finn o'callaghan. xxi. son of apollo, apparently.
❝ How can I describe Peter Pan's face? Peter sometimes looked aloof and distant; sometimes his face was open and soft as a bruise. Sometimes, he looked completely at Tiger Lily, as if she were the point on which all the universe revolved, as if she were the biggest mystery of life, or as if she were a flame and he couldn't not look even though he was scared. And sometimes it would all disappear into carelessness, confidence, amusement, as if he didn't need anyone or anything on this earth to feel happy and alive. ❞
Langley was bitter. Of all the times in her goddamn life for her no-good father’s influence to finally impact her life, it had to be now? When her career was finally starting to have some semblance of a direction? When she had potential and vibrancy and directors that actually knew her face? The actress sighed and ran her hands over her face, deciding then and there that staying cooped up in her apartment while she tried to sort out the details of her new and unfortunate life would get her nowhere but insanity.
And oh, the sweet irony that would be.
The sea breeze was comforting, somehow, like she was back home, with her mom and careless once again. Like she was still in high school, determined and ready to fight but also still shepherded by her mother’s hands. A thin smile traipsed across her face and once again a sigh escaped her. “Jesus suffering Christ.” She sighed softly, feet sinking into the sand of the beach as she neared one of the only places in town she had yet to actively explore. The pier, a beacon of interest and carnival games and sickly-sweet-smelling food. Perhaps there, she could find a distraction.
Meandering idly up the walk, Langley found herself in an entirely different world. A world of vibrant colors and loud noises, where greasy deep-fried foods and strangers calling at you was perfectly normal. A place to get lost in the noise. –And also, apparently, a place to find old faces, as she all but stumbled directly into none other than Finn O’Callaghan.
@finnegone
Press button, pull lever, turn key, repeat. Button. Lever. Key. Finn’s afternoons spent slaving away manning the Ferris wheel had become akin to that of a trained monkey. What had happened to the good old days, where he would tap until his heart’s content? The evenings spent cracking the kitchen tiles of his mother’s two-bedroom flat in Dublin as he tried out his new dance shoes? To days of playing hookey, spraying garage doors with spray paint before pegging it from the garda? The last five years seemed like a haze, like he was sleepwalking, and that soon the joke would end. But the pathetic joke had not ended, and his lack of luck had only magnified.
White-knuckled, he gripped the pen he was drawing with, the illustration before him a cross-hatch sketch of a girl with dark hair and vacant black eyes. His own pair snapped upwards from beneath his lids at the gnawing feeling of being watched, landing on those green ones of a redhead, her gaze fixed on his. Hot, he noted casually, but a little too straight-laced looking for him. Finn always fell for the girls with sharp edges, and raged when they tore his skin. Yet her stare didn’t falter, Finn’s eyes narrowing slightly, before it clicked, his chin lifting at the revelation. Langley Lane. It must have been six years since he last saw her face. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, merely allowed a telling smirk to overcome his downcast features.
“Fuck me,” Finn finally spoke, turning the key of the fairground attraction and swinging himself out of the booth. “--If it isn’t our resident Leading Lady. Those Gods don’t ‘alf get about.” He took one look up at the figures in the Ferris carriages, decided that there was no one he particularly cared about, and pulled the shutter door down of the booth, ignoring the shouts of horror that followed. That was the thing about Finn; he was bound to bouts of reckless uncaring. “So,” he began, nodding his head for Langley to follow as he began back down the pier, amusement colouring his face at the taunts that began to quieten the further they walked. “How’s old age treatin’ ye’? When d’ye get here -- and like, where ye’ livin’, pal?”
you can’t love a wild boy”
he is a wild boy made of hurricane winds and brittle bird bones (voodoo lips and cemetery kisses never tasted so much like magic) in the deep south jesus is known as a mixed race child, he is a cotton king, the devil’s own, dust mingled with destiny in the fevered air (it gets in the blood stream and not even the holy spirit can get that out)
he is a wild boy made up of peeling paint and old church windows. the stained glass and scripture line his chapped lips like sparks and cigarette smoke (good lord if only you could help yourself) (the dust settles around him like a halo and you forget you’re not supposed to breathe in)
odes to boys who know that they’re dying pt. 4 (via uglyducklingwrites)
‘cool boy gets his coke from a skitz.’
the failures etched into your skeleton fingertips
are the only validation you need for your life.
druggie gossips must learn their place in yours,
as they should not presume to speak tales
of the vibrant paint on your toes,
and the sacred powder on your nose.
‘cool boy thinks he’s breathtaking and invincible.’
actually, you believe your brown eyes to be simple;
but a better understatement would be wild.
you place cancer between your stained teeth,
knowing death is closer with every sweet inhale.
better to die than learn to hate your kiss,
better to die than never be missed.
‘cool boy believes he’s half a damn god.’
maybe so. hades was a fool who gave his heart
to a springtime flower in the moments after they met;
you’ve followed in his very footsteps, a lonely fool,
for it was you that gave your crooked soul
to the girl with the rose petal lips
and the poppy seed hips.
‘cool boy is nothing he likes to say he is.’
in another universe you would be the golden boy
of every little girls favorite fairytale.
but your life isn’t a ‘happily ever after.,’
and you will give away all your saccharine lies
if only to escape constant reality—
your all-too-real mortality.
With each passing second, Harleen could feel the resolve Finn held on to so tightly breaking under her touch. His lips parted when her fingers brushed them, his warm breath on her fingertips sending a wave of heat through her. He was beautiful despite the frown he always wore, because of it, actually. The downturn of his lips had drawn her in from the moment she’d seen him, wondering what they’d look like pressed against the skin of her inner thigh, the shape they would take as she looked up at him from her knelt position between his legs. It was all consuming, but the boy had yet to give in to her advances no matter how much she knew that he wanted to. He was too hopelessly caught up in Letty and her web of promising words and loving touches and sinful moans to see that he’d only been a toy for her to pass the time. That each ‘I love you’ muttered surrounded by their heat beneath the sheets were simply words with no meaning when it came to her. It was almost endearing, that he still believed somewhere deep inside himself, that she could love him, but Harleen knew better, she knew exactly how it would end.
Finn would be left broken, more broken than before. He’d go mad with questions as to why he wasn’t enough, why she didn’t choose him, why he couldn’t change someone who’d long accepted that she was meant for brief flirtations rather than long term relations. Harleen was only trying to prevent that from happening as long as she could. She was a savior of sorts. Finder of the broken, lost souls that needed to feel as though they were worth something again, that needed to forget the hand that life dealt them. She was the solace in a storm of suffocating emotion, and usually they would accept her offer. She would give them a night, make them feel like god, let them taste heaven, and let them ride the high off whatever she could give. It was part madness, part pure talent, part genetics, now that she knew the abilities she held. But Finn, Finn would never take the bait.
Well, until now.
Now he was grabbing at her, pulling her closer and brushing his chapped lips along her skin, Harleen smirking as he spoke. She gripped his broad shoulders, slid her delicate hands down his muscled arms, tightened her thighs on his hips as he touched her freely. Until he pushed her back onto the couch. The sudden rush she had been feeling immediately halted, replaced by an instant boredom at his refusal to be a part of her ‘game’ so he said. ❝ On the contrary. If anything you’d feel like a brand new person, ready to take on the world, ❞ she hums, tone hinting that she was teasing, with an underlying seriousness.
❝ Ye’ don’t want to be part of a game but look where you are, love. This entire thing is only a game to your little lass. You’re here, holding yourself back from something we both know ye’ want, and for what? Because a part of you still believes she’ll come back? ❞ She sits up on her knees on the couch, watching his tense shoulders and his clenched fists. The control Letty had over him wasn’t surprising in the slightest, the girl was good at wrapping her prey around her little fingers, tearing them apart and leaving them begging for her to continue. Her claws were so deeply impaled in the boy before her that she almost felt sorry for him. She would if she didn’t know that he had been here long enough to know how she was. ❝ I’m not offering a relationship, or even the requirement of calling me tomorrow. It’s pure, no strings attached, running only off instinct sex for you to unwind and for me to have a good time, ❞ she shrugs, sitting back on her heels. ❝ But by all means, if ye’ want to live your life in accordance to someone who’s probably underneath one of those Ares boys right at this very moment, then go right ahead. ❞
Each word that left her lips reeked of a truth so infectious that it burned. And in comparison to heartache, burning seemed like a far more appealing scenario -- at least he knew of a direct cure. Finn knew that her words were not intended to be spiteful -- quite the opposite. They were words that he needed to hear, to cut away the damaged flesh away before the infection spread to the whole. Tissue damage; that was what Nicolette had become to him. She’d torn the ligaments inside of him, but he’d heal. If only he allowed himself to. Anger welled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of her under another man, and it hurt more to know that it was more than likely true. His fist slammed into the wall, plaster shattering beneath his split knuckles as his head dropped against the wall, cold against his skin.
For several moments, he was still, his hands pressed against the cold plaster as he tried to regain some semblance of sanity. Harleen had seen Finn on one of his rampages many a time. She had always been there, offering to soothe him with a massage, or a blow job -- the latter of which he always politely declined. Sometimes, Finn felt as if her presence alone exaggerated everything he felt. He was always more angry, more jealous, more lively, more cheerful when Harleen was at his side or in his lap. There was something in the madness of the strawberry blonde bombshell that couldn’t help but spark a reckless lunacy in the lad.
Harleen O’Hara evoked in Finn a heedlessness that even he found hard to explain. Impulse control became impossible -- he always willingly fell victim to her peer pressure, whether it was a night out that he begrudgingly accompanied her to or white lines snorted off the surface of her desk. The only thing Finn hadn’t willngly given himself over to was the heated press of her skin against his and the sound of her moaning his name. When he at last turned from the wall to face her, his heartbeat throbbing in his throat, it seemed almost inevitable that he should close the distance between them with three slow strides; that his hands should find themselves buried in those honeycomb locks as his knees sunk down into the couch before her; or that his hands should wander to her waist, to her bum, to the small of her back. His nose traced along the line of her own, mouth pausing above hers to feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. Hands gripped at her thighs once more, tugging her into his lap, his thumb skirting roughly across the fabric of her underwear.
It was only when his lips met hers -- slow at first, soft like a child’s kiss, but they soon became ravenous against her own -- that he realised the path of this decision. He wasn’t even aware of having consciously decided his course of action; it just felt right. He was hollow, he was hurting -- and Harleen was offering to stitch him back together in the most casual sense of the action. She was warm in his arms, a friend he had always counted on for a good time, flesh and blood with a passionate heart, mischievous eyes and a smile that he could never get sick of. His thumb pushed beneath the fabric of her thin lace pants, sliding across her folds at a teasingly slow pace, until it found home against her bundle of nerves. His lips fell to her throat, teeth tugging lightly on the skin as he left his amorous mark against her neck, lips peppering kisses across her collarbone. Slow circles were formed around the bud of her clitoris as he thumbed her centre, a sudden jerk of his thumb aiming to trip her thoughts completely. “Y’know, Harls-- I’m startin’ to think that maybe ye’ were right all those times you tried and failed to get me between yer’ thighs. Maybe I do need this, you, rough and ready. Perhaps I’ve just been postponin’ the inevitable. But shit me, I don’t half feel like takin’ my time with ye’.”
The world didn’t end in fire or ice.
It ended with pale blue eyes,
A crown of golden curls
And the words “I’m sorry.” spilling from soft, perfect lips.
“Talking to somebody through a bookshelf in a library isn’t convenient. Just walk around if you’re so intent on making conversation.”
“I was trying to be inconspicuous,” Finn remarked, rolling his eyes as he rounded the shelf to talk to his sister. Gesturing towards the other end of the library with a sharp jab, he singled out the figure of his ex girlfriend, before bringing the same digit to his lips. Why on Earth Nicollette would be in a library of all places begged the question. “If yer done here can we head somewhere else? I was having a pretty stellar day until now, actually.”
Letty couldn’t believe the words that came out of Finn’s mouth, brows raising and eyes widening. Who the fuck did he think he was? She scoffed, a smile spreading across her lips as she shook her head leaning against the stand and closing the distance between them as she faked a pout. “Finny,” She cooed, tsking him some as she reached over to pinch his cheek before the foreigner could slip away, giggling to herself as she sighed, “i know you’re upset, really how could you not be? Considering that you weren’t good enough to get the job done and I had to find another boy to make up for your lack of skill.” She muttered, shrugging her shoulders, “But we had nice times didn’t we? Like that time we went to the beach, you remember don’t you?” She asked curiously, smiling brightly as she laughed, “We had a picnic, and then we fucked in the sand, and you told me I was the only girl you ever wanted to love?” Letty knew she was being cruel, she really did but he had insulted her, and no one was allowed to do that and get away without any claw marks left in them, “It’s pretty sad it’s true huh? You’ll always have loved me, and I’ll never have loved you.”
The touch -- which previously would have felt affectionate -- felt threatening, even menacing, now, and Finn couldn’t help the wince that overcame his features in response. His canines ground against his lower set of teeth in response to her words, hands balling into fists at his side. It was impossible to ignore her. It was impossible to not feel. She controlled him like a wound-up Jack-in-the-box, twisting and twisting until he sprung. Sometimes, he thought she even preferred it when he lost his temper -- it meant she had won.
Hurriedly, he shoved his possessions into his knapsack, stepping out of the cabin and yanking Letty along with him ( his grasp on her surprisingly light, despite the raging tempest inside of him ). With a forceful tug, he brought the shutter door rolling down, striding on as Nicolette continued to parrot in his ear. He could ignore her, to an extent. Her words stung, but they washed over him. Until that last sentence left her lips, and hell came crashing down. “Shut up! Shut your goddamn mouth!” It was not with his fists that Finn responded, but something far worse. In a matter of seconds his cheeks were littered with tears, a near impossible sight on the boy. The back of his hand dragged harshly against his skin destroying the pellets that fell from his eyes and scalding himself for appearing the slightest bit weak in front of Nicolette.
“You’re a bitch, Nikki. And you know it,” he finally uttered, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the tears from falling, his voice strangled despite the fiery rage that burned inside of him. “I can’t forgive you.” He had turned on his heel before she could even reply, feeling the weight of her eyes on his back as he stormed along the pier, the blow of her words far more painful than any blade could inflict on him. Heartbreak was a word he had always acredited to those dramatic types, but now, with tears streaming from his eyes and nails cutting into the skin of his palms, he felt every inch a shattered man.
It seemed now that the catalyst of her nerves was certainly Finn: in most situations, physical affection or touch had a calming affect on her. In this case, it had her drawing tighter than a bow string. Still, she was pliable, and her body adjusted as he directed it, her breathing sharp and high and labored purely with the effort of not falling over. Whether he intended it or not, the Irishman’s voice was heavy in her ear, sending chills down her spine. This is just fucking ridiculous. The hand on her abdomen, though, that was the strangest, her entire body all but seizing up with tension.
Obviously, he was playing her, and she was falling right into it. “R-right. Thank-k-ks.” It felt like the words were choking their way out of her throat, seizing and squeezing and christ it shouldn’t have been this hard to get herself together. But if she could push him from her mind, ignore his heavy gaze and the way his calloused fingertips felt along her skin, she would be fine. Magnolia knew that much like she knew how to breathe; her entire family had been throwing spirals and curve balls since they were kids, it was the Claire family way. So she did. She took a deep breath and closed her sky-blue eyes, letting the sharpness of the voices around her and the weight of whatever touch remained fall free from her mind. It’s just a throw. You’re in the back yard. You’re throwing to Junior. You can do this.
Following Finn’s advice and the steps she knew damn well, Maggie let the ball fly–and fly, it did, straight at one of the targets–a perfect arc of gravity-defying athleticism.
The tension that he could feel ebbing from the demigod was almost laughable. Sure, Finn had a short fuse and a temper that would challenge that of Hades himself, but he was hardly terrifying. His hand fell from Maggie’s diaphragm as he took a step back whilst she positioned herself, determination behind those deer-in-the-headlights eyes of hers. Her arm arched. The ball arced. Dead centre, a perfect hit; the coconut sprung from it’s stand.
Finn’s hands met in a deliberately slow clap, a smile tugging up his features as he let out a low whistle -- though it was nigh on impossible to tell whether his approval was genuine or merely sarcastic. “Congratulation, Sweetheart. Ye’ just murdered a coconut.” Hands dug trhough the pockets of his jeans, his brows tugged together in exasperation until his hands at last brushed upon what they sought. Tugging the carton from his pocket, he took out a cigarette, placing the filter between his lips as he struck a light on it’s end. “Another nine like that, and you might even win yerself’ a stuffed animal,” he spoke, through teeth that gritted the cigarette as at last the flame took, a heavy drag filling his lungs. He pushed another ball in front of her, offering her a short nod as he waited for her second attempt, almost begging her to go catastrophically wrong and provide at least a little excitement to his otherwise mundane shift.
Of all the angels that enchanted story books, the fallen ones were always my favourites. To know that demons were once the celestial beings of the sky – wings clipped before their time, damned to a life of struggle – made them far more heroic to me. Everyone knows that Lucifer was God’s favourite.
Heedless Harleen O’Hara lived her life with hedonistic liberty. Her days encapsulated a series of adventures, filled to the brim with exuberance. Never had I met someone who more inhabited the present than that of the Belfast beauty. She herself was a tempest. Every bat of her eyelashes brought beautiful chaos. Every sound from her lips unleashed addictive havoc. She waltzed through life like a butterfly, eyes drawn to her extravagant beauty; she humoured some with her colourful presence – but soon enough she was gone, an unreachable speck of technicoloured elegance on the horizon.
Teeth marks and kiss-prints stained her lovers like murder clues – for to fall for Miss O’Hara was in itself a killing. Oh, she’d love you all right. For one night, she would pour her heart and soul into another. She adored them for their eyes, as bright as the ocean, or the curve of their down-turned lips, or for the way they finished their sentences somewhat – hesitantly…
But a night was all. Then, like the tides, her adoration subsided leaving shipwrecks in the hearts of men. To love her was the most bittersweet of affairs. To fall for her was suicide.
the bold-hearted boy i used to be @finnegone - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
