#mad sweeney angst

[dw-writes]

Eyes On You - Mad Sweeney x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[hoedamn-eron]

misc masterlist

📚 = series. ❤️ = fluff. 🥀 = angst. 😉 = a little spicy. 🔥 = smut.

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

The Rogue Elf - You want to join Hellfire Club. It’s a good job you’re in with the leader. (1.2k words) ❤️

American Gods

Mad Sweeney

Overstimulation - Kinktober prompt. (950 words) 🔥

The Card Counter

William Tell

Mrs Tillich's Hot Grandson - Your elderly neighbour, Mrs Tillich, is so lovely...as is her grandson. (1.7k words) ❤️

Drabbles

Oscar Isaac Characters with an S/O who Subtly Paints the Furniture ❤️

Poe goes away on a dangerous mission ❤️🔥

Oscar Isaac characters as dads ❤️

[ink-and-blood-goddess]

List of Characters Fanfic Requests III

ATTENTION ALL FANFIC READERS! I REPEAT, ATTENTION ALL FANFIC READERS!!!

My third list of character fanfic requests and request inbox is now opened. My other two fanfic lists are still open for requests, so please send them in.

List of Characters I

List of Characters II

I take my time into writing requests, since I’m busy with my job most of the time and writing my stories, so the request box will be opened and closed from time to time so that I can catch up.

And as a side note here, I DO NOT write for Character x OC fanfic requests AT ALL. I write Character x Reader fanfics ONLY...

List of Characters III

Marcus Corvinus-Underworld Evolution 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Michael Corvin-Underworld 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Lucian-Underworld 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Albert Shaw/The Grabber-The Black Phone 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Legolas-Lord of the Rings Trilogy 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Thranduil-The Hobbit Trilogy 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Aziraphale and Crowley-Good Omens 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Albert Wesker-Resident Evil 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Shadow Moon-American Gods 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Mad Sweeney-American Gods 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Technical Boy-American Gods 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Mr. World-American Gods 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Michael Kenmore-Stargate Atlantis 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Todd the Wraith-Stargate Atlantis 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Lestat de Lioncourt-The Vampire Chronicles 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Warlock-Warlock and Warlock the Armageddon (With Julian Sands) 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Bo, Vincent, and Lester Sinclair-House of Wax (2005) 🌸❤️‍🔥👐🏻💐💘🖤🔪🩸🔞

Symbols:

🌸-Fluff 

❤️‍🔥-Smut 

👐🏻-General 

 💐-Dating 

 💘-Romance 

🖤-Angst 

🔪🩸-Violence 

 🔞-NSFW

Citrus Scale:

🍑 (Peach)-No Sexual Interactions 

🍎 (Citrus)-Romantic hug/or kiss 

🍊 (Orange)-Romantic hug/or kiss with a hint of sexual interaction 

 🍈 (Lime)-Heavy making out with light groping 

 🍋 (Lemon) Actual Sexual Intercourse

[strictlycanon]

GET TO KNOW ME OR WHATEVER.

Name: Crow

Pronouns: She/Her

Preference of communication: Discord

Most active muse: Rn its a tie between Mad Sweeney and Negan

Experience / How many years: Since 2012 baby

Best experience: This is tough because I have a few in mind. But I think the best one is meeting my bestie and all the other people who I'm close with.

Rp pet peeves: Godmodding & force shipping

Fluff, angst, or smut: Angst

Plots or memes: Memes as I suck at plotting lmao

Long or short replies: Either or.

Time to write: Late morning-late evening

Are you like your muses: I might share some characteristics of a few but nothing comes to mind atm.

Tagged by: @disposablelover

Tagging: @emmaxmeyer, @myriadxofxmuses, @lunarruled, & @uncxntrxllable

[ao3feed-madwife]

le vrai sang de l'amour, two drops

by howaboutbucky

All Laura knew was that Mad Sweeney was dead, and she was less dead then him. That a resurrection potion weighed on her dress pocket.

And maybe Shadow was right. Maybe physics would take fucking Sundays off.

***

the one in which, Laura brings Sweeney back to life.

Words: 645, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English

Fandoms: American Gods (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Laura Moon, Mad Sweeney (American Gods), shadow moon (mentioned), Mr Wednesday (mentioned), Baron Samedi (American Gods), Maman Brigitte (American Gods), Salim (American Gods) (mentioned)

Relationships: Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney, Laura Moon & Mad Sweeney

Additional Tags: somewhere between S2 finale and and s3 begining, we ignore the canon bc its dumb, madwife, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, they are in denial... its fun, Fix-It of Sorts, the smut will come... but first we angst and bicker

from AO3 works tagged 'Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney' Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48507871

[cmgirlie]

20 Questions for Writers

tagged by: @dilf-in-peril

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

13 plus a fourteenth that's part of an exchange and hasn't been revealed yet.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

25,112

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Right now it's all wrestling.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Despite the Snow, Despite the Falling Snow — American Gods (TV); Mad Sweeney/Shadow Moon

Like it Rough — Our Flag Means Death (TV); Israel Hands/Lucius Spriggs (this one isn't very good and I thought I had deleted it until I checked to make this post. only lands here because it's a big fandom i guess)

Poison on Our Lips — Saw (Movies); Adam Faulkner-Stanheight/Lawrence Gordon (this one's been getting a bit extra traffic now with the Saw fandom resurging)

The Lies We Tell Ourselves — Insidious (Movies); Specs/Tucker (this was never finished. it's also been getting some spillover attention from leigh whannell fans)

In the Dead of Night — The Terror (TV 2018); George Henry Hodgson/John Irving

(my most popular wrestling fic, my collected kinktober fills from last year, just barely misses this list)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I should. I try to. I used to. I rarely do.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

eh I usually don't write super angsty endings. I guess the Specs/Tucker one is pretty dreary since I abandoned it at a little cliffhanger.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

excluding orgasms, Despite the Snow, Despite the Falling Snow is my only genuine angst with a happy ending. and it's a pretty cute get-together.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

no, my fics aren't popular or controversial enough for that

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yep. Usually kinky stuff, and often stuff I myself find sort of weird. Gotta exorcise it i guess.

Funny enough, I used to write a fair bit of smut as a teen, deleted it all and spent years not writing any, and then it's been naught but smut since 2021.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

no, I don't enjoy reading them either.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I'm pretty certain Despite the Snow, etc. was translated into Chinese back when I first posted it but ao3 doesn't show any related works. Maybe it got deleted?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope!

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I'm pretty fickle so I usually just stick to my favs in my current fandom. Right now it's CMJF with Joepunk contesting it for #1. My Stormpilot shipping would rear back up with every new Star Wars release so it was probably my longest-lasting ship.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My Punk/AJ/Ace Steel fill for kinktober was supposed to be part of a longer fic that never got farther into than the very beginning and that extract I posted.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I feel like I'm pretty good at showing characters' feelings through action, without much internal monologue. I've been told I balance comedy and smut well which. I don't consider myself a funny person but I do like to lean into the absurdist premises of porn i guess

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Visual description. Partially because I'm bad at it, partially because I think it adds too much fluff and avoid it. Problem is I have a very visual imagination so fics that feel super detailed in my mind end up being 200 words long with no plot, because it's all just mise-en-scène that I can't get on the page.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've never really done it but I tend to enjoy when it's there. It may be cheesy but I love a good pet name in the character's native language.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

I dabbled a bit in Phantom of the Opera fic, but really got going in the Hannibal fandom.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

around 2017 I was really trying to make my fics feel ~atmospheric~ and I feel like I achieved that best in Despite the Snow, etc., even if it's partially adapting a scene from the book that never made it to the show (that I know of, I didn't watch past s1). I feel like I'm still plopping around awkwardly in wrestling fic so I really couldn't pick a favourite.

[johnkrrasinski]

Coffee with Cream

Chapter 1: Our Story Begins in a Diner

full masterlist

series masterlist

Pairings: Frank Castle x reader x Mad Sweeney 

Word count: 2,693

Warnings: sexism, mentions of alcohol, men being men.

Summary: Two men, one diner and little old you. Working at a diner had never been your dream job but, fate had a funny way of bringing two contrasted men into your life. 

a/n: hey guys! as you all know my obsession over frank castle and pablo schreiber had been exploding these past couple of months. and so, me and @nellblazer decided to write a good old threesome fic involving these two bulky men. hope you like it. enjoy! 

Morning shift:

Another day, another chaos. The buzz of the diner was in full swing as you raced to another table filled with new patrons after the previous ones just got up and left, leaving a generous tip for you as you wiped the surface clean and picked up the dirty dishes.

It was a daily occurrence for you to deal with the bustle. Mornings are always the most hectic. You had to pace back and forth from one table to another, wrote down their orders and carefully carried their meals and beverages to the starved consumers.

Another ring above the door echoed in the clamorous room. You had grown so acclimatized to the sound, that you barely noticed it even chimed. It was basically the soundtrack of the early hours at the diner. So it didn’t interrupt your brief conversation with one of the patrons who had just ordered a black coffee with pancakes as you penned them down on your notepad.

It was around 10 AM, entering brunch hours when he walked in.

You turned around to give the order to the cook but was shortly hindered by a dark-haired man with perfectly neat stubble the lower part of his face. You weren’t paying attention to your surroundings due to the rush, so your body crashed with a taller dark figure that was walking in your direction.

“Oh, sorry, sir.” You were stunned. You couldn’t help but quickly notice the mysterious appeal of this man as his deep brown eyes looked into yours. For a second, it felt like the noise in the room suddenly faded into the background. You weren’t one in believing “love at first sight” but you definitely knew an attractive man when you saw one. And you were allured.

He quickly caught you by the shoulders and you loved the temporary moment that you had with him. His touch didn’t last long but you sure as hell wished it had.

“My mistake.” He shrugged it away like it was nothing. Then he walked away to the last booth in the corner and sat near the window. For a second there, you almost forgot what you were currently in the middle of, until you heard your name being called by one of the cooks.

“I’m coming.” You glanced at the lonesome man whom your fellow waitress co-worker was taking orders from once more before you quickly took another cooked order from the counter. You heard the indistinct murmur of the words ‘pancake’ and ‘a cup of espresso coffee’ being spoken by the man. Funny how despite his protruded emanation, he still made a common order.

But with him only a few feet away from where you were standing, things were just getting interesting.

-

An hour passed by and you were still pacing back and forth from pantry to one table to another. Until the commotion began to dwindle down, and you could just sit back behind the counter and wait for the remaining ones to get up and leave.

The blonde-haired man who had been indecorously eyeing you up and down after you first interacted with him to take his order earlier got up from table two and you were a tad relieved that he was finally about to leave. You just had to deal with him one more time and hopefully, you would never have to see his obnoxiously hideous face ever again.

Maybe you should consider spitting on a patron’s food next time, so they would have no interest in returning due to the bad service or unpleasant food ever again. Well, you’ll keep that in mind.

For now, you were trying to make yourself look as collected as possible despite attempting to hide your disgust on his predatory eyes. He neared toward where you were sitting, which was behind the cashier machine and you tried not to vomit right there.

“How much is it, hot stuff?” You couldn't mask your repugnance at his catcalling. But you neglected it, maintaining your professionalism.

“That’ll be $4.50, and don’t call me hot stuff.”

“Then give me your name, sweet cheeks.” He winked and crudely smirked at you as if he had just aced the last word. The truth was… It only made the idea of spilling a drink on his pants even more intriguing.

“Are you going to pay for your meal or not?” Then he scrambled through his pocket to unfold his wallet then he pulled out a few bucks and placed it on the counter in front of you. You took it without giving him a convivial look and a thank you, and immediately placed the money in the cashier machine.

“No smile for me? I give you some pretty generous tips there.”

“Go fuck yourself. Your tips’ pretty average anyway.” Then you turned your body against him but he abruptly stopped by harshly grabbing your wrist. You tried to release it out of his vicious grip, but this obnoxious man was much stronger than your liking.

“Let go of me!”

“You fucking rude bitch couldn’t even give me a smile, huh? I could get your ass fired out of here, you know that?”

“I said let go!”

What you didn’t notice was the inscrutable man who was sitting in the corner booth, had gotten up and approached the scene. He stood right next to the man that was harassing you, and he immediately put his hand on his shoulder. “Hey, pal, let the lady go, alright? She’s not interested.”

“Who the fuck are you? Mind your own fuckin’ business, pal.” Then he released your wrist and immediately pushed the enigmatic man by the shoulders and it elicited a fire out of him. He didn’t look the slightest bit frenzied but he looked rather enlivened by the son of a bitch’s ineptitude and he was primed for whatever was going to go down. He then pushed the schmuck back, catching him off guard.

“You’re gonna regret that.” He sneered through his wounded ego. The mysterious man only kept his cold-hard stare at him and stood unwaveringly. The obnoxious man then threw a punch at him but he effortlessly dodged it like he saw it coming, then he miserably tried to throw a punch at him once more, but was caught and stopped effortlessly with only a single clench of his hand, then the mysterious man incased his fist and twisted it to the point where the schmuck gave away his pain through his face.

“Who regrets it, now?” The mysterious man gritted as his nostrils flared. The obnoxious man was shorter than him but somehow, he seemed into shrank down before this man.

“Not so tough now huh? You gonna say something? Hmm?”

“No, please, please! I’ll fucking leave, just let me go!” He begged through his visible terror.

He let him go with a slight push and the obnoxious man instantly fled and ran for his life. He exited through the door and didn’t look back.

After the mysterious man made sure that the little coward was out of sight, he shifted his gaze to your direction and his energy immediately improved. It turned into a warmer, more civil look. In fact… He seemed a little nervous. He was so certain of himself when he tamed down that bastard, but now he looked like a shy man who was nervous to talk to a pretty lady.

“You uh… You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Thank you.” You threw him a tiddly smile to truly show your gratitude. But you were also a tad amused by the rapid transformation in him.

“No problem. So uh… Do you deal with those kinda assholes often?”

“On some unfortunate days, yeah. There are two types of assholes though. One who miserly tips and the other who’s like the one you just terrorized to death.”

“Yeah, it can get pretty unpredictable working here, huh?”

“You got that right.” You sighed as you placed your hand on the counter to lean on it.

“So, do I get to know the name of my knight in shining armour?”

He shook his head and chuckled and if your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you think he was even slightly blushing.

“The name’s Frank. Frank Castle.”

“Well, Frank, Frank Castle… My name’s y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You shook hands whilst still maintaining unfaltering eye contact with the man. You chatted for a while before he paid for his meal and said his goodbye. You couldn’t remember seeing a smile on his dashing face before that. But you were glad that you did before he was out of sight.

“I’ll see you around.” Those four words loomed in your head throughout the entire day, making you smile like a starstruck idiot. You took the bus to ride back home and you put on your favourite happy song. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this giddy. You didn’t have a clue as to when you were going to see this man again but, you sure as hell were going to meet him in your daydream.

Evening shift:

After being kicked out of every local bar, Sweeney's drinking options were becoming thin.

Sure he could just buy whiskey from the grocery store and drink it from the bottle but that was verging on being the drunk under the bridge territory and he'd had enough of that for one lifetime. He certainly didn't miss the thumping hangovers or the aches of sleeping on the cold ground. He definitely didn't miss the gobshite kids who kicked him whilst he was asleep for fun or who stole the last of his alcohol.

For having a lucky coin, he sure did run into a lot of problems and they'd all started when he'd left Illinios in disgrace. Brooklyn hadn't been much more welcoming but at least he could make fun of the “Irish” bars that seemed to dot about the place....maybe he shouldn't have made as much fun as he did because he was thirsty and it was a need only booze would fill.

He stumbled upon a diner, unassuming and hidden and with that faded flaking majesty of an era long gone by, an era Sweeney missed fondly because you could get a slice of pie and a hard drink for little cash and every now and then he'd catch a glimpse of some lady's stocking top as a gust of wind hit.

He pulled his denim jacket around him, wishing it was still socially acceptable to have cloaks before pushing the door open where an old fashioned bell above tinkled. He could tell this place was a relic but he already loved it for that.

He walked to the red stools next to the counter and relished the warmth of the place and the wafting smell of coffee that lingered and mixed with the scent of pastry.

Sweeney wasn't expecting you to pop up from behind the counter as suddenly as you did and he clutched his chest as he flinched.

“Fuckin' hell!” he exclaims.

“Sorry!” you look mortified to have made him jump. “People keep dropping things over here.”

He wished he could say he was a gentleman and looked at your face first but....he didn't. His eyes travelled up the waitress uniform, following the line of your body until he finally lingered on the sweet face that was shyly tucking a stray hair behind the ear.

“Not to worry, little lasslin'. Woke me up. Got any whiskey for a weary man?”

“I sure do but not the expensive stuff.”

“I'm not particular,” he tries for a charming smile, hoping it lands.

“One whiskey coming up,” you smile back, although he's sure it's your default customer smile.

Nice all the same.

It had been a long time since a bonnie girl had smiled at him.

You brought the whiskey over as he was playing with his coin and your eyes immediately darted to it. Sweeney could see the flare of interest there.

“That's unusual,” you nod at it. “Seems old. Family heirloom?”

“You could say that,” he chuckles, holding it out for you to take.

He watches you study it, feeling an almost sense of pride that for once someone was interested in something that was essentially him and not what he could do for them. When your fingers trace the lines of the sun, he's mesmerised by the care you're taking with it.

“It's really pretty,” you hand it back.

He leans forward and you lean in too, “Not as pretty as you, mind.”

You took it in the spirit it was meant and didn't give him a slap so that was encouraging at least. He twirls the coin between his fingers before presenting it again.

“They say this is the very treasure of the sun. It bestows luck to whoever holds it n' the sun's good grace.”

“I could do with some of that right now,” you laugh.

“Got some problems?”

“There was an incident this morning with a customer,” you sigh, smoothing down the apron but you didn't elaborate. “Happens.”

“Well I tell ya what. I like this place already and so long as I'm around, no fucker is gonna spoil yer day. How about that?”

“What's your name?” you ask.

“Sweeney.”

“Nice to meet you Sweeney. Can I get anything else for you?”

“What's the best pie ya got?”

“Apple is always the favourite but between you and me, the Mississippi Mud Pie is better,” you whisper conspiratorially. “But don't tell my boss I said that.”

“Not a word,” he zips over his mouth before draining his glass. “One a' that then, lasslin' n' another whiskey.”

Sweeney can't help but watch you as you work, setting the glass down in front of him before serving him up a slice and he notes you look around to check as if you're doing something you shouldn't before putting both cream and ice cream on the side. You pass it along to him with a finger over your lips.

“You're only supposed to get one technically,” you wink.

“Yer very good to me, sweetheart,” Sweeney smiles broadly. “This is already my favourite diner I've ever been too n' don't worry, I'll keep my promise. Nobody will insult ya, hurt ya or upset ya whilst I'm here.”

“I'd best serve some other customers. Don't want them to think I'm playing favourites,” you give him a tiny wave before scooting off to refill coffee.

You were right, the pie was fantastic and he almost cried to discover the ice cream appeared to be the homemade variety. It had been so long so he'd had any type of cream that wasn't artificial. He was so sick of being summoned to his worshipper's homes and given dime store whip that tasted like the back end of a plastic conveyor belt.

He put down his money, giving a large tip and sliding it near to where you were making cocoa for someone. He ended up doing a coin trick out of habit which you watched with raptured interest before taking the cash.

“Thanks,” you smile brightly at him. “I'm heading off after this, split shift wears a girl out but if you ever come back, you have to teach me how to do that.”

“I'll teach ya anything ya want for good conversation and more pie,” he laughs.

“Deal. See you around Sweeney,” you head into the back room to change before a surly looking older man comes out to replace you.

This man wasn't nearly as interesting as you were and Sweeney's attention went back to drinking. Funnily enough, he'd forgotten all about that burning thirst to get obliterated when talking to you. There was something so easygoing, so comfortable about you that it felt like he'd lifted his head above the fog of his alcoholism for the first time in years.

Oh he'd definitely be back alright. He wouldn't fuck things up this time. He really liked it here.

And as he watched you in your normal clothes stride out into the darkening night, he thought maybe ending up here was lucky after all.

[multifandom--imagine]

“Who wants to hear a story?” the god announces looking at you in the eyes, smiling slyly. “Once upon a time there was a muse, a timid and nameless muse, who does not speak if she does not need and who studies the world with her beautiful eyes. Many wonder, what is in a name? What we call rose, also called with another word would have the same sweet scent” His words make you blush.

#06

– Taiga 🐯

[toastydumpster]

April showers bring May flowers 🍀🌹

-

Me: Mad Sweeny MUST be protected at all costs

Also me: *chanting* ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST

[sheliesshattered]

looking at my recent ships and I’m starting to see a pattern

grumpy, snarky, and sarcastic, even with each other

height difference

shared adventures/partners in crime

huge age difference, like right at the edge of too much, or one of them is immortal so things like age don’t really matter any more

competence kink that tends to be mutual

at least one of them living in denial of their feelings for far too long

[tibbygetsrekt]

Out of this whole mess that I’m dealing with right now, the only thing that’s made me truly smile is the fact we’re driving west.

We’re chasing the sun. And guess who was once known as god king of the sun?

[esmericks]

REQUESTS AND WRITINGS

Hey! Welcome to my blog, I just wanted to post a list of all the celebrity characters I write for. I just wanted to inform you all that I will most definitely be taking in requests for any character played by a celeb on this list, as well as any type of prompt (fluff, angst, smut...). I also wanted to add that sadly I will only be writing for female readers as I am one myself and wouldn't want to misinterpret any feelings or situations that a male or non- binary person would feel. 

(Just to be clear this a list of actors but I will only be writing for any character played by said celebs, not the actual person as I find that kind of wierd. xx)

PS: Some names will be in all caps and that means that I am currently in a period where I am really motivated or interested to write for this particular person, these will change over time. 

A

Adam Driver 

ALAN RICKMAN

Alicia Vikander 

Amandla Stemberg 

Ana De Armas

ANDREW GARFIELD

Andy Samberg 

Angelina Jolie 

ANGUS CLOUD

Annabelle Wallis 

Anne Hathaway 

Anya Taylor-Joy 

B

Benedict Cumberbatch

Bradley Cooper 

Brie Larson

C

Camille Cottin 

Cara Delevigne 

CATE BLANCHETT

Cher

Chris Evans 

Chris Hemsworth 

Chris O’Dowd 

Ciaran Hinds 

Cillian Murphy 

Cobie Smulders

Colin Farell 

D

Dakota Johnson 

Daniel Craig 

David Harbour

David Tennant 

David Thewlis 

Dylan O’Brian 

E

Eddie Redmayne 

Elle Fanning

Elizabeth Debiki 

Elizabeth Olsen

Emilia Clarke 

Emily Blunt 

Emma Mackey 

Emma Roberts

Emma Stone 

Emma Watson 

Emmy Rossum

Esther Acebo 

Eva Green 

Evan Peters 

Ewan McGregor 

Ezra Millers

F

Finn Wolfhard 

Florence Pugh 

G

Gal Gadot 

Gillian Anderson 

Gwendoline Christie 

H

Harry Styles 

Henry Golding 

I 

Ian Glen 

Idris Elba 

Itziar Ituno 

J

James McAvoy 

Jason Momoa

Javier Bardem  

Jemima Kirke 

Jennifer Connelly 

Jennifer Lawrence 

Jessica Chastain 

Jessica Lange

Jimmy Smits 

John Krasinski 

Johnny Depp

Jude Law 

K

Kate Winslet 

Kaya Scodelario

Keanu Reeves 

Kiera Knightley 

Kit Harrington 

Kristen Stewart 

L

Lady Gaga 

Lea Seydoux 

Lena Headey 

Liam Neeson 

Lily Rabe 

Lily - Rose Depp 

Liza Weil 

Louis Garrel

Luke Evans 

M

Mads Mikkelson 

Maisie Williams 

Marion Cotillard 

Margot Robbie 

Mark Ruffalo 

Mathew McConaughey 

Maude Apatow 

Megan Fox 

Meryl Streep 

Micheal Fassbender 

Mikael Persbrandt 

Mila Kunis 

Millie Bobby Brown 

N

Natalia Tena 

Natalie Portman 

P

Paul Bettany

PEDRO PASCAL 

Penelope Cruz 

Pheobe Dyevnor

Pheobe Waller Bridge 

R

Rachel McAdams 

Rachel Weiz 

Ralph Fiennes 

Rebecca Ferguson 

Richard Madden 

Rihanna 

Robert Downey Jr

Rooney Mara 

Rory McCann 

Rose Byrne 

S 

Sacha Baron Cohen

Sadie Sink 

Sam Claflin 

Sandra Bullock 

Saoirse Ronan 

SARAH PAULSON

Scarlett Johansson 

Sebastian Stan 

Sophie Turner 

Stephanie Beatriz 

Sterling K Brown 

Sydney Sweeney 

T

Taissa Farmiga 

Timothee Chalamet 

Thomas Brodie - Sangster 

Thomasin McKenzie 

Tom Felton 

Tom Hanks 

Tom Hardy 

Tom Hiddleston 

Ty Burrell 

U

Ursula Corbero 

V 

Vanessa Kirby 

VERA FARMIGA

Victoria Pedretti 

W

Willow Smith 

Winona Ryder

Z

Zendaya

Zoe Kravitz 

Zoe Saldana

If there is an actor/ character that is not on this list that you would like to request please do, and I will see if I will write for them xx

- Lots of love 

[dw-writes]

The Invasion...Chapter Twenty

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

That changed when he arrived in Cairo.

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

A/N: First things first TRIGGER WARNING: Emotional Angst, Screaming Men

Now. I”M SO EXCITED FOR THIS CHAPTER!!! It’s so long, so i apologize in advance, but I really love it. And I hope that you guys will too. Also, I updated the tag list!! i hope i got everyone, and I did mark if i couldn’t tag you next to your name if i couldn’t. :D Let me know what you think!!

Remember: likes are appreciated, but reblogs are best~

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

The Invasion, The Tarnished King, and the Triple Threat

Your dream was different from the others you’d had before – you stood in the woods, alone, with rain misting down through the canopy of leaves above your head. The petrichor was thick, but so was the iron, and the rot, and the smell of death that wasn’t natural to the forest. It wasn’t hard to follow the scent as you seemed to already know the path – straight ahead, between the trees that bent towards one another, like lovers sharing a secret.

Beyond them was a battle.

It was violent – the men so entangled in one another that you couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. The scene could have been mistaken for an intimate one if not for the screams and the blood. You braced yourself against a tree, digging your nails into the bark for some kind of balance. The thick, cloying stench of iron and rot and death made your stomach roll.

Something moved across the carnage. You looked up and froze in startled shame. How hadn’t you recognized the shock of hawkweed hair that trailed in a snarled braid down a bare and dirty back? He was half hidden amongst the trees, gripping a spear so tightly that his knuckles were bloodless, and his arm trembled. His lush green eyes darted from one ruined faced to another, then were suddenly locked with yours.

You blinked.

His hair was cropped and trim, still dirty, and curled over his forehead where he’d forgotten to style it. His jacket was filthy, and his once stark white tank top was yellowed with sweat, the blue button up forgotten on the shoulders of someone he could call a lover if he were braver.

But he still held the spear, and his fingers were limp, and it fell into the mud that ran with copper and ichor.

And then, before your eyes, the strongest man you knew turned tail and ran, disappearing behind a cluster of branches. A bird shot from the shadow of the trembling leaves and fled the battle in silence.

You watched the space where the bird vanished until your vision clouded with darkness, and the stink of war faded from your nostrils, replaced with the faint scent of soap and sweat and cloves.

Sour breath and obnoxious snoring completely roused you from the dream. You wrinkled your nose and turned your head away from it, burying your face in the warm chest you’d used as a pillow. Your neck was sore, and your arm was asleep, and you were starting to regret literally everything that had happened the night before that led to you being in that position. The snoring just seemed to get louder.

You groaned and rolled away, shoving your face into your abandoned, and pleasantly cold, pillow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you grumbled, “Why does your breath smell like death?”

His hand grazed the back of your head. You felt the weight change as he threw his arm over his face and groaned. “Prob’ly that damn cream ya left me,” he muttered. He puffed and swore under his breath.

You smiled, rolling back over to face him, headbutting his loose fist until he moved his hand. He turned his head towards you. A lazy smile worked its way across his face. The room was barely lit by the not quite risen sun, and it caught the Hoard in his eyes, made them glitter like a treasury. You lifted a finger and brushed a dry curl from his forehead. His smile grew. “Mornin’,” he whispered.

“Morning,” you replied in kind. You tucked your hands under your pillow, eyes darting around his face. “When’s the last time we got to relax like this?” you asked.

Sweeney tucked his arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling. The streaks of the streetlamp were fading away into barely orange sunlight. “Eagle Point?” he more asked than answered, “’fore that, ol��� Nancy’s place.”

“Feels like forever since then,” you sighed. You dropped your eyes to his shoulder and reached out, lightly tracing the cluster of freckles that curved out of sight. He relaxed under your touch. You buried your face further into your pillow. “Where do we go next?” you barely asked.

He grunted. Wherever it was must have something to do with Wednesday, then. He rolled his eyes and let his head flop back to you. “Cairo,” he replied.

Your finger stopped. You hadn’t thought of home in so long. “We need to stop by a store or something before we get there,” you replied, “I need to get something for everyone.” It was an unspoken everyone – he knew that you had a debt to pay to the Egyptians, one that they never asked for repayment on. Perhaps, he thought, he should get them something, too. “But can we stay here a bit?” you asked after a long while, “Maybe leave tomorrow? Or the day after?”

“You really missed me that much or somethin’?” he mused with a smirk.

You smiled. “Maybe,” you answered, “Or maybe I just finally want a few days to relax.” You prodded his shoulder. “There’s no gods I have to find. No favors I have to grant.” Your eyes stung as you spoke. It was over. Your job was over. You sniffed and rubbed your face into the pillow, wiping your eyes free of any gathering tears. “I just wanna relax,” you mumbled.

He was watching you when you looked up next, his brow furrowed as his eyes flitted over your face. He rolled onto his side and opened his arms, lifting the blankets for you to move as he said, “C’mere.”

You blinked once, twice, as tears welled up in your eyes all over again. You shuffled over and shoved your face into his chest and the dam just broke. You cried. Sweeney wrapped his arms around you, and you cried harder, burying your face in your hands to both muffle your sobs and contain the tears. When that didn’t work, you wormed your arms around his back and didn’t hold back.

He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead and rubbed your back until you had fallen back asleep, not saying a word.

You stayed in bed for two days, curled up beneath the blankets and wishing they were the stars that had once kept out everything harsh about the world.

Sweeney kicked the mattress on the morning of the third day. “Get up,” he grunted. You grunted back. He rolled his eyes – you could tell – and tugged the blankets off you. “Get yer ass up,” he demanded.

You turned towards him, huffing and throwing your pillow in his direction. “You were so sweet before, what happened?” you grumbled.

The pillow swatted you seconds later. You yelped. “I showered,” came Sweeney’s smug response, “And you haven’t. And that should tell ya somethin’.”

It did. You weren’t happy about it. You scrunched your nose and groaned and rolled out of bed, scrubbing your face and yawning and making as much of a fuss as you could.

There was a tense second when you walked past him, one filled with obvious mischief as he followed your form with a twist of his body. You knew what was coming before it happened and lunged the last few feet to the door. Sweeney’s fingers barely grazed the curve of your ass.

“Oh, you shit—” Sweeney whirled around as you yanked open the door. “Get back here!”

You choked down a screech and bolted out of the room, taking a turn towards the bathroom and stumbling over your tired legs.

“Stop running in my house,” Dio drawled-slash-yelled from the living room just out of sight, while Zikana shouted,

“Are you okay?!”

“Fine!” you replied as you tripped into the bathroom door. You fumbled with the doorknob.

Sweeney’s hands slapped the doorframe around you, caging you in between them, the door, and his arms.

You didn’t dare turn around. You knew what would happen if you turned around – it’d almost happened numerous times when you’d been alone, and part of you wanted to just close the gap and really solidify the change between you both.

Sweeney gave your shoulders a squeeze and pressed a noisy kiss against your hair. “You reek of nothin’ good, luv,” he teased.

You shoved your elbow into his chest and pushed the door open. “Ass.”

“You love me!” he exclaimed.

You shut the door in his face.

You were quick to turn the shower on, pushing out the absolute silence for something that you could focus on. Peeling off your clothes sent a wave of body odor into your nose that you weren’t expecting, but sadly recognized. A devastating wave crested in your chest. You lifted your leaden legs over the edge of the tub and clomped into the shower, plopping down beneath the scalding water and wrapped your arms beneath your legs. The muscles in your back screamed as you stretched them, and the pain that lanced through your ribs left you breathless.

You really had stayed in bed for two days.

Your eyes stung – it had to be from the hot water dripping into your face, right? - and you swore to yourself as pieces of your soaking hair stuck to your neck. You’d have to wash it, otherwise it’d start to smell even more. You didn’t know if you had the energy to do that.

The door shifted next to you. You jumped. You didn’t realized you hadn’t close it. You half expected Sweeney to be standing there, staring down at you, but it was Zikana. Your shoulders sagged. She had a knack for finding you when you were at your worst, like she knew when you would need someone there.

She leaned a bare shoulder against the bathroom wall, holding the door in one hand and your dirty clothes in the other. Her tank top rode up her side as she shifted into a more comfortable lean.

“When did you last take your meds?” she asked.

You squeezed your legs tighter. “When you got them for me?” you replied.

She clucked, not unkindly – though the sound did hunch your shoulders around your ears – and looked around the bathroom. “I’ll send your man in with them, alright?” she said.

You puffed. “He’s not--”

“Your leprechaun,” she corrected.

You slumped into your legs.

Zikana pulled the door closed. “Take your time, alright?” she said before she left, “You’ve been working hard.” Then, before the doubt could creep into your mind, she added, “It’s okay to rest.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Seconds, then minutes, ticked past. You didn’t keep track of them. You stared at the floor of the tub, wondering how long it was going to take you to wash your hair, willing your heavy arms to move, or even for your butt to scoot closer to the bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the opposite corner. That was the hardest – and most infuriating part. You eventually convinced your body to move, though, and inched your way through everything you could do without standing, which took you even longer to convince yourself to do.

The door hinges creaked.

You pressed your face into a washcloth, leaning back against one of the bath walls to savor the feeling of the hot water for as long as possible.

He didn’t say anything. He kept the door open, letting the hot air billow out into the hall while the cool air rolled in, sneaking through the cracks of the shower door. You heard the bottle tap on the counter, followed by a glass. Then the toilet seat smacked down against the bowl and Sweeney groaned as he sat down.

“You gotta get out eventually,” he grumbled. The sink turned on, then off. He grunted and the toilet seat creaked.

“Fuck off, no I don’t,” you grumbled right back.

Ice cold water splashed down over your head. You tensed, squeezing the washcloth against your face as the icy liquid rolled down your hair and shoulders, melting away to something warm the further it went.

“You asshole!” you shrieked.

“Get out or I’ma do it again, luv,” Sweeney drawled. The tap turned back on.

Something of a gurgle, or a snarl, bubbled up in your chest and up your throat. “No!” you shouted, “Stoppit, I’m?” You flung the wet washcloth over the top of the shower and turned the water off. “I’m done! I’m done, stoppit!”

“Good,” came the smug reply, “Now get out.”

You bit back a very bratty, “No,” and instead said, “Turn around.”

“Wut?” Then, he said, “Are ya serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After--”

“Sweeney, turn around!” you snapped.

“Is it really that hard to follow orders, man?” called Dio from the living room.

“I didn’t hear anyone ask you!” Sweeney shouted back. However, he grumbled. “I’m turning around, fuck.”

You toweled off behind the door, flipping your head over to wrap your hair up and deal with later, then pawed at the toilet seat for your clothes – at least a shirt and underwear, you didn’t care if he saw you in that. Once semi-dressed, you shoved the door open and shuffled your feet dry on the bathmat before tugging on your pants.

Then you stopped.

There was that reflection again, the one of the stranger with your eyes and your nose and your mouth, the one that stood about your height, but you couldn’t recognize. You flipped your head over a second time and squeezed as much of the water out of your hair as you could before standing straight and staring again.

You filled your skin a little more than you had when you last got a good look at yourself – back in Ostara’s mansion – and it gave you a strange sense of...something. You didn’t know. You couldn’t name it.

Sweeney adjusted himself in the doorway and leaned on the frame, his eyes roaming over you as you leaned further into the mirror. Maybe you’d recognize something if you were closer.

“What’re you doin’, luv?” Sweeney gently asked.

You dropped your hands from your face and heaved a sigh far more ragged and defeated than you’d expected. “Nothing,” you replied.

He held out his hand. You took it, letting yourself be tugged under his arm. You shook the shirt cuff away from your hand, smiling a little – it was his-now-your shirt, with the red detailing. You tucked it closer around yourself and shuffled after him.

“Heard you need to head out today,” said Zikana as you both rounded the corner of the kitchen.

“From who?” asked Sweeney, while you said, “We are?”

“A little birdie told us,” replied Cassandra with a smile.

Sweeney swore and sat at the bar, tugging you closer to his side. “Fuckin little winged rats,” he grumbled.

Dio stepped around you from the living room and dropped a baggie in front of the sulking red head. “Gets you outta my hair,” he grunted.

Your leprechaun released a delighted gasp at the familiar sight of his tobacco concoction. You groaned as you sat next to him. A small stack of papers almost seemed to appear in the center of the bar.

“Really?” you sighed.

“Shuddup, it ain’t gonna kill me any faster than this bullshit is,” Sweeney said.

You flinched. You didn’t mean to. His fingers stilled for just a moment before they continued to roll his first cigarette.

“So,” Cassandra said into the tense silent, whirling around to slap a map in front of you. “You’re gonna be making a stop before you get to Cairo.”

“We’re what now?” muttered Sweeney as he licked the paper.

Zikana waved him off. “This isn’t your business.”

“Like fuck it ain’t.”

You kicked his chair. His green eyes cut to you, the dark void of his pupil growing slightly larger as he watched you. They jumped and darted across your face and the Hoard sparkled as they did. You could get lost there, if you weren’t careful, if you’d lose touch with your world and let yourself be dragged beneath the hill, and him, and off somewhere else entirely.

You forced yourself to look away. “It’s what Hody asked me to do, remember?”

“The fuck asked you to come here, ya came here,” Sweeney grunted. He dropped another completed cigarette into a pile. “So, now, whut, you gotta do somethin’ else? You ain’t his lacky.”

“The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,” Dio sighed as he wandered past again.

Sweeney twisted in his chair and swatted the man across the back. He retaliated by spinning around, yanking the giant off his seat, and sent them both sprawling across the floor with a tremendous rumble.

You heaved a suffering sigh and turned back to the map.

Cassandra’s placating smile scrunched her nose. She obnoxiously clicked her pen as Zikana rounded the bar with a fed-up groan. “Okay,” said the red-haired prophetess, “We are here.” She marked a spot on the map with a star. You leaned over it.

Something thudded and something else smacked against your seat. “Fuck!” swore Sweeney.

“You two are grown ass men!” Zikana scolded. There was a scuffle.

“That’s up for debate,” grunted Dio.

Sweeney shouted something unintelligible. The stool was hit again, and fell out from under you, earning a startled, “Fuck!” from you as you tumbled backwards. Your ass planted heavily into the side of Sweeney’s stomach. Someone sputtered. Someone else swore. The man under you wheezed and coughed and rolled away, sending you sprawling across the floor.

Zikana was doubled over by your head, her hands on her knees as she struggled to catch her breath between silent peals of laughter. Dio was lying on the floor by her feet, his hair loose around his head, and stared up at the woman who wheezed and coughed. Then, he started to snicker.

“Shut yer fuckin’ trap!” Sweeney snarled. He didn’t move under your legs, at least not in any way that would have him standing.

Zikana straightened, her hair flying out of her face, and released a wheezy screech, “I didn’t think you’d fly like some rag doll!”

“Shuddup!” protested the man beneath your legs.

Cassandra’s head dropped to the bar as she started to laugh, too. You scrubbed your hands over your face as giggles started to bubble up your throat.

“I’m fine, by the way!” Sweeney grumbled. “Throws me into a chair and laughs but doesn’t ask if I’m fine,” he huffed. He sat up underneath you, his hands patting far too low on your waist for present company. “You alright?”

You nodded, too preoccupied with smothering your laughter to give him a proper answer. It took a moment, but soon, Sweeney was chuckling, thumping his head back on the floor and throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Fuckin’ Rag Doll Sweeney’s the name,” Dio muttered between snickers.

Cassandra straightened with a squealing shriek similar to Zikana and dissolved into silent laughter complete with seal claps.

“Shut the fuck up, ya drunk bastard,” Sweeney shot back with a grin.

It took a bit for everyone to calm down – and for you to feel the ache in your tailbone from landing on a giant made of muscle and rage – but it happened eventually. You carefully perched on the edge of the stool, leaning on your elbows to keep the weight off what you knew was a bruise. Cassandra clicked her pen again, pressing her lips together to keep the last of the giggles behind them.

Zikana slid a paper over to you. “This is the address for the Morrigan—”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Sweeney grunted, looking up from the cigarettes he continued to roll, “The Morrigan?”

“Your messenger here said that someone else was needed for that old fuck’s war,” Dio groaned. He stretched and something popped. “They were the best option we had.”

“Compared to who?”

“Inanna,” you replied, tilting your head, turning the address towards you. It had a name – Raven, Wrath, & Rue – and an address in Nashville underneath it. “Huitzilopechtli,” you continued absently, “And Sobek.”

“And his mistress,” Zikana added with a huff. Sweeney choked.

“I still think that’s the best bet,” Dio grumbled.

“No,” came Sweeney’s sudden and sharp reply, “No. Fuck no. Fuck no times ten million.”

You turned to him, setting your cheek on your fist. “What problem do you have with Sobek? He doesn’t sound,” you tilted your head, “Terrible.”

“’s not the alligator—”

“Crocodile,” Cassandra and Zikana corrected.

“I have a problem with,” Sweeney continued, “’s that bitch.”

Dio groaned. “Can we stop talking about her?” he wheezed, “The more you talk about her, the more likely you’ll bring her here. She’s the best option. But I don’t want her here.”

“I still don’t know who they’re talking about,” you whispered.

“What did you do?” Cassandra said over you.

“Why did I hafta do somethin’, huh?” Sweeney huffed.

“Because we know who we’re talking to,” Zikana shot back.

Dio tapped his fingers on the bar, eyes narrowed conspiratorially as he leaned in to whisper, “What did you do to her?”

Your leprechaun slapped his hands on the bar. “Didn’t you wanna stop talkin’ about ‘er? Why’re we still talkin’ about her? ‘s bad fuckin’ luck is what it is,” he practically whined.

“I think you’re scared,” teased fair Dionysus.

“I think the fuck not,” Sweeney snapped back. He turned to you, cupping a hand around the cigarette that had already found its way between his lips, lighting it only after a few struggling flicks of his lighter. “Why’re you lookin’ for them anyway, luv? You don’t owe Grimnir anythin’ anymore.”

You spun the card beneath your finger. “He didn’t ask me,” you reminded him, “Hody did.” You picked up the paper and folded it. “After what happened to Zorya Vechernyaya,” you added.

Sweeney’s hands stilled. A heavy silence fell over the room. You thought that, maybe, the chaos beneath your feet went silent, too. You tapped the paper against the bar. “I didn’t know her,” you whispered, “I didn’t get a chance to meet her. So, if I can do something that helps to, I dunno.” You rolled your lips together. What could you say? ‘Value her memory’? ‘Bring peace to her sisters’? Nothing felt right, so you didn’t finish your thought.

The group wandered apart after that: Dio headed down to the club, with Zikana not too far behind; Cassandra took a call and left shortly after that. Sweeney didn’t say much at all, just smoked and sat at the bar and stared at the map in front of him.

Before you could ask him what was wrong, he asked you, “Didja know that banshee herald in the death of the man who hears ‘er?”

You frowned. “Yes,” then, you held out your hands, overlapping them across the map. He stared at them. You wiggled your fingers. “Where did that come from?” you whispered.

Finally, he traced his fingers across your palms and encased your hands in his. “Just a thought,” he rasped. He gave them a squeeze. “Ya know, I ain’t in a rush to get anywhere, despite some fuckoff ravens. Whadaya say to one of those terrible movies you like so much?”

You didn’t say anything; you pulled him to the couch and scooped up the remote.

You couldn’t remember much of the first movie, or of the second – only that by then, Dio had returned, dragging two or three people up from the club with him, and you and Sweeney had retreated to your shared room for the third movie, which was just as fuzzy. You had piled all of the pillows into the corner for Sweeney to lean against, and he held you as the third movie rolled to an end. He was snoring, his head lolled against yours, and made sure to keep the volume down as you started a fourth movie.

(You dreamed of blood and death and of a bird that swooped and swayed on the northern wind of a wild and lost wood.)

Your back ached by the morning, and your shoulder had fallen asleep from being pinned against the wall. You grumbled, squinting against the sun filtering through the window, more tired than you had been when you fell asleep.

Sweeney still snored.

You elbowed him, half meaning to, half not. He grunted out a swear and let you go. You both tumbled out of the bed, catching and steadying each other, then shuffled out of the room to the kitchen.

The loud caw of a raven greeted you both. You jumped. Sweeney shouted. The bird hopped back a few steps and screeched again.

“Fuck off, rat!” Sweeney replied, “We’re goin’!”

(“I fear for Huginn, that he come not back.”)

You held your hand out to the shrieking, angry raven. “Penny for your thoughts?” you asked as you stepped closer.

Sweeney glanced at you, an eyebrow raised in question as he snagged something from the fridge. “You can tell ‘em apart now?” he asked.

You shrugged. “No,” you lied, then frowned at the sour taste of the word and corrected yourself, “Yes.” You set your fingers on the bird's head. He leaned into it.

“Howso?” burped your leprechaun. You looked over. He proceeded to chug the rest of a beer before crushing the can against the counter and throwing it away. You frowned but didn’t comment.

“Dunno,” you said instead as you scratched Huginn’s head. He clacked his onyx beak at you and stamped his little feet to get just a bit closer. “It’s like I’m remembering a verse from something I read.” You tilted your head. “It’s not that weird, I don’t think. I’ve been remembering a lot of little things from books I’ve read – but I’ve always done that; selective memory or something.”

Sweeney hummed, a little bit doubtful, a little bit concerned, and rounded the bar to your side.

“Yet more anxious I am for Muninn,” you finished to yourself.

The man flapped his hand at Huginn. The raven cawed once more, then, with a beat of his wide and powerful wings, he darted across the living room and out through the single open window. It dropped shut behind him.

“Fuckin’ obnoxious shit of a familiar, those ones,” Sweeney said.

You dropped your empty hand against the countertop with a slap. “When are we leaving?” you asked as you turned around.

He leaned his hip against the bar as he lit a cigarette. It was odd seeing him succumb to his vices so early, but not too strange. Maybe he’d had strange dreams, just like you’d been having. Maybe they were memories to him. Maybe he wished his Muninn stayed lost and far away.

“Whenever you want, luv,” he replied.

You drummed your fingers. Compared to everywhere else, Dio’s apartment was the one place you had stayed in the longest since your introduction to Mr. Wednesday. It felt almost strange to have been there so long, especially when you thought about it. You knocked against the counter and pushed away from it, heading to the guest room to gather your belongings and head down to Maenad to say goodbye.

You paused as you shoved your clothes into your bag. You were almost sad about leaving. Sad that it was possible that you wouldn’t see Dio, Cassandra, or Zikana again for a long, long time, if ever at all. You squeezed the straps of your bag, swallowing a lump that was forming in your throat. Patting around your wadded up clothes, you found your pills and shuffled off to the kitchen.

Sweeney was waiting with a glass of water.

You flashed him a half-smile, something that may as well have been a grimace, and took your medication. He drummed his fingers against the counter.

“Ready?” you asked once the glass was drained.

He snorted, gave you a derisive, “Fuck no,” and pushed away from the counter. Opening the door, he led the way from Dio’s apartment down into the chaotic din of Maenad, where the music you hadn’t heard before thrummed through the floor and the cloying scent of sweat and smoke and sex invaded your senses. You coughed a bit. You didn’t remember it being so strong the first time.

Zikana whistled to you from across the room, waving the two of you towards Cassandra’s free side. Dio stood behind the bar, pouring a golden liquid into two shot glasses.

Sweeney cleared his throat. “This some weird Greek thing? Sendin’ us off with a shot o’ piss and the saddest fuckin’ orgy this side of the Mississippi?” he quipped as he took a seat.

Cassandra threw open the leprechaun’s jean jacket and pinched the underside of his arm. He yelped. She smiled. “No,” she replied, “It’s special. Shuddup.”

“Just drink it,” added Dio as he set your shot glass down, “You’ll like it, you drunk bastard.”

“The fuck is it?” he asked as he scrunched against the bar, squinting at the glittering liquid more out of malice than actual curiosity.

“It’s not piss,” said Zikana.

“Like I trust you, Woman,” he grumbled.

You clicked your tongue, smacking your hand against his bicep while taking the seat next to him. “Be nice.”

“Wha--I’m bein’ nice! ‘s technically ‘er name. Technically a nickname.”

“‘Technically’ I know your,” the woman in question stabbed a finger against Sweeney’s temple, “Name, fairy boy, so eat your ‘technically’ and take the shot and then we’ll tell you what it is.”

“‘Technically’,” Sweeney mocked as he picked up the glass with two fingers, “Fuck you and what you think y’know.” He threw it back without another complaint.

You watched him for a moment – waited for the shudder of disgust that never came – then turned your eyes to your own shot. “I have to take it, too, before you’ll tell me what it is, huh?” you asked.

Cassandra nodded.

Dio hummed, “It’s tradition for friends leaving Maenad.”

You picked up the shot.

(“It was the fruit of the gods, their ambrosia, and nectar was the pressed sap of its juices.”)

You licked your lips and threw your head back. The golden drink slithered over your tongue and down your throat, coating everything it touched in a warm, dull glow. You stacked your shot glass into Sweeney’s, half listening as he berated the trio into telling him what he drank, then swearing as Dio laughed.

Cassandra squeezed your shoulders. You jumped – you hadn’t been expecting her, hadn’t even noticed that she’d wandered over. She pressed her cheek against your temple, and her breath smelled far too sweet as she said, “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’ll be alright,” you replied. You squeezed her hand in return.

She hummed. “I know.”

Doubt didn’t have any room to creep into your body.

Sweeney stood, grumbling, leaning against the corner of the bar as you stood as well and turned to give Cassandra a proper hug. Zikana stole you away first, then Dio, who lingered and pressed a kiss against your hair. Finally, the red hair prophetess wrapped her arms around your shoulders and squeezed as tight as she could. You returned the hug in kind.

As you pulled free from Cassandra’s embrace, you spotted Sweeney. He stared at the crowd, twisting the ring around his thumb from side to side, not really eyeing anyone in particular. His eyes were glassy – or foggy – or both, it was hard to tell in the dim, smoky light. But, even though he wasn’t look at you, you could pinpoint the stare, you could see the reflection of a war he craved rolling across the grassy knolls of his eyes, and you wondered if he’d join the fray across the room to make up for abandoning another.

You called his name.

His head turned a fraction, then another, until he had to pull his eyes away lest he strain something. They spun with the reflection of a madness you’d witnessed days before, dull and distant and a mockery of the real thing, but another kind stirred beneath it, as though awakened by the proximity of the familiar.

You offered him your free hand while your other adjusted the strap of your bag. “Ready to go?”

He eagerly took it and spun you towards the door.

You turned and waved to the trio of deities that you were leaving behind, their faces growing muddied by the lack of light and the perpetual overhang of smoke. The madness of Maenad gradually fell away with each step towards the door, and your thoughts straightened out the way they do you’re Awake and Aware of what you had to do, like they’d been splashed with water so cold it burned.

You’d almost forgotten your new information, almost left it behind in the guest room above the chaos.

Did he know everything you’d discovered? He knew of his curse, knew of being a king, knew of being a bird, but was that it, or was he just not telling you everything? Would he be upset that you didn’t say anything? Or that you’d gone and looked it up yourself? What parts were real, and which had been distorted with time?

You were embroiled in those thoughts all the way from Maenad to the bus station, led along by Sweeney’s tight grip on your hand and the automatic shuffling of your feet. You didn’t even register that you’d boarded until you tried to sit down with your backpack still on.

Your leprechaun grunted and grabbed the top handle of it, tugging it off your back as you blinked away the thoughts that had clouded your mind.

“You good?” he asked once he shoved it by your feet and sat down.

You sank back into the seat, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Yeah,” you mumbled, “Sorry, just thinking.”

“Terrible habit,” he replied. He tucked a cigarette behind his ear. “’s later than I thought it was,” he said, stretching out his legs, “We ain’t gonna get there ‘til ‘bout midnight,” he sniffed, “Maybe one or so.”

“Oh.” You frowned. “Oh.” You dug around in your bag for your phone just to confirm the time, then sat up. “How long did we sleep?”

“Fuckin’ forever, apparently,” Sweeney said with a small grin, “And we didn’t even do anything fun.”

You rammed your knee against his, sticking your tongue out at him as an embarrassed heat flooded your face.

He merely arched an eyebrow and growled out a low and threatening, “Careful, luv.”

“Or what,” you challenged, throwing your legs over his knees and almost hitting someone passing his seat. Your face grew hotter, and you sat up, muttering an apology to their back.

Sweeney’s breath puffed against your ear as he whispered, “Or I’ll make it mine.”

You slumped back against the wall, eyes wide, mouth agape, watching as the smug bastard of a man preened under your stunned gaze. You snapped your mouth shut and stared out the window instead.

The bus pulled away from Atlanta. Daylight melted away into twilight which gave way to starlight and a slivered moon.

You stared at the stars above your head as the bus raced down the interstate. You wondered which of the stories were true – if they all were, given that so many people believed in their myths. Where did Medusa hide away at? Where did Cassiopeia and Andromeda call home? At what depths was Cetus hiding, if he hid away in the oceans at all? Where did all those stars call home?

(If you’re made of all of those stars, where do you call home?)

You turned your head enough to look away from the sky and at the man next to you. He was sprawled out in the aisle seat, one leg stretched out to frame the seat in front of him, while the other was shoved up into your space. Your own legs were thrown over his knee, and he gripped them with one hand while the other was tucked under his elbow. His eyes were closed, and if you hadn’t known better, you would’ve thought he was asleep.

However, the thumb rubbing circles against your leg told you otherwise.

Did he feel your eyes on him? Did he feel them wander over the unkempt stubble on his jaw, linger on the patch of skin he’d rubbed raw with the chain of his necklace, or trail over the almost permanent dip in his growing undercut that the cigarettes behind his ear caused? His jaw flexed and he drew in a slow, deep breath as he relaxed further into the seat. He squeezed your knee.

“What?” he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion and frayed nerves.

You adjusted yourself in your seat until your back was against the wall.

“Thinkin’,” you sighed.

He snorted. The corner of his mouth quirked up as his head lolled towards you. The gold in his eyes caught the passing street lights as the bus careened past an exit. “Toldja tha’s dangerous,” he murmured.

You kicked the toe of your shoe against his thigh. He hissed, drawing his leg up against the empty seat in front of him. It closed the space of the two seats away from the rest of the bus. He dropped his free hand across your lap, holding his empty palm up for you to take.

You traced your finger over the deep lines of his palm, using your other hand to straighten out his fingers. Part of you wondered what they meant – which line was the life line, which the love line – and you wondered what kind of story they told to a palm reader.

(You didn’t know, though – you had never read a palm reading book before.)

The air between you two grew thicker and thicker the longer you traced one particular line up and down the center of his palm.

“We haven’t really talked since the House,” you whispered, unsure if you should speak any louder, afraid that your voice would shatter some kind of barrier that had grown around you and Sweeney.

His pulse lurched beneath your fingers. He released your leg and scratched the back of his neck, then followed the chain down to your misshapen charm. The links dug into the pink patch of skin you’d been staring at before.

“Talk about what?” he finally replied, voice just as quiet.

Your face warmed and you shrugged. How could you even start that conversation – ask him flat out, “Do you love me?” like some kind of courageous idiot? Or beat around the bush? Or? What?

You scratched your nail against the cuff of his jacket, staring at the path you’d traced over his hand. He spread his fingers, palm flat and open and waiting for you to move first. You delicately – hesitantly – placed your hand flat against his, pushing your fingers into the open spaces he provided. His closed over yours, caging you in a fragile grip that you could shatter at any time. Sweeney brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss so gentle against your knuckles that you thought you’d imagined it.

You squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back and let your entangled fingers return to your lap.

“Nothing,” you whispered. You plopped your entwined hands into your open palm and smiled, leaning your head against the headrest. “What else do the fae do? Besides the Revelry?”

“Oh, now you’re curious, are ya?” he sighed.

“I’ve been curious, but we haven’t really had time to talk about it, have we?” you shot back.

He snorted. His thumb rubbed circles against your hand. “Which parts do ya wanna know?” he groaned. Sweeney sat further up in the seat, dropping his feet to the ground.

“All of it,” you said.

“Now that’s just bein’ greedy,” he teased.

You scrunched your nose and shoved your foot into his thigh again. “Well, fine,” you huffed, “The names.”

Sure, your quick read at least told you that names have power.

“Is that true?” you added.

Sweeney arched an eyebrow. “Which part?” he asked.

“That names have power.” He continued to stare at you. You dropped your gaze. “I’ve been thinking about a different name, you know? Mine just...” You licked your lips, “Mine doesn’t feel right anymore.”

He whistled. “Dunno how powerful chosen names are,” he murmured, “Names are generally given by another, the ones that give you life and such, ya know?” You nodded. “There’s been a few that picked their names, though. I ‘member a few. Scared the shit outta me.” Then, he shook your hand gently, drawing your eyes back up to his face. “That buggin’ you?” he whispered, “That the whole reason for the starin’?”

You gave him a halfhearted shrug. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t all that right either. You whispered your name, then sighed. “It? It belongs to someone else, you know? Someone that should still be in Cairo, still working a boring job, still sitting on the couch, just a few bad days from being...” You trailed off. He squeezed your hand.

“Do you want a name?” he asked, “I could give ya one, if you want. Been given thousands.”

You shook your head. “I think it’s something I need to figure out myself,” you replied. He tilted his head a little, shrugged a little more, then settled back in the seat as though the matter was over. It might have been, for him, but the subject still stuck in your mind.

Given that Sweeney’s real name was Sweeney – or, at the very least, one of his real names was Sweeney – was it the reason why Wednesday had any kind of power over him?

Was Wednesday one of the few that Sweeney knew who named himself?

If Wednesday’s name was Wednesday – even if he gave himself that name to hide the fact that he was Odin, the All Father, it was still name that he replied to, and did knowing it give everyone else power as well?

Was that where the power of belief came from? A name?

You thought of all of the nicknames given out of some level of devotion and felt each of them settle in your chest, etch themselves across your ribs like gifts or curses or old runes to be tossed across the forest floor sometime in the far future.

Names were power, but did it not depend on the named to decide what kind of power they held?

“What else do ya wanna know?” Sweeney asked when the silence of your mind grew too heavy, as though he knew that your racing thoughts had passed for the moment.

You tipped your head against the headrest. “Do fairies have tails?”

“The fuck kinda question is that?” he grunted.

You smiled. “A legitimate one.” He leveled you with a glare. You shrugged one shoulder. “It’s also one from a show, but I had to ask.”

“Be reasonable, luv.”

You snorted. “Yeah, okay.”

The bus rolled into Nashville a few hours later, after gentle jabs and quiet laughter. When you had gathered your bags, Sweeney stretched and swore a little, looking around. “I’ll meetcha there,” he said as his eyes lingered on a few people wandering past.

Your heart dropped. “Anything I can help with?” you offered as you walked.

He blinked away the distraction in his gaze. “’s nothin’ serious,” he said with the shrug of one shoulder, “Gotta call the Egyptians, see what kinda state the Dead Wife is in.”

The rock rolled in your stomach but felt a little lighter. “Oh.” You adjusted the straps of your bag. “I can wait?” you offered.

He threaded his fingers through your hair and tugged your head close, pressing his mouth against the crown of your skull. “I’ll meetcha there,” he insisted.

Then he was gone, his massive form disappearing into the crowd of the bus station.

You swallowed the nausea building up in your throat and headed for the doors.

(As you passed through the crowd, you could have sworn you heard someone talking – someone familiar, or someone new; someone whispering, “Wonder where he’s off to?” and “You know what he’s gonna do.” and “Guess you’re not good enough to test those waters.”; someone whose voice had you walking faster and faster and shoving the doors of the bus station open.)

You took a deep breath sharp, midnight air, setting your hands as your vision swam. Why were you getting so worked up? He’d told you what he was doing, it wasn’t anything—why were you--

Hands snagged the back of your shirt, tugging you backwards and off your feet. You stumbled, swore, threw your arms out to grab at the ladder you’d almost walked under. “Careful!” came a hoarse voice behind you, “Walking under ladders brings a bit of bad luck, you know.”

You turned around, bracing against the wall, blinking at the old woman who preened and smoothed her shirt down, who was the only person near you. “Did you--”

“Save you from terrible bad luck? Of course,” she interrupted, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I--”

“Who knows what could’ve happened if you’d walked under it,” she muttered. Her bony hands snaked out and clasped yours in an iron grip, yanking you closer to her. Flipping your hands over, she proceeded to rub her palm over the backs of them, mumbling something so fast and quiet that you couldn’t catch it all.

One large hand interrupted the motion, smacking the paper-skinned woman with a click of his tongue and a harsh, “Fuck off.”

“Sweeney!” you whispered in shock, “What are you doing?! You don’t hit old people!”

“Fuck I don’t,” he huffed, “’specially this one.”

You smacked his back, ready to argue, when the old woman once against cut you off with a cheerful, “Sweeney!” followed by, “Do you have a coin for me?”

“None a them are lucky anymore, sweetheart,” he replied. From the way the woman’s face suddenly fell, you honestly thought he’d told her that her dog was dead. You felt bad. You didn’t even know this woman!

(“Very superstitious. Writings on the wall. Very superstitious. Ladders ‘bout to fall.”)

“No,” you whispered to yourself.

The woman shuffled closer to Sweeney, patting his chest with a deep scowl. “Now what did you do, hm? How’d you go and lose your luck like that, huh? You were doing so good, too.”

You might have missed the signs of Superstition at first, but you didn’t miss the way Sweeney’s eyes cut to you, or the smile that tugged up the corner of his lips. “Gettin’ better,” he answered with a shrug. “’s late, sweetheart, and cold. What’re you doin’ out here alone?”

Superstition smacked her lips, waving a hand through the air. “Don’t you treat me like some old woman--”

“Hard not to,” Sweeney cut in.

“--I’m not as old as I look, you know.”

“But ye’re old, granny, and this kinda time and place and weather ain’t good for ya,” he sighed. His hand fluttered behind her shoulders as he turned her away from you. “Where ya livin’ now? Might as well take ya home, and you can put us up for the night for our troubles.”

You trailed after them, listening to them chatter all the while, learning that Superstition might not have been as old as Sweeney, she wasn’t all that old. At least, that’s how she made it seem, anyway. She led the way down long sidewalks and through a park, talking Sweeney’s ear off like it was something she always did.

Eventually, she stopped at a corner. “Now, you’ll want to head off thataway,” she said, pointing a bony finger down the street, “I’m only just a few houses down there.”

“Ya sure we can’t walk ya?” Sweeney asked around a cigarette.

Superstition shook her head. “Can’t have ya comin’ in my house anyway with your bad luck, can I?” she asked, “You’ll ruin all my hard work.”

He snorted, then leaned down and pressed a sweet kiss to her delicate cheek. “’til next time, then.”

“Course, dear,” she replied.

Sweeney offered you a hand – which you took – and tugged you across the street. You barely heard the shout of, “Carefully of those three! They attract black cats!”

“That was awfully kind of you,” you pointed out as you walked.

He shrugged and pulled you into his side, draping his arm over your shoulder, still holding your hand, the way he tended to do. “Stition’s one o’ us, despite her claimin’ she ain’t,” he mumbled. He puffed a slow ring of smoke up towards the sky. “And, she make’s a lotta sense if you take the time ta listen.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re a leprechaun now,” you pointed out.

He slowed at a crosswalk. “Now?” he mumbled. Your heart thudded in your chest. He squeezed your hand. “She reminds me a lot o’ Essie’s gran, too,” he added. Lights from a bar not far cast a golden glow over his face. He gulped. “’ey, you go ahead, yeah? I’ll uh,” he cleared his throat, “I’ll meetcha.”

First, you gaped, then stuttered out a, “No,” and finally a, “You’re ditching me?”

“No?” he accused as he tried shaking his hand from your, “Leggo!”

“You’re ditching me!”

“’m not ditchin’ you!”

You dropped his hand to shove a finger towards his face. “What’s going on? Huh? You’ve been fuckin’ weird since Dio’s – first the woman no one will name—”

“Don’t? Fuckin’ talk ‘bout her so loud!”

“—And now with the Morrigan, you won’t even go in to see them with me? They’re right there!” You waved and thrusted your other hand towards the corner bar. “So, spill, or—”

“Or what, luv, ya gonna drag me inside all by ya lonesome, huh?” he shot back. The threat – bluff? – died stuttering on your lips. You crossed your arms, huffing a little, glaring up at him. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered.

“I’ll scream,” you said after a moment, “Scream bloody murder, bet a few goddesses would come runnin’ if they heard that!”

His hands clamped around your head so fast you almost did scream, one hand over your mouth, the other around the back of your head. He walked you backwards until your body bounced against a brick wall in the alley behind you. “First of all,” he hissed, his head bowing closer to yours, “That ain’t funny.” His breath puffed against your ear. Your wide eyes stared at him, so close that you could count the flecks in his eyes if you wanted, even in the dark. “Second,” he continued, “Second.” He trailed off, throat bobbing with a gulp you shouldn’t have heard.

Was your face as hot as you thought it was? With how close he was? Could he feel it through his fingers and across his palm? You wished you knew what he was thinking – why hadn’t he moved? Why hadn’t you?

(Sweeney’s thoughts were nonexistent as he stared at you, fighting the urge to move his hand and kiss you, or pin you to the wall in a whole different manner, or something, anything else than keep you trapped between his hands for so fucking long that it was turning awkward.)

He cleared his throat, his hand slipping from your mouth almost hesitantly. “Second,” he said, “Ya don’t visit relatives without somethin’, ‘specially these kind.”

“Relatives?” you blurted. His hand hovered back over your mouth as he suddenly shushed you. “It works like that? Pantheon related deities – leprechauns,” you added with a slight tilt to your lips. Sweeney didn’t seem to appreciate it, though, “Thinking of each other like family.”

“Not everyone, so knock that smug shit off, luv,” he huffed, “But, uh, me and the Morrigan, we have history. It’s.” He pulled his hand from the back of your head to wave them around between you both, stepping back. “Complicated. And, to be honest, I don’t feel like havin’ my arse dragged down the road ‘n back because they’re miffed over one thing or another.”

You crossed your arms. “What did you do?”

“Why? Do I always hafta have done somethin’?” he grumbled. You didn’t answer, only watched his face. He scrunched his nose. “Shuddup.”

You smiled, glancing down to pick at the cuffs of your sleeves. Then, without thinking, you whispered, “You’ll come back, right?”

There was a quiet that followed your question. Your eyes returned to his face. It was blank – no, it was...?

Sweeney stepped back, lighting a cigarette he pulled from his coat pocket, not saying anything at all.

You frowned. “Sweeney?”

“Yeah,” came his clipped response, “I’ll be back.” Then, he took another step back and was out of the alley, leaving behind the lingering scent of cloves and tobacco.

You tugged on your sleeves. Where did that question come from? You’d never doubted him before.

(Birds and kings have run from war before.)

You scratched your neck and left the alley, wandering up the block to your destination.

Raven, Wrath, & Rue looked like a hipster’s paradise on the outside: exposed brick and piping, Edison bulbs strung from its rickety wrought iron sign to the two streetlamps on the sidewalk, and a lovely chalkboard sign that read, 'Irish Coffee: 2 for 1, Half & Half for Free'. You pushed open its old wood and glass door and walked inside, where its interior reminded you of a prohibition pub. At least the insides match the outsides, you thought.

“We don’t serve leprechauns,” someone drawled from the bar. You scratched your nose as you turned towards the voice, wondering who they could be talking to, when you found the bartender staring at you. “Yeah, you,” she said, blowing a neon blue bubble with her gum and letting it pop.

“Oh.” You shook the sleeve down your wrist and walked over. “I’m not a leprechaun.”

“You sure?” she asked. You took a seat in front of her while adjusting the straps of your backpack. “You smell like one.”

You clamped your mouth shut with a click. “Hm.” You sniffed your collar. She wasn’t wrong. “I don’t remember the last time I had a shower.” You tilted your head. “No, wait, I do.” You tugged the cuff of a sleeve between your fingers. “Atlanta.” It hadn’t been that long ago, had it? Five-ish hours on a bus? But when did you shower before that?

“Georgia?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. You nodded. “Oh, fuck, please, get off my stool and come with me.”

You grabbed the shirt with both hands as you stood, covering your nose with it. “Do I really smell that bad?” you muttered.

The woman rounded the bar and grabbed your wrist, forcing you to follow her. You noticed a long earring dangling from her right ear, where the buzz cut portion of her hair gave way to beautiful geometric tattoos. Chunks of her hair were plaited and fell over her shoulders. “Yeah, you do,” she commented. She pulled you through the smokey haze, grumbling, “Walkin’ all the way here, thinkin’ you don’t stink, what are you on?”

As you followed her, you spotted another woman on a small stage in the corner. She cupped the old gunmetal microphone as she crooned I Put a Spell on You to an enraptured crowd. You would’ve been equally dazed, drawn in by her brilliant green eyes if you hadn’t been tugged along by the bartender. “I didn’t walk,” you mumbled, “I took a bus.”

“Yeah?” she frowned as she looked back, “You stink. What, were you traveling with one?”

“Kind of,” you murmured. The thoughts of Sweeney, of his story, of the Book in your Library, swirled through your head.

The woman pulled you through the backroom and up a set of stairs – would you ever stop being led upstairs to some other warm places that weren’t yours? She stopped in front of a door while jangling keys you couldn’t see. It clicked open.

Their apartment – which was tucked away above Raven, Wrath, & Rue, vastly different from Dio’s – was cozy and warm and exactly what you thought an apartment of three hipster women would look like: exposed brick, dark stained bookshelves, plants hanging in the windows, glass and dark metal tables, black couches, artistic nudes next to eerie photographs.

The woman who dragged you released you while launching you further into the apartment. “Shower. Relax. Raven’s robe is hanging on the back of the door. Strip where you stand and make yourself comfortable when you’re done.” She waved her hand. “It’s that door right at the end of the hall there. We’ll all be up shortly, okay?”

“O--” The door shut. “--kay.” Not wanting to risk any kind of wrath or physical ruin, you followed her instructions – stripped where you stood, leaving everything next to your backpack on the floor, then padded across the plush rug running down their hall to the bathroom. It matched the living room with exposed pipes and plants hanging in the windows and a dark counter. The shower was a standing one with a beautiful marble tile and an opaque glass door finished in gold. You wondered why other Old Gods didn’t acclimate like these ones did.

Your shower didn’t take long – you might have spent longer smelling all the rich, fancy scents in all of their neatly arranged bottles than you did actually washing up – and when you climbed out you spotted the only robe in the whole bathroom: a long plush burgundy one. You wrapped up and stepped out onto the runner.

As you followed it back towards the living room, you spotted a kitchen that you had missed before, separated from the front room by a wall with a single cut out window. A glass bowl of bright green apples sat on the shelf. You took one, pulling the robe tighter as you padded across the deep grey carpet spanning the living room floor, turning the apple around between your palms. There was a glass case atop the middle bookshelf. The bottom shelf of the case housed a single book that was open to a specific scene in Macbeth. Above it, on the second shelf, were at least a dozen different copies of the play, each one older than the last.

You peered closer at the splayed open book, specifically at the looping text at the bottom of the page.

“What inspirations,” you slowly read. Your eyes darted up the page to read the scene aloud. A smile grew across your lips with every word of, “Double, double toil and trouble—”

“Fire burn and cauldron bubble,” finished three voices behind you.

You screamed and dropped the apple, “What the fuck!”

The only sister you hadn’t seen, whose hair brushed her shoulders in tight coils, smiled as she said, “We thought you heard us come in.”

“No!” you came your appalled gasp, “Obviously.”

The first sister – the one from behind the bar, shrugged. “Told you we’d be up.” You eyed them all. She was the smallest of the three, and still chomped on the bright blue bubblegum as she said, “I’m Rue, the oldest.”

"I'm Raven, the youngest," said the tallest sister, the one with coke-bottle glasses and the burgundy lipstick and head full of perfectly styled curls, “Good to see my robe fits you.”

“Yeah, uh…” You waved at Rue, “She said I could wear it.”

"And I'm Wynn, the middle sister," but in the last one, who was of average height between the two, and had a bob styled in a way you hadn't seen since the late 1990s, who was the one with the brilliant green eyes.

“Not wrath?”  you asked, noting the pattern. You scooped up the apple. It looked okay.

The middle sister, Wynn, bared her teeth in a stark white grin. "Isn't that what wrath does?" she asked, "Win?"

Rue rolled her eyes. “We’re the Weird Sisters,” she said. “The Morrigan, if you will.”

The apple in your hand crunched as you bit into it, staring at each of them. The thoughts bubbled, and bubbled, and toiled through your head, and you sighed, “Like MacBeth.”

“Yes,” replied the youngest sister, “Exactly.”

“Y’all are weird,” you mumbled. Then, after glancing around, added, “Where are my shoes? And my shirt?”

“In the wash,” all three of them replied.

You burrowed further into the borrowed robe and whispered, “Weird indeed.” Clearing your throat, you took another bite from the apple and fell onto the couch. It was far softer than you thought it would be, and you groaned. “Um,” you cleared your throat again, “My friend is on his way, too? But he needed to stop by and get something.”

“The leprechaun,” asked Raven, “Rue told us you traveled with one.”

“When’s the last time y’all ever met a fuckin’ leprechaun?” asked Wynn. She sniffed and made her way to the kitchen. “Last one I remember was that short kid, at the party?”

“Doyle?” asked Rue.

“Wasn’t there another one?” asked Raven.

“Another Doyle?” snorted Wynn.

“Another leprechaun,” replied Rue, “Somewhere more East, though.”

“My leprechaun isn’t East, he was Central,” you mumbled into your apple, blinking away a dizziness that crept into your eyes, “Keeping up with you three is hard.”

“Hive mind,” they replied. Then, they met each other’s gaze, and all turned to you.

Three solid knocks saved you from the inquiry in their eyes. Wynn launched herself across the room. Rue caught her around the chest, almost tackling the young woman to the ground. Raven took a deep breath and stepped up to the door, pulling it open as far as she could.

A bottle of Southern Comfort hung right next to a 2 liter of Coke, both of them in Sweeney’s right hand, while a bottle of Jameson hung from the left. The snub of a hand rolled cigarette clung to his lips. His eyes darted between the women. Sweat beaded along his hairline the longer the silence went on.

“That’s for me, right?” cut in Wynn, jabbing a finger at the lonely bottle of whiskey in Sweeney’s left hand, “Because I know you wouldn’t dare bring me your shitty fruity swill to make up for the bullshit you pulled the last time we saw you.”

“Course it is, ‘m not a fuckin’ idiot,” he replied.

Raven took the bottle of Coke with a smile. “Thank you,” she sang.

Rue released Wynn, who snagged the Jameson with a whoop, while she gently plucked the SoCo with a smile. “I’ll share.”

“You better,” replied Sweeney. He stepped inside and shut the door. Then, his eyes cut to you. He stared for a moment, lighting a cigarette that dangled between his lips, then wandered over and slapped his palm against the sole of your bare foot. “m here.”

You yelped and drew your feet back. “I see that,” you grumbled. He collapsed next to you. “I’m sorry,” you said, “For before.”

He merely shrugged. It must’ve stung worse than you thought.

“I'm sorry,” you offered.

“Thanks,” he accepted after a moment.

You watched him watch the Weird Sister pour themselves a drink. He was a little far, a little fuzzy. You traced the obvious line of his outgrown undercut and could imagine it was the indention one would gain from wearing a crown. So much made sense once you had the information. Even though you hadn’t seen where the Sisters had taken your stuff, you swore to every god and goddess you’d met that you could pinpoint its location just by weight of those papers on your conscious.

You had to tell him. Maybe not that night, but you had to, before you left Nashville, before you got to Cairo, he had to know what you found.

Sweeney started to thaw after a few drinks, leaning against your shoulder but not moving to be more comfortable. He opted for the couch instead of sharing a bed with you, like he’d been doing the whole time, and even the coin against your chest felt a little chilly when you finally padded off to sleep a few hours later.

You slept fitfully. You were cold.

It was the midday sun that woke you. You didn’t mind – even if the rest wasn’t great, it was rest, and that was enough for you. As you sat up, you spotted your bag on the nightstand, along with the clothes you’d been wearing when you first arrived. They were clean. You pulled them on and sat on the edge of the bed to tie your shoes, staring absently at the embroidered designs of your stolen long sleeve shirt. It felt heavy.

A knock on your door startled you, drawing your eyes up from your shoes and cuffs to your leprechaun leaning on the frame. He sipped from a short glass that he shouldn’t have so early in the day, watching you over the rim.

“Look like shit,” he grunted as he pushed away from the door. He kicked it shut as he stepped into the room.

You huffed, “Rude,” then added, “So do you.”

Sweeney slid the glass across the nightstand, not paying attention to where it stopped, and collapsed on the bed behind you, pulling you down with an arm around your waist. You made some kind of sound – maybe frustrated, maybe angered, you didn’t know – but you didn’t move.

“Not healthy to sleep so much,” you pointed out. He just squeezed you closer, popping something in your back, but didn’t say anything to argue with you. He stank of alcohol. You wondered how long he’d been drinking. Your fingers traced under the suspenders across his chest and gave them a squeeze in return. “Sweeney,” you whispered.

“Hm?”

The words were just as heavy as the shirt around your shoulders.

“Nevermind. I’ll tell you later,” you murmured. He shifted. “I’m hungry.”

“Sisters’re makin’ lunch,” he grumbled.

You rolled backwards, out of his arms, and sat on the edge of the bed again. Glancing back, you asked if he wanted anything. He merely shrugged. You stood and shuffled out, pulling the door closed behind you.

Wynn was the first one to notice you, and the first to blurt, “What the fuck did you mean by ‘your leprechaun’?”

“Wynn,” chided Raven.

Rue shrugged. “Listen, it’s a valid question.”

Wynn’s poisonous eyes bore into yours as she stalked over, hands grabbing your arms and guiding you to the couch. “Are you two a thing?” she asked. You opened your mouth. “You fuck yet? You know, I heard a rumor on the ‘web that you were fond of his proportions.”

You swung an arm up to dislodge her grip and wave away the accusations. “Mr. Nancy,” you scoffed, “Needs to not spread rumors.”

“Is it true?” piped up Rue.

“It’s a rumor,” you shot back.

“I came out here last night for a drink,” Raven said, “Found him muttering to himself on the couch.” She tilted her head as she put together sandwiches in an assembly line. “What’d you say to him? He was upset.”

“Upset is an understatement,” replied Rue, “Never seen such a big man on the verge of tears before.”

That stung far worse than the cold shoulder had.

Wynn jumped up to snag a plate from the counter and made a beeline back to the couch, wiggling into a spot in the corner. You shuffled up when Raven waved you over. She passed a plate to Rue, then looked up and slid two over to you. “Do you love him?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” The word slipped free on its own, but you couldn’t say it was a lie, or it wasn’t entirely true, or some string of words that would lessen the sudden ache of butterflies in your stomach. You’d known you’d loved him for weeks. It was just the first time you’d said it out loud.

“Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

You changed the topic, “He’s pissed because I said something I didn’t think would hurt.”

“Then apologize,” she replied. Her eyes left your face and she stood straighter. “Day drinking is frowned upon.”

“Fuck off,” Sweeney grunted behind you. His hand brushed the middle of your back – soft and intimate, his fingertips pressing into your skin. He grabbed a plate and turned away and the pressure was gone.

“Ey!” Rue said, following a sharp whistle that rang through the apartment, “Don’t go disappearing into that room.” She slapped her open palm on the couch. “Sit. Spin us a yarn. It’s been forever.”

Sweeney groaned and turned back to the couch, his lips sealed to his glass as he drained it. Then, he looked at you. “I told ya it was bad when it’s been a while,” he grumbled. He flopped onto the plush couch between Rue and Wynn. Raven patted your shoulder and motioned for a chair that faced the couch. She took up another across the coffee table from you.

You slowly ate as the four of them talked, sometimes in English, other times in Gaeilge, especially when Rue found herself forgetting what a word was in English. The Weird Sisters explained how they’d been carried over on some scrap of belief between the pages of a book centuries ago, and that they’d been back to Europe once or twice before, but never since the Bard. Sweeney shared the story of how he’d followed a fickle girl whose grandmother refused to let the stories die, and who probably danced somewhere in the Land of the Young like she’d wanted.

“I thought—” You cut yourself off with the memory of a different Sweeney loitering beyond a cemetery gate lingering behind your eyes. Eight eyes alighted on your face. You slumped back in your seat. “I thought to get to the fae…realm? You had to be alive.”

Wynn snorted a bit. Raven stood, collecting the plates that had been left on the coffee table some hours ago, and dismissed herself to the kitchen.

Rue sighed with a pleasant smile. “Tir na nÓg is a paradise for the old gods,” she explained.

Your mind scrambled for a reference, for a paragraph or a sentence, for anything about the place but it came up blank and it gave you a headache. So, it searched for something else. “Like Olympus?” you tried.

Sweeney gave a one shouldered shrug. “’cept the Land is a fuckin’ graveyard,” he grunted around the rim of his glass.

Wynn slugged his shoulder. “Hey! Have some respect!”

“Am I wrong!?” he argued, “Ya go, ya don’t come back, ‘specially if y’know what’s good fer ya!” Then, he slumped into the couch even more and grumbled. “’sides, the ruler’s a prick.”

“Why is that?” you hesitated to ask.

Sweeney’s eyes found yours. It took him a moment to answer, took him a moment to swallow the mouthful of SoCo he’d taken before you spoke, and he coughed once he finally swallowed. “He’s a dick.”

“You think all old men are dicks,” you murmured.

“An’ I have a history of bein’ right!” he exclaimed a little too loudly.

“And, besides, that wasn’t the ‘why’ I was asking,” you sighed, “Why shouldn’t people come back from there?”

Raven called Rue’s name and told her that the bar should be open, that it was her turn to man the front again. Rue heaved a sigh and stood, squeezing your shoulder as she passed, then said, “Time passes differently there.” She left before you could ask her to clarify.

Wynn checked her watch and scrambled to her feet. “I’m gonna go down and sing a few tunes before the karaoke crowd shows up to hog the mic all night,” she declared. She gave you a wave, flipped Sweeney off for good measure, and disappeared out the door.

You took her spot next to your leprechaun. When you looked up, ready to ask Raven a question, you noticed she’d made herself scarce.

The weight returned to your shoulders. Sweeney watched you.

“What were y’gonna say earlier?” he finally asked.

You shuffled through every kind of starter you could think of, every way that you could start to explain what you’d found and read, but nothing seemed worthy. You picked at the embroidery on your shirt and heaved a sigh that hurt as it emptied your chest.

“I found your story,” you murmured. He tensed next to you. You knew you should’ve stopped then, but the words kept going, kept falling from your mouth like the worst kind of word vomit: you spun the story of Buile Suibhne from Saint Rónán Finn marking the boundaries of his church, to Suibhne breaking the truce the Saint had set out, to the curse that came to fruition when Suibhne tried to kill the Saint with a spear, to the madness setting in upon the sounds of battle.

Sweeney lurched from the couch.

You squeezed your hands together. “There’s a part of the story that says you regained your sanity before another war plunged you deeper into madness and you fled back to the wilds and wandered under your apparent death.” You swallowed the dry lump in your throat. “Obviously you’re not dead,” you added. You hesitated to look up when no word came from Sweeney.

He was pacing like a caged animal – from the door, to the hall, to the door, to hall – with a glare far darker than you’d seen on his face before.

“Swee—”

He whirled on you. “You had no right,” he snarled, jabbing a finger towards you, “No fuckin’ right!”

“Wha—”

He yanked the door open and stormed from the apartment. You scrambled up, swearing under your breath, and followed him down the stairs to the backroom. “Sweeney!”

Sweeney turned around to snap at you, to shout or scream or rave about how it wasn’t any of your business, that you shouldn’t have gone digging into something he didn’t want to know about, that you shouldn’t have told him, but the words caught in his throat and he froze. The shoulders he’d shoved between only seconds prior had been those of the Weird Sisters. He knew that, deep down – as sure as the sun rose and set, as sure as the tide, as sure as he loved you even after everything you’d admitted to – that it had been the Weird Sisters giving him glares and swearing as he broke through their little meeting before work.

But the faces he looked at when he turned were veiled in black, were all watching him, and were screaming through gut wrenching sobs.

Sweeney could recognize the wail of a banshee in his sleep.

He scuttled back, ramming into a shelf of product and bringing plastic bottles of syrups onto his head. He swore and looked up and scrambled back again when one of the three wailing women had gotten closer to him. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tightening by the second and his heart was going to break his ribs from beating so hard. He lost his footing in a slick of syrup but managed to right himself and scramble from the backroom, shoving his way through the early crowd of the bar, and out into the night.

You gave Wynn’s shoulder a squeeze as you slipped behind her and Raven, who held the shelf steady while Wynn cleaned up the mess. “I’m sorry, I dunno—”

“Go get him,” commanded Rue behind you. She shook her head. “Don’t worry about us. He needs someone.”

“He needs help,” grumbled Wynn.

So you bolted after him, weaving through the confused trail of patrons he’d left behind, and shoved open the bar door. “Hey!” you shouted after Sweeney’s retreating back, slipping down the curb to grab at his jacket. “Fuckin’ stop!” you yelled, “Sweeney!”

He whirled around, arm arching in a familiar back hand. You leaned away from it. He drunkenly stumbled back against the banister. He was panting. “You one o’ them?” he gasped. He shoved his trembling hands through his hair, eyes darting around. “You with them fuckin’ banshees?”

“Banshees?” you asked. You waved back up the stairs as you took a step towards him. “Those are the Weird Sisters. You saw them yesterday,” you reached out a hesitant hand as you stuttered, “You just talked to them about an hour ago before you went outside.” Then again, you thought, goddesses who scream about war and death and decay weren’t too far from wailing women who foretold death. It wasn’t much of a leap. You squeezed his arm.

He jerked away.

“Sweeney,” you whispered. You brushed his cheeks with your fingertips. When he didn’t flinch or move, you threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged him to you, until your forehead and his touched. He was still panting. He gripped your wrists and pressed his fingers tight into your pulse.

His breath tumbled over your face in a cloud of Southern Comfort and Coke as he whispered something. You gently asked him to repeat it. “Why?” he finally choked out.

Your heart stuttered. “Why what?”

His grip on your wrists grew painful. You tugged on them until his fingers loosened, then disappeared altogether. Sweeney’s voice cracked when he asked, “Why’d you hafta make me remember that?”

What was worse? The accusation? Or the way he said it? You couldn’t figure out which it was that stabbed deep into your chest. “What?” you weakly asked, confused. What had you done?

The way he flipped from devastation to rage made the ache in your chest drop to twist your stomach into knots. The words, “Remember what I’d done!” were screamed so loud that the door behind you opened.

“Are you okay?” asked a girl from the door of Raven, Wrath, & Rue. You glanced back – nothing more than a second – to reply that yes, you were fine, and when you turned again, Sweeney was stalking down the road.

“Can you let the Sisters know I need help?” you asked as you started after him.

“I don’t even know your name!” the girl – not a girl, a young woman, you’d been mistaken – shouted after you.

You gave her the first name that came to mind, “Info! Tell them Info needs help!” You twisted on the ball of your foot and jogged after Sweeney. “Would you stop running!” you snapped as you gained on him. He stopped mid-stride. “Your problems aren’t going away just because you run from them!”

“Yer one to talk,” he growled as he whipped around, cigarette crushed between his grinding teeth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s all you do is run from yer fuckin’ problems!”

Well, that hurt. You thought you’d’ve burst into tears if the statement didn’t make you so angry.

“What problems am I running from?” you yelled, “Please, give me an example, because from where I’m standing, I’m right in the middle of them, and barely holding it together! I wish I had the privilege to run from them and forget they exist, but I can’t, because my problems are a part of me, and around me, and everywhere I fucking look!” You cleared your throat to keep the cracking at bay. “How dare you!”

Your voice echoed in the silence. You flinched.

Sweeney’s accusatory whisper of, “How dare I?” was even worse. “I was fine until your shit rolled into my lap. I was fine with the plan, fine with my deal, and then you showed up and fucked it all” His voice grew in louder, and louder, until the sound bounced up the walls of the buildings and into the sky. You thought someone would have looked out their windows, or that someone else would call the cops, but nothing happened.

Big city problem, you supposed.

“How,” your voice was too small, dammit, compared to his. You licked your lips and tried again. “How is that my problem?”

He stepped closer, and his voice didn’t lose any power. “Because ya went and meddled when I fuckin’ told ya not to, an’ brought it all back, an’ now there’s no runnin’ from a curse that’s lookin’ ya dead in the eye while it screams about a death y’don’t think y’ deserve anymore!” It crumbled though – his voice, his resolve, the rod that held his shoulders back and arrogant as he screamed into the night – as the words left his mouth and swirled through the air. His knees gave and he slumped to them, kneeling in the street before you. You stepped closer, and he thumped his forehead against your stomach.

It was hard to decipher his words – they'd broken down with his voice until they were a slur of accented letters and sounds that hardly sounded human.

You hesitantly carded your fingers through his hair.

“I don’t wanna die,” he whispered.

(He wondered why you had to go and make him not want to die anymore.)

“I know,” you whispered back. His hands cupped the back of your thighs and squeezed but didn’t more any higher, didn’t move to encircle your legs completely. It felt more like a desperate need to stay grounded to the earth than to anything else. “Do you wanna go back inside?” you asked.

“No.”

“Okay.” You brushed your thumb behind his ear. “I’ll go inside and get our stuff. Then we’ll go.” He nodded. You had to pry his fingers from your flesh. “Sit on the curb, okay? Out of the road.” He did. You stepped away, hesitantly at first, then turned and jogged back to the bar.

The girl from before still lingered by the door, watching you, whispering a concerned, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you replied. She followed you a few steps as you pushed through the late-night crowd.

“Is your boyfriend?” she added.

You paused.

“Do you want me to call someone?” she continued.

“No,” you finally said. Her brow furrowed. “I’ll be alright, and I appreciate your concern. This is,” you frowned, “It’s not something that can be cured by a night in a cell or the ER. He’s not--”

“I get it,” she cut in. You tried to swallow but found your mouth dry. “The therapist I’m interning with does a lot of emergency counseling.” She patted her tight jeans and pulled out a rumpled business card. “If you need it? Please call her. I know that situations can turn ugly really quick, and it’s often better to ask for help than just let it happen.”

You took the card and thought you’d cry. Holding it up, you thanked her and turned away before you could, booking it up the stairs to the apartment.

Raven waited, holding your bag, a sorrowful expression in her eyes and the corners of her mouth. You silently took it. She squeezed your arm before you could completely pull away.

“Call us,” she said, “Please.” She puckered her lips in a sour way, then added, “We’re worried about it.” The ‘he’s family’ was silent, but so loud between you both.

You nodded. “I’ll call you in Cairo and give you an update, okay?” you murmured.

She let you go with a nod.

You made your way back out of the bar with two other pairs of eyes on you, and the silent blessings from them all in your steps.

Sweeney hadn’t moved from where you left him on the curb. You held out your hand to him. “I’m sure we can get a bus ticket,” you said, voice soft and gentle.

He took your hand and carefully stood.

The last leg of the journey to Cairo was silent. It ate at you, gnawed away at your sternum until you thought your lungs would drop out of your chest. Sweeney stared mindless out of the bus window, chewing on his nail, twisting the coin’s chain around his throat until it bit into the flesh.

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

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[robbiedaymonds]

3x04 madwife analysis (aka freakout)

So when I started watching s3, I decided to only watch Laura’s scenes for many reasons. I didn’t exactly like any Madwife references beyond the first episode and I wasn’t expecting anything big.

But boy was I wrong as fuck!

I realized, before I started writing this, that we’ve gotten a lot of Madwife in s1 and s2, but almost all of it was from Sweeney’s PoV right? His feelings, his yearnings, his puppy-dog eyes. And now, we’re seeing Madwife from Laura’s point of view and the angst is overwhelming.

Let’s begin.

First off, it seems like Laura gave up the coin and went to purgatory/hell to try to find Sweeney right? At least, once she realized in 3x03 what was going on, she changed her tune. She talked to that old lady about Sweeney. She hilariously brushed off any sort of “relationship” between the two of them in a laughable, memeable way. 

And then my friends.....

the old lady says “You were just talking like maybe he’s someone special.”

And what happens? We see Laura, looking mournful and guilty even, and then...AND THEN! 

A MOTHER FUCKING MADWIFE MONTAGE OVER A ROMANTIC/ANGSTY SONG!!

I’m not even joking, I almost died. I was like “Am I really seeing this?! Is this really happening?!” And lord when I rewatched that part and listened to the lyrics, it hurt my god damn soul.

And then, Laura quickly changes her tune and tells the lady that no, he’s just the guy who killed her, but her face says otherwise.

Okay, BREATHE. Take a moment if you need to.

Second off, a small moment. Laura’s humming this tune that we heard in 3x03. Laura figures out the title is “Requiem of Balder”. !!! For those who don’t remember, Baldr is Odin’s son and briefly was mentioned in connection with Sweeney when he was doing his big battle as Lugh near the end of his life where he killed Baldr (or Odin), when he was talking to Mr. Ibis. This is cool because it not only links Laura with Odin and her destiny to kill him, but also Laura and Sweeney in a roundabout way.

Third, let’s just say, the moment I screamed and paused the show: the blood. Laura’s dust on the ground and some guys find Sweeney’s mutilated :( corpse. They take him away and the tomb he was laying on was covered in blood. His blood. One dude stays to clean it up and starts hosing it off which makes the blood start to slide down the sides of the tomb and what happens? The guy steps on the grigri potion that Samedi gave her to give her life.

And my friends, we watch with held breath as MAD SWEENEY’S BLOOD mixes with LAURA’S POTION and starts to glow with golden veins. And wouldn’t you know it, Laura gets yeeted out of purgatory and winds up, naked and alive, lying on the floor where the mixture had...mixed.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!

I know most of the fandom had this idea from s2 onward. Sweeney’s blood was the key to Laura’s potion. But the implications is that Sweeney had LOVE IN HIS VEINS because, remember Samedi said the final potion ingredient was two drops of blood infused with love. *SCREAMS* I can’t even eloquently say how much this destroyed me in a good and bad way. The fact that it meant Sweeney kept up his bargain: he was paramount in making Laura live again. T___T His love (whether it be specifically for her, or just his ability to love in general) was paramount in making her potion work.

The poetry of it is just unparalleled.

Okay so Laura wakes up and asks where Sweeney is (she uses his GOD DAMN NAME and let me tell you I just about ascended to the pearly gates myself) and is told he’s gone. Like...gone gone. The subtle emotions on her face are indescribable. She’s guilty and sad, there is grief and confusion there. She says it’s “her fault” that he’s dead and that she should have been able to bring him back, but couldn’t. She’s so damn sad, you can’t help but feel for her. I don’t know if “her fault” was because she ran him away after they had magic~sex~ with the Lao or because she couldn’t save him...maybe it was both. 

In any case, Laura facing her feelings and dealing with consequences of her actions and decisions is a big step for her. (Also can we celebrate that she’s alive again?! I hope she doesn’t squander this second chance, but I doubt she will. She has a plan and it’s to kill Wednesday so thank god.)

Also, we have Laura picking up Sweeney’s coin, which is, for once, covered in his blood rather than tucked away in her chest. That moment was sort of sweet and understated and I think will have something to do with Doyle finding her, but we’re not here to talk about that. The fact is, she didn’t leave it. She still has Sweeney’s coin, even after she willingly gave it to him.

Lastly, we find Laura eating, sitting in a cemetery. I feel like she’s at home in places of the dead now, even though she’s alive. I love the motif and the implications of what that means. Anyway, the guy brings over a box and in it is Sweeney’s ashes. Laura takes it almost delicately and we get some gorgeously  heartbreaking shots of her hands stroking the sides and we get the line “Somehow all of him fits in here.” RIP MY HEART OUT WHY DON’T YOU. And then, as if I’m not in enough pain, they show another snippet of a flashback with that same ghostly romantic song, a shot of Sweeney sitting in that field. I think that’s important to note...THAT is the moment she thought of. When she was at her lowest and Sweeney told her to suck it up and keep fucking fighting, no matter what.

I think that says a lot in that moment. Now that Laura’s alive, she could easily return to a normal life, but that moment spoke a lot into her future. She’s going to keep on with her mission to kill Wednesday. Sweeney died trying to do the same and since she couldn’t save him, she’s going to kill the god instead.

And of course, there’s the symbolism of Laura being dropped off in the dark near a glowing hill. We know Laura always saw Shadow as a glow in her B&W dead vision right? So she’s standing there, glow in the distance....HUGGING THE BOX TO HER CHEST. She’s hugging Mad Sweeney to her chest, looking a little lost, just one sad girl trying to kill the Allfather, and she’s walking toward the light. OOF. It hurt big time, y’all. I can’t even.

Anyway, I feel like there may be a moment where Laura buries the box and officially says goodbye to Sweeney, but I also can’t help but think of all the emotional connection there is with the simple fact of her holding onto it. She could have dumped it into a river after she left the cemetery, but no she took it with her, her sole possession besides a golden god-coin, a box of ashes.

There’s a lot to unpack, and I haven’t even scratched the surface. I’m still digesting and I need time to process! Feel free to add your thoughts, let me know how y’all are doing. 

[flowercrystals]

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.

[whenimaunicorn]

Well hello thirteen new followers since I posted that Mad Sweeney headcanon!

I produce new things very intermittently and unpredictably. But if you have any thoughts or prompts throw them at me and see if they stick!