WHY do I ALWAYS fall in love with the characters that die? WHY AM I LIKE THIS?!
WHY do I ALWAYS fall in love with the characters that die? WHY AM I LIKE THIS?!
Никто не просил, но я сделал
Summary: Can Sweeney’s claims of a lucky coin really be true?
Warnings: Violence, mortal peril, Sweeney being handsy
CHAPTER 3 - Luck
(Possible proof reading errors/Possible Irish language & translation errors)
A/N: The song featured in this chapter is from Battlestar Galactica called Wander My Friends sung by Lilis Ó Laoire
Knowing I had to go back, I slipped Sweeney’s battered coin into my bra for safekeeping. I didn’t want to be responsible for losing actual gold if it fell out of my trouser pocket.
There was the minutest sense of tingling around the area but I chalked it up to the metal feeling cold.
When I went back in, I was relieved to see Bilquis and Mr Nancy had left leaving only Wednesday behind who was tucking into a burger and eyeing up some blonde girl across the bar with legs that went on forever. Fine by me, kept the attention off of me tonight.
I don’t know what it was but as I finished the last hour of my shift, I got more tips than usual. I also got compliments on my appearance which I was sure wasn’t anything special right now but luck? Couldn’t be.
After you got hit by an arm or leg, you really couldn’t tell anymore both were equally painful, for the fifth time you’d finally enough. If this was going to work someone had to pull himself together.
“For the love of…! Stop hitting me with your limbs already.” You screak, hitting Sweeney on the back as hard as possible while you try not to fall off of the back seat of the car. You had moved the backrest done, making enough space for a person to sleep comfortably. Probably even two. But you’d never know because someone was insisting on being a jerk, taking all the space for himself, outstretched like a resting lion after a meal.
“Stop your yipping I’m trying to sleep.” He shoves you back and you land in the space between front and back seat, awkwardly hanging in the air with half of your body on the floor, the other clinging onto the seat for dear life until you manage to pull yourself up again.
“You’re not the only one, you know? But it’s rather difficult with you taking all the space for yourself.”
“It’s difficult because you make it difficult.” He growls back, reaching his arm out at you, “Because you keep scurrying away instead of just letting me put my arms around you.” He finishes and demonstratively pulls you against him.
“This is not comfortable at all!”
“Yes, it is.”
Yes, it was.
The Wheel of Fortune
Premise: Mad Sweeney sees you drawing him and puts in a request.
I just got deep in my feels for Mad Sweeney again.
Also, gold star to those of you who get the Jane Eyre reference I made accidentally but kept.
Gif Source: schreiberpablo
There was a man seated in the far corner of the bar, downing pint after pint of the bitter stuff yet somehow still more sober than he should be. When he spoke, a lilting Irish accent spilled over his lips. Rusty red hair in some kind of flat Mohawk followed the curve of his thick skull. He didn’t so much sit in his chair but dwarf it, long legs stretching for miles before him.
But his eyes. Those were what drew your attention. Light-brown irises filled with deep-seated sadness, the kind drink and solitude compounded.
You noticed him come in the first night simply because you were trained to do so. You came to the bar frequently for two reasons: It was quiet and rarely likely to burst into fighting, and it got you out of the house, allowing your creativity some room to breathe. You liked to sit at your table, sipping at club soda, watching the other patrons. Your sketchbook flat on the table, you would draw the ones who caught your eye, men and women whose faces told a story you would try to decipher with words in a story later.
For five days in a row, you sat and drew the tall Irishman from every angle you could manage. Your pencil swept in sure strokes on creamy pages, capturing his profile. But the eyes you couldn’t quite reproduce.
It was killing you.
The sixth night, you pulled out your pencils, graciously accepted the fizzy water the bartender brought you—your standard order—and set to work on drawing the Irish giant.
Tonight, you told yourself, I’m capturing his sorrow.
You quickly sketched out his face with ease, his features almost second nature now, losing yourself in the demarcation of his russet beard from his jaw. You glanced up twice for reference.
He met your gaze the second time.
Cheeks reddening, you bent over the sketchbook. It wasn’t the first time you had made eye contact with a subject for your art, but it was the first time you felt intrusive.
A shadow fell over your table.
Swallowing thickly, you lifted your head. The Irishman, a veritable redwood, peered down at you, a laughable sapling in comparison.
“Why do ya keep staring at me?” he asked.
Gaping at him, you found your words failing. No one had ever noticed before.
He cocked his head to look at the sketchbook. Red eyebrows arching, he glanced back at you. “You draw a fine face.”
You nervously laughed, words tripping after the sound. “The credit goes to you for that.”
He smiled wide, flashing white teeth. “Flattery goes a long way.”
“I’ve done more,” you heard yourself say, pushing the sketchbook toward him. “You can keep one, if you want. Or, uh, all of them if you don’t want me to have any.”
He flipped through the pages of himself, nodding. He paused over your favorite, a sketch of him peering down at nothing, eyes dark and tragic, the slope of his jaw defined even through his beard. For a moment, you prayed he wouldn’t ask for that one.
“Can you draw me as a king?”
You almost laughed, wanting to say, High aspirations? But his eyes were heavy, his voice serious.
“Yes,” you answered. You gestured to the seat across from you.
“Not here. Outside. By the trees.”
It was late, nearly midnight, but the trees weren’t far from the bar, and the full moon overhead provided strong light. Nodding slowly, you gathered up your things and excused yourself to settle your bill—simply so you could tell Freddy where you were going and to ask him to check for you in ten minutes.
You followed the giant out into the bright night.
You found a spot where you could see him against the backdrop of trees. Balancing your sketchbook on your knees, you opened to a blank page and looked at him. He took a sip from his Guinness and stared up at the moon, his face bathed in the strong light.
“Would you like to tell me your name?” you asked.
“Sweeney. Mad Sweeney.”
“Mad as in angry or mad as in crazy?”
You tapped the back of the pencil against the sketchbook, unsure whether to be concerned or not. His sad eyes lingered on yours.
“Why aren’t ya drawing?”
“I have to see you,” you murmured, trying to picture him as a king. “What kind of king?”
His expression faltered, eyes infinitely sadder. He stared down into the Guinness. “I don’t remember.”
Chest constricting, you tore your gaze away from him, stared down at the blank paper. Never had you ever quite felt like a voyeur before as you did around this Mad Sweeney.
“Draw me,” he said, his voice gruff, like he was strangling something in his throat.
Once you were a king.
The thought floated across your mind as you looked at him. You didn’t know where it had come from, but the longer you stared, the more you believed it.
You knew with sudden clarity how to draw him.
Feverish. That’s how you remember drawing him. It felt like time both raced on and slowed down, that the whole of the world boiled down to the two of you, the moon spotlighting you both.
When you drew the final stroke, you exhaled explosively, as though you had been holding your breath, and inhaled just as quickly, as though you had been drowning.
You stared down at your work.
Two Sweeneys graced the page. One, the one sitting before you, looked down into the bottom left corner, eyelids lowered, face a tragic, weary mask, cuts on his cheekbones. The other peered up into the top right corner, eyes bright and wise, hair grown out, a simple and elegant crown on his head. You weren’t sure how, but it seemed like the sun shone on the king, and the moon caressed the broken man.
With shaking hands, you tore the sheet from its binding and offered it to him, a humble supplicant with head bowed before their sovereign.
Frowning, he took it.
Silence reigned for an eternity.
When he looked up, tears glimmered in his eyes, one spilling over an eyelid and trailing down his cheek.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He turned over his hand. Gold twinkled in his massive palm, coins clinking against each other.
“It’s free,” you managed to say.
“Take the coins.”
“Consider it a gift.”
He frowned, waved his hand away. The coins disappeared.
“Then I guess I owe you,” he muttered.
You stood quickly as he rose, placing your hand on his arm. “No, you don’t owe me anything. There is no debt.”
He met your gaze, searching. “I believe you.”
Nodding in relief, you relinquished his arm. He stared at you for another long moment, then sniffed, as though coming back to himself. He turned away, then turned back.
“Can I ask for one more thing?”
“Believe in me.”
You smiled weakly, the words tumbling unchecked from your mouth. “Of course I will. You’re a king.”
A ghost of a sad smile touched his lips.
You returned home in something of a daze. It wasn’t until you set your sketchbook down that you heard a clink. You looked down.
A single gold coin slid out between the pages.
Pablo Schreiber getting ready as Lugh for “Treasure of the Sun”
Summary: Receiving a call from Papa Midnite to help out with an unknown supernatural, you journey to Jack’s Crocodile Bar where you run into someone new….and someone you didn’t want to see.
Commission piece for @dragonlover13hr
Warnings: Angst, death, smut, John being John
(Possible proof reading errors)
*Please do not replicate my work anywhere without my express permission*
Word Count: 5,982
You made some less than charitable comments when your phone went off at three in the morning.
Groping for it as it rang shrilly, you answered without looking at the screen with a bleary, “What do you want?”
“Hello to you too, my dear,” comes that deep smooth voice.
“Midnite? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Must have slipped my mind,” he chuckles. “I have a favour to request.”
“Of course you do.”
“You owe me from last time, girl. Erzulie rather liked being in your body.”
“Yeah well I didn’t enjoy her hijacking it myself,” you reply acidly. “And that was your fault it happened.”
“What kind of magic user doesn’t have protection against possession?”
“One that isn’t expecting to be possessed.”
Here are the prosthetics and makeup worn by Pablo Schreiber during “A Prayer for Mad Sweeney” (first season of American Gods) - for the scene of “Mad Sweeney seeing his own death”.
I’m a fucking leprechaun 💚🧡
If Dead Wife and Mad Sweeney dont fall in Love, Ima be mad.