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[ghostfacd]

THE KING AND HIS QUEEN, — king george iii

pairing: king george iii x fem!queen!reader

summary: your new life of being queen has been quite a struggle adjusting to. thankfully, you have the perfect king to stand right by your side.

genre: royal!au, fluff, mentions of arranged marriage, reader said to be a princess from france but ethnicity is not specified, plot kind of differs from queen charlotte: a bridgeton story, talk of wanting children

author’s note: the plot is different from that of the netflix series so don’t come at me ! wanted to write for george because his character is very intriguing to me and also bc the actor for young george is so mighty fine 😋😋 enjoy!

“Are you alright?” The king asked you. His face examined yours, locking his eyes onto your frame.

“Yes my king,” you say, staring down at your plate with a forced smile. In all truths, you were not alright. You had just wedded the week before, and the life of a queen was taking much more of a toll on you than you’d expect.

You remembered like it was just yesterday. Well, technically, it was. It was barely a week ago.

“Will Her Royal Highness, Princess of France, take His Majesty, The King as husband, from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part; according to God's holy law?”

“I, Princess of France, in the presence of God make this vow, from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part; according to God's holy law.”

“Very well, you may kiss the bride.”

And just like that, you were proclaimed Queen of Great Britain and Ireland.

“You’re spacing out,” George inquires, face filled with concern. You almost wonder why he cares. The two of you were not inlove. The marriage had been an arranged deal between your father and his since the day you were both born. Your fate had been sealed as soon as you came out your mother’s womb.

“Leave us.” He motions to the guards standing. They obey him like robots, leaving at his command. Now, it was just the two of you alone.

“YN,” for the first time since the two of you met, he had said your first name. No ‘my queen’ but just YN.

“Yes, my king?”

“Please, just George.”

You sigh, finally deciding to look him in the eyes. “Very well. George?”

“You know you can always tell me what is wrong, right?” He looks almost saddened. Or was it pity? You didn’t know him very well—the two of you rarely communicating since the marriage had been finalized.

“Of course my king,”

“George.” He corrects.

“Apologies, it was out of habit.”

He stands up, motioning you to come over to him. With raised eyebrows, you do as he wants, your long gown flowing onto the marble floor beautifully.

“Come with me,” he says, taking your hands into his. “To our chambers.”

You flush up at the feeling of George’s hands holding yours. You hadn’t had a boyfriend before marrying him, your father being very keen on keeping yourself innocent and pure for the King of Great Britain.

When you two arrive at the large tall entrance of the chamber, George waves off the two guards standing in front.

“Marital duties?” One of the dukes asked. “Great job Georgie, knew you had it in ‘ya.”

The King rolls his eyes at this, though he makes sure the duke hadn’t caught it. When you’re both inside the chamber, George finally lets out a breath of relief, situating himself onto the large mattress.

It was even larger than yours back at your palace in France. It was meant for the King and Queen, you and George, to sleep in at night and perform your marital duties.

“Sit, please.” George says, patting the empty space next to him. You sit down awkwardly, not sure where to look.

“Listen, I know it’s hard,” George lifts up your chin with his finger. “Adjusting to your life as my queen. The Queen of Great Britain and Ireland. But I assure you, as long as I live, I will make sure nobody will ever lay their hands on you or our future children, and that I will provide you with my love and support as I do with our country.”

Your eyes softened at his mini speech towards you, and your heart fluttered with joy. You were scared the two of you would end up in a loveless marriage like your Father and Mother had been—only together to provide the next heir of France. The heir ended up being your brother, your parent’s firstborn, King Charles of France. Second in throne was your other brother, Prince Louis, the spare. The only reason your parents had you was because your father had wanted a daughter to spoil, not because they were “inlove”. God no.

“Thank you my king. I appreciate this greatly, you have no idea. The stress of being Queen has taken quite the toll on me, and I was afraid of confiding in you about my worries.”

“You have no reason to be afraid,” George takes your hand, placing a soft kiss on it. “You are my wife, and I am your husband. You should never be afraid to confide in me. We promised that only death can do us part, and that we will love each other in sickness and suffering.”

“You are right my king,” you say, placing a peck on his cheek. For the first time, you were making a move, not him.

The two of you stay in each other’s embrace for the next hour, a comfortable and comforting silence fulfilling you both.

For the first time since you’ve step foot into Britain, you felt safe and loved. Loved by the King himself.

“You mentioned protecting me and our future children?” You tease him as you pull away. He bashfully looks down, letting out a small embarrassed laugh.

“Yes, my queen. The future heir, our lineage.”

“I hope it’s a boy,” you blurt out. You wanted your firstborn to be a boy because you’ve always seen your big brothers as a clear example of well raised princes, and you wanted the same for your future children.

“A boy would be ideal,” George says, pulling you close to him, “but I wouldn’t mind a girl. Spoil her rotten and braid her hair.”

You laugh, nodding along with George’s words. “I suppose a girl wouldn’t be so bad. As long as our future baby will be healthy.”

“Yes.”

The next few hours are spent with you and George mapping out the future, forgetting all your responsibilities for just the moment. George wanted Edward for a boy and Marionette for a girl, Nette for short. He expressed to you how he always dreamed of a normal life, farming and doing astronomy. However, he was grateful for growing up in royalty, never surrounded by poverty.

And just like that, the night you and George connected had flew by and you were expecting your second child in a few weeks time.

“Edward!” You say, giggling at the boy running around your legs. Edward was five, and quite the rowdy one. He took after his father’s handsomeness and had the eyes of George, the same ones that had looked at you with concern 6 years prior on that fateful night.

“Mummy!” Edward shrieks in delight. His eyes brighten when he sees his Father, who picks him up in an instant.

“I hope you’re not giving mummy a hard time,” George says, booping the young prince’s nose. “Are you, Prince Edward of Wales?”

“Course not daddy!” Edward scrambles to be let down on the ground, making George grunt as he sets the boy down. “Just wanted to hang out with mummy, that’s all.”

“Yes, my handsome little prince was doing no harm dear,” you reassure your husband. He rubs your baby bump softly, admiring your beauty.

“Just worried about you and Marionette is all,” he says with a soft smile.

“Me and Nette are fine,” you say, “now Edward, would you like me to tell you the day I became Queen?”

“Yes mummy!” Edward grins excitedly.

George can’t help but admire his little family as you told the story to your son Edward, brushing small strands of his brunette hair out of his face. In a few weeks, little Marionette will be arriving, and he couldn’t wait.

He wouldn’t trade what he had now for anything, not even for the whole wide world.

[wileys-russo]

A halloween fic where Leah and her gf go to a Williamson family halloween party. Gf secretly dresses up as the always serious Lioness captain and everyone finds its hilarious except Leah (maybe she finds it kinda hot lol)…

narcissist II l.williamson

"oh she is going to hate this." laura laughed as you emerged from your room, the younger girl waiting patiently in the living room while you'd put the finishing touches to your halloween costume.

"thats the goal!" you grinned with a wink, giving yourself a once over in the hallway mirror, adjusting your hair a little. "you look so good lau!" you beamed at laura who was dressed up as cowgirl barbie, having somehow convinced kim to go as her counterpart western ken, who agreed to meet you there.

you'd all been invited to a halloween party thrown by leah's cousin holly, which was an annual tradition among the williamson family and their close friends. leah had been out all day having gone over there this morning, promising to help holly set everything up.

you'd gotten out of it given you had picked up a last minute shift this morning and promised a very nervous laura that she could come over and get ready with you.

with most of the girls away on international break the austrian had spent nearly everyday at yours and leahs shared home seeking out the company she missed when her house mates were away.

not that you or leah minded at all, both looking at laura like a younger sister. you'd always fit in well with leahs friends and team mates since the two of you started seeing one another a few years ago, though you'd become exceptionally close to the fellow members of her coveted infamous acl club.

you glanced down as your phone buzzed, alex texting that she was outside in an uber. "scottys here." you informed, grabbing your house keys and lauras hand, the two of you running to the car with a laugh after you'd locked up.

"jesus christ alex!" you jumped in shock as you opened the door and came face to face with the older woman, who grinned at you devilishly, dressed head to toe like a sexy pennywise the clown. "that is a nightmare." laura laughed, climbing into the car alongside you.

"you look gorgeous!" alex pointed toward laura as the driver pulled out from the curb. "you...well, you look bang on mate." alex nodded her approval as you grinned happily. "down to the very last detail." you pulled a very stern face, causing both women to laugh loudly.

you'd opted that out of all the options you had, the best and most top tier costume you could pull off was to dress up as your lovingly strict girlfriend in her natural element.

so you were clad out in her favourite england kit from the euros with williamson splashed across your back, having to roll the top of her shorts twice so they didn't hang down to your knees. you'd even pulled your socks up and stole an old pair of her boots which you had no doubt you'd hear about from the girl in question soon enough.

then there was the thin black headband which sat on your head pulling your fringe out of your face, leahs now having grown out beyond the need to use it but you'd still given her endless amounts of shit while she'd needed it so it seemed a perfect accessory.

the final cherry on top was the one love captains armband wrapped tightly around your bicep, loaned to you by katie before she'd flown off to ireland for national camp. having laughed till her stomach hurt when you'd explained what you needed it for she made you promise to send her lots of photos.

pulling up to hollys house the party was clearly in full swing as there was cars everywhere and people lounging around smoking on her front lawn, every single sort of weird and wonderful costume in sight.

thanking the driver the three of you slipped out and made your way inside, holly spotting you right away as she grinned and hurried over. she hugged alex who dipped with a wink, spotting some of her friends across the room.

laura was next to go, kim waving her over where she sat with amber, jen and a few others in the living room, the sight of the arsenal captain with a cow print tracksuit on making you let out a loud laugh as she winked and playfully rolled her eyes, dipping her hat at you as she stood to embrace laura.

"and you...babe you are a spitting image!" holly grinned after she'd hugged you tightly, holding you away from her at arms length and looking you up and down.

"god the world can barely handle one leah williamson, but two? good luck to us all!" her brother ben appeared beside her, hugging you tightly and spinning you around before darting away to mingle.

"where is she?" you asked, holly taking your hand and dragging you away to make you a drink. "outside with her mum i think, and i need to see her live reaction." holly handed you a drink and again pulled you away with her.

you spotted your girlfriend stood by the fire pit in the middle of the yard, surrounded by a few of her family members you'd met several times before, following holly over as amanda spotted you and the girl gestured for her not to alert leah.

"well hello sexy, is it hot today or is it just you?" you smacked your girlfriend on the bum as she so often greeted you, the older girl spinning around as you did, having been messaging all day how much she missed you.

though once she actually took you in you were unable to read the look on her face, her family members all exploding into a round of applause and whistles as you took a bow.

"leah williamson; england captain, european champion." you held your hand out toward her mum with a blank stare, and a near perfect impression of your girlfriends thick milton keynes accent, sending the older woman into a deeper bout of hysterics as you were showered with compliments.

"you are unbelievable." finally finishing making the rounds hugging her various family members leah was next as you returned in front of her, sending her a beaming smile and a wink.

"like it? think its pretty accurate." you again made fun of your girlfriends tendency to replace her th's with f's as even leah was unable to hold back her smile.

"you might be fucking annoying but i have to say i do love it baby girl, imitation is the best form of flattery." leah smirked, pecking your lips a few times as the two of you hugged tightly.

"you're looking proper fit babe." you grinned, your girlfriend dressed up like a sexy jack sparrow, the bandana and corset combination doing wonders for you. "are you going to speak like that all night?" leah grimanced at the thickly dramatised impression of her accent.

"sure am, welcome to my every day reality my love."

~

"leah where are we going!" you laughed as she dragged you through the house by your hand, both of you a little tipsy you stumbled on your feet as she pushed you into hollys room.

"you look so fucking good tonight babe its driving me crazy." leah breathed out, shutting the door and pressing you up against it, hands gripping your hips.

"are you seriously telling me you're finding me dressed as you a turn on right now?" you laughed quietly, arms wrapping around her shoulders and fiddling with the baby hairs on the nape of her neck as she gave you a toothy grin.

"what can i say baby? you're hot, i'm hot. put them together? i very much like what i see." leah whistled with a smirk making your eyes roll playfully. "such a narcissist." you teased, standing on your tippy toes to connect your lips to hers.

your head spun as her lips ravaged yours, the kiss desperate and messy and passionate, the older girl doing her very best to show you just how much she'd missed you today, and just how much she was enjoying your little get up tonight.

"leah." you released a breathy moan as she took your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging on it as her eyes locked with yours and winked, sucking your lip into her mouth and pressing you even harder into the door as her tongue slipped into your mouth now taking full control of the kiss.

but tonight, tonight you were determined to stay in character.

you pushed back against her taller form, walking her back until her legs hit the bed and she fell, the kiss breaking for a moment before her hands grabbed at you possessively, tagging you to straddle her lap.

"i think you should keep this on when i have you a whining mess underneath me later my girl. you know i love when you wear my name." leahs hands slipped under her jersey which adorned your top half, short nails scratching your abs before she tugged teasingly at the material.

"maybe i'll even let you wear my euros medal if you beg me nicely enough." leah smiled wickedly, hands gently sliding up higher on your torso until you hastily grabbed them and pinned them to her sides.

"mm tempting but not tonight lee baby, tonight i'm the captain." you breathed out against her lips, ducking your head back with a smug smile as she tried to dive back in to kiss you.

though before anything else could happen a fist was pounding at the door. "i swear to god the two of you better be out out of my room and fully clothed in 0.5 seconds or i'll kick this fucking door and your heads in!" holly yelled menacingly, hitting the door again as you and leah shared a grin.

"don't worry love, this isn't over yet-" you paused, leaning back to proudly tap the lionesses badge on your chest.

"the english are never done."

[sunsetkerr]

SKY HIGH | s.kerr

summary: sam hates flying, but she hates it a little less when she gets to sit next to you. [745 words]

pairing: fem!reader x sam kerr

notes: my first piece ever! just a little something to start my blog off <3

SAM WAS A NERVOUS FLYER. there was no doubting that. when you first made the team, you had been warned about her nervous flying habits. she would pace the lounge till no end, her knee would always be bouncing, and take-off she could tear the arm-rests from the bottom of the plane with how tight she held them. 

you were due to make your debut this week against the republic of ireland in the first group stage for the world cup. so you were finally flying out with the team and not with the reserves.

pre-flight, you sat with mary. she and you were around a similar age, both of you being on the younger side of your teammates. you noticed as macca pointed out sam's anxiety that had already began to kick in. she had hated flying ever since she was young, it hadn't changed as she neared 30.

"y/n," kennedy called over to you. you looked over from the tiktok that mary was showing you to speak with alanna. "swap seats with me?" she asked. you raised your eyebrows at her.

hesitating before responding, you ask "why?"

alanna rolled her eyes before sighing. leaning in closer, she spoke in a low voice. "because i'm sat with sammy, and she's a nervous wreck" she told you, "and i am so tired, i just want to sleep."

you looked over at sam who was still bouncing her knee, her nails in between her teeth. it couldn't be that bad, you thought. "sure," you shrugged, "i don't mind."

sam was so out of it, she didn’t even register who she was supposed to sit next to. so when she saw you sitting in the isle, where alanna would’ve sat, she didn’t really focus on anything else but putting her bag up. 

“sat with me, huh?” sam tried to give a smile, act like the impending take-off wasn’t bothering her, but you could see right through her. “aren’t you lucky,” she chuckled. 

“so i’ve heard,” you laughed in response. you put your knees to the side so sam could slide in to the window seat and get comfortable before the take-off, instead she didn’t move. she looked up and down the isle before cracking her knuckles. 

“do you want to sit in the isle or the window?” you asked. you knew sam was scared to fly, so maybe if you took the window seat she wouldn’t be so nervous. 

sam looked taken back by your offer. “are you sure you don’t want to sit in the isle?” she asked.

you shook your head, “no, i don’t care,” you shuffled down into the next seat so you were sat next to the window. “i don’t like isle anyway,” you lied.

as take-off neared, sam was only getting more and more nervous. the captain had announced that we would be taking off and the air hostesses had finished their demonstration and had sat down ready for the plane to move. “you good?” you asked her when he nails were getting chewed again. 

“aw man,” she sighed, “i just hate flying.” she shook her head. “i don’t know what it is. i just get so nervous.” sam admitted.

“do you want to hold my hand?” you asked. sam turned her head quickly to look at you, surprised by what you said. “take-off is the worst part,” you shrugged, “my mum used to hold mine when i was little.”

sam took a moment before nodding. “yes please,” she whispered, a soft laugh following in suit. 

as the plane began to reverse and move onto the runway, sam’s grip continued to tighten. when the plane began to travel down the tarmac, she was practically squeezing your hand red. you didn’t mind, only matching her strength. her knee bounced intensely; eyes closed as her ears popped being in the air. you placed your hand on her knee to comfort her. she opened her eyes to see your hand resting on her tan skin. your touch completely distracted her from her anxieties and soon you were up in the air and sam was feeling much calmer. 

“not so bad, huh?” you rested your head against the back of your seat, turning to face sam. 

“maybe i should sit with you every flight,” she joked.

you laughed along, not bothering to comment how she was still holding your hand; fingers intertwined. you wouldn’t mind sitting next to sam on every flight if was like this. 

[hoe4sports]

I’ll pull you through it

Ruesha Littlejohn x reader

A/N: Mentions of blood.

You got tackled by Katie fucking McCabe for the 3rd time in less than an hour. Did u mention that you were back in Ireland on the national squads practice? At this pace, you werent sure you were gonna make it till the fifa women’s in Australia next month.

You pushed yourself of the ground again, both of your knees ripped up with your torn shorts. You brushed the dirt from your legs and looked up at Katie. “Katie, I swear to god, one more time and I’ll hurt you!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. You and Katie never got along very well. Especially now that there were rumors of her cheating on your bestfriend with Foord.

You stood there staring while trying to calm down. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears and your heart was pounding. Ruesha then pointed to her nose signaling that your nose was bleeding. You wiped your nose. Low and behold, there was blood. That was the final straw. Even thought Katie were stronger than you, you were faster than Katie. You looked at the blood on your hands, and decided that you were done. You lunged after her as she started running at 90% capacity. You held on right behind her running comfortably. Katie was slacking and you were still feeling frisky. You ran around the field 3 times before you decided that you were done chasing, so on the last round you tackled her right in front of the team cooler. You tucked her arms under you legs and opened up the cooler, pouring pure ice at her. She screamed as she tried to get away, but you just sat there shaking your head. “You absolute ass” you muttered as you tool some ice and shoved it into her shorts and her sports bra as you got up.

We had all played for the under 16’s and 18’s together but for some reason you couldnt stand her. Her attitude was horrible, she was a terrible friend and she was even worse to Ruesha. The numbers of times that you jad picked Ruesha up because Katie had caused a fight or gotten black out drunk was outrageous. You had told Ruesha multiple times to leave Katie, but she just couldn’t.

Later that day, the group were split into teams. White and green. As soon as you saw Katie being put on the green team, you knew that meant trouble. You rolled your eyes as you turned to Ruesha. “She’s ruthless” yiu said as you rubbed my nose, still in agony. A few weeks prior, she took out my jaw and dislocated it in a match between Arsenal and Chelsea. And the little fucker didn’t even get a red card. “Any questions?” The coach said as she threw white vests on us. You raised my hand as you eyed Katie “What are the rules like?” I asked and the coaches shot me a dumb look. “The regular rules, Y/N. Anywa-“ and you cut her off. “Okay, so the only way for Katie to get carded is if she physically kills someone on the field?” You asked sarcastically. The coach rolled her eyes and told us to get ready.

You got into position with Ruesha behind you. By the look of Katie’s horns you knew you were in for a hell of a game. The game went on and after you had been tackled 3 times, pushed 5 times and kicked twice in my non existent acl; you decided that you had gotten enough. You pushed yourself off the ground and looked at Ruesha. “Be nice, bbg” she said with a concern in her voice. “Mmm” you said back with the fakest smile you had ever flashed someone. Now, you weren’t really planning on doing anything until Katie pushed Ruesha face down in an attack. As Katie rushed past you with the ball, you rushed after and shoved her straight into the ground, pretending to miss the ball as you kicked her arm and then caught up with the ball as you passed it on. Her team was screaming for a card while she was laying flat on the ground, but the coach looked at you and screamed “figure it out” know that it would cause more problems than do good.

Truth is, you loved Ruesha first. No really, you actually did. When you were teenagers, you had something going before McBastard came and swept her off her feet. It had been a turbulent relationship between them since day one, yet Ruesha pretended that everything was fine. You knew that Ruesha was suffering, and lately things had taken a turn for the worse with Caitlin Foord joining McBastard’s team Arsenal.

You ended winning 7-4 over the green team and as you came home, you were immediately fast asleep. You woke up 4 hours later with everything aching, “fucking McCabe” yoy mumbled to myself as you tried to find your phone so you could orientate yourself. “22.48” you mumbled and decided you were gonna go back to sleep. A second later you realised that you had 82 missed calls from Ruesha. Yes, eightytwo.

You were about to call back when you heard banging on your door. “Fuckn hell” You mumbled as it sounded like someone were about to rip the door of its hinges. “This better be important be cau-“ and then you got cut off by ruesha sobbing in the pouring rain with a soaked bag next to her. You used a few seconds to access just to make sure you weren’t sleeping. “Ruesh, what on earth is going on” yoy said as you dragged her inside, but she just sobbed and clung to you like cligwrap. Here we go again you thought to yourself.

She showed you her soaked phone as she sobbed, revealing pictures of Katie and Caitlin at a party with the arsenals a few weeks prior. You pulled her in for a hug, and for the first time; you actually felt bad for her. “Okay, I’m getting soaked as well. How about you put on something dry and I’ll find something hot to eat yeh?” You suggested as she sniffled and shuffled with her bag to the bathroom leaving a trail of water. “Jesus” you mumbled as you realised that all her clothes was probably soaked, so you grabbed a sweatshirt, socks and shorts from my own closet. “Hey, is there a chance I cou-“ she yelled from the bathroom as you opened the door. “Could borrow some clothes? Yes” you said as you threw it towards her. She thanked you, and you went to the kitchen. You didn’t really have any proper comforting foods, so you chucked a frozen pizza in the oven.

Later that evening, you found ourselves sitting in your bed while eating and looking out at the busy life outside. It was Friday, so there were tons of people in the streets. Mostly drunks but also random people pacing the street in the dark. “You see the man with the fedora? He thinks he is Mexican because his father is 1/8 Mexican.” You said and Ruesha laughed while you pointed him out. “And you see the muscle bro with the tiny dog? His girlfriend brought it but now he is stuck with it.” Ruesha laughed again as you smiled. “My turn! She pointed out a girl standing in the corner on her phone outside of the bar. “That girl is only at the bar for the pictures and then she’s going home” she joked, and you laughed. You always laughed at her jokes, both bad and good jokes. Anything to see her smile. You couldn’t resist yourself as you pointed out a girl with the same blonde hair as yours with the same light blue eyes. “And she, she has liked her bestfriend since they were teens but her bestfriend dosent know and is dating a human version of an asshole” you finished, and Ruesha laughed so hard that she was crying. You mentally slapped yourself as you had hoped that she would’ve gotten the hint. Oh well, patience is key.

“So, I’m tired and you woke me up mid nap. I’m gonna sleep now, you can do whatever you want as long as you don’t rip a hole in my wall or rearrange my living room.” You hoked as you yawned. You laid down and Ruesha followed after.

“Y/N?”

“Mmm”

“Can I share something”

“Mmmm”

“I think it’s over for real this time.”

“You’ll get through it.”

“And what if I don’t”

“Then I’ll pull you through it.”

You grabbed her hand, and you drifted off to sleep.

[stxuxrniolochris]

fake dating p2 ~ chris sturniolo

p1 p3 p4

slow burn ( i think ), your both seniors(18), also i live in Ireland so idk how American like years ik school works so just go with it, use of y/n, half based on to all the boys I’ve loved before but not really, highschool!chris

Summary ~~you both need to get peoples attention but you might just end up catching eachothers~~

This chapter explains the backgrounds of the characters more but in the next it will focus more on Chris and y/n 🫶🏼

~~

Me and Chris sat down at our own table without our friends. It was weird but since me and Chris were close it wasn’t awkward. “ So there’s a party at James’ tonight..” he starts. “Chris you know I don’t do parties.” I said sternly so he knew I wasn’t joking. “Come on y/n, Amelia went to all the parties with me and she’ll be there so you have to come so she sees you with me.” I roll my eyes. “Fine but we’re leaving when I say”. He nods quickly. “Deal” he said while shaking my hand, which causing me to shake my head and laugh. Until I catch Amelia’s eye across the cafeteria, glaring at me and Chris, which makes me stop laughing quick.

Chris pov

The bell rings indicating it’s time for class so y/n stands up and gets ready. Even though she’s my bestfriend, i can’t deny she’s really pretty. I used to like her back in freshman year, but I realised she was just feeling platonic towards me when she used to come to me with boy problems and talk about her dates. I got jealous of when she talked about her dates so I started going on them myslelf. That’s when I met Amelia and I ended up really liking her and my feelings for y/n drifted but I never stopped thinking she was beautiful. Matt and nick think I still like her, and that’s why I’m doing this whole fake dating thing, but I just want Amelia back. I think. No. I know.

“Chris are you even listening to me” y/n pulls me out of my trance. “Sorry, what did you say?” “I was just telling you to come on or we’ll be late, you’re already falling behind in physics.” She said while walking away. “Wait up.” I said while rushing to get up. I latched my hand to hers and she tensed up a bit. I don’t know why I mean we’ve always had touchy relationship. “Relax” I bent down to whisper.

Y/n pov

“Relax” he whispered right beside my ear. His hot breath tickling, sending shivers down my spine. I don’t know why I was tensed up, I don’t like Chris like that. I think it was the idea of being in a public relationship with him. I’ve never had a proper relationship before. It always kind of scared me. I never had a great relationship with my parents growing up, till my dad left when I was 13. After that me and my mom got closer but not close. Seeing how my dad treated me and my mom I always had an idea that relationships won’t work out so it’s easier to stay away. That’s the one of the two things I’ve never told Chris. No one knows what really happened with my dad they just know he’s not around anymore.

School just ended. It was my favourite and least favourite time of the day. I didn’t like school but I also hated being home. Chris had is arm lazily around my hip while we walked out of the school. We were walking to the car and I had my head down looking at my phone, when I felt Chris stop and his arm coming fully around my waist and holding me infront of him. I looked up wondering what he was doing, and then I was face to face with Amelia. It was silent for a moment of Amelia staring at me, “What do you want Ams.” He didn’t have to use her nickname infront of my even if we were just faking it. “I was wondering how you moved on so fast and with her.” She said in a condescending tone, which made me roll my eyes. “Look Amelia I don’t have time for this, you broke up with me remember.” Chris said while resting his chin my head. Amelia just scoffed and walked off. Chris turned to me with a grin on his face. “She was totally jealous.” Chris exclaimed. “Yup.. haha” I said not trying to be rude, I don’t know why him liking her annoyed me.

We pulled up to my house and I saw my mom’s car meaning she was home. I took a deep breath in and closed my eyes, it came out shaky. I never know what to expect with my mom but lately it hasn’t been good. “Hey are you good?” Chris said looking back at me. “Yea it’s just my mom- no yea I’m good.” I said but the uncertainty was clear in my voice. “Alright just let me know if you need anything.” He said with a reassuring smile. I smiled back and thanked Matt for the ride and I walked up to the front door.

I looked in the window and saw empty vodka bottles everywhere. I took another deep breath before unlocking my door and stepping in. The smell of alcohol filling my nose straight away. I walked into the living room and saw my mom passed out on the couch. I sighed and started cleaning up the mess she made. “What do you think you’re doing.” I heard my mom snap. “Oh s-sorry I thought you were asleep s-so I was just helping sorry.” “Stop apologising and I know you were snooping.” My mom said while slurring her words. “What no I wasn’t” I protest. “Yea, yea sure get out I have company coming.” I sighed knowing this meant another stranger coming and getting drunk with her, then me cleaning up. “For how long?” I questioned. “Just come back tomorrow.” She said in a monotone voice like it wasn’t a big deal. “Tommorow?! Mom where am I meant to stay.” I panicked. “I don’t know y/n figure it out.” She snapped harshly. I sighed knowing nothing good would come out of fighting with her.

I called Chris and he picked up straight away after one ring. “What’s up?” I sighed. “I don’t know if I can make it to the party tonight, sorry.” I said “what why you said yes earlier.” “It’s complicated Chris.” I said not wanting him to know everything. “If you can’t tell me why, you’re coming.” This man. “Chris seriously I can’t.” I said then hung up on him. I wasn’t bothered trying to explain everything to him.

I went upstairs put a few things in a backpack before going back down. “I’m leaving now!” I shouted to my mom. No answer, great. I rolled my eyes and left. I don’t know where I was going yet.

While I was walking I saw a familiar car drive up the road, it was Matt and Chris. The car slowed down beside me and Chris hopped out. I kept walking, I wasn’t mad at him I was just mad. He jogged up to me “hey wait” he said catching up. “What Chris.” “What’s up with you, you’re acting weird.” “No I’m not.” “Yes you are. Tell me what’s wrong, did I do something?.” He said while putting his hands on my arms. “No it’s just my mom.” I said my voice slightly breaking. I looked down not wanting Chris see me cry. We stayed like that for a moment before I let out a small sob breaking the silence. “Oh y/n.” Chris said with sympathy behind his voice while pulling me into a warm hug. Chris knew that my mom wasn’t perfect but didn’t know everything because he knew I didn’t liek to talk about. After a few moment he pulled back but still had his hand on me. “Now tell me what’s wrong.” He said firmly. “My mom- she-she doesn’t care and she said I can’t come back till tomorrow and I don’t know w-where to go.” I said rambling. “Shh shh I know, it’s ok you can stay with me.” He said embracing me in a hug again. “Are you sure, I don’t want to like intrude or be a burden, don’t worry about-“ he cut me off “I’m sure now come on.” He said taking my hand and bringing me to the car Matt was patiently waiting in.

a/n: I know this doesn’t make sense right now but trust me it will soon!

[monsteraddict1]

Chapter One

Nineteen

Can't even think of a song to listen to today. It doesn't even seem like a real age. I mean nothing happens at nineteen, unless I wanna travel to Canada and drink. Eighteen you become an adult, twenty you're no longer a teenager and twenty one you can drink...

Legally.

We can ignore the empty bottles of Bulmers that are hidden under my bed from my trip to Ireland last year. I did end up meeting with Darragh and Damien and we had a good time. I invited Jackie but she was going down to Mexico to visit her family. I don't blame her. Much better food and the sun is always out. I went with her once to visit family and I can't wait to go again someday. We spent a lot of last night planning it out. We are just waiting till we get more money and she finishes school for the year.

I'm really not all that depressed. It's kinda more of a guilty feeling. I watched my step mom die but now I don't have to live with her. My life is better but it cost her life.

My aunt Kate said not to dwell on it too much. I know her death affected her as well. I mean it was her sister. Though she was always better at hiding her emotions. Must've been in the CIA training. Or she's always been like that.

I walked downstairs to the living room. Aunt Kate wasn't home but I knew she'd be back tonight. She's been a little stressed recently, like way more than normal. I've been doing my part around the house to try and make things more relaxing.

   I would always ask about her day but she would brush me off. Never in a rude way, I understand she wants to keep me safe and all with her line of work but what would I do? Tell my friends? Probably. But last I checked we weren't terrorists.

  I hope.

  Damien would be one. Though he wouldn't be able to keep that to himself.

  I wiped down the table and began cooking dinner. That's when I heard the keys go into the door.

  "(Y/n), what are you doing?" Aunt Kate asked. She wasn't mad or anything she just looked confused.

  "Making dinner?" I replied in a confused tone.

  "Absolutely not." She stated and put her bag on the couch. "It's your birthday. We'll go out."

  "We don't have to." I told her. "I like cooking." I smiled, spatula in hand.

  She gave a thin smile. (I swear she can't move her mouth more than that.) "Did you do anything today?" She asked after a few seconds.

  "Na, I cleaned up a bit. All my friends work today. We might do something later though."

  "That's all you did today?"

  "I took a nap."

  She rolled her eyes with an amused huff. "You do that everyday."

  "I don't understand how you don't."

  "Coffee." She deadpanned. I laughed a bit.

  "Fair play."

  We talked a bit more as I set the table and served our food. As we sat we spoke about work and other things that were going on in her life. She obviously couldn't tell me everything but I could pick up on what she was putting down.

  I told her how boring my job was and how I wanted to go on vacation again. That I was planning on going to Mexico but I really wasn't too picky. I didn't have time to go on vacation nor the money because I was trying to move out as quickly as possible. She was very understanding in my financial situation.

  "Do you know how to use a gun?" She asked suddenly. I paused mid bite to look at her.

  "A little. My dad took me hunting a bunch as a kid." I swallowed my food. "Why?" I furrowed my eyebrows.

"Well." She stared and put her fork down on her plate. "If you want to travel, You could join me and my friend John. We are going to Amsterdam."

"Isn't that your British friend?"

Aunt Kate rolled her eyes. "Yes. He's my British friend."

I squinted my eyes. "What's the catch?"

"You'd have to enlist." She spoke so calmly.

My eyes went wide. "What?!"

"Only if you want to." She finished her plate.

"I need time to think." I said slowly. "It would be fun to travel, but I don't think I'd be any good actually fighting."

"We leave next week."

��——————————————

I spent the rest of the night thinking about it. I had so many more questions.

What would I be doing?

How long would I be gone?

What even was this mission for?

Would I be in danger?

Could I talk to my friends?

What about my job?

Who is gonna be there?

Will they all be British?

  I listed out a bunch of pros and cons with the information I've been given.

  Pros:

•Vacation

•Time off work

•Meeting new people

•New experiences

  Cons:

•I'd technically be working

•Meeting new people

•Only some clue on how to use a gun

•British people (it's a joke I swear)

•I could die? (Still not too sure on what exactly I'm doing)

I weighed out the pros and cons and eventually decided on what I call the "fuck it. We ball." Method. It might be a good experience and if it's not it sure as hell will make for an interesting story.

So the next day I went downstairs and found my aunt Kate at the table. She was on her laptop but I couldn't see her screen.

"Can I ask a few questions? About this trip." I looked at her as she drank from a white ceramic mug.

She put the cup down on a coaster. "I assumed that's why you came down so early."

"If I were to enlist, am I like, stuck serving?"

  „If you'd like, you can leave after this mission."

  After a few more questions I decided that I'd go. I mean, do it for the plot right?

  I went upstairs and started packing.

[paleopinesofficial]

Welcome, New Ranchers!

Hey! We're Paleo Pines, the dino-themed ranching sim!

If you’ve never heard of Paleo Pines, or know us well and want to introduce us to someone else, you’re in the right place!

Saddle up your favourite dino-steed, this is THE post for all things Paleo Pines. Your adventure awaits…

*PLEASE CHECK FAQs before asking questions*

PLEASE CHECK GAMEPLAY FAQS too!

Lineart Pt1; Allo-Scelidosaurus

Lineart Pt2; Stego-Wuerhosaurus

[ALT TEXT: Key Art for Paleo Pines: A player character sits atop Lucky, the Parasaurolophus. To their left, rows and rows of tilled soil with lush tomatoes. To their right, a rolling valley. NPCs Mari and Marlo are on either side of the player in the background, waving the player as they explore. In the player's hand is a flute.]

Paleo Pines is a dinosaur-themed ranching game that allows you to escape to an island populated with welcoming townsfolk and dozens of friendly dinosaurs.

You’ll care for your ranch, help the locals, explore the island, and, of course, befriend dinosaurs!

[ALT TEXT: A player character pets a light-orange Triceratops twice on the nose. The triceratops hops into the pet- excited!]

Paleo Pines can be whatever you want it to be! Farm your heart out with rows and rows of tilled soil, fill your ranch with your dino friends in beautiful pens decorated how you want, help out the locals, or explore far and wide!

[ALT TEXT: Four small pictures exploring different facets of Paleo Pines. Top Left: A player character plays a flute to a large green Gallimimus. Top Right: A player character stands over two rows of tilled soil. In the player's hand is a book, and above them is a notification 'Strawberry Discovered'!. Bottom left: A player character sits atop a Pachycephalosaurus. Bottom Right: A player character stands across from a merchant. A dialogue bubble reads; 'Pippin: Poppin, anyone?' with dialogue options; Chat, Trade, Leave']

Developed by Italic Pig and Northern Ireland Screen, and published by Maximum Entertainment, we’re SUPER EXCITED that after keeping this lovely game close to our hearts for so long, we're so happy to be out on PC, Playstation, Xbox and Nintendo Switch!

[ALT TEXT: A blue Parasaurolophus (your trusty steed, Lucky) stands on a dirt road. To her left, a pebble bridge. To her right, a beautiful orange tree and some signage pointing left and right. ]

If Dino-ranching/dino-befriending/exploring/farming sound like your thing, you can play the Paleo Pines demo on steam or Switch and get the full version on PC, Xbox, PlayStation and Switch! Here's a handy link to take you to whatever platform you prefer!

[ALT TEXT: An image of a beautiful blue lake, around the edges of which are autumn-coloured trees (orange and yellow mostly), and dark red leaves. A few green trees and bushes are in the distance. ]

Can't contain your excitement? Us too! Join our discord server to discuss the game with other fans, chat with our team, get exclusive sneak peaks, and most importantly, for the DINO EMOJIS!

l8r.it/dGJh

We're also available on;

Twitter: @PaleoPines Instagram: @paleopines TikTok: @paleopines Our website: Paleo Pines

[beansidhebumbling]

We Stand Between Goliaths- Chapter 1

This was originally intended for Feylin week but in keeping with my reputation I am fashionably late. Thanks to @ae-neon, @kateprincessofbluewhales, and @feyres-divorce-lawyer. I can't write without encouragement and they were an endless well of it. Also I reckon this will be about 3 chapters in total if I stay motivated lol 😅

Some translations and notes at the bottom. I'll return later to add more. Please ask if there's something you don't know about and I'll make a note on it. If there is anything I missed or anything you have questions on please ask.

--

Old Moore's Almanack, a publication weighted by the faith of a nation, the bible of every town and village dotted liked barnacles on the rock of Ireland, failed them that summer. The worn pages of the copy, tied with string to the dresser by the back door, held no warning of the rare scorching heat that hit Mayo that August.

It held no warning of him either.

--

It crept in slowly first, the continental warmth a welcome novelty. Sure, on days like this, they said, when the cornflower blue skies kissed the rolling fields of Monet-painted green wasn't Ireland more beautiful than France and Spain?

'You're lucky to be away from Dublin for the Summer, young Archeron, aren't ya?'

Big Paddy McCaffrey commented, ringing up their purchases to add to the account, as Nesta ventured down the shop's only aisle for some flour. Feyre, focused on saving her 99, the milky ice-cream already saturating the thin wafer rim of the cone and dripping onto her sunscreen sticky hands, threw the man a tight smile.

'Suppose I am.'

She answered tersely.

'Strange all three of ye be home together, isn't it? First time since yer Ma passed, God rest her,'

He pressed, his hulking frame leaning over the old counter of the siopa, eyes searching for any shred of a story, or even better, a tear.

'Bout as strange as how you've aged ten years in the space of two, Paddy-boy.'

Her elder sister sniped as she emerged from the back corner of the shop, the bag of Odlum's safely in her grasp. The sharp lines of her trousers, some fine London make, cut through the dust motes, conjuring whirling ghosts as she marched towards the till.

Not leaving the huffing giant any room to retort, she grabbed Feyre's free hand, and they left the shaded confines of the shop to face the noon-day sun, a blistering presence high in the clear sky.

'Not looking like you're here to make friends, Nes.'

Feyre snorted, once out of earshot.

'Nosey fucker. They'll do his autopsy one day and find the Toormakeady Tribune instead of lungs inside him.'

The laugh that tickled its way from deep in her belly, had no breeze to dance on and so hung happily between them, another sign of the welcome if unfamiliar camaraderie birthed between them since their return to the home place in May.

Feyre did not know what her sister had found in London these last two years, but it looked an awful lot like peace.

'Speaking of gossip, did you see the new owner of Drimbawn House?'

'New new or new to us?'

Feyre asked. It was a relevant question. With Elain in Cork working in one of the big houses, Nesta abroad terrorising the lawyers at her new secretarial job, and Feyre in college, they had happily lost the rhythm of their birthplace.

'New to us. He bought it off Hollywood. Tamlin Stewart-Carmichael is his name. A fine block of a man by all accounts.'

Nesta paused to climb the gate behind the GAA pitch as they followed the path of their childhood, cutting through Ma Bryant's fields to get home.

'He's English. No surprise with a name like that. An excessive bunch in every way. Has only visited the place once after buying it but it's been kept in ship shape since last July, in case he wants to call on his summer residence.'

Feyre scoffed, running her hands through the grass that tickled their calves, rippling like the waves at her touch.

'What in Christ's name are they at? Houses for the seasons. Have you ever heard the like?'

'You wouldn't believe half of what I hear back in London with that posh lot. It's a different world Feyrín.'

Nesta grew quiet then, lost to a place across the sea, her mind's eye turned towards the unfamiliar horizon and, Feyre reckoned, to the secret letters that had been arriving with an English postmark since she'd landed on Irish soil.

Her heart full at the sound of a pet name she had not heard from Nesta in years, Feyre followed her sister home, as she had done all her life.

------

In a country where too much of a good thing was highly distasteful the unnatural heat soon extended beyond its welcome. After a week of no rain and blistering, bruising sun, the rumblings of concern began. The labourers started to seek shade to avoid the rage of noon and the farmers nearest the Lough Mask, let their cattle cool in gentle waters, for neither man nor beast in Toormakeady was built or bred for a Mediterranean climate.

Having been on nursing duty Monday night, Feyre greeted the dawn with a weary welcome. He was fading and she knew it. Her father, who had looked so frail when she'd come home that Summer, a husk of the hale man she'd known from childhood, felt like a figment now.

It hurt too much to sleep knowing by the minute more of him was lost to her, gone to a heaven Feyre had never truly believed in until death loomed. Because there was no way the story of John Archeron ended with a skeleton in the ground.

He was the ritual footing of turf. Lunch together on the bog, eating sandwiches Elain wrapped in tinfoil, the fresh bread slathered in Kerrygold with thick slabs of salty pork. A needed balm for the tired ache that radiated from neck to ankle. Sitting in the rusty Ford come sunset, drinking cold tea from a shared cupán before heading home, his wordless clap on her back the only praise she'd ever got or needed at the end of the day.

He was the man who'd never raised his voice in all of Feyre's life, bar the time she captained the U-15s to a camogie final, when his bellowing and cheering could be heard from Galway as she raised the corn above her head. She remembers him, cheeks full and face ruddy, the proudest he'd ever been Nesta said. For hadn't his Feyrín óg scored three goals and two points that day and led her team to victory.

He was her father, and, in that word, a million memories were stored.

Elain's bustling entry into the kitchen brought Feyre back to the present.

Her sister, already busying herself with making breakfast, whispered.

'How is he Feyrín?'

Stretching in the armchair by the stove, feeling the tension roll from her shoulders and down her arms, she shrugged.

'Not too bad, slept like a log for most of the night. He's still running a bit of a fever but that stuff the doctor gave him has eased the pain. Also don't worry about whispering, fairly certain Judgement Day couldn't rouse him right now.'

Meandering over to her sister she added.

'What's on the schedule today then?'

'Elain, expertly frying rashers and eggs, ran a critical eye over Feyre.

'Well, some food and the leaba for you I'd imagine anyways. Did you sleep at all?'

Feyre ignored the question.

'I'm not tired, El. Actually was going to head on over to the Kelly's place. They've been shocking good taking the herd when Da got sick, but I can manage them now. Reckon I'll sell half at Ballymote this month, bring the number down, you know?'

Elain's back stiffened, her sister in temperament and posture as flexible and fluid as the willow, became stone. Only the crackling and hissing of breakfast could be heard.

Words careful and softly spoken passed her lips.

'Have you spoken to Nes?'

'No. She's never been interested in the farm. Didn't think I needed to ask permission.'

The words, daggers of her making, pointed at Elain.

Her sister's soothing tone did nothing but rankle her further.

'It's not about permission, Fey. I just think we should make these decisions together.'

But though Elain dealt in serenity, she could wield knives too and often did with deceptive skill. Sticking one in Feyre's gut she said with feeling.

'It's what Da would want.'

Her doe-eyed sister who vomited sugar and ribbons could be a right bitch.

Too close to bleeding from her eyes, hurt and a desperate anguish crawling from her stomach and up her throat, Feyre turned towards the back door, grabbing some blackberries, juicy and shining, from the glass bowl by the Almanack.

'I'm going for a walk. I'll be back for dinner.'

The words spilled from her, gruff and broken, trails of hot saltwater carving famine roads along her high cheekbones.

With Elain who'd always read people like Nesta read books, burning holes into her back, Feyre pulled on her boots and grabbed her old hurley, that was tucked neatly in its shrine of a nook by the door.

It was time to visit the forest.

---

The camóg sat like a comfort in Feyre's hand, its weight familiar and grounding, the sleek ash stained with dirt at the boss. She imagined this was how warriors of old felt carrying their swords, this strange companionship, an extension of herself that knew her in a way no person could.  

As was the case when Feyre had a hurl in hand, time moved differently, the mixed woodland hurtled by a blur of brown and green, the ferns that crept onto the path crushed beneath her boots. Bouncing the sliotar off the ash, she focused only on that settling pulse, on finding the perfect balance to keep that round ball on the curved head of the stick, on the thumping of her feet against dusty ground.  

And gradually that burning sadness that ate at her heart, the searing anger at her sister's face, too soft to be so cruel, faded from stinging tears to a small hole at the pit of her stomach. Contained and controlled for now.  

After all, Setanta didn't cry. 

She ran and ran, taking joy in the burning muscle of her thighs, the stinging of her eyes, the heavy panting of her breath, until she reached the boundary line where Toormakeady Forest met the Hollywood Hills.  

Stopping at the rusted gate choked by bindweed, where lus na teanga grew between the tufts of grass as the path faded to an end, Feyre stared out across the rolling hills of the English fella's fields, just about able to spot the glittering waters of Lough Mask in the distance.  

When Richard had lived here, it was custom to walk through the hills. Hollywood, as he was known, a retired American actor had been genial if distant, happy for the village to take the short-cut through his land provided they never approached the house. 

Feyre reckoned he might have been more than a bit offended if he knew exactly how well that suited the villagers in kind.

But now this Tamlin Stewart-Carmichael had co-opted the land the rules had likely changed.

With a fecklessness more characteristic than she'd prefer to admit Feyre hopped the gate anyways. Ignorance was bliss and in weather like this no jumped-up staff of an absent gentleman were going to get between her and the shining waters.

---

Lough Mask lapped at her legs cool and tickling as she stood to her knees in the water, a medicine Feyre had not known she needed, easing the feverish redness that coloured her cheeks and gently tempering the fire that still roiled quietly in her gut. 

Looking out from the shore, Feyre faced the distant veridian mountains that sat the far side of the expanse of rippling greyness. There they stood, imposing Goliaths set in sharp contrast to the saturated summer sky. The bays and cries of livestock nearby seemed so muted, overwhelmed by the gentle rhythm of the calm opaque waters.  

Tranquillity found her briefly. 

And left rapidly when, out of nowhere but Hell surely, a naked man arose from the lake, splashing and gasping for air, a siren of old. 

'Sweet Jesus!' 

Feyre yelled, lifting her hurley above her head to take a crack at the blond menace before her.  

‘Don’t!’ 

He commanded, raising his tanned well-muscled arms in mercy. His voice was deep, with the distinct sharp bite of an English accent. 

She dropped her hurley before him in the water in panic before grabbling it and retreating to the land. Her wet feet smarting at the pinch of the pebbles as she made the rapid withdrawal, putting distance between them. Man, or siren, she was not interested in drowning either which way. 

‘Who the fuck are you?’ 

She pointed the hurl accusatorily at him.  

Sitting back into the water, his lower half became submerged once more. Not that Feyre would forget what she saw in a hurry. As it was, the well-hewn muscles on his abdomen, shining with water droplets and the crosshatch of curling golden hair on his chest, was distraction enough.  

Smirking slightly, green eyes dancing, he replied, 

‘I could ask you the same question...Miss.’ 

Apollo had stopped pulling the sun and landed his chariot in Toormakeady to laugh at her apparently.  

 ‘Anyone who is anyone in these parts knows my face, Sassenach. On voice alone, if you’d ever set foot in the village, I’d know ye.’ 

His dimples seemed to share an inside joke with the lines that creased his eyes as he stared at her. Definitely entertained and strangely delighted at this bizarre encounter it seemed.  

‘Touché, Miss.’ 

‘Odd name that,’ 

She stated drily. 

He laughed. A gentle thing, carried in huffs and breaths by the soft breeze off the lake. 

‘You wield your words as well as your weapon....’ 

He motioned lazily towards the hurley,  

‘...Feyre Archeron.’ 

Her eyes widened in shock, and, following the movement of his arm, were confronted with the thick Sharpie scrawl of her name along the handle.  

Well, shit. 

Her pulse began to settle all the same to a somewhat normal rhythm now she was out of arm’s reach of the dangerously alluring specimen. 

‘You must be connected to yer man moving into the big house then,’ 

She gestured vaguely towards Drimbawn. If she had the sense God gave a rat she’d walk away now, leg it back home. But Feyre would not be scared from the lake, let alone by some Englishman so she continued, 

‘Usually, the posh lot hire locally or at least Hollyw.. the last fella did. But then again, it’s been a few generations since we’ve had someone with the brass neck to keep such a beautiful place as a second home. Can’t say I’m terribly fond of your boss there, stranger.’  

Pink roses blossomed on his cheeks and a large, veined hand pulled at the wavy sun-bleached strands that tickled his shoulder. 

‘He has hired local men. Um... I’m here to just keep things running until he comes to visit. I’m Ta-Tanner.’ 

He went to stand up and shake her hand. Some remnants of well-intentioned civility she imagined, however when challenged by his pronounced obliques, the last of her good sense and innate Catholic shame made her turn rapidly on her heel to face the forest she’d come from.  

‘Easy there, squire. Might want to put some trousers on first.’ 

‘Of course.’ 

He answered, voice apologetic and brimming with a crushing embarrassment that made her want to cackle. 

He was like art. Like whomever Michaelangelo thought of when he had carved David. 

Her supplies had remained zipped away since coming home. It seemed wrong to take joy in the delicate scratch of lead on paper, to crave the feeling of dried acrylic on canvas and skin. Where she usually saw endless, boundless colour and life, there existed only delicate ash structures. It struck her, this sudden wish to paint Tanner, as the first time since she’d seen her father so frail in that flimsy, miserable bed off the kitchen, she wished to paint. Her first time seeing and tasting glorious colour again.  

A shadow fell against her own. 

‘You can turn around now.’ 

Tanner murmured quietly.  

Feyre came face to face with the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. His looks, that were barely palatable from a safe distance, threatened to overcome her as he stood within arm’s reach. The freckles that dotted his nose, slightly crooked from at least one break she imagined, and across his high cheekbones, seemed to map constellations of the night. But he, gilded like the horizon at sunset, was no child of the moon.  

His eyes, speckled with brown flecks like oak leaves smouldered as they met hers, the threatening spark to a flame. 

Casting her sight down, coward that she was, she focused instead on the cotton of his shirt, which though crinkled, was luxurious and well-crafted.  

‘The big man must pay well indeed,’ 

She scoffed.  

‘He’s not a bad guy, all things considered.’ 

He remarked, his hand glancing off her own, a touch just slight enough to claim as an accident.   

‘I’m sure he’s a charmer.’ 

Feyre muttered. 

The silence that settled between with a comfort that seemed unearned, a space of knowing and understanding. It was this, this strange contentment in her soul, that said stay, which prompted Feyre to run. 

‘You best be going, it’s nearly time to do the milking.’ 

She prompted.  

His eyes shuttered, disappointment flickering through them before he nodded reluctantly.  

‘Oh yes, of course. The milking...For the cows.’ 

His hand caught hers gently, encasing it within his, and Feyre who had never felt delicate in her life, felt like a doll in his giant grip.  

‘Do you come here often Feyre?’ 

A question that sounded more like a plea. 

Her heart, ever the loyal organ, beat to the rhythm of his.  

‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ 

She replied breathily, unsure yet whether it was a lie or truth, before breaking his grasp and running back towards the forest.  

You’ll be back tomorrow,  

Her heart whispered.  

-- 

As she disappeared from view, the mountains and a liar watched on.  

---

Translations:

Feyrín- Little Feyre (Fey-reen). Common structure in Irish. Add -ín at the end and things become small. See names like Róisín (Little Rose) or bothrín (little road, i.e. a lane).

cupán- cup (cup-awn)

óg- young (oh-guh). Common to put after someone's name if they are young, sort of like Junior in English. Especially traditionally in families where there's a family name. E.g. there's a grandfather Connor and a grandson Connor in the one family, the grandfather could become Connor Sean (Old Connor) and the grandson, Connor Óg.

leaba- bed (lah-baa)

camóg- hurl (less common term used for a hurl when playing camógie. See the notes below for more context).

Further Notes for Context:

GAA- Gaelic Athletic Association consists of four indigenous Irish sports (hurling/camogie, Gaelic football, handball and rounders). Hurling and Gaelic football are by far the most popular. I didn't even realise rounders was on the list and I've been involved with the GAA since I was a kid.

[u2fangirlie-blog]

Good Omens Crowley's Sad Bastard Breakup Playlist

After the breakup, every time Crowley goes to drink at the Dirty Donkey pub, across the way from A.Z. Fell's bookshop, the jukebox mysteriously starts playing bitter breakup and sad bastard songs. Songs that aren't on the jukebox play when other songs are selected. It's like some demonic miracle. This also happens on the radio in Crowley's Bentley.

See note after list on song the selection process.

Songs include:

"Pale Blue Eyes" - The Velvet Underground

"I'd Rather Go Blind" - Etta James

"Cry Me a River" - Ella Fitzgerald

"Till the Heart Caves In" - Roy Orbison, K.D. Lang version

"Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak

"Crying in the Rain" - Everly Brothers, a-ha version

"Ain't No Sunshine" - Bill Withers

"It's Too Late" - Carole King

"Nothing Compares 2 U" - Prince, Sinead O'Connor or Chris Cornell versions

"Running Up That Hill" - Kate Bush

"One" - U2

"Crucify" - Tori Amos

"Hallelujah" - Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley version

"Lovesong" - The Cure

"I Don't Believe in the Sun" - The Magnetic Fields

"Love Will Tear Us Apart" - Joy Division

"Blue Monday" - New Order, Orkestra Obsolete version

"Never Let Me Down Again" - Depeche Mode

"Tainted Love" - Soft Cell

"Careless Whisper" - Wham!

"I Thought You Were My Boyfriend" - The Magnetic Fields

"Somebody to Love" - Queen

"Love Hurts" - Nazareth

"Love Stinks" - The J. Geils Band

"One More Minute" - Weird Al Yankovic

Despite himself, Crowley is compelled to visit Maggie's record shop to purchase copies of these songs.

Crowley has been sleazing around the backroom of the bookshop, crying and drinking, under the guise of helping Muriel run the place, but actually he's selling Aziraphale's books out of revenge.

P.S.: “Pale Blue Eyes” reminds Crowley of Aziraphale’s eyes. Every time he plays The Velvet Underground in his car, he remembers the time Aziraphale made a stinky poopoo face and called their music bebop.

P.P.S.: “Till the Heart Caves In.” Aziraphale stole Crowley’s dreams and sold them for dust. He always knew that angel was a bit of a bastard. Crowley remembers meeting young Roy Orbison and suggesting he wear sunglasses. A rock icon was born.

P.P.P.S.: “Wicked Game” reminds Crowley of the time when the bookstore burned down, Crowley rushed in to rescue his best friend Aziraphale but was too late. Later the same day, the M25 motorway was on fire. Then his beloved Bentley was destroyed by fire. To this day, Crowley can’t tell what hurt him more, losing Aziraphale or losing his Bentley, until they were both returned to him by Adam Young. He’s a good lad.

P.P.P.P.S.: “Crying in the Rain.” No one should see a demon cry. Crowley does his crying the shower. Earth rain showers, even thunderstorms, are also cathartic for crying in, unlike the swampy, wet bits of the fifth circle of Hell.

P.P.P.P.P.S.: “Nothing Compares 2 U” reminds Crowley of the times he and Aziraphale dined at the Ritz. Well, now he can eat at any fancy restaurant he wants without Aziraphale. Only now the food tastes bland and the drinks taste flat.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: “One.” This achingly beautiful song about relationships feels like a knife in the heart and punch in the gut. “We get to carry each other.” It’s too true. It hurts. F*** that angel for leaving him. The song reminds Crowley of his time hanging out with Brian Eno in Berlin in the early 1990s. He had fun running around with the band from Ireland. Crowley and Bono discussed corrupt religious leaders and the writings of C.S. Lewis. He suggested sunglasses to Bono. Then Bono took it further. The Fly, the Mirrorball Man, and MacPhisto were born. The rest is rock ‘n roll history. Crowley is especially pleased with himself for influencing Bono.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: “Hallelujah.” Crowley remembers helping manifest nebulae and stars with Aziraphale. Crowley was the one who gave the secret chord to David, yet David got the credit for pleasing the Lord. In a rare occurrence for deceased rock stars, Heaven got Jeff Buckley.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: “Never Let Me Down Again.” Crowley thinks of all the times he and Aziraphale went for a drive in the Bentley. Aziraphale let him down. Curse the wretched, brightly shining stars. Nothing is alright.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: “One More Minute.” This Weird Al song suggested something, an act of revenge to get closure. Crowley thought about the malt shop Aziraphale liked to go, but then reconsidered arson because innocent people might get hurt.

Note on song selection:

I selected songs that thematically fit with the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale. This is what I call sad bastard music. What songs would match Crowley’s angry, bitter brooding? What songs would make him laugh? What songs would break him and make him cry? These are all songs that I like. You may not like my choices, so your mileage may vary. You can make your own playlist.

NOTE: Revised 3 April 2024 to include P.S. notes about the songs and the obligatory U2 reference. (I'm not sorry.)

NOTE: Revised 9 April 2024 to include songs by The Magnetic Fields, one of Neil Gaiman’s favorite bands. I must make this playlist pleasing to the co-creator of Good Omens.

You can listen to it on YouTube.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Okay, so. The saga from my last couple of posts. About this spreadsheet that I made:

I've looked into it more. And by "looked into it more", I mean, mostly, that the British guy I know has further explained to me what the cultural differences are, between Britain and America, in the definition of a milkshake. And I'm going to assume we can roll in Ireland in with Britain on this one, as I've not been able to find any differences from some Googling. So I'm going to assume that when David O'Doherty and Andrew Maxwell say "milkshake", they mean the same thing that British people mean by it, which it turns out is a completely different thing than what I mean. Maybe especially so twenty years ago. Apparently they have more actual milkshakes there these days.

But in 2002, apparently, most places did not make milkshakes. They made "flavoured milk". And called it milkshakes. And one of those flavours was chocolate. But they didn't call it chocolate milk. It was a milkshake. I straight-up did not believe this until I was sent some screenshots, which I shall now pass along:

The last post in that second screenshot is all you really need to see, to explain the situation. I didn't find it myself when I tried Googling this, because I was looking up things like "What do they call chocolate milk in Britain?" It hadn't occurred to me to look up what they're calling milkshakes. Because the answer is chocolate milk. They're calling chocolate milk milkshakes. And once I'd read those Reddit posts, I did understand the concept. But I still got sent one more screenshot to really drive the point home in a way that I found rather upsetting:

What the fuck? None of those are milkshakes. But more than that, none of those are necessary. It's not just that they don't say "chocolate milk" there. They say "flavoured milk", and it can be strawberry or banana flavour too. In milk. Why? Why would you have that? I do not like it.

So that puts an entirely different spin on the whole Edinburgh situation. My British friend has confirmed for me that, in Britain, it would be normal to go to a diner and order chocolate milk in a glass, even if you're over the age of 9. That would actually be more normal than ordering a milkshake, like an actual milkshake with ice cream, as most places didn't have milkshake makers. So when David O'Doherty says they got made fun of for drinking milkshakes, he means they were just going out after late shows and drinking chocolate milk.

Obviously I tried to look up the menu of the actual diner they went to, to see whether they offered "milkshakes" or "flavoured milk" and what flavours were on offer, but the place closed down in the years before restaurants all started putting their menus online. I do have a Google Earth screenshot of it from 2005 archived data:

They advertise: Cafe. Bar. [Alcohol] license. Meals. Snacks. Drinks. "Till late". It sure looks like a place where I might go for a milkshake. Not just to drink chocolate milk.

I mean, the main thing this changes is I think I'm on Glenn Wool's side now. The story of the Chocolate Milk Gang has been framed as the comedians who went to bars to get drunk after shows making fun of the CMG nerds for drinking milkshakes instead. Like an 80s high school movie with jocks and nerds, only with more cows getting destroyed.

For the record, from all accounts this sounds like friendly joking around (with the exception of David McSavage, who is the worst person in the world), I don't want to start any retroactive claims about genuine animosity from twenty years ago. Look, there are adorable pictures of them all playing football (and/or rugby) together at what I'm pretty sure is MICF in 2003:

Back row, left to right: Danny Bhoy, Dave Gorman, Dan Antopolski, don't know, Glenn Wool, don't know, Lee Mack, don't know, Jason Byrne, Adam Hills

Front row, left to right: Charlie Pickering, Daniel Kitson, David O'Doherty, don't know, Noel Fielding

You can also see Glenn Wool in this clip from Late 'n' Live on August 19, 2003 (a week or so before Cowgate night), with Daniel Kitson compering a fight between Jason Byrne and David O'Doherty, and Glenn Wool really throwing himself into the role of DO'D's manager:

See, look at this adorable screenshot, with 8 pixels per inch, of David O'Doherty jumping into Glenn Wool's arms to celebrate beating up a bubble wrap-clad Jason Byrne. Do these guys look like enemy nerds and jocks from a high school movie?

(Actually, now that I look at that, it absolutely does look like it could be the end of a high school movie where everything gets out of hand in the school auditorium.)

However. Here is Glenn Wool at MICF 2003:

That guy, I have to say, does look a lot like the guy in the high school movie who bullies the nerds. He's even smoking on stage with... I mean, I think there might be a tiny trace of irony to it. But not really. Mostly unironically smoking on stage. I mean... this guy does look like someone who would take a kid's lunch money so that kid couldn't buy any milk at school that day:

Because that is what happens when you take a schoolkid's lunch money - they don't get their chocolate milk. Because that is where you find chocolate milk - in a school. You don't go out and drink it in a diner at 2 AM on a night out. I'm not saying you have to drink alcohol. It is very admirable that some comedians chose to either entirely abstain from alcohol, or at least to drink it at reasonable levels instead of succumbing to the pressures of showbiz substance abuse. But that's where you drink something like milkshakes. You don't go out for chocolate milk.

And that is where I come back to my new conclusion that actually, I think I'm on Glenn Wool's side. Because first of all, if I saw my friend going out to a diner late at night just to order chocolate milk, I would call that person "chocolate milk" for the rest of their life. And if that person tried to tell me, a Canadian, that their glass of chocolate milk is actually a milkshake, then I would definitely call them "chocolate milk" for the rest of their lives, just to really drive home the point that that is absolutely not a milkshake.

What I'm saying is, Glenn Wool's right, they were a bunch of nerds, and that is not a milkshake, and I'm glad there was a Canadian on the scene to say so. The name "Chocolate Milk Gang" - maybe it was never about a style of comedy, or a cabal of professional crossovers. Maybe it was just a Canadian looking at what the people in Edinburgh called a "milkshake", and saying, "absolutely the fuck not."

(Note because tone is difficult to convey via text: I am obviously kidding, chocolate milk is good for you and you should drink it wherever you want. I mean I would genuinely make jokes about it for at least five years if a friend of mine ordered that in a restaurant, but only in an entirely friendly lighthearted joking way, and only if we were close enough friends to have the sort of relationship where we lightly make fun of each other for silly things like that. Obviously anyone who spent their twenties drinking anything besides alcohol did a much better job than I did of being a person in their twenties. And I would not, even in the most lighthearted, jokey way, make fun of someone for abstaining from alcohol. But I would do that if their alternative of choice was chocolate milk, because that's the thing they give you at school lunch. Thank you for reading this clarification that I hope wasn't necessary, but I was worried I might come across as a genuine bully if I don't get the difficult-to-convey-through-text tone correct. Bullying is bad. But also, chocolate milk is not a fucking milkshake.)

...I've asked my brother if he knows Glenn Wool, and he said no, so unfortunately that potential avenue for finding out the truth for sure is shut down. But I'm sure it's out there.

[oumaheroes]

ok ok I know you're probably busy and all and you just wrote something for an anon buuuuut im begging for some ireland and north bonding, i loved reading your england and north fic seeing england telling north no but north saying ireland would let him was hilarious tbh. need some irish bois being nice to eachother pls

All for you, Anon

------

Bog Bodies

On his haunches, North took a sip of water from his bottle with one hand and rummaged about his rucksack with the other. The findings were poor: some sandwiches at the bottom under his jacket, now partially squashed, a packet of crisps that had miraculously not popped after he’d sat on the bag forgetting that they were in there, and one lone chunk of Yellowman. Abysmal. He should have thought to pack more, he knew that this wasn’t going to be a short adventure. A Jammey Joey at least.

‘How long do you think they’ll be till they’re done?’ He asked his brother, glancing up at him and jerking his head towards the action they’d spent most of the day secretly watching. ‘Till they finish up here, like.’

Ireland shrugged lazily, ‘Until they’re done finding things, I expect. There’s a lot of peat to cover.’

‘Okay, how long till we’re done.’

‘Till it feels time to go.’

In comparison to North squatting on the floor like a grubby troll- he’d been standing for hours and he was tired- his older brother was leant against a wide, fat oak, his long arms crossed over his chest. He was looking at the happily buzzing archaeologists in the distance carefully, watching for their discoveries or any misbehaviour North couldn’t quite tell. The humans been there ever since the news of the headless corpse the day before, having swarmed the old bog as soon as they’d been alerted, and had been ferrying their equipment to and fro and generally making a big mess of the place ever since. Ireland and North had come to join them not long after, watching them map out the area and begin to excavate whilst the land owners waited on the sidelines.

North eyed Ireland’s own much fatter and well-stocked bag enviously, ‘They’ve already found the most important thing, though.’

Ireland snorted and grinned, ‘That’s subjective.’

‘Not really. Headless ancient corpse versus...?’

Ireland rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.

‘Could always be another in there, I suppose.’ North stood and shook out his feet.

‘Might well be. That sort of thing was common.’

‘They seem to be popping up all the time now.’

‘More in Denmark.’ Ireland ruffled his floppy hair off his forehead and recrossed his arms, ‘But different thing, obviously.’

A bog body was a bog body, as far as North could see. Tanned, leathery skin, well preserved nails and hair. Facial features which looked more lifelike than North would like if he were honest with himself, younger and closer to the modern day than could first be perceived considering the age of some of the finds. Many hundreds, sometimes thousands of years old. Where they came from and how they came to be in the bog in the first place was generally as unknown from one case to another, but the morbid curiosity about them was the same. Quick peeks into the past always held a draw.

This was different though, as Ireland had said. This was theirs. Or rather, the man they had found this time around chopped in half in the peat was Ireland’s.

More than even that, North realised. The discovery of this ancient person was more Patrick’s the person than anyone other than their close family would ever know. Someone he might once have known personally and things he might have owned, a culture he had once shared and understood and encompassed. His personal history as well as his people’s, depending on how old this particular find was.

‘You hoping they find something that you once dumped in there?’ North asked him, trying to sound nonchalant about the question.

Ireland let out a bark of laughter, ‘Not here. Might not look like much now but this place was special. Too special to piss about around.’

‘But you dumped stuff in other places, then.’

‘Not dumped.’ Ireland corrected, ‘I used to leave little wooden figures about here and there.’ He held up his hands about a foot apart, ‘Maybe this big. Added along to ceremonies people held or whenever I passed by alone.’

‘What for?’

‘What for is a question.’ Ireland frowned thoughtfully and glanced back out to the archaeologists. ‘Several reasons. Luck, offerings, promises. Can’t remember all of them. Copied what Mama used to do.’

Several branches of questions opened up at once. His brothers didn’t talk about their mother or childhood often- topics easily brushed off or for some reason hard to bring up in the first place- and North always felt uncomfortable poking at the former. Mama was a parent who was potentially his, but wasn’t, someone he felt that he should love and respect when she was as distant to him as a God was.

Sensing that this was an opportunity he shouldn’t waste, North carefully chose the avenue he felt would yield the most answers.

‘What were the idols of?’

‘People, Gods, us, animals.’ Ireland waved a hand, ‘I’ll make you one sometime. Been a while since I practiced. Or Alisdair can, his used to be half decent. Don’t ask Rhys though, his are shit.’

‘They might find one.’

‘Might do. Wood rots though.’

‘So does skin, and look what happened.’

A scurrying of men and women along their walkway and back to far afield cars made them both pause, something small and wrapped carried amongst them. The spiked edges of their talk floated back to their spot in the trees, high and excited. It was empty landscape, no human activity apart from the archaeology dig, but North could feel a thrum in the air, the last notes of what first called him and his brother to this place. Something he couldn’t name but which connected him to everything.

Stay, stay. Watch, and remember.

North wasn’t really too sure why he was here. This was his brother’s land after all, his brother’s ancient people and lost ways, not his, but still this was connected to him somehow. Or, it was better to say that it was something he was connected to, something that was apparently important for him to witness for his people’s benefit- the circle of time connecting him to his siblings’ past to fill him in on what he had missed.

There was so much of his brothers’ lives which came before him. North felt Croghan Hill at his back, heavy and looming in the summer sun. How many different peoples had that hill seen? How many of North’s own family, past his sibling’s mother and beyond? So many mortal lives caught in its shade, so many centuries before he’d even been thought of. What had any of this got to do with him, he who couldn’t understand the significance of what was being found.

‘This is for you too, you know.’ Ireland seemed to sense something of what North was thinking. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes still on the dig site and the treasures within, ‘All connects back to a point we’re both a part of.’

‘The bog bodies?’

‘Not just them, or any of what they find like this. What they represent.’ He turned to North, the usual jokey expression in his eyes replaced with something more serious, ‘It’s a culture that’s not here anymore but that is still a part of us, even if we can't see it. It matters the same to both of us.’

‘But it wasn’t mine is it.’ North dug his hands into his jean pockets, ‘I wasn’t alive to experience it. I don’t even know what any of that was for.’

Ireland looked at him, face unreadable, then looked away. ‘If you say so.’

North looked at him. ‘What?’

Ireland shrugged, ‘If you say so.’

‘What do you mean, if I say so?’

‘If you think this has nothing to do with you, then who am I to tell you any different.’

‘Wh- I don’t..’ North clicked his tongue, ‘What the fuck does that mean.’

‘What? You wanted me to tell you something different?’

‘No-‘

‘You want me to sit here and hold your hand and tell you there there babby, everything’ll be grand?’

‘No! Christ, fuck off, then.’

Ireland shrugged again, one armed and apathetic, and turned away. North felt his cheeks heat up.

‘It’s true, isn’t it? That out there’s for you, that’s your old people.’

‘Sure.’

‘Well then. Then, what’s it got to do with me?’

Ireland shook his head, his mouth downturned in disappointment or frustration. ‘Why are you asking me? You seem to have your own opinion.’

‘Why’d you have to be a cunt about it.’

Ireland snorted, ‘Being a cunt am I-‘

‘You are. You’re-‘

‘Rather that than a thick-headed child.’

‘-brushing me off, it was a valid fucking question.’

‘It wasn’t a question; you were simpering for something.’

North recoiled, ‘Simpering-!’

‘Aye, you were.’ Ireland’s cheeks were ruddy in the high way they did only when he got truly annoyed about something, ‘You wanted me to convince you that this does matter to you, give you a clean old line of evidence that you can take away and make yourself feel better with. I already did that enough and I ain’t arguing my point. You either take what I said and try to make sense of it, or you don’t. I’m not going to stand here and put up with you begging for validation.’

North clenched his jaw, his teeth aching with the pressure of not immediately shouting back.

‘People will take voiced doubt as truth.’ Ireland continued, stepping closer. He was still taller than North, still holding the upper ground, and North had for remind himself not to take the automatic instinct to step back, ‘Makes them question and think when they might not have done before. And you feeding into self-pity is pissing annoying. It’s pathetic; I don’t want to hear it.’

‘It was a question.’ North felt a shameful sting in his eyes. He pushed away the knowledge that his brother had hit on a truth he hadn’t him to voice, ‘I-‘

‘It wasn’t a question, don’t give me that. You wanted me to tell you why any of that-‘ a sharp wave of Ireland’s hand towards the humans on the bog, ‘-is for you.’

North swallowed, the core of it too cleanly said to deny, ‘Yes.’

Ireland shook his head, ‘Think for yourself, boy. Did you feel a need to come here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I hadn’t called you, if I hadn’t come, would you have anyway?’

North nodded. He would have, it wasn’t a feeling that could be ignored.

‘Then that’s your confirmation. That’s important for you and yours too, that’s it.’

‘But why.’

‘How the fuck should I know. I don’t have it all written down here in rules, now do I.’ Ireland moved back to his spot against the tree, standing there stiff, ‘You’re supposed to have a brain, you tell me.’

North shrugged helplessly, ‘Because my people are interested? Because it’s news. Because it’s an older culture of this island and people want to look for something recognisable that they’ve kept?’

Ireland’s expression didn’t change, ‘And what do you think is true?’

‘I dunno, all of them?’ North let out a breath, ‘A little bit of all of them for different people.’

As he said it, he felt that it was probably true. There wasn’t one good answer but the fact was that he was here to watch anyway. Ireland was right, that meant something, even if North didn’t know exactly what.

Ireland waited a while before speaking, as if he was waiting for North to say something more or question him again. When neither were forthcoming, he nodded and leant back more easily against the tree trunk, crossing his feet and the ankles to rest on his heels, ‘I’m not here because all in that there bog was a culture I was part of. I’m here to watch it dragged out of the dirt because it’s something that will mark the people today. Look for what’s the same and not what’s different, you’ll never get anywhere otherwise.’

The ancient hill and the shiny metal cars that now drove around it, small and modern under forgotten giants. The same could be said about them and the archaeologists: Ireland watching the return of something he’d lost, and North watching it unfold to learn what would become a part of him, as the humans picked it all from the peat. The old and new, two sides of the same coin used for any purpose humans chose.

North pressed his lips together, his throat feeling tight. ‘Yeah. I get it.’ He paused, ‘Thanks.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ireland shake his head with a small smile, ‘You called me a cunt.’

‘You are a cunt.’

‘Ouch.’ Ireland held a hand to his chest in mock injury, ‘That hurt my feelings.’

‘You don’t have any feelings.’

‘In that case, I won’t share what’s in my bag.’

North looked to it, then back to his brother. His stomach rumbled, ‘I was wrong.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re not a cunt.’

‘I know, I’m so lovely.’

‘What’s in the bag?’

Ireland toed it with his shoe and grinned, ‘Just cheese sandwiches.’

‘I take it back; you are a cunt.’

‘Your loss.’

--------

AN:

Bog Bodies are human remains found in old peat bogs. The make up of the soil- the lack of oxygen and the particular mineral make up- is wonderful for preserving organic material by tanning it to almost leather. The result is perfectly preserved people, down to the hair on their heads or the pores of their skin

This story is set in 2003 and the discovery of Old Croghan Man, noted in different sources to have been found in May or June near Croghan Hill which the man was named after. The hill is very old and part of ancient and surviving modern local mythology, but the area itself was also regarded as something very special, a portal from our world to another beyond

Bog bodies ended up where they did for a variety of reasons: murder, accident, or even sacrifice. The old Irish Kings, as is one theory suspected for Old Croghan Man, could be held responsible for bad weather, or a bad harvest, and sacrificed to appease the Gods in the bog

More sources, if you're interested:

Thanks for reading!

[cbk1000]

I'm back on my the-ocean-terrifies-me-so-naturally-I'm-gonna-read-about-maritime-disasters bullshit, and I have decided to rate some of the shipwrecks I have read about by how personally terrifying they are to me. Note these are not rated in terms of loss of life/objectively worst, these ratings are simply based on how much they scare the shit out of me. I'm going to use a scale of 1-5, with 1 being, 'I guess if I absolutely had to be on a shipwreck this would be maybe the less terrible of absolutely horrific options' and 5 being, 'Absolutely the fuck not.' Putting under a cut for length and for any people who are normal and don't want to read about horrible maritime disasters.

Titanic 2/5: Let’s start with the most famous. I'm not going to add a summary for this one because literally everyone knows at least the basics. Why does it only get a 2/5 when there was such a huge death toll and not enough lifeboats? Because the ship took hours to sink, I'm middle-class and a woman, and therefore probably would have been a second class passenger, and of the 95 second class female passengers, 83 survived. I like those odds. The ship also went down on an even keel and didn't list much till the end, which, as you'll see later on, is not a courtesy the ocean affords many of these disasters. However, it was pitch black and in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and even if you were one of the lucky ones who got a lifeboat, you were in a tiny little boat on the vast black early morning expanse of the Atlantic, with no idea of when or if rescue would come, and that sure is a lot of nope.

Empress of Ireland 5/5: The Empress of Ireland is not nearly as well-known internationally, but it is often referred to as Canada's Titanic. She was an ocean liner that sank in 1914 near the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River after colliding with a Norwegian collier in thick fog. Of the 1,477 people on board, 1,012 died. Why does this get a 5/5? Because it sank in only 14 minutes, all the lights went out only a few minutes after the collision, and, to top it off, it happened early in the morning when pretty much all the passengers were sleeping, and on the first night of the voyage, before safety drills, so most of the passengers were unfamiliar with the layout of the ship. The list was also so severe, so quickly, that the port lifeboats couldn't be launched. If you were on a lower deck, you probably drowned almost immediately. If you were on an upper deck, you had minutes to navigate a pitch black ship whose layout you were unfamiliar with to get to the top, where you might not even get a lifeboat because half of them were out of commission. A salvage operation was commenced shortly after the sinking, and salvage divers found that many desperate passengers had tried to escape through their potholes and got stuck, and their bodies were seen hanging out the portholes. No. No. NO. I would have told the company to get their own fucking safe and booked it the fuck out of there.

Andrea Doria 4/5: The Andrea Doria was a luxury transatlantic ocean liner that sank in 1956 after colliding with the passenger liner Stockholm in fog off the coast of Nantucket. Only 51 people died, 46 from Doria, and 5 on Stockholm. The ship began to list severely immediately, rendering many of the lifeboats useless. However, the ship took 11 hours to sink, giving rescuers plenty of time to evacuate passengers. Almost all those who died did so as a result of the initial collision and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. So why is this rated so highly? Because hundreds of passengers were left clinging to the decks of a severely listing ships for hours, wondering if the ship would roll over at any moment. I read accounts of people lying flat and taking off their shoes so they could grip the deck with their toes as well. I don't want to be cock teased with whether or not I'm going to die, Atlantic Ocean, either kill me or don't.

MS Estonia 4/5: There are some conspiracy theories for this one regarding what really caused the sinking, so I'm just going to recount what official investigations found. The MS Estonia was a ferry that sank in stormy weather, in 1994 in the Baltic Sea enroute to Stockholm, Sweden, due to poor cargo distribution which cause the ship to list, and a faulty bow door that separated from the ship and pulled the ramp askew. This caused water to flood in and rapidly worsened the list that was already present. 852 of 989 onboard died. It sank in the middle of the night, and many passengers were trapped in the ship, and even some of those who made it to the lifeboats died of hypothermia. Survivors reported hearing multiple bangs on the ship (hence the conspiracy theories about explosions or a collision really causing the sinking). So, you're on a ship in the middle of stormy seas, you're hearing bangs, and either you're trapped and fucked, or you get to go out on a lifeboat (i.e. bath toy) in the middle of the night in a storm in the Baltic Sea. It's a no from me.

MV Doña Paz 5/5: The MV Doña Paz was a ferry that sank in 1987 on its way to Manila after a collision with an oil tanker. It was extremely overcrowded, with an estimated extra 2,000 passengers who were not on the manifest. An estimated 4,385 people died, with only 26 survivors. The oil tanker caught on fire, which then spread to the Doña Paz. Survivors reported that the lights went out just minutes after the collision, there were no life vests to be found, and the crew were running about in a panic. The fire rapidly spread onboard, prompting many people to dive into the oily water...which was also on fire. Oh, and it was shark-infested. And filled with the charred bodies of their fellow passengers. Most of the survivors sustained burns. So, here were your options: burn to death; drown; burn and then drown; burn, but get pulled out of the water by rescuers, along with only two dozen other people out of the thousands who were aboard. -1000000/10 do not recommend this maritime disaster holy Jesus.

[spieluhrzeit]

gifts i'd give to the rammboys:

till: a custom made stuffed bear from build a bear with a message recorded by me and perhaps a few other fans. a weighted blanket. a book on foraging and horticulture in general. more notebooks and a gift basket full of candy, including some stuff you can only find in ireland :3

flake: a nintendo 3ds xl that i modded myself and pre loaded with a bunch of my favourite games. the legend of zelda: breath of the wild AND tears of the kingdom for that nintendo switch i saw him lying next to in a photo his wife took. a voucher for a cat café. a book on vintage cars and some nice herbal tea

richard: a custom made lighter to look like a dragon breathing fire (with a message engraved of gratitude). black nail polish. fancy cigarettes and even fancier wine to pair with them. the first few volumes of death note or tokyo ghoul because i feel like he'd like those mangas and a cool shelf to put all his dvds on assuming he has them :))

schneider: a usb with a custom version of the original 1993 doom i made just for him. a nice and romantic date for him and ulrike. gloves to keep his hands from hurting while drumming. tickets to the next major handball tournament in germany and a new yoga mat

paul: the first ever build of a virtual pet game featuring minni. edible confetti that takes like chocolate. a fun day out with richard that may end in kissing 😳 /lh. a bubble machine for his whimsical self and matching outfits for him and minni

olli: the first few volumes of chainsaw man because i can see him enjoying that series as much as i do. a cool stand for his bass. a new surfboard. the chance to learn how to do parkour so he can climb higher walls for his fans and an opportunity to pet so many dogs in a puppy shelter in honour of minni landers :)

---

i kinda just started adding a gift that involves giving a piece of myself to them (i.e: my own interests) to each list of 5 and just rolled with it because i feel like that's so sweet 🥺 i just genuinely love them so much and they are my muses so ofc i'm gonna give a piece of my soul to them each <3

i put a lot of effort into this and tried to pick things i know they'd like so here we are lmaoo. i don't know the boys personally obviously so i went off of interviews, anecdotes, pictures and pure vibes :))

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Groupread. Book Two, Chapter XXX

Fatal Fate versus Divine Voluptousness

The Origin of a Better World, illustration for Ottavio Scarlatini's Homo symbolicus (1695) (please leaf through this book if you have the time and like me love allegorical emblems)

Patrick returns home, completely wrecked after the ceremonial degradation, and a walk home that however brief must have felt like a via crucis. His clothes mark him as a degraded man. I imagine the dirty looks, the insults and more from his former colleagues who now think him a murderer, seducer of women and a robber.

Deborah’s compassionate reaction to his state and humiliating clothes break him down. He returns psychologically to a conversation they had back in Ireland, when they were discussing which of the two was the doomed party and who was dragging the other to misfortune, a misfortune they could be spared of if they broke ties with the Doomed One? In the light of what has just happened, Patrick thinks it’s him. Poetry gives him wings and he expresses his despair like this:

“I am deadly, do you see! Let me roll from one abyss to another on my own; do not bind your life which without me would be beautiful, to mine, which shall be horrible till the end.”

(tr. @sainteverge )

these lines made me think of the opening verses of El desdichado. Here Patrick speaks to Deborah, but he also seems to speak to the reader, and perhaps incarnates more than just himself. We have seen many young men of Romantic French Literature looking deep into their souls and wondering if their problems (which are of a sociopolitical nature) are due to some tragic, constitutive fatal flaw that makes them not only incapable of happiness, but also harmful to those closest to them (like Lucien, a creature of a vastly different nature than Pat's, realizing how easily, how natural harming others comes to him. He is deadly and he doesn’t even intend to be so, it’s in his nature. Patrick is less about thoughtless bad choices and selfishness, but this seems like a common thread in Romanticism, there is something beyond the character's control, be it fate, or a poisonous nature, that not only hinders them, but more importantly, those they love. Why does this trope keep repeating itself in this in this context of great sociopolitical change and agitation, where things seem to escape the grasp of our reason and will.... seems like zeitgeist, more than a literary trend)

Deborah’s response is that she would always choose to bind her fate to his, no matter what. Is a life of comfort and worldly success worth anything without the One she loves above everyone else? Besides, she argues, it is her the one who has forsaken him, but she also doesn’t care about that, because being doomed together is a life so much more worth living than happiness in isolation from each other. She also argues that true love has to endure adversity, a love that only lasts while your partner is joyful isn’t real love either. She explains her role as a lover in rousseaunian/catholic terms, she has been put on earth to lighten the burden of her man's sorrow, he has to let her share his pain. The only condition Deborah would accept to let Patrick leave her, is if he believed she was the source of his unhappiness, or that in interfering with Fate she was making things worse. She even proposes he abandons her in times of joy, and returns to her when he is unhappy, her arms will always nurture him back to joy. Deborah is. Completely addicted to him, she would accept such a sorry role because anything is better than not seeing him again.

Patrickpassionately appologizes and responds: Stay if you want to immolate yourself. He admits he wants to drive her away from him because she is the only source of happiness, what is tying him to life, and he wants to die. And she is the only thing in the world his soul isn’t sick of. Patrick is trying to protect her from his depressive nature. (here the Dark Fate seems to take the form of untreated depression, Patrick is doomed because he is sick and has no idea how to deal with his sickness)  

Deborah then reveals she is pregnant. She can perhaps anticipate what Patrick’s reaction will be, because she doesn’t even address the fact that he just told her he sometimes want to die and drive her away from him because of this.

Patrick has a wild moodswing. Deborah's words bring him back to life in a way. He strips himself of his humiliating outfit, he tramples it, he showers Deborah with kisses. While doing so he gives a vital, perhaps kind of pagan sermon. He shouldn’t be surprised to be given such joy because god hasn’t actually denied him anything. And more startlingly for a catholic, listen to this beauty:

“God is the source of all voluptuousness”

He adds, like a true follower of Rousseau, “and the world is the source of all tribulations” Hell is other people, as later philosophers will say. Sensual pleasure and joy are nothing to feel guilty about since they are god given. the World, as a Cultural Entity, is what makes Evil possible. This Joy must be protected at all cost from Other Men. (aka Villepastour)

His vitality lasts enough for him to say he will know how to defend this god given source of joy. What follows is sadly less vital: they will hide their child, they will shield him from the world and mundane evil, that’s the only way to guarantee their child’s happiness.

Deborah agrees. I cannot judge them too harshly because in their situation it is very natural to feel that isolated, and in fact, after the horrors of the Home (actually Palace, not really a Home) as Prison, their venturing into the outside world has indeed been mostly negative. But this reaction seems thanatical. Is leaving France in secret no longer possible? Do they imagine all of Europe would be hostile to them? Is there no where to run, since monarchies are everywhere? (beacuse they don’t dream, like other Borelesian characters, of life outside of Europe) In a way, they yearn to recreate a Home Prison of Their Own for their child, even if they envison it as safe and joyful, it involves hiding and concealment and isolation,,, and not letting the child explore the world for his own. Again, the mindset seems like a comprehensible defense mechanism.

In a deeply touching and beautiful paragraph, Patrick confesses being a young father has been a lifelong dream of his. He plans a paradise life for just the three of them. Their youth will make them playmates of their child, the three of them will live in complete happiness together. Patrick wants none of that patriachal authority bestowed by old age, he wants to be a peer to his child, play together, enjoy life and nature the three of them, shielded from all social evils.

"(...)my constant desire was to have a son in my youth. Oh! what would I care to be a father later in life, to have sons who’d only know me dull and decrepit, who’d enter life when I’d descend into my tomb; who would miss me just when they need my solicitude; sons whom I’d never see grow into men, whose careers I wouldn’t be able to follow, whom I wouldn’t be able to support in the face of adversity. “I do not want a son who trembles at the sound of my austere voice, and who pities my white hair, and who keeps it shut in front of me. It is a friend that I want, a companion in life who loves and follows me in all places; who is young like me, and I fiery like him; who shares my games, my work, my illusions, my pain, my delights and even my debauches; finally who keeps no secrets from me in his heart, and I none in my heart from him. (...) He’ll be as beautiful as you, Deborah; he’ll be as beautiful as your soul! You’ll play together; he’ll be your doll; we’ll all three play together, without arguing ever. (...)"

(tr. by @sainteverge !!)

There's beauty, love, solidarity, camaradery, and of course a refusal of being a sombre source of grim authority for his son. The mention of his debauches is,,, interesting but I imagine he means he wants his son to trust him enough to share the stories of the adventures he will have, with him (so the isolation will not be complete after all) A son is not a doll, but, yeah, a beautiful paragraph, and an interesting example of Patrick, probably like a Wertherian Romantic rejecting Traditional Paternal Authority (another key theme in romantic Literature, the role of the father is constantly put into trial) and as is usual with him, traditional masculinity.

[ @counterwiddershins ]

[libidomechanica]

“Temper, O fair love,”

Often in lonely youth at once.     For pleasure, and grant but three, I would steer my skiff along     green shelving coasts, to hear me like a blood clot. And thunder-     rolls. Temper, O fair love,

all love’s force, choise sport, and string of     words, and should end: for easie things in two, breaks the water dewe.     I wonder’d how he suffer’d Infidels in his lap a     book, the white Alps alone;

I saw he had genius,—when a     tear falls, that wound. So pleasing sound: whereat the Firmament.     We three gods, whose voice within my mind the worthiest kings     have ever loved but formed

to feede, they keepen all the throned     seats unscalable but by a patient wing, and for     the needlepoint and stinging to her fall: she fell with shells,     and put the strange matter

with a not old, nor ever panting,     and tears even widows’ shrink, which words of unmeant bitter     draught intoxicates apace, and can no more: and none     of them mayst mightie vengeance

be content with interest, and     I trust he will only be the fire-balls of his might, even     dead, however and the tallest her wills not more covering     graces did vnto me

giue. Along the sheath, and merely     quizzical, to sorrow and shafts she stole aloft, and no     last word to her, night and Day? She took delight. Saw the last     peak of the day be found;

if Pearles, hir teeth be pearles     and cats, and the farmer of his bow, and fix itself with     beauties, called Cavalier servente, or despise her; and swallow     common bulk, those isles

of yore. Hale strengthened, and scarce fair     is used until mornings, afternoon—the Minster-clock has     just stepped on my little. To feel that you heard’st a low moanings     swell’d. This such a day

of summer gilds them yet, that in     a manner which proudly thrust out from beneath his cold thin     feet; and, ample as the bottoms of this, your little ease     of thy capacious bosom

ever flow. Which my words you     might be, there is so much you graced in this diplomatic     phrase, bid Ireland’s London Town! And breed up warriors seized up     without a part left over,

in all save things, but plead thy     maisters cause vniustly payned. She cast him to the Golden     Fleece his side grew a wife— too pure even for common things     below, are over: Here’s

a change, was of pale yellow     with a bald spot in some green enough, for sacred Phoebus     drew wide the aching foreheads; saw the Isle, and peace, when power     I had bene slayne,

and certain path to future states     to be bound nor sight to serve and bind, deeming bubble of     colour’d flame; till at last she flies too high! Make payment of     the tubes and thee to mee.