#fic as gaeilge

[apaelfwine]

Mar a Fuair Cú Chulainn Síob go Cuaille

Tráthnóna álainn fómhair bhí mé i mo shuí i dTeach Abeba, an siopa caife is ansa liom in Eamhain Mhacha, agus mé ar mo sháimhín só, nuair a tháinig Cú Chulainn isteach. D’aithin mé ar an toirt go raibh mo dhuine réidh le gar a iarraidh orm. Bhrú mé mo shrón ar ais san iris seandálaíochta a bhí á léamh agam, agus ghuigh mé Rí na Glóire agus Muire na nGrást go raibh dul amú orm. D’fhéadadh nach bhfuil sé anseo ach chun cailín a bhréagadh, an barista álainn úr as Corcaigh, abair.

Tá seanaithne agam air, an dtuigeann tú? Casadh dúinn lena chéile ar an mheánscoil nuair a chonaic mé dalta céad bhliana agus stócach mór láidir sa cheathrú bhliain—mar a bhí mise ag an am—ag tabhairt aghaidh ar a chéile. Rinne mé iarracht teacht eatarthu leis an leaid beag a shábháil... ach mar a tharla ba é mo pháirtí ranga a fuair an greadadh.

D’fhoghlaim mé níos déanaí go raibh Séadanda Mac Neasa ag staidéar ealaín chomhraic faoi stiúir an traenálaí cháiliúil Culann Mac Gabhainn ó bhí sé sé nó seacht mbliana d’aois. Sin mar a fuair sé an leasainm a thugann achan duine—lasmuigh dá athair, Sualdamh Mac Róich, agus dá mháthair, Deichtine Nic Neasa—air, fiú a uncail, Conchúr Mac Neasa, Ardthiarna Uladh.

An gcuirfeá locht air? Ainm ar nós Séadanda... bhuel, d’fhéadadh go ndéarfá nach bhfuil ceart cainte agam féin agus Lao Mac Rianghabhra orm.

Aidhe, caithfidh mé a admháil go bhfuil gaol i bhfad amach idir mise agus Cú s’againne. De shliocht laochra na Craoibhe Rua muidne, de shliocht na tiarnaí agus na ridirí a chuir ruaig ar na Normannaigh agus—ar mhaithe an bhráithreachas Cheiltigh, mar a scríobhadh i seanleabhair scoile, nó ar ghrá na creiche, mar a maíonn staraí an lae inniu—a sheol trasna Mhuir Éireann le troid in éadan na Sacsanach nuair a chuir ríochtaí Gwynedd agus Rheged Athghabháil na Breataine i gcrích. De shliocht na saighdiúirí uaisle a d’iompair Gall Gréine na hÉireann ar fud an domhain agus a chloígh Forghabhálaí na Baváire sa Chogadh Eoráiseach, mar a chuireann Daideo i gcuimhne domh gach uair a bhfaigheann sé deis.

Ainmneacha seanfhaiseanta... laethanta saoire scoile á gcaitheamh againn i dtithe móra seanchaite i gcuideachta seanóirí a raibh níos mó eolas acu ar mhionsonraí stair mhíleata na Meánaoise ná ar rud ar bith a tharla sa chéad seo... seanscéal uaisle na hÉireann agus meirg air, tá a fhios agat.

Chuala mé gliogaireacht na slabhraí amaideacha ar an tseaicéad leathair a bhíodh á chaitheamh aige le déanaí, amhail is dá mbeadh Macdara Mallaithe nó punc-cheoltóir eile ó na seachtóidí ann, agus thuig mé go raibh sé ag teacht i mo threo. Ba mhór an trua nach raibh clóca draíochta agam mar a bhí ag an leaid—Harri y Crochenydd, nó ainm mar sin—sna leabhair fantaisíochta ón Bhreatain a bhíodh mo dheirfiúr is óige gafa leo, chun go bhféadfainn dul i bhfolach.

Shuigh sé síos ag an bhord in aice liom, gan chuireadh gan iarraidh. “Tráthnóna maith duit, a Lao, a bhráthair. Caide mar atá tú?”

D’amharc mé go géar air, ach sula dtiocfadh liom focal a rá tháinig iníon an úinéara chugainn, tráidire ina lámha. Leag sí pota úr caife ar an bhord dharach smolchaite, agus cupán glan do Chú Chulainn. “Go raibh maith agat, a Mhakeda” ar seisean, agus rinne sí meangadh gáire leis, a haghaidh álainn chrón lasta le phléisiúr mar a bheadh Oisín Óg ann in áit rógaire ceart críochnaithe agus gruaig thrídhathach air.

“Mura miste leat, d’ordaigh mé pota dúinn beirt.” Líon sé mo chupán le caife sula dhoirt sé a chuidse. Duine múinte go smior é, ar a bhealach féin. "Im?"

Gan smaointeamh, thóg mé an babhla a shín sé chugam agus chuir mé prionta beag ime i mo chaife. “Cad é a thug anseo thú, a Chú?”

Chrom sé ar a chupán féin—é ag cur daba mór meala ann, ar nós páiste—agus chorraigh sé é. “An gá cúis a bheith agam caint le seanchomrádaí dílis?” D’ardaigh mé mo mhala, agus lig sé osna as. “Bhuel, mar a tharlaíonn... Aon seans go dtiocfadh leat síob a thabhairt domh ag deireadh na seachtaine, le do thoil?”

“Dáiríre? Do charr á dheisiú arís, an ea? Agus an carr eile chomh maith?”

“Bhuel...”

“Cad é a rinne tú anois?”

Tháinig cuma na náire air. Is annamh an rud é sin, mise á rá leat. “Tá cosc tiomána orm. Sé mhí, an gcreidfeá?”

D’amharc mé suas chun na bhflaitheas. “Agus é tuillte ort gan amhras, a mhic-ó.”

“Débhealach a bhí ann, in ainm Dé! Bhí mé sách cinnte nach raibh an teorainn luais chomh íseal sin. Níl sé féaráilte in aon chór.”

“Agus an t-am roimhe sin?”

“Tá a fhios agat féin céard a dúirt an cladhaire Connachtach úd Feilimí Mac Eochaidh. ‘Gliogar gránna de sheancharr spíonta,’ a thug sé ar Liath Mhacha s’agamsa! Ar onóir Uladh amháin a chuaigh mé ag rásaíocht leis! Cad chuige faoin spéir nár thuig an breitheamh go raibh mé ag cosaint chlú ár gcúige? Mar is dualgas liom ó bhroinn!”

Chroith mé mo chloigeann. “In ainm Chroim, a Chú, tá Ríocht na hÉireann ina monarcacht bhunreachtúil le trí céad bliana anuas.”

Rinne sé comhartha gáirsiúil. “Fuair mé pas le gradam in Oideachas Saoránach, creid nó ná creid.”

Chreid mé, déantar na fírinne. Tá intleacht mhaith ag Cú s’againne, cé gur annamh a mbíonn sí á húsáid aige le rud ar bith a dhéanamh seachas cliúsaíocht le iarrthóirí PhD. “Mar sin, caithfidh go bhfuil tuiscint agat nach bhfuil ceart éirice nó cód na laochra nó a leithéid de raiméis ann níos mó. Níl cead raide agat, d’ainneoin gur nia Thiarna Uladh thú. Nó aigesean, d’ainneoin gur mac Bhantiarna Chonnachta é féin.”

“Ar son Uladh...” ar seisean faoina anall.

Rinne mé mo dhícheall cur i gcéill nár chuala mé é. “Agus roimhe sin?”

“Níor thiomáin mé ach tríocha ciliméadair thar an teorainn... agus nach álainn í an garda a tharraing i leataobh mé? Theip orm áitiú uirthi an ticéad a scriosadh, ach mar sin féin bhí sí breá sásta dul amach liom an Satharn ina dhiaidh sin. Fuair mé luach an ticéid agus tuilleadh ar an oíche úd, creid uaimse é, a chailleach.”

Sin é Cú Chulainn agat. Fear mór na mban é, d’ainneoin an chlúimh nár fhás fós air. De réir na cosúlachtaí, tá dúil ag cailíní an lae inniu i stócaigh dathúla ar nós na mboc sna mbannaí buachaillí.

Bhuel, níl mé ag gearán. Tá neart ban ann go fóill nach bhfuil dall ar an fhéasóg fhearúil s’agamsa, geallaim duit.

Lig mé osna uaim. “Maith go leor, a Chú. Más rud é nach bhfuil cead tiomána agat, cad chuige faoin spéir go bhfuil tú ag iarraidh síbe uaimse? Cé mhéad tiománaithe gairmiúla a bhfuil fostaithe ag Clann Mhic Neasa, nó ag do dhaid go pearsanta?”

Chuir sé strainc air féin. “Cuireann siad uilig Séadanda orm! Bhraithfinn mar a bheinn faoi chúram fheighil leanaí. Nach fearr comrádaí dílis a dtuigeann go bhfuil fear feasta ionam?”

“Más rud é go bhfuil, a mhic-ó.”

“Ó, cinnte, seanduine liath atá ionat, a Lao.”

Deamhan a fhios agam cad chuige ar ghéill mé dó, ach ghéill sa deireadh, go bhfóire Dia orm. Agus sin mar a tharla mé a bheith ag stiúradh Mercedes maorga a thug mo dhuine Dubh Sanglainn air—ní ligfeadh an náire don Chú taisteal sa Citroën beag praiticiúil agamsa, agus ní ligfeadh an ciall domhsa tiomáint charr spóirt a bhíodh súil géar á choimhéad ag na gardaí air, amhail Liath Mhacha s’aigesean—chuig Ionad Comhdhála Cuaille agus Comórtas Tháin an Dá Tharbh, an tionól ealaín chomhraic is mó in Éirinn.

Thug mé fá deara le déanaí go raibh corpas fanfic ann don Táin, ach é uilig i mBéarla. Mar sin, ba léir go raibh dualgas orm an bhearna a líonadh. Ní bhfuair mé trácht ar bith ar AO3 go fóill agus an scéal seo ar an tsuíomh le mí anuas, agus mar sin rith sé liom gur chóir domh triail a bhaint as é a phostáil anseo.

#fic as gaeilge #ficsean leanúna #fanfic #Táin Bó Cúailgne #Cú Chulainn #Lao Mac Rianghabhra #modern au #gaeilge

[here-there-be-drag0ns]

as soon as im confident enough in my gaeilge learning to write my gaeilge-as-primordial fic its OVER for you motherfuckers

#i NEED to make my blorbos speak my language #pleaaaaassseeee just to have gillion greet caspian or edyn in primodial with 'cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?' would be enough #im GOING to write a fic where i make them speak gaeilge i swear to GOD #unfortunately i barely figured out english grammar so i am Struggling in my classes #if there are any jrwi fans who speak gaeilge hi hello please talk to me id love to meet you #dragons chatting #jrwi riptide #jrwi #just roll with it #jrwiblr #just roll with it riptide #gillion tidestrider

[aiteanngaelach]

SCREAM

#I was curious as to whether there were fics as Gaeilge and I was checking and there was a fic of the Michael Collins movie (which fun fact m #First year maths teacher was in) and there was an unironic dev/Collins fic???!??!! #Genuinely threw my phone away agahgsg #It was as Béarla as well #I wouldve clicked into it but Im convinced my ira great gran uncle who got burnt to death in the war of independence (rip) would rise again #To burn me #Stop so fucking funny

[ly0nstea]

i translated one of my fics to irish

#avatar the last airbender #avatar #atla #azula #irish #irish language #gaeilgóir #gaeilge #fic #avatar fic #fic writing #fics

[sesamestreep]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

thank you @philtstone for tagging me! 🥰

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

22, apparently 😇

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

223,131 📝

3. What fandoms do you write for?

super indie small fandoms like Star Wars and Marvel, with a side of some Sorkin shows (🤧) and the occasional Natasha Pulley novel with three fans and a paperclip as the reader base.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

and never ever watch the ten o’clock news (Rogue One, Jyn & Bodhi BFF fic/Psych AU, no one is more shocked than me this is my number 1 fic but it’s also my oldest one on AO3, so there’s something to seniority??)

don’t think about it all too much (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian, The Newsroom AU)

how many acres, how much light (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian + Crew as Family, Everybody Lives type deal that I wrote for my darling @philtstone so thanks buddy 😊)

i know the kind of home we’d share (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian, North & South AU, another shocker on this list tbh but also an oldie)

of all the strangers, you’re the strangest that I see (Rogue One, Jyn/Cassian, Medieval-ish Arranged Marriage AU)

RIP TO MY OTHER FANDOMS I GUESS??

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, always, even though sometimes it takes me a while (big time executive dysfunction around these parts). I’m generally the worst when it comes to leaving comments on fic I love because I get nervous and can never come up with something sane and/or worthwhile to say, so I try to show my appreciation for the lovely people who leave me (the unworthiest of cads) lovely comments by at least replying and saying thank you!

6. What is a fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I guess that would be under the light of a lonely star because it ends on a sort of cliffhanger and one half of the pairing still doesn’t know the other person’s name (which commenters have pointed out was cruel of me and they’re right). I do hope to continue it someday and make it into a full series of some kind but I’m not sure when that will happen. Runner up is damned to pining through the windowpanes, but it’s maybe more wistful slow burn vibes than pure angst. I leave it to the reader to decide.

7. What’s a fic you've written with the happiest ending?

most of them are pretty happy, though I do think I like to leave characters on the precipice of happiness rather than like…on their wedding day or whatever with everything wrapped up perfectly. For argument’s sake, and because I doubt I’ll get to shout it out elsewhere, I’ll say fast forward and we’re taking on the world together because it’s a series post-script about how great the characters lives became later on, which is pretty darn happy.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope! I’m very lucky. I do get some (maybe not intentional) backhanded compliments here and there but commenting etiquette can be a tough line to walk sometimes, so I try to imagine people are trying to be nice overall.

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

Not that I’ve published. It just hasn’t been something I felt drawn to write so far. I have some WIP fics that might be classified that way, though… 👀

10. Do you write crossovers?

I write a lot of AUs but not crossovers, if we’re defining it as “characters from property A interact with characters from property B, and their universes are not canonically connected at all.” It’s just not my jam to write, though I’ve certainly enjoyed reading it in other people’s work!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not as far as I know!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don’t believe so!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Yep! I co-wrote summer came like cinnamon, so sweet with the talented amazing showstopping @firstelevens this past summer after I bullied her into letting me write some stuff for the bake-off AU and it’s my pride and joy and the most fun I’ve ever had writing a fic.

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

I think from a purely numerical standpoint, it’d have to be Jyn/Cassian but…. I don’t really have a favorite?? There’s a ton of ships I love that I’ve written long fics for and tons I’ve written random one off prompt fills on here that I’ve never posted to AO3 and tons that I love that I’ve never written for, either because it has never occurred to me or because no one’s ever asked! So yeah, deeply bisexual answer, but I cannot choose.

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

For stuff with already published installments, I would love to finish my Graceland series some day, add to my Cloak and Dagger AU some more like people have asked, and figure out where to take follow me like the moon eventually, but…my motivation for Rogue One fic has significantly decreased for a variety of reasons (none of which are lack of reader response because god, rogue one fans are the best readers out there, they always show up for the creators in the fandom)

My even more real answer is that I genuinely never expect to finish anything I start 🙈 [bruce banner voice] that’s my secret, cap…

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue, I think? It’s my favorite thing to write so maybe that’s just vanity. I also think I’m good at pastiching different styles, which is helpful since I write a LOT of AUs. Also, recently I’ve been taking a lot more risks in terms of format and style in my fic and I do think I’ve proven more successful at it than I expected to be!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Uh….follow through??? 🫠 I get very distracted easily and tend to have like 200 WIPs at a given time, and maybe if I could focus more or impose any sort of structure on my brain, I would finish more stuff but I am doing this for fun so I believe in following my bliss to an extent. Also, research and world-building are VERY difficult for me and so I avoid writing anything where I’ll have to do a lot of either…

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic.

I don’t think people should be afraid to do it when it’s important/adds value to the story BUT I am also very scared of doing it, haha, so I’m a hypocrite. It’s never come up as a necessity for me yet and I speak very few languages anyway, so…yeah, I don’t have strong opinions on this one, besides be nice to authors who do it and try their best! Fanfiction is free!!! We’re all in this for the love of it!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

UH????? First published fanfic was for Rogue One/Star Wars, but I might have a WIP/draft of a fic for The Newsroom that’s older…

20. Favorite fic you’ve written.

I already said I had the most fun I’ve ever had writing summer came like cinnamon, so sweet with @firstelevens and I just think it’s a perfect rom-com of a fic! But also, sometimes I re-read come and get your honey to cheer myself up because it’s a very light and silly established relationship fic (which fandom generally hates, just looking at kudos/interaction levels, but I adore and I will DIE ON THIS HILL!!!) 🍯🐻

✨

tagging @carolinepenvenens @incognitajones @flythesail and anyone else who might want to do it!

#writer asks #20 questions #about me #but actually! #homelywenchsociety #that’s my writing tag! don’t worry about it! #tag game #philtstone #nobody call me out that I promised Matt would speak gaeilge in that one fic… #it will likely never see the light of day forgive me #I forgot about that and I don’t feel like going back and editing my answer #22 fics… RIP….

[pebblysand]

Hiya, there’s a tiny typo/spelling mistake in your bio.

*Baile Átha Cliath rather than Baile Atha Cliath

Nothing serious obviously. Just thought you might want to know.

I LOVE CASTLES SO MUCH! I WANT TO PRINT IT OUT, BIND IT AND PUT IT ON MY SHELF. I read it in one sitting just yesterday! If I ever make one of those Ao3 collections that go like “Best of:” or “ Greatest Hits”… it’ll be there.

I didn’t check the date when I read it and for whatever reason (I was recommended it rather than finding it myself), I thought it was finished! I had downloaded it on iBooks because I like how book-like the format is and when it finished with Harry being like “that was the best thing I’ve done since May” and that epic “Dolores Umbridge’d barbaric resumé” line, I was like THAT’S IT???? So then I checked the Ao3 page and you’d updated the fic since I’d started reading it! I can’t remember being so thrilled. AND THERE’S ANOTHER CHAPTER EXPECTED AUGUST 3rd? TOMORROW? AGGGHHHHH! Your chapters are gorgeously long too!

Anyway, many thanks for this lovely fic from a girl in Galway.

in one setting??? are you okay anon?? thank you sooo much, that’s so sweet ❤️. glad you’re enjoying so far. there is a chapter coming up tomorrow, if work allows 🤞.

and, alright, i will the fada. i feel the need to say this as i’m assuming you’re new: i’m an immigrant to dublin but i do live here, i’m not just some dumb bitch claiming to be “1/4 irish”. i just… didn’t bother pressing the á a few seconds longer when typing my bio four years ago lol. i did receive hate as gaeilge a couple months ago though, does that restore my street cred? 🤣

lots of love ❤️. thanks again for your super kind words, i really appreciate it! welcome to this trainwreck of a fic 🤗

also, love galway! such a lovely place 🥰. it’s my fave!

#fic #writing #castles #as gaeilge

[backbracebruin]

Dear fanfic writers,

If you ever waiver in your confidence while writing or wonder what sort of impact you may have upon your readers when you find that the level of engagement is lacking, I want to assure you that there is a teenage girl who loves them dearly and she is copying them as Corel Word Perfect files to save to an external hard drive that she'll discover again when she's in her 30s, and it will have her flailing about them anew.

Sincerely,

A once teenage girl who is now in her 30s.

#i don't remember fuck all about the grapes of wrath #but i remember the buffy au and the veronica mars fixit that never got endings #and now i have the actual evidence in front of me #also discovering all of my olds fics and wheewwwwwww #my command of gaeilge was much better in my youth #fanfic

[venbeth]

Ar mhaith leat drabble as gaeilge? Bhuel, seo duit!

[Justified; Givenson; 100 focail; M/M; gach duine]

#justified #justified fx #fic #fanfiction #gaeilge #ao3 #drabble

[grimm-writings]

hi hi it's bard anon again :) i was rereading the manga and remembered that chilchuck's nightmares would be about losing his daughters... could you write about reader going into his dream (like laios did for marcille) and helping him through it? maybe also promising to keep his secret, asking if he's still married, etc. hehe

aisling

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! hurt/comfort, reader is not a half-foot, some descriptions of gore and body horror, CHILCHUCK PSYCHOANALYSIS 🔥 

…wc! 1773

…notes! grimm lore drop, i’m irish! thus the title of this fic is after the as gaeilge word for ‘dream’. enjoooooy <3

You repeat Laios’ instructions in your head as you try to drift off.  Chilchuck’s body is a bit small to make much of a pillow, but at least his warmth distracts you from the worried stares of your peers.

“You probably have to fight through your own nightmare to get to him!”  Laios keeps reassuring you.  “So be on guard!  Remember what I told y–”

“They get it, Laios!” Marcille yanks the tall-man away from where you’re struggling to drift off.  His barrage of information is in good faith, but it isn’t exactly the best white noise to fall asleep to.

Eventually, you find yourself in your dreamscape.  Quickly, quickly, you let your mind run with ideas of how to ‘dig down’ as Laios described it.  Chilchuck is resting underneath you, so the only way to go was in fact down.

The question is… how?

It took a lot of quick-thinking in order to bypass your own personal insecurities (you don’t have the time to dwell on them– Chilchuck is in trouble!) but eventually you imagined a jackhammer drill to make your way down.  You had to admit it wasn’t the most efficient, but it was the first thing you could come up with!

When you land and face another injury on your backside again, you groan, hoping the effects of the nightmare meant your pain wouldn’t carry over into the real world.

You look up, surprised to find yourself in what looks like a cottage.  It would be rather cosy-looking if not for the torn wallpaper, axe thrown into the wall, and blood splattered all over the place.  You could even hear despairing wails of crying echoing through the place…

Hang on.  You try to prick up your ears.  No, it doesn’t sound too distant at all.  You try to navigate your way through the place that was once a loving home.  You take notice of your size in comparison to the door frames and furniture– you’re way too large in comparison.  This is a home of a half-foot.

Was a home of a half-foot you know very well, you realise with your blood running cold.  Entering the next room you found Chilchuck.  He’s on his knees, hands being held in the air and shaking in a way you’ve never seen him before.  He’s horrified.  Over his lap are the heads of three girls, all brutally mutilated and bloodied in ways that made you feel ill.  One girl looks nearly identical to Chilchuck.

You have a suspicion of what’s going on.

What you have to do is protect Chilchuck from the emotional scarring of the nightmare.  How can you do that, when he already has the blood of three people– likely loved ones– on his hands?  You can hear him whispering “why me?” over and over in the shakiest whimper before he chokes mid-sob.

Creeping over without a sound proves difficult as the door creaks loudly.  Chilchuck immediately stops his crying and freezes as he looks up at you.

‘Be encouraging,’ Laios’ words echo in your mind, ‘encourage him to overcome his fear the nightmares are exploiting.’

Easier said than done, as you can hear another presence approaching.  Your footstep must have alerted it.  Chilchuck rises to his feet.

“It’s coming,” he tells you, trying to keep his voice firm and grounded, “but don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

…Oh!  Looks like he’s already well underway trying to fight back against the nightmare!  This will be easy!  You were so chuffed, you almost forgot that usually you aren’t supposed to be recognised in dreams.

Still, you watch as Chilchuck limps to stand in front of you.  He looks… smaller than usual.  Odd.

You tug on Chilchuck’s tunic with an appreciative grin.  “You’re so brave, Chil.  I know you can defeat the intruder!”

“...Yeah.  It’s my job to get you outta this mess, huh?”

An odd thing to say, but you agree nevertheless.  Encourage, encourage, encourage.  “You’ll get us out of here in no time,” you whisper to Chilchuck, rubbing the fabric of his tunic reassuringly.  “I have faith in you.”

He shifts under your touch as you say this.

You glance over at the limp bodies of the three girls.  You wonder what had gotten them so grievously injured.  Their wounds look non-existent save for splashes of blood on their clothes and red running from their lips.  Chilchuck has already been a bit queasy towards gore.  Maybe imagining anything too excessive would be too much for him.

Then, ‘it’ arrives.

It was a twisted amalgamation of flesh and bone.  Its jaw is unhinged, what could either be blood-red lipstick or the bodily fluid itself running from you think are its lips.  Its hair was dark and matted.  It’s just barely shorter than Chilchuck himself, you notice.  It’s like an uncannily recreated half-foot woman.

When it sees Chilchuck, it screams in a woman’s voice, something about how ‘it’s supposed to be date night.’ 

It ran away at the very sight of him.  At the sight of him with you.

What could that mean…?

Once it leaves, Chilchuck collapses again.  He looks up at you, his eyes big and full of terror.  “Is the party okay?  Where are they?!  I need– I need to make sure they don’t–”

He begins crawling over to the door.  The party?  They’re… here?  No, this is probably another aspect of his nightmare.  These girls are here, either dead when he found them, or he watched them get hurt.

Either way, he was too late.

Cogs began to turn.  Could Chilchuck be afraid of… not being able to protect his loved ones from harm?  The cottage was basically turned into a slaughterhouse.  As for the monster…

“Who’s that woman?” you ask.

“I– I think it’s supposed to be my wife,” he explains rather easily.  Maybe the dreams encourage such honesty.  “But it isn’t.  I know it isn’t.  None of this makes sense…”

…His wife? 

No, no, not the time…  Later.

“That’s because it’s a nightmare, Chil…” you try to explain.  “You have to face your fear.”

“My fear?!”  Chilchuck turns to glare at you.  “Sorry for being so naive, but my ‘fear’ is out of my control!  If I’m here, there’s a chance no one will get hurt.  I–I just need to find the rest of you.  I can’t let you be taken away from me because I was being stupid.”

You grab Chilchuck’s wrist to prevent him from limping away into the cottage’s halls.  “Why don’t you… talk to it– I mean, your wife?”

He freezes.  He turns back at you, his glare making his eyebags look heavier.  “Are you insane?”

“She’s your wife.”

Chilchuck swallows.  His wrist slips from your grip so he could intertwine his fingers with you instead.  “There’s too many things I know she’ll ask from me.”

“Like?”

“Like…  Why don’t I come home more often?  Do I love her anymore?”

You squeeze Chilchuck’s hand, rising to your feet.  “Do you?”

“I do.”  He doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Then tell her.”

Chilchuck deliberates on this for a moment.  He then looks up at you.

“Stay with me,” he requests in the quietest voice, “stay with me as I talk to her.”

Though his words made your chest feel weird, you shake your head.  “This is your job as a husband.  Not anyone else’s.  You can’t protect everyone forever, not even yourself.  Running won’t solve anything.”

Chilchuck is quiet for a few seconds, taking in your words.  He then slowly nods.  “At least walk with me over there.”

“Now that I can do,” you return with a smile.

The floors creak underneath your feet as you journey through the halls.  You can see in the corners of your eye, in the kitchen, a certain dwarf bloodied and kneeling over the sink.  You recognise the body of a spindly tuxedo cat with her arm hanging as she lays on the rafters.  She’s the source of the dripping red onto your clothes.

“I couldn’t protect them, trying to be everywhere at once,” Chilchuck murmurs as you come across an elf strangled with her own hair.

Your eyes lay on the woman feeding on the remains of a tallman and squeeze Chilchuck’s hand.

“It’s okay.  Just talk to her.”

He looks up at you, and you nod.  Chilchuck smiles slightly, and you can see a bit of that spark in his eyes again.  “It… really is a dream that you’re here, y’know?”

You return the smile, and move away.  You’re just out of the room when you hear Chilchuck take a breath and say, “so how about that date night, my love?”

As you walk away, you notice that from the room you left, light seems to be seeping through.  Before you know it, it envelops you.

Suddenly, you’re awake in the dungeon again.  When Laios awoke after saving Marcille, it was very sudden and unpleasant.  Yet this… this was calm, and you feel all fuzzy…

…Oh, but if you could only remember what had happened.  The images are blurry in your mind.  You do remember one thing, at least—

“You’re awake!”  Marcille’s voice is the first to grab your attention, helping you sit up.  “That’s a good sign!”

Laios is there behind you.  “And here’s Chil.  How ya doin’, buddy?”

“Shut it,” Chilchuck’s groggy morning voice is the most relieving thing to hear right now.  Seems you were successful in your mission, even if you can’t remember most of it.

Laios whines a little.  “Don’t be like that!  You had nightmares!  And your hero is right here!”

As Chilchuck sits up and turns to look at you in surprise, you wave back sheepishly.  Laios takes the opportunity to take Chilchuck’s pillow and get rid of the clam-like monsters.

“Oh,” Chilchuck responds with a few blinks.  “I was wondering why my dream was nicer than usual.”

“Oooh, what didja dream about?” Marcille asks nosily.  As she leans her face in, Chilchuck furrows his brow and pushes her away, claiming it’s none of her business.

The answer would be given soon when Senshi takes the opportunity to boil the nightmares.  A cottage scene, and there Chilchuck was, laughing and smiling as he has a candlelit dinner with…

You?

“Enough, enough, enough!” Chilchuck was quick to try and push the pot lid down over the clams in embarrassment.

What?  That’s not how you remember things going.  You squint.  “But I thought you had a…”  You look over at Chilchuck trying to fight back against the questions and accusations being thrown at him from all sides.  

You can’t help but smile a little, flushing a bit pink.  You can keep a secret.

#✮ grimm's fics! #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #delicious in dungeon imagines #dungeon meshi imagines #chilchuck #chilchuck tims #chilchuck tims x reader #chilchuck x reader #chilchuck tims imagines #chilchuck imagines

[ghuleh-recs]

do you have any sickfic recs? ive been sick and miserable and it would make me feel better. i would prefer ghoul focused fics if possible. thank you 🖤

i hope you're feeling better!! you are speaking my language--i love a good sickfic. let me see my faves suffer and then be lovingly cared for.

side note: uh hey authors? why's it always dewdrop? hmm?

recs under the cut.

Uiscefhuarithe - @coffeeghoulie - polyghouls

A Gaeilge word that translates to water-cooled. Or: Dewdrop hasn't left his room in three days. A newly summoned Rain takes matters into his own hands.

Comet's Ficlet Collection (ch. 58) - @iamthecomet - dew, ifrit, mountain

Comet im sick and if your doing the lil ficlets can I get sick!whoever (dew) getting taken care of by mountain and ifrit and being whiny and bratty but still liking that he's being taken care of.

in sickness and in health - @belle--ofthebrawl - aether x dew

Something nasty is going around the pack but luckily for Aether and the rest of them, they have a great caretaker. Even if he hates admitting it.

keeping your head up - @dwritesit - dew x rain

dew is sick and rain loves him a lot maybe - a classic sick ficlet

Here for You - @papaslittlesunshine - dew x rain

Dew hurts himself during a performance. Rain takes care of him. (Mount gets some credit too)

Miasma's Ficlet Collection (ch. 9) - @miasmaghoul - dew x rain

Prompt - my uterus is trying to kill meeeeeee. Any chance you have anything related to Dew taking care of a fellow ghoul to cheer me up??

cry for absolution - @everybodyshusband - dew, cumulus, rain, aether

The rest of that day had been spent curled up under his sheets, a blanket and pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the small sliver of light his curtains let through. He’d thought about getting up for food at one point, but the moment he tried to stand up, he felt himself flopping back down onto the bed again, his headache spiking and the pain increasing tenfold. He let it happen. The idea of food turned his stomach anyway, despite it having been hours since the entire thing had been emptied into his toilet. - - - OR - - - dewdrop has a headache, and his packmates decide he needs to be taken care of

𖤐 you know the drill--bookmark, read, and leave kudos/comments!

#make dew suffer 2k23 #slowly making my way through these! #thanks for your patience ♡ #my fic recs #the band ghost fic recs #the band ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fanfic #the band ghost fic #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #aether ghoul #mountain ghoul #cumulus ghoulette #ifrit ghoul #nameless ghouls fic #ghost band fanfic #ghost band fic #fic rec!! #liss answers

[ashthenerdtheythem]

cád é an fuck?

I nGaeilge atá 194 as 442 fhics ar AO3 a bhfuil clib orthu "Gaeilge". Tá an chuid is mó acu i mBéarla

194 out of 442 fics on AO3 that are tagged "Irish language" are in the Irish language. Most of them are in English

#ao3 tags #ao3 things #irish language #gaeilge #as gaeilge

[apaelfwine]

Tháinig mé ar neart fanfic don Táin, ach faraor ní raibh fiú ceann amháin i nGaeilge. Mar sin, thuig mé go raibh orm an bearna a líonadh. Tá cosc tiomána sé mhí ar Chú Chulainn, agus an tionól ealaín chomhraic is mó in Éirinn ar siúil i gCuaille ag deireadh na seachtaine. Mar sin, téann sé ag lorg síbe ó Lao Mac Rianghabhra, a sheanchomrádaí fadfhulangach. (Irish-language fanfic: in a modern au of the Táin Bó Cuailgne, Cú Chulainn, under a six month driving ban, wants to travel to Cuailgne and compete in Ireland's largest martial arts tournament. Therefore, he begs a lift off his long-suffering childhood friend Láeg.)

#gaeilge #irish language #fanfic #táin #modern au #fic as Gaeilge #ficsean leanúna

[grogusmum]

Seven Tears (Part 7 and epilogue)

SELKIE!EZRA X F!READER

WORD COUNT: 3500ish

SERIES SUMMARY: Months after being abandoned, she does something rash and summons a selkie, who wishes to bring her comfort and maybe more.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: After Ezra is forced to make a terrible choice, his Moonbeam goes about setting it right.

WARNING: Olde Timey gender norms and sexism, though set in mid-20th century Ireland, and Ireland's predominantly white, Reader is physically undescribed, as are her blood relatives, her missing spouse, and his family are white. Violence, Drowning, Near Drowning, mention of blood (As always see something say something. Please let me know in my DMs if there is a warning I missed)

Series Masterlist

Part 6

AUTHORS NOTE AT THE BOTTOM

Gaeilge Translations (at the top and bottom of the fic to be closer to where they occur)

Rón Inis Island of the Seals

M’fhíorghrá My true love

Ezra's eyes fixed a path to Rón Inis (Roan Inish), watching for the seals as he began to undress. 

“My most sincere apologies to you, Thomas - I am fully aware that this is more than you bargained for.”

Thomas laughed a bit awkwardly, looking everywhere but at Ezra’s backside. And when the first seal was spotted, Ezra pitched himself over the side of the boat. The seals circled Ezra, the pelt in their strong jaws. Once he had it in his hands, something in him changed. With a momentary look at Thomas, he galvanized his plan and his promise, then dove deep into the fathoms, wrapping himself in the seal-coat. 

Down, down Ezra went, the pelt and he merging, coming together like raindrops. Bubbles whirled around him, and his seal brothers stayed close to his side. They broke the surface, breaching high in the air, seawater rained down on Thomas and the little outboard. Back in the seal skin, Ezra's lungs grew stronger, and his sleek hydrodynamic body flew through the water. He could not help but show off a few corkscrews, twisting easily, but while his body seemed to celebrate, his mind was on Cee, on reaching the boat before the unthinkable. On he pressed, when his mind gravitated to you pain gripped his chest, then anger would rise again. This cycle continued, round and round, until he could see another seal, a smaller one. He broke the surface for air, and there was Cee, who slammed into him barking and butting her head against his. His barks are stern, eyes searching her.

‘Yer free! What happened?’

Cee told Ezra the tale of her capture and the threats she heard.  

‘Chewed clear through the-’ She barked triumphantly, then her brown eyes turned wide. ‘What are you doing here? Like that?’

‘I could never leave you to break free on your own, Cee. Never.’ Ezra rubbed his face on Cee’s.

‘But-’

‘That is not for now. Go to the Rock, get to them. Tell them what happened. I have to see about the Kelly Boys. I will do more than shred their nets’ His bark was a snarl, then Ezra kissed Cee’s brow and took off in the direction Cee had come. He sent the other seals with his daughter, wanting to keep them out of harm’s way.

Ezra fumed. He tried not think on the notion that he needlessly donned his pelt. But he did, and with every passing moment, he was prepared to take down the vessel plank by plank. 

Finally, it came into view, he took one more deep breath before going below with no plan to come up until he was on them. Ezra smirked at the ship, it was smaller than a mackerel yowl. He sped up to grab the remains of Cee’s net in his strong jaws and then under the boat he went. The boat lurched, and when he was sure he had gotten their attention, he wrapped the net in the rudder and prepared to board. 

Ezra reveled in their shock-turned-horror, from the moment Colin and Jamie grasped what was happening when the first cleat was pulled from the stern after the line got fully tangled in the rudder to the moment he shot out of the water and landed square on the mainsail, still in a harbor furl, and there came a mighty crack. Colin came at Ezra. For any other man, under any other circumstance, Ezra would have admired his puck. But not him, not the man who seems hellbent on your pain. Ezra’s powerful jaws closed on his arm, and there, too, was a satisfying crack, and the taste of blood. Jamie was knocked off the starboard side, and Ezra brought a half-conscious Colin over the side with him. When the cleat broke free, it left a length of line, now attached to the rudder, Ezra took it up in his mouth and wrapped it three times around the two men. Binding them together, to bear the fate they offered up his Cee. He knew no power would offer them reprieve. No silken pelt would save them from their fate. Then he bashed the hull of the boat like a bull until its foundering was assured. When his work was done, Ezra left when without a backward glance.

It is just you and Rory, on Widow’s Rock. You know soon it will be too chilly, that you will have to bring your wee one inside, but for now, you just cannot bring yourself to leave. You need to know Ezra is safe, that he has not come to harm while doing whatever he has done. 

“He will come, you know.”

You smile sadly and pat the rock for Cee to sit upon. 

“I know. If he can, he will.”

Having gone back to the house, Cee is dressed in some of your old clothes, the blanket folded over her arm. She opens it and wraps you and Rory in it, and you give her a watery smile, then you look back out over the water, hoping to catch a glimpse. 

The three of you sit in silence, waiting. Cee smiles first. 

Ezra swims up, and you can not help the tearful laughter of relief as he bobs in front of you. His brown eyes, full of sorrow. He comes closer and rests his head on your knee, eyes going from you to Rory and back. 

“M'fhíorghrá (MEER-ggrah), my Ezra,” your hand goes to the side of your seal man’s muzzle. He leans in as you caress it. Your tears continue. ��‘tis true, we never did finish discussing my joining you in the sea. But we don need to. Mo ghrá, there is nothing else to discuss. I will join you. You have to know I would. Without hesitation!”

Ezra looks at Cee.

“It will have to be. For the magic to work, you must be without reservation,” Cee explains. Ezra keeps a close eye on your reaction, then barks and whines. You look at Cee. “Da said, it is his turn to feel selfish. That he is taking you from what you love.”

Your lips purse in a tight smile, thinking of that day, when he first came to you. Turning, you hand Rory to Cee, and give her the blanket. Then you slip off your shoes and off the rock, then into the cold water. Ezra’s eyes go wide, and then slowly close as you wrap your arms around his neck. His head tucks into the crook of your neck, and his whiskers flex and relax. You stay this way, moments stretching. Only when your start to shiver that you break away from each other. 

“What do I need to do, Cee? Please tell me you know.”

“I do, but it can' be done before the full moon.”

The Brennan family sits once more around their supper table, heartsick, but determined to support you. Still, supper sits mostly untouched. Rory, chewing a hard biscuit in the highchair each one of the Brennan children sat in at his age, including your Da.

“Seven Years... What about the baby?”

“He will come with me after I’ve transformed. He is like Cee and will take to it without trial. We just need to prepare him. He will go to the sea, regardless, it’s only a matter of time, he is borne of a selkie man. I will not be parted from my child, nor my love. But Mam, just like Cee, he will be able to visit you any time, even when I can not.”

“When she goes in, it will have to be without qualm, Cee reiterated.

“Which means I - I need to know you to be alright with this choice I am making. Please.”

“What happens if you go in - you go in, and you do have reservations?” Felicia asks.

“She will drown.”

The table silences. You look into each of their eyes, desperate to show your love for them, but your determination to be reunited with Ezra, to have your little family together.  

“When I was a child, would you not have followed me, to the moon, if need be? Or Felicia, Hugh, or Thomas?” You look at your parents. Their eyes go bright and with small smiles they nod together, all the assent you need. 

Deirdre clears her throat, picks up her fork, and then puts it down again.

“Well, we will have to see about renting one of the Conneeley cottages on the island, then. Much better for Rory’s comings and goings, hmm? What’s the difference, fishing from Rón Inis or here? Hugh, you can go with yer Da and get off to school.” Patrick chuckles, and Hugh looks stunned.

You too are stunned. Whether all of that comes to be or not, your family… your dear family-

“Thank you, Mam, Da- everyone.” 

You count down the days. Back on the island, you and Rory go to the water to meet Ezra, and the three of you play with the water. Rory slaps at it and kicks his little feet. Laughing when it comes and trying to follow when it retreats. You can not understand Ezra’s bark exactly, but Rory listens like he does. One morning, changing his nappy, you notice webs between his fingers, you check, and they are between his toes, as well. You wonder if he will leave before the full moon, and you have to remind yourself that you are not being left behind.

“Look at you, more and more like your father each day.”

When you meet Ezra at the water’s edge for Rory’s “lessons”, you show him. Ezra lets out a barking laugh, rolling in the surf. This brings other seals to the beach, Rory laughs at their joyous antics, his dark eyes smiling. Ezra presses against you as he watches his little boy, and then you feel his snout nuzzle you. When you lean into it, Ezra rumbles in his throat and suddenly throws himself into the surf, gamboling excitedly. 

You watch the moon swell each night, missing Ezra’s human touch. Knowing what he meant when you told you the bed was too big. You tell yourself it will not matter when you are a seal as well. You hope.

“Well dear, I think you are correct. As a seal, you will be able to,” Tilda clears her throat delicately, “commune with him in a way that will not leave you wanting. I am sure of that.”

“I am truly sorry, Tilda” you cringe, “to be so brash, but-”

“I am glad you came to talk,  you must sort out these thoughts, so you are ready with your whole heart for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you echo. You examine the flip of your stomach. Realizing they are butterflies of excitement. Hoping they are, only, butterflies of excitement.

You talk and she feeds you, and when you leave you feel better. Not only incredibly full of food and still holding on to the warmth of Tilda’s hugs, but just having said it out loud, diminished your fears. 

After an endless night, the morning breaks, and Cee helps you close up the cottage. Dust covers for the furniture, and all but a few clothes are boxed up to go to your sister’s, Cee makes sure there is little food to bring to your parents’ with the help of her bottomless stomach. Your mother is adamant that they are moving to the island, and Tilda is for it, but it takes time to move them. For now, Rory’s things are to be left at the cottage, but you box it all up for them. 

By lunch, everything is ready, and your brother comes in the jon boat to help bring your things back. 

You had thought your transformation would happen off Rón Inis. 'No Widow’s Rock is better,'  Cee had told you. When you pondered if it was due to you and Ezra meeting there, if the magic was deeper, Cee shrugged and said, 'Probably, but honestly, Widow’s Rock has deeper waters surrounding it at hightide'… she is a practical girl. You had lunch with your family, Cee, Tilda, and Fergus. It seemed some rumors had started going round, especially after Jamie’s boat was found. Your cousin Courtney, for whom you stood as her Maid of Honor, ended up at your parents’ doorstep.

She met Cee, and Rory. Then she cried and told you she was pregnant and wished the babies could be friends. You gave her a hug and went to your childhood bedroom with your sister. ‘I have to be without regret, I can’t be worrying about Courtney’, you told her, and Felicia threatened to tell her off.

As the moon rises, in a simple dress, you stand on Widow’s Rock, the water lapping at your feet. Your family watches from high on what is left of the beach, the full moon’s high tide taking more of it than usual. Seals watch from the rocks further out. Ezra, Cee, and Rory are in shallow waters where the land and ocean meet. You think only of your goal, your desire. Your goodbyes have been made, besides it’s not goodbye. It is 'until we meet again', your Da had said. And you repeated, 'until we meet again'. You look at Ezra, Rory, and Cee. Ezra is itching to be with you. You can see it in his keen eyes. Cee holds Rory, who watches with interest at what his mummy is up to. Ezra nudges Cee, and with a nod, she calls -

“It is time.”

Without hesitation, you plunge into the deep waters. Opening your eyes in the cold and dark as you come out of your dive and break the surface, the water is like glass. Kicking your feet to stay afloat as you unbutton your dress, trying not to think too much about your family on the shore. You let the dress go. Then, turning to orient yourself toward Ezra and Cee, you await what is to come next. But there is no more instruction. Seals and selkies you presume, slip gracefully into the water from the rocks and encircle you. You know you need to take deep breaths and ready your lungs. As they surround you, long trails of seaweed in their mouths. As Cee had explained, you take the ends of several and hold them at your chest and the seals circle winding the kelp tightly, binding your arms across your chest. You can hear Cee talking, but it's not to you, perhaps an explanation to your family. With your arms bound, your legs work harder. Soon, there is a tickle of vegetation against your legs. You marshal your breath, deep and controlled. It will happen soon. You can still hear Cee. She’s a good girl, you think, as you begin to sink, one last breath to take in and hold. Not that you expect it to save you, just give you time. To your family, you think, don be afraid. Legs and arms bound tight by the wrappings. All you can do is sink below. Was that Ezra calling you, barking for you? Sounds muffle. You can still see the moon. You focus on it. The seals orbit. Your lungs scream, and you try not to let your body's instinct to thrash take over as bubbles start to rise from your nose. You can not hold onto that last precious breath of air any longer. You only feel the animals now, their flippers grazing you gently. 

'Tabhair chugam mo chóta róin síoda' (tur xu’m mu xo t-uh roan shi d-uh), you think just as everything goes black, 'Ezra, m’fhíorghrá, táim réidh.' (MEER-ggrah, Tam REEg)

(Translation: Bring me my silken coat, Ezra, my true love, I am ready)

Ezra watches your slow descent into the sea, he waits as the surf pulls at him just as every instinct in his body and mind is screaming to go after you, but to go in early could ruin all. He looks to Cee, knowing she will be the one thinking more clearly on it. She is watching the spot where you disappeared below the surface. His worried eyes follow hers just as bubbles appear, and he can hear your family murmuring. Then the murmuring turns to keening.

Ezra crashes into the water, and like a bullet, he speeds to you. You aren't far, and seals still swim around you. Ezra sees you when they break formation. Broken ribbons of seaweed still wrapped around your form. He comes in and kisses your muzzle, nips your neck, and starts to pull away the let over bindings. 

You startle awake, eyes opening wide, and you see Ezra. He kisses and wraps himself around you as you rise through the depths, to the world above. Your sleek body is now perfectly suited to the cold waters.

The cheers and cries of relief sound when you breach and make for land. 

On the strand, right where you left them is Cee and Rory. You come up to them, Ezra by your side.  Cee puts Rory down, and he pats your head, and Ezra barks a laugh. 

"Alright Rory, your turn," Cee says. 

How will you ever fully repay Cee? She is still a child and has been a teacher and guide, like no other. 

Rory slips into the water like the little Waterbaby he is, between you and Ezra. You feel him beside you, rolling in the surf, instinct telling him what to do. His hand runs down your flank, you feel his little feet, then after another roll, they no longer feel like hands and feet but flippers, his soft skin now furry. You lift a flipper to look between Ezra and yourself, and there is a fluffy seal pup, barking happily. 

You cover him in kisses, barking, 'What a clever boy you are'. 

Ezra nudges him with his nose and kisses his head.

 Your human family rushes to you, cheering and well-wishing. You look up at them all, and you hope your face can express how much you love them and how you can never fully express how much their support has meant. 

In all the commotion, Cee's transformation has gone unnoticed until she is in the water with you, a seal again. 

The four of you bark happily at the Brennans and slip into the sea. One backward glance sees them waving. 

You know that for your family seven years with feel like a long time, but you will be back. 

You and Ezra, with Rory and Cee, make for Ròn Ins, the Island of the Seals with your selkie family, whole and safe.

"And just before the stroke of midnight, they have made it back to sea

And she's donned that magic seal-coat and become a maid selkie.

Now they've gone into the ocean, hand in hand into the sea,

She has gone along -- a fair seal-bride for her selkie."

The Maiden and the Selkie (Heather Dale)

Epilogue

Seven years later…

Your Mam had done as she promised. She, your Da, and brother Hugh moved house to the island. Felicia and her husband moved into the Brennan house behind the fishmongery, and Thomas stayed on the mainland as well, working the family business. 

Your time as a seal moved quickly, and you loved it. You visited both the strand of your village and the sands Ròn Ins to see your family, but you looked forward to being able to talk to them, and hold them. 

On the day that marks the seventh year, you and your pod excitedly follow the jon boat that brings Felicia and Thomas to the island. With them is Felicia's husband Dermot, a child, and what looks perhaps like a friend of Thomas'. 

On the sand are Dierdre, Patrick, and Hugh, a young man now, cheering your return. 

The four of you galumph your way right into your cottage to take off your pelts. Ezra and Cee, of course, pull them off without hesitation. Rory, who has visited his Nana and Granda often over the years, also pulled open the invisible seam without a second thought. You, however, balk. Cee and Rory dress quickly as they make their way out to the many hugs and kisses awaiting them, leaving you with Ezra. 

Your beautiful seal man kneels next to you, his warm wide hand cupping your snout. 

"Pearl, it is alright, mo stóirín (mu store-EEN), take your time." 

You pull at the seam, and your seal-coat pulls away. Your head and shoulders emerge, and your arms come around Ezra's neck. You laugh, and you notice it's a bit more of a bark than before. Half in and out of your silken pelt, Ezra has you, and just as that first night, so long ago he turns you in his strong arms so you are on his lap, as your pelt slips the rest of the way off. 

Rocking you slowly, his face in the crook of your neck Ezra murmurs- 

"Mo shíorghrá (muh HEER-ggrah), Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein" (neel ain tintin marr duh hin-tin fane)

"Ezra, m’fhíorghrá, (MEER-ggrah) you are my home."

The End

Gaeilge Translations

Tabhair chugam mo chóta róin síoda, Ezra, m’fhíorghrá, táim réidh Bring me my silken coat, Ezra, my true love, I am ready

Mo stóirín my little treasure/darling

Mo shíorghrá My eternal love

Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein there is no hearth like your own hearth

💚THANK YOU FOR READING💚REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED💚

If you care to read more of my stories you can find my masterlist here and if you would like to be tagged for any of my fics you can find my handy dandy taglist form here.

A/N: Well, we've reached the end of the tale of the Seven Tears, and I can't lie, I am feeling pretty emotional about it. I am so very grateful to everyone who took the time to read it - waiting for unpredictable updates, including an unintentional break of a year. To those that shared their thoughts about it, sent requests and seal pics and gifs, found comfort in it, and cheered me on, a very special shout out.

Topping out at 21k words (not including the side fics), about the size of a novella, this little story has meant a lot to me. Selkie stories are bittersweet at best, but most often frought with sorrow and yearning for what one can't have. I've always known I would subvert this with my fluff, with the hope it would not come off too... saccharin. I've thought about tinkering with it more, but I think that's down the line. For now, I am content. And I hope you are too, dear readers. 💚

I know I will visit them again, and asks and requests are always welcome.

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect au #ezra prospect x you #ezra x you #ezra x f!reader #selkie ezra #selkie!ezra x f!reader #selkie #seven tears #pedro pascal character fic #pedrostories #selkie au

[coffeeghoulie]

Uiscefhuarithe

A Gaeilge word that translates to water-cooled.

Or: Dewdrop hasn't left his room in three days. A newly summoned Rain takes matters into his own hands.

Words: 4,949

I've listened to nothing but Unreal Unearth for the last ten days, and To Someone From a Warm Climate immediately jumped out to me as a Raindrop song. So naturally I wrote the fic.

Read on ao3!

#my writing #rain ghoul #aether ghoul #mountain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #raindrop #the band ghost fic #the band ghost

[ly0nstea]

I posted another fic in irish, this time some AruAni

#aot #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyoujin #shingeki no kyojin #armin arlert #armin #annie leonhart #annie #fic #fic writing #gaeilge #irish

[carpathianspaceprincess]

Wintering (The Irish Poem) - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel reads a favourite poem of yours, and reflects on the subject's similarities to you.

Rating: E. minors dni.

Pairing: Joel Miller x SeasonalDepression!Reader (F)

Tags: Irish coded reader. a little bit of Gaeilge. One Shot. Happy Ending(™). FLUFF. Sickening fluff. Soft!Joel. Established relationship/situationship. No smut in this but could be in the future.(❀❛ ֊ ❛„). Book a dentist appointment my friends, you will probably have cavities after reading this.

CW: brief mention of suicide and overdose attempt, mentions of seasonal depression/mental illness symptoms, mention of SSRIs. 

WC: 2.4k

A/N: Happy late St. Patrick’s Day! This work was inspired by an Irish poem called “Geimhriú” by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh. The translation came from this post, and I only have a little Irish but it seems right. The Irish language is beautiful and I love it dearly, so I wanted my first posted work to celebrate it (i'm terrified of sharing this btw lol). I wrote this bc culture and language is nearly always left behind and forgotten in survivalist worlds like TLOU, and it’s rarely a theme in fics, but is an essential part of survival, especially for Irish communities. I may potentially expand this work to a series to explore more aspects of Irish culture as part of the story if it's well-received and I feel like it. btw this is not beta-read and idk how to format anything - this is genuinely my first time posting so there are likely mistakes! please comment if you find one, or have constructive criticisms, and of course like/reshare and interact if you had a good time reading this, it would mean the world to this little Irish gal.

(♡ ὅ ◡ ὅ )ʃ♡ enjoy!

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊.

Even at the end of the world, in the fucking apocalypse, in this shitty, godforsaken place, you were still somehow suffering from a seasonal affliction. 

Depression, that is. 

Joel saw it immediately, the way you took a little longer to answer the door when he came for you in the mornings, the bags under your eyes just a little more pronounced as the days in your district grew less colourful and the dry leaves wilted to the sodden earth. He also saw how you tried to hide it and for a while, tried to respect your clear denial of something being very, very wrong. 

To your credit, you did what you could; soldiered on. Ate and slept more than usual, like a bear. Before the outbreak, you’d been on Zoloft, then Wellbutrin, but the chances of any SSRI medication still existing were so slim you knew you didn’t need to bother checking. 

Even so, it frustrated you every morning, the fact that you weren’t like Joel. That you couldn’t just get up and get on with your day, that you needed some stupid chemical to make your brain work just because the weather was cold and the sky was churning furiously, gnashing it's teeth on nothing but grey, day-in and day-out. 

You couldn’t make sense of it. You were living in near constant poverty, under a dystopian military dictatorship and in the middle of a civil war every god-damned fucking day whether the sun was shining or not, so why did the fields being barren and slick with sleet make you viscerally despise life so much more than seeing them full of fresh flowers and humming with bees? You’d still be hungry at the end of the day. Exhausted. What should the seasons matter to you now? There was no difference. No future. Not then.

You had hoped that maybe eventually, living in constant survival mode might, y’know, actually make your brain want to survive. But it didn’t. You hated it. But what you hated about yourself most of all was the fact that you desperately needed help. It was pathetic. Weak. 

Joel didn't see it that way. Well, he didn't now.

At the start he thought it hadn't been too serious. Maybe you were 'just tired'.

But then winter had nearly taken you from him that year. The sudden and shocking bone-chill of Boston post-October had him practically dragging you out of your own bed every morning for the “supply run” he had taken to bringing you along on; silently begging you to get up and keep going for his sake if not your own. Telling you if a man from Texas could survive it, you’d better get your sorry ass up and do the same. 

He’d found you then, in late December, the dead of night, throwing up and barely breathing. You’d collected enough opioids to kill a horse and tried to take your own life. You’d been lucky to see the next sunrise, and that was the last time he’d allowed you to sleep on your own. And the first time he’d heard of “Seasonal Depressive Disorder”, or whatever it was. 

You’d explained that before all this, you’d had medications that would have stopped this issue for you; so Joel, having then appointed your fragile well-being as his responsibility, had looked for some. But of course there was nothing. So much to everyone else's delight, he spent the winter just like you; because like two really fucked-up peas in a pod, if you were in a foul mood, Joel’s was never far behind. With the QZ being overcrowded, freezing, and insistent on working you both to the bone, you were always in a foul mood. 

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

So now he can admit to himself that he likes this; likes seeing the glow of your rosy, apple cheeks in the tangerine afternoon rays of a tired day. The way the sunlight dapples the colour of your hair; the lazy smile that breaks across your gentle mouth as the cool breeze caresses you both. This wheat field is completely abandoned, high bland stalks swaying quietly. The rush of the little river nearby. A perfect place to take you; you who were beaming so joyfully, could’ve replaced the goddamn sun itself as far as it concerned him. 

He feels the embroidered spine of your book in his hand, holding it away from your reach. The one you always had open on the same page, the one he caught you reading when you were supposed to have your hands on your rifle and your sharp eyes looking for guards and raiders.

“Let me read it.” he grins without realizing it, stretching a little further away as your fingers grab for purchase, pointlessly. You're too short to even touch the cover as he leans over you. “No!” You reiterate, and he frowns, a finger coming to his lips to remind you of your surroundings. Still careful. “Why not, huh? Can't be that bad if y'like it so much.” 

A slow blush stains you as you huff, dropping your arms to your sides. Like a petulant child. Admitting defeat.

“Fine, but it’s not even in English.”

He quirks an eyebrow at that, and keeps your gaze as he flips the faded, worn pages open to find the one he’s looking for. “You won’t understand it.” You whisper. But he doesn’t need to understand it, he just wants to see. It makes perfect sense to him that you're bilingual, he doesn't know a lot about you, but he knows you're smart, and sharp as a tack...as long as something interests you.

The paper of this page in particular is dog-eared to the point of severe damage, and marked to all hell, but it isn’t dusty at all. Whatever this is, he sees that it’s well-loved by you. Well-read. His curiosity gets the better of him as you make one last reach for the precious item and he, with ease and very quiet glee, denies you. 

He doesn’t try to read it aloud though, the words roll around on his tongue unfamiliar, tangled up in the calculator of his brain that is so used to the anglo-saxon american structure of speech. But he scans it quietly all the same, to your surprise. 

Ná labhair focal,

ná féach im threo,

tá duifean ar mo chroí

nách n-ardófar. 

Géillim don ngeimhriú

Ní aithneofar mé 

go péacadh na mbachlóg. 

Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh.

He clears his throat, and runs a finger along the last line of text; “This the author?” 

You peer over, nodding. He hums in acknowledgement, filing the information away for later. Then he graciously hands the book back to you, brushing your fingers with his, and you snatch it away; folding it closed against your lap. A low gust of wind makes the hair that frames the sides of your face dance delicately. You lean back on your arms then, to appear relaxed. Trying not to think of the delicious electricity sparkling under your smooth skin at his touch. Failing. You're hot, now. The humidity doing nothing to cool off the desire pooling in your belly as you look up at him through thick lashes. He's chewing a thought in his mouth, you can see it.

“Gaelic?” 

You are actually taken aback, but smile and shake your head good-naturedly at the attempt. “Gaeilge.” 

A look of confusion crosses his brow and a laugh, golden and sugary, pours from your chest. It squeezes him with violent affection for you. “Gaelic is Scottish. This is Irish. Gaeilge.” You repeat, cocking your head. “They’re different.” 

He nods slowly. He wants to ask you how you came to speak it, and is that why you have a lilt in your accent? did you come from there? From Ireland? And how did you manage to keep speaking it after the outbreak?

 But, he thinks those questions can wait til later. You'll tell him your story on your own terms when you're ready, and he respects that. What he does know is that this must be important to you somehow, and he's happy to focus on that for now.

 “You gonna tell me what it’s about?” 

“I could...but those are meant to be read and understood in the spirit of the language they’re in. They’re not meant to be in English.” You season the last word with some disdain, teasing.

He gives you a dry look and you laugh again. Rolling his eyes and pretending to fall over, he pops back up and props his dozy head with his elbow against the coffee-brown and burgundy leaves that have scattered and broken on the ground beneath gale-swept branches. Then he waits. 

You take him in in all his intensity, the way his curls ruffle against his hand. The sleeves of his shirt pushed to his elbows, muscles and tendons flexing and taut, brown in the sun and from working outdoors.

You guess you do owe him one. Reaching your free hand towards him, he turns his face into your gentle touch on his jaw, and you just about explode. How could you deny him anything when he looks like this?

“Alright,” You give in, and it feels like the easiest thing in the world.  

The book opens once more, and his pretty eyes follow your slender finger against the printed words with his gaze; you feel observed; shy. And you begin, your voice unsure of itself. But his hand on your thigh is cosy, encouraging.

“Don’t say a word,

Don’t look in my direction,

There’s something on my heart 

That can’t be lifted. 

I give in to wintering 

You won’t see me

Til the buds begin to blossom”. 

“Til the buds begin to blossom.” He repeats slowly, intentionally. 

“You a man of literature now, Miller?” 

He exhales sharply. “Not at all, ma’am. Just a curious one.”

The corner of your lips tugs upwards at this easier side of him - and you hum as you close the book and set it down with care, next to you. You each settle against the other comfortably then, taking in the sights and scents around you. A tranquility has made home inside your bones, with the feeling of his warm front against your back and you raise your face to the rays of sun; still beaming onto you from the early evening sky. Your whole body rests now, soothed by his presence.

Comfortable silence blankets over you both, for a few minutes. 

“So, d’ya like the view?” He asks all of a sudden, kicking his feet back and stretching against the massive tree he’s got you both behind - completely hidden from the view of the gate patrol. He’s been scoping this place out for weeks, he knows it’s safe. 

You feel his shirt ride up against your back and it ignites something that quickly dwarfs anything mellow or peaceful inside you.

“Do I like it, Joel Miller?” You repeat incredulously, turning around and crawling onto his lap; with only a little grace. His rough, calloused hands instinctively come up to your hips, and the denim of your worn jeans suddenly feels far too tight and restrictive for the kinds of lovely, fuzzy messages your body is giving to you. You straighten up, leaning in to breathe; a faint hint of whiskey, lot of smoke. Lot of man. Yours. Your man. 

Before you can unleash the teasing reply you had tucked away for him, an unwelcome thought sobers you. He notices the shadow cross your pretty face, the terrible memory flickering away in the back of your mind. Calling back to your thoughts before, you realise very abruptly that you do owe him one. In fact, you owe him your life for this very afternoon. The seeping heat on your skin and the pastel wildflowers. The gorgeous vermillion colour of the sky. The rush of contentment in your heart.

“I never would have even seen this sunset if it wasn’t for you.” You murmur, lowly enough that he has to strain to hear it. A grumble rumbles in his chest but he says nothing in reply, so you stay quiet, and take his larger hands into yours. Trying to convey how grateful you are with your touch. Hoping it'll osmosis or something. Knowing you can never repay him for his selflessness, his friendship, his sacrifices. 

He clears his throat then, to get your attention, and you lock eyes with him; searching and deep. Knowing. 

“You know I love it.” you whisper, appreciating the deep brown irises framed by spectacular eyelashes. The eyes you’d know absolutely anywhere. “I love it more than anything.”

You’re not talking about the view anymore. 

 He knows it, too; lines softening at the complete adoration on your face, the vulnerability; the way you’re giving it all to him. And he wants it even though he really shouldn’t. He wants you exactly like this for the rest of your lives. Warm and happy, tucked up next to him in some butt-fuck middle of nowhere place in the sun, tending to your garden and reading your books and your poems, unbothered by the harsh realities of the world revolving around you. Away and safe from the sickness and cruelty of the cities.

 He watches carefully the radiant glow that’s touching your expression, and he can’t help but understand then, why you like that poem. 

It’s you. 

In moments like these, when you’re pressed up against him and smelling so sweet he feels heady and drunk, it’s much harder to shove away those very domesticated thoughts he’s been having; of you and the kind of things he wants to give you. The kind of life he wants you to have, together. Although he couldn’t tell you out loud, not yet anyway. He’s working on it. 

You wonder what he's thinking about, leaning to press a soft kiss to his chin to bring him back to earth- closing your eyes at rough stubble brushing against your cheek. You feel an earth-shattering smile and wish you could see, but it’s gone by the time you raise your head again. 

What you do see is a tanned arm reaching behind you to pluck something from the soft earth.

It’s a sunflower. Bright and plush and golden. 

 Like you, he thinks. 

Firm fingers gently and deftly push your strands aside, carefully slipping the green stalk of it right behind your left ear.

Leaning back to peer at you and admire his handiwork, he tucks his hands behind his head.

 He compares what’s in front of him now to his memories of last month; your face tear-tracked and pale in his bed, telling him you didn’t want to live. Him never knowing how to help you, spending those bleak evenings with fear poisoning his every thought, constantly worrying he would come back home to you cold and still. Wrapping himself tight around you in his bed late at night in the hopes he could somehow just piece it all back together by holding you. The memories the experience brought up for him; the ones fuelling his terror of failing you, like he failed her. 

And now you here, surrounded by spring buds blossoming in the sweet change of the season. Wildflowers, peonies, just like you, so easily pleased by the sun and the green of the forest and the view from the top of your apartment building once the snow had begun to melt. Softened by just a little bit of warmth and a lot of love. A lot of care. He's proud of you and how hard you've worked to drag yourself out of the place you were in.

He’s suddenly finding it difficult to control the way he wants to cry with relief. 

You don’t know any of this, of course. But the way he observes you so deliberately sends little shivers down your spine, despite the humidity and haze. You do feel kind of silly sitting like this though, so you reach up to pull the flower from your hair, but his fingers grip your wrist hard and fast before you can get to it and they tell you otherwise, pressing indents into your skin that you'll remember later tonight.

“Don’t.” He says softly. “I like it.”

You try to stop the grin from breaking out but fail miserably, and he's dazzled by it. One smile, and he’s completely and overwhelmingly filled with love for you.

 Yes, he thinks; even at the end of the world, even in this shitty fucking place, this apocalyptic nightmare, you still somehow manage to blossom in the sun.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #tlou #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal universe #happy st paddys day #lmao #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #x reader #pedrostories #pedrohub #irish in my fics? you fucking bet