#he sounds like an Irish man trying to speak like an American

[mrs-jamesbbarnes]

Is it just me or is Eoin’s American accent getting worse? 😂

[libras-interactives]

Because i didn't find anything related to voices, i wanted to ask what the casts voices sound like?

Is this a way of trying to figure out where flynn comes from...nooooo

hmmm i dont know if im the best at describing voices but I tried! This got away from me so I put a cut ^^;

Marius - He has a very charming and silky sort of voice, that's pleasant to listen to. My man could do ASMR and audiobooks. It's even pleasanter when he speaks his native tongue, in English sometimes he has to halt around unfamiliar words... or he just barrels forward and says it wrong. Oh well.

Jack - Deeper than most people would expect (or maybe they'd expect that?) Compared to the others, he speaks slowly, and with his low drawl. He trails off sometimes and mutters when annoyed or unsure. He doesn't enunciate very well and fumbles nervously with big words, so he tries to avoid them.

Eveline - Soft enough that you may have to lean in to hear better, enunciates well around English words and has a sort of breathy way of speaking. She speaks faster in French. In English she has to maintain an image. It takes a lot to get her to raise her voice, and it's often frantic, and her accent slips out more. Her singing voice is the polar opposite, loud and operatic. She's a soprano.

Lottie - Higher pitched than Eveline, though she likes to go up and down to emphasize points or be silly. She has traces of a New Jersey accent and generally speaks lots of slang. Her singing voice is bombastic and theatric; she's not afraid of making weird faces or exaggerating her voice to put more 'oomf' into the performance. She's a mezzo-soprano.

Máire - She has a deep, smooth voice with a thick, lilting Irish accent that she refuses to modify. She speaks slower than most, but she'll absolutely raise her voice and snap at someone annoying her. She's an alto. When Máire starts speaking lowly and that accent gets thicker ... You Are In Trouble.

Malwina - A higher-pitched voice, which isn't too surprising, with a Polish accent that she's been trying to curb. It's tough when she's excited or upset, though. Some English words give her a lot of trouble, so she talks slower around them. Her singing voice is a soprano, and is very pleasant and airy. Her voice cracks when she's upset.

Slyvester - His tone is fairly normal (not too deep or too high) and he has a strong New Yorker accent, but notably not a posh one. It's like he's trying hard to not sound lower-class, but doesn't have the proper vocabulary or tone of the upper-crust. His Italian has a strong American accent when he speaks it, and he can't quite get the cadence right, but it's comprehensible. Because of his wife and her family, sometimes he uses the Italian word for something.

Little Lottie - She speaks quietly and haltingly. The pitch isn't too different from a typical little girl, maybe a bit flat, and it's hard to find any kind of accent in it. She stumbles over words when she's excited and pronounces them wrong.

Flynn - He speaks with a crisp, upper-crust sort of accent that doesn't have too many airs. Flynn enunciates himself clearly, and when he starts talking slower, that's when you need to listen. His tone is on the lower register, moreso when he's upset. In the courtroom he intones and adjusts and enunciates just so in order to get his point across. He really has a talent for it. When truly angry, bits of an accent will slip out, though it's hard to place it in the moment. Those who've heard him swear in a different tongue don't live to tell about it.

Cora - A crisp, learned mid-Atlantic accent that's as inoffensive as possible. She's always spoken quickly and enunciates each word as she rambles. It's kind of impressive.

Roxie has a nasally, high-pitched voice with such over-the-top slang and weird enunciation, no one really believes it's her real voice. She alternates between speaking rapidly or dragging out every word, mostly to annoy. When speaking to strangers, Ezra's voice is noticeably lower than when he's with friends. He has a slight Southern drawl to it and speaks on the slower side. Krooks has a mishmash of Gerglish/Engman (?) and it's a mess to listen to regardless which language you speak. He can speak English or German fully, but most of the time (esp when drunk or tired) he just mixes them together chaotically.

Paulie speaks very differently from Polly; the former is smooth and deep and charming, the latter is more giggly, higher-pitched and leans more into a Chicago accent. Singing as Polly is more comfortable and fun than singing as Paulie. Italian Mary/Mariana has been trying to rid herself of her Italian accent, but it keeps slipping in when she's upset, and there's no faking she's from Brooklyn. Louisa Faye has a well-polished Southern accent, allowing her to sound dainty and distinguished rather than low-class. You'd never guess she's from deep rural Alabama. Gertrude/Gigi has been steadily chipping away her German accent, and speaks fairly "neutrally" on purpose. Ruthie has a distinct Yiddish accent to her speech, and completely changes to something "neutral" when with customers. When she's drunk ask her to imitate someone, and she can do it near perfectly, it's great. Drives Mariana insane.

[aiteanngaelach]

[Image ID: Foreward. When I was a youngfla of about six or seven, the neighbours had a Yank cousin called Jake over to visit. He was sound enough and had toys of the Turtles, which I’d never seen in Ireland. One day I says to him, ‘Are you going to the shop, you are?’, and Jake gets a pure bowsy look across his lip, like I was trying to pull the piss. ‘Why are you telling me to go to the shop? I’ll go to the shop if I want to,’ he says. ‘I was only asking, I wasn’t telling you to go to the shop, Jake,’ I said back. I’d no idea what had gotten him upset. My da was over by the gate listening in with a smirk. Later on he says to me, ‘That thing earlier with the young Yank, when he thought you told him to go to the shop? Do you know why he couldn’t understand you?’ My da then explained to me a theory about the way Irish people speak English, a theory which was given to him by his da. My granda lived on a bóithrín below in West Cork that was on the way to a creamery. He was a member of Tom Barry’s IRA flying column and would constantly watch and take note of whoever passed. Regular Irish people would traverse with their horses loaded with buckets of fresh milk and would come back with horses packed with butter in their saddlebags. This was a brisk, fast-paced road, no time to stop and chat, as milk would go sour in the sun and butter would soften on a horse’s shoulders. It was for this reason that British soldiers would stop and harass anyone who walked the bóithrín: to interrogate, to rile, to get horses pure greasy with sweaty yellow butter. A small injustice, a show of power, and an opportunity to make a person emotional enough to lash out and say the wrong thing. My granda would notice that when an English soldier questioned a man on the way to the creamery, no answer would be right or wrong; any answer meant a long wait and your papers inspected regardless. The standard rules of human interaction had broken down, and to give an answer as Gaeilge would be met with violence. So, the Irish people figured out an in-between.A yes and no at the same time. A quantum superposition of an answer. An answer that would cause the soldier to say, ‘Stupid Paddy gibberish’ and usher the person off before the butter melted down the horse’s shoulders. And this here was my da’s theory as to why I asked the American, ‘Are you going to the shop, you are?’ It was an absurd post-colonial way of arranging a question that had its roots in years of interrogation from the English. Now, I’m not saying that’s the case. This is merely a story that was passed down to me. But, as an adult, I learned that there was a name for how I speak, how I arrange sentences and for the words I use. Hiberno- English: a resistant way of speaking the English language, a language we never asked for. As an author and a musician, I often find myself writing words as if they are music. I search for melody and rhythm on the page. Jazz and blues are African American forms of music, born out of the resistance of African songs to European instruments. Musical notes exist in the African scale that do not exist in the Western scale. These notes are in between the Western notes, and these in-between notes give jazz and blues an emotional complexity that the traditional Western scale cannot deliver. The playful, bowld and fluid way that Hiberno-English resists traditional English does the same thing. This improvised musicality to how we think and speak provides me with a deep literary confidence to explore the in-between, especially when the writing process presents me with resistance. T.P. Dolan’s book is a rigorous lexicon of Hiberno-English words and their etymologies. Words with roots in Gaeilge and words with roots in Shelta.

Dolan died in 2019, and it is my sincere and deepest hope that new lexicographers will continue to document the rich changes in English as it is spoken in Ireland as of 2020. The continual development of Hiberno- English incorporates the influences of African, Eastern European and Asian dialects, as well as newly emerging pidgins forged in the cruelty of direct provision as asylum seekers from different parts of the world communicate with each other while being denied their freedom.

BLINDBOY BOATCLUB June 2020. End ID]

I think I read this before you know

[silent-raven13]

A Spider-woman named Billie! 4

(Part 3)

The Hobies glares at Miguel 928 seeing how the bloke caught their ideas or fantasy. "You boys better relax. Having kids is a big responsibility." Miles 2020 stated, "Oh my goodness, they act like Alphas without a second gender."

"It's baby fever!" Miles 43 looks worried as he stand behind Miles 2020 holding Gonzalo 1015 in his arms. "Ain't no way we agree about kids!"

"Oh no, I have Billie to think of!" Miles 1610 said at his boyfriend.

Billie 1610 smiles happily at his brother being carried by Miles 42. "Ah-HA!"

"Me too but it's Gonzalo!" Mimi 1015 said. The Miles had their focus on their boyfriends while Gabriel turns to Billie.

"Where were you? I was looking for you everywhere! I thought we were supposed to stick to the plan. I take you here and meet up with Mari." He said with one hand out as he express himself about their plans before.

"Hey asshole! She's a grown woman and doesn't have to listen to you!" Miles 1019 scowls at Gabriel. The tall Spider-man ignores him.

"I'm sorry, Gabe. I wanted to try to do things on my own. You seemed super busy with your world and time travel." Billie looks up at him with her big honey-brown eyes pleading to be forgiven, her hand fidgeting almost being nervous.

Gabriel's mask to reveal his face with a worried expression, the whole gang gawks at his face. "Waahhh, no way!" Pavtri got close to look at his face.

Gwen and Miles 1610 couldn't stop looking at him. He look nothing like Miguel 928 and Miguel 970, in fact he had more of white features on his face. He had black hair with red eyes and creamy white skin, his nose straight and had more of a Prince Eric look. His hair looks like one of those pretty boys from the 90s. The wholes gang couldn't stop looking at him, looks like his Irish genes won this round!

"That's not a GAH-Bree-ell that's Gay-bree-uhl!" Miles 43 jokes using the Spanish pronunciation of Gabriel and the American version. This cause most of the gang to laugh at the joke.

Miguel 928 try to hold his laugher when he saw Gabriella looking so confused. "That's not a boy me! That's a white boy!" More laughter came out from the groups.

Jess said, "Um... your dad is Miguel 660?"

"Yeah, he's the white guy with red hair..." Gabriel pouts with one hand on his neck feeling a bit embarrassed. "Not my fault that one fourth gene won!"

"Gabriel, this is a variant of you of some form. He was born different..." Miguel said to his daughter.

"Really? Mmm, I guess so." She looked rather disappointed, she thought her boy version would look like her with brown skinned and brown hair and maybe close to her dad.

Gabriel said, "Hey, why I'm getting these kinds of looks!" He puts his mask back on, "Fine! Then no one can ever see my face, again!"

"No, Gabe. You're so handsome. It's just they aren't use to you or your dad being white." Billie 1613 said to him trying to lighten up his mood. "Trust me, I was surprised when I met Miguel 928! I didn't think there was such variety!"

"I wonder how Miguel 660 looks like then." Gwen rubs her chin.

"Very white." Marina 1022 hums to them, "Like really really white. You wouldn't even say he's Mexican until you hear him speak. He got a bit of that Latino American accent."

"How white?" Miles 1610 asked.

"Miles 43 called him, Leche."

That made all the Spanish speakers choked up with laughter trying to hold their snickering. Miles 43 giggles, "Mari, you're not supposed to tell them that! I only said that because he was so damn white!"

"Bruhh, like that makes me feel any better." Gabriel 660 scowls.

"Hey be happy you don't got redhead or else I would've called you, Ariel." Miles 43 added.

Miles 42 couldn't stop laughing, "Miles, stop! That's so funny. Ain't no way a Miguel is a redhead."

"He is... Idk where he get that Mexican pride coming from because he's gringo format." Miles 43 tries to explain, "And I know that sound bad, but I was just so confused."

"How are you confuse when we come in all forms of color?" Miles 1019 asked, "You called him, Leche!"

"Yeah because I'm Café!" Miles 43 explains, "Café con Leche would be..." She looks around, "Okay we barely have any light skins here... But you get me!"

"All this talk about coffee is making me crave for a pan dulce." Mimi 1015's stomach growling.

"Can we go now for lunch, mommy? I'm so hungry!" Gerald asked.

"Sure. Okay, guys. Kids are getting super hungry. How about we go to the cafeteria to each lunch?"

"Oh yeah. I wanna get to know my little sister, Billie." Gabriel holds Billie 1613's hands, "Right!"

"Right." Billie smiles at her.

"Oh me too!" Mayday said.

"Daddy, I want chicken nuggets!" Mariana 2020 spoke up being carried by Hobie 138b. "Me and-and- and mi hermanos discuss, umm-" She looks up at Hobie, "da-da, what's that word again?"

Hobie 138b whispers in her ear while Hobie 138c holds Aaron and Hobie 138e holds Karl. Hobie 138d holds a sign that saids, "Three cookies each!"

"Oh, chicken nuggets com-boo and three cookies each! Because we a-ew super super hung-wy or we will st-wike!" The toddler looks up at Hobie again to make sure they got all their needs met.

Miles 2020 giggles at the sight, "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! Down with the system! W-epa-wations." Mariana 2020 holds her first out.

"YUS!" Aaron and Karl hold their fist out cheering on for their demands.

"Demands must be met for our kiddos!" Hobie 138d hold his sign.

Miguel 928 pinched the bridge of his nose, "Why did I have a feeling that them meeting those kids would cause problems?"

"Because they would fallen in love to their variants' children?" Petie giggles, "Peter was happy to meet May."

"Oh yeah, I was." Peter 616 chuckles. "Come on, she's cute." May giggles being proud of her adorableness.

"And do we have to remind a specific someone loving his own variant's daughter?" Jess hums at Miguel 928.

"You got me there." Miguel 928 said.

Miles 2020 smirks at the group, "Okay, because when they sugar high I'll let my mate handle them."

"Yay! We won!" Mariana said happily to Hobie 138b, "Tank-coo, da-da!"

"Da-da!" The boys also said to the other Hobies.

"When did they taught them to say da-da?" Miles 1610 asked his variants being so confused.

"That's a secret, Sunflower." Hobie 138b winks at him while holding Mariana 2020 in his arms then gave his variant's daughter a kiss on the cheek, "Right, lass."

"Right!" Mariana giggles as the two smirks at Miles 1610.

Miles 1610's face turns bashful almost as if he got baby fever. "Oh no, baby fever! Miles snap out of it! You're still so young!" Gwen said out loud with panic. "I'm not ready to be an Aunt!"

"Aunt? Miles is a man! He can't possibly have a kid unless some weird invention Lyla creates to-" Miles 42 hushes Pavtri, "Hush! Just say it's basic biology! The male anatomy doesn't work like that."

"Hehehe," Billie 1613 giggles, "Awe, nothing wrong about dreaming about being with someone you love and fantasize about their kids."

Gabriel lovingly gaze on Billie, "Yeah..."

Miguel 970 glanced over at Mariana still standing next to her even when she moves around. "Mmhhmm."

"Awe man, the O'Haras just got bad game... it's so painful to watch." Jess said to Peter and Petie.

Peter sighs, "Looks like I gotta teach them a few skills."

"You got skills?" Petie arched his eyebrows.

The massive group slowly walks to the cafeteria having to continue their multiple conversation. Miles 2020 watches the Hobies carrying his pups, "You guys are so good with children. I'm impressed."

"Aye, Jack Harlow, have people ever ask for your ID?" Miles 43 asked at Gabriel giving him a new nickname.

"Who's Jack Harlow?" Gabriel asked being so confused as he walks in the middle of all the Miles. They were suspicious of him still.

"You know, that song Lovin' on Me. Your vanilla, baby or you want me to call you, Logic?" Miles 43 hums. The Miles around Gabriel were snickering at the joke.

Billie 1613 carries Billie 1610 admiring her hairstyle, "Wow, you have such pretty hair, but... the outfit is weird..."

"I told Miles to make her cute." Miles 42 pouts. "And she looks so cute with that hairstyle."

"Hehehe, I like my tutu!" Billie 1610 touches her tutu even though she got on her weird outfit of sweats and shirt.

"I tried! We skipped laundry day!" Miles 1610 added with a slight whine.

Jess said, "Oh nonono, this won't do. Not with my baby. Right, honey? You want a cute outfit to match with your tutu." She went over to carry Billie, she expected her outfit seeing how terrible it looks. It was giving lazy dad on a couch, little Billie is a classy girl and deserves to dress cute. "Petie, you got any extra clothes for Billie."

"Hmm, I think I do, but May is pretty small." Petie went into his baby bag to find a cute plaided dress, "This one."

"No way, Billie needs something more cute." Miles 42 said out loud.

"I think this is cute." Petie pouts.

Miguel 928 look into Miles 2020's baby bag to find a two strap red gingham dress with one big bow into the middle. "What about this one?"

Miles 1610 said, "You guys don't need to find her an outfit, I can-" Miles 2020 said, "It's fine. Besides, those sweat pants aren't it."

"I know." Miles 1610 sighs giving up. The three adults were able to put a cute outfit plus with Miles 42 being the one to critique the outfits. It went from preppy, to princess, to girly.

In the end, Jess was able to give Billie a cute outfit, a pink top with white puff sleeves, and with a plain pink skirt underneath her tutu. The little girl wave her hand being happy, "Yea!"

"Awe, she's so cute!" Mariana 1022 cooed at the three year old.

Little Billie giggles being bashful. Gabriella happily poke her cheek, "Wow, tia Jess, you did a wonderful job!"

"You can say I'm a pro." Jess proudly grins widely.

All the Miles were admiring Little Billie's cute outfit, then Miles 42 carried her. "Awe, Boo-Boo! You're so cute. Finally someone gave you a cute outfit." She responded with laughter.

Miles 1610 rolled his eyes at Miles 42 being dramatic. Then he noticed Gabriel looking at Billie 1613, who cover her mouth having to giggle. "So, Gabriel... how close are you are with Billie?" He asked being curious.

"Oh um... we are-" Billie happily said, "He's one of my best friends." She hugs one of his large arms. They look like a couple when she gets close to him. Gabriel nodded, "Yeah, she's a very close friend."

Mariana giggles, "Awe, such a shame. You two look so good together, too." She held her holo-camera from her watch to take a photo of them. "Hehe, aren't they cute together?" She looks at Miles 1610.

"Yeah, I can see them together." He nodded.

Billie giggles, "You guys are so funny. We're just friends! Gabriel doesn't like me like that and I just got out a relationship!"

"What?" Miles 1610 and the other Miles became alarmed by that too.

Gabriel blinks under his mask, "Wait, since when?"

Mariana grins widely, "Oh yeahhh, you were busy with your time travel missions. Billie Boo was dating Peter Parker 1613."

"Whoa, everything is coming together huh?" Peter 616 blinks in surprise.

"It's bound to happen with all these multi-verses." Jess commented.

"Before you guys start freaking out. He was a year older than me, and his name was Peter Osborn... Technically Mary and Norman Osborn got together and had twins. Harry and Peter Osborn. Let's just say it was a messy family. I didn't know Peter Parker was so common as Spider-man, until Gabriel told me about it and I came here." Billie nervously rub her hand, "Haha, we weren't a thing, well he wanted to but got pretty abusive... I think he's taking that drug from his dad."

"Yikes." Gonzalo 1022 commented.

"Huh uh!" Billie 1610 nodded.

"Oh my goodness." Gonzalo 1015 added.

Peter 616 blinks in shock, "Man, these multi-verses!"

"Wait, did he touch you?" Gabriel asked with a panic.

Miles 42 got his claws out, "Where is that asshole? I'll kill him."

"Well..." Billie 1613 wanted to speak but she saw the Miles and Gabriel looking menacing like they're going to murder someone.

"Come on, guys. Relax. Let her speak." Mariana said, "She will give us an answer."

"Wow, a green goblin Peter Parker... today is getting better and better!" Pavtri types into his blog about a new Peter Parker variant for his readers.

The Hobies went over to listen while holding the triplets. They peak over at Pavtri's long blog. This guy writes so fast, they wonder how he does it.

Gwen said, "Wait, is there a Gwen Stacy in your world."

"Yeah! His name is Grayson and we're friends. I'm friends with him, Harry and Ga-Yeon. I met Peter through Harry. The issue was they are known to be the popular rich boys in school, so it was hard to hang out with the two of them. There was a lot of fan girls, and Harry always seems to be the nerdy one."

"Funny, I always thought Harry liked you, too."

"Maybe. I only dated Peter because he asked me out then something happen with him that got him tweaking. It was on our fifth date he took me to the movies, but his eyes were green and bloodshot. He took me to an empty freeway driving faster and faster, I got so scared until I snap him out of it. When I told him, I'll take the bus home, he threatens to hurt me. Luckily, I'm Spider-woman, because he grabbed my wrist leaving a bruised." She softly said rubbing the wrist where the teenager hurt her, "I got home safe by taking an Uber! I swear, he never touched me, again."

Gabriel's claws came out, Miles 1610 could tell he's pissed off. The way he hunched over almost like a primal vicious animal, looks like an O'Hara is showing.

"I'ma kill him." Miles 42's face darkens.

"Not until I get him first." Miles 43 scowls.

Miles 2020 grins widely showing off his own canines, "I do like hunting..."

Miguel 928 spoke up, "No, you guys stay! Your Spider-men! Well, except for you, but don't do it!" He points at Miles 42.

"I don't care. How can he hurt my baby sister? It's like saying if Gabriel got abused by a boyfriend. You're gonna avoid that?" Miles 42 said to the older Spider-man.

For the moment, just for the moment Miguel 928 had thought about it. His whole face darkens with cruel almost menacing expression on his sculpted face, this made Gabriella stare a bit afraid. "You're right. As you were." He finally said trying to calm down. No, he will never let his Mariposa be tainted by cruel abusive men when she reaches her teens. He will commit murder and knows how to hide a body.

Miles 2020 gave him a side hug, "Awe, papa bear."

"Why do you hug him like if he was your man." One of the Hobies felt a bit jealous seeing Omega Miles being very touchy with Miguel. They saw him hugging him, playing his hair and calling him, 'Papa Bear', it made them very jealous.

Miles 1610 said to his boyfriend, "Calm down, bae."

"But luv... if I see you touching the bloke like that I will go insane! I will- I think I will blow this place to the ground!" Hobie 138b said.

Gwen laughs, "He would like Hobie Pine blow up a sector because Meows was hugging one Kaine Barker."

"Oh my god, you met Kaine Barker! He's a dog, right?" Miles 1610 asked.

"Yup, a cute Golden Retriever." Gwen added.

"Awe, so cute. I wanna meet him," Then he noticed his Hobie frowning almost hurt being ignored and mentioning another Kaine. "Sorry, bae. It's just so many variants to meet!"

"Easy boys. I'm always flirty with Peter, Ben, Miguelito, Jess, anyone. It's who I am." Miles 2020 chuckles.

"That is true. Always flirting but respectfully." Peter nodded.

Miles 42 put down Billie 1610 so she can walk with Gerald and Mayday. Gabriella watches them, "Wanna hold my hand, Billie?"

"Yea!" Billie looks over at May being carried by Petie, "Fren?"

"Daddy, I wanna walk!" May finally wiggle her legs.

"Okay, honey. Stay close my me!" Petie set her down so she can walk with her friend. Then, the Gonzalos got down to walk with them. They were talking having their own conversation.

As the group have so many conversations with each other, one specific one was focused. Gabriel said to Billie 1613, "Why didn't you tell me about this? What if he hurt you? He's an Osborn. They're all tweaking on that drug." He places his hands on her narrow shoulders being so gentle with her.

"You seem so busy. I thought it would be stupid to tell you... besides I talk to Mariana and my friends about it. I'm not delicate, Gabe." She pouts.

He let out a sigh with his head lowered, "I thought you could tell me anything."

"I'm so sorry, Gabe. I didn't mean to..." She felt awful now, "I thought it wasn't important to share."

"You dating a jerk?" He asked being offended.

"Somebody is jealous." Miles 43 whispers at Gwen and Pavtri.

"Mmmhhmm." They nodded.

"I'm not jealous! Coño!" Gabriel shouted at them being annoyed.

Billie 1613 said, "Then, there's no problems. Are there rules about Spider-heroes dating? Did I hurt my canon for dating a Peter?" Her being so naive and unaware of Gabriel's crush on her made it worse.

"No..." Gabriel answered.

"Because Mariana was dating a cute guy too!"

"QUÈ?" Miguel 970 asked Mariana.

Mariana burst out snickering, "Oh, it was this guy... I think he was the male version of Black Cat. It was all flirts. We went out a couple of times then he left me on read."

"Gurl, you didn't fight him!" Mimi 1015 said to her, "I would be so offended."

"Meh, we were flirty before but I was never serious about it. Then I dated this guy who happens to be Lizard Man." Mariana shrugs, "Nothing serious."

Miguel 970 frowns, "When was this?"

"Recently. Black Cat comes and go whenever he feels like it. Lizard Man and I stopped dating once he became all evil."

"Recently? Why you didn't tell me?"

"Geez, these two O'Haras are hopeless." Gwen said to Miles 43 and Mimi 1015.

"Yup." Miles 43 nodded.

Petie saw Miguel 970 looking gloomy, "Miguel, maybe you should talk to him about how the young kids "rizz"." Jess burst out laughing.

"What?" Miguel 928 asked.

Peter nodded, "Oh I heard a lot of the kids rizz each other. I dunno what that is but it's like flirting?"

"It's a slang for charming someone." Miles 2020 added.

Miguel 928 rub his neck, "What do i say?" He saw Gabriel and Miguel looking so upset about their crushes. "Ugh, I guess I can give them a talk... or-" Gabriella went over to Mariana, "Big sis, why not hold Miguel like this! Please? I got a magic trick to show you."

"OKay!" Mariana being a nice person hold Punk Miguel's hand. "Like this?"

"Yeah! Okay," She claps her hands once and said, "You two, will be together! Now, promise me together forever!" She smiles at them.

Miguel 970 blushing so hard while Mariana thinking this is a harmless magic trick. "Okay. Together forever." She smiles.

"Pshh! Abracadabra!" She puff her chest out when she somehow release glitter on the two's hands holding showing a red ribbon pop around their wrists.

"Wow, where the sparkles came out?" Mayday asked.

"Ohh, ahhh." The three year olds gawk.

"Wait, where did the ribbon came from?" Gerald tilted his head being so amazed.

"Hehe, a trick I learn!" She grins widely.

Mariana giggles, "Looks like we're stuck together, Miguelito!"

"Ye-yea..." He blushes.

"Awe, so cute. Gabriella, do it to Gabriel and Billie!" Pavtri said, "I need this on my blog."

"Hehe, you got it!" She happily went to the two with the other kids to look at the trick, again. Gabriel being shy holding Billie 1613's hand.

"I think Gabriella already did your job." Jess commented at her friend.

"Hah, yeah." Miguel 928 smiles happily at his daughter being adorable.

"Freedom!" Mariana 2020 spoke to the Hobies, "We fight for freedom! For Ana-wchy!" Along her brothers chanted.

"Anarchy!" The Hobies cheers on.

"Jesus, this is a cult..." Peter 616 said to Miles 1610.

"That's what I'm afraid of..." Miles groans, "He always love his little anarchist, so I'm not too surprised."

"Especially when it's your kids." Peter hums. Miles couldn't help but feel his face red and warm at the idea of children existing between him and Hobie. Well, he is happy to find out there is a possibility and to meet them.

(Part 5)

[shetheyshenanigans]

Ik I’m currently on an Irish language roll, but I keep thinking about the American man who told me I didn’t have an Irish accent and now I’m pissed off

So

1. Irish names such as Aisling, Roisín, Ciarán, Ruairí etc, are not “weird names”. They are perfectly pronounceable to us, and they’re not “weird English” they are a different language. Making videos where you try and fail to pronounce our names and laugh about it, isn’t funny it’s just prejudiced. Shut up.

2. We do not all sound like Jamie Dornan in the Siege of Jadotville. Side note king, you’re literally Northern Irish, where did that accent come from???? There are different accents across the island, mine is a Limerick accent, my mom’s is an Offaly accent, my dad’s uncles have Wexford accents etc. we’re all Irish. Leave us alone.

3. Dublin is not the only city in Ireland. Moving on.

4. We have Wifi. I’m even using it to type this out. We are not stuck in the 1700s, we have technology. Even the rural areas that do have cottages and bungalows etc, also have TVs and electricity.

5. Most importantly, we are not British. We are not part of the United Kingdom, except for Northern Ireland which was forcibly taken over by the British. Stop calling us English, and do not refer to us as Brits.

6. The Famine was a genocide. You call us stupid for relying on one crop only, I tell you that English landlords sold everything else and all the poor could do was plant potatoes and hope they wouldn’t rot. The English continued to sell our food in the middle of the Famine. The man they put in charge of Famine Relief, Charles Trevalayn, decided that if he helped us we would become lazy. So he made people build “Famine Roads”, roads that went nowhere, for a pittance when they were already half starved. The genetic effects of the Famine carried on too, studies have found that Irish people had higher rates of mental health issues for one hundred and fifty years after the Famine. We fucking remember.

7. Our language was banned. I am fortunate enough that my parents sent me to an all-Irish school and that I’m fluent, whereas they went to English speaking schools and don’t have much Irish now. But, is fearr Gaeilge briste ná Bearla cliste. The British tried to kill Irish and they did not succeed. We’re still here and we still speak.

Stereotypes about Ireland are generally wrong, and people could stand to learn a lot more about us and our history before they go around making “jokes”. You’re not funny.

[wordsbyparker]

Writer’s Block (Short Story) by Rhonda Parker - October 20th, 2020

Originally published at: https://www.wordsbyparker.com/blog/story-writers-block/

Narration by the author at: https://youtu.be/MSZbYja84Bk

What were you thinking?

That was the thought running through my mind as I stepped off the plane in Galway. It wasn’t that I’d randomly run off and taken the next flight out from the airport, and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to be in Ireland. It was realizing that I’d done something completely spontaneous for the first time in a long time and now I was standing in a foreign country with two weeks’ worth of clothing and no idea where I was going.

I’d flown into Galway, which according to Wikipedia was a huge arts center for Ireland. I could have flown into Dublin, but I wasn’t looking for a city like we had in America. I wanted something more authentic, somewhere closer to the countryside and the sea. My Gaelic wouldn’t hold up in Galway’s Gaeltacht areas, but I hoped I wouldn’t need to be fluent. I’d packed my Irish dictionary just in case.

What were you thinking? my inner rational woman was asking.

I was thinking that I had a deadline to meet. I snapped back in silence.

And to meet it you left the country?! Sounds like running to me.

I needed a change of scenery.

You’re running.

“Oh, shut up,” I scolded myself aloud.

Unfortunately I did so just as I bumped into a man on a cell phone, who was speaking in rapid Irish.

“Gabh mo leithscéal!” I said as I swept by him, not even looking up in my embarrassment. I could feel him watching me. He probably wondered what this crazy American was doing.

Not even an hour in the Emerald Isle and I’d already made a fool of myself. This was going to be a long trip.

– – – – – – – – – –

I picked up a rental car at the airport to start the last leg of my journey. I’d made a reservation at a bed & breakfast in the countryside. The reviews were good, and it was away from the city but close enough that I could take a break every now and then. I was looking forward to some peace and quiet.

As I drove I watched the landscapes change from city to suburb to countryside. It was so lush and green, and far away over the verdant waves of land you could see glimpses of dark blue sea. I could only hope that I’d get to visit the sea in my downtime.

No lollygagging. You’ve got to get work done.

I sighed and kept driving. Here I was daydreaming of taking breaks when I’d come here to work.

I pulled up in front of an older two-story house which looked homey and welcoming. In addition to a well-manicured front lawn, I could see what looked like a private garden in the back. This just might be exactly what I need, I thought to myself. I parked the car, grabbed my bags and headed inside.

The inside was as warm and inviting as the outside. The fireplace crackled with life, and the living room smelled of turf smoke, hints of fresh bread, and strong tea. Photos of people and of landscapes covered the walls, and what looked like a hand-knitted afghan lay across the side of the couch. I would have time to look around later. At the moment, I just wanted to get into my room and settle down.

I stepped up to the counter across the room and waited for my host to turn around. He had his ear to the phone and seemed to be taking a reservation, bending over a book of some kind.

“Arriving tomorrow? No problem. Okay, see you then. Slán.”

He hung up and turned around, and I was greeted with two of the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. They sparkled with mischievousness and a certain charisma, but what type of charisma I couldn’t explain. He had a calmed mop of dark brown hair, and a hint of stubble covered the lower half of his face, as if he hadn’t shaved that morning or the previous day. In any case, he wore it well.

“And how can I help you?” he asked, his voice a healthy masculine timber – not too deep but not too light either.

“I have a reservation under the name Penelope Richards,” I said, trying to maintain my composure while avoiding looking into those eyes.

He flipped through a worn book, the one he’d been writing in a few moments ago. “Ah, here you are. And you’re staying with us for… two weeks?”

I nodded.

“Well, what brings you to Ireland, Miss Richards?”

“I’m a writer in search of… inspiration and some solitude.” It sounded a bit pretentious, but it was true.

This time he laughed. “Is that right? Inspiration, eh? Well, I think you’ve come to the right part of the country. As for the solitude, we’re a friendly bunch here and you might not get the alone time you’re expecting. But we’ll do our best not to bother you.” He put away the guest book and reached for a key. “Room 5. Up the stairs and to your left. It has a nice view, a desk and it gets plenty of sunlight during the day. Breakfast is served at 7 am and I advise you to come hungry.” He paused, looking at me with merriment in those eyes. “We’ve already cleared away dinner, but I’ll be glad to make you a light snack and some tea if you like.”

While the idea of tea was a welcome thought, I was too tired to wait for the kettle to boil. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, I’m a little tired from traveling today.”

“I understand. Well, my name is Conor. Just give a shout if you need anything.”

I bit back any flirtatious remarks. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “Ah, I was hoping you might say that in Gaelic. Especially since you spoke it at the airport earlier.” With that comment, and a wink, he turned and walked away.

This was definitely going to be a long trip.

[terrence-silver]

Name Taking

@msfbgraves

🧚🧚🏻‍♂️

Fairies were known to steal --- so the old stories went.

They wouldn’t steal in the physical sense, in a way that would warrant calling the proper authorities. Running off with a cow or the livestock, covertly, hidden throughout the night like ordinary thieves, no. They’d they only take what is called in Gaelic its toradh, or rather, its substance, virtue, fruit, or benefit. The outward appearance is left, but the reality is gone. Thus, when a cow is elf-taken, it appears to its owner only as suddenly smitten by some strange disease. In reality the cow is gone, and only its semblance remains, animated it may be by an Elf, who receives all the attentions paid to the sick cow, but gives nothing in return. The seeming cow lies on its side, and cannot be made to rise. It consumes the provender laid before it, but does not yield milk or grow fat. 

That’s the first thing Dougal thinks of when faced with the namelessness of one of his guests.

She is, perhaps even stranger than their tall, statuesque, supposedly American visitor who introduces himself as Terry Silver, short from Terrence. She, unlike him, speaks not a lick of Irish. In fact, she doesn’t speak much at all, leaving most of the speaking to Terry and when she does, it is done with a lick of accent he cannot place and he most notably has a knack for placing the speech patterns of tourists. Of course, it is not Dougal’s job to snoop and he makes no habit of it --- not always, anyhow. He’s just careful and analytical. Have to be around these parts, where nobody comes often. He merely politely accepts it when their imposing lodger introduces her as Mrs. Terry Silver. A bit archaic, isn’t it? Might be the old fashioned sort, this Terry, but then again, not even Dougal’s own grandfather introduced Mamó as Mrs. so and so and Dougal certainly wouldn’t introduce Kathleen as Mrs. Dougal Clarke lest he be playfully whacked over the head for it. And referring to someone with a consistent endearment such as Beloved in a quantity too frequent to be natural was equally suspicious. Not natural. -”He took her name, do you figure? Stole it?”- He whispers down in the cellar, away from all ears, where he’d be left unheard, pretending to be tinkering about the Whisky bottles even though he already procured his best for them, his voice deliberately low. It wasn’t wise to accuse someone of theft, least of all an inhabitant of the netherworlds. Might anger them. Kathleen was diligently preparing roasted lamb in the evening, being hospitable and bent on impressing their guests with the best food they could possibly muster. They don’t indulge in such a lavish meal unless it is Christmas day or a holiday, but with the innate oddity of their guests, they feel they must, or else ---

-”It’s none of our business, Dougal. Sweep in front of our own door.”- 

She answers with an old proverb, cutting him off, lifting a cooking pot that stands discarded and saved for special events, big enough to prepare a horse in. -”Maybe they’re just the discreet sort. Big on privacy. You know how people out West are?”- She shakes her head. Comforting herself, was she now? -”They’ll leave in a fortnight anyway, you silly man and we’ll never see them again. They’ll go back from wherever they actually came from. Why does it matter?”- Kathleen quips as she walks up the stairs with distinct purpose and back into the house and it doesn’t give Dougal any sort of comfort, in fact, it leaves him restless. He’s heard of tales of people being taken and usurped by the Fair Folk, aeons ago, when he was a boy himself and he was certain his parents were trying to frighten him with stories of possession, but he’s never seen it so acutely portrayed in the flesh as he did now, with this Terry Silver and Beloved. Even his own name sounded like something out of myth. Silver Terry. Silverhaired Terry. Terry of the Silver locks. The faeries took children and infants back in the old days, that much Dougal has heard, but he’s never heard of them taking women. Lovers. Wives. Mates. He tries to observe his guests huddled by the crackling fireplace, keeping cozy and warm, the TV above head muted and entirely ignored --- they seemed commonplace enough. Very much smitten, yes. Not in love in that surface level way Dougal has seen before. This was something profound, like a deep current trickling below the surface --- burning hot like the flames behind them. Terry Silver seemed like the type of fellow who’s sharp blue eyes were always following his Beloved, intensely. By god, Dougal was convinced the man barely blinked. Did that not hurt him or cause him discomfort? He didn’t dare imagine what would happen if someone had Beloved’s attention for all but a second. Their Fae King guest seemed like he would jump up and smite them all with righteous violence.

It gets somewhat worse when he and Terry merely talk, man to man, after dinner.

Beloved sweetly offers to help wash the dishes with Kathleen in the kitchen.

Kathleen rejects as gently as possible and Dougal knows why.

Don’t have her doing anything that might provoke Terry’s ire.

No, no, don’t separate them, don’t separate them, don’t separate them.

Somewhere during the night and after dessert, even though Dougal isn’t sure how the conversation came to be, Terry flips out a leather wallet from his pocket and shows him a picture of himself as a young man. Dougal never could decipher just how old their guest was upon first glance, even though he had all the markers of an advanced age, including his wrinkles, gravely voice and grayed hair, or furthermore, how old he was compared to his own companion. He dared not imagine that Terry is his own age or older. Younger? No, That’d be downright ridiculous.The man in the picture looks a certain way, though. Hair dark as night, tied at the nape, appearing to have not changed in ages. The same pale blue eyes. A looker. Tall cheekbones and a chiseled face bearing an impossible, regal intensity, bordering on hypnotic --- he’s never quite seen anyone look like that. Elven, the thought instinctually crosses his mind as Dougal nods and smiles politely. That’s how elves look. If he ever had to imagine or describe one, that’s what he would describe. An elf. Aos Sí. Sidhe. The shining ones. Young Terry Silver on the photograph looked --- well, too beautiful to be entirely human and it was safe to say his current self appeared no different. That’s usually not how old men and elderly local farmers looked around these parts or anywhere else, to Dougal’s knowledge. He lacked a gut. Bald patches. Any hanging bits natural for an older fellow. He must’ve stolen your name for real then, he thinks, trying to suppress his thoughts directed at Beloved, seated right next to her man, sharing tender glances. Must’ve taken your toradh. Must’ve done it because he loves you too much to be parted from you, separated by two worlds. The old magic tying you to him forever. That thought follows Dougal into bed as Kathleen’s fast asleep after a hard day’s work, horses in the stable.

-”God’s sake, do you figure ---”- He ponders, laying on his back, only to be cut off.

-”Sleep, Dougal Clarke. Enough conspiracies for a day. Leave some for tomorrow.”-

Kathleen snorts from her side of the mattress, voice groggy and drowsy.

They were best friends outside of being spouses, so he supposed he could tell her.

-”Do you figure he just had to take her name?”- Dougal continues, staring up at the darkened ceiling he repaired after a leak just last year with the help of some of the local repairmen working for an hourly rate, hands neatly clasped over his own chest and his buttoned up pajamas, looking over at his wife’s back turned to him, placing special emphasis on the ‘had’, signifying a lack of choice on Terry Silver’s behalf. This name taking, or act of name theft was not in the way a husband takes his wife’s name, ascribing her his own instead, but in the way someone takes a bit of one’s very being, attaching it to themselves --- a hook connecting two souls, from plane to plane. The fae were known to be possessive, envious and territorial and their guest Terry seemed just like the type, judging by his body language alone. Not a man to be crossed, around his woman, especially.. -”That if he didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to be together?”- Dougal gulps, figuring he loved old legends and that for most of his life, it the was the prime entertainment of the rural folk in this county, brought over from an older time when all people had was each other’s stories, company, a good day’s work, church and the tales they’d collectively weave when someone had no morning news to tune into on the television or when the world itself appeared much larger --- unknown. Maybe his imagination was just overly vivid and it was an individual thing. Their Californian guests were in a separate bedroom all of their own upstairs, so he supposed nobody would hear him whispering his theories. He never pondered fairies in immortal love and how their courtships would look like if imagined, though. Not until this very instant. -”And now, they can be. Together, that is.”- He adds once Kathleen turns in bed, feeling his own voice tremble, facing him, her cheek against the pillow, leaning her face on the back of her hand --- she always had a soft spot for all things romance. He knew she indulged him in his fairy-talk. He indulged her in her penchant for the things of the heart. She smiles.

-”Aye, love. That’s a nice thought. I like that.”-

[innovacancy]

Flogging Molly Leader Bank Pavilion, Boston, MA 1 July 2022 👉 click or scroll down for article 🔽

After a five-year gap in releases, venerable Celtic folk-punk outfit Flogging Molly are set to return in late 2022 with their seventh studio record, Anthem. In advance of the August release, they’ve taken to the road with a substantial lineup to preview some of the new tracks as well as digging into their classic, well, anthems for massive crowds in outdoor arenas around the country.  Joining Dave King and co. on the tour are The Skints, Tiger Army, and the Interrupters, the last of whom are co-headlining all the North American dates.  The Skints run a wide gamut between dub reggae, ska, and all-out punk ragers, while Tiger Army brings west-coast psychobilly punkish vibes with an upright bass – as well as a cover of the classic Link Wray track ‘Rumble’.  The Interrupters are an absolutely magnetic ska-punk fusion, guitarists constantly airborne (possibly the best use-case ever for wireless pickups), and vocalist Aimee “Interrupter” Allen is positively magnetic with a furious, wide-eyed delivery that finds her perched on the very edge of the stage, leaning over the crowd.

Taking the stage, Flogging Molly are a large seven-piece outfit with equal parts traditional and modern instrumentation: a fiddle, accordion, and electric banjo are balanced out by the traditional structure of guitar, bass, and drums, with King able to lean one way or the other at will on his acoustic.  King cracks open a trademark Guinness early in the night and right away begins with ‘Drunken Lullabies’, the title track of their much-loved sophomore album. A couple songs later he quips, “This one’s for me!” - turns out it’s ‘Selfish Man’, one of the first-released Flogging Molly songs that captivated hearts and ears nearly a quarter-century ago.  Speaking of the Guinness, next comes ‘These Times Have Got Me Drinking’, the lead single from Anthem. Released back in March, its sentiment has only become more relevant as 2022 has worn on.  It begins with a forlorn vocal, sounding on the studio version like it’s trying to squeeze out of an ill-maintained phonograph, before a scratchy guitar stinger sees it explode into a seven-piece rush anchored by the banjo and bass while Bridget Regan’s fiddle sings over top.

It’s one of a few tracks previewed from the new disc throughout the night, second of which is the as-yet-unreleased ‘A Song of Liberty’, which King dedicates to the Irish diaspora and to the memory of the Easter Rising in 1916.  ‘The Croppy Boy ‘98’ – that being 1798 – makes reference a similarly rebellious period of Irish history, although the tale told is much more personal, a classic recounting of heartbreak and betrayal. As in many of the band’s tunes, Mike Alonso provides a rolling drum beat, and the whole of it possesses traditional, shanty-like quality, which makes sense considering the seafaring history of Ireland, what with it being an island and all.

Around the middle of the evening, there’s a man in the crowd who’s holding up a sign with some check-boxes on it, completed ones for New York and Boston, with an empty slot for Dublin.  The reverse reads “See you fucks in Dublin!” - to which the band are set to return after this leg of tour.  Bassist Nathen Maxwell notices first and points it out to King, who cracks a smile and points him out to everyone.  King is a real character as one might expect from a band such as this, lovably foul-mouthed and theatrical to the core – at one point during ‘Tobacco Island’ he untucks his long-sleeved shirt, wiggles its newly-liberated tails a bit, and then during an instrumental break does a high-kicking dance at each end of the stage.

Maxwell tightens accordionist Matt Hensley’s straps for him and the band moves into another early-period rouser, ‘Devil’s Dance Floor’, which features Regan on the tin whistle, a small type of flute. Before ‘If I Ever Leave This World Alive’, King pauses for a moment and dedicates the song to Al Barr of the Dropkick Murphys, as well as his mom, whom King says Barr is currently caring for at home. King starts the song solo on his acoustic guitar, but it evolves into a huge sing-along by the end.  After evergreen hit ‘What’s Left of the Flag’, he summons the crowd in all singing a ‘D’ note together, sustaining it under the orangey lights of the pavilion, before closing the night with ‘The Seven Deadly Sins’. As has been true for the whole evening, everyone is joined together in song. The convivial atmosphere of a Flogging Molly show [my first, as it happens] is undeniably powerful – these songs, from the oldest to most recent, were truly meant to be sung along to, beers in hand, swaying side to side with old friends and new.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 11/2/21

not QUITE a completely fallow week but a pretty quiet week

listening castin’ my spell, johnny otis. various versions of this song have various levels of twang. it’s so bouncy! one of the earliest examples of the double-clap i have ever heard

starstruck, sorry. this song sounds like shouldering your way through a crowded dive bar just before closing. less sleazy, more comfortable in your own skin and taking up space about it. it’s a rolling, visceral little thing. it’s a duet but it’s not? i normally do not enjoy extraneous mouth sounds in songs, but that “ooough” instead of another drumbeat is pleasing. the vocal mix is very 2020s, but there’s something faintly shimmery in the guitar that’s very nineties

shoutout to the lyrics

Temper tantrums, western boys You're the expert, no, I wouldn't question why You're the looker, liquor, sugar And I'm the rotten apple of your eye  

reading so i was planning to read the ballad of black tom by victor lavalle, and read the horror at red hook by hp lovecraft to get some background, and lovecraft’s story was such an unpleasant little thing it has put me off reading anything for several days.

it startled me how much i reacted to this short story and i’ve been trying to pin down exactly why it’s left me feeling gross since friday night. i think the heart of the matter is that our main character, detective malone, is so carelessly cruel. the man is irish but instead of like fulfilling the american dream with the help of the local workers union and the local parish, he’s a cop and he’s whiplashed all the way in the other direction to exterminate anything that doesn’t fit in with middle-aged, middle-class white america.

the hypocrisy of malone, who speaks multiple “learned” languages, but who is also deathly afraid of anyone speaking a language he doesn’t recognize would have been interesting in a different author’s hands. malone’s side hobby of reading about various “occult” religious practices and beliefs is fine. suydam, who has the same hobby but more importantly is the author of a notable pamphlet, does not pass a vibe check and is immediately under suspicion for being rude, poor, and knowing his equally poor and non-white neighbors. DO something (not even something new or interesting! just SOMETHING!) with this characterization ANYTHING im BEGGING you

lovecraft, writing in the age of industrialization, could have done interesting things with “city as malevolent entity” or “tourists are always bad” or “the social failures inherent to large cities naturally drive people to desperation” but unfortunately he was irredeemably awful.

watching the queen of the damned. this movie is SO fucking stupid but so so earnest and i love it. if i had seen this in high school it would have been uncomfortably formative. this scene is apparently only available in 240p but my gender is club scenes in vampire movies

claudia black my beloved is also in this movie for some inexplicable reason. i love a story within a story, i love sad indie boys, i love a lush little hidden garden courtyard.

playing genshin update: they have added a semi-monthly roguelike event. i could not begin to tell you what the fuck their ongoing plan for this game is but they did start out in china (i think they are legally incorporated in Not China) and things are happening so much with the chinese games industry. godspeed to the big tiddy gacha game, and cross your fingers i get the big tiddy anime man in the banner after the update

making fallow week

[alistonjdrake]

June’s World Building Cheat Sheet Part Nine: Multicultural

I kind of touched on these subjects before but as I’ve been doing lately I’ve had more thoughts and I want to do a deeper dive. 

Honestly while I’ve been thinking about this for a while and briefly mentioned it in a previous post, it really hit me when I was playing Crusader King’s 3 and my character became the Norwegian-Irish Emperor of Britannia and France, and a lot of my subjects had some qualms with my cultural identity and as I watched areas of England get Norwegian-nized and names changed I started thinking about cultural markers. 

To put it simply, a “cultural marker” is basically just something to quickly pinpoint where someone is from or what their heritage is. Of course these are not always super specific and there is overlap. Like, me saying I speak English does not immediately make it obvious that I’m American. But if I talked about what I grew up eating, regional slang, some things people wore commonly, you would probably be able to narrow it down. There’s also what I tend to refer to as the stereotypical cultural markers so if someone was to say “I’m from X” what’s the first thing that comes to people’s mind that they relate to that place and that culture?

I also started thinking deeply about language and language as an extension of someone’s identity. This also stood out to me in the case of empires or in places were dozens of cultures have blended. At some point, language either is or isn’t an extension of someone’s background but the language someone does speak can say a lot about them or the area they grew up as I mentioned in my last post with regional dialects or when a certain language might be considered the “default” among some characters.

Now, as always, I have to say I do not think it’s extremely pressing to give fantasy cultures so many layers. I don’t think it’s always necessary to have a throwaway line about people speaking multiple languages in your metropolitan city or the fact that the culture is either not a monolith on its own or new people have moved in. Do I think it spices things up a little bit? Of course. That’s why I’m talking about it.

The lack of especially falls short to me in settings, as mentioned, that are empires or densely populated or considered “centers” of the world. How many times have I read a fantasy university or guild settings or these expansive cities and all the characters were more or less from the exact same place, all spoke the same language, pretty much ate the same things, and had the same opinions on anything not a huge plot point. 

So Let’s Talk About Language (Again)

I’m not gonna lie. My nerd brain loved it when my Norwegian-Irish emperor took over England and instead of the names of familiar places changing completely they were just changed to sound slightly more Norwegian while still looking enough like what it used to be. I am upset with myself for never considering this before in my own work or thinking about it when I craft fantasy worlds, especially in settings where one group or place takes over another. The language would change or there would be shifts due to either

The sounds for the original thing they’re trying to say do not exist in their language

That’s simply how they pronounce it

Maybe they were feeling frisky that day and decided to change it just because. 

I think we see this most often especially with borrowed words. When a word more or less exists in several languages maybe because they’re taking on a title or a position, it’s not so much that the word changes but each one has to put their spin on it. Not always intentionally it might just be how they say it given either the limitations of their own tongue or how they heard it. 

In my last post I began to touch on this with the introduction of people speaking the same language differently in my Grazan Escan vs “regular” Escan dialect (the basis of this discussion just that people who live in Graza in my setting speak the language slightly different than non-Grazans which sometimes makes the language hard to understand for even native speakers). Last night I had another breakdown about how much I hate the common tongue and the concept of the common tongue and I’d like to also mention that if there is going to be a “common” language in a setting, I myself tend to use Escan as the common language because Escan is an imperial nation and have intentionally spread their language all over the place so a lot of my characters speak it, I think it is important to have some context as to why a language would be so widespread/ common. Someone would have had to go to these far places and teach people how to speak this language (and somehow walk away with it having no regional differences). Why would people in this setting think it a good idea to even learn this language if they have their own and rarely communicate with people outside of their community? What is the impact of a character having to take up another language in order to? In my recently finished draft of The Night Court, due to my own temporarily fleeting memory I forgot one of the main characters was going to a place where he could not speak the language and spent that entire half of the book asking for translations and not being able to speak to certain characters directly. Which, now that I’m done with the draft I appreciate more because I’ve definitely been in situations where I’m in a new place and my poor planning and education made me the only one who couldn’t speak the language and I had to have friends help me.  

This is where language as an extension of identity comes in. Could this character have assumed that his first language was dominant enough where he could travel to new places and not have to learn anything else? Or was it just bad luck and now he feels isolated in a setting where he cannot speak to anyone? What are the implications behind someone’s first language based on where they live? I just wrote two posts now talking about Prince Toli of the Escana Empire’s first language not being Escan and how that impacted his early life and how he appears by the time we meet him in the books. What does it say about the world characters live in where what language they speak and what language they learned to speak first has such an impact?

And in the reverse, what is the perception of someone being multilingual? It is expected in a setting? It is a bonus? A requirement of certain jobs or positions? A necessity to live in certain areas? Given how much court intrigue and political scheming I write I tend to have characters switch languages to avoid spies or eavesdroppers but on the other hand it’s also easier to make new allies if you extend the branch by speaking their language. 

Are there official languages? Court languages? Trade tongues? Coded languages you’d only learn for very specific purposes? 

Clothes And Culture: Sumptuary Laws & The Fashion Police.

This is a point I missed completely in my fashion post and I’m sorry about that. As with all my “advice” I feel it important to note I don’t ever expect anyone to go the extra mile nor do I usually think people need to. These are just things I like to sprinkle into a setting to give in breathing room or background information so it doesn’t feel like it was created just to serve a story purpose, but that it’s a world people live in. 

On that note. I’m very passionate about clothing. I’m encountered a lot of fantasy fashion in my day and I understand why people don’t ever find it relevant to mention certain things but as my setting is a late 18th century world in which the common people are starting to realize that royalty kinda sucks, it’s something I can talk about.

Like, the extensive labor that goes into making sure my royal characters have 100s of different outfits. Fashion is cheaper than its ever been but that was not always the case. There’s a reason why often see people in ye old days with only like 2 outfits for any given occasion. Characters and people who had constant changes weren’t just fashion forward, they were showing off wealth whether or not that was front of mind. To give some context as a lover of historical fashion and beautifully detailed garments, I did some quick math to see how long it would take me to recreate one of my favorite gowns by and. Given the intricate details, all the delicate beading and lace and all the fabric I’d have to buy (I didn’t even get into costs) it would have taken me at minimum 50 years. 

Now does anyone need characters going around talking about how Princess Zurina is wearing a gown that would have taken one man 50 years if not for the staff of seamstresses who likely work on her wardrobe? No. If a character in a setting is a seamstress or if the story has anything to do with wealth distribution and the extravagance and waste of the super rich, sure maybe throw it in there. One half of the book I’m working on is about political cartoons criticizing the royalty and wouldn’t you know if I go back to the time period I’m basing my work off of, you can find a lot of jokes and slights towards outrageous dress because people back then understand the labor that went into these garments. 

This is where I’m going to mention sumptuary laws. Basically, whenever I do my dives into fashion history I’ll find a lot of policing towards the way people dress. I mean we still have them now but maybe they’re not as apparent to us? And a lot of them used to be more class-oriented. One should not dress above their “means” or status which is where we get certain fabrics or colors meant only for certain types of people. But it also happened in the reverse where certain groups are designated things to wear so other members of the community know who and what they are. People not being allowed to wear certain things either because they would be related to deviance or offensive. Like characters in my setting cannot wear any shade of green around the king because dark green is the Escana mourning color and it would be considered as cursing the king to die.

Are there punishments for wearing the “wrong” thing? Is exaggerated wealth or having too many outfit changes something calls criticism if the character is at the top of the food chain (or maybe criticism them no mater social standing)? Are there any unwritten dress codes in a setting that people unknowingly follow? In settings where multiple cultures might exist or people from different backgrounds exist in the same place, do their choices in dress reflect cultural markers? And is there a stark difference between traditional (to a culture) clothing and modern dress? 

I think really I’m spewing this out because I want to see more culturally rich settings that reflect some of the stuff that I think is the most interesting things about a person which is what they wear and how they speak. But again, this is a personal preference and it’s just stuff I think about. 

[scabopolis]

the gift of gab, the gift of you

Here it is @thisonesatellite! your 2020 CS Secret Santa gift. It was a complete and total delight to get to be your gift giver this year. That is not hyperbole - you are a gosh dang delight! Each of your message responses left me in stitches and while I will NEVER try and convince you a movie you think is bunk is good, I am delighted at the opportunity to recommend rom coms that don’t make you want to gouge your eyes out. 

This fic is heavily inspired by your love of coffee shops AUs (except...you know, a pub), your travel stories (which I shamelessly incorporated into the fic) and I believe rates about a 4 on the reindeer scale of Christmas cheer.  You’re a total eagle eye, so I just need to say I am well aware that Colin O’Donoghue’s accent in no way resembles an accent from Cork, but I just need that to be ignored, please and thank you.

Also, I’ve decided we’re fandom friends now. Okay? Okay! Finally, thank you to @cssecretsanta2020 for organizing this exchange and being the actual best and most patient fandom soul. 

*** Title: the gift of gab, the gift of you

Summary: Emma needs an Irish man. Wait! No! It’s not what it sounds like. And then the universe just has to go and provide her with the world’s chattiest, flirtiest, blue-eyesiest Irish man in existence. 

Available on AO3. ***

Emma is in no position to complain. From where she sits both literally – (perched upon a comfy barstool in the world’s coziest pub) – as well as existentially – (traveling abroad for the first time in her life) — she is fortunate and blessed. 

It’s just – 

It’s just it would be easier to enjoy it all if she didn’t have to deal with a rather annoying request from her rather annoyingly persistent mother. 

Her headphones are in but Emma still takes great care to speak in hushed tones over video chat. There’s nothing she wants less than to be the loud American who shares her private conversation with an entire establishment. The pub she found is at the end of a quiet lane off of Cork’s high street. The customers within the pub appear to be locals well known by the staff who tend the pub. In truth, she wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it wasn’t for —

“Who have you talked to today?” her mother asks. 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I thanked the barista who made my coffee. And I ordered a pint in this pub.” 

“That’s not talking.” 

“It is by definition talking.” 

“That’s not what I meant. How else are you going to get to know the city?” Her mom interrupts before Emma can properly formulate a snarky reply. “And don’t you dare say ‘guidebooks.’ Your father and I raised you better than that.”

“Mom, please don’t make me do this.” 

“You said I could have anything I wanted as a souvenir.”  

“What about a mug? I bought Grandma Ruth one with a big fat sheep on it.” 

“Sounds lovely, sweetie, but no.” 

“Mom.” Emma realizes that as a twenty-six year old woman it is probably unbecoming to whine, but her mother is being absolutely ridiculous. Where is her dad when she needs him to rescue her? All he requested was a bottle of whiskey. What a sensible person!

“No. It’s fine. If you don’t want to get your mother the one thing she asked for on this trip that’s okay. I won’t say one word about paying for this celebration trip, or paying for graduate school, or —” 

“Shit, mom. Did you take a Guilt Trip 101 class or just Google how to?”

“Oh, this is natural talent. My present, please.” 

“Fine.” There’s a group of bearded men, the ones she pegged as locals, tucked into one corner of the pub. They’re probably her best bet, but she just arrived last night, and the combination of jet lag and travel nerves make her feel not yet up for that. Which leaves the staff working the bar. 

One of the two men she’s seen pouring pints and serving up food has gone missing. Besides, Emma wouldn’t trust herself in her sleep-deprived state to not say something utterly absurd to the blue-eyed, dark-haired, scruffy bartender. Probably a good thing he’s gone. Much safer is the other man working the bar – the one who refused to serve her Guinness but was very kind about it. While arguably attractive, he is a decidedly less intimidating sort of handsome. Unfortunately, he is in the midst of a heated discussion with one of the patrons, the two of them gesticulating to something happening with a football match on the screen. Which leaves the blonde haired woman currently polishing glasses. 

Emma lightly clears her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am?” When the woman turns to look at her, Emma smiles, and signals her over. She sets aside the pint glasses and tucks the polishing rag into her apron. Her mother, on the other end of the video call, is not satisfied. 

“Did you say ma’am?” 

“Mom,” Emma whispers.

“I said an Irish man, Emma Blanchard Nolan. Man.”

“No. You said person.” 

“The man was implied.” 

“Then you should have been more specific.” 

“Ready for another?” the woman at the bar asks. 

Emma looks down at her half-full pint. “Not quite.” She frowns. “And, uh, you’re not Irish, are you?” 

“No. Canadian.” 

“Ah. Okay.” Emma lowers her voice again and looks at her phone screen. Her mother remains unimpressed. “That’s foreign. Technically she’s a foreigner.” 

The sternness of Mary-Margaret’s expression is evident even over the video call. “Emmaline —” 

“Not my name, mother.” 

“Emmaline Blanchard Nolan, you promised me.” 

“I’ll find an Irish person tomorrow.” It’s about this time Emma realizes she’s rudely ignoring the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender. The one she asked to speak with. What’s more, the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender has been joined by the curly haired bartender. Both of whom peer at her with matching expressions of amused befuddlement. Emma removes her headphones and addresses the man. “You’re Irish, right?” 

“Well, miss,” and the gentle brogue of his accent, even with those two short words, is quite evident, “you are in Ireland.” 

“Excellent! Can you talk to my mom?” She detaches the headphones from her phone and turns the camera around to face the man and woman. “My mom wants to have a conversation with an Irish person.” 

“Irish man,” her mother corrects.

“An Irish man. Out in the wild.” The bartenders stare at her, nonplussed. “It’s her souvenir.” 

The woman presses her lips together – an obvious attempt to stifle a laugh. 

“Well, uh, aye.” The man tugs at his ear. “I guess I could —” He’s interrupted from his stuttering by the return of the blue-eyed, stubbly bartender, hauling a new keg into the back of the bar. 

“Actually,” the woman cuts in. “My husband,” she hip checks the curly-haired man, “needs to replace the keg.” 

“I do?” he asks. 

“He does?” This from tall, dark, and holy hell! also possesses an Irish accent. 

“But Killian is in the middle—”

“Shh,” the blonde woman interrupts her husband. 

“Yeah. Killian is—”

She goes on to shush the man Emma now knows to be Killian. 

“Oh no,” Mary Margaret whispers over the video call, “there’s two of them.” 

“What is happening?” Emma’s not sure which of the two men asked, this whole interaction spinning rather absurdly out of control. 

“I don’t know,” Emma says.

The woman ignores all of them. “I’m Elsa, this is Liam, and that,” she points to Killian, frozen with a hand on the keg like he’s uncertain what to do, “is my very single, very Irish brother-in-law.” And all at once it becomes clear what Elsa’s intentions are. “Killian, can you come over here and help our lovely patron and her lovely mother?” 

“Oh, Emma, Killian even sounds like an Irish name.” 

“Mom!” Originally she found her mother’s request to be silly but harmless. The more people who become involved, however, the quicker it approaches mortifying. Emma watches as Elsa whispers something to her brother-in-law, likely explaining the unconventional request. 

“I’m very friendly,” Mary-Margaret reassures anyone who might be listening. 

“You are a flirt, is what you are,” Emma scolds. “And what would dad say if he found out about this?”

“He asked for whiskey. I asked for this.” 

“Come on, lass. Don’t deprive me of a dashing rescue.” Killian leans across the bar, his hand reaching out for her phone. All that stubble and the blue-eyes and the accent are worse when directed directly at her. “Besides, your mum sounds like a woman after my own heart.” 

“If you’re sure—?”

“Absolutely.”

To her abject horror, the moment she hands Killian the phone, he walks away with it in hand. 

“As requested, milady,” he says to the screen, “one genuine Irish man.”

Her mother’s delighted giggle is embarrassing for all Americans everywhere but it seems to delight Killian. She can just makeout her mother’s question about where he grew up when he rounds the corner, out of her hearing. 

“Where is he going?” Emma asks, craning her neck. “Where is he taking my phone?” 

“If I know Killian, your mum is probably about to get the most thorough oral history of Irish pubs she could have asked for,” Liam says, tossing a towel over his shoulder. 

“Oh. Okay.” She drums her fingertips on her glass. “I’m sorry about all the trouble.” 

“Nonsense,” he waves her off. “This is the most exciting thing to happen in our pub since Seamus and Willy hosted their wedding reception here.” He jerks his chin towards the group of bearded men she noticed earlier, though which one is Seamus and which is Willy she can’t be certain. 

After another fifteen minutes, Emma has finished her pint and Killian still has possession of her phone. He crossed through the room once, merrily chatting with her mother as he regaled  her with the story of how he got the scar on his cheek. 

Elsa is filling a series of pint glasses for a group of women standing at the bar, and Emma feels the need to apologize again. “This isn’t what I expected,” she explains. 

“What’s that?” Elsa asks. 

“I was kind of thinking, best case scenario, there’d be an exchange of hellos and that would be that.” 

Elsa nods, hands the pints off to the women, and then fills one more. “Are you familiar with the legend of the Blarney stone?” 

Emma nods. She has absolutely no intention of kissing the dang thing (her research indicates local teens do all manner of ungodly things to the stone, knowing that tourists intend to kiss it), but it’s on her list to go see. 

“Well, Jones family legend —”

“I take it your husband and his brother are Jones’?” 

“And me by marriage. Jones family legend has it that Killian must have been birthed upon the stone because never has there been a man more endowed with the gift of gab.” Elsa finishes pouring the pint and sets it in front of her. 

“Oh, I didn’t order this.” Right at that moment, Liam returns to the bar and sets a turkey sandwich in front of her. “Or this,” Emma says. 

“Knowing my brother, you might be here a while,” Liam explains. 

“Gift of gab?” 

He nods, pleased that the Jones family lore has reached her. “Gift of gab.”

Liam proves to be correct, which means Emma has ample time to get to know both Elsa and Liam. The two of them are freakishly adept at juggling bartending, interacting with their customers, and keeping up a steady flow of conversation with her. The highlight is hearing the full story of Seamus and Willy (she is able to identify them by their matching navy sweaters – sweaters which Willy apparently handknits for the both of them), two men who worked on the same fishing boat for decades before realizing they were in love. 

“Once they sorted that bit out, they got married three weeks later,” Elsa says. 

“So which one of them is the designated driver?” Emma asks. 

“That whole lot lives down the street.” Liam raises his voice so the group can hear them. “And they do nothing but hassle me every day of my life!” The group all raise their pint glasses and cheer, indicating this kind of teasing is something central to the pub’s dynamic. 

Killian returns from wherever it was he was busy flirting with her mother and sets her phone on the bartop. She looks down at the display only to find it blank.

“Uh, your mum had to run to the market, but she indicated she’ll call you later.” 

“She didn’t even say goodbye? Unbelievable.” As Emma gears herself up for peak mom-annoyance, she gets a text message. “Speak of the devil.” 

4:38 PM - Mom to Emma hubba hubba

“Ah, geez, mom,” she grumbles. 

“What’d she say about me?” Killian asks. 

“What makes you think that text was about you?” 

“Because you have roses in your cheeks.” Emma frowns. She what? “You’re blushing,” Killian says. 

“No I’m not.” 

“It’s getting deeper, I’m afraid.” He takes away her empty pint glass. “Another?” 

“Yes, please.” 

He sets another pint of Murphy’s in front of her (Liam was the one to inform her that one drinks Murphy’s when one is in Cork). “Your mother is lovely.” 

“Yeah, she’s something alright.” She sips the beer and licks the foam off her lip. “What were the two of you talking about for so long?”

“Oh, just having a chat. She wanted to know about the pub and how Elsa and Liam met.” 

“The gift of gab.” 

“Ah,” he says, “Elsa told you of that, then?” 

“Like my mom didn’t tell you anything about me?” 

“It was all good, Emma.” 

She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Why a conversation with an Irish man?” Emma frowns at Killian, not quite certain of what he’s asking. “For a souvenir. That’s truly all your mum wanted?” 

“Oh, that. In between flirting, did she tell you anything about her and my dad?” Killian shakes his head. “It’s kind of a long story.” 

As if waiting for his cue, Liam comes up behind Killian and slings an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “My dear little brother has time.” 

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects. 

“Shorter brother.” Liam bumps Killian towards the other side of the bar. “Why don’t you keep Emma company?” 

“I have another three hours on my shift.” 

“I think Elsa and I can handle it until Will arrives.” 

“Liam.” 

“Don’t make me fire you.” 

“You can’t fire me. We’re co-owners.” 

“Fine. Don’t make me quit.” 

Killian rolls his eyes but slides out from under Liam’s arm. He crosses to the other side of the bar and sits beside Emma. “I’ll take a pint, then.” He raps his knuckles on the bartop. “And make it quick.” 

Emma hides her smile in her pint glass. Both Liam and Elsa have been so lovely. There’s no reason to switch allegiances at this point. Regardless of how much she might be tempted by the stubbly-faced, blue-eyed flirty Irish man sitting beside her. 

“Between the two of them and my mother,” Emma says. 

“Yeah, not the most subtle lot.” Liam shoots Killian a glare as he sets the pint down to which Killian responds with the cheekiest grin Emma has ever seen. The interaction has older and baby brother written all over it. “So, your mom and Irishmen. Go.” 

“Oh, that.” Unlike her mother, and even her father, Emma holds the details of her life close to her chest. She’s made the mistake in the past of sharing too much too fast. When people leave her, either by choice or circumstance, it physically pains her to know there are people out in the world with knowledge of her worries, fears and dreams. But maybe it’s the sandwich sitting warm in her stomach, or the jet lag, or simply the buzz of international travel, because she feels inclined to share at least a few details of her life with Killian. 

“My mom and dad both took a gap year after high school and met while backpacking across Europe. They met at the Roman Colosseum, decided to match up their itineraries, and by the time they arrived in Budapest five months later they were in love and my mom was pregnant.” 

“And they’ve been together ever since?” 

“Almost 27 years.”

“That’s quite the story.” 

She nods. “They cut their year of travel short, and went to live with my Grandma Ruth, my dad’s mom. They always talked about returning to Europe, finishing their trip at some point, but by the time I was old enough to leave behind with my grandma, dad was in vet school, mom was teaching, and they were running a wildlife rescue from the family farm. They kept making new plans to travel but they just kept getting pushed back and back and back. Until, one day, they decided to put all that money towards sending me on my first trip instead. So, as much as I fight every silly request she has of me, I would do anything if it made her smile.”

“Your mum and dad never made it to Ireland?” 

“Nope.”

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Well, it gave me a reason to chat with the lovely lass at the bar, so for that I’ll be forever grateful.” 

Her Grandma Ruth, Aunt Ruby, and frankly everyone who knows her parents well, routinely comment on the resemblance between Emma and her dad. Apparently in temperament and affectation they are almost identical. But maybe she’s more like her mom than anyone knows because the conversation between her and Killian flows fast and easy. Easy enough that she barely notices when she and Killian finish their pints and Elsa slides new glasses in front of them. Emma’s head is feeling a little buzzy, and that turkey sandwich was more than a couple hours ago. Maybe she can hint at Killian that she wants to go to the Christmas market. Hint even more specifically that she wouldn’t hate if he went with her. 

No, she can’t do that. To even think such a thing would be ridiculous. 

She can’t possibly ask a practical stranger to walk up and down the stalls of the festive market with her. She can’t expect him to want to sample all the baked goods and food they can handle. Or to hold her hand while they drink spiked apple cider. That kind of thinking is romantic, and hopeful, and not at all her brand. 

“This is really your first trip out of the states?” Killian asks.

“I mean, Canada, but that’s so close to home it doesn’t count.” Emma catches herself, eyes darting to Elsa. “Don’t tell your sister.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Killian angles his body on the stool to face her more directly. Without Emma realizing it, they’ve drifted close enough together over the past hour or so that the move makes it so their knees knock together. Emma could move away, put some distance between them, but everything is foggy and hazy in that delicious way, and she can’t bring herself to move. “What does that make me, then? The ruggedly handsome foreigner you intend to seduce as a notch on your bedpost?” 

“Who said anything about seduction?”

“You’re giving me bedroom eyes.” 

“I do not make eyes of any kind. Especially bedroom eyes.” 

Elsa jumps in, setting glasses of water down for each of them. “Yeah, but Killian does. And he needs to put them away.”

Emma tries to react quickly enough to Elsa’s teasing to evade Killian’s detection, to turn away and hide her smile in her shoulder so he can’t see, but the gentle tug on the end of her braid indicates he caught her. 

“Think that’s funny, do you?” 

“You and my mom ganged up against me. I deserve to join with your family against you.” 

“Your mum is great.” He shrugs. “Well, based on the little I know.”  

“I know she can be a little intense. I hope she didn’t—”

“She was as lovely as her daughter.” Before his words can fully sink in, perhaps bringing that blush back to her cheeks, he’s moved on. “You’ll have to bring her with you when you return.” 

She rests her chin on palm, blinking up at him. Okay, maybe she sometimes makes eyes. “What makes you think I have any plans to come back?”

“Ireland gets in your blood. You’ll be back.” 

This time they’re interrupted by Liam. He swipes away the pint glasses in front of them, remaining beer and all. “That’s about all I can stomach of that.”

“What do you mean?” Killian asks. 

“You’ve been flirting with the kind tourist long enough. Time to go.” 

Oh. Emma looks down at her boots. A surge of deep embarrassment heating her cheeks and causing her stomach to churn. “Sorry,” she says quietly, her eyes turned down. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” The twin cries from both Liam and Killian startle her. She’s not sure which one appears more stricken by her announcement she intended to leave.   

“Apologies, Emma, I wasn’t clear,” Liam says. He extends his hand to Killian. “Apron.” It takes Killian a moment to react but when Liam stays in his place, his hand extended, Killian removes his apron and hands it to him. “See you tomorrow, little brother.” 

“Younger.”

“Dumber.” 

“Stubborner.”

“Not a word.” Liam stalks back over to Elsa who is shaking her head at the whole display. “They’re both idiots,” Liam says, and Emma is just going to pretend she didn’t hear that, thank you very much. 

“Have you been to the Christmas market yet, Emma?” Killian’s voice brings her back to the pub, and this particular bar stool, with this particular man. This particular man who has somehow intuited the secret desire of her heart to go to the town’s Christmas market with him. 

“No. No. Not yet.” 

Killian jumps down from his seat and extends a hand to Emma to help her down. “Come on, love. Let’s sail away.” 

There’s 100 ways Emma could respond to that. She could tell Killian she isn’t his love. She could jump down from the stool on her own. She could insist she’s fine going to the market by herself. But she tries to channel a little magic, that particular magic which for her mom and dad turned one day in Rome into a lifetime, and chooses differently. 

(Not that she’s saying she expects—)

She takes Killian’s offered hand and his answering grin is all the confirmation she needs she made the right decision. 

And so they go to the Christmas market, and at Killian’s insistence she tries mulled wine but quickly trades it in for a cup of boozy cider. They ride the ferris wheel, the cold stinging her cheeks from the top, the lights of Cork spread out before her, and that thrum of love for this place beats loudly in her veins. Suddenly every travel story her parents have ever told her makes sense and maybe Killian is right  – maybe Ireland is in her blood. 

They walk together side-by-side and at a point Emma can’t remember – somewhere between sampling whiskey, buying several bottles for her dad, and licking salt and malt vinegar from hot chips off her fingers – they transition to walking hand-in-hand. The heat of Killian’s skin, even through two layers of gloves, is what she blames for the fact that she actually starts humming along to Christmas carols. Where’s that deep cynicism she has been committed to for her life when she needs it? 

“Told you,” Killian says after the two of them step away from a stall with handmade ornaments. She must have been channeling her mom because she couldn’t stop herself from striking up a conversation with the vendor. Somehow by the end of the interaction she’d agreed to join him and his wife for their annual holiday pub crawl the following night. 

“Told me what?” 

“That you would fall for Ireland.” 

“You get the honor and privilege of keeping me company on my first full night on my first real trip out of the country and all you can say is ‘I told you so’?” 

“I believe what I am trying to say, love, is you appear very much at home here.” 

The sentiment makes everything in Emma buzz, but she does what she does best and works to diffuse it. “Well, uh, I don’t know. Does it ever snow here?” 

“Eh, we get about 50 mm every year?” At her look of confusion Killian smiles. “Not much.” 

“Have you ever had a white Christmas?” 

“Can’t say I have. They’re pretty rare in Ireland.” 

“In that case, I think this means you should come to Maine. We do a great white Christmas.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

“Great. Next year sound good?” 

Killian laughs and squeezes her hand. “Sounds great.”

She hears the faint echo of advice her dad once gave her. It was right when she was fresh off her heartbreak with Neal and wasn’t sure she had it in her to apply for grad school. He said something to her about moments. About the need to notice good moments even in the midst of bad ones. 

Standing here hand-in-hand with a man she met only five hours ago, the glow of Christmas lights dancing in technicolor hues against his cheeks and hair, Emma is absolutely certain this is a good moment. 

“Emma?” 

She answers Killian’s question by rising up on her toes and kissing him. It’s quick and fleeting, barely a brush of her lips against his, but the look on his face as she pulls away, all bright eyed-wonder, deserves to be classified as a good moment all on its own. 

It takes self-control Emma wasn’t aware she possessed to not drop their shopping bags to the ground, grip him by the lapels of his jacket, and kiss the crap out of him. Instead she loops her arm in his. 

“It’s getting late,” she says. “Want to walk me back to my hotel?” 

He swallows, that poleaxed expression still on his face. “Aye.” 

The next morning, Emma is woken up by the sound of her video call alert and boy it was a mistake to not extend her do not disturb until noon. She reaches out and blindly bats at the bedside table until she makes contact with her phone. As soon as she swipes up on her mom’s call, she squeezes her eyes shut again. 

“Hello?”

“Oh, sweetie. Are you still jet lagged?” 

“And a little hungover.”

“Sounds like you had a very eventful night.”

Killian grumbles from somewhere behind her. “What time is it?” he asks.

It’s right about this moment Emma realizes her error. Her mom goes quiet and Emma considers taking the opportunity to end the call. And then maybe ignore every call thereafter for the next five days. 

“Emma Nolan. Is there a man in bed with you?” 

“No,” Emma answers, though it’s perfunctory and not at all convincing. 

Killian presses closer to her, and shifts so his chin rests on her shoulder. “Hello again, Mrs. Nolan. And this must be Mr. Nolan.” 

That gets Emma’s attention and she opens her eyes enough to see her mom and dad sitting beside one another on the couch. While her mom is positively gleeful, her dad looks as though he wishes he could melt into the couch cushions and disappear. 

“There are certain things I don’t care to see,” her dad says. “Certain things I don’t care to know.” 

Emma rotates in bed and onto her back, holding the phone above her head so both she and Killian are still in view of the camera. “Oh hush, Dad, you and mom did it the first night you met.” 

“You told her that?” 

In response, her mom shrugs. “She asked.” 

“And not that it matters, but Killian and I didn’t have sex.” 

Though it didn’t stop them from trading long, slow kisses that left her dizzy and wanting more, more, and more. Killian must have felt the same because it took little to no convincing to get him to stay the night. Perhaps most remarkably, after extending the invitation, Emma had no desire to retract it or pretend it didn’t mean anything. 

“Your daughter was far too drunk to have sex.” Emma turns her head so fast in Killian’s direction she hears something crack. 

“That, for instance, is one of the things I don't want to know about,” her dad says.  

Killian cheerfully waves at the camera, ignoring both her father’s indignation and her glare. “I’m Killian, by the way. Happy to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Nolan.” 

Emma elbows Killian. The man is a total menace. “I’ll call you guys back when I’ve had coffee,” 

“I want details,” her mom says. 

“And I want no details.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Emma hangs up the phone and tosses it in the direction of the foot of the bed. She flips over onto her side and Killian mirrors her, reaching out to trace the freckles on the bridge of her nose. “So that was my dad.” 

“He seems a charming fellow.” 

“Don’t let the responsible tough guy act fool you,” she says, and snuggles closer to Killian. He responds just as she hoped, by wrapping his arms tight around her. “He once spent all his money on a cross country train ride and stole oyster crackers from the dining car for food. And during a California road trip, my mom almost froze to death sleeping in her wet bathing suit on the side of the road.” 

Killian chuckles, the vibrations of his laugh making her feel even warmer. “You’re saying they can deal with a half naked man in their daughter’s hotel room?”  

“Yeah, they can deal.” After a moment’s hesitation, Emma slips her hands up and under Killian’s shirt. It’s the one he wore to work, and she can still smell the faint aromas of beer and fried food that linger. She presses her palms against his back and bunches the shirt up, up, and then over his head. 

“Emma?” 

A girl could get used to the way his voice moves over the syllables of her name. “They might have a problem with a fully naked one, though.” She kisses his bare shoulder.

Killian’s hands move under her shirt to span her waist. Goosebumps breakout across her skin. By the slight twist of his lips, Killian notices. “So you’re saying—?” 

“I’m saying you should quit gabbing and kiss me before they call again.” 

“As you wish.”

And a week later, when she is back in Maine celebrating Christmas with her family and Killian is in Ireland with his, Emma convinces herself she imagined it. She must have. She must have imagined how safe she felt in the presence of another person. Imagined the comfort she felt as he joined her for a quick road trip to Dublin. Imagined that it could feel like your heart was split in two, half residing in the chest of a person you just met. 

But the week of New Year’s Eve, when he arrives in Maine to celebrate with her, she’s startled to find it was all real. 

The morning after Killian arrives, she sits with her mom in her parents’ breakfast nook, the two of them sipping coffee as Killian and her dad make waffles. 

“Not such a dumb souvenir after all, huh?” her mom whispers.

Emma shakes her head, too happy to even react to her mom’s shameless gloating. “No. Not so dumb.” 

[quadraphonictypewriter]

Rory Gallagher speaks to Molly McAnally — Interview for the Sunday Press (02.02.1988)

When a little boy feels bad, he might go in his room and pout, kick the dog, sass his mammy or steal a can of beer.

But Cork-bred, blues-rocker, Rory Gallagher just picked up his plastic guitar, tuned into the Armed Forces radio, plugged directly into the current of the fugitive's fearsome fight and the powerful, masculine autism that is the backbone of the blues.

The songs spoke of prison, injustice and the meaning of freedom, there was much in American roots music to appeal to any child incarcerated in school.

Rory was a well-bred boy, but his acute sensitivity rocketed his dreams light years from Celtic culture and a conventional path. The dirty blues is a primal moan, the sirens of speechless underclass known only by their escapes, the gypsies, the drifters and the troubadour of the dispossessed.

He wanted to be Elvis, of course, as did every little lad. Rory describes his childhood hero as a man of “organic genius” and one of the few to crawl out of the swamps and infect pop music, though the sellout ultimately destroyed him.

“I like the idea of the free spirit,” says Rory peering over a reasonable galls of red wine with the cock-headed nervousness of a chained eagle. “I was always fascinated by the man with the guitar and a tale to tell, from Muddy Waters to Woody Guthrie, he'd seem like a pirate, man with a mission, and a sense of destiny.”

If Rory has misbehaved in this life, there are at least no notable scars to tell about it. The characters and songs in his stories are often culled from crime fiction like Dashiell Hammet's, infused with a Celtic intricacy that he is only just beginning to realize is part and parcel of his originality... and subsequent commercial difficulties.

He's a proud and defensive loner, pushing 40, never acquired a wife or family, plus 15 albums and 25 U.S. tours down the road, it doesn't look as though domesticity is his lot. But he does admit he's lonely. “I've felt every emotion you can name", he says, “and sometimes I feel neglected, but if you had a settled life it would be harder to build up a climax in the music.”

And that nasty, bitter edge is an intrinsic part of the sound. “When you just live from hotel to suitcase to gig, the music is bound to become nastier,” he explains. “In a particular way, I don't feel bad in a lonesome room — that's where I do a lot of writing.”

The result is outlaw music/the spirit of risk or fortitude. “I've always believed that the best music should be dangerous,” he insists, “It's like taking it to the edge where a riot could break out. Even in gospel music, you get the mad ecstasy — I'm no fan of cocktail music, the best blues and rock is a collision.”

But Rory doesn't look dangerous. He reads a lot, tackles a few languages and pursues an avid interest in French cinema and film noir. They are full of artistic baddies, as well people condemned by circumstances to fall foul of love, the law and the mob as well. But for Gallagher, it's a romantic, intellectual exercise — until it hits the violence of his performance — a roar and visceral process which puts end to any suspicions of dilettantism.

He's never been willing to sell out and release a calculated ditty that would zip up the charts, be tomorrow's throwaway and limit the direction of his career forever more. Because he hasn't been willing, he hasn't gotten rich. Being a world class guitarist and songwriter means nothing to the star making machinery — integrity is a real liability.

But Rory is feeling happier this weather.

Though he left Cork in 1967, like many Irish men abroad, he has never admitted in having left. He describes himself as in exile.

And he says that staying out of Ireland has helped him maintain a sense of optimism about it. “Ireland's a young country which has been through the mire,” he explains, “but I've had to give up feelings too emotional about it, and as to its party politics, I just try to view them as sport.”

Rory Gallagher now embarks on his first Irish tour, this week, in 5 years. What he is bringing home is a pirate legacy, whatever has been borrowed, stolen or created, has been done with the ultimate knowledge of landing once more on this own turf. He'll still be a stubborn boy with a cheap guitar, dreaming of an Elvis sensuality and tunings into the crackling depths of America's dark side.

[simonfarnabyslegs]

tag game

thank you @anxietyvarietyhour for tagging me! <3

nickname: my high school english teacher and a few other people i knew growing up used to call me cookie. a girl i knew in undergrad called me kay-kay. and i knew i man from donegal who used to call me kyah (pronounced sort of like hyah, like how you would urge a horse on) because he couldn't pronounce my name when he saw it written out.

zodiac: aquarius, but i also don't think that means anything

height: well i thought i was 5'2 but i've met two girls recently who claim to be 5'3 who were both shorter than me, and a guy who said he was 5'5 who was quite a bit taller than me, so i don't know what's true.

last movie: uhhh i honestly can't remember because i don't watch a lot of movies. probably my most recent rewatch of bill on the night ghosts was released, while i was waiting to be able to watch it here in the us.

last thing i googled: "charles ii king of bling" so i could show it to my friend.

fave musician(s): nirvana, tom petty, prince, yusuf/cat stevens, the beatles, harry styles, hozier, vienna teng, of monsters and men, måneskin, the lumineers, dervish, lil nas x

song stuck in my head: the funky monks song from horrible histories because my professor was talking today about how funny and weird monks were and that was the first thing my brain thought of.

other blogs: listed in my pinned post

blogs following: 310, but they're probably not all active tbh

amount of sleep: last night, between 3-4 hours. i tried to take a nap this afternoon but that didn't really work out

lucky number: i like multiples of three, but i wouldn't say that those are lucky

what i'm wearing: short black dress with long sleeves. earlier i was wearing a long red and black tudor inspired thing over it and shoes that look a bit like thomas's lady shoes but i took those off when i decided to attempt a nap.

dream job: i would love to work as a historical consultant on a period piece one day, or as a writer. more realistically, though, i'm trying to get my phd so i can be a professor. maybe the other will come later once i've got the credentials and experience under my belt. i also still think about getting back into acting and comedy, but i feel like it's probably too late for that.

dream trip: i think iceland sounds nice. or maybe new orleans.

fave foods: my stomach feels awful so i'd rather not think about food right now but i like fried chicken, and chicken strips or tenders or nuggets, stuff like that. various potato dishes. cheeses.

play an instrument: i used to be able to say i played 14 instruments and that i am a classically trained vocalist but i haven't really had the time or access to a lot of the instruments i play(ed) to be able to practice in several years, and i've stopped singing except to myself or my cat.

languages: again i used to be able to say i spoke 5 languages but i haven't had much opportunity to use them so i don't know how good i am at them anymore, but that would be english, spanish, irish, scots (learnt from my grandfather; and yes it is a language), and some french.

fave songs: too many, so i'll limit myself to three: "i courted a wee girl" (cover) by dervish, "recessional" by vienna teng, and "like real people do" by hozier. essentially, i'm sad, dramatic, and love women.

random fact about me: i was born tongue tied, meaning my tongue was almost completely attached to the bottom of my mouth by a strip of skin. it never affected my speech because i learned to talk around it, but it did look pretty weird and kids used to ask me to show them or show their friends and it really freaked them out. i had a surgery when i was 10 or 11 to correct the issue because my mother was worried it would make it difficult for me to speak or do my music later on.

describe yourself by aesthetic things: not sure what this means but i do a lot of historical dress, or just historical inspired dress when it's too hot to actually wear all the layers, which is quite frequent here in the american south, where i live currently. when i'm not dressed like that, i've been described as an "emo hippie" because i wear a lot of loose, flowy black or dark-coloured outfits.

tagging: i'm not sure who's done this already, so i'm not going to tag anyone, but if you'd like to do it, you can absolutely say i tagged you!

[do not reblog this post]

[sadaboutniall]

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

the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room is empty. 

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

Quick as a cat, you do. 

-- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 

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

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

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

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

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

####

sources for images: 1, 2, 3

[zimms]

i decided in the tags of a post that poots is european and i'm now going to elaborate because i want to and @tangredont encouraged me.

so it's kind of implied in the comic that poots' name is fitz (presumably from his surname)

and after a lot of debate between us (aka i was wrong and peps was right like she always is), we decided that poots was irish, not just because he's ginger, but because of the surname as well

he's the only irishman in the nhl that still identifies as such

(you know, he'd play for the irish national team if they were ever good enough to go to a proper competition, whereas the two others that were born in ireland were raised in canada and play for them now, pfft)

so he's the first guy in a couple of decades to play in the nhl from ireland and you know what he's proud of that fact; he's come from a country where hockey is so far down the agenda, it doesn't exist and here he is playing in the best league in the world.

so he's really struggling because it's the first time in his life without his parents or a billet family, in a new country, new town and no one he knows

and he tries to find comfort in the team, but their way of taking care of their teammates and showing them that everything will be okay kind of just translates to "ha ha, rookie called poots" rather than anything meaningful

he tries his best to ignore it, but he's essentially the butt of everyone's joke, whilst he himself is feeling like a joke

because who's even heard of an irish hockey player? it sounds like an awful punchline to a joke no one really gets

but he's hopeful about the falcs and he expects to somewhat fit in, because they're well-known for collecting "misfits" as such

like their players write poems and have degrees and have sophisticated hobbies that you don't really see in the hockey world and they just signed jack zimmermann even after his entire kerfuffle

so poots didn't expect to feel out of place there as well

but he struggles to relate to the canadians and americans of the team, because he's just not from there

whilst he finds that he struggles to relate to the other europeans on the team because as much as he would love to be fluent in gaelic, he just isn't, and so he doesn't really fit in the other europeans who are speaking in their second, third, fourth or, heck, fifth language all the time.

so he's left sort of in the middle of the two, hanging in the balance.

anyway poots already feels like the odd man out in a team where he should be comfortable, so he especially doesn't want to discuss his sexuality with any of the team even after jack comes out

because what if they treat him differently to how they treated jack?

it would just be another thing to single him out on the ice, so he keeps quiet and he keeps to the background

he's trying his best, but he's always just his own island, floating between the two sides of native english speaking north americans and the europeans that he shares a continent with

[westershiresauce]

Headcanon: Deus Ex Scuba Gear

Note: Spoilers for Bly Manor. 

So, here is my Bly Manor/Supergirl crossover crackfic headcanon where Kara is Dani and her ex Mike gets killed by a truck when he walks into traffic after Kara comes out to him and breaks off their relationship.

“Mike, I think I’m gay,” the blonde whispers, too ashamed to speak any louder. The man next to her tenses slightly before a look of relief washes over him.

“Oh thank God,” he says, and smiles at a confused Kara.

“What? You’re okay with this?” Mike shrugs and shoots the woman his frustratingly disarming grin. 

“I mean, am I glad I’m being dumped? No. Am I relieved that the reason is you aren’t into guys? Kind of.” Kara wrinkles her brows in confusion and he continues. 

“I mean, I know I’m hot.” Mike grins again and winks at the blonde who purses her lips at his peacocking, “I thought maybe you were just frigid or something.”

“Mike!” Kara looks around to make sure no one is listening. Mike laughs and she shoots him a glare. 

“Hey, you’re the one that decided to break my heart at the corner of a major intersection.” 

He winks at her and she advances on the man, trying to shut him up. He skips away from her, ignoring the fact that he is now in the crosswalk of the intersection. 

“Mike! Stop fooling around!” the blonde pleads but the man ignores her. 

“Hey, were you checking out chicks while we were together?” He waggles his eyebrows and Kara balls her fists at her sides. She refuses to take the bait. The man just laughs at her silence. “Dude, you totally did. What’s your type?” 

He goes quiet suddenly and his face lights up. Kara shakes her head. It is seldom a good thing when the man gets a light bulb moment. 

“Hey Kara,” his face gets lecherous and Kara readies herself for some horrifying comment, “Would you let me watch?” 

Kara’s face blooms red with embarrassment and anger. She steps closer to jab her finger against the man’s face and get her point across. However, Mike anticipates this and he takes another step back, grin still in place even as a truck barrels into his body. Kara stares in shock, midstep and with her finger still in the air as Mike is flung at least twenty feet down the street. The smell of burning rubber as the truck attempts to stop and the blaring sound of a horn being pressed much too late fill her senses. 

Kara: “No, Mike, not gay as in happy. Good lord, dude!”

Kara is at the hospital when Mike is pronounced dead. Rhea never really liked her so she leaves for her apartment, still shaken but confused about how she feels about what happened. On the one hand she feels responsible for what happened, but on the other hand, she almost feels relieved. Until, that is, she goes to wash her hands in the bathroom and sees Mike standing behind her. She screams and when she turns around, he is gone. It isn’t until a few days later that she hears someone walking around her apartment that she realizes what happened. She grabs her trusty bat and walks out, expecting some coke addict rifling through her bookshelves but instead sees Mike, pawing at her bookcase. He grunts in frustration when his hand goes through a book but cheers when he manages to knock one onto the floor. Kara drops the bat in shock and Mike turns around, grins wide and puts a hand up in a peace sign, just like when he was alive.

Mike: “I’m still here, bro!”

Turns out Mike is tethered to Kara and it is a horrible, cruel curse. He is both the best and worst wingman and Kara is still not convinced he doesn’t try to peek when she is getting dressed or showering but he also helps her learn to be more confident. All his shameless arrogance makes him a great cheerleader, at least once they talk about some ground rules.

1. No creeping on Kara in the bathroom or when she is changing. Mike scoffs at this and mutters about being able to creep on hotter ladies. 

2. No unsolicited advice or comments about women that Kara is not interested in pursuing a relationship with. This is added after a week of Mike making comments about women that had Kara blushing constantly, even at work.

3. No watching when Kara has a lady over. She wasn’t sure where Mike disappeared off to when she did manage to have a date come back to her place but he would always leave after shooting Kara another peace sign and telling her to “do the circle thing I showed you.”

It all hits the fan when Rhea gets wind of Kara dating women and she packs up and leaves. She does not want to deal with that fallout and she would rather get a fresh start somewhere else. Where is that where else? London, Bly Manor, American au pair, you know the rest.

Kara: “Yeah, I’m gonna take a one way and gtfo of here.”

Who are our players at Bly?

Our cook Owen Sharma is good old Jack Spheer because sometimes these things write themselves. And who is our beloved Hannah Grose? Why, Lucy Lane. Because she was too good and I always want to see more of her. Plus she can be a stern little spitfire with the kids and ghosties (The kids refer to her to as Major). She takes her fine self and daydreams about the moment that charming Jack came over to get the job as a cook, not dead, just as a useless hetero (is that a thing? It is now...) that can’t fathom for some reason that Jack is totally in love with her.

As for Rebecca Jessel and Peter Quint? Kelly Olsen (the only character with any brain cells half the time) and Andrea Rojas, our muy caliente Scotsman. Is that racist? No, but her horrendous accent might be a crime. This version has none of the controlling assholeroy of Peter and no secretly killing Rebecca. Just good old bad luck in a horror series. Andrea gets drunk and tries to dive into the lake to find the chest of loot she is convinced is down there so her and Kelly can run away to America. 

Andrea: “This is a file on all the reasons you should run away from this haunted ass creepy mansion and come with me to America. Also, there is a map I drew of the lake with an X where the loot most definitely is.”

Kelly: “This is just a picture of you in lingerie and a sheet of paper you colored blue with a big red X in the middle.” 

Kelly dies trying to save her when Andrea starts to get hypothermia and they both drown in the freezing lake. Because why bury your gays when you can drown them? Amiright? Who finds their bodies the next day? This leads to the following section: Next slide, please!

Who is standing in for Miles and Flora Wingrave? Why, Ruby and a tiny Nia, of course. Nia is a sweet baby angel and I want to meet her as a little sister, totally doted on by her big sister, Ruby. Nia sees Andrea and Kelly arguing like lesbians (so much hand waving and crying and angry whispering) on the far end of the lake while their blue popsicle bodies float around. Ruby and Lucy drag little Nia away from the scene.

Nia: “My giant scarf is perfectly splendid! Also, I am baby.” 

Things get really spicy when Kara shows up, ghost!Mike and all. He complains about not being able to haunt the “hot chick from apartment 314” any more, but he perks up at the thought of “British broads.” Kara had hoped he was tethered to National City or something, but it appears he is linked to her. Mike is ecstatic when he finds out Bly is full of ghosts. He is always off somewhere exploring the mansion and only pops in to tell Kara snippets of Bly’s history and its many inhabitants. 

Meanwhile, we get to the real star of this indulgent charade. Lena as the wonderfully fit Irish (let her have the accent!) gardener, Jaime. She is convinced Kara is a corn-fed straighty from America until Kara throws herself at her in the greenhouse because flowers turn on lesbians (see Imagine You and Me and Georgia O'Keeffe’s many works. This is sapphic lore, kids.) She opens up about Mike and Lena smooches her so she doesn’t have to listen to the hot blonde’s delusions. 

Lena: “What do you mean it is too bright? What book? This is a watering can for my gardening activities. So is my fashionable, appropriately sized hat.”

Kara: *OMG she is so hot and cool, what do I do?* “Hey, do you guys do the circle thing in the UK?” 

Meanwhile, things are getting interesting with Mike and the ghosts: Kelly and Andrea, newly minted Bly ghosts, explain that they are stuck on the grounds. Mike, who believes in having the freedom of “you do you,” vows to break the curse. He strikes a heroic pose that makes Andrea roll her eyes but Kelly agrees they need to find out more about the origins of the Bly Manor curse. 

Flashback episode in a horrid b/w tone because I want to show this is old, okay. It’s not like we could figure it out by the clothes. Or the set dressing. Or the fact that the one of the characters died of “the lung.”

Anyway, we have our sisters, Viola and the other one. Their names don’t really matter because they are going to be the brunette one and the blonde one, played by the queen of period series: Katie McGrath.   

Anger-y brunette Katie, getting her smacking hand ready. 

And blonde, sad (but also evil? plot twist!) Katie, lusting after her brother in law. 

And they fight over none other than Daddy Cullen, Maxwell Lorde, because look at that hair, look at all those buttons, look at that big hand! Who could resist? 

The child is baby Lena being twirled by Anger-y Katie pre-“the lung” because let’s just have this turn into a black hole that destroys itself. 

Baby Lena: “Swing me, mummy. Swing me with your good lungs!”

Anger-y Smack-You-Every-Time Katie: “I swung too close to the sky and now this is happening to me.”

So while Kara and Lena are christening all sorts of places at Bly (yes, even the master wing because, of course, the master wing), Mike, Andrea, and Kelly are incepting themselves into all sorts of memories and whatnot. Cue that montage!

404 ERROR. MONTAGE NOT FOUND. 

Whoops, looks like we blew our budget on that black and white filter. Sorry about that.

Once the ghost trio realizes the chest in the lake doesn’t in fact hold some dragon’s hoard of gold, but the key to ending this madness, Mike pops in on Lena and Kara to bring them up to speed. Kara screams at him about the third rule while Lena tries to accept the fact that her girlfriend (yes, they are girlfriends by now, keep up) has a ghost for a best friend. 

Kara makes Mike look away while her and Lena get dressed and after quite a bit of exposition, they decide to pull the chest up from the lake. Lucy and Jack have been off playing hide the croissant or whatever the straights do during their leisure time, but they quickly hop on the “break the Bly manor curse” train.  

There is a fun B (C?) plot where Ruby and Nia steal Jack’s car and drive into town. No one in town cares because they are rich and all the adults at Bly are busy romancing each other and assume the girls are being odd rich kids playing somewhere in the manor. 

The adults are planning how to get down to the chest without suffering Andrea and Kelly’s fate, when they find some scuba gear the kids bought on their last trip to town. It is wholly impractical but the adults shrug and accept the plot hole so they can hurry this along. 

They draw straws and Kara has to dive down and tie some chains around the sunken chest. Lena jumps in front of limited edition Scuba Gear Kara to stop her but the American has to America so she dives into the freezing lake after a swoon inducing “I’ll be right back” kiss. Like, gifable on tumblr, twitter, and whatever new platform there is a hundred years from now.  

Scuba Gear Kara: “Guys, I can’t see anything through this helmet. Guys?“

After a few tense moments where Anger-y Olden Time™ Katie tries to stop Kara, Mike, Andrea, and Kelly step in and use their ghost powers to keep her away from Kara. Jack uses his car to pull up the haunted chest and they pry it open with a crowbar and plenty of moxie. The screams of slap happy Katie of the past ring out around the heroes as the curse is broken. The ghosts cheer, everyone laughs nervously (they know the end is never the end in a horror story) and Kara shivers from the cold until she is next to the fire, dry and cuddled up with Lena.

As her final act of revenge, Anger-y Katie gives Kara the Lung(!) but thanks to the power of Science, our spunky American pulls through after properly completing the full course of treatment and antibiotics. This includes Lena taking sexy care of her girlfriend. *wink*

***** westershiresauce is not a medical professional and their thoughts regarding the health benefits/healing powers of a sexy nurse!Lena are not verified. Don’t take srsly. ***** 

Cut to, one more garden and I can retire, Lena, sitting next to an immaculate shrub, waiting for her wife Kara to bring out the tea and biscuits. 

THE END!

Lena: “I swear to all that is holy, if that tea is shite, I am leaving her. It’s been like thirty years!”