#alcoholic now thanks to dan! the whole group is just a fucking mess and its heartbreaking because i think they were actual friends once

[lordiavolo22]

saying the n-word is bad but that's also a product of the times and he's since apologized and wants to do better. dan being a "sex pest" was not a proven thing. you do not know them personally so you can't claim if they're virtue signaling or not. you cannot claim that they don't care about these things. ppl grow and change. there's literally more important things to be mad about but stopping ppl from learning and changing isn't helpful to anything.

GIRLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

MY POINT IS NOT THAT YOU CANT CHANGE!!!!!!!* LMFAO MY POINT IS THAT THEY ARE CONTINUING TO DO ILLEGAL SHIT AS FAR AS 2022 !!!!!! you clearly are a grumps fan who doesnt want to believe that your comfort guys are bad! i get that! but dont come to *my* blog and tell me that im wrong about it, just block me and move on!

[ahsokadrabbles]

𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 [dan torrance x reader]

request: Dan receiving head for the first time since becoming sober! -thank you so much for the request, love! this was my first time writing smut so please bear with me! <3 warnings: smut, age gaps, mentions of alcoholism

pretty please send imagine requests for dan here!

You met Dan a month into his sobriety. Throughout those first few months, you tried your best to be patient and helpful even though you couldn't really understand what he was going through. You were a lot younger than him and lacked experience in the world of drinking away your feelings. You had only ever gotten drunk a few times and out of those few times it was illegally and at some wild high school party. You didn't even like getting drunk, you just wanted to fit in.

When Dan drank, he drank with a much darker purpose than just wanting to fit in. He drank to drown all his demons and all his shine and he did it with cheap whiskey. Not that it worked, he was still haunted by what had happened to him at the Overlook, but it at least dulled the pain. Dan's father was also an alcoholic and even though he died when Dan was young, he still managed to go down the same dark path. Dan didn't just get sober for himself, he got sober for his father who never got to. Deep down he knew that Jack Torrance was a good man and that monsters always favored good men. Even though you couldn't understand what Dan was going through to its full extent, you vowed to stick with him no matter what. Now, the two of you were celebrating one year of his sobriety.

With the help of Dan's best friend, Billy, and the rest of their support group, you were able to throw your boyfriend a surprise party. "What do you think, Danny?" You asked as you leaned your head against the man's shoulder. The two of you were stood off to the side, quietly watching the rest of the group members eat and chat among themselves. "It was very thoughtful of you, baby girl," Dan replied before placing a kiss onto the crown of your head. "I couldn't have done this without you, you know that?" You blushed and shook your head. "I didn't have anything to do with it, you made yourself better. I just threw you a party." You laughed, running your hand down his chest. "Are you kidding? If I didn't have you around I wouldn't be able to keep my head on my shoulders." Dan replied. Your phone chimed in your hand, grabbing your attention away from Dan. "I think it's time for cake!" You cheered, pulling him back towards the rest of the group by his hand. Dan was having a great day. Not only was he a year sober, but he was also surrounded by the people who meant the most to him. The day could be sealed up like a present with a big red bow and left at that, but he did have a little something else in mind.

The two of you had been a couple for a while now and had a great sex life. It was far from vanilla, but there were a few things the two of you hadn't tried, one of those things being you giving him head. You were fairly inexperienced when you met Dan, but you were willing to try anything. The one thing you had steered clear from to put it plain and simple was sucking him off. You were terrified that you'd do it all wrong and that sex with him would be awkward forever. Dan told you that you had nothing to fear and that you were one of the best lays he had ever had, but you were still so shy. 

Earlier that morning you had promised to do anything to make today special and Dan knew exactly what he wanted.

"Do you like your cake?" You asked, snuggling deeper into Dan's lap. 

"Yes, ma'am." He replied, swiping his thumb across your lip to collect a bit of icing.

"That's great! I tried to follow your mom's recipe to a T."

Dan half-listened as you rambled on about how you couldn't believe he had his mother's old recipe book lying around. He was more focused on your mouth and tongue wrapped around your icing coated fork.

"Babe," He stated softly as he shifted his eyes around the room.

"Could we go?" 

You pouted, which only drove him wilder, and caressed his shoulder.

"Is something wrong, Danny?" You innocently asked.

"Everything is perfect, babe, I promise. I just had something in mind for us tonight and-"

"Oh fuck." Dan thought.

He was popping a boner in front of his entire support group. You shifted on his lap and your face fell when you finally felt what he was talking about.

"Danny!" You snickered, covering your mouth as you laughed.

"Shh, can we just get out of here?" He pleaded, desperate to take you back to his apartment.

"Billy, we have to go home. Can you clean up for me please?" You asked, standing up from Danny's lap.

"No problem, I'll catch you two later," Billy said.

You were already headed out the door with Dan following you out like a drooling mess when Billy called out to him.

"Congrats, Dan!" He added, but his friend was already running for the door.

You and Dan had successfully made it back to his apartment with no one catching what was happening in his pants, thank god. 

"You okay?" You asked, still giggling about the whole situation.

"Uh-huh," He grunted before nearly throwing himself on top of you to kiss you.

"That dress works wonders." He said between kisses before shoving his hand straight up said dress.

"God, do I just want to tear it right off of you."

"Danny!" You stammered, pushing your body as close to his as you could get.

"Can you do something for me, pumpkin?" Dan asked, his breath fanning down your neck.

"Anything for you." You whispered, your breath getting caught in your throat as he kissed your neck.

"Can you give me head?"

The dreaded H word. He could see the nervousness in your eyes and he felt the way your muscles tensed against him.

"I don't want to ruin your day-"

"You won't, I trust you." He cut off, pulling you towards the bed before you could even continue your protest.

Dan sat down on the edge of the bed and you crawled on top of him, planting a hickey onto his neck. Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his flannel before you finally pushed it off his shoulders and went for the t-shirt underneath. You sat back to admire your work once you got him completely topless, grinding against him as you did so. 

"You're perfect." You said hoarsely, rocking yourself even harder against his lap.

"Fuck," Dan groaned as his head fell off to the side.

"Get down on your knees." He ordered, pushing you down into the floor.

You unzipped his pants and let him shake them down around his ankles while you gawked at his bulge. 

"You're sure about this?" You faltered, hesitantly palming him through his boxers.

"Hun, I'm going to bust already if you don't put that pretty little mouth of yours to work soon," Dan growled.

You were used to him being bossy in the bedroom, but this was a little different. He needed you so bad. You liked that.

You tugged off his underwear and let his cock spring out against his stomach.

"Jesus, Danny," You groaned, licking a long stripe up his length.

He moaned as one of his hands gripped the sheets and the other grabbed a handful of your hair.

"Just like that, princess." He encouraged.

You got enough confidence to take everything in your mouth which was quite the challenge. You were already choking and he hadn't even started pushing you down yet. You bobbed your head and slowly worked in a bit of tongue to swirl around which drove him wild. You peered up for a moment to see Dan with his head completely tilted back and jaw went slack. He was a moaning mess at your touch. When he noticed you had stopped, he forced your head back down.

"Almost there. Keep it up, baby." Dan huffed as he tangled his hand further into your hair.

"Such a good girl."

You had gotten a bit teary-eyed, not in a bad way, as his length hit the back of your throat. As much as you liked playing princess and not having to lift a finger in the bedroom, you didn't mind this in the least. You felt like an idiot for waiting so long. You liked making Danny feel good and not the mention that the view from down there was pretty damn great.

"Ah, fuck!" Dan moaned as he came straight into your mouth without warning.

You were caught a little off guard, but you maintained your cool and swallowed. You wiped the corner of your mouth as you shakily stood back up.

"Are you alive up there?" You teased, knees still trembling below you and threatening to cave in.

"All I know is that's the closest I've ever been to heaven." He chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow.

You crept up into bed beside him and tucked yourself beneath his strong arm. 

"Baby, you're better than the best whiskey money can buy." 

Dan rolled over and pinned you to the bed with a kiss as his hands fumbled with the zipper on the back of your dress.

"I think I'm going to have to return the favor." His words fanned against your skin as his lips skimmed the slope between your neck and shoulder.

"It's your day, what do you want to do?" You asked as you held his face in your hands.

"Get wasted on you," Dan said with a sly smile before putting his head between your thighs.

[lovelahela]

❛ it lives in the woods ❜ ─ prologue

⇢ masterlist ; check masterlist for fancast!

⇢ pairing: noah marshall x f!mc (marisol reyes)

⇢ genre: horror

⇢ chapter: zero (prologue)

⇢ words: 2687

⇢ description: something old and powerful lives in the woods surrounding the small town of westchester... something that knows their names. tensions flare, old wounds are reopened, and lives hang in the balance of one, very important question: are you scared?

⇢ notes + warning: this story will include disturbing scenes, potentially dark/triggering subjects (including but not limited to underage substance/alcohol abuse, depression, anxiety) and strong language. reader discretion is advised.

        Tonight, the moon is playing peek-a-boo, weaving in and out of ribbons of black clouds scudding across the sky. Accompanying the flickering radiance of lampposts scattered across the small town of Westchester, the light of the moon stretched across the vast cluster of trees that surrounded it and to a cosy, modern house far away from said lampposts that stood out significantly next to the worn-out, withering shack that stood meters away from it. The town was characteristically quiet, its folk invested in whatever dream of winning the lottery and marrying the most good-looking Hollywood actor they were having. It was almost peaceful.

        The functioning word here being almost.

        Inside that modern little house lay a young teenage girl, fast asleep in the comfort of her mattress and scented candles. Marisol Reyes tried very hard to be normal, thank you very much. She ran two clubs, maintained outstanding grades, and managed Westchester High's successful swimming team as an efficient captain. Some might even say she was one of the "popular kids," but she was no where near that (proven by the constant degradation courtesy of Britney and her posse), and preferred to keep it that way. All Marisol wanted was to blend, to be away from the spotlight - she had enough of it after being drowned in all the wrong kinds of attention when one of her best friends perished a decade ago. Being pointed at by judgemental kids and gossiping parents took a toll on her, and she swore to go out of her way to erase the devastating, untimely death of Jane Marshall from her life - she would never be the "best friend of that girl who died" ever again.

        Although Marisol strongly refused her mother Soledad's advice to see a child psychologist and cope with the horrible trauma that cost her her childhood, she insisted that she was able to, get over it. She pushed aside the recurrent nightmares and the obsession with self-defense and martial arts classes, plastered on a smile, and said she was fine - every single time, all through the ten years of looking over shoulder and denying just how damaged she really was.

        The sound of violent vibrations against a wooden surface startled Marisol Reyes out of her uncharacteristically peaceful slumber. She jumped out of her bed and grabbed the kitchen knife that always lied stoically on her bedside table like a war veteran, hair frazzled and muscles tense. The focus of her almond-shaped eyes darted around the room frantically, fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife as her heart beat wildly in her chest. Once she could not make out an outline of an intruder in the darkness that enveloped the area, she realized the vibrations were coming from her phone, buzzing enthusiastically with text notifications. She groaned at her overreaction to such a harmless event while rubbing the sleep from her eyes and picked up the small electronic device in her tense hands.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:12 AM

UNKNOWN NUMBER

marisol, you there?

it's dan.

i messed up. i'm sorry, i'm so sorry

Mark as spam?

Block number?

        "Oh my God..." whispered Marisol, rereading that one text over and over again to make sure she didn't imagine it.

        it's dan.

        Those two words stole the breath and heat from her very skin. Suddenly her defenses are like paper, paper being soaked by rapidly falling rain drops. Dan Pierce. They hadn't spoken since the tragic incident a decade prior - after the funeral, the eight children went their separate ways, determined carry the truth behind that catastrophe with them to the grave no matter how deep they buried it inside of them. She debated replying - she hadn't so much as greeted him in so many years, and suddenly he bombards her phone with frantic messages in the middle of the night? Something seemed off. Marisol could practically feel danger creeping up slowly but surely behind her.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:15 AM

DAN PIERCE

marisol?

MARISOL

dan, hey.

it's been a while, u okay? what's up?

DAN PIERCE

i went into the woods.

i had to be sure, i had to prove to myself that he wasn't real.

that it was all in our heads.

but he is, mari. he's real. it was all real.

read 3:16 AM

        Marisol's previously tense hands began shivering vigorously along with the rest of her limbs, all of them weakening by the second. She closed her eyes and drew in long, deep breaths, attempting to calm down and muster up whatever courage she had left. She wasn't sure if the texts she responded with were an attempt to convince Dan, or herself.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:17 AM

MARISOL

hey man, u sure ure not drunk?

DAN PIERCE

he was whispering, just like when we were kids.

MARISOL

dan, please stop.

we made all that stuff up, we were kids.

mr red was just a dumb game that spun out of control.

we made it all up.

DAN PIERCE

 he does. he's with me right now.

MARISOL

for fuck's sake dan

if ure in the woods get out NOW

it's not safe in the dark

DAN PIERCE

i can hear him in the trees.

i can hear him whispering...

read 3:18 AM

        Marisol hissed a long string of curse words, fumbling around in the dark for her jacket. It didn't matter that they lost touch with each other, she couldn't bear the thought of losing him - of losing someone else in the disbanded group that she once would have said she trusted with her life. Maybe, if you dug deep enough through the traumatic, emotional baggage she lugged around every waking moment, she still would.

        Just as she snatched the keys to her mother's car (which she was only allowed to use in the case of an emergency, much to her dismay), someone rapped the window harshly, startling a shriek out of her. Her phone slipped out of her hands and landed on the wooden floorboard with an upsetting thud, just barely illuminating the room with a disturbing glow.

        With the manner of a paranoid animal about to get preyed on viciously, Marisol snuck a peek at the window. Her blood ran cold when she made out the shape of what she was hoping was a human. Wasting no time, she jumped towards her lamp and turned it on. A yellow light filled just enough of the vicinity - enough to see that the man waiting outside her window was none other than Dan. She heaved out a relieved sigh and opened the window  (reluctantly so), ushering him inside outside of the chilly embrace of the crisp night.

        He climbed into his former friend's bedroom, hoodie dirtied by mud and hints of dead leaves. His long hair was unkempt, his eyes were accompanied by worrying and prominent bruises under them, and what used to be his beautifully tanned skin was then pale and sickly as though he was near death itself. Dan sat hunched over on the floor like a frail puppet being held up by a single fraying string. It was horribly peculiar to see him like this - he always held himself with confidence, tall and muscular frame towering over even those taller than him. To see him lying on her floor, so vulnerable and beaten down, it was heartbreaking to say the least.

        "God, Dan, what happened to you?" asked Marisol, eyes softened with concern as she scanned his body for the injuries littered on his skin and mud staining his clothes. He looked up at her, expression shallow, striking a faint but growing fear inside of her. "How... how did you even get here? We're on the second floor."

        "I climbed." His answer was curt and simple, no emotion to his voice at all. Nothing in his eyes or the tone of his voice supported the signs of terrifying struggle that blemished him. Marisol gulped.

        "Oooookay, Spider-Man!" Nervous laughter cut through the uncomfortable silence choking them. She frowned and took small, careful steps forward as to not startle him. She crouched down to look him in the eyes as calmly as she should, slowly pulling down the zipper of his hoodie.

        "Listen, bud, why don't you take a shower? I'll wash your clothes, give you some of my dad's, and you can tell me happened, yeah?" Her voice was low and soft, as though she was consoling a frightened child. Peeling the hoodie off his slouched shoulders, she avoided his eyes, which were - very creepily - trained on her paling face. She sighed, visibly relieved when he decided to focus on the string of Polaroid pictures and what looked like dozens of framed award certificates hung up on her wall, suddenly completely neglecting her physical existence next to his enfeebled body.

        "I'm fine." His words resembled that of an accused, soulless criminal awaiting his punishment in court, perfectly trained to deny his guilt to his grave no matter what the situation was — it seemed to rehearsed. Then, abruptly, his head snapped in her direction and he grabbed her forearms tightly, staring at her with wide, crazed eyes. She could have sworn she felt all of her internal organs cease functioning for a split second and yelped pathetically. "Come on! We need to get the others!"

        Her breath hitched in her throat. She searched and searched her brain for the proper response, hyper-aware of the growing madness that distorted his handsome face. When she spoke, the pitch of her voice was a bit too high for her liking. "What — What others?"

        Dan's hold on her tightened noticeably, causing her to flinch and whimper involuntarily. A curt, mad laugh that sounded like one the Joker himself would utter left his lips. "Our friends, of course! Noah, Lily, Ava, Lucas, Andy, Stacy — the whole gang!" Another laugh that deepened the pit in her stomach, a laugh that would haunt her for days.

        Suddenly, Marisol regretted turning away psychological help. The rate of her breathing quickened anxiously as she felt a gate in her mind burst open, letting unwanted memories flood it mercilessly at the mention of their names. She could not see Dan anymore, only flashing images of ruins, of an eerie forest, and of nine children irresponsibly skipping through the trees, on their way to revisit the entity that would then change their lives forever. Her eyes were coated with a glossy sheen of tears that were more than ready to flow down her cheeks against her weakening will. When she finally mustered the courage to speak again, she whispered: "I've barely spoken to them for years, Dan. Not since Jane — "

        Before she could register what was happening, Dan stood up and pulled her with him with an unimaginable force that was sure to leave bruises. Their faces were uncomfortably close, so close she could smell the scent of blood and dirt that replaced his usual cologne. He stared at her like an enraged panther, tiny bubbles of froth forming at the corners of his mouth and face contorted with a venomous outburst. Fear was struck inside her that she felt in her very core — she almost thought he would kill her right then and there. "They have to come. Everyone has to be there. That's the rule."

        She could feel the sweat trickle down her neck, the throbbing of her tear-filled eyes, the ringing screaming of a little girl in her ears, and the thumping of her horror-stricken heart against her chest. "Rule?"

        The world stilled around them. Suddenly, she could not hear a single thing, not even her own breathing — only the awfully familiar words that the boy hissed: "Everyone plays together."

        Marisol could not have been more thankful for the sound of her phone buzzing yet again against the floorboards. She took that as an excuse to gingerly wiggle out of his loosened grip and, with shaking legs, approached her cell and picked it up. A crack tarnished the previously pristine screen, but she decided to worry about that later when it was a more appropriate time to fret over a slightly broken phone. 

        But what she saw was her breaking point. Her free hand reached up to cover her mouth and stifle a sob threatening to spill out of her quivering lips and before she could control it a steady flow of salty tears coated her cheeks.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:26 AM

DAN PIERCE

are you still there?

i think i'm lost

marisol? my battery's almost dead, please help me!!

read 3:26 AM

        The shock ricocheted up her skeleton; an enormous engulfing terror made her feel so, so sick in her mind and body. She's seen darkness before, the kind that makes an empty street look like an old-fashioned photograph, but this was different — this was the kin of darkness that robbed her of her common sense and replaced it with a paralyzing fear. By her genes, she is a predator with the intelligence and perceptive eyes to hunt, but in that moment, she felt like a helpless prey. Marisol slowly rose from the illuminating screen of her phone, her wide, suspicious eyes meeting his. 

        "Dan?" She sniffled weakly.

        Although his eyes were cold an empty, right underneath them a grin stretched his lips impossibly from one ear to the other, radiating clear indications of raging madness.

        "Marisol."

        She lunged for the knife on her bedside table yet again, shrieking as he took large and quick steps towards her violently shaking form. She searched desperately for an escape route that wasn't blocked by the towering body of the intruder in front of her but to no avail. He grabbed her wrist with a bone-crushing hold, squeezing yet another helpless screech out of her. Her voice broke when she cried out: "Dan, please! Don't make me do this!"

        And he did nothing but widen the frightening smile that would permanently etch itself into her retinas, haunting her every time she closed her eyes.

        So Marisol did the only logical thing her frantic brain could come up with — with a heart-wrenching scream, pained by having to inflict pain on a friend who was once very dear to her, she drove the blade of the knife into his abdomen. Much to her increasing horror, he did not so much as flinch at the pain, only tightened the hold around her throbbing wrist. He merely growled like a feral animal, burning holes into her with his enraged gaze. "Wrong move."

        Dan tackled her effortlessly to the floor, straddling her hips and forcing her into a cage that she would never break out of in her wildest dreams. He smashed her head against the rough surface underneath her, darkening her fading vision. "We all have to go back, remember?"

        "LEAVE ME ALONE! GET — OFF — ME!" She thrashed in his hold, no longer attempting to swallow the sobs. Finally, after agonizing attempts to kick and thrash and flail, she was able to free one of her hands and in result scraped her previously perfectly manicured fingernails down the skin of his face.

         A cry of disgust and disbelief bounced off the walls of the room when it peeled right off, revealing putrid flesh under it. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, leaving her to stare into milky whiteness while the stink of stale dirt burned the  insides of her nostrils. His long, skinny fingers curled around her neck, pressing, closing with a lack of mercy or remorse, feeling like tendrils wound around her oxygen supply. Despite her lungs blazing with agony, Marisol continued to fight fruitlessly until her energy started to dissipate like water going down a drain. Her hands fell to her side and her body grew limp, using her last breath to scream for help that, somewhere in the back of her min, she knew would never come. The last thing she saw before she embraced the coming blackness of unconsciousness was the ghastly monster that rendered her powerless and savagely tore open her old wounds.

[thereisnobearonthisisland-arc]

anocht, beidh muid (tonight, we will)

a/n: this was written for @phanfichallenge​‘s language challenge and i’m actually really proud of it. it would not have been possible without the magical beta touch of @auroraphilealis​, so thank you thank you thank you for making me break up my paragraphs, they were a mess! i love you, boo <3

summary:  when phil walks into a dingy bar on the outskirts of galway, he's not sure what to expect - least of all, a beautiful, irish-speaking fiddle player named dan.

3.6k words

read on ao3

warnings: alcohol, homophobia, homophobic slurs, a language you will more than likely not be able to pronounce, let alone understand

If there’s one thing that Phil Lester is sure of, it’s that Guinness is the worst drink ever invented. And unfortunately for him, there’s a lot of it in this pub because the tourists love it. (Okay, so maybe Phil is also technically, maybe, sort of a tourist as well, but at least he doesn’t see Guinness as the epitome of Irishness.) Every time a pint passes beneath his nose and into the hands of whichever tourist has ordered it, Phil wrinkles his nose a bit. It smells like a pile of dirt that’s had just a little bit of yeast sprinkled on top of it. He’s actually feeling kind of queasy.

This pub he’s in smells like oak and piss, and the rickety wooden stool he’s sat on isn’t doing anything to help his poor, aching arse. Phil is uncomfortable, and all the tourists are ordering Guinness. He should really just leave, he knows that, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he can’t bring himself to slip off of his stool and walk out the front door.

Phil can’t really pinpoint what it is that drew him here in the first place. The pub is tiny, situated on the corner of two streets with names he can’t pronounce. It’s made of stone that’s been pissed on thousands of times by drunkards who don’t even remember where they are - which would probably explain why it smells like piss in here. The staff is friendly enough, although the bartender gave him a hell of a time for asking for a mixed drink when he’d walked in. If Phil’s being honest, this isn’t the kind of place he usually finds himself gravitating towards. But here he is.

He thinks it probably has something to do with the fiddle player.

To be fair, he hadn’t actually seen the fiddle player before he came in earlier this evening. In fact, the warm brown eyes and rose-gold cheeks on the frontman of the band playing in the corner hadn’t actually had any influence on Phil’s decision to wander in. The fiddle he was playing had, though, had drawn Phil in with the promise of a tune he could tap his foot along to while he drank the night away.

No, the fiddle player was just an added bonus, something pretty for Phil to look at as he listens to pretty music. So, maybe it wasn’t the fiddle player that brought him in here after all, but his instrument and the way he played it.

Blindly, he reaches for his glass and takes another sip of his margarita, licking at his lip to catch the bit of salt stuck there from the rim of his glass. His drink is almost gone by now, but he’s been too busy staring at the gorgeous fiddle player from his stool at the bar to notice it’s gradual depletion.

There’s no way he’ll be able to convince the barman to make him another one. Getting him to make Phil a margarita in the first place hadn’t been an easy task. He’d had to promise the bartender, who was already low on tequila, that he’d only drink one and then he’d find something to drink from the tap, so he’s been trying to savour it.

Here he is, though, with only a couple more sips sitting in the bottom of his glass. With a sigh, he downs the rest of his drink. Maybe if he chooses a cider from the tap and finishes it quick enough, he won’t have to think about how bad it tastes. Phil prefers his drinks made with ninety percent more sugar.

The music is loud. Not so loud that he can’t hear the buzz of conversation around him or hear himself think, but he can feel it thrumming in his veins, drawing a rhythm out of him he never knew he had. His foot taps softly against the bar on the underside of his bar stool, and his shoulders sway from side to side without his consent. This is the kind of music Phil thinks he might find on a soundtrack about him falling in love.

Phil really needs another drink. He needs one, but the fiddle player with the big brown eyes is still on stage, and those eyes seem to have found Phil’s, and he’s set down his instrument to sing some lyrics that Phil can’t understand from a song he’s never heard, and Phil can’t bring himself to look away.

O gairim gairim é,

Agus gairim é, mo stór;

Míle grá le m'anam é

'Sé Pádraig Leitir Móir!

There’s a roar from a small group of people sitting closer to the stage, and Phil can’t decide if it’s friendly or not. The fiddle player doesn’t seem to care either way. He picks up his instrument and begins to play again, closing his eyes as the rhythm picks up in the next verse.

Phil closes his eyes, letting the sounds of the fiddle and its player’s husky voice sweep over him. Except for the particularly rowdy group of people sitting up near this stage, it’s  actually quite soothing. If it weren’t for the way his nerves catch fire every time the fiddle player’s eyes land on him, Phil thinks he could probably fall asleep to the music alone.

There’s a crescendo as the song comes to an end, and Phil’s eyes fly open. The fiddle player is looking right at him with dimples carved into round cheeks and a sheen of sweat spread over his forehead.

“Bhí sin Pádraig Leitir Móir.” The fiddle player speaks into the microphone, his voice low and rumbling, washing over Phil like warm rain in a thunderstorm. He’s still not entirely sure what’s being said, but that doesn’t keep Phil from wanting to hear this voice as much as he possibly can.

There’s a shout from up near the stage, and Phil feels his muscles tense up. He hates when people yell.

“Peigín Leitir Móir is ainm do do an amhrán. Cén fáth a bhfuil tú a rá ‘Pádraig’?”

Phil doesn’t have to understand the language to know that whoever these people are, they’re currently heckling the fiddle player. Bile rises in his throat. He wishes he knew what they were saying so he could tell them to fuck off in their own language, but he doesn’t know, so he settles for glaring instead.

The fiddle player’s face flushes, and he sets his instrument down roughly onto its stand before turning to glare at whoever’s heckling him right now. “Tá mé aerach. Má a bhíonn mé ag iarraidh Peigín go dtí Pádraig a athrú, beidh mé. Focáil leat. Ní bheidh aon duine eile sásta a fhocáil leat.”

Phil can’t quite see exactly what’s going on, but there’s another roar from the crowd, and he feels his heart skipping rope in his chest. He wishes he could run up there and put a stop to whatever this is.

One of the people up front yells, “A Deaglan, an bhfuil tú ag ligean cigirí anseo anois?”

The fiddle player swipes his hand over his forehead and combs his hair back. “Dia ár sábháil. Tá deoch uaim.”

The bartender, who’s stopped in front of Phil to watch, unimpressed, as the scene unfolds before them, scoffs. “A Máirtín, faigh thairis nó imigh.” He rolls his eyes as he spins back around to wipe down the bar with an old rag, and Phil thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that if heroes wore aprons and yielded dirty rags, this barman would be one of the greatest heroes in Galway.

With a sigh, Phil casts a glance to his empty glass. Now he really needs another drink. The band members are slowly making their way down from the short platform they’ve been stationed on for the past forty-five minutes or so, but Phil’s already lost track of the fiddle player. Actually, it’s not even until now that the fiddle player is out of site and the other musicians are making their way off the stage that Phil even acknowledges their presence.

Fuck, that makes him seem like an asshole. It’s not like he’s had no idea they’ve been here this entire time. He’s heard them playing, listened to the bellows of the accordion and the strums of the acoustic guitar. But he hasn’t really seen them, not really. Not when the whole room is lit up by chocolate curls framing hazelnut eyes. Not when the fiddle player is so breathtakingly beautiful.

The rest of the band, Phil decides here and now, is also beautiful; although he’s not sure that anyone could hold a candle to this complete stranger who seems to have swept away with his heart without a single interaction. God, he wishes he could lay his eyes on that face again. Drink, he needs another drink.

Phil swivels back around to get the bartender's attention, only for his knee to clack against the knee of some other person sat right next to him.

Why is there someone sat right next to him? There are plenty of open seats along the bar. Even more important: How did he not notice someone sitting down and ordering something directly beside him?

The new figure doesn't even look up from where he's staring moodily into his pint of lager, but Phil still feels a swoop low in his stomach. He's not drunk enough for a conversation yet, but he also doesn't want to be rude and leave his accidental assault unacknowledged.

Taking a deep breath, he turns to face the man on the stool next to him. Right next to him. "Sorry," Phil murmurs softly. "I didn't see you there."

The man doesn't turn his head, not fully, but his eyes slide sideways to look at Phil, and Phil's breath catches in his throat. They're big and brown and warm and set deeply into the cherubic face of the fiddle player from the band, and Phil reckons he'd really like to stare into them for a while if he could. No, scratch that, Phil reckons he’d really like to stare into them for the rest of his life if he could.

All too quickly, they're gone again, and the man just lets out a gruff grunt before knocking back the rest of his lager and waving the bartender over their way.

The barman gives them a tight smile. "What can I get for ye, lads?"

"An feidir liom lager eile agus pionta Guinness do mo chara anseo?"

Phil's barmate has a softer voice than he expected. It had been low and husky onstage, but the fiddle player had been speaking into a microphone then. This, though, this is completely natural, free from the speakers that warp it until it’s no longer soft and sweet. It’s smooth like satin, and Phil wishes he could listen to it play over and over again like a record.

Phil blinks stupidly, not even registering the twenty euros the fiddle player's sliding over to the barman or even that the barman is turning away before Phil can even place his drink order. How can anyone speak so softly? Granted, Phil has no idea what he actually said; he could have been cussing Phil out for all he knows, but at least the man sounded good while doing it.

It's probably a bit creepy, Phil knows that, but he can't bring himself to look away from the stranger beside him.

His hair is tousled from all of the tugging he’d given it at the end of the first part of their set. It’s been pushed back up off of his shiny forehead, but the body heat in this room is so overwhelming that it’s already started to flop forward to cover his eyes again. His skin is lightly golden, cheeks turned slightly pink from the warmth in the room, and Phil wishes that this rose-gold beauty would turn to look at him again.

When a glass thunks onto the bar in front of him, Phil startles, shifting his gaze to look anywhere but where it's been focused for the past few minutes. It settles on a tall glass of some dark, thick-looking liquid.

Phil looks up at the bartender. "Erm, sorry," he says slowly, "but I didn't order anything yet."

The bartender nods to the beautiful specimen who is somehow sitting beside Phil. "Your man's getting this round."

Phil frowns, glancing over to the fiddle player beside him again. He certainly isn't "Phil's man," although that doesn't necessarily sound unappealing. Actually it sounds quite appealing, but no one else needs to know that. If nothing else, Phil can just pretend for tonight just to keep any awkward conversations with the barman away. He lets his eyes rest on the pint in front of him again, glaring at it suspiciously.

The barman sighs. "I've had my eyes on it the whole time. He hasn't slipped anything in there, and it's all yours. For free. I'd take it if I were you."

Phil picks it up warily and sniffs it. He vaguely remembers the man beside him saying "Guinness" when he spoke to the bartender a few minutes ago, but he'd just assumed that the man had been ordering one for himself. This drink in front of him, though, it looks a lot like Guinness. Phil hates Guinness.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, but lifts the pint to his lips anyways and takes a big gulp of it, trying to swallow it all before it can leave any lingering taste on his tongue. It doesn't work. The drink somehow still manages to taste exactly as it smells - like yeast and dirt and piss, but Phil can't bring himself to put it down politely. Instead, he does the only rational thing he can do in this situation. He takes a few more gulps, trying to empty his glass as quickly as possible, squeezing his eyes shut and wrinkling his nose all the while.

The soft voice from the man next to Phil returns a moment later, making him jump. He sets down his glass.

"Mise Dan," the man says, and Phil's mouth forms a small "o". Dan sounds like a name. That doesn't necessarily mean that it's this man's name, but it would make more sense than anything else. It's not likely his neighbor would be trying to introduce Phil to the bartender.

Phil turns to look at Dan, whose eyes are still fixed on the drink in front of him, but whose lips have turned up slightly at the corners. "Phil," he says, as way of introducing himself.

"A Phil, ól liom." Dan picks up his glass and turns to look at Phil head-on for the first time tonight. He raises the pint, and even though Phil’s not entirely sure what Dan just said, the message is clear enough. He casts his own pint a brief, disdainful glance before grabbing it and turning to face Dan again.

Warily, he lifts it up to around the same level as Dan’s and sweeps his hand forward to clink their glasses together.

“Sláinte,” Dan says with a small, dimpled smile.

Phil can’t help but grin back. Without even making a conscious decision, he throws back the rest of his drink and drops the pint back onto the bar.

The fiddle player’s eyes blow wide with surprise, and he slides his hand over to cover Phil’s. “Woah,” he says softly. His thumb brushes gently over Phil’s knuckles. “Moilligh. Tá mé ag iarraidh anocht a chuimhneamh.”

Phil gulps. God, he wishes he were a native speaker because Dan’s eyes are fully on his for the first time tonight, not focused anywhere slightly to the left, not drifting to pass over the entire crowd. They’re just two orbs of molten caramel...fixed on Phil like he’s the most beautiful person in the room, but Phil knows that it’s a farce. No one is as beautiful as the man sat beside him.

Dan slips his hand off of Phil’s, and Phil almost whines, but it doesn’t go far. It’s still right there beside his, close enough for Phil to hook his pinky over Dan’s if he wanted to. He does want to, but he’s not sure he’s brave enough.

Like he’s read Phil’s mind, Dan takes another large gulp of his own drink and then hooks their pinkies together. Phil watches, mesmerised as Dan’s lips start moving. They’re plump and pink and smirking slightly as they form words Phil’s never heard before. “Tá súile álainn agat.”

Phil feels his cheeks catch fire. “I don’t know what you just said, but you have the loveliest lips I’ve ever seen,” he blurts, slamming a hand over his mouth as soon as the words have slipped out. He doesn’t know what came over him. It’s not like he’s had too much to drink - it usually takes a lot more than two to loosen his tongue. Maybe it’s just Dan. Dan and his soft voice and his tousled curls and his soft hands and his plump lips that Phil really wants to cover with his own right now. Everything about him is intoxicating. Phil reckons he probably wouldn’t ever need to drink again if he had Dan around all the time.

“Well, in that case…” Dan speaks in English for the first time tonight, and Phil’s mouth drops open in surprise. It’s not a surprise that Dan speaks English; most people in Ireland, Phil’s found, do. What is surprising, however, is the post British accent Dan has in place of an Irish one.

Phil doesn’t have much time to dwell on this, though, because one second he’s lost in his own head, and the next second Dan’s warm mouth is pressing gently into the corner of Phil’s, causing his mind to short-circuit.

Dan pulls away, but only just. “I have to go get ready for the second half, but wait for me? My lovely lips have a few tricks they’d like to show you.” He winks, and Phil can feel his soul leave his body. It’s one of the worst pick-up lines he’s ever heard, but fuck it if he’s not about to fall for it anyway.

Phil opens his mouth, preparing to agree right then and there, but all that comes out is, “You’re English?”

Dan chuckles. “Yeah, I’m actually heading back to London in a few weeks. We’re just playing in a few Galway bars for now. Eoghan’s from here, and he was feeling a little homesick, so we thought why the hell not?”

Phil can hear his own heartbeat. He hasn’t actually registered anything that Dan just said besides I’m heading back to London in a few weeks, and he wants to bottle up that sentence and stick it on a shelf. “I’m from London,” he breathes, relishing in the way he makes Dan laugh again. There’s nothing really funny about what he’s said, but maybe Dan’s just the kind of person who finds everything funny. Maybe he’s as drunk off of Phil as Phil is off of him.

“Well then maybe we’ll see each other around there, too.”

Phil’s heart skips a beat, and then the wires in his brain reconnect. “Wait. If you’re English, how do you know how to speak...Gaelic? Is that what that language is?”

Dan beams. “Irish, actually, but you wouldn’t be the first person to not know the difference. My grandma was from Galway originally, actually. She taught me how to speak her native language when I was really young, and it just...stuck, I guess.”

“That’s amazing,” Phil says softly.

“Thank you. Maybe I can teach you sometime.” Dan’s eyes crinkle at the corners. There’s a shout from the stage, someone calling his name, and he swings around to look at them. For the first time, Phil notices a small patch of skin on Dan’s jaw that’s a bit redder than the rest of his face. He wishes they had more time right, time for him to brush his thumb over that spot on Dan’s jaw, to press his lips to it, but he can already see the resigned look on Dan’s face that says he has to get back onstage.

Phil’s heart aches for that look, but he smiles in spite of it. “I’ll still be here when the show’s over. Maybe then you can show me your nifty lip tricks.” That is by far the worst sentence Phil’s ever said in his life, but Dan doesn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he looks rather pleased by it.

“I’d like that,” Dan says softly, lifting Phil’s hand up to brush his lips over Phil’s knuckles. “I’d like that a lot.”

“O gairim gairim é,

Agus gairim é, mo stór;

Míle grá le m'anam é

'Sé Pádraig Leitir Móir!”

“O welcome and acclaimed

is he, my love!

Dear to my soul, a thousand told,

is Patrick Lettermore.”

“Bhí sin Pádraig Leitir Móir.” - “That was Patrick Lettermore.”

“Peigín Leitir Móir is ainm do do an amhrán. Cén fáth a bhfuil tú a rá ‘Pádraig’?” - “The song is calle Peggy Lettermore. Why are you saying ‘Patrick’?”

“Tá mé aerach. Má a bhíonn mé ag iarraidh Peigín go dtí Pádraig a athrú, beidh mé. Focáil leat.” - “I’m gay. If I want to change Peggy to Patrick, I will. Go fuck yourself. No one else will fuck you.”

“A Deaglan, an bhfuil tú ag ligean cigirí anseo anois?” - “Declan, you’re letting f*gs here now?”

“Dia ár sábháil. Tá deoch uaim.” - “Fucking hell. I need a drink.”

“A Máirtín, faigh thairis nó imigh.” - “Martin, get over it or get out.”

"An feidir liom lager eile agus pionta Guinness do mo chara anseo?" - “Can I have another lager and a pint of Guinness for my friend here?”

"Mise Dan." - “My name is Dan.”

"A Phil, ól liom." - “Phil, drink with me.”

“Sláinte.” - “Cheers.”

“Moilligh. Tá mé ag iarraidh anocht a chuimhneamh.” - “Slow down. I want you to remember tonight.”

“Tá súile álainn agat.” - “You have beautiful eyes.”