I’m referring to the story. Had to do some dastardly things to get here. But what about you?” Metzli gestured to Caoimhe and then tore the sketch out of their sketchpad to hand over to her. “Do you have an interesting story you can indulge me with?”

Caoimhe knew what touch could do. She spent her life measuring it, calculating who and where and when. Whether it was something casual, or something purposeful. Metzli reached out and Caoimhe reached up, putting her hand between her cheek and theirs, and the brush was light but it meant something. Because they were talking about where to etch and when, about a life spent using art as a way to escape or express themselves or simply be happy, and Caoimhe wanted it. She wanted to know more, to help, to stop the gnawing in her stomach that–

That didn’t stop. It was like a jolt. She’d been expecting another stair and there wasn’t one. Her hand dropped in a movement that was almost too quick to be casual and she pulled in a breath and there was so much to process, she didn’t know where to start. Metzli was more than what they seemed, and Caoimhe let something like disappointment ease into something that felt a little more like excitement. They loved art, and she could watch them love art.

Caoimhe accepted the sketch and swallowed thickly, despite all the questions vying for attention on the tip of her tongue (who were they, what were they), despite the way her stomach still clenched but her lips ticked up in something close to a smile. Despite the fear they’d know. “My story isn’t quite so interesting.”

Eyes moved up and down, analyzing Caoimhe. She had been quick to protect her personal space, and even quicker to pretend like she hadn’t behaved anxiously. Something was at the tip of her tongue. A question, one of many. “You’ve got questions, don’t you?” Metzli asked, smiling and taking the bottle from the table to pour more in each glass. She must’ve felt it, their cold skin. Maybe that was it. Or maybe she didn’t like the attention on her. Or she quite possibly was intrigued by the vampire before her. Only, she didn’t know they were a monster. 

TW PARENTAL DEATH “That just makes me think it is interesting.” Metzli sipped on their wine and hummed thoughtfully. Fingers tapped on the table, organizing words into sentences that were coherent and strategic. “But if this is your way of keeping the attention off of you, I’m game. I mean, no one knows more about me, than me. So ask away.” Taking one more drink, they raised a finger, hoping to get another moment. “I will say though, you may just want to hug me by the end of it. It’s quite sad. I mean, not only were my parents murdered, but my whole…town was. There were very few survivors. War can be tough. Especially for the impoverished.” A look akin to despair, a longing painted onto their face, but it was quickly washed away with wine. 

“But, if you’re gonna ask me more questions, you have to tell me at least three facts about you. How does that sound?”

Caoimhe hummed, brow furrowing. For the first time since she’d pushed her way through the door, she couldn’t hear the piano. It was Metzli, and a story, and all the questions that still rattled around in her head. They had already volunteered so much (what war, are you okay, why can’t I– ), and despite their offer to ask as many questions as she would like, Caoimhe hesitated. She knew what it felt like to lay herself bare. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something one did simply because.

“Only if it’s a hug you want.” She spun her glass on the table idly, picking through her words before she let them out. They’d been very upfront about their cynicism, and while Caoimhe had felt she’d understood some measure of it before, it was nothing compared to understanding the reasoning behind it. It was years too late to apologize for things that had happened long before they met; if it were her, she wouldn’t want pity. She wondered how much emotion Metzli kept hidden behind wine and the thick veneer of charm they’d had in place since she’d slid into the booth next to them. She wondered if they were waiting for the next war. “You don’t owe me your story, but...I’m here if you want to tell it.

“You don’t even have to volunteer it in exchange for mine. My mother is still in Ireland, but I haven’t seen her in years. I’m a runaway who never stopped running.” One, two, and “My family could provide for me anything I needed, they were hardly anything tragic, I just...had a difference in opinion.”

“Are you saying you want to hug me? How cute.” They teased through the longing they felt. Letting this mask, sewn perfectly together and with only a few cracks, slip on. “If I’m being honest though, I don’t know how I’d react. I’ve only ever gotten a handful of hugs. They’re nice. Maybe I’ll be a good hugger someday.” A breathy laugh tickled their lips and the smile continued to brighten toward Caoimhe. Being physical was easy, but the intimacy of a hug peppered their thoughts with unease. Sex was simple. Primal. But hugging was an animal that they had never really had an intention of tackling. 

A wry smile pulled at Metzli’s lips, listening intently and doing their best to mock sympathy. Even without a soul, they knew what conversations like these meant, and how to behave through them. They wore many masks, and all they had to do was pick the one that fit the scenario best. “I know a thing or two about running away,” Their finger traced along the rim as each word in their head was selected carefully. “And I know a lot about differences in opinion. That’s why I’m here. So far away from…home.” The word was bitter from a lifetime of pain felt. From miles upon miles ran in order to flee, to find a new life with a new meaning. “That’s why I’ve built my gallery and decided to make a name for myself. Metzli Bernal: Art Curator, not Metzli Bernal: uh—well, actually just, Nothing.” 

Lips replaced the finger that played at the rim of the glass, taking a steady drink. The warmth of the incoming buzz helped. Metzli relaxed further into their seat and locked eyes with Caoimhe, “I assume you have more questions? You looked both curious and concerned. What was that about? Never met an artist with such a fun backstory?”

“I’m not. But you know what they say about practice.” Caoimhe teased, working her way around telling them she likely wasn’t the person with whom they should practice. Besides, it was a useless saying. No amount of practice had ever left Caoimhe with any less strings, and she’d been trying since a boy with a French horn had decided she was everything before she’d reached the age of twenty. But Metzli looked so bright for a moment. They looked like the concept wasn’t unwelcome, and Caoimhe swallowed down whatever else she was going to say about it. If the brief touch of their hands was anything to go off of, it wasn’t as though she was going to have anything to worry about, anyway.

“Strangers in a bar we may be, but I can already say you’re not nothing, Metzli Bernal.” She was surprised to find she meant it. There were some people she met for a moment, bar bathrooms and alleys and music rooms long after everyone had gone home for the night. Encounters for her to brush off, or spend the rest of her life trying to escape. There were some people who stuck, but ultimately found themselves as shapes in her rearview mirror. Bridges burned, and Caoimhe made a point not to get to know anyone who lay on the other side well enough to get burned along with them. She didn’t know Metzli, and she wasn’t within any kind of blast range, but she knew they’d be a shape she’d remember.

“You know, there’s another saying, something like art is suffering.” Rather than linger on all the things she’d left in her rearview mirror, or how much she always cared, even when she knew she shouldn’t, Caoimhe grinned and leaned back in her chair, eyes bright. “I met a guitarist once who told me she could only write when her heart was broken. Pretty sure she spent half her life trying to find someone to break it for her. Her ballads were to die for, though. Never been a huge fan of country, but she had me sold. Have you ever considered spurs?”

“That only perfect practice makes perfect.” Metzli responded with a grin as lips met their glass. Piano notes danced in the air, providing a lovely ambience that allured them further towards Caoimhe. “Hugs are more of a third date kind of thing, and you were the one who said this wasn’t a date, so…” A suppressed chuckle broke through and they propped themselves on their elbows to turn their body in their seat. The way her presence met theirs with both subtly and boldness was as refreshing as lemonade on a hot summer’s day. Caoimhe had depth as vast as the ocean and Metzli’s curiosity urged them to swim deeper. 

And then she uttered words that struck them harder than anticipated. Not nothing. Metzli bit their lip. Harsh teeth dug into mauve lips, deepening the color. The confidence washed away and let vulnerability show through in the form of softening eyes and creased brows. Blinking quickly, they mustered together as much composure as they could and cleared their throat. “Apologies. I think something got stuck in my throat.”

It was with sheer dumb luck that Caoimhe said something that they could cling to. A new subject, a new distraction. “Actually, I used to use spurs. I was a ranch hand for…for my relatives.” Metzli paused, letting the wave of despair pass through their chest before continuing. “Was pretty good at it too. I especially took care of a horse named Mariposa. Means butterfly in Spanish.”

“Hm, I did say that.” Caoimhe hummed around a smile, spinning her glass slowly against the table top. Her hands were always carefully towards the bottom of the stem. For as much as she’d been playing with it, she’d yet to drink any. It wasn’t a date. If she wouldn’t actually drink the wine, if she never said it, it wouldn’t matter that Metzli had offered up so much of their story to her; their earlier insistence upon it wouldn’t mean a thing. She still meant it, but she wondered how they felt. She wondered how it would feel to say it again.

She wondered how it would feel to lie. To do it so easily, so casually, without it catching in her throat and her stomach twisting in on itself. Caoimhe had always been good at twisting half-truths until someone believed a lie she hadn’t told, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as Metzli’s eyes softening, the way they cleared their throat and moved on like Caoimhe hadn’t actually hit on something. She pursed her lips and absorbed their diversion without comment. It was a lie, she wondered about it, but wondering over lies wasn’t for her.

They’d already given her enough truths.

“A ranch hand? An artist, an entrepreneur. Is there anything you haven’t done?”

Caoimhe did well to take whatever was said and turn it around. No words were needed when she did so. Her knack for navigating a conversation was enough. Choosing the right moments to speak, choosing the correct things to respond to. She’d been at this a lot longer than Metzli could have anticipated. It made them worry a little. Worry that they had bit off way more than they could chew by going out with a woman who obviously knew a thing or two about dancing around a subject. But there definitely was no going back now. If they were going to say the truth, they were going to use it to their advantage. 

“Live.” A true, and brutally honest answer. Metzli had yet to truly live, and they thought it best to not sugarcoat anything. After all, it seemed to be the one thing that Caoimhe couldn’t fully navigate around. It was like her kryptonite. And the question on the tip of her tongue was something she was holding back. Like she was keeping a secret. A secret similar to the one they kept. A secret of feeding on blood and living forever. 

“I have a feeling you relate. But you’re exceptionally good at keeping that side of you undisclosed. Which is fair. That information is reserved for loved ones to hear. But loved ones are dangerous. So better yet, it’s reserved for late nights on your own. For a little punishment when you think you’ve reached too far out.” A pause for a sip and they locked eyes with Caoimhe, smiling softly. “And right now, even just entertaining this date, you’ve reached too far.” 

The piano seemed to grow distant, straying deeper into the background as their focus hardened. “I’ve lived a very long time, Caoimhe. I know you’ve got a story, and you don’t have to tell it. But can you do me the courtesy of giving me the biggest question you have? It’s at the top of your tongue.” She felt something different about them, that they were almost sure of. If it was the question they were anticipating, that could only mean one thing: she was otherworldly too. 

Caoimhe knew there was more to them. They were stories and a life lived and so, so much more. She’d known the moment her hand had brushed theirs and she didn’t even have to try to practice restraint. A moment of weakness had turned into a knowing Caoimhe wasn’t sure what to do with, yet. She was still toying with letting the knowledge go when they shifted the tone.

The chatter around them fell away to nothing. Her fingers tightened against the stem of the glass until she had to consciously tell herself to let go. It was as though they flipped in a moment, the casual request for a quid pro quo abandoned in favor of a demand, and Caoimhe had never been good at evading direct. Not when her game had been discovered, and the questions posed left little room for movement. Metzli was leaving her very little room for movement.

It made it marginally better that it wasn’t about her. Concern for themselves, Caoimhe could understand. They’d figured out she knew something, somehow, and there was an inherent danger in not knowing exactly what it was Caoimhe thought she knew. They didn’t live in a world forgiving of other, whatever that perceived other might be. “My loved ones are few and far away, and they know what they think my story should be. My punishment is tied to me like strings I already have pulled as far and as taught as I can get them.” She leaned forward, brave even as she considered she shouldn’t be. “And I believe you, that you’ve lived a long life. I’m curious as to how, and for how long. But that was your story, to tell as you wanted.”

Metzli couldn’t help the smile that curved their lips. Their new approach had given them better results than they could have imagined. Caoimhe hid her secrets well. Years upon years of experience taught her well. But Metzli’s curiosity, mixed with their ability to shift conversations, was going to make her say something. She had already said more than she would have obviously liked. Body language be damned, she was nervous. And for once, Metzli wasn’t causing anxiety out of imminent danger, but of pursuit of knowledge and connection. 

“I’m much more interested in what your story actually is. Considering you know something about me that everyone overlooks or can’t see,” As they spoke, their hand, a little absentmindedly, slid towards Caoimhe's hand on the table. A part of them craved that touch, to feel that solid connection of someone similar to them in the evasion and artistic regard. But they stopped themselves and let out a shuddered and unnecessary breath. Instead of reaching out fully, they opened their palm towards her, giving her the option. 

“Of course, you don’t have to tell me. But…I’ve lived long past a century thanks to that little war that eradicated my people. Thanks to teeth and blood.” Metzli averted their gaze from Caoimhe as they spoke, not only wanting to cover their despair, but to wait for her reaction. “Take that as you wish.”

Thanks to teeth and blood.

It was all the answer Caoimhe needed. She wasn’t surprised, if anything she wondered at their bravery, admitting it in so many words while in a fairly crowded bar. But their booth afforded them a fair amount of privacy, and Metzli didn’t seem like the type to be shy. Their confidence spoke more to their possible centuries of living than anything else had. No, Caoimhe wasn’t shocked.

“Okay.” She absorbed the information with a small nod and a half-smile. Her mother was beyond beautiful by all standards, simply by nature of who and what they were, but Caoimhe knew where to look for the signs of aging. She knew what tired looked like, how centuries of experience could be belied in the tone of her voice. Metzli had been through wars, had been forged in blood, and Caoimhe wondered at long lives and the cost of them. Perhaps they were expecting her to be scared, but Caoimhe found she was only curious, and sad just around the edges. “I’m sorry, for all the life you haven’t been able to live.”

They held out their hand, an obvious invitation, and Caoimhe considered it a moment. There was something to be said for connection. She spoke of her strings like punishment, but she hadn’t said for what, and how. She didn’t talk about what it felt like to stare adoration in the eyes and know none of it was real, not really. They shambled along the roads behind her like marionettes to her puppet master, and not a single one actually wanted to be with her. They wanted their art, they wanted that feeling of absolute inspiration. They were blind to what it cost because she had made them blind to it, and it was that knowledge which each string tugged raw.

Metzli couldn’t be strung up. They couldn’t become another ghost of her past, pressing their faces against her windows and begging for entry. Caoimhe reached out, always so aware of touch and what it could mean, and let the tips of her fingers play across their palm. And nothing. Nothing at all. She rejoiced for the parts of her that were relieved, and wondered at the parts that were just hungry. “You’re a great artist, Metzli. I meant it, when I said you weren’t nothing. You can trust that.” A beat, “I’m a really bad liar.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of life to live now.” Metzli had spent so long denying themselves connection, while Caoimhe avoided them like a plague. And in a way, the connections probably were just as bad as a virus. Because that virus was her own, and she could do nothing to stop it. Of course, they didn’t know exactly why, but they could see the effects it had on her as a whole. Her personality though, was untouched. It was still there despite all of the barriers it took to get to it. Caoimhe was kind, honest, and even a little playful. She was an artist with a past, just like everyone else. 

When her fingers touched their palm, Metzli jumped a little and moved their gaze back to their companion. Eyes glistened with the threat of tears from the topic. The effect of the emotions they were feeling a lot more often. And then Caoihme admitted they could trust what she said. That she was a really bad liar. “Fae?” They asked, already knowing their first answer was correct. “That’s why you didn’t want to touch. I understand now. But you don’t have to worry. You have no effect on me in that regard.” A small smile curved onto their lips and that same hand she had touched, moved towards her cheek. Another attempt, but this time, it was a tender approach. Their thumb caressed her cheek and let it linger for a moment. “That must bring some relief, hm? No te preocupes. Um, don’t worry.” They translated, moving their hand back to their glass. 

“Does this mean it’s a date now?” Charm returned to Metzli’s voice and they let out a breathy chuckle. “I’ll keep trying until you tell me to stop. Can’t help wanting to be around someone with an artistic mind.”

“Have some experience with fae, do you?” It wasn’t an answer, but it was as close to one as she was willing to get. There would be time for talk some other time, when they weren’t huddled into a quiet booth in an otherwise crowded bar. Caoimhe thought of art galleries, and spending time with someone who truly enjoyed it, for no other reason than their own genuine love of art. Someone inspired by their own rites, and not because Caoimhe pulled some string inside of them. She thought about Metzli, and how they’d probably only scratched the surface of their own story. Not many wars took centuries; they both had so many blank spaces to fill. They both had so much time to fill them.

Then Metzli touched her cheek, and Caoimhe could see how it would all play out. She’d call it a date, and there would be the expectation of another. They’d spend a late night in an art gallery, or perhaps Caoimhe would take them to Dell’s, she hadn’t been yet. They’d have fun, they’d spill their stories to each other one piece at a time, and the strings would be different this time. They’d be less like anchors and more like balloons, and Caoimhe would think them beautiful (she thought all of them were beautiful). And then she’d leave. And Metzli would look like empty art galleries and quiet bars and another ghost, but this one with frayed strings where they were effectively cut.

But then, that would be true whether she called it a date or not.

“Hm, it’s not just drinks.” It wasn’t, that much was true. “Is there an in between? A ‘this was a lot more than I’d bargained for.’ Or a ‘I’d like to see your gallery, but I’m not going to say second date?’”

“Yeah, I do.” Metzli answered, a little passively. They nodded and finished the rest of their glass before making eye contact with Caoimhe once again. “How about a fun-friend meeting?” Metzli couldn’t help but chuckle and raised their hand once more to her cheek and laid out all the honesty they could. “I don’t get serious about people. It’s safer that way, you know? But that’s not to say I wouldn’t enjoy a little fun with an artistic approach.” Their smile reached their words and soft eyes met with Caoimhe’s. 

“We don’t have to call it a date. We don’t have to be anything. Just two ambitious artists that came together and found each other attractive. I’ll show you my gallery and you can show me your music. And in between, we can find some fun to have.” Metzli leaned forward, slowly and carefully. The night would be fun, the night would consist of new experiences. All of them with Caoimhe with them. And with a kiss to Caoimhe’s cheek, they begun a new relationship based on mutual interests, and not definite ties.

[o5-the-progeny]

Flashbacks

Part I

Warnings: none

Relevant Tags: none

Word Count: 986

Aisling Gallagher decided on a whim to go to a rodeo near their home. Supposedly it featured some new hotshot from out of town named Bright.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. One that I’d better not regret, they thought; they had so much work to do.

As it turned out, they would not regret their decision.

The arena, frankly, smelled terrible, so Aisling decided to get some fresh air between rounds and maybe a snack.

They always did this thing where they backed up half a step before turning around; they didn’t know why. Normally it caused some problems, but this time they backed up into what felt like the corner of a brick wall. “Whoa, easy there. You okay?”

But brick walls don’t typically speak or catch you by the arms to keep you from falling. Aisling turned around to say something that caught in their throat. “I—yeah, I—I’m okay. Sorry for bumpin’ into you…”

“Mikell.” He shook Aisling’s hand and if somebody were to ask Aisling about him later, the first word out of their mouth would have been less of a word and more like a quiet, flustered giggle.

“I-I’m Ash,” Aisling said; they were still shaking his hand. Why were they still shaking his hand? “Well, it’s actually ‘Aisling,’ but most people can’t say that, so they usually just call me ‘Ash’—” And now they were rambling.

The young man—maybe around twenty-one or twenty-two—laughed and tipped his hat in greeting; Aisling’s stomach did a giddy little flip.

“Nice meetin’ ya, Aislin’—” They couldn’t tell if his accent was real or fake, and though they would never admit it, they stayed awake that night, replaying the sound of his voice saying their name in their mind. “You competin’?”

Aisling let out a nervous laugh. Why was this one man making them so flustered? “No, definitely not,” they stammered. “I, uh, just came on a spur of the moment thing—” Stop talking, Gallagher, they scolded themself. You sound like an idiot.

Mikell grinned—it was a bit nervous and awkward, but God, it was pretty. All of him was pretty, actually: he was tall and muscular with tanned skin and freckles scattered across his face and arms. His eyes were brown—or maybe hazel—and his hair, long, thick, and wavy, was a dark auburn.

“What’s that accent, if ya don’t mind me askin’?” he said.

“Wha—? Oh,” Aisling said. They weren’t about to admit it, but they got a bit distracted by Mikell’s pretty eyes. “It’s, uh, Irish. M-my parents are both from Dublin, an’ we moved here a couple’a years ago. Guess I haven’t lost it just yet.”

Another laugh. “Well, I like it. I could listen to it all day. …Well, Miss Aislin’, I guess I’ll see ya after the show?”

Aisling’s stomach flipped again, but not in a good way that time. They didn’t like being called “Miss”—or “she” or “her,” for that matter—but that was how it was. If their parents knew… If anyone knew—

“Guess so, yeah. You’re competin’— competing?” Aisling asked, correcting their pronunciation.

“That I am; an’ like I said, I like yer accent; y’don’t need ta hide it if y’don’t wanna. Anyway, I’ve gotta get ready; I’m on next.”

“Good luck,” Aisling said.

He laughed again. “Thank ya kindly, Miss Aislin’.” This man was going to kill them—

“It’s, uh, just ‘Aisling,’ actually. You don’t need to say ‘Miss’ or anythin’ like that. …O-or you can just call me ‘Ash’ if you don’t want to say the whole thin’.”

“Well, I like your name. It’s pretty. …How about ‘Ashie’? That work fer ya?”

“Uh, yeah,” Aisling said, trying their best to keep their lips from stretching into a stupid grin. “‘Ashie’ works.”

“Ashie it is! I—” Mikell sighed when a harsh voice called his name. “And that would be my cue to leave. You want to meet back up out here later, Ashie?”

So the accent was fake. Aisling didn’t mind.

“Yeah, sounds good. Good luck again, Mikey—Mikell,” Aisling spluttered. “S-sorry, I meant—”

“You can call me that if you want; I don’t usually like it, but I like you, so I’ll give you a pass.” Yep. This man was going to kill them.

Mikell smiled at Aisling and tipped his hat again before disappearing into the crowd of people.

“Who was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mikell told his father. He knew what Adam was like; if he knew Mikell was talking to a girl, he’d jump to conclusions.

Though, Mikell wasn’t sure if Aisling was a girl; he assumed she was from her (His? Their?) clothes and voice, but he hadn’t actually asked.

What he was sure of was that whatever Aisling was, they were very attractive. If he’d seen them on the street, he might not have been able to stop thinking about them. “Just someone I bumped into,” he said.

“Mm. Well, get ready. You’re on soon.”

“Yessir.” Hopefully I’ll run into Ashie again, Mikell thought. I wanna talk to them more.

The thing about rodeos is that people always got banged up.

Aisling, as smart as they were, hadn’t really thought this through—every few seconds, they flinched and gripped their arm or side or neck whenever Mikell got thrown around by a particularly rough lurch.

Why him? They barely knew the guy; why were they so in-tune with him? It never happened with their friends; it barely happened with their parents.

So why did they “feel” Mikell?

Speaking of the young man, there he was—jogging towards Aisling with a wide, energized grin and waving his hat in the air. “Ashie!” he called.

“Mikell, that was incredible! I know it was only for a few seconds, but still—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Well, I’m glad I could give you a good show. …So, do you live around here?”