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acenancy · 7 years

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bending too far backwards to say i didn’t try

Fandom: American Gods Pairing: Mad Wife Rating: Idk, T?

AN: Anyway, I misunderstood the prompt physical hurt/comfort from an anon and wrote this for them. Like, i 100% misread the ask lmfao I’m sorry. Also, this is just kind of pointless banter? But whatever, I wrote this at work (shh) and it’s half-assed, anyway. I owe you a proper one, anon!

(ao3)

It's twenty below in Michigan and the ice cream truck's AC is blasting. Sweeney shivers in the passenger seat, body shaking, teeth chattering, glaring at Laura with enough heat it could melt the snow bank they've crashed into.

She doesn't pay him any mind. Her attention is glued to a point in the distance, to a beacon of something Sweeney has yet to see for himself. Laura calls it Shadow and love and her newfound reason for living. Sweeney calls it a pain in his ass, and that’s on the good days. On bad days, Laura pinches his lips between her fingers so hard he can't speak ill of anyone, much less her husband, for the next two weeks.

"We can walk there," says Laura, still fixated on the horizon. "It'll only take, what? 6 hours?"

"You're out of your skull if you think I'm leaving this ice cream truck to prance through a fucking blizzard."

"If we don't, we're stuck here. All night. Probably all of tomorrow. Until this snow clears. Do you get how much time we'll be wasting?"

"Oh, I get it.” Sweeney tugs the blankets swaddled around his body tighter. “I got it when you insisted your puppy needed us to go after him again,” he snarls. “I got it when you turned the air on in the dead of winter because you felt the meat sliding off your bones. I get that you have no regard for my life whatso-fucking-ever. But this, I refuse to get. Walk your six hours in this hell storm all you want, Dead Wife. I’m staying here.”

"You're such a fucking wimp," Laura sighs. She falls against the back of the driver’s seat, her fight on the backburner for now. "It's not even that cold."

"Tell that to my snowballs."

One of Laura's eyes gets stuck in its socket when she rolls them at him. Casually, she pulls it back into place with her pointer finger.

"Why are you in such a hurry this time, anyway?" asks Sweeney. "It’s not as though this is anything new. Your husband is always in trouble as long as he's Wednesday's man.”

Sweeney doesn't expect Laura to answer. Snow falls heavy against the windshield in the silence that follows, obscuring the gray winter light of day and Laura's Beacon of Bull until all they can see is a blanket of white. She does speak though, eventually, quietly. "Because I feel…a shiver."

Sweeney's eyes flicker to Laura's chest where she keeps his coin, the only thing animating her corpse.

Laura feels her bones grinding to dust; she feels her skin disintegrating like wet toilet paper and her hair whisping away; she feels the maggots and bile eating away at her organs; she feels formaldehyde sitting heavy in her veins. Not air swirling in her lungs or blood pumping from her heart or every other sensation humans take for granted.

Laura does not feel what a living person feels. Laura does not shiver.

"A shiver," Sweeney parrots, disbelieving.

"Or, like, I'm about to shiver and can't," Laura elaborates. "Like my skin is aching to shake one off."

"Are you saying you feel cold?" Sweeney slips his hand out from the pile of blankets he's buried himself beneath, pointing viciously at the AC. "Because I’ll fuckin’ tell ya why you’re cold-”

Laura turns the air off so hard she snaps the knob off the console. She throws it onto Sweeney’s lap where not even the blankets can cushion the blow to his groin.

“You bitch,” he wheezes.

“Take me seriously,” she demands. Sweeney doesn't make another peep, so Laura continues. "I know I'm feeling whatever the hell this is,” she gestures to her body as if there’s anything interesting to see other than a woman who should be six feet below the dirt, “because of Shadow. Anytime I feel anything it's because of him."

She says this simply, matter of fact; the same way you would say “alternate side parking is in effect for today.” Sweeney doesn’t think Laura realizes the weight of what she says most of the time. He does, because it sits heavy in his gut, dragging it to his knees without his permission. It feels a little like anger or disappoint or longing. Maybe it feels something like missing your chance.

Or being in love with a dead girl.

Same thing.

Sweeney clears his throat, schooling his features into some semblance of unbothered. “Okay,” he drawls, “and how do you know something bad is happening to your husband?”

“I dunno. Is shivering a good feeling or a bad feeling?”

“Uncomfortable, mostly. Are you sure your husband isn’t just a tad chilly? That he’s forgotten to close the refrigerator, perhaps?”

“It’s a bad feeling, asshole.”

“Debatable. But fine, I suppose it isn’t particularly pleasant.”

Laura’s nostrils flare. A centipede curiously pokes his head from one’s depths with the motion. Furiously, Laura yanks it out, throwing it on the floor at Sweeney’s feet. She pulls her bony legs up to her chest then, wrapping her arms around them and rolling her head to stare out the frost covered driver’s side window.

Sweeney conks his head against his headrest, cursing his immortal mortal flesh for not being able to withstand the cold for her. Then he curses Laura for making him curse himself in the first place. But as much as he loathes the notion, if he could, Sweeney would help Laura climb Mount Everest in a speedo and flip-flops if Shadow were at the top, only because she’d want to.

And it’s always about what Laura wants, isn’t it? She wants to feel again, so they go after Shadow; she wants to come back to life, so they track down the goddess of rebirth; she wants to set Salim free so they steal a fucking ice cream truck. This journey was never about helping her husband – it was about hunting him down across this American wasteland in the off-chance Shadow could make her heart beat again. Then, when Sweeney promised her resurrection, it was about finding the queen who could breathe life back into her veins. Now they’re back to square one, chasing the scraps Shadow leaves her, and it still is not about him. Laura never loved Shadow; she only loves what he does for her.

They’re both dumb fucking suckers, in Sweeney’s opinion, but he’s still the dick hanging on for the ride.

"You can go, if you gotta," Sweeney tells her. "I'll hold down the soft serve while you're gone."

"No. I'm not going to leave you," Laura tells him. Always, such heavy words thrown around light as rice at a wedding. Then, "I don't trust you won't steal my truck."

Sweeney shoots Laura a severely unimpressed side eye and catches her running hands up and down her biceps, trying and failing to rub heat into her arms. It’s not possible for her to actually be cold, he knows, but nonetheless, Sweeney finds himself staring, waiting for goose bumps to rise along her skin, for any indication she could possibly be regaining some likeness of life.

Nothing.

It’s pointless, the hoping and waiting and pretending he doesn’t long to touch her icy dead flesh, so Sweeney decides to fuck it all and hold open his blankets. “Get under if you’re so shivery,” he tells Laura, and doesn’t even bother sounding like he doesn’t want her to.

She barely spares him a glance before looking back out the window. “I’m married,” she reminds him.

“Never stopped you before.”

She snorts. “I’m dead.”

“Do I look like a fucking necrophiliac to you?”

Amusement flickering in her eyes, Laura returns her attention to him with a slick smirk.

“Don’t answer that,” snaps Sweeney. “Just get under the damn blankets.”

“I’ll only make you colder,” Laura warns him.

“You won’t,” he lies. Then, because she’s hesitating, he adds “as long as that godforsaken air conditioner stays off.”

Bored of his complaints, Laura only blinks in response. Then she climbs from her seat to his, jabbing him with her blade sharp elbows and pushing him halfway off the seat to make room for herself.

Annoyed, Sweeney huffs into her hair, ignoring the smell of death in his nose, and wraps his arms around her middle. Holding her is the equivalent of hugging a block of ice, but something in his chest heats and melts, and he’s never felt warmer in all the centuries he’s been alive.

Laura curls into him, short legs thrown across his lap, arms folded against his chest, and rest her head against his fast beating heart. She places her hand over it, staring at the spot with something like longing. “Let’s just go to sleep,” she whispers. “We have a long way to walk tomorrow.”

“Perun strike my down if I’m walking in this shit.”

Through the fabric of his shirt, Sweeney can feel Laura’s cracked lips break into a smile. He watches her veiny eyelids flutter shut against him.

“Don’t be a little bitch,” she murmurs to his heart.

#american gods #mad wife #mad wife fanfiction #american gods fanfiction #madwife #madwife fanfiction #mine

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kirkypet · 3 years

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gods, assassins and timeloops

(Part 2)

Part 3: The Early-Morning After

Tsst – slap

“Hnng?”

“Sssh - ‘s alright.”

Oww, that stung. Little fuckers. Sweeney strained his ears to hear the telltalle zzzpp. Nothing. Ah well, that’s him awake now. Unlike Goth Girl, who’d barely stirred, despite the jolt he’d probably made when the little shite took a bite out of him.

He sat up carefully and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, checking that the floor was free of underfoot detritus. The room indeed was a fair bit untidier than when they’d landed back at her place, but he didn’t think they’d actually broken anything. Just that shelf. And maybe the table, it was hard to tell.

And another matter - this place was not minimalist. For one thing, there was about three times as much furniture that it had room for. Boxes were stacked to the ceiling in places.

Something tickled his foot and he nearly leapt back into the bed at the sight of the black and hairy thing between his toes. But it was just a – he bent down - what was that? Sweeney picked it up gingerly. A long fringe of black hair on a bit of ribbon. He looked back at his new acquaintance and, indeed, there was more forehead than formerly.

Huh. A false front, like the fine ladies would wear back in the long-ago. Not the very long-ago, just the long-ago here. For him, anyway. But he had precious little to do with fine ladies – not that he was put off by the overabundance of stays and, if given a choice, he would take silk sheets over homespun – no, it was the lasses with the rough edge to them that gave – and took – their offerings from one of his kind.

But sure, it’d been a long old while since belief had come into it. Anyway.

He surveyed the sleeping figure. Goth Girl had this little crease up the middle of her forehead that came and went spasmodically. Looked like she was dreaming, and not necessarily pleased with the scenes playing out behind her black-smeared eyelids. Or maybe this was just her normal expression.

Kinda reminded him of someone, that annoyed little crease –

Just then groaned and shifted and rubbed her face, making a black smear up the side of her temple. She squinted at him, standing in the middle of her bedroom wearing fuck-all. He dropped the hairpiece guiltily and gave her a little wave.

“Hi.”

“Oh. It’s you. You’re still here.” She sounded a bit surprised but not particularly put out about it. She flopped back on her pillow and curled up again, having apparently decided to give sleep another go.

“Aye, well. I’ll be outta your – uh – your hair shortly. Where’s the bathroom?”

“The door you didn’t arrive through,” came the slightly muffled response.

Sweeney gathered up his kecks and shirt and found the other door after a bit of searching. It was behind a wardrobe. He switched on a humming light and washed his face, being as it needed it.

Then he opened a few cupboard doors, just to see what was in there.

The one under the sink was packed full of hair colour, all kinds of colours. Well, he’d seen enough to know that raven black was not her natural colour. More interesting was a toothbrush still in its packaging. He brushed his teeth. pocketed the toothbrush and left half a packet of smokes in the cupboard as payment.

Feeling fairly refreshed, he manoeuvred out into the room and for the door he did arrive through.

“Alright, see ya around then?” he said in passing.

A hand emerged from under sheet and waved at him. “Bye, Garbage Guy. Thanks for the sex.”

He shut the door quietly behind him. All in all, if was for the best that she wasn’t a cuddler. Huginn or Muinnin or whatever one it was would probably be waitin’ on the step. He was surprised they were getting’ their feathers in a twist already, yellin’ in the window at him.

Now he just had to figure out where he’d left the car.

A good forty-minute walk later and he hadn’t been harassed by corvids. Sweeney took that as a win. Maybe whatever needed doing was sorted already. You can but hope. He got himself comfy in the back seat and pulled his jacket over his head. Time for some sweet blissful post-coital oblivion –

Cawwwwww

Sweeney jolted awake. The sky was beginning to lighten, suggesting a sunrise somewhere behind the tall buildings.

Cawww – caw!

“No, c’mon – we agreed there was no need - ?”

Cawww

Sweeney felt cold. Well shit, that was that then. The Norns had spoken, can’t argue with that. He’d tried his best (had he though), but when did that ever do anyone any good?

Fine then. Maybe it’d be a mercy.

(ní dúnmharfóir mé)

“Well, where’s she at?” he sighed, barely audible.

The crow flapped off down the street, lit on a lamppost and cawed at him. He sighed and started the car.

Great, here was Mad fuckin’ Sweeney, chasing the birds again. ‘Course, this time it was because he was off to kill someone.

(Part 4)

#kirky writes stuff #american gods fanfiction #madwife #blatant self promotion #timeloop fic #american gods

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beansidhefeatherfluff · 5 years

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the Sun King chapter 2 is up...

You could call it a roar. Definitely call it a roar as he sat straight up, eyes flying open and nothing less than a battle cry coming from his lips. Laura jumped to her feet out of his way as he sat there a moment, panting as if waking from a nightmare or coming through the hoard. He shook his head a bit, getting away of his surroundings and suddenly stood, his eyes locking on Laura he reached for her pulling her too him and before she could say or do anything he kissed her. Hard. Cupping her face with his huge hands his lips worked hers with a fever, tongue pressing against them.

Full story here at AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566086/chapters/44194129

#madsweeney #agfanfic #american gods #fanfiction #madwife

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noccalula-writes · 7 years

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In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company

Mad Sweeney reader-insert fiction with whatever ship slant you want - partial here, rest on AO3. In which your writer has developed a serious Pablo/Sweeney problem.

It’s New Orleans. Or at least, NOLA-ish. If you’d opted to stay closer to the French Quarter, you’d maybe be listening to a jazz horn wail you off to sleep instead of the Turner Classic Movie marathon humming low in the background. Of course, you’d have been out a couple hundred more than you already didn’t have to lose, and it certainly would have made it harder for him to pass through without notice.

He’s here, finally. His long, tall shadow passes outside of your hotel window, slow and deliberate and familiar. If it wasn’t, you’d be on edge; the angle of the light hitting him outside only heightens the shadow of a man nearly seven feet tall, and regardless of the familiarity there’s still a strike of fear to your core at the idea of someone so large just sort of lumbering outside of the closed box of a room. It smells like stale cigarettes despite the NO SMOKING sign on the nightstand, the blankets far too tough and scratchy thusly they’ve ended up in a pile on the floor, and your eyes track the slow pull of him passing over the window, past the ledge where a gas station coffee and Danish sit just on this side of the glass, out of his reach.

The handle jiggles. Your breath catches.

This is incredibly creepy, and if it were anyone else, you’d be screaming your face off. Familiarity has bred a lack of self-awareness in his interactions with you however, and you’re sure he probably isn’t thinking about it.

It’s not Mad Sweeney’s fault, not really. He hasn’t been in love in a very long time. He doesn’t know how to act.

“Come in,” you say softly, and the click on the other side of the door says he was coming in anyway. The door cracks and he slips in almost too smoothly, too gracefully for someone his size. Inhuman. You never forget that, but it still sneaks up on you in the right context. The pageboy cap is pulled down low over his eyes, over the large coif of ginger hair that makes him so distinctive, so maybe he can pass by in silence. Not likely. He takes up too much space in general, between his size and the boom of his voice and the way he sprawls out in every booth he’s ever sat in or stretches out across every backseat.

That last part is pure conjecture. You only ever see him in moments like this, so you do a lot of speculating of what he’s like on his own. You’ve made peace with the fact that you may never really know him, no matter how much that saddens you.

But he’ll still come when food is on the windowsill, when you put out an offering and wish for him. The rare few times he didn’t, he found you not much later. He’s still good for that much. Not many people give offerings anymore – he’s magnetized to your meager displays of respect like a moth to a big blue bug zapper, only if the zapper made the moth only the smallest bit stronger every time it smashed itself up against the ethereal light. Leprechauns were once adored and feared by an entire populace – they thrived on the kind of stories your great great grandmother told her children when she arrived in America, stories her own gran had shared with her. There used to be reverence for the Fair Folk. Now, Mad Sweeney himself, the folk legend, the Mad King and his many incarnations, came running for a cup of scorched decaf and a Danish that even your bottomless stomach felt afraid of.

The bar was so terribly, terribly low that he might trip over it and break his own neck were it not for the lucky coin.

But tonight, you know something is different. While he’s as silent as usual upon entering the room, you can see healing scabs in a starburst across the side of his face. He looks tired. So incredibly tired. You’ve seen him tired before, worn out from his own ministrations or coming down off the electrical storm of a particularly good bar fight – this is a different tired. Exhausted. Bone-deep resignation to never feeling rested again. It hangs heavy in his dark eyes, so green when they’re in the light but nearly black in the hotel half-light. There’s bags there you haven’t seen in some time, almost greenish under the ruddiness of his blotchy Irish skin, his myriad of brown freckles across his shoulders, up his neck. He’s a little sunburnt, as usual, and the memory of the scent of his hot skin makes you shiver when you sit up to get a better look at him.

His eyes assess you and you see the weight behind them. Sadness. Guilt. It occasionally peeked out like a dim sun from behind thick clouds but tonight he could scarcely mask it.

“Hi,” he said softly, roughly, his voice like whiskey on sandpaper though there’s the faintest tug of a smile.

He’s genuinely glad to see you. You know that. He needs the offering. He needs to feel remembered. Needed. Loved. Love doesn’t have to be romantic to be a respite but boy howdy does it change the game when it is.

Whatever it is he’s out there doing, the mission he oh so obliquely hints at but will never fully tell you about, it’s not doing him any favors. Being in love is wrecking him.

“Hi,” you creak back as you watch him peel off the hat, eye the smashed down fluff of his hair, the way he moves slower when he shirks off the denim jacket. He reaches for your ankle and pulls just enough, tugging you only a few easy inches out of the sheets like there’s not an ounce of heft to your body at all. His hand is so big it nearly wraps the full length around, and he probably could if he straightened his grip out and tried. You slide down, off your balance and onto your back as he starts to unbutton that god awful western shirt he insists on wearing everywhere, going to his knees on the untrustworthy carpet.

“I like how you assume this is why I reached out for you.”

He doesn’t pay any mind to the comment, eyes wild and glinting dangerously in the dark as he shirks the shirt off those pale shoulders, dotted with the beauty marks you’ve memorized the pattern of, that you bite along when he’s pressed up against you. His attention is on your foot, which he lifts to kiss the delicate, smooth skin near your ankle slowly. Adoring. He has yet to try to jack off on your feet but it won’t surprise you if he eventually does, though it seems like this might be more of a submission than even he’d let on.

That’s one of Sweeney’s big secrets – he likes being told what to do. Removes the need for him to overthink, internalize, or feel responsible.

It’s hot, slow kisses along the arch of your foot, across the top, down the constellation of freckles he’s traced his fingers over a thousand times. Long and lazy up your calves, laving his tongue suggestively into the crook behind your knee. Your breath is coming harder and you sit up on your elbows, trying to bring your swimming head up enough to look at him, maybe catch his attention and get a good look at his face. You open your mouth to speak but those big shoulders roll and the straps of his suspenders are plucked off with his free hand. You’re helpless to do anything but look.

He barely glances up, only catching your gaze in the few seconds he’s got before he’s reaching up to grab the dark fabric of your nightgown, “Take this off.”

“Sweeney.”

“Darling,” he calls back softly, a prayer in the dark while behind him, Gene Tierney hesitates at the top of a staircase, resplendent in black and white and pondering the best way to throw herself down them. You can relate.

Finally, he looks up from where he kneels to find your eyes, eyes that he told you once brought back all the warmest memories of centuries of life. It feels a little like being kissed and a little like being stabbed. There’s desperation there, pleading with you for something he can’t even name or run his fingers over but he wants, wants with all of his heart. Sometimes he gets like this: he dare not speak its name, but his chest is split wide open and he’s a throbbing hot open wound of wanting, aching, begging and burning. Water will not cool him. Ice will not soothe him. Fingers on his skin just makes him crazier, hungrier. Alcohol makes it worse, splits him wider. It’s not fucking, or love, or absolution exactly that he’s aching for, begging for. It’s all of it and a few more things he doesn’t even know the name for. Again, you can relate.

His moan is a soft animal sigh that catches in his throat and he shakes his head slightly, mouth hanging open just so. His eyes beg. He’s so beautiful it’s like he’s boiling over. You want to scream and kick him in the face for daring to look at you with that kind of ugly, vulgar honesty. It’s embarrassing.

You look away first. You usually do.

“Please,” his voice comes muffled as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, buries his face in the softness of your inner thighs, breathes in deep the smell of your cunt and shudders, muscles moving like tectonic plates shifting beneath his skin. An earthquake is coming. “Please.”

Keep reading on AO3

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#mad sweeney fanfiction #mad sweeney #mad sweeney x reader #madwife or madmoon #take your pick #american gods fanfiction #updates

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flowercrystals · 7 years

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The Past Is A Grotesque Animal

Part 1: Even Apocalypse is Fleeting

Warning(s): T for now (M in the future) Fandom: American Gods Pairing: Mad Sweeney x Laura, Mad Sweeney x OC Authors Note: I’ve had this idea knocking around in my brain for many months now. I just really like the idea of exploring Sweeney’s past and other gods who have fucked with him. So if you’re into future angst please keep reading! This story is written in a non-linear format. I didn’t start out writing it that way, it just came out like that. I apologize for any errors I’ve read this thing so many times I can’t see the words anymore. Comments, suggestions, critique is always appreciated!

The engine of the battered ice cream truck sputtered and coughed as Laura pushed the peddle down willing it to climb the steep grade up over yet another Appalachian mountain. It had been a few hours since their epic Kentucky fuck up that left her both husband and lifeless, more or less. Mad Sweeney sat bundled in his sleeping bag. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of their journey, either asleep or pretending to be. Their destination was House on the Rock Wisconsin.

Laura worried at the edge of a fingernail, a bad habit from her living days. This time her whole nail bed fell off. She heard a gag from the passenger seat. "Jesus Christ, Dead Wife, if you keep gnawing at your finger like that the whole fucking things going to drop off.“ Laura pursed her dry lips, eyes narrowing, but still concentrating on the road.

” So who’s in Wisconsin? If Ostera couldn’t help me because I was killed by a God then aren’t I fucked?“ Mad Sweeney sighed pulling the sleeping bag a little tighter. ” There are a whole mess of things that deal in the bringing of life and death. Ostera was just one of the more pleasant to deal with.“ Laura shifted in her seat leaning into the sharp turn. ” Lay off the fucking gas or you’re going to drive us right off the side of this fucking mountain.“ he spat. Ignoring him Laura continued her questioning ” Yea, but who exactly are we going to see, cause I don’t want to be walking in blind here.“ Sweeney groaned frustrated by her insistence . ” You’re gonna have to trust me here… It’s… It’s fucking complicated ok?“

” How fucking complicated can it be? This person, God, thing, whatever, can either help me or not.“ Laura retorted side eyeing him. "Actually Dead Wife, it’s pretty fucking complicated. We’re walking into possibly thee most important fucking thing that’s happened in this country’s short life span and I was not exaggerating when I said a whole MURDER OF GODS will be there. A whole murder of selfish, self-centered cunts all trying to out do each other.” With a groan Sweeney hung his head in his hands. “The fucking pricks.” He muttered under his breath. “ And we’re to ask a personal favor from one of the most bitter cunty cunts of them all.”

He sighed cocking his head and giving Laura a condescending tight lipped smile. “How the fuck do you think this is gonna work out, hmmm?” His gaze shifted unfocused out the window. “The price will be very fucking dear, I’ll tell you that much.” he muttered gravely.

Laura huffed. She was willing to do whatever it took to reunite her and Shadow. Her determination was singular which Sweeney both admired and was irritated by. He had pissed off Grimnir showing up in Kentucky with the Dead Wife and he knew he would make him suffer for it. But Mad Sweeney didn’t want to dwell on that. That was a fuck up to be paid back later, possibly never if he got his coin back. Now, he had to figure out how best to approach this new problem.

"I’m just saying,” Laura continued “ that if you gave me a little information, maybe I could be more prepared when I meet this being to plead my case or pay the price.” " You won’t have anything she’ll want.“ he sighed pinching the bridge of his nose. "Then what will she want?” Laura asked cautiously. Sweeney sighed shaking his head.

“What do God’s usually want? A tribute in blood.”

Mr. Nancy stood watching the line of cars, motorcycles, buses, even a horse drawn carriage or two snake up the road towards the House on The Rock. A meeting like this was unprecedented in his entire long existence. All manner of Gods and deities would be in attendance and it excited him to his core. He had tailored himself a new suit for the occasion, vivid peacock blue paisley with golds, emerald greens and deep amethyst purples.

He had been ordered to wait for one in particular, a wild card in this possible war. He pulled a pair of gold opera glasses scanning the horizon. From far off he spotted the helicopter. It landed in the grass just outside the grounds. A petite Hispanic woman gingerly emerged. Her raven’s wing black hair was cut in a severe bob brushing just the edge of her jawline, she was wearing oversized mirrored sunglasses which hid her nearly black eyes giving her a thin veneer of normalcy to mask the brutality that coiled within her skin.

She held out her arms and walked towards Nancy "Oh Anansi!“ She exclaimed in slightly accented English, ” How long has it been?“

"Girl, not, long enough” he said giving her air kisses as they embraced. She wagged a manicured finger at him. "Oh, don’t tell me you’re still angry about New York?“ She threaded her arm through his and they began to make their up to the house.

"You very nearly got me killed” he grumbled. She tutted at him “Oh please, no one could possibly kill you, you’re Anansi, King of Spiders or… something?“ She waved her hand dismissively as he gave her a side eye. “ If you remember correctly it was your old friend who started it.” Mr. Nancy tutted at her comment. “Besides, you have hundreds of black history professors a crossed the country singing your praises.” Her red lips curled in a mirthless smile. “ You’re safe…for now.”

Mr. Nancy chuckled at the jab, “Oh look at you miss thing, you get a few dope peddlers on the border praying to your ass to help push their poison and suddenly you’re ‘Miss Big Shit. ”

"Oh darling,” she squeezed his arm, “Don’t be jealous. It doesn’t suit you. You know my re-branding has worked wonders. I don’t understand why you and Wednesday are so resistant to change. I get prayers, they ask me for blessings and I answer them, simple as that.” She snapped her fingers.

Mr. Nancy scoffed. " Re-branded? That’s just some more white techno bullshit. From what I see is that they took a fierce fuckin’ goddess, a dealer of death, and sanitized her. White washed her power with the oppressors Catholicism and made you a Virgin Mary knock off with some skull paint,” Mr. Nancy stopped regarding her figure with a long gaze up and down, “ And honey, we both know that virgin is not a word that should be associated with you whatsoever.“

The woman’s obsidian eyes hardened as her grin grew wider, nails shiny as a black widows body clutching tightly into his arm. She stood on her tiptoes, whispering into his ear, ” Every gram is a prayer, every headless corpse a offering.” She canted her head with a smile “ I don’t see anyone offering anything to you.

Mr. Nancy chuckled, he knew he struck a nerve. "Does a few hundred Narco traffickers cut it? What happened to the woman who stood atop a pile of thousands of skulls and demanded more for her kingdom? Oh and those mother fuckers listened. By the thousands they listened and then they would sacrifice themselves when there was nobody else. You’re going to tell me you’re satisfied with a couple pits filled with a few hundred bodies? I think not Mictēcacihuātl, or do you prefer your slave name, Santa Muerte? ”

“ You’re taking me to see the Grim Reaper? ” Laura asked half bemused. Sweeney scoffed. “The Grim… fucking…no, not that asshole. He couldn’t resurrect his cock to fuck himself. I’m talking about someone who doesn’t give two shits about Grimnir…” Sweeney trailed off in thought. Laura could tell by the expression on his face he was worried, though he’d never admit it. “What’s her name” she asked softly.

“Mictēcacihuātl.“ He said with a sigh."Mic… te..kaki…” Laura tried to pronounce the unfamiliar name but was interrupted by Sweeney. "Nope, don’t even try, you’re just gonna piss her off.“ “I can’t even try to say her name?” Laura looked at him confused.

“No you fuckin can’t. How do you think these gods know things? Whispers on the fucking wind bringing them murmurs from mortals. They can hear them or one of their fucking familiars will. Especially their old names. Just say Santa Muerte. It’s the new name and not as powerful as the old.” Sweeney thought for a moment “ Actually, don’t even say that, I don’t want her knowing about this before we even see her. Just call her Mika, but not to her face. You say nothing to her, got that!” Sweeney shook a large index finger at Laura who just rolled her eyes jamming the gas peddle down.

"So, how do you even know Santa…er Mika? ” she asked shaking her head. It all was starting to feel overwhelming. A delayed shock, everything being real, gods existing, walking among them with fantastic and terrifying power, snatching spring before her very eyes.

Sweeney shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding eye contact. “We have… had a thing.” Laura’s head snapped around to look at him causing the van to swerve off the road slightly. Sweeny reached over, swearing in Gaelic, correcting the vans course. " Eyes on the road you fuckin eejit.“ Laura continued to gape at him ” Wait, so you’re telling me you somehow fell dick first into Death?” She began to laugh hysterically. If anyone was going to do something so asinine it would be him. “ God, you really are fucking stupid.” she said shaking her head. “When the hell was this?“

Sweeney look away slightly sheepish. He suddenly had become very interested in a loose thread on the sleeve. “ I don’t know,” he mumbled plucking at the thread. He fidgeted uncomfortable as Laura’s gaze bored into him from the driver’s seat. "It was 80s for fucks sake.” he exasperatedly snapped. Laura sat back in thought for a moment. " Wait…what century? 1880s? 1980s?“

” Both.“ He said with a shrug.

Somewhere in Texas 1884

Sweeney had been walking alone in the desert for what seemed like days. The miners he had been traveling with had abandoned him long ago. Too much trouble even if he did always seem to have money for whiskey and women. They’d waited until he drank himself into a stupor, took his clothing, shoes and pushed his sorry ass out of a wagon in the middle of the night. He awoke to buzzards circling.

"Fuuuuuuuck” He groaned slowly raising his arm to shield his eyes from the brutal summer sun. His skin had already turned crimson, his lips beginning to crack. To top it off was the massive headache pounding out a steady rhythm in his skull. With a herculean effort he forced his large frame to his feet and began gingerly walking in what he hoped was the direction of the last shitty mining town. Cursing his poor luck he checked to make sure his special coin was still in his possession. Seeing that it was he wondered who or what he might have pissed off to place him in this predicament. His coin was powerful, but not all powerful.

He came a crossed an outcropping of rock and took shelter from the scorching sun, gingerly sitting down on his burnt ass. A scorpion scuttled up the rock in front of him. " Get ta fuck" he spat as he half-heartedly struck at it with a piece of wood he was using for a walking stick. It was late afternoon, the desert terrain was shifting colors, burnt umber, dark purples, it looked painted and unreal.

Even though the sun hadn’t set completely the moon sat low on the horizon. A harvest moon, like a red jewel in the sky. It seemed so close, as if he could just reach out and pluck it from the air like one of his gold coins. A fat rattle snake slowly slithered in Sweeney’s direction, interrupting his reverie causing him to jump to his blistered feet. " NO, FUCK NO" he yelled in it’s direction. “ This can not be the end!? I refuse to die in fucking Texas!!” He screamed impotently toward the moon.

Adrenaline in his veins, he struck out again. He was severely dehydrated and having hallucinations about his time as a bird. Naked, restless. always moving. He thought he was miserable then, the freezing damp of Ireland seeping into his bones. The night of Texas was the flip side to that misery. The oppressive heat being released by the earth determined to dry every bit of moisture, leaving him a husk.

He wandered for hours, the sun had long since set. He felt the eyes of the night creatures on him. The moon seemed to keep them at bay. Another night of this and he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky. Jaws snapping, tearing flesh, breaking bone. He shuddered.

Stopping to survey his surroundings he saw what he thought was a beam of light in the distance. “Maybe a homesteader?” He didn’t give it much thought as he hobbled as fast as his burnt body could towards it. A one room cabin came into view, a candle sitting in the window. Sweeney was desperate, he knew that folks around here were a trigger happy lot, but he bet on his natural charm to win whoever it was over. He had to. He gingerly stepped onto the porch which gave off a loud creak. He stopped to listen. He hear hard sole shoes padding the floorboards inside.

He cleared his parched throat and called out to the person on the other side of the door. "Hello?“ He rasped ” I mean you no harm. I was separated from my wagon train, there was an ambush by the natives…” He stopped for a second listening, his tongue darting out across his dry cracked lips. “I barely made it out alive!“ he lied smoothly. "Please, could you help me? I’m burnt and haven’t had water in days.” Sweeney was answered with silence. He took a step towards the pine slat door trying to see in through the gaps. It seemed empty except for the candle dimly illuminating the interior.

“Please.” He begged resting his head on the frame. His strength giving out. "I’ll give you gold, I’ll give you whatever you want, just… please.“ he whispered, praying that whoever was on the other side had a shred of compassion. Suddenly light filled his vision and cold steel jutted into his chest. It took a moment for Sweeney to refocus. A small woman stood before him. Dark skin, long wild black hair falling around her shoulders. She was wearing a white linen tunic top and a long red skirt. A belt of bullets crisscrossed her torso. Her eyes almost black boring holes into his green ones. She pressed the shotgun into his chest saying something in a language he had never heard before. His vision began to swim and he collapsed into the darkness.

#mad sweeney #mad sweeney x laura moon #laura moon #laura moon x mad sweeney #mad sweeney x oc #american gods fanfiction #american gods #fuckin' with sweeney #future angst #fan fiction #why am i doing this to myself #again #what the fuck brah #madwife #unrequited love #unrequited feelings #Mad Wife

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more-magpiie · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: American Gods (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney Characters: Laura Moon, Mad Sweeney (American Gods) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Meet-Cute, Fluff Summary:

Mia suggested a Bad Date AU. This isn't exactly that but, well. Sort of.

#Madwife #fanfiction #Cute au silliness

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wmhalliwell · 5 years

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(move over jesus there's) a new resurrection story

Its been months since Laura stole Mad Sweeney's body from Mr. Ibis's place. She, and it, are now in an old yellow camper, waiting for a miracle.

(full fic on AO3)

Laura Moon sat on a thin foam cushion inside an old, yellowing camper. The table in front of her could be set down to make a bed, but was currently serving its purpose as a table. It sported a plastic ashtray, an opened box of cigarettes, a zippo lighter and Laura's elbows.

She'd been sitting here for hours, sucking down half a box of cigarettes waiting, her eyes dull and greying, flies buzzing around her head until they stuck to one of two flycatchers on the low ceiling above her. She leaned back against the even thinner back cushions and waited, eyes trained clear across the twenty-something foot trailer, to the massive form of a former leprechaun, laying on the old double sized mattress, too tall for his feet to rest on it.

This isn't what she expected. She expected, perhaps, something like her own resurrection: instant, like a switch being flipped. But this was not that. Hours meant nothing to a dead woman, but even she could feel the seeping time pass as the late morning sun moved directly above the stuffy camper and then slowly started to dip down to the east.

What if this didn't work? Then all her searching, all her work, would be for fucking nothing.

Just as she was pondering what she should do with the body lying on the bed, Mad Sweeney woke up.

#madwife #madwife fanfic #american gods #mad sweeney #laura moon #madwife fanfiction #mine #**#i've been writing this for like 1.5 weeks because my life is CRAZY #but i missed them and i was inspired

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ao3feed-madwife · 5 years

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Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney

Laura Moon & Mad Sweeney

Mad Sweeney & Laura Moon

Mad Sweeney / Original Female Character

soul searching, True Love, Soulmates, star crossed lovers, star crossed, Reincarnation, reincarnated lovers, Declarations Of Love, Angst, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Cthulhu Mythos, cthulhu - Freeform, Lovecraftian, H.P. Lovecraft, Camping, Campfire, Road Trip, sexual situation,Consensual Sex, Beltane, Protectiveness, love with a dangerous man, redeemed bad boy, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension,Dangerous men, true love marriage, living dead, sexual magic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horror, Emotional hurt / comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Lovecraftian Horror, mad wife, gaelic, Ireland, Medieval Ireland, The Celts

Summary

When Mad Sweeney embarks on a dangerous plan to save Laura Moon, it could cost him his life - and his very soul. But he'll dare anything for the woman he loves.

Please Note: The stories in my AU Sweeney and Laura series are all connected, and designed to be read in order.

Series Part 3 of The Travels of Mad Sweeney & Laura Moon

Words: 6,231 Chapters: 4/4 Rating: M

Posted: 12 June 2019

#american gods #american gods fanfiction #madwife fanfiction #laura moon #mad sweeney #madwife #swoon #past posting

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sausagesquirrel · 3 years

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@just-a-sketchbook (soz if you hate this I will delete)

Mad Sweeney goes to therapy

Just_Reading_Through

Summary:

Mad Sweeney goes to therapy. Featuring God!Freud, because the way I read the lore, if people believe in it hard enough, there comes a god, right? And they sure do believe in old Sigmund. Sweeney? Not so much.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34052248

#american gods #mad sweeney #madwife #laura x sweeney #ao3fic #ao3 #american gods fanfiction

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acenancy · 7 years

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Hi! I don't know if you're still taking prompts, but if so I would like to read some good old physical hurt/comfort for Sweeney & Laura! Thank you so much for your consideration :)

like a pair of stolen polished dimes (that woman she's got eyes that shine)

Fandom: American GodsPairing: Mad WifeRating T ???

(ao3)

AN: Sorry this took forever to get to! And that I wrote, like, the complete wrong thing for this prompt the first time around. Hope this will suffice

Takes place during the finale at Eostre’s mansion.

“Sorry for breaking your balls.”

Face scrunched in agony, Sweeney wills his eyes to open,squinting at Laura dangerously.

“Literally,” he tells her. “You literally broke my balls.”

Laura hands him an ice pack, already bored of his whining.“You would think someone cocky enough to instigate a bar fight with Shadowwould have a higher tolerance for pain.”

“Shadow didn’t hold me in the air by my crotch for twentyminutes demanding answers,” Sweeney reminds her. “He just faceplanted into myfist.”

Distantly, Laura registers she should be concerned thatShadow, her husband, an inhumanly muscly giant amongst men, was beaten bloodyby a boozing leprechaun, but she only feels disappointed. Shadow always fanciedhimself the strongest man in the room, and Laura was proud to be married to thestrongest man in the room, but one punch from a twiggy ginger had him blackedout for hours. That’s a little embarrassing, for both of them.

"You only won that fight because you're a God."

Sweeney guffaws, then groans and pushes the ice pack closerto his groin. "'M no God," he tells her. "I Just possesssuperhuman abilities."

“Punching really hard and pulling money out of thin air?”

“Don’t forget the irresistible charm.”

"Crying about getting your magic quarter back isneither charming nor irresistible."

“First of all,” Sweeney alternates hands attending to hispelvic area to point a finger at her. “It’s not a quarter. It isn’t evensilver.”

If Laura still could, she would yawn in his face. Instead,she pretends to, and her rigid joints lock her jaw in place, leaving her mouthhanging open. Without a bat of an eye, Sweeney takes her chin in hand andtwists until they hear a small crack. Then he lifts it gently, closing hermouth for her.

She feels something, then. A fluttering in her chest. Notthe beating of her heart when Shadow kissed her, but a physical sensationnonetheless.

Not a second later, she coughs up a moth.

“Second,” Sweeney continues speaking unperturbed, “theleprechaun charm is real. Ask JohnHolahan.”

“You overestimate how much I care.”

“You’ll be singin’ a different hymn the next time Wednesdaytangles your hubby in a web that only my sweet talkin’ can unweave.”

Laura presses down on Sweeney's ice pack with one strong,unholy finger. He yelps in pain and swats, futile, at her unrelenting poke.Only when his face begins to turn red does Laura drop her finger with a smirk.

“Pretty sure I could just rip the web apart,” Laura remindshim.

“Thanks to my quarter,” he grumbles.

“So you admit it’s a quarter.”

Sweeney groans in a different sort of pain than the physicalkind Laura inflicts on him regularly.

It makes her smile.

She supposes it’s twisted, but this is the only way she hasever been able to truly entertain herself; to be the itch someone can’tscratch, the smell they can’t detect, the most frustrating thing possible. It'sdelicious to watch the vein in someone's temple grow and throb and practicallyburst simply because she twisted a few words. The game is such a simple one toplay – most of the time. Laura could have Robby spitting and spluttering in asecond. Audrey too. Then there are people like Shadow, who acknowledge whatyou’re doing and love you with a stupid level head anyway; or the Gods, whogive better than they get. Sweeney, though. He can play, and he can play in thesame filthy, slimy way Laura does.

He’s not something she’s ever actually experienced. If shewere a stupid, more cliché person, Laura would say Sweeney feels something likea kindred spirit; a soul mate, if you would. Maybe even someone she knew inanother life. And since the whole turning into a zombie, gaining superstrength, finding God thing happened, she’s a bit more inclined to think it’spossible. Still, she can’t help but be unrealistically realistic. There are amillion assholes in the world, after all, and she was bound to find one who’sas big of a dick as she is in her lifetime.

Or her after-lifetime. Whatever.

The point is she likes him. She likes him because he doesn’thold any punches; he calls her out on her shit and treats her like crap whenshe deserves it. He says stupid things that make her grin, and she can make himsmile too. Sometimes, when he isn't busy shivering dramatically in the passengerseat of the truck and her shell cracks enough for her to talk, he doesn’t justlisten to her – he engages her in long, deep, stupid conversations aboutanything and everything. He punches ice cream men for her. It’s cute.

And it works.

Because Laura is the best kind of awful, but Mad Sweeney isthe worst kind of good.

There’s no one else she’d rather follow her husband crosscountry with. Not even her husband. But Laura decides not to think too hardabout that.

Agitated by her train of thought and all their time wastedhere, Laura grabs the ice pack, throwing it over her shoulder and shatteringone of Eostre’s extravagant floral-patterned vases. “If you’re done being apussy, I’d like to go beat the living shit out of Wednesday now, please.”

“I’m not done, actually,” snaps Sweeney. “Are you donemanhandling me, Ronda Rousey?”

“Not as long as you’re the Rocky to my Apollo,” Laurasing-songs.

Light as their banter may be, she can’t help but thinkSweeney sounds defeated when he says, “I’m not your anything, Dead wife,” andstands from Eostre’s plush chase with a wince. “But let’s go deck the god ofwar.”

#american gods #madwife #madwife fanfiction #mad wife #american gods fanfiction #mine #Anonymous #qna

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