#mad sweeney series

[dw-writes]

The Invasion...Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary: Mad Sweeney could not recall the last true believer he had. Sure, he’d been brought over as one of the Fair Folk, but it was different. A sliver of the truth, a dim shadow of what he was really owed. The belief of someone who followed traditions, not him.

That changed when he arrived in Cairo.

That changed when he laid eyes on you and he found that one didn’t have to believe in the myth to believe in the man.

A/N: I am.... SO SORRY. this chapter really shouldn't have taken me [checks calendar] LOL ALMOST A YEAR TO WRITE HOLY SHIT IM SO SORRY. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter, please let me know what you think!!! And i'm sorry ahead of time for the pain :3 (not really yall were expecting it) also enjoy the latest crossover to happen in this series. i hope you enjoy!!! :D

Chapters: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four  || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Chapter Twelve || Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fourteen || Chapter Fourteen-ish || Chapter Fifteen || Chapter Sixteen || Chapter Seventeen || Chapter Eighteen || Chapter Nineteen || Chapter Twenty || Chapter Twenty-One || Chapter Twenty-Two Requests: Mad Sweeney and The Holidays || The Invasion and the Stressful Blows One Shots: The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday || The Invasion and the Weight of Change || Eyes On You

The Invasion and the Big Easy

Beautiful Aphrodite had only ever felt rage twice in her long life - once, thousands of years prior, as she watched the carnage that unfolded to retrieve the prize that she had given young Paris, and second, when she saw you.

You, sitting in an empty room, eyes glassy from too much alcohol and manufactured self-doubt. She knew what it was from, had felt your heart chip throughout the night from across the country while you fitfully slept under the concerned gaze of a new friend. Whispers of a voice filled the corners of the quiet room.

She turned to them, her incorporeal form non-existent to your unfocused gaze and the man who sat on the floor near you. The face of a young woman filled the unplugged television. Rose didn’t recognize her – it was some different form of Media, a newer one, a viral one. The young woman stopped whispering and met the goddess’s furious gaze.

The television cracked, the image disappeared, and the room fell silent. She turned back to you and watched your exhausted eyes close. The man mumbled, lifting his head to check you, then settled back against the wall with a sigh.

She made a note to learn his name and remembered how love existed in so many forms.

Elsewhere, Rose slumped into the arms of her two loves. They exchanged worried glances above her head as she mumbled to herself, “My poor messenger.” She sighed. Her concerns traced the cracks in your heart through your long day to the point she remembered last speaking to you, when you were happy, and the events of your day played out against her eyelids.

You stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a large and bustling Athens of a different age. Your bare feet were cradled by plush, green grass while a cream-colored toga fluttered around your legs.

“We haven’t talked in a long time,” said fair Aphrodite as she stepped up next to you. You tried to look at her, but her face kept changing, as did the rest of her. She cycled through so many features like an ever-changing portrait, each paint stroke melting into the next, all trapped beneath a pale pink robe that brushed the ground.

“Have we ever really sat and talked?” you asked.

She smiled. It lit up the world. “You know what I mean.” She nodded at you. “Nice toga.”

“I’m liking the breeze,” you replied with a smile of your own.

“Yeah? It’s nice, isn’t it?” she teased. You laughed, and she watched you, her features melting and solidifying into a face that was familiar to you. You cleared your throat and looked up at her.

“Sweeney?” you asked.

She shrugged broad shoulders. “Yes and no,” Rose answered with a voice that wasn’t hers. “I’m the goddess of love, remember?” She lifted a hand into the air. “Funny, I never would have guessed this, though. Not in a million years.”

“Which part?” you whispered.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “All of it,” she replied, “None of it. You know, I thought I had a grip on these things, but you keep surprising me.” She smiled. You longed to see that smile on his real face. “Tell him soon, okay?”

“I will,” you promised.

You opened your eyes as easy as a blink, staring ahead into the purple black haze of the dark room. Sweeney snored behind you; a hot arm thrown over your shoulders. You gingerly wrapped both hands around his wrist and frowned.

Was it a warning? A piece of advice? It could’ve been anything – your friends weren’t always so forth-coming in their intentions.

You stared at the room, thinking over everything that had recently happened, watching the darkness become blue, then gray, and a watery white as the sun started to rise. Your phone buzzes with the alarm for your meds, and you squirmed out of Sweeney’s grasp to take them.

You washed your face in the attached bathroom, brushed your teeth, changed into different, cleaner clothes. You woke Sweeney and insisted he stay quiet to not wake anyone else in the house. As you two left, you wrote a thank you note for the parents, and folded up Mitchel’s number for the sisters.

“I hope they get in contact with each other,” you sighed as you followed Sweeney across the large yard. He grunted, yawning, and continued towards the water’s edge. His lit cigarette brunt orange in the faint morning daylight, glinting off a key in his hand. “Sweeney?”

His boots clomped over a rickety pier just out of sight of the house. A boat swayed at the end of it.

“You’re joking,” you called after him. He waved you off without a word. You groaned, looking back up at the house behind you, and followed him. “You’re stealing their boat.”

“Borrowing,” he grunted, placing the cigarette between his lips, “’m borrowing – we’re—” he corrected, looking up at you as he crouched, “We are borrowin’ their boat.”

You crossed your arms. “Do you intend to mosey on back up the river with it when we’re done in New Orleans?” you asked. He climbed into the boat. You looked back at the house again and scrambled after him, pinwheeling your arms to keep your balance in the small craft. “Put out your cigarette,” you wheezed, “Before you blow us up.”

“’m not gonna blow us up!” he argued.

“You have the shittiest luck on either side of the Mississippi, Sweeney, so I’m sorry if I don’t trust you saying that,” you snapped. He sat back, glaring at you, which you returned. When you didn’t budge, he slowly pulled the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it out into the water. You took a deep breath and sat down. “Someone’s gonna get back at you for that,” you mumbled.

“You were so nice yesterday,” Sweeney mused as he sat back, “What happened? Hm?”

“You decided to steal the boat of a family that wanted to help us,” you shot back with a shrug, “And it’s not even theirs! This isn’t even their house!”

Sweeney groaned loud enough to drown out your complaints, twisting around to start the motor. You braced against the sides of the boat as it started down the river, glaring all the while at his smug smirk. You settled in after a while, watching the trees pass along the riverside. “What was that about my luck?” he said as he carefully steered the craft.

“You have shit luck,” you repeated, “The only reason you’re not dying some wildly fiery death is because I’m here and I don’t have shit luck.”

He snorted, shifting on the seat, and absently twisted his warped coin charm around his neck. “Ya know, maybe you made me another lucky coin,” he muttered absently, “Ever think of that?”

You watched him before you spoke. His eyes were trained on the river behind you and he carefully steered down the gentle curves, keeping away from other boats and suspicious shallows. You didn’t answer him for a long time. You balled the sleeves of your denim shirt in your palms and pulled it closer to you, wishing it was just a bit thicker to keep out the cold air coming off the water.

“Maybe I did,” you finally said as the river became more crowded with boats. He hummed as he looked up at you, slowing the boat down and threading it through the crowd to the dock. “Maybe I did make you a lucky coin,” you repeated.

He snorted as he climbed out of the coat. He held out his hand to you. “Bein’ facetious, luv,” he grumbled.

You took it, swinging your bag onto your shoulder as you climbed out. “Big word,” you teased. He tugged you hard against his side. “But really,” you said with a small smile, “Always told you that it was about belief. And I really think those coins were pretty lucky if they stopped a bullet and saved your life.”

“We’ll see,” he mumbled. He squeezed your hand, then led the way out of the marina and into the crowded streets, keeping you close so that the two of you wouldn’t be separated. You eventually found your way to a less crowded area of shops. Sweeney slowed down. “Ya hungry?”

“A bit,” you sighed, “We didn’t really eat anything at the house since someone stole their boat.” You looked up at him.

He rolled his eyes and looked around, tugging you behind him to a food truck on the corner. He huffed, lip curling in a teasing sneer as you pulled out your wallet and paid. He took the food he’d ordered, and yours, and tucked a bottle of beer in the crook of his elbow as he started to walk. You followed him, taking your food with a sigh as you kept pace with him. He stopped at a statue of the Virgin Mary, then smacked the top of his beer against its stone pedestal to pop the metal top off, and chugged half of it.

You watched him, slowly eating your food, leaning against the pillar across from him. “Sweeney?” you asked once he finished his beer.

He buried his face in his elbow as he released an ugly burp. You whistled slowly. “Whut?” he grumbled, taking a large bite of his meal.

“Are you okay?” you asked. You set your food down, worry twisting at your gut, and moved closer to him. “You’ve been a little weird since we got here.”

“Just got here,” he grunted.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” you shot back. You crossed your arms, staring up into his face. He scratched his chin, then down his neck as he watched you in return. “I’ve known you too long for you to pull this shit and not expect me to ask you about it,” you gently said.

He continued to stare, his blunt fingernail scratching at the label on the bottle until it started to peel. He didn’t say anything, though. His eyes grew dark the longer they traced over your face, until, finally, they fell away. He sniffed and looked at the crowd shuffling past you, scratching the growing stubble on his chin again. “Just don’t wanna see ‘em,” he grumbled.

“Hey strangers,” came the call of a familiar voice. Sweeney groaned, dropping his head back with the sound, and turned away while you smiled and spun around.

“What a sight for—” the words shifted in your mouth as you took in Laura Moon’s new, fresh face and glowing skin, “Sore eyes, holy shit Laura.”

She smirked and twirled, holding out her arms. “Guess that old man doesn’t lie, huh?” she said.

Sweeney rolled a hand in the air, tossing the empty bottle behind him. “Then what, pray tell, are ya doin’ here, huh?” he sniped, “What, you figure that the quick ‘n easy don’t last?”

You looked up at him, struggling not to roll your eyes. “Really?” you whispered.

He shrugged. “Just pointin’ out the obvious,” he muttered.

“In a really asshole-ish way,” you replied.

He lowered himself against the pillar, leaning into your space. “Never heard ya complain before,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossing over your stomach. “I call you an asshole a lot, actually. Pretty sure I use it more than your name,” you argued.

“It ain’t bad enough that it kept ya from kissin’ me though, ain’t it?” he asked with a smirk.

You snapped your mouth shut.

Laura’s voice was far too loud in the crowded street when she shouted, “You what?!” followed quickly by, “Holy fucking shit,” and, “It’s about time!”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed, turning to her. “No?”

“Yes!” she countered.

“That’s not the argument here, the argument is how he’s an asshole for getting on your case,” you tried. Behind you, Sweeney started to snicker.

“Uh, no, fuck that, I’m over it,” Laura said with a wave of her hand. She closed the gap between you. “You kissed this sasquatch? Seriously? What, was it against your will, or did you actually want it?” She gasped, her face alight with joy at the first taste of gossip she’d had since she died. It really gave you a glimpse of who she had been before. “Did he tell you that he—”

“Ya here for the Loa, yeah?” Sweeney cut in, coughing on ill swallowed spit.

“That’s not important right now, is it?” she countered, glaring, “Is it really?”

“Course it is,” he replied, pushing away from the pillar. It was your turn to stare at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes as he walked past. “Second longer without my coin is a second too long, Dead Wife. Let’s get this over with.” You followed after him. He tossed the bottle into the nearest trash.

“What crawled up his ass?” Laura grumbled as she walked next to you.

You shrugged. “He’s been like this since we got here. I don’t think he wants to deal with the Loa at all.” You tilted your head, then leaned towards her. “Do you know anything about the Loa? I haven’t read anything, just know what he’s told me.”

“Not a fucking clue except that they can bring me back,” she said.

“Huh,” you sighed.

Sweeney led you both around a corner and stopped in front of a small building. Above the door was a sign that swung in the humid breeze, displaying the black rooster that had started to fade in the sun. He paused at the door, rubbing his neck, then he turned to you both. “Ain’t no backin’ out of this once we start,” he said. He stared at Laura, his face the epitome of sobriety. “You wanna do this?”

She rolled her eyes and yanked the door open. “Let’s just fucking hurry up, I don’t have all day,” she griped.

Sweeney held the door open for you, his arm brushing your shoulder as he leaned down to whisper, “Stay close.”

You nodded and stepped inside.

(Rose frowned as the scene against her eyes shifted, showing you through the eyes of a goddess she’d never met.)

Bridget – lovely and strong – felt her heart lodge in her throat the moment you walked into the Black Cock. She knew the man you walked in with, knew the emotion that made him hold open the door for you, dip his head towards yours, brush your back as you passed him.

Mad Sweeney was in love with you, and you him, if your subtle lean into him was a clue, and he didn’t explain a damn thing about the Baron’s specialty if you have followed him and the woman there.

He was about to break your heart.

She knew all too well that not everyone enjoyed their partner stepping out, but even the ones that didn’t mind it never came with them to ask the favor.

He hadn’t fucking told you.

In the ten seconds it took for your trio to enter the bar, Maman Bridget’s opinion of Sweeney soured. Something must have shifted in her, too, as her husband’s fingers lightly prodded her back in question. She smiled, mirthless, and stepped out from behind the bar.

What a fucking coward.

(And then, there you were)

You watched the red-haired woman move around the end of the bar. She passed Sweeney, sharing a look with him, before she moved through a door you hadn’t noticed before.

(Imaged passed through your mind – piles of stones upon marked graves of women, women standing beneath weeping willows that shielded them from mist and shadow, drums beating against ears; but also, there were doctors in damp fields and poets writing by candlelight and rough handed blacksmiths and farms all framed by an ever-burning flame.)

You sat heavily at the bar. The weight of recognizing a two-faced goddess rested heavily on your shoulders and the back of your neck. You stared absently at a bottle in front of you, barely listening to the sound of Sweeney’s voice as he traded barbs with the man behind the bar. Your vision swam when you finally looked at him.

The man himself was tall, even lounging back against the back bar, with a top hat that made him even taller. He had deep, dark skin with the cool undertone of a clear night radiating from beneath. His bright eyes, while filled with humor, were scanning over your trio with a knowledge you couldn’t place.

The wall behind him melted away when he met your gaze. There was a history behind him, spanning centuries and countries, filled with celebrations and swearing and death and spirits and all framed by a heady smoke that filled your lungs and spilled over your lips on a shaky exhale. When you breathed in, there was life and sex and booze, singing and loud music and a sharp tang of spiced rum on your tongue.

You couched and squeezed your eyes shut to the man’s grin, bracing against the bar as you struggled to regain your composure. Beneath it all, you recognized a gap in your knowledge that ached in your chest and made your heart race. The lack of information made you anxious and it hurt. You refocused on the bar, scooping up a bottle near your fingers, and struggled to listen to the conversation.

“And when she is not around,” purred the Baron, his voice floating through the air, “I fuck a lot of other women.”

You were joining an already complicated conversation, you knew it, and maybe it was nerves clawing at your throat that forced your mouth open to say, “Doesn’t Maman Bridget help women with unfaithful lovers?” The air chilled for a moment, but nothing rang untrue in your skull. You glanced up from the bottle of pepper-infused rum in your hand. “What?” you asked, “I’m not wrong.” You were defensive, yes, your voice sharper than you intended.

The woman, who you knew had left through a door before, was standing next to the Baron behind the bar. She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “I like this one,” she murmured. She released the man and rounded the bar again, almost materializing by your side with her smooth movements. No wonder you hadn’t noticed her return. “I wouldn’t mind keeping you around,” she said, leaning against the bar, “The Baron might even warm up to you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” you replied, “No offense.”

The Baron laughed – loud and full, a sound that echoed a little harshly in your ears – and leaned towards you. “She’s right,” he murmured, “I like you.”

You smiled. There was an air to him that was familiar, and you voice as much when you said, “You remind me of another friend who owns a bar a lot like this. I think you two would get along.”

He snorted as he leaned back, eyeing Bridget over your shoulder as she slipped behind you. “Maybe you could introduce us,” he replied.

Sweeney sat heavily on the stool next to you, grunting and leaning into your warmth. “How’s about we stop makin’ nice,” he grumbled, “I gotta favor.”

Bridget smiled. “From what I hear, it’s not like you to do favors, Sweeney,” she sighed and your smile grew tighter, “Hasn’t that been your friend’s job?”

You frowned at the way she said ‘friend’. Sweeney huffed, shifting in his seat and leaning away from you.

“The Dead Wife,” he sighed, waving a hand towards Laura on his other side, “Is dead.”

The Baron flicked the rim of his hat up and leaned close, spreading his hands along the bar. “Don’t look dead,” he said. He sniffed, long and loud. “Don’t smell dead, neither.”

“Smells Norse,” Bridget commented with a sigh. She leaned towards Laura and picked up her hair, sniffing it. “A bit Greek? A bit…” Her hand snapped out and slapped the side of Sweeney’s head. He started to protest when Bridget opened her mouth and let loose a violent rant of Gaeilge so fast it didn’t sound like words.

Laura leaned back to share a wide-eyed look with you.

The Baron laughed.

Sweeney hunched his shoulders around his ears as Bridget swore. Her voice dropped as she switched to English, “You lost the Sun’s treasure?!”

Your leprechaun swung a hand towards Laura. “It ain’t lost, it’s in there!”

“It’s not yours anymore, is it?!” Bridget snapped, “Not the Sun’s but some dead woman’s!”

“And she’ll only give it up if she ain’t dead!” Sweeney shouted.

The Baron stood straighter. Bridget’s mouth clicked shut and her eyes glanced past him to you.

“Why we’re here,” Sweeney finished.

“That’s powerful magic,” the Baron murmured, “With a steep cost.”

“We’ll pay,” Laura replied, unknowing.

Sweeney shoved his hands through his hair and leaned on the bar, ducking his head low.

It was quiet for a moment. The Baron and Bridget exchanged looks. Then, Bridget cleared her throat. “Come back at closing,” she answered, “We need time to prepare.”

Sweeney was up and out the door before she finished. You stood to follow, stopped only by the woman’s hand on your arm. Laura lingered at the door.

“You shouldn’t come back,” she said, “It’s not magic involving you.”

You frowned, feeling a calm warmth seep into your skin, but pulled away. “We’ll see,” you replied.

You left.

Laura waited outside, talking about places to stay, and started towards the main road like she knew the area. Sweeney shuffled behind her, and you after him. He didn’t look at you, didn’t slow to walk next to you. He just walked, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets.

The three of you eventually made your way to a small hotel not far from the French Quarter. They had one room left, and the cost left you lightheaded, but you dug the cash out of your bag and paid regardless. Once you were given the keys, you turned to see what Laura and Sweeney wanted to do until it was time to go back, but found Sweeney gone.

Laura shrugged when you asked her where he’d gone. “Dunno,” she said, “Didn’t even see him leave.”

You frowned. “Okay,” you sighed, leaning to see if you spotted him anywhere. “What do you wanna do until he gets back?”

A smile lit up Laura’s face. She led you back outside, and down the street, stopping at every shop between the hotel and the bar. You found ink for Mr. Ibis, an antique set of mortician’s tools for Mr. Jacquel, and a new toy in the shape of a bat for Bas. Laura found a cute dress, which she showed you only after you had left the store, and she changed in an alley. There were other stores, other things purchased or stolen, other smiles shared and memories made.

It was dark soon enough, and the two of you stumbled back to the bar in each other’s arms, laughing like schoolgirls.

Sweeney was already there, waiting, face drawn as he pushed the door open. He didn’t say anything as you walked past him, didn’t even look at you.

Bridget looked away from the Baron with a smile that fell the moment she saw you.

(Coward. What a fucking coward.)

“I told you not to come,” she said, leaning on the bar, “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” you asked, confused, a bit incredulous, “They’re my friends.”

Even the Baron looked a bit lost as he watched Sweeney. “Sex magic only calls for two people,” he explained slowly, “That who requested, and that who benefits.” He tilted his head. “And those who cast it.”

“What?” His words rang in your ears. Laura’s hands disappeared from your arm as she said something, then the Baron, then silence. Three sets of eyes burned into your face as a fourth actively avoided looking at you. “What?” you asked again.

“It’s magic,” Bridget said at the confused look in your eye, “Just magic.” It was like she was trying to soothe a burn, but instead of aloe, it was lemon juice.

“Potent magic,” the Baron added. He slid his hand up over her ass. “Only kind that’ll work for this, too.”

Laura whispered your name.

You smiled. You had to – for her, who you’d come all that way for, and for Sweeney, who…

The smile hurt. You’d rather the platitudes from Bridget.

You nodded, glancing around the room. “Yeah, I know,” you said, voice cracking, “Why we’re here.” You cleared your throat. It burned. “I’ll be at the hotel then.” The door thumped against your back as you reached it. Laura had the grace to look away as you fumbled it open and left.

Once outside, the door slipped from your fingers and shut with a heavy thunk. The hot night warmed your clammy skin and sunk into your clothes until you started to sweat.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Just don’t wanna see ‘em.”

“You’re a liar!”

He knew.

(He really was a coward.)

You walked, shouldering through the thick evening crowd as your thoughts wandered away.

Why were you upset? He wasn’t yours, despite all your wants, and thoughts, and wishes. He never was, and, if you were honest, he never would be. You weren’t supposed to be there in the first place, weren’t supposed to be trailing after a man who worked for a god you shouldn’t have met. You were supposed to be home in Cairo. In your bed. Alone.

Fading.

Dying.

Dead.

Your feet shuffled to a stop. People milled past you, unseeing, like you were just something in their way and not a person on the brink of an abyss. You couldn’t tell what you were staring at – a swirl of blurring colors that spanned what must have been the road or the crowd or the buildings, it was all bright and it hurt. Heat spilled down your cheeks and your vision cleared.

A shoulder clipped yours. You stumbled, the rest of the tears rolling down your face, jolting back into your body when you weren’t even aware you’d left it.

“I’m sorry—oh,” a voice thick with a deep southern twang danced in your ears. Warm hands brushed your shoulders. “You alright, darlin’?” Your tears continued. They wouldn’t stop, even as you lifted your eyes from the ground, up past a white collar framed by metal filigree points, and met a warm, brown gaze set into a tanned and tired face. The Preacher’s brow furrowed as he muttered a soft, “Shit.”

You shrugged a shoulder away from him, mumbling something you knew was a lie, but that might’ve also been an apology.

He followed, standing close, staring past you, then turned you around towards a door. You barely heard his voice. You tried to take in more of his features, wondering why he bothered when no one else did – his hair was messy but stood in soft peaks around his head, while the sides were shaved close, and a splatter of dark freckles covered the bridge of his nose. He spoke again, meeting your gaze when he did.

The air trembled around you. Something traced his words out onto the air. You could’ve mistaken the anomaly for a heat wave if it hadn’t been at the end of your nose.

He guided you through the crowd and into a cold bar. You shivered at the sudden change, you sweat suddenly ice on your skin. His hands left you to remove his coat and drape it around you. You watched him roll up his sleeves. Hs pressed a hand between your shoulders and led you to a booth. Two other people were already sitting there, arm against arm.

“Padre?”

“Jesse?”

“Now,” the Preacher – Jesse – motioned you further into the booth, taking up the edge seat when you complied. “This here is Tulip, and Cassidy,” he quietly introduced.

You were pretty sure you gave them your name, but you couldn’t be sure.

“We ain’t here for—” Cassidy’s voice cut off with a yelp.

Tulip adjusted in her seat, shooting the man, Cassidy, next to her a glare. She smiled at you. She was lovely. “You alright, hun? You look down,” she asked. Jesse next to you suddenly jumped, swearing under his breath. “Why don’t you and Cass get us all some beers, yeah?” she politely demanded. She even moved for Cassidy to scramble out of the booth.

You took her in as she shuffled back across the booth seat – her tight brown coils kept the sunglasses sin her hair in place, and her brown eyes were bright as she stared at the men at the bar. She wore lip gloss, and her freckles were just a shade darker than her soft brown skin.

She flashed you another smile, this one not as awkward. “You okay?” she asked again. Her eyes darted over your face. “I mean, you don’t really look okay, but do you wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. You mulled over her words, adjusting yourself in Jesse’s coat as you struggled to settle back into your skin, forcing yourself into the situation. Out of all the stupid things you could’ve done, you were led into a bar by a stranger, and stuck in the corner seat of a booth.

Though, there were worse things you’d done, too.

And it was a Priest that led you into the bar. Out of all the strangers, that was one that you could, maybe, trust more. And given the weird thing that happened when he spoke, it really reminded you of Anders, and you scrubbed your face with your hands with a groan. Fully covering your face, you dropped your elbows on the table and rambled out everything that had ever happened – from meeting Sweeny in Cairo, to sitting in the bar with her at that moment. Your voice cracked as you spoke, and you barely registered Cassidy or Jesse returning sometime towards the early middle of your tale.

Tulip took your hand and wrapped it around a beer, the polite look on her face replaced with a familiar frustration.

“Now, I ain’t one for religion,” she started, quickly rolling her eyes as Jesse cleared his throat. “Wasn’t,” she corrected, “But someone wanted us to meet because I think we are uniquely qualified to help you out right now.”

Cassidy slapped his bottle on the table, leaning in curiously. “Yer man really a leprechaun?” he asked, “Flighty fuckers, ain’t they?”

“I’m sorry?” you laughed, clearing your throat.

“Nah, I’m old, yeah, been everywhere in my hundred years, and I ain’t ever come across a shrewder or fucked fae than a fuckin’ leprechaun,” he answered.

You properly grabbed the beer and had a long drink. “And how—”

“Oh.” Tulip slapped his arm. “Cassidy here is a vampire,” she said casually, then waved a hand at Jesse next to you, “And Jesse has the literal word of God in his chest.”

“Tulip,” he sighed, as though it was a long-worn topic of contention.

The edges of your world became a little more defined the longer you sat with them. “A vampire, a priest, and a woman,” you mumbled, “I’ve been in weirder situations.”

“Yeah, alright,” Cassidy said, waving his hand in a circle over the table as he adjusted in his seat, “Circle back – how the fuck did ya land an invitation to the Oester party?”

“Oester?” Jesse whispered to you.

“Easter,” you clarified.

He nodded slowly and sat back, draining his beer in one long gulp.

“Everyone’s always clamberin’ for that, fuck, even the Oester in fuckin’ Qatar has a hard time gettin’ invited some years!” Cassidy continued.

“There’s more than one?” asked Tulip.

“You also said there were multiple Jessues?” butt in Jesse over her.

“Jesi,” Tulip corrected.

“I think it’s just Jesus, ya know, both plural and singular,” Cassidy mumbled.

“We’re lookin’ for God,” Jesse continued, sighing, “Big G, God. Was he—”

You shook your head. “Sorry, Father. Just Jesus.”

“Jesse,” he insisted.

The conversation continued in a similar vein, you giving them more details, them sharing their story. The table collected a large amount of beer bottles as the hours passed.

Sweeney drank just as much as Bridget danced. It was a dance she’d done numerous times, one that he partook in at least once, one she’d done in front of others who owed favors, who needed magic so desperately that they’d toe the line between death and sex just to taste it. She twisted in time to music that formed on the air. Sweeney’s eyes slipped past her, past the figures that appeared around her, to someone she had yet to see. She threw her head back as old words slipped past her lips, and spotted the figure, the one who clouded the Irishman’s mind as the world grew hazy and the magic grew hot. Bridget was grinning when she turned to him, traced her slim fingers up his thighs, which parted for her.

“And, for a moment, I thought you were hung up on the dead girl,” she crooned against his clothed stomach.

Sweeney snorted.

“But it’s someone else,” she teased. Her lips grazed the skin of his neck. He twisted his head away from her. His knee started to bounce. “Bet you’d be more into it if the Informant were here, kneeling between your knees.” She pressed an open-mouthed kiss against his ear. “Just as eager to take your cock as you are to give it.”

He shrugged her off with a growled, “Shut up.”

She arched an eyebrow as she stood, though that Cheshire stretched further across her face. “C’mon, let’s play pretend, hm?” The room filled with an eerie glow. Sweeney rose from his eat. “You be the burly Irishman.”

“Shuddup.”

“I’ll grant your favor,” she purred, voice lilting as Sweeney stepped closer.

“Shut. Up.”

It wasn’t her voice that said, “Make me,” but she squealed when Sweeney scooped her up and pinned her to the wall, anger and frustration brewing hot in his veins. It wasn’t her he saw when he hiked her skirt up and pulled her legs high around his waist, nor when he tilted her hips up and pushed his cock into her with no preamble.

In the haze, he heard the Baron and Maman Bridget laugh.

As the red settled over his eyes, he slid a hand up the back of the figure on his hips, swinging them around, pinning them to the column behind him. They were tighter than hell on his cock and warmer than the sun against his chest and he felt himself swallow his own name as he kissed a mouth he’d become familiar with.

The fingers in his hair were yours.

The thighs he gripped tight were yours.

The voice that mewled and moaned in his ear as he touched and bit groped the right places was yours.

And while part of him knew it wasn’t you – wasn’t really you taking his cock like you were built for it – the rest of him desperately wished it was, and convinced him to enjoy the fantasy while it lasted.

(Laura knew that Sweeney only touched her the way he did was because he imagined it was you, and she desperately wished her imagination was powerful enough to picture the man she kept telling herself she loved, rather than seeing the one she really did.)

Jesse fumbled with the lock to your hotel room for the third time, swearing beneath the din of a party going on down the hall. Cassidy stated that he was sober, that he could open the door, but Tulip hushed him and pointed out that he was carrying you on his back, so he was too occupied to do so. He didn’t argue with her, nor point out that she, too, was drunk.

You cheered when Jesse finally opened the door.

“’ey, I got it,” Cassidy said as he shuffled inside. You were vaguely aware of him ushering Tulip and Jesse away, of him telling them that they needed to get home, and to call a taxi or an Uber.

“You text me!” Tulip halfway shouted around him, waving at you as you were deposited onto the bed.

You flashed her a thumbs up before Jesse pulled the door shut.

Cassidy turned to you, rubbing his neck, and dug through the only bag in the room, mumbling something about getting you a change of clothes.

It gave you a chance to really look at him, really take in his features. He was tall, with hair long enough to stick out in difference directions, and soft brown eyes, and was freckled from his previous days in the sun. His voice was soft as he handed you the clothes and advised you to change. He steadied you, helped you tug off your stubborn shirt and put on your clean one, then sat you on the toilet and grabbed a washcloth.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, surprisingly sober, given how much you drank.

He knelt and started to wipe your face; his brow knitted together at your question. Then, he sat back on his heels, his arms draped on his knees.

“I’m a real right bastard, love—”

You swiftly corrected him with your name.

He lifted his hands, apologized, and continued, “But I ain’t gonna leave someone alone when they’re hurtin’.” He paused, then sighed. “Specially with somethin’ like this.” He gave you a small smile.

“I don’t deserve it,” you whispered, sniffling. You wiped your nose with your hand. Cassidy held out the damp cloth. You took it, chin trembling, “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“You don’t,” Cassidy agreed. “Fact, from what y’ said, that Sweeney’s a fuckin’ arsehole and deserves an asskickin’, but that’s from the outside.”

You waved your hands, rolling your eyes. “No, I—” You sniffled against and dabbed your nose with the cloth. “No, I don’t deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve your company, I don’t…” Your voice cracked and dropped to a whisper as you continued, “I don’t deserve to be here. Someone else does. Someone stronger, someone kinder, someone smarter.” You hiccupped and covered your face with the cloth, leaning over your knees.

Cassidy sat on the floor at your feet, folding himself around your legs and the toilet as much as his long limbs would let him. He looped his arms around your back. “That’s the shitty booze talkin’, y’know…” he murmured, sighing gently, “An’ I dunno who you think is better. Yer plenty strong, from the sounds of yer story. Kind, too. Smart as a fuckin’ whip.” He frowned. “You deserve what ya put into the world, and y’ve put a lot of good out there.”

Your sob tore through his chest like a stake.

(Cassidy’s heart broke a bit and stitched back together with a bit of love he carried for you until the day he died.)

“Then why…” you trailed off.

He sighed. “Others just put shit out there, too, and that’s a bit bigger than the good sometimes.”

You scrubbed your eyes with the cloth until they burned, then sat up, wiping your cheeks. He took the washcloth, carefully wiping your nose with the corner.

“Know it ain’t much,” he whispered, “But ‘m glad someone like you’s here.”

“I wanna go home,” you whispered, and he felt it in his gut that you didn’t mean a place.

He sighed. “Me, too,” he said, and in that moment, you knew he didn’t mean a place either, and wondered if Tulip was right about the serendipitous meeting.

Your chin trembled. He helped you up, guided you to the bed, tucked you in, then sat next to you. He flipped the television on. You reached over and flipped it off.

“You’re a vampire,” you mumbled, resting your head on his shoulder, “Tell me a story. Tell me your story. I’ll commit it to memory.”

He snorted. “Why you wanna do somethin’ so silly like that, huh?” he asked.

“Everyone deserves to be remembered,” you sighed, closing your eyes. “And everyone’s important enough to be remembered.”

Your phone buzzed on the blankets. Cassidy scooped it up. He tilted the screen towards you.

“He’s really enjoying fucking that dead flesh,” read a text from your sister, sent over one of the social media apps on your phone.

“That somethin’ she’d say?” Cassidy asked, glancing at the phone, “You said somethin’ about gods and the like, too, when y’ were tellin’ yer shit.”

“Never,” you whispered.

He turned the phone off. “None a that, then,” he mumbled, tossing it somewhere on the bed. He threw an arm around your back. “Get comfortable. It’s a long story.”

“Those are the best,” you yawned.

He spun you a tale of two kids playing at being Freedom Fighters in a land you’d grown familiar with, about how one died in battle, another in the streets.

You drifted off sometime during his re-telling of the 70’s.

Old stone homes crowded the darkness of your sleep, looming over you like specters of a past you didn’t know well. You padded barefoot down cobblestone roads and turned a corner to find your familiar library at the end of one.

“Hello, you,” you whispered as you made your way over, pulling open the clean doors. They creaked and slammed shut behind you. It was dark inside. Not dark enough that you couldn’t see, but the once warm candles were no longer lit, instead being scattered, and broken across the floor. You stepped over them with a frown as you walked in.

Thrown across the main room were books – the floor was covered in pages that were ripped and stained, and shelves were knocked against each other. You knelt to pick up a book and sighed. An ache bloomed behind your eye as sobriety quickly approached.

“Leave.” A voice in the sudden silence made you jump. You dropped the book, rising to your feet. A figure stood beside a tipped over shelf. Its eyes reflected what little light filled the room. You gulped, shifting back as it inched towards you. You scrambled for the door and the bright light beyond it, panic clawing at your throat as the thing ran after you. You pulled the door open.

Its hand smashed the door shut. “You don’t get to run away from this!” it snarled over your startled screech, “You don’t get to just decide it’s over!”

“Stop it!” you screamed. It roared against your back, then fell silent. Its heat surrounded you. You swallowed, turning to see whatever it was that haunted your library.

You stood toe to toe, its bright, knowing eyes watched you. Its chest heaved and its arms trembled. You shivered, backing up against the door. It stepped back.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

It opened its mouth and hundreds of names poured out. You covered your ears as the sound of them echoed in your head, pounding against your skull, everything building until it was undecipherable noise.

Fingers wrapped around yours, cold against your hot skin.

Rose opened her eyes, leaning away from her two lovers to pick up her phone. She’d sent a message hours ago, calling on an acquaintance she hadn’t met in decades, cashing in her one and only favor to him.

Her message was the address of the hotel and your room number, attached to the request, “Take them home. Cairo.”

He’d replied, “Done,” and dropped a pin showing that his phone was at the same location.

She sagged with relief and sat back against the couch.

The man saw the read notification beneath his pin, then slid his phone into his pocket. It was easy for him to pick the lock of your room – old doors, old locks, they were nothing for his deft fingers. Though, he swore when he dropped the lock pick, scooping it up into a wide palm as he checked the door. Satisfied, he swung the door open.

Cassidy looked up from gently prying your hands from your head.

The strange man looked around the room. The television had been unplugged at one point, as had the small clock radio. A cell phone sat on the blankets, turned off. And a vampire was tending to the one Rose had sent him for.

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Cassidy grunted, standing tall, making sure he was between you and the stranger. The man laughed harder.

The sound was finally enough to wake you. You pushed yourself up, rubbing your sore eyes, and squinted at the man standing in your room. He tilted his head back, somehow larger than Cassidy was before you. “Rose sent me,” he said, waving a hand, “Here to take you home. To Cairo. Let’s go.”

Cassidy glanced over his shoulder at you. You swung your feet off the bed, shrugging, still half asleep and not quite sober as you groggily responded, “Take me home.”

“Y’sure?” whispered Cassidy.

You looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. “I’m sure.” Then, you pointed at your bag. “Give me your number. I’ll update you. And stay here, at least until nighttime. The room’s paid for.”

He hesitated, and gave the man another wary look, but did as he was told with a shrug. He eventually turned back to the man again. “Wait, who’re you?”

The strange man grinned, his laughter finally subsiding. “Call me Iartaithe,” he answered with a wink, “It’s a name.”

“Okay, but why’re you laughin’?” Cassidy asked as he grabbed your bag. He fished for the pen you pointed towards, glancing over when you saw you rubbing your eyes again.

“Just absurd,” Iartaithe replied, “Whole thing. Absolutely fucking absurd.”

“Yeah,” you muttered as you stretched your arms above your head, “Tell me about it.” You waited as Cassidy scribbled down his number, then stretched to grab your phone and turn it back on. You looked up at him. “Can you tell Sweeney where I’m going?”

“I can tell ‘im to fuck right off,” Cassidy replied. You smiled. “Guess I can,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” you said, “He’ll worry.” Then, you frowned, wondering if he’d show back up at all, and remembered that, despite what you wanted from him, he really was still your friend. He’d show up. And he’d worry. But you also knew that you couldn’t stay there anymore, especially alone. You appreciated Cassidy’s company, but you knew he couldn’t stay. You needed to go home. You needed to see Bast again. “Thank you,” you repeated, looking up at Cassidy, “Really.”

He flopped onto the bed with a loud sigh, tapping your phone with his finger. “You better fuckin’ message, or I’m comin’ to find you instead,” he threatened, “Fuck God. He can wait another fuckin’ day.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, yawning, and stood, scooping your bag off the floor. “Promise,” you swore.

Iarlaithe leaned back against the door, and stepped out into the hall when you followed. You gave Cassidy one last glance, waved when he did, and shut the door on him and everything that New Orleans had brought you.

~*~Thanks for Reading~*~ ~*~Tag List~*~

@hannon-say || @divadinag || @superflannel || @jinxy-toast || @the-bluest-hour || @karmabites2313 || @siedrkona1991 || @hstott || @lakeli || @massivecolorspygiant || @leximus98 || @weirdo125 || @fleeingdawn-blog1 || @madamecoyote || @postgradandstupid || @hopplessdreamer || @ceyruh || @animatenebrae || @ultrablackwidower || @callmemaeverick || @loisbaggings || @fictional-hooman || @babypink224221 || @quietwitchworld || @mags-writes || @sunshine-gumdrop || @theonlylolland

[acselsblog]

[crem-briu-le]

Cassie.

[bestshipsmackdown]

Side Two: Group Twelve: Round One [redo because I set it for the wrong amount of time initially]

Gideon Nav x Harrowhark Nonagesimus from The Locked Tomb Series vs. Laura Moon x Mad Sweeney from American Gods

[sunshine-gumdrop]

Mad sweeney & Ellie

[eureka-its-zico]

Okay. I debated long enough and I’m doing it.

I reblogged like 3 prompt lists with tropes I wanna try to write for (to get better because some of them I’m rusty). If there is maybe a prompt or situation you want me to write that will work too!!

I’m looking to write these either in 500-1k words but, ya know, with me nothing is guaranteed cause I’m a wordy bitch 🤷🏽‍♀️

Side note: if there is someone you want me to write for and I haven’t or anything just hit me up to see if I’ve watched, played the game, or read anything on the characters. 9x out of 10 I usually have. Okay. Let’s do this 🥰😅

[bookerdefay]

So I’m having fanfic ideas 👀 I’m here to nourish the Mad Sweeney fandom AND pull off some sick ass (potentially steamy) crossovers 👀👀

[gleafer]

Can you tell I’m a Gaiman fangirl?

American Gods is one of my all time favorite books and I really enjoyed the first season of the TV series.

Laura Moon and Mad Sweeney were my favorite part of the show besides, of course, Mr. Wednesday.

Here’s Dead Wife and the leprechaun.

[hoedamn-eron]

mad sweeney - overstimulation

Kinktober Day 1 - Overstimulation

Warnings: 18+, minors, DNI. Overstimulation. Sweeney refers to reader as 'lass'. Some swearing. Word count: 950 F!Reader, no use of Y/N.

Series Masterlist ● Day 2

“No, no, no, Sweeney, please…”

“Just one more, love, that’s all I need, just one more…”

It’s nothing new. When Mad Sweeney reappears into your life, he always wants a hot shower, a drink (a stiff one usually, but you always make him tea), and a comfortable bed.

And a warm pussy to bury himself in. It was usually yours.

He comes stumbling into your house, filthy and slurring his words. You never ask any questions; where he’s been or what he’s been doing, or who he’s been doing it with. All you know is that he wants, needs, your help, even if it’s just for a few hours. So, you lead him to your shower, where he barely fits, and you make him the cup of tea. You wash his clothes and He’s usually sobered up enough after the shower to drink the tea then pass out in your bed with you.

This time round was no different. However, this morning, he decided to wake you up with his head between your legs and an orgasm or two.

Or five.

Maybe six.

You lost count a while ago.

Your fingers are buried in his red hair and you’re pushing him further into your pussy, like you weren’t just begging him to stop his onslaught on you. It’s gotta be illegal, the way he was making you feel, his tongue and his fingers working you up to another orgasm, as he promised.

“Sweeney,” you gasped, your back arching. “Please, please, please, please…”

He didn’t deem to give you an answer, just look up at you with the dirtiest look possible, from those hazel eyes of his, and that was all it took for another orgasm to glide down your spine. After a few more flicks of his tongue against your abused clit, you came with a loud cry. You felt more than heard Sweeney groan into you, his fingers thrusting into you, helping you ride out your orgasm.

You were shaking your head as the pleasure subsided, but Sweeney was already working at you again, feeling like a warm buzz throughout your body. “One more.”

“That’s what…what you said three orgasms ago,” you breathe, giving a small laugh as your eyes closed. You knew you weren’t getting out of this anytime soon.

You felt him give a breathy chuckle against your pussy before he leaned back in. Your nerves were on fire, and you couldn’t stop shaking. You could feel your fingers tightening in Sweeney’s hair, trying to anchor yourself as he licked and sucked at your clit. You felt as if you would float away if you didn’t.

“Ye’re being so good for me, sweetheart,” Sweeney muttered. “Just takin’ all I’m givin’ you.”

You give a high pitched, weak whine from deep in your throat as you feel yourself about to cum again, seeing stars behind your eyes as your orgasm builds quickly and suddenly. You shook and screamed his name as you thrash on the bed, as if trying to get away, another wave of ecstasy crashing over you as another climax hit you just as powerful as the others. You felt Sweeney hold you down by your hips, keeping you still as he continued his assault on your cunt. You sobbed loudly, and you hadn’t even realised you had started crying. Everything hurt, but it all felt so good.

“Love?” Sweeney asked in a low tone, his fingers stilling in you as he looked up at you again with those Goddamn eyes. “You got one more fer me?”

“No, no,” you say, panting, finally looking down at him. “Fuck, Sweeney, I can’t.”

“Ye can,” he muttered against you, not breaking eye contact as he kissed your abused clit.

Tears were falling down your cheeks as you stared at him, and eventually you nodded, barely able to form any words.

“Good lass,” he muttered as his fingers pumped into you again, slowly this time. You let out a low moan, your head tilting back again as your eyes closed, visions of luscious green forests and the metallic taste of gold suddenly overtaking your senses. “That’s it. Have to thank ye for all those times ye’ve taken me in, eh?”

You don’t tell him that you would have taken him in anyway, sex aside. You know he isn’t a man to be tired down, that he wasn’t the man you would take home to meet the parents, but you liked knowing that he was alive…that he’d come to your door okay (as ‘okay’ as he could be anyway).

You feel his tongue on you again, and now you don’t even fight it. Even as you came down orgasm after orgasm, he doesn’t stop, making your whole body tremble with each sweep of his tongue. You were a wreck, drenched in sweat, your own mess, and trembling helplessly. Sweeney finally pulled away, only for him to kneel up high over you, smirking as he fisted himself slowly before wordlessly entering you easily, meeting no resistance with how much he’d been working at you.

You were a goner.

You’re not sure how long you’re actually in bed for, but by the time he’s finished absolutely devouring you and fucked himself into you (with a few extra orgasms for ‘good luck’), your legs can barely support you as you stagger to your bathroom to clean yourself up. You send him a glare over shoulder, leaning on your dresser for support as you feel his cum start to drip out of you.

He merely smirked at you before chuckling. “Need a hand there, love?”

“No, thanks,” you say, stumbling your way into your bathroom. “I’ve had enough of your hands for one day.”

[queermediaanalysis]

What the hell happened between the production of American Gods s2 and 3? Like it started with the reveal of Wednesday being Shadows dad, and I read the book, so I already knew it, but I was so confused by the reveal, went back to the s2 ending, and it came out of nothing? in the series. (They hinted at it, throughout, but Shadow didn't have a revelation) Also the plot turned into a romance hallmark movie. I know the lakeside part is kind of dull in the book as well, but the show had introduced soo much interesting sideplots than dropped it. Killed them with Mad Sweeney tbh. Laura and him were such a strong pair in terms of storyline and now they just ended that in the most boring way. (I liked the Romeo and Juliet paralel in the cemetery tho) Also I feel like they don't know what to do with Salim but made him even more of a central character anyway. It is so frustrating, because the first season was so strong, and the third could have redeemed the smaller problems with the second. Like... it became cheap? Is that the right word? I'm hoping the Anansy boys can revive it, so the story can be finished. Because it had so much potential.

Also the fuckin fan edit type montage of Sweeney when Laura is remembering him, with the romantic music... that made me laugh, I'm sorry xd

[random-imagines-blog]

With 2023 coming to an end, here's a list of all of the amazing writers that I had been reading during this year.

@inthedayswhenlandswerefew

I devoured the series 'North to the Future' and I'm currently, right this moment, reading 'When the World is Crashing Down' on my phone, and loving it.

@screamingforstu

'Where You Belong' is a sexual masterpiece, dear LAWD.

@sunkendreams

And speaking of sexual masterpieces, I literally check this blog every single night to see if they've posted anything spicy - and evne if they didn't, sometimes I'll reread my favorites. I'm never disappointed.

@angelsanarchy

Another person whose blog I check just about daily for updates on their amazing series. Definitely worth checking out if you're into Rory Culkin characters.

@winchesterszvonecek

All of their Otis stories are the cutest things that I think I've ever read. Completely sprawled on the bed, feet kicking up behind me, twirling my hair, cuteness.

@avis-writeshq

The 'Sparks Fly' series had my attention tenfold. Loved every chapter.

@hamatoanne

'Teach Me How to Break You' is literally a fantasy.

@bearwriting

I automatically love anyone who writes for American Gods but someone who writes Mad Sweeney HIS damn well deserves the world.

@onegirlmanytales

'The Taste of You' is just AHHHHHHHHH @youvebeenlivingfictional

'The Other Half' series is incredible, absolutely incredible.

@famwhy

Saviour Complex, Saviour Complex, SAVIOUR COMPLEX. Also I'm addicted to 'Right Way Up'.

@toxicanonymity

'Every Inch'. Like - oh my god?

@msookyspooky

The rollercoaster of emotions that their Scream series puts me through - it's almost unparalleled.

There are many more of course, but these are the ones that I've kept coming back to, and I think they all deserve more attention.

[dw-writes]

Eyes On You - Mad Sweeney x Reader

Summary: Sweeney couldn't sleep, and desperately had something to say while he finally had a chance to say it. Genre: Gen. Fic; Angst?; Prompt Request A/N: This is the answer to the poll prompt that I gave you all forever ago, with the prompt being "I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you". Now, this IS part of The Invasion canon, somewhere before the Rock when you're traveling. I'll put up the links to The Invasion later, but for now, please enjoy :) Let me know what you think

Chapters: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four  || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Chapter Twelve || Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fourteen || Chapter Fourteen-ish || Chapter Fifteen || Chapter Sixteen || Chapter Seventeen || Chapter Eighteen || Chapter Nineteen || Chapter Twenty || Chapter Twenty-One || Chapter Twenty-Two Requests: Mad Sweeney and The Holidays || The Invasion and the Stressful Blows One Shots: The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday || The Invasion and the Weight of Change || Eyes On You

It was late. Sweeney knew he should’ve been asleep, especially when he looked at the bright red numbers on the digital clock that read 3:45 AM. He looked away from them, at your form on the other side of the tiny motel bed, curled up with clean sheets and the slightly dingy comforter thrown over your form.

He’d been having trouble sleeping for the past few days, chalking it up initially to the travel you and him had been doing – back to back motels, back to back gods with back to back errands, back to back buses. He knew that his time with you was coming to end, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t want to admit it. With the date of the Rock getting closer and closer, your job with Wednesday was getting closer to ending.

He rolled onto his shoulder, watching your back as it rose and fell with your deep breaths.

“Yer gonna be leavin’ soon,” he whispered into the dark night of the room. He held his breath as soon as the words left his mouth, waiting for you to wake up. The traveling must have been too much for you, too, however, as you didn’t even stir. Sweeney licked his lips. He was too tired to think about what he was saying, too tired to stop himself as he yawned and let the words tumble out of his exhausted mouth.

“Yer gonna be leavin’, and yer gonna be leavin’ me,” he continued, “Goin’ who knows where.” He snorted faintly, sniffed, shifted on his squashed and folded pillow. “Without me,” he muttered. He eyed your back as you curled up tighter under the blankets.

“Dunno what ‘m gonna do,” he sighed, “Shit luck without you, ‘s what I’d probably say to yer face. Can’t say the rest of it.” Sweeney wanted to stop talking, needed to, but the words burned as they clawed their way up his throat from his chest. “Fuck, I need you t’ stay,” he rasped, blinking hard, shoving his face into the scratchy pillowcase.

“Loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you,” he mumbled into the pillow, turning his head to watch you again, “Pretty sure of it now. Can’t imagine what this bullshit’s gonna be like when y’ wise up and fuckin’ leave this shit behind.” The confession felt wrong, but it wasn’t a lie – he couldn’t even lie to himself, no matter how much he wanted to.

“First moment,” he muttered, like he couldn’t believe it, “Fuck, that’s it. Saw you on the fuckin’ couch and just knew everything was different.” He sighed, scratched his jaw, and settled back into the thin sheet you shared. “Fuckin’ Rose would say it was some stupid romantic shit, but we both know it wasn’t. Almost called the cops on me that day, you did, but I think I woulda let you, because I just couldn’t…” His thought trailed off as you rolled onto your back, shifting under the blanket towards the warmth in the bed. He swallowed the rest of the words, panic lancing through his chest, and waited until you were settled again.

“Couldn’t say no to yer face,” he whispered.

He sat up carefully, making sure you were neatly tucked into the bed, and grabbed his clothes from where he’d thrown them onto the chair. Everything he said choked him, settled back into his throat and made it hard to breathe.

He carefully opened the door and stepped out into the cold, humid air outside, then shut it behind him.

You found him sitting on the curb outside in the morning when you opened the door, still dressed in your pajamas and half asleep. “The fuck are you doin’ out here?’ you mumbled.

Sweeney blew out a thin string of smoke into the early morning air. “Waitin’ fer you,” he grunted. He stood. “You hungry? ‘m starvin’.”

You squinted at him and struggled to rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Sitting out here like a weirdo,” he heard you grumble as you turned around, “Thought someone had kidnapped you or something.”

He snorted, watching the door shut behind you as you shuffled in to get ready, then sighed to himself.

~*~ Thanks for Reading~*~ ~*~Tag List~*~ @hannon-say @divadinag @fear-less-write-more (i cant tag you) @superflannel @selenaofthemoon (i cant tag you) @jinxy-toast @teller258316 @guiltgoldglory @the-bluest-hour @irishgodfucker (i cant tag you) @karmabites2313 @hiddlebatchedloki (i cant tag you) @siedrkona1991 @hstott @lakeli @nemophilistvampyr @massivecolorspygiant @leximus98​ @weirdo125 (i cant tag you) @fleeingdawn-blog1​ @madamecoyote​ @postgradandstupid​ @hopplessdreamer​ @omnisexualvampire​ @hannon-say​ @ceyruh​ @animatenebrae​ @ultrablackwidower​ @callmemaeverick​ @loisbaggings​ @fictional-hooman (i cant tag you) @babypink224221​ @quietwitchsworld

[its-to-the-death]

Songs that made it through preliminaries (minus the MLP songs)

Rogues Are We (Holy Musical B@man)

Kick It Up a Notch (Starship)

Nerdy Prudes Must Die (Nerdy Prudes Must Die)

Join Us (and Die) (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals)

No One Remembers Achmed (Twisted)

Feed Me (Little Shop of Horrors)

Dentist (Little Shop of Horrors)

Mean Green Mother From Outerspace (Little Shop of Horrors)

Old King Cole (Once Upon a Time in Space by The Mechanisms)

Favoured Son (Ulysses Dies at Dawn by The Mechanisms)

Odin (The Bifrost Incident by The Mechanisms)

There's a Platypus Controlling Me (Phineas and Ferb)

Evil for Extra Credit (Phineas and Ferb)

All the Convoluted Reasons We Pretend To Be Divorced (Phineas and Ferb)

I Love You (As Much As Someone Like Me Can Love Anyone) (Galavant)

No One But You (Galavant)

She'll Be Mine (Galavant)

Mother Knows Best (Tangled)

Ready As I'll Ever Be (Tangled the Series)

Nothing Left to Lose (Tangled the Series)

Pretty Women (Sweeney Todd)

Dancing Mad (Final Fantasy VI)

When the Chips are Down (Hadestown)

Master of Masters (Kingdom Hearts)

U.N. Owen Was Her? (Touhou 6: Embodiment of Scarlet Devil)

The Old Man of the Mountain/You Gotta Ho-De-Ho/The Scat Song Medley (Betty Boop)

Our Love is God (Heathers)

Biskit Family Business (Littlest Pet Shop)

We Both Reached For the Gun (Chicago)

Heaven on Their Minds (Jesus Christ Superstar)

Good to Be King (Journey to Bethlehem)

Jester (Legends of Oz: Dorothy's Return)

Sympathy for the Devil (song by The Rolling Stones)

Dressed to Oppress (Play It By Ear - The Muck of Merkmere)

One Step Ahead (Spies Are Forever)

Let the Pun Fit the Crime (Wander Over Yonder)

Necrostar (The Vice Quadrant by Steam Powered Giraffe)

Lost in Thoughts All Alone (Fire Emblem: Fates)

The Ring motif (Lord of the Rings)

I'm Alive (Next to Normal)

Where There's a Whip, There's a Way (Return of the King 1980)

There Ain't Nothin' But Bad Days Ahead (The Swan Princess: Mystery of the Enchanted Treasure)

Les Poissons (The Little Mermaid)

It's Our House Now (The House of Mouse - Halloween special)

Grandpa's Gonna Sue the Pants Off Santa (Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer)

Master of the House (Les Miserables)

Peaches (The Super Mario Bros. Movie)

The Boys Are Back In Town (To Kill You) (The Boys)

Dark Riders (Star Stable Online)

Grand Ceremony (Pyre)

Coraline (Coraline)

Better Than You (Camp Camp)

In the Hall of the Mountain King (Peer Gynt)

Get in the Water (Epic: The Musical)

Descole's theme live version (Professor Layton)

Isabella's Lullaby (The Promised Neverland)

Get Jinxed (League of Legends)

Pieces of You/Hologram Professor Song (Puppet History)

Great at Crime (Epithet Erased)

Davy Jones' theme (Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest)

Herbert Style (Club Penguin)

No One's Gonna Make a Monkey Out of Me (The Donkey Kong Country cartoon)

Diddy Drop Rap (The Donkey Kong Country cartoon)

Attack at the Wall (Mulan)

No More Toymakers to the King (Santa Claus is Comin' to Town)

What's Up Duloc? (Shrek musical)

If I'm Gonna Eat Somebody (It Might As Well Be You) (Ferngully)

The Phantom of the Opera (The Phantom of the Opera)

Prowler's theme (Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse)

How Can I Refuse? Reprise (Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper)

Friends in Low Places (Bigtop Burger)

That's Not How the Story Goes (A Series of Unfortunate Events)

The World Revolving (Deltarune)

Heffalumps and Woozles (Winnie the Pooh)

Waikyou Shenshoujin (Senki Zesshou Symphogear G)

No Good Deed (Wicked)

Fabulous (High School Musical 2)

Kidnap the Sandy Claws (The Nightmare Before Christmas)

Between Two Worlds (Limbus Company)

Your Best Nightmare (Undertale)

We Don't Talk About Bruno (Encanto)

Jaws theme (Jaws)

The Executioner (Umineko no naku koro ni)

[margridarnauds]

What's your opinion on Mad Sweeney in American Gods TV series?

He seems like a good starting point to many things about Irish mythology and history and its perception and I'd love to know your opinion, if you're willing to share.

Oh, god, so this is going to be complicated (I'm having another rough evening, so I'm finally getting to the backlog.)

First off, let me be honest about this: My standards for medieval Irish lit adaptations are high. Potentially too high. I try to acknowledge what any adaptation is trying to do, whether the execution lives up to the intent, what I think they do that's innovative, and what they do that isn't, but the truth is that I have very, very high standards for this. Especially for Lugh and CMT, because even though Bres is my baby, Lugh is too. I make fun of him, but he's almost as much a part of me at this point as Bres is. I've had over a decade to form a close attachment to him and think about what I'd like to do with him. This is important because...I distinctly remember being a teenager on here, seeing a bunch of adult academics on here act like they were the supreme authorities and objectively right on how to adapt these things, and getting very intimidated about...doing anything with these things. (Also see: The reason why I stopped interacting with Arthuriana and Greek Mythology after I was, like, 20 -- it got very exhausting to make sure that all your headcanons followed other people's headcanons.) And I don't want to do that. I am going to try very hard to not repeat the sins of the past.

Let me be honest with a second thing: In my opinion, it is nigh impossible to adapt medieval Irish lit. Or, rather, to adapt it in a way that's both relatively accurate to the cultural nuances while also being satisfying. Any of the Mythological Cycle, Ulster Cycle, or Fenian Cycle, because there's a whole cultural context to these things that isn't always immediately obvious, and unless you have an intricate understanding of it, you're going to fail. And I'm not just saying it as an elitist academic: I'm saying it as someone who once SWORE I was going to create the Most Accurate Irish Mythology Adaptation...and then ended up getting three degrees and working on a fourth in order to achieve it, STILL not feeling like I can do the source material justice. Medieval Irish texts aren't long, but they are DENSE, and it's very easy to end up tangled in them if you aren't careful. Rick Riordan did an online MA in Celtic Civilisation at UCC and spent time in the Gaeltacht learning the Irish language, got accepted into a PhD program at Harvard before he had to pull out. Like...that's what this material demands. Not requests, demands. All this to say...I wouldn't say it's a value judgement, on a whole, if a given adaptation stumbles.

So, onto the actual question:

Here are the cons, as I'm rewatching his flashback scene. On the record: I don't like it.

Let's go into why I don't like it, so we can see whether this is me being Me or not. First of all: Sweeney/Lugh blames " Mother Church" for turning them into "fairies and saints and dead kings" -- this is a popular misconception, especially if you run around in pagan circles, and it enjoyed a level of popularity in the field itself up until the 1980s. That being said, current research in the field generally focuses on reminding people that literally *all the material we have about the Tuatha Dé from medieval Ireland was written by Christians*. Christians who CARED about reconciling their own traditions with the doctrine that they loved dearly. In other words...Mother Church saved Lugh's ass. Also, the idea that Leprechauns are descended from Lugh, which...no one seriously believes in the field and is kind of embarrassing in there considering how widely debunked it is.

As a side note, it's understandable why they use the modern Irish pronunciation for both "Lugh" and "Tuatha Dé Danann" (never a term I use, btw), but it throws me off.

Then, the voiceover from Thoth.

"You were the god of the sun, of luck, of craft, art, of everything valuable to civilization. 'The Shining One', they called you. You saved your people from their old enemy, the Fomorians. 'Lamfhada' they called you, 'long hand', for your skill with your spear...but the Tuatha Dé Danann were scientists and artists. The Fomorians were madmen. Monstrous beings that came from under the sea, under the ground, under the surface of things. Nightmares. The madness. It came from him. Your father's father. One eyed Balor of the Fomorians...He tried to kill you. He heard prophecy that his grandson would kill him so he rounded up all his grandchildren and drowned them all in the lake but, you survived, like you always do."

Overall...I don't love it. It's a very generic look at Lugh and a very generic look at the Fomoiri, which really focuses on the idea of the Fomoiri as an Evil Race, while the Tuatha Dé are the Ideal Logical Aryans, with the Fomoiri being the one to "infect" the Tuatha Dé with their evil, evil genes which cause everything wrong. It ignores the nuances that actually exist in CMT (Tethra isn't Indech isn't Balor isn't Bres). The reference to Balor killing his grandchildren is in the later folk tradition, not from the medieval text. Most importantly, the notion of Lugh as a "sun god" is something that's not GENERALLY believed, or at least not something that's taken for granted as true anymore. In general, if I was to assign Lugh to a FUNCTION, and this is something that I feel like is a CRUCIAL thing to miss, is that Lugh Is Social Order. He is the barometer that you can use to judge how a given writer views Irish society. He is a savior, he's pragmatic, he's ruthless. He's striking, like a cut diamond that, every single time you look at him, you see a new facet of him, catching the light just so.

All that aside, the flashback is really unfortunately racially coded in a way I really don't like.

The Fomoiri being depicted as dark to the Tuatha Dé being fair skinned is one of my LEAST favorite adaptation decisions, and it's one I see unfortunately frequently. (The one detailed description we get of a Fomorian, in CMT? IS BLOND. AND HOT.) While Lugh is depicted as a stereotypical Celtic warrior, with the red hair (which...there is no depiction of the TDD that is WRONG, but redhaired Lugh bores me), torque and the woad body paint (which is NOT something that we have any record of the Irish doing.) There are some later descriptions of the Fomoiri coming from Africa, but...if we DO make that decision? WHY IS LUGH WHITE? (Also it annoys me that Balor is described as "Lugh's father's father" -- like, it's a petty complaint, but it's erasing Lugh's mother and his heritage from her, especially when the battlefield is all men in the flashback. It's a very macho version of CMT that I don't like and, again, misses that Lugh isn't (just) a Macho Warrior -- he's also society. That includes the part of society that includes women.) (Lugh is not a misogynist...even though he has a bad history with his wives cheating on him...he IS a classist. He hates all poor people equally.)

Anyway:

Here are the pros:

So, I've just said that this depiction was simplistic, racist, and not particularly accurate to the spirit of Lugh from the medieval texts, even if it technically gets the overall details (Lugh Defends TDD From Grandfather) right. What DO I like about it?

...I do like that it actually sheds a spotlight on Lugh. I like seeing my funny little guy around. And, really...as picky as I am...I HAVE to be grateful for what we get, because that IS the state the field's in, even as I resent that we can't ASK for more. Lugh has never become RIDICULOUSLY popular in Ireland, or anywhere else in the world, with the Nationalist movement skipping over him almost entirely, in contrast to figures like Cú Chulainn and Fionn who are recognizable. I think it's good to get people interested in this sort of thing, though I think the issue is that it doesn't really encourage people to do more, since it's...the same old misconceptions as always, the same things I was reading fifteen years ago, the same simplistic binaries, in an era where we have a lot more material that IS publicly available and, frankly, they had the budget to consult an actual Celticist. It feels like, for a series that, overall, was praised for going beyond the stereotypes of these mythical figures, it's kind of a letdown. I think they could have definitely done better tbh.

[bestshipsmackdown]

Side Two: Group Twelve: Round One

Gideon Nav x Harrowhark Nonagesimus from The Locked Tomb Series vs. Laura Moon x Mad Sweeney from American Gods

[msmahamud]

Unveiling the Enigmatic Journey of Johnny Depp: A Cinematic Odyssey

Introduction: Johnny Depp, an actor whose name echoes through the corridors of Hollywood, has left an indelible mark on the world of cinema. Known for his versatile performances and a penchant for choosing unconventional roles, Depp's journey in the film industry is a fascinating narrative of talent, success, and personal challenges.

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The Depp-Burton Collaboration: The partnership between Johnny Depp and Tim Burton became legendary, resulting in cinematic gems like "Ed Wood" (1994) and "Sleepy Hollow" (1999). Depp's ability to bring Burton's whimsical characters to life showcased a unique creative synergy that captivated audiences and critics alike.

Captain Jack Sparrow and "Pirates of the Caribbean": One cannot discuss Johnny Depp without mentioning Captain Jack Sparrow. His portrayal of the eccentric pirate in Disney's "Pirates of the Caribbean" series not only garnered critical acclaim but also solidified his status as a box office heavyweight. Depp's performance as Captain Jack Sparrow remains iconic, blending humor, charm, and unpredictability.

Chameleon on Screen: Depp's career is a testament to his chameleon-like versatility. From the brooding Sweeney Todd in "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" (2007) to the quirky Mad Hatter in "Alice in Wonderland" (2010), he has effortlessly transformed into a diverse array of characters. This willingness to embrace unconventional roles sets him apart in an industry often bound by stereotypes.

Personal Struggles and Legal Battles: Beyond the glitz of Hollywood, Johnny Depp has faced personal struggles and high-profile legal battles. His tumultuous marriage to Amber Heard and subsequent legal disputes have been subjects of intense media scrutiny. Despite these challenges, Depp remains committed to his craft, navigating both personal setbacks and professional triumphs.

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