#these r LONGGGGG but i hope theyre okay!!!!!! skdjfhsldkfjhg

[exaltcdone]

five times kissed for bertie!!

⇏ five times kissed △ @ubysm / @skhism △ selective!

these exploded and r actually more like oneshot fic-length because brighid is 80% Feelings At All Times and Once She Pops She Cant Stops . Enjoye 

i. / ♡ THE HEART IS HARD TO TRANSLATE.

( It’s springtime. Or is it early summer? Who knows. It’s balmy outside anyway, and world around is brilliantly Technicolour: the sky above is awash with wispy brushstroke clouds, rich gold and peach-pink, and the medicine meadow behind the farm is in full bloom. 

So it’s no surprise that Brighid and Bertie have stolen away from the dinner party there, giggling like two schoolchildren with only the remainder of their bottle of wine and a pint of locally-sourced sorbet in tow.

What kind of sorbet is this, baby? Bertie says after she takes another spoonful. It’s good. )

Isn’t it? ( Brighid reaches down, scrapes some of the ice away from the label with her thumbnail and squints. )

Honeysuckle. ( ….Hm. ) I like it too.

( Their hands overlap on the damp grass beneath them and Brighid scoots closer, without even thinking about it. Bertie leans in and Brighid wants to hold her breath, anticipating ; but her giddy, nervous giggles come back instead, like a swarm of butterflies in her chest.

You want me to kiss you or what? Bertie teases her lightly, and her smile appears. ) Yes. ( Brighid nods. 

Their noses bump and she’s still giggling, but what a wonderful kiss it is, so gentle and dizzyingly sweet. ) I – I love it when you call me baby.

( Is that right, baby?

Brighid cups her jaw and they’re kissing again. It’s a tad clumsier now, but it’s deeper, and now she tastes the wine and the sorbet, faintly. 

She doesn’t want to stop. The world begins to ring. )

ii. / ♡ IT HAS A LANGUAGE OF ITS OWN. 

Hmmph. ( Brighid rolls over in protest and heaves a great grizzly-bear sigh, making strands of her curly hair rise and fall against her forehead. She draws the duvet up under her nose.

 It can’t be time to wake up yet. She’s just too comfortable. Autumn has arrived fully to quaint little Bramble Hill, and frost on the leaves means it’s far too chilly to shed all these blankets. 

The first thing she sees is the sunlight through the blinds above the bed– ugh, so bright, so bright, dreadful, blinding. It burns.

She feels the memory foam sink beside her and then, to her delight, more warmth. 

You’ve got to wake up for real now, Biddy. Bertie’s voice and the pet name get a lazy smile out of her. 

 It’s already eleven-thirty. You’re gonna help with decorations for the library later, remember? Bertie gently squeezes her shoulder, and Brighid grumbles, another weaker, quieter protest-sound. She’s accepted defeat. She won’t tell Bertie no. She’s a goddess, not a monster. Come on. We can make breakfast together. 

So, grudgingly, Brighid sits up and turns to Bertie beside her. There she is. ) 

Mmm-hmm. ( Barely awake, she takes Bertie’s hand in both of hers and brushes it. It may be almost noon, but it’s still too early for language on Brighid’s end ; so a chaste, adoring kiss will have to do instead. ) 

iii. / ♡ IT TALKS IN TONGUES AND QUIET SIGHS.

( Brighid is dreaming.

Only she and Bertie have been given the ability to breathe above the stratosphere and Brighid has her own fluffy cloud, surrounded by the Milky Way above and hazy purple nebulae on all sides, as though she’s inside a snowglobe. There are so many stars.

It’s slow motion now, and she tips her head up. Bertie is falling from a ringed planet over her head, and Brighid reaches out to catch her and bring her into her lap, hugging round her shoulders. A shooting star douses them in glitter as it rushes past, and they share a kiss after they make a wish. 

Is it bad form to wish for more kisses? )

iv. / ♡ I DRINK TOO MUCH COFFEE AND THINK OF YOU OFTEN.

( It takes six steps to cross the room, but Brighid’s long legs means she does it in three. Good thing, too, because if she were walking any longer she’d drop the surprise she’s finished behind her back: a thrifted basket, lined with blue gingham. ) 

Close your eyes. ( She declares excitedly. Bertie’s a little startled and a little amused, but complies anyway. All right, she says, chuckling. ) 

You’ll see. ( Brighid quietly puts the basket on the table. She tiptoes round the corner into the kitchen and fishes out her finished artwork from its hiding place atop the cupboards, being careful not to disturb Turnip cleaning her ears on the farthest end of the countertop. With a quick and careful step she unearths the too-long scarf she’s knit as well, from beneath her jacket on a chair. 

Can I open ‘em yet? Bertie calls to her. ) No’ yet!! ( Brighid says back, over her shoulder. Okay….

 Where did she put the tin of whiskey caramels? She swore they were– ah, right. Hidden in plain sight, on top of her sketchbook next to the landline. Back into the living room for the grand finale: the scarf and tin of caramels go on the bottom, and the framed drawing– ) No peeking! ( –on top. ) 

Now you may open them. ( Brighid would turn over her life savings to watch Bertie’s face light up the way it is every day. Oh, baby. Thank you so much! ) Of course, á mhuirnin dilis. ( What’s the….occasion? ) Nothin’. Just….wan’ed to, I guess. ( You’re so sweet to me, darlin.’ I love you. Bertie raises onto the balls of her feet to kiss Brighid. )

I love you too. 

v. / ♡ IT’S SUCH A WONDERFUL THING TO LOVE.

( Being with Roberta Hastings is the best thing that’s ever happened to Brighid Ó Maoláin. 

Her whole life has been a terrible tempest stretching centuries, full of ostracism and crying fits and trying to be normal, but Roberta, her beloved, has only ever handled her with unflinching patience and steadfast understanding. It means more to her than anything else in the entire world. )

What’re you doin’? ( Brighid asks. Bertie just grins at her ; the grin that makes her forget about how much of an idiot she is for being late everywhere, or all the spelling mistakes in her emails and text messages, or even how how smudged her coloured-pencil artworks get.

True love was a far-off idea she used to dream about fervently, something that had no place in her world of anxiety and despondence outside her reverie, but Roberta actualised it: grocery shopping together, holding her hand whenever they walked somewhere dark, making corn dolls and falling asleep watching Love, American Style– even though they both always insist that it’s awful and corny. True love was just a pipe dream until a tiny immortal with a purposeful jaw and deep-set eyes stole her heart.

Bertie steps closer and Brighid is pinned against the counter, the cool glass of pie containers against her arms.

I can’t wait to marry you.

Me neither. ( Brighid murmurs against Bertie’s mouth before they kiss, and brushes her cheek with her thumb when they pull away, still smiling.

 It’s such a wonderful thing to love. )