#assignment help in Dublin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lvrrgirlll · 2 months ago

Text

Dublin in ecstasy // wanted to write something silly for st patrick’s day so here’s this (two days late...)

paring: artrick x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: oral m and f receiving, spitroasting, drunk sex, hastily proofread lol

a/n: this is highkey all over the place so keep in mind i am NOT claiming this to be my best work by any means lol... just something silly for the holiday (I say that and then I somehow ended up writing 3.5k words but that's besides the point)

The circumstances couldn’t have been more perfect. Art had decided to do a semester abroad in Ireland while Patrick conveniently was playing tournament in Dublin. And better yet, it all lined up over St. Patrick’s Day.

“C’mon man, it’s my fucking day after all,” Patrick insisted as he stretched out his arms as if basking in his own glory. The two men were holed up in Art’s dorm, a single, of course, since the Europeans always seemed to have more class when it came to university living situations.

“You’re playing the day after tomorrow and I’ve got a mountain of assignments I’m behind on. We’re not getting drunk tonight,” Art retorted quickly, shooting Patrick a stern glance. This hard front, though, swiftly melted when Patrick brought his hands to Art’s shoulders, leaning down so he was at eye level as Art sat at his desk.

“You don’t wanna help me celebrate my day?” He gave him a puppy dog stare, really trying to break down his best friend’s cool exterior. And he knew deep down that Art could be like putty in his hands if he played his cards right. Art’s eyes scanned Patrick’s dramatized expression, leaving him sighing in resignation.

“Fine,” Art groaned, rolling his eyes. “Can we just take it easy though?”

“Yeah man, sure. Whatever you want.”

Art should’ve trusted his gut when he had even an inkling that they wouldn’t be taking it easy. It was St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin for fucks sake. Patrick had outfitted them both with hastily made (sharpied on) “kiss me I’m Irish” shirts much to Art’s protest.

“It’s gonna be a let down when girls see me in this shirt and then hear my American accent,” Art huffs, tugging at the ends of the shirt.

“Nah man, it’s a conversation starter. You just have to be a conversation continuer. Plus, it’s straightforward. It’s a holiday. Girls will kiss you if your shirt says so.” Patrick seemed very confident about that.

“I’m like one-sixteenth Irish man, this feels like false advertising.”

“Forget about it, it’s not like I’m Darby O’Gill or anything, it’s just a t-shirt.”

Art sighed yet again, feeling more and more like this was a bad idea. His mind changed, however, when he and Patrick saw you from across the pub.

They’d been there for about an hour now, standing off to the side, pints of Guinness in hand, trying to feel out what kind of night it’d be. Of course, Patrick was eyeing nearly every girl in the place, most of them with their strong Irish boyfriends, though, but he wasn’t really interested until he noticed you.

You were notably without a boyfriend, currently arguing with the bartender about the pour on your Guinness. Both Art and Patrick were awestruck. The way you were so passionate was admirable, and it definitely helped that, to the both of them, you were the most beautiful girl in the place.

“I’ll be back, don’t wait up too long,” Patrick murmured, slipping away from Art and towards you.

Art stammered, trying to think of a way to stop Patrick, but Patrick just turned around, reminding him how he wanted to “take it easy” tonight. Damnit. Art was eating his own words.

“You seem like you know your beer,” Patrick mused, trying to seem nonchalant from behind you. You turned and he had to physically restrain himself from letting his jaw go slack. From a distance you were already something else, but up close, even a ladies man like Patrick would be flustered.

“Not really. I just know when they’ve screwed me giving me more air than actual drink,” you joked, taking the handsome stranger in as you turned around.

“I like a girl who knows what she wants.” It was excessively bold, but Patrick had already downed two pints, quickly going on three, and was feeling ballsy.

He watched as your eyes flitted down then, reading the messily written words on his shirt. You giggled. “Are you really Irish? You don’t have an accent,” you asked then, an eyebrow quirking up as you looked up at him.

“As Irish as you want me to be,” he chuckled before shaking his head. “No, really, I’m like 10% Irish. It hardly counts.”

A smirk flashed across your lips as you shot him a devious look through your lashes. “So I shouldn’t kiss you then?” That left him grasping for words, unsure where to take this. Of course, he wanted to kiss you. But his desperation (and slight drunkenness) was getting in the way of his sarcastic, charming banter.

Just in time, though, Art swooped in, much to Patrick’s dismay. “Hi, uh… I saw you from across the room, I just wanted to come say you’re, uh, really beautiful.” Smooth.

Patrick stifled a chuckle, giving Art a skeptical glance from behind you. Art’s eyes narrowed briefly as he glanced at Patrick, a subtle sign that the game was on, but you didn’t miss it.

“Do you two know each other?” You looked between the two of them, brows furrowing as you took a sip of your drink.

They had to give in, of course. The pair formally introduced themselves, gave you the whole spiel about how they go way back and they both play tennis, and Art was sure to mention that he was there for school (selfishly hoping that would impress you).

“So what are you doing in Ireland,” Art asked, ever the gentleman.

“I’ve taken a semester off of school to travel. I guess I’m sort of seeking new experiences; new opportunities, y’know.” You couldn’t help but notice that as you spoke both of them seemed to be hanging off of every word.

“New experiences, huh,” Patrick repeated, smirking before taking a heavy swig from his drink. He didn’t miss the wink you gave him from over the rim of his glass, but he decided to keep any more comments to himself for the time being.

Art kept the conversation going, mostly because he was drunk too at this point and he didn’t want you to leave. You talked for a while, the pub slowly getting more and more crowded (it was St. Patrick’s Day after all), until you were abruptly run into, causing you to spill your drink all over yourself.

“Fuck,” you cursed, the cold of the drink running down your body and soaking right through (and staining) your now see-through white shirt.

Neither Art nor Patrick knew exactly what to do, but Patrick ran to your rescue immediately, shouting at the guy who had run into you. Art had, more passively, made a break for the bathroom, getting paper towels. It was all no use, though. You were soaked; cold, wet, and uncomfortable. And it was looking like Patrick was on his way to a bar fight.

That’s how the three of you ended up stood outside the bar, you clutching your jacket around your body, Patrick pouting about getting you guys kicked out, and Art feeling sorry that he couldn’t help either of you more.

Patrick moved for his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and holding it in your direction. Though you didn’t typically smoke, you took one. It had been a night. As Patrick held his lighter up to the end of the cigarette, you two exchanged glances, still lust filled despite the unsavory events that got you here.

All of you sat in silence, taking steady drags off the cigarettes until you laughed, a dry, sarcastic little laugh. “Y’know what’s great?” You looked in their direction. “I don’t even live around here. I came cause I’ve got some friends here, but they all ditched me for their boyfriends and now I’ve got to take the bus home like this,” you spoke frustratedly, looking down at your state. That’s when a sneaky little idea came to Patrick.

“Well, my hotel’s only a 5 minute walk from here. Come shower there, you can dry off and then you can take the bus back to wherever it is,” he nearly insisted. Art shot him a look that you couldn’t quite discern, but Patrick didn’t seem moved by it. “What do ‘ya say? It’s not a bad idea…” he gave you those same puppy dog eyes he had given Art before, and damnit, they really did work. Patrick Zweig could convince the Pope to convert if he wanted to.

“Sure. Yeah, ok, lead the way.” Obviously, you knew deep down that this would not just be some sort of act of convenience and kindness, but hey, you weren't really opposed to that.

On the walk over, Art huddled up close to Patrick, whispering endless questions and concerns. "Dude, what am I supposed to do? Walk of shame back to my place while you get to fuck her?" He snuck a glance back at you trying to make sure you hadn't heard him. Patrick slung an arm around him, though, pulling him in closer.

"Don't you worry, Artie," his tone was mocking, but still somehow reassuring. "Let St. Patrick handle it. I have a feeling both of us will be getting lucky tonight." Art rolled his eyes, absolutely sick of the holiday related talk, but he took it in stride, trusting his friend (against his better judgement). It's not like they hadn't talked about sharing girls before. Maybe it really was that Irish luck that had sent you their way.

Back at Patrick's hotel, which was much nicer than you had expected (it was on his parents' dime, after all), you made a break for the shower, dying to free yourself from the confines of your drenched shirt. While you showered, the guys were talking strategy.

"So if it turns out she is only into one of us, then what," Art asked from the armchair in the corner.

"Then one of us gets to fuck her, obviously. If it comes to it, I'd get out of here for you." Art shakes his head at Patrick's crude words. "But like I said earlier, I think we could both luck out tonight. I mean, she did say she was looking for new experiences after all..."

"Right," Art quipped sarcastically. Both of them in their drunkenness had failed to realize that the water had stopped running, though.

"Imagine the noises she'd make...fuck man. And the way she'd probably give you the best head of your life. You saw her lips, right?"

"Jesus, Patrick, you've gotta stop,” Art sighed, a light laugh escaping though.

"But I'm right, right?" A silence lingered between the two before Art looked to Patrick, a goofy smile painted across his features.

"Yeah. Yeah, you are. I wouldn't make her do that, though. I mean, she seems like she'd be more into receiving than giving anyways, y'know..." And Patrick nodded. He knew exactly what Art meant.

Just then, the bathroom door clicked, making the boys' heads snap back in your direction. Now in only Patrick's t-shirt, which he had promptly stripped off and offered you when you got to the hotel, you padded out of the bathroom.

“Shit, did you hear that,” Art asked, embarrassed. Clearly, he couldn’t have been that embarrassed though, his eyes raking down your bare legs hungrily. Patrick, similarly, took no discretion in ogling you, leaning back and smiling like a cat who got the cream.

“You look good in my shirt, babe.” The nickname was maybe a bit much, but then again, when was Patrick ever afraid of too much?

Taking a seat on the bed, you smiled, looking down at the shirt again, chuckling lightly to yourself.

“You’d look better with it off, though…” he mutters under his breath, loud enough so you could hear it.

One thing led to another and now you, Art, and Patrick were all on the bed, Art kissing your neck and along your jaw while Patrick had lifted up your shirt and was paying close attention to your tits. It was unfamiliar, feeling two sets of lips on you at once, but there was something so euphoric about it too.

“Have you guys done this before-,” a slight gasp escaped your lips, cutting you off. “Shared the same girl?” Art hummed a quick ‘no’ against your skin, but Patrick didn’t even move to speak, only shaking his head ‘no’ as he continued to mouth at your hard nipples.

Patrick pulled away, taking a second to watch the way his best friend sucked at your neck, sure to leave a spot. Call him a cuck, but he felt harder than he’d ever been.

Nestling in behind you, he pulled you in away from Art so you were leaning against his bare chest. He dragged his hands up your waist to your tits, massaging them while placing little kisses along your shoulders. “C’mere Art…” he beckoned. Patrick’s big hands reached down, spreading your legs and holding them open.

Art practically scrambled up to you, a hopeless look in his heavily lidded eyes. You’d lost your shirt long ago, now only in a pair of lacy (soaked) panties.

He pulled them to the side, running a finger through your folds. His fingers were cold causing you to inhale a sharp breath. “Fuck…” he sighed, looking over your shoulder at Patrick. “She’s perfect.” Art slipped your panties down your legs, you helping a bit to kick them off your ankles, and pocketed them, not missing Patrick’s look of impressed approval. He leaned down, then, his fingers returning to your slick heat. He prodded at your hole, pushing one, then two fingers in, the feeling of you tightening around him sending a rush to his cock. He pumped in and out at a rapid pace, making your chest heave and your eyes flutter shut.

He leaned in closer to you, tonguing at your clit, absolutely obsessed with the way you were moaning with your head settled back against Patrick’s shoulder. He licked thick stripes along your pussy, fingers so deep inside you that it was hard to keep your legs spread, squirming and whimpering like a mess. “Fuck, Art… t- too much. M’ gonna… fuck, gonna cum.” That only encouraged him, pressing his face into you with so much dedication. You could feel his nose rub against you as he tongued around your hole, still filled by his fingers. Your hands tangled in his hair while Patrick kissed your neck feverishly, still holding your legs open for Art.

When you came, it was ecstasy. You felt like you were melting into Patrick as you leaned back into him, hips bucking up against Art’s face. Your legs were shaking as Art pulled his fingers out, still sloppily licking into you.

“Okay man, don’t get greedy,” Patrick murmured, pushing Art’s head away boyishly and pulling you up to sit up a little more. You giggled, still a little blissed out but wanting more, wanting to impress them.

“Here,” you started, moving onto all fours. “Let me return the favor.” Art was now in front of you, hard as a rock, while Patrick was left behind you, staring at your glistening pussy. You arched your back a little, ass in the air as you looked back at Patrick. “Well don’t just stand there…”

Patrick found his place behind you, the sound of his zipper coming down music to your ears as you worked on ridding Art of his pants. When you looked up at him, he was blushing, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol doing it to him or the situation at hand. He let out a shuttered breath when you slid his boxers down, his length slapping up against his stomach.

You bit you lip, eyeing his cock and noting the way his tip was pink and leaking precum. "Artie," you say, looking up at him doe eyed as if you weren't about to get spitroasted by two best friends.

"Y- yeah..." he replied, looking down at you pathetically, mouth hanging open as he waited for your reply.

"It's really pretty," you lilt before licking from the base to the tip. His eyes screw shut immediately and he makes a sound unlike any you'd heard before.

Patrick, clearly over the praise for Art, though, thrusts into you with no warning, bottoming out quickly and leaving you gasping for air. "Fuck, warn a girl next time..." you sigh as he stills, the feeling of being completely full overwhelming, but exciting.

"I'm so good I need a warning? I haven't even started moving, babe." Patrick speaks with a mocking tone, but you eat it up. Art, feeling left out then, reaches for your jaw, guiding your lips to his cock again. Everything he does, he does with a gentle, polite sort of touch, and you can admire that, especially when it's so starkly contrasted by Patrick.

When you finally take Art into your mouth, it's hard to miss the way his abs ripple while his cock twitches. You could tell he was long when you looked at it, but you realize just how long when his tip is forcing itself against your throat.

Unbeknownst to you, the two boys exchange looks, Patrick mouthing a '3...2....1' before they both started moving in tandem. Patrick's pace was quick and you could feel just how big he was by the stretch. Art, as if he wanted to outdo his friend, was now uncharacteristically bullying his cock down your throat. Though in true Art fashion, he combed a hand through your hair slowly, sweetly, as if he wasn't practically defiling you.

You couldn't help but gag, the sound only encouraging the two men. "She's so tight, man. You've gotta feel her pussy," Patrick huffed.

"You...were...right..." Art panted, lost in the feeling of your lips wrapped around him. "It's like she was made for this..." He almost felt guilty for being so crass... almost. But he was nothing if not easily influenced by his friend.

"Oh- she definitely liked that," Patrick slurs. "She's squeezing me so tight man -fuck." His hands were firmly holding your hips in place as the sound of skin slapping filled the room, his pace unrelenting.

And with each thrust from Patrick, you only pushed further down onto Art, now a drooling, gagging mess beneath him. You could hardly tell now, unable to focus in light of the mess being made of you, but Art kept a hand holding your jaw, caressing it even, as if to silently say 'good girl'.

Noticing your squirming, Patrick knew you were close. He reached a hand around to your clit, thumbing at it in swift circles and grunting like a mad man when you tightened around him. "Fuck, you like that baby? I know you're close... shit- I can feel it."

With Art still stuffing your mouth, all you could do was nod rapidly, pushing back onto Patrick now. Feeling him hit that spot over and over again, you lost yourself a bit, legs getting shaky as you moaned and whined around Art's cock. And then it snapped, that tight feeling in your stomach released as you came hard around Patrick's cock.

Patrick, reveling in the feeling, kept thrusting in and out, each thrust getting sloppier and more shallow. "Shit, don't worry babe," he breathed out heavily. "I'll -fuck- I'll pull out." But right as he moved to do so, you pulled off of Art abruptly, turning to face Patrick shaking your head. Your lips were swollen and glimmering as you shook your head desperately at Patrick.

"I'm on the pill," is all you said, turning back to Art then. You kissed at his tip before taking him back, deep down into your throat. When Patrick pushed back in, it was like the first time again. In pulling out for even a few seconds, he'd forgotten how good you felt, how tight and warm and wet you were.

And when Patrick's hips began to stutter, the feeling of him completely overstimulating you, he made sure to look Art right in the eyes. "Fuck," he gasped, staring right at his flushed, sweating friend as he came inside you, filling you up.

The image of Patrick, jaw slack and making eye contact, drove Art over the edge. Without any sort of warning, you could suddenly feel hot ropes of cum shooting down your throat. He pulled out a bit prematurely, some of his cum spurting onto your lips too, but you made sure to look up at him and lick it up like a champ.

"Holy shit..." he mumbled.

"Holy indeed..." Patrick hummed, pulling out and settling on the bed behind you.

Once you were cleaned up, the three of you nestled into bed, you drifting off in their arms quickly, completely spent from the night's activities. Before either boy could fall asleep, though, Patrick startled Art by ruffling a hand through his hair.

"What's that for," Art asked, bewildered.

"I told you St. Patrick would deliver."

#sometimes writing smut feels so goofy like 💀#anyways disregard any plot holes or mistakes because my proofread on this was definitely half assed #cordelia writes #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #challengers fic #artrick x reader

372 notes · View notes

queenshelby · 1 year ago

Text

An Illicit Affair

Part Two: Jazz Bar

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

The jazz concert took place in a small bar, downtown Soho. It was a Thursday evening, at around 9 o'clock, when you arrived at the establishment with the view to meet your best friend and fellow student Lucy there. Lucy was two years older than you and you shared a dorm room with her on campus.

Just like you, Lucy was nerdy and focused on her studies, telling you years ago that you should not have gotten involved with Max but, of course, you did not listen to her at the time.

That evening, Lucy stood you down, not intentionally but out of necessity. She had an assignment due the following day and recognized that she had not spent enough time on its content.

So, at around nine that evening, you received a message from her saying that she had to bail on you, leaving you alone in the quirky bar which, by now, was filled with art students, middle aged men and women and a few musicians.

Still, you were determined to make the most of the night. After all, your favorite band was playing, and this alone encouraged you to order yourself a drink and take a seat close to the stage.

A few minutes later, the band started a lively tune, and soon everyone began dancing.

You found yourself swaying to the rhythm, feeling the energy of the crowd enveloping you and, just as you were starting to get lost in the music, you spotted a familiar face.

It was Cillian, Max's father, who was standing near the bar, nursing a glass of red wine.

The sight of him jolted you, sending a wave of mixed emotions coursing through your veins. You hadn't seen him since that fateful weekend in Dublin over fifteen months ago, and the memory of his captivating blue eyes and mesmerizing voice lingered within you. You watched him from afar, unable to tear your gaze away.

Cillian appeared to be engrossed in a conversation with a group of people, but every once in a while, he would glance around the room, scanning the faces of the attendees.

That's when his gaze landed on you and he excused himself from the group of people he was with.

Approaching you with purpose, he smiled warmly. "Y/N, hey...it's nice to see you again," he greeted you. "How have you been?" he wanted to know and, immediately, his deep voice resonated through your body, stirring a familiar spark within you.

"I'm doing well, thank you," you responded, trying to remain composed. "How about you?" you asked before asking "what brings you here tonight?" with some surprise.

"Oh, I saw that this band was performing and thought I'd check them out," Cillian explained casually with his thick Irish accent.

"Are you in London for work or to see Max?" you asked Cillian, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I am here for work, shooting a commercial, but I did catch up with Max yesterday for dinner," Cillian answered. "He seems to be doing well, even though he dropped out of medical school," he explained, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness knowing that you may have been the reason he quit his studies.

"I am sorry Cillian, I feel like I caused this," you admitted hesitantly, remembering the countless arguments you had with him about his lackadaisical attitude towards academics right before the break-up.

"No, you didn't. If anything, he hung in there as long as he did because of you," Cillian reassured you. "He is a good kid, but he lacks the discipline and commitment for such a difficult field of studies, and I must admit that, so did I, when I was his age," he chuckled before telling you that, at the age of twenty, he dropped out of law school.

"Well, fortunately for you, you discovered acting and that clearly turned out to be your calling," you said with a wink and Cillian laughed heartily, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"That's right, I guess," he agreed, sipping on his wine. "So, no doubt Max will find his way too, at least once he gets over you," he then added calmly before gesturing towards the chair next to yours, wanting to take a seat.

"I am sure he is over me. It's been a year already and I see him quite often on campus these days. He may have transferred to the Arts Faculty, but he is still chatting up and flirting with the medical students," you joked before indicating to Cillian to take the seat.

"He's a charmer, that's for sure," Cillian said with a hint of pride in his voice. "So, tell me," he leaned in closer, his scent intoxicating, "have you narrowed down your field of practice yet? Are you still interested in pediatrics?" Cillian asked you, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I mean, you mentioned it the last time we saw each other, but have you decided on anything yet?" Cillian pressed further, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I suppose that's accurate," you replied, feeling a surge of nervousness wash over you. "Pediatrics is definitely the direction I'm leaning towards, particularly oncology research."

"Oncology? That's fascinating," Cillian remarked, his eyes widening.

"Why oncology specifically?" he pressed, genuinely curious. "Is it because of your friend who battled leukemia? I remember you talking that," he went on to say and you were impressed by the fact that he remembered. Unlike Max, Cillian appeared to be a good listener and you appreciated that.

"Yes, that's right. Ever since visiting my friend in the hospital, I've been fascinated by the idea of using science to combat diseases. Research gives me the opportunity to contribute to the advancement of healthcare," you explained earnestly.

Cillian tilted his head, studying you closely. "Your dedication is admirable," he complimented, admiration glimmering in his eyes, and you blushed faintly, feeling flattered by his praise.

"Thank you, Cillian," you mumbled shyly before downing the rest of your drink.

"Would you like another drink?" Cillian thus asked, being observant, as he settled into the chair, his scent wafted over you, a mix of expensive cologne and freshly laundered linen. "My shout," he then went on to say as he noticed you hesitating and, immediately, you suppressed a shiver, suddenly aware of the intimate setting you'd created.

"Okay," you muttered nervously, gazing down at your empty glass. "Thank you," went on to say and, not long after that, Cillian walked off and instructed the bartender, handing over his credit card.

When he returned to the table, you both fell quiet again, awkwardly staring at the dance floor. The band played a slow, bluesy number, and couples danced intimately beneath the dim glow of the stage lights.

Feeling increasingly uneasy, you attempted to change the subject. "How is Danielle?" you asked, swirling the wine in your glass.

Cillian hesitated, his expression clouding over. "Alright, I suppose," he muttered, a hint of melancholy creeping into his voice.

"Alright, you suppose?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. The way he answered your question seemed absurd.

"Yeah, well, things aren't exactly smooth sailing with us," he admitted reluctantly. "We have been having problems for years," he confided in you, causing your heart to skip a beat.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," you sympathized, genuine concern etching your features. "Max did mentioned about you fighting a lot," you commented cautiously, careful not to cross any boundaries.

Cillian exhaled deeply, his shoulders drooping slightly. "We've been trying to work things out but it hasn't been easy," he confessed, his voice laced with sorrow. "Sometimes it feels like we're stuck in a cycle of misunderstandings, accusations and resentment," he admitted.

"I may have heard about certain rumors, in the tabloids, concerning you and other actresses," you ventured delicately, "but I know that these gossip magazines tend to blow things out of proportion," you quickly added just as Cillian chuckled and interrupted you.

"I didn't take you to be the kind of person who reads these kinds of magazines Y/N. I am really disappointed in you," he mocked, giving you a sideways glance, which made you blush.

"I don't, unless I am at the hairdressers and my phone is running low on battery," you admitted, meeting his gaze. "And I know the press loves to feed on drama," you added defensively, trying to cover up the embarrassment.

"Well then, for what it's worth, I can assure you that I have never cheated on my wife," Cillian stated plainly, his eyes locked on yours. "Not that I haven't had the opportunity though," he admitted without hesitation, his honesty striking you speechless.

"I am sure you have had many opportunities," you commented lightly, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

"Maybe not many, but I had some," Cillian laughed before changing the topic to something lighter.

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you met anyone new since you broke up with Max?" he wanted to know before apologizing for his question, telling you that you did not have to answer it if it made you uncomfortable.

You swallowed nervously, your pulse quickening at the mention of your former lover. "No, it's okay," you told him. "I haven't had much time for dating," you lied, fiddling with your napkin. "Med school takes up most of my time," you added, not wanting to reveal the truth that no one had caught your attention since Max, at least not yet.

Cillian nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine," he said, before pausing briefly, watching you sip your drink before continuing with caution. "So, besides med school, what keeps you busy?" he questioned, curiosity burning in his eyes.

You sighed softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Not much, honestly," you confessed, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean, there's the occasional date with friends, dinners with family, and that's pretty much it," you admitted. "I can't lie though, it does get lonely sometimes," you revealed, peering down at your lap.

"I get like this when I am away filming for weeks," Cillian shared, nodding sympathetically. "When the loneliness creeps in, it makes you feel so isolated, doesn't it?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, absolutely," you agreed, your voice barely audible. "I've learned to appreciate moments like these, though, because they remind me how precious human connection truly is," you confided in him, reaching to clasp your hands together.

Cillian gazed at you, his gaze softening. "It must be tough, being so dedicated to your studies. How do you manage to balance everything?" he pondered aloud.

"I've developed strategies to cope. For instance, I set aside time for myself each day, whether it's going for a run or reading a book," you admitted, your voice trailing off and it was at this point that you learned that you shared even more common interests with Cillian.

He, too, liked to go for runs and read, and not just scripts for upcoming projects. He enjoyed historical fiction as well as thrillers, and his literary horizons were broad. You found this refreshing, considering how insular and self-involved actors could be.

After ordering more drinks, you and Cillian talked some more and shared some laughs. Your conversations flowed effortlessly, covering various subjects ranging from books you both loved to visit places you hoped to travel to someday. Cillian spoke passionately about the beauty of Ireland and its rich history, while you eagerly described your fascination with Italy, having taken a trip there during your gap year.

You exchanged stories, sharing experiences both past and present, discovering more similarities between the two of you. Cillian was intrigued by your intelligence and wit, while you admired his charm and charisma. The chemistry between you intensified, growing stronger with each passing moment.

By the time it was midnight, the group of people he had talked to earlier left and the music had stopped, which is when Cillian reached across the table to refill your glass from the bottle of wine he had ordered thirty minutes ago and, just as he did, his fingers brushed against yours, igniting a spark that neither of you could ignore.

An awkward silence ensued, but instead of dissipating quickly, it grew thicker with tension.

Cillian's intense gaze bore into you, leaving a trail of goosebumps along your arms. You glanced at the stage, searching for a distraction, but the band had packed up their instruments and left.

Cillian cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Well, time flies when you' are having fun," he murmured, his voice husky and seductive. "It is nice talking to you, but it is getting late," he added, checking his watch conspicuously. "And I should probably head back to the hotel," he concluded and you blinked twice.

"Where are you staying?" you blurted out impulsively, catching yourself off guard by your sudden curiosity.

"At the Hilton," Cillian replied simply, adjusting his posture in his seat. "It's not far from here, actually," he added, his voice drifting into a contemplative tone.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, contemplating your next move. "That's convenient," you murmured, attempting to sound casual. "I have heard that they have a decent bar downstairs," you stammered, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Cillian chuckled softly, his eyes glinting mischievously. "They do. So, perhaps we should grab a nightcap before you are heading home," he offered you almost nervously, causing your heart to race.

"I would like that," you said softly, offering him a gentle smile, hoping that he would interpret it correctly.

With a nod, Cillian rose from his seat, his frame casting a shadow over you. He extended his hand, helping you to your feet. You felt the warmth of his touch and the strength of his grip, and your knees weakened slightly.

As you followed him towards the exit, the crowd parted, making way for you two as if silently acknowledging the magnetic pull between you two.

Once outside, the cool air hit you, a stark contrast to the heat inside the bar.

The neon signs cast a hazy glow on the cobblestone streets, and the distant hum of traffic blended seamlessly with the whispers of passersby. A sense of excitement pulsed through you as you allowed your senses to heighten, embracing the intoxicating atmosphere.

You and Cillian headed for the Hilton, which was a five-minute walk from the jazz club.

As you approached the hotel lobby, the ambient lighting and plush furnishings provided a cozy refuge from the chilly night air but, much to your disappointment, you noticed that their bar was already closed.

"I suppose we won't be having that nightcap after all," you lamented, pouting your lips while Cillian contemplated whether or not to ask you to join him in his room.

He bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling before making a decision.

"We could always go to my room and order a bottle of wine," he then suggested, his voice trembling slightly. "If you want to, that is," he added hastily, turning his gaze onto you and, immediately, your heart skipped a beat, your breath hitching as you stared into his deep blue eyes.

"Okay, yeah, why not," you managed to utter, feeling a rush of nerves wash over you. "Just for one drink though," you insisted, hoping to ease your mounting anxiety while Cillian's piercing blue eyes lighted up.

"Sounds perfect," he agreed, leading you towards the elevator bank with a pang of guilt flooding his mind as he thought about the possibility of taking this further than his vows would permit. "Just one drink then," he thus reminded himself as he pushed the button for the top floor, hoping that his loyalty to Max and Danielle would prevail over the desire for you.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fic

415 notes · View notes

fancyfeathers · 10 months ago

Text

And Then There Were None (Yandere William James Moriarty /w Author Darling Masterlist)

Thinking about William with an author darling again but after she escapes and basically challenges him to find her, quoting him when he was talking to Sherlock saying…

“Catch me if you can, Professor Moriarty.”

I feel like she has 1920 vibes even if it is set in the Victorian era, but she is based on Agatha Christie and she lived in that era. To me she develops his femme fatale personality in her boost of confidence after outsmarting the Lord of Crime, regaining her former self and then some. I’m just imagining her sitting in her hotel room in one of those Hollywood Star robes with the feathers and silk, and she is eating breakfast or having a smoke while reading a newspaper and the top story is still about the disappearance of a famous author, she has not only successfully hidden and fooled from the Lord of Crime but all England…

She has really out done herself this time.

I genuinely think after a bit of fun messing around in London, running circles around William with the help of few her author friends who are just having a blast out of this, she would put herself back to work, looking for inspiration for her next book. She probably travels off to other countries looking for inspiration and soon the books come funneling out but with no clue where the author is…

A tale about a serial killer during the Venice Carnival

A story about a murder in Moscow during the freezing Russian winter, isolating the protagonists from the outside world.

A missing person case in Mexico City during Día de los Muertos.

A book about murderous woman in the Cook County Jail using their looks to get away with murder.

A mad man in a small town north of London loosing his mind due to exposure to mercury.

A murder of a new money family during a party in New York City.

The mixture of all of these books and the author’s disappearance from the public eyes makes her all the more popular. No one has seen her since she first went mission, not even her entail disappearance not even her publisher who has only been getting telegrams, letters, and packages from her, from whatever city she is in then, Vienna, Rome, St. Petersburg, Paris, Cario, Chicago, Dublin, and so on.

Meanwhile William is reading all of her novels in his little free time, and trying to find her becomes a side dream, after all he still has his goals as the Lord of Crime and if he follows every step she takes he will never get anything done.

He hears the talk on the street about her latest novel and his students talk about how they have to read a book of hers for their literature class and ask Professor William if he is really married to this genius author who is both infamous and famous, and if he actually knows where she is. William just smiles and looks at his students…

“I think you should focus on your assignment rather than press me about the state of my wife and I, yes?”

Can he even call her his wife? He hasn’t seen her since that night at the opera.

She told him to catch her and he didn’t…

He was so confident that he could because he has before…

Maybe that is it, do what he did before.

She is sitting at a cafe in Perros-Guirec, France, enjoying a cup of tea with a friend of hers, another mystery author who she is visiting, when a newspaper is thrown on their table with the headline of a murder based on her books…

Just like those murders all those years ago that brought her to William, scaring her into giving up writing.

He is finally making his move and she gave him the material to do it.

She looks up at the stranger who handed gave her the paper, both confused and frightened, he is just an ordinary looking man, but he smiles at her as he hands her a business card.

“My boss asked for this edition to be personally delivered to you. He would like to meet with you if you have the time, that is.”

“W-wha?”

She watches as the man walks off, leaving her and her friend alone. How did anyone find her? Not even William has even found her yet. She looks over the business card, turning it over to look at the back and she nearly screams in horror at what was written on it, but manages to keep it in as she is in public. She drops the card and her friend picks it up and reads it over and his eyes widen as well and he looks up at her as she just sits there in shock for a long moment before…

“I need to go back to London…”

A few days later, William is sitting in the drawing room of the Moriarty Estate, reading the paper himself, when Louis walks in with a letter, giving it to William saying this came for him. He reads it and it simply tells him to meet the sender at the last place they saw each other, it is not signed but it doesn’t have to be…

He recognizes the hand writing, it’s his darling’s.

He goes off to the opera house and to the opera box he met her at last time and she is there, sitting there alone, clutching that business card in hand.

“Dearest-“

“William, you are a crime consultant… I would like to hire your services.”

Her voice sounds terrified, a first for her in a long time. She hands him the business card to read and he sees the back first and he is immediately filled with rage…

It would be a shame if those murders were placed on you, it would certainly gather attention.

He looks up at her and she just looks terrified, angry, sad, and so much that it’s almost overwhelming for her mind to handle.

“You are being blackmailed, yes?”

“Correct, he wants to hire my writing services, but of course they are not for sale so hire is a bit of a lie, demanding my cooperation would be a better word...”

He flips the card over to see the other side with the name as she continues…

“…Charles Augustus Milverton, practically controls the news media, if he has me in his hand he would have control over all forms of media publishing… I know what this will cost me, and honestly you have nothing to loose and have everything to gain with having me again and I promise not to disappear again if you deal with him.”

“Presumably you want him dead?”

“Preferably.”

“Do any of your author friends know about this?”

“Yes, they all know about the blackmail, some of them have been blackmailed themselves by him but not to this extent… I… I am doing this for them, I do not want them to be silenced with their writing or their words… but I will not come back to you until this is done.”

“Then consider it done, my dear.”

He bends down to kiss her cheek before leaving the box and she sits there in silence again for a few minutes before the door to the box opens again and another man comes to sit down next to her.

“You are a truly remarkable actress, you performed your role perfectly, I do hope our partnership can continue on to deal with this Lord of Crime.”

A smile comes across her face as she looks up at the man next to her.

“Of course, after all the enemy of my enemy is my friend, Mr. Milverton.”

She is no fool, she knows William did not buy her act and was merely playing along, he knows she has no intention of going back to him, but where is the fun in ending the game early?

And why would she call him on his bluff and end the chase she has been winning?

Sometimes the cat lets the mouse run to enjoy the chase that much more.

#william moriarty x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #yandere william james moriarty #yandere moriarty the patriot #yandere yuukoku no moriarty #Spotify

56 notes · View notes

killersfool · 1 year ago

Note

hiiii i’ve a wee fluff imagine idea for bobby!! : )

bobby and the reader live together in a flat in dublin and the reader goes to trinity uni to study english literature (or smt else that has like a lot of reading and essay writing anol that craic) and she’s falling behind in a lot of her assignments and it’s all piling up and she’s just all overwhelmed and doesn’t know how to cope.

she ends up breaking down into sobs or shutting down at random points in the day due to stress and rob hasn’t got a clue what’s wrong and keeps noticing these random break downs throughout the week.

basically he comforts reader and helps to organise herself and just all fluffy cute comfort fic <333

If I could flip back time, bend the seconds and go back three years ago, I would do it right now.

Pile after pile of flashcards, annotated books with pastel post-it notes shooting out of the sides, folders of Irish poetry I can hardly understand, tattered photocopies of Hozier lyrics, every work of Shakespeare staring at me from my overcrowded booksheld — dusty, messy, probably even dank. Miss Carter has decided to set three more assignments onto my workload for the week. An essay on crime fiction (I haven't even read the first book on the reading list), my creative writing portfolio and then another essay analysing a piece poetry of my choice. Reading and highlighting Hozier's lyrics of 'I, Carrion (Icarian)' is the only thing keeping me going. Phoebe Bridgers blasts through my ears. It's quarter to 11. I need a break. An early night would be nice. Or TV. But do I really want to sit next to Robert whilst he watches his weird YouTube videos?

I kick my table. Not out of anger. Not out of irritation. I just want to see all of my notes topple ontp the floor. They do. Then I'm kicking the table three more times. Or maybe eight. All my flashcards are on the carpeted floor, next to my discarded, empty packet of pinballs. I'd stolen them from Robert's stash. He'll never find out.

Climbing over my pile of unread books by my doorway, I push open the door. It squeaks. Some oiling would be nice. Trinity college really provides the best for their students!

I still wish my roommate was also doing English, someone to bond with over shared trauma, to gossip about our nightmarish teachers and fellow students. But no, this guy is doing a degree in bloody mathematics. The complete dichotomy of English. No similarities. No way of comparing the courses to eachother. Him and his terrifying videos that he watches with his shoes up on the armrest, cheek in his open palm, drinking a cup of tea. Like it's that simple. Numbers and sin, cos, tan and circle theorems and whatever tragic nonsense is being spouted in his lectures.

He hardly speaks to me. Three years together and I barely know him. Sometimes I tag along with him when he goes out for breakfast. Once every two weeks. Sunday morning. We talk about school, about friends, about anything that pops in our heads. Yesterday we spoke about music. He originally wanted to pursue a career in music. A band. But they didn't work out. He took a gap year to pursue this group. So he's a year older than all of the other third years. He doesn't let that faze him. When he told me stories about his band, 'Inhaler', I had to lose eye contact, look down at the pink marshmellos floating about in my cup. He looked lost. This wasn't the place for him. He missed the confidence upon stage, the ability of making something out of nothing. Life is unfair. That is when I realised it. Hearing about shattered dreams and names of songs that were never produced.

I also realise life is unfair right now, as I accidentally bang my hip onto the kicthen island, the knife-like corner lodging itself into my skin. It's like the world is against me.

Sometimes I wonder if Robert thinks I'm an idiot. I feel like I'm an idiot when I walk past his bedroom, hunched over his laptop, headphones on as he works through the most difficult maths questions I've ever encountered in my life. He makes university seem easy. Has his allocated times for study, going out with friends, the gym, practicing bass, going though record shops, meals, watching TV. Everytime he gets home, he drops his things down in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at the big green 'A*' on all of his test papers. I look up to him. His intelligence, his masterful management of time. I'm always too frightened to ask him how he does it. He'll think I'm stalking him.

Me, on the other hand, I waste time. I don't have balance. I never have time to be with my friends. Always locked up in my room. A prisoner. Essay after essay. Poem after poem. Book after book. A constant cycle I've been in for three whole years. The stress is weighing down on me like a hundred bags of bricks. I need to stop for a second. To breathe in. To calm down.

So I do the last thing I would normally do. I go into the living room and sit beside Robert on the sofa. He's half asleep, jeans cuffed, hair all over his face. He sees me walk in, glances up, eyes big and speculting. He instantly moves his spindly, spider-like legs from the armrest to give me some space. I can hear some sort of maths video playing on the TV. I'm scared. At least it's not English. I'm immune to maths. It doesn't affect me anymore. Whatever logorhythmic scale this American YouTube man is yapping about isn't making my face contort at all — it's like sorcery.

This could be a way of winding down. Maths. I'm calmer now. No changes of focus or narrowing of perspective. No pathetic fallacy or magical realism. Just messes of words that don't really make sense at all.

"'D'you want to watch TV? I can turn this off if you want." Robert has his thumb on the home button.

"Leave it on. I just need a moment."

He dubiously puts the remote back down. He yawns, stretching out his arms and leaning back. I hate it when boys do that. With his parted, manspreaded legs, adams apple bobbing, head rolled back. It's idiotic. Completely idiotic. He doesn't seem too intrigued by Mr American man. The video is a guy next to a whiteboard writing millions of brain-numbing equtions. Robert is nodding along. I think I'm going to cry. I don't know why I want to right now. My hip is actually starting to throb and ache. I look down at my jeans. There's a hole in them. There's blood. It's wet. I hadn't noticed before. It's properly pouring out blood.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I exclaim, hand pressing down onto the cut through my jeans.

Robert swiftly nears me. He's looking at me up and down, hands trying to find a place to move to. It's dark in the room. He reaches for the lamp switch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding. Jesus christ. That kills. Fuck me."

He passes me his jacket and says, "Apply some pressure."

Then he runs out of the room. Fast as a plane. A man on a mission. Long curls dancing to the rhythm of his steps. Mr American man won't shut up about algebraic expressions. He's got a really bald head. Glimmering.

Robert is back. He has bandages. I don't know where he got those from. Antiseptic wipes, plasters, sweets, even a cup of tea. He was only gone for about five seconds. How did he manage to get all of that? He hands me the cup of tea and sweets whilst asking, "What happened?"

"I walked into the island like an eejit. I'm so feckin' stupid."

"Just breathe, okay. You're not an eejit. I do that every day."

I have to unzip my jeans to let him check the cut. Which is awkward, to say the least. He's looking at me like a doctor — not really caring about seeing my skin — but I'm still so shy around him. He sees me struggle with the button. He undoes it, fingers coming in contact with mine. They're slender. So very perfect for the bass guitar. Then he's unzipping my jeans. Only the tiniest bit. A mere centimetre of my knickers appear out of the top. Any more than that and I'd be flush as a tomato. I've always had a little crush on Robert. Being stuck with a really smart bass guitarist with the dreamiest eyes for three years is enough to make a person fall. The reason I've been avoiding him lately has been due to that fact. I don't want to make it obvious.

He finds the cut. It's bled through my knickers, making a big blot of dark red. He pulls down the waistband of my pants, prepared to wipe the wound. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a sob from escaping me. I'm crying. Stressed and hurt and just wanting to dissolve into nothing. The cold draft of wind isn't improving the situation. If only there was no such thing as coursework and I couldn't glide my way through university like Robert.

More and more blood. I think I might pass out. The blue-eyed boy is knelt down on the floor, knees biting into the carpet so that he can properly see where to put the bandage.

"So how's English going?" He's not looking at me. Only at the wound. I don't think he's noticed that I'm crying. I don't want him to. I cover my face with bloody hands, accidentally smearing the metallic substance onto my nose.

I don't know what to say. Do I tell him how much I regret picking it? Do I make this already awkward situation about ten times worse? I hate when people pity me. I hate when I feel like eyes are lingering for far too long when I cry. But when Robert looks at me, it's different. The pools of serenity circling his iris aren't looking down at me with a sort of aristocracy. That's how my English peers stare me down. No, instead, he's looking at me like there's a billion questions rushing across his forehead. He just needs to decide which one to ask. Or to simply say nothing. Like I am. We've both learnt how to cohabit in silence. To walk past eachother and ignore the feathers of conversation falling between us. We're busy. Always busy. Except for those perfect Monday mornings that I always look forward to. Especially the one time when he showed me around his favourite record store. He had asked me to choose him a record to buy. I walked through the entire shop, fingers shifting records, reading unfamiliar artist names. Then, I saw it, the — now bane of my existence — Hozier's 'unreal unearth'. He bought it. He'd told me he only really knew 'Take Me To Church'. I'd leant against the till as he paid and said, 'it'll change your life.' Then he'd locked himself in his room. Through the ever so thin walls — paper thin — I could hear each track hum into my room. I never got the chance to talk to him about the album. I think the thought of bringing it up made me feel sick — due to the English essay upstairs still waiting patiently to be finished.

Now there is an excuse. To talk. I'm injured. I don't want to move. He's still attempting to wrap a bandage over my stomach, then across my back until it's around my torso. I feel his fingers graze my skin with every subtle movement, along my spine, the small of my back, my abdomen, my hip bone. He's still looking at me. Searching. Like I'm a new island and he's an explorer trying to name me.

"What's up, sweetheart?" He finally talks again. His words are throaty, emananting from the pits of his throat. He's still wrapping, waiting for an answer.

"Just college. You know. It's killing me."

He shakes his head. "You're so smart."

"Says you."

He shakes his head. "Look, this might be a bit weird but sometimes when you leave random essays lying around or even creative writing. I read them. They're incredible. Your mind just works in such an interesting way."

I'm at a loss for words. He reads those? Those are usually just failed attempts that I toss aside. Scrap paper. Strange drawings. I don't even want to look at them.

"You get top grades in every test," I sigh. "I'm barely passing. I'm the worst in the class. My professors hate me, I've got so much work, I'm falling behind in every assignment—"

Then I'm properly crying. Sobbing. Breathing so heavily I think I might collapse. Heaving. Sniffling. Covering my face so he can't see me. I'm like a child. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. I was never good enough for Trinity. Why did they let me in?

Warm arms, press of skin. Just above the wound, over my chest, arms dig into my body, hugging me from behind. Head burrowing onto my shoulders, knees into the sofa. His lips ghost the back of my neck. Tears are falling down. He turns me around to face him. I hate how he's seeing me like this. My cries are usually saved for when he's out with friends or blasting music on his record player. He's never seen me this vulnerable, just utterly ripped into shreds by the hands of life. His scent is making me feel better, the tissue now on my cheek makes me feel better, the quiet words of 'breathe, let it all out, it's okay' make me feel better. He's calming me down. I start to forget what I was even crying about when I look into his eyes. This intense eye contact. Remembering his height. Even sat down, his torso is far longer than mine.

"I've got an idea," he murmurs, peeling his body away. I miss the warmth. I miss the touch.

"What is it?"

"We should go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Say it's a 'mental health field trip'." He curls his fingers to accentuate the apostrophes."Maybe down to the Cliffs of Moher. When you're all healed up of course."

"Give me a week."

"A week? I'll be the judge of that." He raises an eyebrow, now tying up the bandage.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"I'm actually first aid trained. Did it in my first week of uni." He takes a deep breath, settles back onto the sofa.

I take a sip of my tea. My eyes are surely blotchy and red. I bet there's mascara all over my face. "Thank you so much."

"No problem at all. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Is there any way I can help?" He's referring to my school work. "I was alright at English in high school. No where near as good as you are. But maybe another opinion might help you."

"I'm really stuck on a Hozier analysis."

"I never told you how much I love that album. It's perfect." His eyes glow like they do when he's talking about something he loves. Usually it's caused by talking about playing bass, but right now it's due to the beauty of Hozier's music. "I learned the bass line of De Selby part two."

"Show me. Now." I don't even ask. It's simply a demand. Anything to take my mind away from that cut still bleeding profusely. A little concert would be nice. Especially if said concert involves watching Robert play bass. I sometimes peek through the crack in the doorway to see him sat down on his bed, pick between his index and thumb, bass guitar on his lap, headphones over his ears. The pure concentration on his face is unparalleled. Notes thrum quietly through the room. He falls into any piece of music.

"Alright." He laughs at my enthusiasm. "Then I'll help with your English."

"Thanks." This is probably the most I've ever spoken to him. I'm mumbling each word, not wanting to look into his eyes.

He disappears once again. This time I hear the thudding footsteps over creaky floorboards. I hear a door squeak open, the faint patter of rain upon the ceiling, the quiet murmur of distant sirens as night blooms. It's tranquil. For a moment, I'm at peace. Until I remember the stack of unread books in my bedroom. I groan into my hands. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and—

He's back. Not empty handed. Bass in one hand, Hozier lyrics and my pencil case in the other.

"I emailed your professor about the trip. I'm sure she'll be okay with it." He's off again. He comes through the door with his amp and lead. He plugs both in.

"You're a life saver, Rob," I say.

He starts twisting around the knobs on the bass. Volume up. Then he's tuning. He smiles up at me. I think I'm staring. I think he can tell. His long fingers, tattoos, rings. It's all too much. My fingers are restlessly tapping the armrest. My legs are up on the coffee table. He pulls out his phone and plays the song. Then I'm lost in the music. His eyes are closed as he slides his fingers up and down the neck of the bass, as he stomps his feet down on the carpet to every drum beat. If only I could go back to the days I'd go to concerts every day. If only I could go back and see 'Inhaler' on a world tour, watch Robert from the crowd, completely in his element. Exhilarated, chanting, knowing every lyric like it's my mother tongue. Sometimes I wonder what life could've been like if the band had worked out. If the world did realise just how incredible they are. But, here, appreciating each pluck of every string, the grin as he watches me. I can't take that for granted.

172 notes · View notes

danger-goose · 4 months ago

Text

I am Still Here

Heya. This is my first piece of published work like....anywhere.

I proofread this twice and there's probably some weird spelling and formatting mistakes but.

This was inspired by The Magnus Archives, which is a fantastic podcast that I highly recommend.

Dublin stared at the envelope. Their hands shook slightly as they looked at the small, neat handwriting on the front of it. A stranger's handwriting, utterly unfamiliar, and yet, Dublin could swear that they had seen it before. Ordinarily, they would never entertain mail from a stranger. It was usually cries for help, or, more routinely, threats, mainly from the heavily religious, condemning them for witchcraft, as if it was their fault for being born the way they were. But this envelope had a particular smell to it. It seemed to be the smell that gets assigned to all grandparents, but, oddly enough, this specific smell tickled her psyche as belonging to their grandfather. Dublin knew that this couldn't be the case, as their grandpa had died so long ago that there were not even childhood memories of him locked away in the carefully curated vaults that made up the framework of their mind.

Inside the envelope, there were two items. A letter, and a tape record, sitting in a sad forlorn manner at the bottom. Dublin opened the letter, bracing themselves for the inevitable.

"I do not know your name. I do not know why your address is the only one that came to mind. I do not know where the assurance came from that you can help me, but it is there.

Please.

I need your help.

Listen."

Dublin, relieved that no vision had come, sighed and gently set the letter down on their coffee table. "Another loony," they said softly to themselves. "no vision, no reality."

Almost as an afterthought, they took the tape out of the envelope. It was plain, unmarked, but it had a heaviness to it. Dublin felt it more than they heard it. A droning sound rising in volume and pitch. Frantically, they rushed over to their armchair, barely sitting down before their eyes rocked back into their head and every inch of their body locked up. Tendons and muscles stark against their skin. Their face frozen in a rictus of pain. The world seemed to twist in on itself and Dublin found themselves lost in a vision.

The Archivist entered the small room in which he recorded the statements. It was packed, floor to ceiling with boxes overfilling with folders and papers. The air was cool, dry, and smelled like ink and dust. The Archivist quite liked the smell of his office, and he took a moment to savor it, pausing in his rush over to his desk. It was lit by a small desktop lamp that provided a warm, homey light. He excitedly set up his recorder, and took the manila envelope out of his messenger bag. He sat, fussing with his chair, the position of the envelope, the spot his tape recorder was put in, until everything was just right. He adjusted a picture of his granddaughter, face smiling bright, graduation cap and gown a dark blue. He took a deep breath, to steady himself, and then with a sharp click, turned his recorder on. There were a few moments before his soft, raspy voice could force its way out of his mouth.

The vision released Dublin just as suddenly as it came on. Their breath left them with great, heaving gasps as they flung the tape across the room. Frantically, Dublin put the tape and letter away, stacking as many heavy objects on top of it as possible. Their mind whirled in a myriad of thoughts and impossibilities." I don't have a grandfather" they said, over and over and over again, desperately hoping that it would make sense of what they saw. Dublin rushed over to the mantle and looked at the picture from their college graduation. It was an exact match of the picture that this known stranger had in his office, down to the shades of blue on their graduation gown.

The next day Dublin awoke, resolute in the knowledge that they would not listen to that tape. It became their mantra for the day

do not listen to the tape.

Over and over again, they repeated it to themselves.

I don't have a grandfather, and I will not listen to that tape

To clear their mind, they walked. The bustle of the city usually soothed Dublin's thoughts, but today, everything seemed to remind them of the tape. It seemed everyone on the street was talking about tape recording, or that old Walkman that their parents, grandparents, etc used to have. Dublin walked faster, muttering their mantra under their breath.

"I do not have a grandfather, and I will not listen to that tape."

The final straw was seeing a pawn shop, nondescript and dimly lit, and yet, Dublin could not draw their eyes from it. There, prominent in its display, seeming to glare at them with a weight that pressed on Dublin's very soul, was a Walkman.

"Very well. Message received." They said, in a small resigned voice.

Twenty minutes later Dublin sat in their armchair, warm coffee close by. The click as the recorder started playing rang strangely in their ears.

I've found another one. One of the statements that won't take to anything else. Every attempt to digitize it gets corrupted, and it is constantly found in places where it was not archived. Tape seems to be the only way to reign in these unruly statements, although I have not figured out why as of yet. Anyways....this is the statement of....oh, that's odd. I can't quite make out the name of the subject, but I could have sworn that it was as clear as day before I brought it down here. And the date it was taken as well, it seems to have become too blurry to read....curious. Well, regardless. Statement of an unknown person, given at an unknown date, sometime in the early 2000's based on what's left of the date, regarding...The thing that was, and was not, him. Recorded on-

The recording was interrupted by a loud screeching sound, like nails on a chalkboard and TV static all at once. Dublin had been listening at full volume, with both headphones on, to better hear that voice, so familiar, and yet so alien. They jumped, knocked their coffee over, and let out a curse. The recording continued, as the coffee dripped slowly onto the carpet. It seemed to drip slower than it should have. Instead of a steady stream of pitter patter, it fell in slow, viscous drops. Time seemed to come to a standstill as Dublin put every ounce of their faculties into making out that name through the distortion. All they ended up hearing was "by", "archivist", and “institute." The recording continued and Dublin was enraptured by it as the stain slowly spread across their floor.

I was young when I first encountered.....it, I suppose. I couldn't really tell you when the thing first showed up. I know it was....ten, maybe 15 years ago? I'm not really sure. It has felt like a lifetime though.....Anyways, I knew something was wrong one day when I was brushing my teeth and looking at myself in the mirror. The reflection....wasn't me. Well, it WAS me but it also.....wasn't. The eyes were....different. Sure, they were my eyes, mud brown and wincing slightly as I scrubbed at my teeth. I was deathly afraid of the dentist so I was quite thorough in my dental habits, but that's besides the point. They were my eyes, but...something else was looking out at them. I could tell. I tilted my head to the side, and...whatever it was in the mirror did the same, but it was...wrong. It was my face in the mirror, it WAS me, but it also wasn't. There was something...ethereal, different, in the way it tilted its head to match mine. I couldn't point it out,what the difference was, but I KNEW it wasn't me looking at myself, as much as I also knew that it was. This continued for a number of years, unsettling, but relatively harmless. I avoided mirrors, and reflections as much as I could, because it did follow me. Every reflection, every picture even, it was there. Looking back at me with that...oddness about it. I did try showing people of course, but, you can probably guess how that went over, and I eventually gave up. No meds made it go away, and believe me, I tried quite a few. No, the real trouble started when it began to take pieces of me away. It started small. Childhood memories, first crushes, old hobbies, stuff like that began to disappear from my mind. I thought it was just a normal thing that happened when one was….however old I was. But it progressed. Days and weeks, hours and minutes, all disappearing into this…haze. There were entire years that I couldn't remember sometimes. I was never really quite sure what day it was, or if I was dreaming or not. “Ah, good old scatterbrained-”

Dublin flinched at the screeching, rushing static sound that obscured the name.

people would say. “He'd lose his head if it wasn't attached to his body.” Little did they know that it wasn't my head I needed to be worried about losing. I remember the mirror though. Quite clearly in fact. I was stuck in this reality of not knowing who I was, not knowing if I was awake or dreaming, not knowing where this…thing started and where I ended. Because that thing that wasn't me, was most definitely me. I was staring at this thing in the mirror, trying to make sense of why it was doing this, why it felt the need to be me. I realized that there was one thing that I've never tried. I had never tried asking It why it was so dead set on being me. So I did. I asked why it was taking me and making me not. The thing smiled then, and I was definitely not smiling, although…I suppose I must have been. “I am you.” The thing's voice was my voice. But it hung and twisted oddly through the air, as if the sound of it was too heavy for the space around it. This…infuriated me. For the first time in who knows how long I felt something other than the confusion. I felt rage. Pure, righteous fury that this thing would dare claim to be me. I struck out, deciding that if this thing that was and was not me resided in reflections, then it was inside this mirror at this point in time, and that I could hurt it by shattering the mirror. I was wrong. I was so very….very….wrong. There was no sound of shattering glass, that tinkling sound that heralded my freedom from my oppressor. There was no screech of pain as I expected. Instead, my fist sank into the mirror with a dull, wet thud. It was….warm. it felt like a thick liquid enveloping my hand. Soft, warm, and utterly unyielding. It…sucked me in, for lack of a better word. I'm not really sure all that happened, but when I was able to make sense of the world again, I found myself in a long, endless hallway filled with an endless number of doors and mirrors. And it was hot. I began to wander, opening door after door, wandering down hallway after endless hallway. All in that heavy, sweltering heat. I could see out of the mirror, Into the world that the thing that was me now inhabited. It….was me. Almost flawlessly it was me, and I experienced what it experienced. If it did act oddly, there were a few people who noticed. They would ask if I…if It was feeling alright, and…I…it…we would brush it off with a quick “oh, I'm just tired. Late night and all.” While I watched from the reflections and tried to scream that I was still here, desperately hoping someone would notice. No one did, because that thing was me. That's been my life. I'm not sure how long I've been inside those twisting, hot passages. Today, or at least I think it was today, I opened one of my doors and saw…it. Saw me, really. It…I let myself leave. It let me come down here to tell you what happened. I do not know why. I hope that this is a permanent thing, my freedom. But, the way my reflection is smiling at me, I believe that my hope may be all for naught. Before it takes me back into the maze, I need you to know.

My name is-

Dublin barely even registered the distortion this time.

And I AM STILL HERE.

Dublin felt their hairs stand on end as the recording lapsed into silence for a few moments, before the rasping voice of the Archivist, their Archivist, broke the silence

Well….that was…something. No further investigation appears to have been done, and without a name or a specific date, there's not much I can do to follow up on this. This statement…unnerved me. Especially since there have been a few times of late that I haven't recognized my own face in the mirror. It's obviously my face, and it's just a byproduct of me getting older. My…roguish good looks weren't going to last forever!

The Archivist laughed a small, gentle laugh that Dublin could have sworn they knew.

Anyways. I think I'll go visit my grandchild now. This statement deeply unsettled me. Dublin always has a way of driving the darkness away. Recording ends.

The click of player stopping deafened all else as Dublin tried and tried in vain to remember their grandfather that never was.

#the magnus archives #fanfic #oc's #the spiral

3 notes · View notes

bludstaine · 2 months ago

Text

suffer does the wolf — crawling to thee .

( emilia clarke. cis woman. she/her ) in krovograd , survival is a test of both skill and morality — will AOIFE VALENTINE withstand the horrors , or will the city break them ? over the comms , their voice cuts through the static : “I’M MORE WOLF THAN WOMAN, ANYWAY.�� our records confirm they are a THIRTY year old ALPHA - 04 , assigned to GHOST HOUNDS for 2 YEARS. field reports describe them as AMBITIOUS, COMPASSIONATE , though firsthand accounts suggest they are equally MISTRUSTING, IMPULSIVE under pressure. there’s something about them — something in the way they move , speak , or fight — that brings to mind STARBURSTER ( FONTAINES DC ). maybe it's just a coincidence. or maybe , it says everything.

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : aoife ( ee - fah ) valentine age : thirty gender / pronouns : cis woman she / her orientation : bisexual occupation : alpha - 04 , assigned to ghost hounds

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye colour : blue hair colour : silver build : petite, muscular height : 5′1″ piercings : ear lobes, tragus and helix tattoos : neck, left arm, right hand distinctive features : white hair and stern eyes face claim : emilia clarke

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

disclaimer — i know next to nothing about the american education system so ignore and mistakes in my google research below!

born in dublin, ireland to an american mother and an irish father, aoife valentine was faced with struggle from the beginning. inner city dublin in the 1980s was a mountain to climb rather than a life to live — and the valentine family climbed and climbed, even when the rocks fell out from under their ragged feet. a place titled the liberties, where the children ran dirty footed through the streets, where the spirits were high even through the poverty faced by the working class. aoife shared a brilliant mind from a young age, though there resources simply weren't there to nurture her through her schooling. it was suggested, sadly, that she could be brilliant should she attend a school better equipped to aid in her abilities. arguments broke out between a mother who felt there was a life to live across the ocean and a father who had checked out mentally a long time ago. no, he had said, had refused to give their family a chance at something more. resentment built, growing until there was nothing resembling what had once been love between aoife's parents, until her father grew mean and her mother grew angry — and so she left in the night with her eleven year old daughter tucked against her side. she had saved and saved for plane tickets, had put aside what she could for years until they found themselves fleeing to washington d.c. where her mother had some family that they could stay with. in her schooling, aoife began to thrive, but it was socially that she fell back. she was younger, pushed up through her grades and bearing a thick dublin accent which the other kids made fun of. she kept her head down, studied; but she also had a mouth which got her into trouble, which got her bullied or teased. she hated going to school, but she loved the challenge of it, too. she loved that she was good at something, that things went quiet in her head when faced with a scientific equation, with theory regarding old english literature, with a new language to learn. her mother saw a bright future ahead of her, and so she encouraged a fifteen year old aoife to accept the offer from georgetown university to attend early. she was twenty three when she graduated medical school, armed with an excellent education and dreams of becoming a surgeon, of helping others; her career took a hard swing when she found herself enlisting in the navy in order to follow the woman she had been in love with into the army. aoife had met carla in her final years of studies, had fallen deeply and irrevocably, and soon began to share in her ideals of joining the army. bioterrorism was everywhere since the raccoon city incident, people were scared, and she wanted to be a part of something big. she trained, she grew stronger physically than she ever had though she would be capable of. carla would later go missing in action, lost during a classified misison which even aoife knew nothing about. she fell down a rabbit hole of questions and theories, until she finally landed in the bsaa; desperate for answers and in way over her head.

#ops416:intro #why is she giving young sheldon a lil bit?

4 notes · View notes

forensicated · 9 months ago

Text

04X40 - The Silent Gun

Malcolm attends a call at a house after a report of a disturbance. However upon talking to the complainants he realises it's much deeper. Bailiffs had been trying to force the door of a bedsit open when the man inside released several rounds from a gun, injuring one of the Bailiffs hands. Malcolm questions why he wasn't told that a gun was involved and the middle class woman admits she was rather flustered to find out her tenant had a gun. She also forgot to ask for an ambulance and to mention that the man with a gun is still inside the house, locked in his room on the top floor.

Brownlow has a holiday that he's just about to leave for as news of the shooting comes in. Malcolm has a look up the stairs but there's no movement.

Bob. Tony and Derek get their guns and bullets signed out to them by Brownlow and Derek is assigned negotiator. Brownlow will be the scene coordinator, Bob is to be his runner and the others are back up.

The woman tells Malcolm that his name is 'Dublin' and she assumes he's Irish because of his name but she's never actually spoken to him. He hasn't paid rent for 6 months and is rather reclusive. She's been through all the legal routes to get him out but he won't leave hence the bailiffs being there.

Jim is sent to try and get access to the house opposite to gain an observation point. A crowd gathers despite Yorkie trying to get everyone to go home and stay inside. Bob and Derek take up positions with their guns with Derek making his way into the house.

Derek slowly starts climbing the stairs. He gets outside the room in question without harm and takes a long deep breath in. "Derek, any sign of life?" asks Brownlow. "Just my guts turning over, sir."

Jim couldn't get in the house suggested as an observation point as the woman he encountered freaked out. He's had to go to the next house along and reports a thick curtain over the window in question.

The firearms boss arrives dressed in a suit and is introduced to Brownlow. Soon after a group of armed police arrive and take over from Bob to allow him inside to assist Derek and Charles. The boss of the firearms is awesome and asks for a canteen van to be brought because he's there to make sure everyone is safe and calm and that the job ends in the same way, however long it takes. If it's not and not everyone is alive at the end - he considers that he hasn't done his job.

Yorkie has to deal with an idiot who wants to leave his house and dodge the police to get to the local shop. He refuses to go out the back, even when Yorkie points out that he's likely to get shot! Thankfully Claire's neighbour is a lot more reasonable and agrees to keep out of the way and in the back of her house.

Derek attempts to make contact with the armed police around him. He asks Mr Dublin if he can hear him and is answered by a toilet flush and Ted making his way out of the bathroom.🤣 Derek tries again but Dublin remains silent. Derek tells him that the bailiff is OK and not seriously injured. He asks him to leave the gun in his room and come out for a chat so he can help him with his problems. Dublin doesn't answer and there's no movement inside. He asks for the man's first name and is still met with silence.

Alec reports to Brownlow that the press would like to come nearer. He refuses and tells Alec to nick them if they try it before muttering to Ted that perhaps they should let them through as the only good journalist is a dead one. The middle-class house owner beams at Charles as she tells him that her brother was a journalist for the Telegraph.

Viv shows Brownlow some post addressed to a Mr Lublin from Poland that haven't been collected. She suggests that the name they've been given for 'Mr Dublin' is wrong and that he's 'Mr Lublin' instead. There's also an old rent book in the same name.

Bob pops upstairs. "... Do you speak Polish?" he asks Derek.

Technical Support blunder into the house and ask Derek how he's going. Derek tells them he's asked for an interpreter as there's been no movement or response yet. The armed officer's boss silences them all when he hears movement...

Outside, the canteen van is doing a roaring trade. Taffy asks Claire how you get all the hedgehogs in the world on a single matchbox. Claire has no idea.

The extra we've been talking about, Bryan Jacobs gets to speak in this episode! He says 'not again' and 'he is!' when Yorkie asks him who's winning their game of cards in the back of the police van.

Robin moans about how long it's taking, claiming the sooner it's over the better. Yorkie takes Alec a tea, he pouts because it's not coffee and sends him back to get him a sandwich.

The house owner is starting to get concerned that it won't be over by the time two students she tutors are due to arrive at 8pm. Malcolm and Ken make them all jump - including startling the snoozing Ted - by celebrating as a goal is scored on TV. [Very surprised Brownlow doesn't bollock them given what they're there for!]

Derek gets the interpreter to ask if he'd like a drink, and Mr Lublin continues ignoring them. "Perhaps he's on the wagon." Derek drawls before checking in with the tech guys who tell him there's half an inch to go before their probes are through the wall. "... Let's hope you don't come out behind the wardrobe again." Derek mutters earning himself a glare.

Brownlow talks to the armed officer's boss who tells him it doesn't matter that they've been waiting four hours, he still needs to bring it to a peaceful resolution. Brownlow points out the streetful of people wanting to return to their homes and an MP moaning about overkill.

Yorkie heads to a local shop to buy a packet of biscuits and speaks to the shopkeeper who tells him that he thought the Polish tenant had gone because he hadn't been in for months whereas before he was a regular visitor for his cereal. Yorkie asks if he ever spoke to the man and the shopkeeper says no, there was no point. He's deaf.

Outside the crowd are getting moody and wanting to return to their homes. One man in particular tries to push his way through Alec. He gets rough and ends up getting bundled into a police van to calm down. Another old lady reports her rice pudding that she left on a low flame might be about to spoil so Taffy is sent in to turn it off!

Brownlow speaks to the armed officers and explains that he's deaf and claims that they've wasted time trying to speak to him. The armed officer points out that if he's heard nothing he's more dangerous as he'd panic and fire at them in shock. The police dog barks at Charles as the man walks off like he's telling him off 🤣

Ted goes over to relieve Jim who has needed a pee for an hour. He reckons they should have gone in as soon as they were in place and took him by surprise and the job now has too much heavy thinking.

Tech are now going for their third set of holes after the last set also didn't work. Derek points out it could be a wall-to-wall bookcase but the man insists he knows it'll be right that time. The heat monitor is also not helping as what is seen could be body heat or also could be a fire! "When you join up those once little holes you'd drilling we can lift the roof up and have a look, can't we!?" Derek snarks.

Taffy tries to get into the house of the old lady and ends up breaking the window of her back door as everything else is locked. He's in the wrong house as he's confronted by two men and finds no rice pudding on the stove.

With no further movement, the officers prepare to go in with a police dog. The armed officers and a light are prepared and Viv asks the lady to stay where she is. They break the door in and push through a barricade to get the dog in before pushing in themselves. Inside they find the dog sat beside the old man who has literally curled into a ball with his hands over his head. The gun is on the bed.

With everything resolved and the old man arrested, the specialist forces leave. Derek and the suspect are mobbed by the press. Jim and Ted watch on in silence with Ted turning to Jim.

".... So what was the score?"

2 notes · View notes

bigheartedbibliophile · 9 months ago

Text

Dublin Ink by Sienna Blake

Rating: ⭐⭐.5

Summary: 🥵💔💀💉

SPOILERS

This book is about a grumpy tattoo artist, whose business is failing, and a juvie who is assigned to work in the tattoo shop in a rehabilitation program.

This book had a great idea behind it, but I felt it was executed poorly. The writing felt all over the place to me. The spice was there, which was good, but I felt that the plot could use some help.

The book is forgettable. It takes place in Ireland, but I can’t even remember the female main character’s name.

Also, I felt like the accents were all over the place. Sometimes the male main character would have an Irish accent, and sometimes they wouldn’t. It was just very strange and I’m not sure if the author had an editor. There were spelling mistakes throughout the story. I think if the author were to revisit this book and flesh out some of the details, it would become a 3 or 4-star book.

I don’t think I will be reading anything else by this author, just left a bad taste in my mouth (no pun intended)

I did feel that the characters had the potential to be interesting, and characters I could care about, but overall it fell short.

Read June 2023

#bookworm #bigheartedbibliophile #book review #booklover #book quotes #bookish #bookstagram #reading #spice #booktok #smut #not sure I'd recommend this lol #book reviews #book blogger #book blog #dublin ink #sienna blake

2 notes · View notes

help-in-assignment · 1 year ago

Text

Assignment Help in Ireland for A+ writing — helpinassignment

Looking for reliable assignment help in Ireland? Look no further than helpinassignment. Our experienced team of professionals is dedicated to providing you with top-quality assistance to ensure your academic success.

#assignment help in Ireland #assignment help Ireland #assignment help in Dublin

1 note · View note

umichenginabroad · 11 months ago

Text

Week 1: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (+ a Ferry)

Ciao!

In the past week, I have used Italian trains, buses, taxis, a shuttle van, planes, and taken a ferry ride, so this blog post will be dedicated to transportation.

To begin, I was supposed to fly from Chicago to Dublin, then Dublin to Naples, where CIS Abroad (the company hosting the program) provided transport shuttles to either the dorms or shared apartment accommodations in Sorrento. The initial long-haul flight wasn’t too bad, I read for the majority of the flight and was fed some half-decent food.

Unfortunately, due to delays on the tarmac in Chicago, I missed my connecting flight in Dublin and had to figure out another way to Naples. I luckily discovered someone else also in my program in my same flight and we navigated Europe together. Since the next flight out to Naples wasn’t until the following evening, we decided to go instead to Rome and then brave the Italian train system to navigate to Naples.

(Me and a fellow study abroad student taking a shuttle to our new terminal in Dublin)

To preface, figuring out the train system seemed to be one of the biggest learning curves people that I have talked to have encountered in the past, and as such it was something I was nervous about coming to Italy. Trains (and ferries, as it turns out) are frequently late and don’t align with posted schedules, tickets have to not only be bought but also validated at the station, and the platform numbers commonly change right before arrival. We were supposed to be briefed on how to handle it during our orientation the first day, however we were thrown straight in the deep end! We used one of the most common websites for booking high-speed trains, ItaliaRail, and managed to book a train from the Rome airport to the main Roman train station (surprisingly far from the airport), then one from Rome to Naples for a total cost of around 65 euros.

(Red passenger train with volcano in background)

Since the first train was a regional/local train, there were no assigned seats and thus we had to validate our tickets just before boarding through, however for the high speed cross-country train to Naples, since we had an assigned seat, we did not have to validate (something that stressed us out as you can face fines if you don’t properly validate tickets). Thankfully, everyone we talked to was very nice and helped us figure it out.

Once in Naples, we shared a taxi to the airport with two other travelers we met along the way (5 euros each) and waited until a few others from the program landed and got the last transfer shuttle to Sorrento. Finally, after over 36 hours of traveling (almost 16 more than intended) we arrive with a leg up on the local transport compared to our peers.

Just earlier today, I took a bus with two other friends from Sorrento to Positano, another town along the Almalfi coast, for 10 euros. Getting the ticket was very easy, as the ticket booth at the bus station was clearly marked. The bus was about 30 minutes late, but that is to be expected for Italian buses. After around 45 minutes and many many curvy and windy roads, we got off at Positano and explored the town. On the way back, we bought ferry tickets for 19 euros (cheaper with cash than online) and waited in a long line to board. As with the bus, the ferry was quite late, but actually took less time to get back to Sorrento. I think the ferry is my new favorite form of transportation as I loved sitting on the top deck and watching the coastline go by.

(view of Sorrentine peninsula from top deck of ferry)

Overall, I am quite proud of myself for figuring out how to get around on the fly, but I definitely took away some important lessons. First, be patient, both with yourself and the transportation. Everyone gets lost/confused sometimes and navigating a new country is daunting. Be willing to ask for help if you don’t know what to do! It’s better than facing fines or unknowingly breaking any transit laws. Additionally, some places only take cash, make sure to always carry some cash! Lastly, if you can, TAKE DRAMAMINE, especially for the buses. I am not one to get car/motion sick, but the switch backs and coastal curves are no joke and all three of us were very close to turning green by the time we got off the bus.

This post is getting long, but I wanted to share some details of Italian public transportation as that was one of my biggest questions going into this program.

See you next week!

Marika Ruppart

Mechanical Engineering

Engineering in Sorrento, Italy

#UmichEnginAbroad #IPESorrento #MarikaRuppart #IPESummer24 #Italy

2 notes · View notes

ts13erastour · 2 years ago

Text

You asked and we write!

We all know ticketmaster and despite that we keep having doubts about it, but what a lot of us have never use is AXS, the site where a lot of us have been selected for the UK/Ireland midnights presale. So here we go, an informative post about The Eras Tour AXS presale.

How can I know if I've been selected to the AXS presale? If you have received this email then you've been selected for the midnights UK/Ireland presale. you can be chosen for AXS or Ticketmaster. It'll say it like this:

If you got chosen for the AXS presale then you have to create an AXS UK account with THE SAME EMAIL YOU REGISTERED TO GET THE CODES (it is the one you used to buy midnights in the UK store or the one you used for the No Purchase Necessary Form that was in the Taylor UK in October), if not, you won't be able to access the presale.

When will they send the codes? The 6th and the 7th of July at 10 AM British time. If you don't receive the codes then you have to contact with their Customer Service: https://umusicstoresupport.zendesk.com/hc/en-us/requests/new

Your code will be valid FOR ALL THE UK AND IRELAND DATES but you CAN ONLY PURCHASE FOUR (4) TICKETS IN TOTAL. It won't be valid for the rest of the Europe dates and if you try to purchase more than 4 tickets in total it won't let you.

They have assigned 2 different ticket providers in the attempt that it'll be harder for us to crash the sites due to so many people trying to get tickets.

The tickets have been evenly splitted between the 2 different provides and in theory there's no difference amongst the tickets they're gonna sell.

Your AXS code will be valid for the Dublin dates on Ticketmaster (only the Dublin dates) ans you can't buy Dublin tickets on Ticketmaster if you already bought 4 tickets on AXS.

The presale dates and times are:

Monday 10th July 2023

11:00am BST

London | Wembley Stadium | Friday, 21 June 2024

Edinburgh | Murrayfield Stadium | Friday, 7 June 2024

1:00pm BST

London | Wembley Stadium | Thursday, 15 August 2024

Edinburgh | Murrayfield Stadium | Saturday, 8 June 2024

3:00pm BST

Edinburgh | Murrayfield Stadium |

Sunday, 9 June 2024

Tuesday 11th July 2023

11:00am BST

London | Wembley Stadium | Saturday, 22 June 2024

Liverpool | Anfield Stadium | Thursday, 13 June 2024

1:00pm BST

London | Wembley Stadium | Friday, 16 August 2024

Liverpool | Anfield Stadium | Friday, 14 June 2024

3:00pm BST

Liverpool | Anfield Stadium | Saturday, 15 June 2024

Wednesday 12th July 2023

11:00am BST

London | Wembley Stadium | Sunday, 23 June 2024

1:00pm BST

London | Wembley Stadium | Saturday, 17 August 2024

3:00pm BST

Cardiff | Principality Stadium | Tuesday, 18 June 2024

Friday 14th July 2023

11:00am IST

Dublin | Aviva Stadium | Friday, 28 June 2024

1:00pm IST

Dublin | Aviva Stadium | Saturday, 29 June 2024

3:00pm IST

Dublin | Aviva Stadium | Sunday, 30 June 2024

If you have no longer access to the email you registered with then contact the Customer Service, your code had been generated and is waiting for you!

All codes are non transferable

For accessible tickets you need to contact you ticket provider :(

We hope this post has been of help, if you have any more doubts let us know and we'll do everything we can to solve them!

#eras tour #swifties #taylor swift #the eras tour #taylor's version #AXS presale #midnights presale

17 notes · View notes

jakeperalta · 2 years ago

Note

Why is the Midnights pre-sale email so confusing??? If I’ve been assigned Ticketmaster, can I attempt to buy tickets for any UK show or Dublin show? Or just Dublin, because the highlighting and wording makes it seem like it is and I’m just confused 😭 can anyone help pls?

any show! it's just that dublin dates are only available via ticketmaster (so presumably people who put dublin as one of their preferences were all linked to ticketmaster). however I'm not sure how the codes will work in terms of whether they're for assigned for specific cities or dates, I suppose we'll find out with the codes

#answered #anonymous #taylor swift

4 notes · View notes

mightybog · 9 months ago

Text

Certified Irish person here with my own tried and test resources for learning Irish! Disclaimer, I am not fluent but you could call me a lifelong learner.

General Info

I could say a lot here but I'll start with some general info. I encourage anyone interested to go and look up these things and learn more, you'll be well on your way if you do!

We refer to the Irish language either as Irish or as Gaeilge.

It's taught as a mandatory subject in schools in the Rep. of Ireland from primary all the way to secondary level. In my opinion however, while there are genuinely good teachers out there, the syllabus leads a lot to be desired, many are backing its reform. Most of us have a similar level of Irish unless we have an Irish speaking background or have put in a lot of effort.

Irish has a different alphabet to English, some letter combinations will sound different than expected to English speakers, e.g., bh is a 'v' sound. We also use accents called fadas: á, é, í, ó, ú. The YouTube Channel Gaeilge i mo chroí is great for these kinds of explanations (see below).

We have a unique sentence structure: verb, subject, object.

There are 11 irregular verbs. All others have a predictable structure.

There are special mutations known as séimhiú and urú, these create differences in words depending on the situation/sentence structure. For example, Dublin in Irish is 'Baile Átha Cliath,' but if I wanted to say I live in Dublin it's 'táim i mo cónaí i mBaile Átha Cliath.'

There are three different counting systems, you'll find a good explanation here. Once you've read this, there are plenty of YouTube videos that teach you each one.

We don't have proper words for yes and no. Positive and negative replies to questions will use the verb back at the question asker.

There are three primary dialects but we tend to understand each other alright most of the time!

Online Resources!

I promise you Irish isn't dead, there's a lot to get your teeth into!

Get used to how it sounds! TG4 is the name of our national Irish language TV station and the Irish is usually very clear. I'm partial to documentaries myself, I recommend Fíorscéal (general topics) and Domhan an Dúlra (nature). It's all available online but you'll likely need a VPN to access it. I can also recommend a Raidío na Life, a radio station based in Dublin. You can listen back to shows of your choice or listen live.

Bitesize Irish: They have short explanation and pronunciation videos on YouTube, interspersed with some culture. On their website they also have a free learning challenge called Gaeilge Gach Lá (Irish Everyday), they will email you every day with a small assignment for a calendar week and send you a newsletter every week thereafter. This is highly beginner friendly and mostly gets you used to the idea of daily practice and effort. For those who really want to get stuck in, they have some paid resources including connecting you with other learners so you can practice.

Gaeilge i mo chroí: A really great all-rounder of a YouTube channel. They explained some grammar rules that I'd never quite got my head around in school.

Úna-Minh Kavanagh: I cannot sing Úna's praises enough. I'm sure my knowledge of her only scratches the surface of her achievements but she's translated Among Us into Irish, she streams games in Irish (she's Yunitex on Twitch), she forages in Irish and she teaches you how to use existing online resources and communities in your learning journey. She really specialises in the "how" of learning the language today. She is also a published author and she speaks out against racism in Ireland.

Online dictionary: foclóir.ie

Similar resource to the above with more explanation and pronunciations in the three dialects for learners: teanglann.ie

Books:

Gaeilge gan Stró! by Éamonn Ó Dónaill at beginners level and Gramadach gan Stró by the same. These books helped me return to Irish as an adult and are geared towards adults.

These books and other physical resources can be bought from siopa.ie, which ships worldwide.

Courses:

Gaelchultúr, the publishers of Gaeilge gan Stró offer group online courses. There are others but this is one I've tried myself. They use Gaeilge gan Stró as their course book.

Well, this post was longer than I expected it to be but for any of you who decide to give Irish a go, go n-éirí libh!

#irish language #gaeilge #learning languages #reform Irish in schools #learning resources #Irish is not dead #fellow learners please add the resources you use!

1K notes · View notes