#celtic au

[thegoldenshi-shi]

Celtic Malleus talking with Egyptian Leona.

[c0gito]

hmmmmmmmm how about narinder pre-godhood? or maybe baby lamb?

also i dunno, might be cool if you drew some pikmin... kicks a pebble or whatever..

unfortunately i am not well versed in pikmin.. but i am very insane abt my lamb lore

Also LAMB NAME REVEAL!1!1!

Ok so, to preface, I’m irish and based the lamb’s culture off of celtic mythology so yeah

The lamb’s mother, Dana, comes from the name of the mother goddess in irish mythology who gave name to the ‘tuatha de danann’ (tribe of goddess danu, tribe of the gods) which is what i base the lamb’s close following on (stay with me here) So its kinda to say that from the lamb’s mother giving birth to them, she effectively raised all ‘children’ (following) of the lamb if you get what im saying?

The lamb themself takes the name of the famed goddess Ériu who is the matron goddess of ireland and gave it its name. SO staying on theme that the cult is named after the lamb themself, it fit nicely imo.

The lamb was born just as the reaping began, so their mother chose a name she hoped would bring them luck to spare them from the reaping. Hoping it would bring them to safer lands with ‘bounty and abundance’ as the name means. It was wishful thinking, although she knew not what her child was to become the very symbol the name portrayed.

sorry i’m really bad at putting my ideas into words it’s so late so i hope it’s comprehensible 😭🙏

[pigeonstab]

welp, that's not how I thought this design would go lol

here are the other ways I wanted it to go:

so y'know normal Victorian British thing? but then I decided I wanted him to be celtic.

SO! Nightmare is actually 2500~ish years old, he was in Britain before the Roman invasion and is a celtic pagan! (I did my best to do reasearch but if anybody can correct me on anything pls tell me, I neither want to be inaccurate or worse offensive.) I took a lot of inspo (like a lot a lot ;TvT) from the design of Viviana from Rebis:

[kandidandi]

Reincarnation Au :>

Y/N is a servant for the God of Life (Sun) and the God of Death (Moon)

After y/n dies saving the gods from an attack. Sun and moon both agree y/n should be reincarnated because of their loyalty to them. However, after many many lifetimes sun and moon find themselves falling for y/n. They know y/n should already be in the afterlife but they can’t stop themselves from reincarnating y/n over and over just to be with them.

Over time sun and moon have loved y/n romantically, platonically and queer-platonically. Sun and moon don’t mind at all they just want to be with y/n no matter what kind of love it is <3

After y/n dies they end up at the start of a long path with moon waiting for them there. As y/n and moon walk down the path y/n is able to remember all their previous lives and can talk to moon about them. It’s bittersweet though as y/n knows they’re going to be reborn, meaning they wont have any previous memories of sun and moon until they inevitably die again. moon gives y/n a kiss on the hand as they leave and another kiss on the hand once they meet in life again.

Both sun and moon can shapeshift into any type of form (including human) but they have their preferences, moon prefers to be a crow while sun prefers to be a deer. 

my brain hurts so bad and cant rewrite all of the stuff about this au so please direct yourself towards this post where there’s a lot more things you can read :’>

very very big thank you to @certified-handler @robinette-green and @ofsunnydays-and-moonlitnights for helping flesh out this au <3<3<3!!!!!

[macaroni-stars]

I have made this edit at the very start of my hyperfixation and it has been my bread and butter ever since

[patritxi]

Jonsa edit inspired by the tale of The Morrigan from the Irish-Celtic Mythology.

Sansa Stark as The Phantom Queen, goddess of war, death and fate.

[prinxlegolass]

Smut War Fic: Exit Wound

Well, this wasn't a war I was going to sit out. Please enjoy my 6th fic. First attempt at smut, but as you have already seen from my TrAuMa meme, it also has a lot of angst in it. I hope you enjoy it x

Rating: Explicit

CW/TW:

These are expanded upon further in the summary if you'd like to also read that for context, but take care of yourself :)

- Demon in Snake Form / Goddess in Human Form Sexual Encounter. Both are aware of what the other is, and both can consent

- Slight dubcon due to magic, feeling highly connected to someone and a sense of not being in control as a result, more so due to an inherent primal instrinct. All beings are acting on free will and are able to consent for the smut bits

- In the epilogue, a character describes a murder he witnesses without gory detail (the victim is not Aziraphale or Crowley). The nature of the murder is patriarchal and of spiritual colonisation in nature, but there is no sexual assault / motive. The fic can be read without the epilogue if you're curious but want to skip this subject.

-Angst ending

- Snake bite, snake sex and descriptions that could trigger claustrophobia

Summary

Hell sends Crowley to 5th Century Ireland, much to his chagrin, to investigate a mysterious source of power. Uphill from a deep rainforest he finds an ancient structure with something far more ancient and far more powerful than any blessing or curse he’d seen before.

This is a story of love, of loss, coming home, and everything that never was. Join me for a re-telling of an Irish Celtic Myth that has been sanitised and long-forgotten. Taking place in one hundred years into Early Christian Ireland, it weaves themes of spiritual colonisation with the ineffability of a great plan and the parts of us that are never truly lost.

But this is a smut war - and you can expect a sexy divine being, human sex and snake sex; not just hemi-penes, but hemi-clitorae! Sex magic rituals being used as a sensual tool for transformation and rebirth; and plenty of vulva pleasure and gratification.

There are three (because it’s a magic number) sexual configurations - demon in snake form / Goddess in human form, Snake / Snake, Human / Human. That culminates in a healing and surrendering love.

The epilogue features angst with an unhappy ending. As you can imagine, the resistance to Christianity did not end well for the Irish Pagans. In the epilogue, one character describes witnessing the murder (no sexual assault) of another. But the story stands well enough on its own without the epilogue if you want to skip this part.

5,014 word count

Excerpt:

“I’ve been waiting for you, Crowley.”

“Who are you?” Crowley hissed. His aggressive exterior betraying the powerlessness he felt to draw nearer.

“I am many things, Crowley. I am one of many mothers; both death and rebirth. I am the inhale and the exhale; the dawn that rises after the cold, hard winter; I bring joy and I am feared; and soon, none will remember…”

Crowley inched forward, concertina twinings marking the dirt, barely sensing the heat of the fire in the woman’s lure.

“Your name!” He growled insistently.

“You already know it, Crowley. Look deep inside you, my beloved serpent,” was her soft response with kind eyes. Crowley flicked his tongue at the fingers of her extended palm. The woman’s skin was steeped in the essence of her words; the taste of finely plucked sycamore seeds carried lovingly by the wind to pre-destined soils. Tears doomed never to fall filled Crowley’s heart as the thread that connected him to this woman tugged him closer on her arm; the most he had ever touched or been touched by a human in his snake-form. Only she wasn’t human, was she? A foreign name Crowley had always known moved from the back of his mouth to dance on his tongue.

“Caoira…”

Green eyes smiled through tears at the demon’s whisper.

“Yes my dear. It’s me. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Crowley’s thought-form longed to ask questions. About knowledge, that began before words; curiosity, that existed before symbols; and meaning, established before sounds. But he had already found his answer in her eyes. Another Almighty; new and much more ancient. A Goddess.

Crowley’s body took over once again, unable to resist the draw to her. Climbing her arm and shoulders, his tongue could not cease flicking, planting forked kisses on her neck. Quivering, he meandered down her shoulder, elongating his form to drape around her. Powerless over the compulsion to place his chin on every part of her body, Crowley’s tail vibrated in her lap and Caoira breathed sighs of joy in his scaled ministrations.

Fingers that had borne the very wells of the earth stroked the obsidian pearls of Crowley’s back, before coming to delicately caress the ridges of his snout and brow. Crowley flinched in the touch, haunted by memories of the fall; of centuries spent curled around the cooling magma of igneous rock. Curled around any form of connection to replace the Almighty’s as his wings burned.

 

Coos of Caoira’s attunement honeyed Crowley’s ears, and with no way of crying, sweating or spitting it out; his serpent-form became fevered with fury for what had happened to him. His body flailed in twisted, hissing reverberations in the centre of the Goddess’s crossed legs. In his uncontrolled anguish, Crowley felt his jaw unhinge and his fangs hook into Caoira's thighs, breaking her skin. Punishment for his other mother, who had placed a similar hook in his heart only to cut the cord in the end.  This time, he was never letting go.

Read more on AO3

Thank you:

Goskiagarkowska2 on pixabay for the image. A huge thank you to @sohoscribblers who have been amazing friends since I joined their group. Big thanks to @azeutreciathewicked @aidaran-alha @playdohangel and @rhosmeinir for the Betas x

[timperi-fan]

"Are you alright?"

A calm voice broke through Timmy's panic, and he blinked. He always thought that if he ever found himself being mugged or attacked, he would stay calm and handle himself with dignity.

Instead, when his walk home from his shitty fast food job had been interrupted by a knife pointed at his face, Timmy had froze.

He still felt frozen now, sitting on the asphalt (when had he gotten on the ground?) with the night chill biting into his palms and leaking through his jeans. His heart was still slamming in his chest, even though the threat was gone.

The threat was gone?

The figure standing over him moved, and Timmy flinched. His wide eyes darted up, absorbing the stranger's concerned gaze and his mask and God, that was so much purple—

"Hey, hey, it's okay... You're in shock," the masked man said gently, like he was trying to settle a spooked animal.

Timmy worked his jaw a couple of times. He swallowed; squinted up at the man. "...Sídhe?"

It was. Sídhe — Dimmsdale's resident superhero — stood over Timmy, bending over to be closer to his height. The wings on his back cast scattered light over Timmy's prone form. The sound of his name made the hero grin in relief.

"You're okay. I'm so glad." He offered Timmy his hand. "Can you stand?"

Timmy nodded. He still felt shaky, but he was calming down some, now. He took Sídhe's hand on autopilot, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

He always thought that Sídhe would be taller in person, but the TV had a way of making things seem bigger than reality. He never thought he would be meeting Sídhe in person at all.

"It's a good thing that I was doing a late patrol today — I saw that man try to mug you," Sídhe explained, his voice tight with fury. Despite that, his grip on Timmy's hand remained gentle. "Are you injured at all?"

Somehow, Timmy found it within himself to shake his head. "No, I'm— I'm fine," he mumbled. "Just tired."

Sídhe leaned in. His other hand settled on Timmy's cheek, and he had the ludicrous thought that he was about to be kissed. Instead, Sídhe swiped his thumb over Timmy's cheek. His hand came away with blood on it.

It almost seemed like Sídhe's golden pupils flaired brighter still. "You're hurt."

Timmy reached out and caught Sídhe's hand. "It's just a cut. I..." He struggled to speak evenly. "I just want to go home. Really."

They stood still like that for a moment more. Sídhe's inhuman eyes scanned his face, like he was peeling away Timmy's skin to gaze at his soul. Could he do that? Maybe. He was magic, right?

Timmy was a little surprised to find that he wasn't bothered. He felt at ease around Sídhe.

Their hands were still entwined. He didn't feel any desire to change that.

Finally, Sídhe nodded. "I'll walk you home," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Timmy wouldn't have refuted even if it was.

He turned and started walking.

In his mind, Timmy always thought that if he did get to meet Sídhe, for whatever reason, he would ask a bunch of questions that he wanted to know the answer to. Like, where did he get his powers from? Why did he choose to be a hero? Were his wings as delicate as they looked? Was he born with them?

Was being a superhero lonely?

Instead, they walked in silence. Timmy stole glances at Sídhe as they walked, just to ensure that he wasn't dreaming. His wings were iridescent and looked as thin as air, like the details were spun from spider's silk and would fall apart at a touch. His clothing choice didn't seem to include any armor — Sídhe was dressed in flowing, loose fabric. The effect was that he looked ephemeral. Timmy kept thinking that he was going to blink and Sídhe would be gone.

For some reason, he stayed. He stayed all the way down the street, to Timmy's shitty little apartment just two blocks from his college campus.

"This is my stop," Timmy said.

Sídhe glanced appraisingly at the run-down brick building. "Are you safe here?" He asked.

"Uh." Timmy wasn't sure how to answer that. He wasn't sure why Sídhe cared. He shrugged one shoulder. "More or less."

Sídhe hummed. He set a hand on Timmy's shoulder, leaning in — so close that their breaths mingled and Timmy could count the flecks of gold burning in his irises.

This time, the last thing that Timmy expected was to be kissed. And that was exactly what Sídhe did.

His lips brushed the cut on Timmy's cheek, and it felt like time stopped. Timmy's fingers curled, clenching around nothing. He wanted time to freeze again; wanted this moment to last just a little bit longer.

Instead, Sídhe pulled back. The corner of his mouth was quirked up in a smile. "I have healing magic," he said by way of an explanation. Timmy could feel the place where he'd kissed tingling but, honestly, it would have felt that way even without magic.

"T-Thanks," Timmy managed. He cleared his throat. "I really, um, appreciate you, helping me out and walking me home... You didn't have to do all of that," he said awkwardly.

It was easier to make conversation when he'd been frozen. Now that he was thawed, all Timmy could focus on was the way that Sídhe's purple curls were hanging in front of his eyes, just begging to be brushed away from his face.

"Of course I didn't 'have to.' I wanted to," Sídhe said warmly. And he smiled, like there was no where in the world he'd rather be than on Timmy Turner's doorstep, with blood on his glove and fondness in his eyes. "Get some sleep, Timmy."

His wings fluttered as Sídhe became airborne. Timmy watched, amazed that something so pretty was actually functional. He wanted to memorize those swooping swirls and careful curves. He wanted to duck his head along Sídhe's bare back, lips brushing down his spine, while his fingers traced the patterns on his wings from memory.

Instead, Timmy stood there like an idiot, staring at the night sky until long after Sídhe was out of sight.

His cut had been healed, but his cheek still burned.

All Timmy could think was that he wanted Sídhe to stare at him like that again — like he was the most important thing in the universe.

(It didn't occur to him until the next morning that he had never told Sídhe his name.)

[thegoldenshi-shi]

Cuir dath air - to color

He came out a little too feminine this time, but it’s so hard to strike a balance with this character.

[ionlypostmymeemocs]

Ronan (that's his name now) is done!

Selkie OC!

Seal form!

He was always told that humans were bad.

[southofzero]

meeting the lady specimen of château sŵau...

[selfinserttothestars]

I wanted to make cool little body markings/art on her but my brain can only do spider webs apparently

[notasapleasure]

every day I wish tumblr culture had glommed onto any fucking ballad other than tam lin

[ice-cap-k]

I swear, trying to share this has been hell. I stink at using tumblr.

Anyway, fae are fun, so have a fanfic.

[aesopsbaby]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫(s): Raloris (@feelin-lo ), Celtic (My OC)

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: When Raloris experiences one of his many mood swings causing him to feel as if he's worthless, Celtic arrives. Misunderstanding ensues and words were exchanged.

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Who doesn't love some misconception/miscommunication troupe!! >:]] It's been awhile since I last wrote a story so this might not be very good,,,! Also, I still haven't found a beta reader so this is not proof-read, so,,do expect to see some grammatical errors here and there!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Angst no comfort, nothing much to be put here tbh

𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: Meaningless words

Wrong.

It felt wrong.

He felt wrong. Raloris couldn't take it, the scene before him didn't feel..right. He shook his head slightly, brows furrowing as he clenched his teeth, trying so hard to concentrate at what could possibly be eating away at him right now.

Right now. When the team had came out victorious in a battle. Why did it have to be now. Why is he suddenly feeling this bubbling sense of disgust and hatred towards himself?

...No. He shouldn't be happy for the victory. He didn't do anything to be happy for. Zane got injured. Vince almost lost a life. Celtic..

Oh. Raloris swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up as he realized he had only been staring at his leader. His leader that was holding his bloodied and injured arm while having a pained but satisfied expression.

Raloris' eyes trailed downwards, into his palms that were stained with blood. His or some goblins, he wasn't sure anymore. His vision doubled and he swallowed dryly, the feeling of needles being stabbed down his throat at the action. He let out a staggered breath. Damn it.. His hands tightened into fists.

I didn't do shit. Why the hell was I so happy for?

Closing his eyes, Raloris turned on his heel, walking away from the group, and made his way back to their hideout. Hearing the cheers getting further and further away as he took every step, allowing the negative thoughts of worthlessness starts to eat at his mind, consuming his thoughts and soul.

....

A gentle yet firm knock reached Raloris' pointed ears, causing him to peer upwards at his door. He pursed his lips, not wanting to be teased by Sylvester nor Zane right now.

Another knock came, accompanied by a quiet and flat voice; "Raloris? Are you in there?". Raloris could've sworn he felt his entire body turn to ice with how his heart literally stopped beating and he couldn't move an inch at the sound of Celtic's voice.

Why is he here? Why now? Usually Raloris wouldn't mind being in the presence of Celtic. More often than not, he would've actually appreciated Celtic's accompany! But now? Now couldn't be any worse!

Raloris kept silent, hoping with all his heart that Celtic would just give up and leave him. He stared at the door with a bated breath, "..Apologies. But I'm coming in." And, of course, hoping that would be useless since Celtic was as stubborn as a mule.

Celtic's eyes darted from the interior of room --taking note of the lack of lighting--, and almost instantly, his eyes landed on the elf, sitting there on his bed. Raloris bit his quivering lips, averting eye contact from his leader and choosing to stare at the wooden floorboard instead, his mind running at a high speed at the suffocating silence and intense stare of Celtic.

"What h-" Celtic started but caught himself. It was as if the gears in his head were moving slowly and trying to piece together the perfect response.

He decided to close the door behind him first before making his way beside Raloris. Celtic parted his lips, taking his time to think over his words as he glanced at Raloris' trembling hands and the soft hiccups coming from him. Celtic spots the reflection of tears shining from the corner of Raloris' eyes and the stains of the salty liquid that trails down his cheeks and hangs onto his chin.

"..Are..Are you okay?"

Raloris didn't know why but he suddenly felt..angry. Frustrated. Irritated. That damn voice.

Why..why would Celtic ask that if he didn't care in the first place. Raloris hated it. He hated how Celtic always sounded monotonous, like he couldn't give two shits about his feelings or anyone's for that matter!

Raloris barked out a curt laugh, not bothering to look at the raven haired male. "You can be, oh so heartless sometimes, Celtic." Raloris darted his eyes up to meet Celtic's, hoping to see if he can spot the care and sympathy he was wishing to find. All that stared back at him was darkness, like the vast emptiness of the deep sea.

Raloris felt rage bubbling in his chest, "Your eyes can be so cruel." He seethed through gritted teeth and a slight glare. Celtic merely blinked, confusion evident on his face. "What are you talking about Raloris. Are you going through something? Should I leave you be for now?"

"There you go again! With that dead tone of yours. I truly wonder Celtic, do you really care?" Raloris stood up, glaring down at the leader who's still trying to understand the situation. "Do you even care about me? Am I even worthy to be on your team?? Why do you always speak as if you're forced to say those lines!" Raloris' voice cracks as he spoke, tears once again building up.

"If you don't care, I beg of you, don't bother spouting those nonsense. It was obvious that you don't mean it when you don't even bother putting in effort when you speak!!" Raloris choked out with great effort, he could feel his throat closing up, finding it difficult to breath.

Blurry and clouded vision stared into the same darkness that now were flooded with concern and shock.

The harsh breaths that leave the elf's parted lips filled the otherwise silent room.

"What..what are you talking about Raloris? I care. I care alot. I.." Celtic trailed off, closing his lips and swallowing, as if he was hesitant to say his next words. "..I care alot about you, Raloris. You mean..the world to me." He started again, gazing into Raloris' eyes, pleading that he can see his efforts.

"You don't SHOW that you do! You're just saying words and expect me to believe them when you look at me with those blank eyes!" Raloris yelled, the hot tears falling down his redden cheeks, frustration is evident in the way he flailed his clenched fists to show his emotions. His fist hitting his chest multiple times, before the frabic of his outfit is grasped tightly in his hold.

Celtic's heart tightened at the scene and he could've sworn he felt his heart shattered. He stood up abruptly---

"Raloris, I love you!"

Raloris' breath hitched, eyes widening as he stared at Celtic. Who, looked just as shocked as he is. Did..did he hear that right? What..did he just say?

As if he could hear his thoughts, Celtic spoke again softly, "I love you."

He continues, "And I need you like the moon needs the sun. You mean everything to me." A soft and gentle smile graces his features.

Raloris bit the inside of his cheek at his, once thought to be cold and emotionless leader, proclaiming and confessing his love right before him. He sighed, looking down before bringing his gaze to the raven haired male.

"I don't love you. I could NEVER love a heartless being like you." The words tumbled out of the mouth like running water before he could even stop them. He watched as Celtic winced slightly at the tone used but still, he maintained a poker face, aside from the slight crinkle of his brows.

Nothing but his heavy panting breaks the static of silence surrounding them. Raloris could feel the violent pounding of his heart in his ear. Was it the adrenaline? Fear? He wasn't sure, all he knew was that he can't think straight right now. He just feels so enraged and he's not even sure why anymore.

Celtic scoffed, glancing at the room before them before landing on Raloris again. His eyes always tend to do that, it always manages to find it's way back to Raloris, as if it's a compass that is destined to forever face one direction. His face was tense, lips pursed into a thin line, and his eyes..were empty.

"..Did you really have to be that honest?"

Raloris kept his mouth shut, closing his eyes and letting a sigh out. He opened them once again, choosing to look anywhere but at Celtic who was staring straight at him. After a moment of suffocating silence, Raloris picks up on the footsteps trailing off and the loud thud of the door being slammed shut. He finally picked up the courage to look up, realising that he's now standing alone in his room.

A haunting realisation daunted upon him as the entire situation replayed in his head at 2x speed. "Shit.." He muttered, hands coming up into his hair, clawing and grabbing at the strands as more curses string out of his lips. Why did he say that! Why did his emotions have to get the better of him at this moment?? Why did Celtic have to come when his emotions were..

Raloris let out a quivering breath, staring at the wooden floor, watching the droplets of tears hit the ground and form dark stains.

He needed rest.

Song on loop while writing this: Little Soldiers by The Crane Wives

[latibvles]

who asked for history teacher Ron? Nobody? Well, here he is anyway on this episode of "AUs that make it out the group chat" : History teacher Ron, Principal Welsh, Coach Winters, Convenience Store Owner Chuck Grant, and a new biology teacher that's really hard to say no to. Convenience Store Owner Chuck is 100% on loan from @almost-a-class-act as per usual. this turned out way longer than I originally planned.

Teenagers were entirely too curious.

Which, he figures, he might be enabling, mentally allotting them those five minutes when they’re all finding their seats to ask him their too-curious questions and not giving them any straight answers. But if they don’t ask him at the start of class they’ll just ask him at the end of class anyway. At least this way no one’s late for their next period.

With the year coming to an end, it left more time for questions. Last week, they’d been trying to guess what color he’d wear to chaperone prom (the dark blue suit in the back of his closet that he wore to Lewis’ wedding. Dick paid for the dry cleaning as a ‘thank you’ for taking his spot). The week before that, the seniors in his history class started arguing over who Ron would miss the most once they graduated. He pretended not to hear them every time they asked who his favorite was.

This week it was, once again and inexplicably so, about his love life. In all its forms. Monday was about if he wanted kids (if they’re anything like you? I’ll pass, he’d said, biting his cheek to withhold the smile at the noises of melodramatic teenage offense), Tuesday was if he had a crush (one of the boys in the class, a football player, named Jennifer Lawrence and Ron just tilted his coffee cup in his general direction in acknowledgement).

Wednesday was a bit funny, they’d asked him to weigh in on their “sexiest Presidents” debate and hoot and hollered when Ron simply said “John F. Kennedy” as he pulled up the final review for Thursday's final. Yesterday was the final itself, and today, before the seniors circled back to the classic question before they were called down to the football field for graduation practice.

If he had a wife, or a husband, or a whatever, even though they knew after a whole school year with him that he wouldn’t answer the question.

Once again, teenagers were entirely too curious.

Ron rubs a hand over his mouth. He’d spent the first twenty minutes of his prep period writing recommendation letters for some of his juniors who were getting everything ready for their fall applications. He was fairly certain if he didn’t get up and do a lap or something he would go stir crazy, though, and his underclassmen lacked a lot of the clever tact that his seniors had when it came to asking him things he wasn’t going to answer — so he was mentally preparing for that, too.

He also hadn’t eaten, and eating during his elective would result in at least five different 15-17-year-olds asking for a bite of his lunch, as if they hadn’t, in some cases, just come from their lunch period.

There’s a sandwich he picked up from Chuck’s spot on Main in the fridge in the teacher’s lounge with his name on it, literally.

He’s quick to lock the door to his room, making his way down the hall in that direction.

He hears the laughter before he sees who it is, but he recognizes Dick’s voice as the other one as he pokes his head in before stepping in entirely. Dick was the one facing the door, a grin on his face, dark blue whistle hanging from his neck, looking at the person across from him. Ron catches his attention albeit unintentionally.

“Hey, Ron,” he greets easily like usual, before his eyes once again fall on the person across from him. “Mm, you haven’t met yet, have you?”

Even if the question’s directed at the woman sitting with him, Ron already knows the answer. They haven’t, he definitely wouldn’t forget a face like that.

She turns around in the chair and Ron’s met with dark, dark eyes and a braid falling over her shoulder, wisps of brown hair brushing the sides of her face. Long lashes and dimpled cheeks, her smile’s inexplicably bright and she isn’t even flashing her teeth. She looks back at Dick with a slight roll of her eyes, a smile still prevalent.

“Principal Welsh didn’t get to that part yet,” Ron withholds a snort. He’d gotten so used to calling him Harry that hearing someone call him Principal Welsh almost felt a little weird. She rises to her feet and Ron takes her in for the few beats it takes for her to cross over to him. Pale green skirt brushing her ankles and a white blouse. He holds out his hand for her to take, and she shakes it.

“Ron Speirs, then,” he offers, and she seems to smile a little wider at that.

“Passed by your room before Principal Welsh got seized by the seniors,” she remarks. “They always that busy?”

“In June, yeah.”

“Senioritis?” There’s something behind her eyes as she says it, mischief or amusement, something like that. He just nods his assent, and she lets out a quiet hum, understanding.

“Daisy Clarke, I’m Mr. Corrigan’s replacement for the fall.”

Mr. Corrigan was an eighty-something-year-old biology teacher with thinning white hair who, according to Ron’s sophomores, repeated himself way too often and didn’t accept typed-up papers. Ron hardly knew the guy beyond the few times he came down the hall to ask him to set up his slideshows, unable to find them himself. One of the school nurses, Nurse Kegley, brought him balloons and a card to congratulate him on his retirement.

Daisy still hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Biology, then?” he asks, and Daisy nods. “U.S History and Ancient Civ.” She squeezes one last time before letting go.

He was reminded once again, of his too-curious seniors who wanted even a crumb of information about his love life. If anything, he felt like them, his eyes quickly falling to her hand in a moment of brief curiosity. Daisy looks back at Dick, and then back to him.

“Dick and I were gonna figure out what to do for lunch. I think Welsh is gonna be busy until after graduation practice, I don’t know if you wanted to come with…”

“I know a spot on Main. Good sandwiches. It’s a short walk,” He says it before he thinks to not say it, and if he weren’t standing in front of her, he might’ve pulled a face at his own misplaced impulses. He’s usually not the one to offer himself up like this, and considering the knowing look Dick shoots at him from behind Daisy, Dick knows it too.

But her face brightens and she nods, looking back at Dick.

“That sound good?” And Dick, easy-to-please as ever, agrees.

She grabs her purse from its spot on the table and Dick rises to his feet and collectively the three walk out the door. Ron looks over at her, trying to think of something to say so he doesn’t have to mull over what he’s just said for too long.

“How do you know Dick?”

Friend’s boyfriend, is what she gives him, a fond smile on her face as she talks about it. She goes over meeting him at a Labor Day party last year on her friend Ginny’s arm. How she worked at an inner-city school in Boston before coming here to teach Honors Biology. Dick put in word to Harry about her. She looks over at him when they approach the convenience store and goes Celtics fan?, to which Ron nods.

“You and Dick must argue a lot then,” She notes, to their half-baked denials, knowing full and well how “annoying” they were during playoffs season, according to Harry.

Chuck gives him a look like Dick’s when he walks in, and Ron approaches the register, hoping that she doesn’t ask him the obvious as she walks over to the counter where Chuck has a guy on sandwiches. Arched brow, but still going for the pack of cigarettes Ron asks for.

“Who’s she?” He asks, sending a look over to her, who was talking to Dick about something Ron wasn’t really honed in on.

“New biology teacher,” Ron taps his fingers against the counter. “Was looking for a lunch spot,” Chuck grins, something toothy, bordering on shit-eating as he rings up the pack.

“Always appreciate the free advertisement,” He teases, and Ron rolls his eyes.

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m a little funny.”

“No, you’re not,” Eyes narrowing at Chuck’s snickering, but he resteels his features when Daisy brushes by him to pay.

They’re quick about returning, after that — Ron reaching the end of his prep period. When Daisy realizes he didn’t get anything to eat, she’s immediately offering half of her sandwich. And Ron really doesn’t know why he agrees as though he doesn’t have his lunch waiting for him in the fridge, but he figures it might have something to do with dark eyes and pale green skirts and her apology every single time that her arm bumps against his.

Harry’s waiting in the teacher’s lounge, and Ron says goodbye, and Daisy once again squeezes his hand when she shakes it. He’s got half a sandwich that isn’t even his in his other hand, and sure as shit, when he unlocks his classroom door and lets his elective students in, a handful of them are already asking him to share.

“Maybe if you didn’t talk so much in that cafeteria you’d have time to eat.” Ron offers sarcastically, which garners a few snickers and a melodramatic whine of ‘Sir!’ from the boy in question. Ron takes a bite of it and sets it to the side for a moment to pull up his attendance roster for the period.

“Mr. Speirs?” A voice pipes up, a girl named Brienne. Ron makes a show of rolling his eyes.

“Oh God, not you again,” He doesn’t mean it and they know that, because the junior starts giggling as he marks her as present. He looks over at her. “Was that lady you were walking with with Coach Winters your girlfriend?” Ron narrows his eyes at her, rolls them, then keeps going down the list.

No doubt about it, teenagers were wholly, entirely, too curious.