#irish exit

[scrunkled]

066:

[serduncthelunk]

I Wanna Find You In a Crowd To Hide From You - (Damian Wayne x Catherine Kyle-Todd (OC))

Damian Wayne x Catherine Todd (OC) DC Comics

Valentines Day 3!

Summary: When Damian Wayne vanishes mid-masquerade with a mysterious girl on his arm, the Batfamily is left with more questions than answers.

Warnings: Mild language, implied romantic intimacy, Batfamily antics.

You’re not going to lie—the gala is absolutely beautiful.

And incredibly boring.

You had begged Selina to come, citing opportunities—networking for the upcoming Gotham Theatre charity shows, rubbing elbows with donors, planting seeds for March. She had agreed, reluctantly, with a knowing look that said you owe me later.

Somewhere between exiting the car, oohing at the fairy lights strung like constellations across the terrace, and batting your eyelashes at men twice your age with wallets twice their egos, you’d gotten separated from both Selina and your brother, James.

Which is how you end up stuck.

Stuck smiling politely while Mr. Whatshisface drones on about his private vacation home in the Maldives—again—after you had so nicely asked him to consider supporting the new slate of community charity shows happening in March. You’re barely paying attention anymore, tuning out the sound of your own practiced charm, when you see him.

A flash of black hair.

A familiar back you know far too well.

Finally—the first interesting part of the night.

“Mr. Johnson, the home in the Maldives sounds lovely,” you say smoothly, already stepping back. “And I hope to plan a trip in the summer. But right now, I’ll have to excuse myself—I just saw my mother waiting for me in the foyer.”

“Aw, Miss Kyle, you’re always a delight,” he beams. “You really must come to more galas.”

You smile, hike up your skirt just enough to move faster, and disappear before he can trap you again.

The dress tonight had been chosen with intent: black, long, a full skirt that swayed when you walked. Simple lines meant to project innocence and kindness. A large white bow sat at the small of your back—almost excessive. And of course, for irony’s sake, a cat mask. Handmade. Lace and pearls scavenged from whatever scraps you’d picked up during your last costume project for Alice.

The door you reach is heavy oak, cool beneath your palm as you push it open.

You find him in the small home library of Mrs. Havenbee’s estate, tucked away from the noise and glitter. Low light. Dusty books. Quiet.

You make sure your footsteps are noticeable.

Then you slide your arms around his waist, the silk of his button-down cool against your hands, and tuck yourself into him like you belong there.

“You’re late,” Damian says, though there’s a noticeable smirk on his face. His hands come down, tracing your fingers as you curl closer into his jacket.

“The old fuck would not stop talking about his vacation home in the Maldives,” you mutter, sighing into his chest. “Like I didn’t just give him a ten-minute speech about the importance of funding Gotham Theatre community programs. I was this close to being reduced to nodding and pretending I cared.”

Damian hums, amused. “You escaped.”

“Obviously,” you say, smiling. “I had somewhere better to be.”

______________________________________________ 

You unwrap yourself from him slowly, reluctantly, until you’re standing in front of him. Your fingers hook beneath his chin, guiding his gaze to yours. For a moment, he resists—out of habit more than anything—then he lets you tilt his face up.

You kiss him.

It’s unhurried. Warm. Familiar in the way that says this isn’t stolen, just chosen. His hand finds your waist instinctively, thumb brushing over fabric as if grounding himself there. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“Happy late Valentine’s Day, birdbrain,” you murmur, smiling.

That earns you a soft scoff—and then he leans in, stealing another kiss like it’s owed.

“Late only because the Riddler decided it was time for another one of his ridiculous master plans,” Damian says. “One that somehow required not just Batman and Robin, but you as well.” His mouth quirks. “Apparently, he’s convinced Catwoman is still madly in love with my father and plotting to steal him back.”

You groan. “Of course he does.”

Damian reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, expression suddenly more careful. He opens his palm.

A simple gold necklace rests there. Delicate. Unassuming. The pendant is small—a robin in mid-flight.

“For you,” he says quietly. “I saw it and thought… it suited you. Loyal. Sharp. Harder to catch than people expect.”

You lift it, eyes soft. “That won’t tip anyone off,” you tease, smiling up at him.

“That is the point,” he replies, dry. “Subtlety is an art.”

Your relationship isn’t exactly a secret. Selina knows. James knows. Lucy knows. Hell—Jason definitely knows. But most of the Bats are still blissfully unaware.

“You said yourself we weren’t hiding,” Damian adds, watching you fasten the clasp.

“Just not yelling,” you finish, glancing up at him. “There’s a difference.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning in close again. “You are exhausting.”

“And yet,” you say, fingers curling into his lapels, “you keep me around.”

His eyes soften, just for you. “Well you are one of the more tolerable people.”

You gigle at that stealing time to exchange more kisses 

_______________________________________________________________

In the main area,  Dick Grayson is panicking.

Okay—well. Not panicking.

…Yeah. Panicking.

Because Bruce’s exact words had been: “Look after Damian. Don’t lose him.”

And sure, Damian wasn’t ten anymore. He wasn’t threatening to stab diplomats with dinner forks. But for some reason, Dick was still operating in full overprotective older sibling mode.

Which is why this is bad.

Very bad.

Because during a conversation with several high-powered WayneTech executives—men who had been talking nonstop about quarterly projections and sustainable infrastructure—Damian had walked away.

Just… walked away.

Dick assumes Damian went to get a drink. Or air. Or to escape the soul-crushing boredom of adults who thought graphs were a personality. Reasonable. Logical.

Except

Thirty minutes have passed.

Thirty.

Dick is now circling the ballroom like a shark in a tuxedo, smiling at donors while silently screaming. He’s replaying the moment over and over in his head turning the corner near the side doors, positive he’d seen Damian slip through.

And a young woman right after him.

Masked. Dressed in black.

He hadn’t recognized her.

Which is the problem.

When Dick finally finds Damian again—reappearing from a hallway like nothing happened, hair barely out of place—Dick practically grabs him by the shoulder.

“There you are,” Dick hisses. “Where did you go?”

Damian looks at him, unimpressed. “I was here.”

“You were not here,” Dick says, gesturing wildly. “You disappeared. For half an hour. You walked out that door—” he points “—with someone.”

Damian blinks. Once.

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Dick stares at him. “Damian.”

“Richard.”

“Who was she?”

Damian sips his drink calmly. “What ‘she’?”

Dick’s eye twitches. “The girl. Mask. Black dress. Slipped out with you.”

Damian shrugs, entirely too composed. “You are imagining things.”

“I am not imagining things.”

“You have been known to dramatize.”

Dick throws his hands up. “You vanished for thirty minutes!”

“I was getting air.”

“For thirty minutes??”

“Yes.”

“With a mystery woman??”

Damian’s mouth twitches—just barely. “Your fixation is strange.”

Dick stares at him, absolutely losing his marbles. “I swear to God, you are gaslighting me.”

Damian takes another sip, eyes sliding briefly toward a darkened hallway before returning to Dick, perfectly calm.

“You are doing that to yourself.”

Author’s note: A short piece today because work wiped me out. This is the same OC from my Death to Life series on AO3—I just wanted to give this couple something sweet while I keep working through their backstory.

[ohmymymymyy]

Eliza McLamb - Irish Exit

“I read the books you love for fun”

[farnwedel]

In Flammen 07 - Hä?

Freitag, 12. März 1999 – 9 Uhr

Der Inspector verhört Bridey. Anscheinend steckte Rosheen hinter allem: Sie hatte die alten Frauen umgebracht und den Verdacht auf Patrick gelenkt, sie hatte Kevin und die anderen gegen Bridey und Liam aufgehetzt, sie hatte Kevin dafür bezahlt, das Haus in Brand zu stecken. Kevin lebt noch, hat aber einen Schrecken davongetragen, dass Bridey und Liam ihn auf frischer Tat ertappt und ein bisschen gefoltert haben. Rosheen hat Bridey und Liam verachtet und versucht, sie alle in Brand zu stecken, aber Bridey konnte sie rechtzeitig mit der Armstütze ihres Rollstuhls erschlagen. Oder so ähnlich. Bridey bezeichnet sie als Hexe, die nur hinter Jeremy Jardines Geld her war und dafür Brideys Sohn geopfert hat.

Freitag, 12. März 1999 – 14 Uhr

Der Inspector glaubt Bridget kein Wort. Jedenfalls nicht den Teil über Rosheens Tod. Er vermutet eine Ritualverbrennung (weswegen Kevin sich bei dem Teil der Geschichte auch merkwürdig verhält).

Außerdem erzählt er von der ganzen Geschichte, als habe er mit Rosheen persönlich gesprochen, was ja nu nicht sein kann.

Siobhan vermutet, dass Liam und Bridey in Bezug auf ihre Behinderung gelogen haben, weil sie mehr Angst vor einer Verurteilung wegen Sozialversicherungsbetrugs haben als vor einer wegen Mordes an Rosheen.

Zum Schluss noch etwas Geplänkel über Engländer und Iren, und fin.

Also…wenn sich das Buch insgesamt etwas mehr Zeit genommen hätte und/oder chronologischer erzählt hätte, wäre das ein durchaus unterhaltsamer Krimi. Minette Walters ist ja kein unbeschriebenes Blatt in der Branche. Aber 142 Seiten? Musste sie schnell auf eine Deadline hinarbeiten?

[dustedmagazine]

Irish Exit — Tantrums in Tandem (Cropsey Records)

Even if you are the type of person not to overthink the notion that it should be “Irish goodbye” instead of “Irish exit” — not for nothing, but The Temple Bar can’t sufficiently resolve its origins — in the very specific case of Tantrums in Tandem, it’s still something of a misnomer. Ryan Palmer’s first full-length under this alias follows an accelerated origin of its own that’s resulted in a hello denizens of any nation could recognize and one of the year’s better indie rock debuts.

Palmer is an artist on the ascent, but he hasn’t come from nowhere. The Marine Park resident has spent time playing in Brooklyn bands that include Screwbawl, Wince, Best Girl and Kid Nice, most of them associated with the mischievous Cropsey Records (aka “Brooklyn’s oldest record label” — founded in 2019). The label’s acts often mix and mingle members in the grand lineage of any local scene, and Irish Exit is no different: Though Palmer is the songwriter, guitarist and lead singer, fellow Wince members Kyra Horario and Dave Hernandez play bass and additional guitar, respectively, and drummer Nick Grasso plays in a bunch of bands that share bills in the orbit. Recording engineer Wil Ren’s Nowhere Studios is also associated with Wince and Marcyline, who are also on Cropsey, who … well, you get the point.

Into this fertile hive of creativity dives Tantrums in Tandem, whose release date Cropsey claims was delayed from July to early October. I don’t believe that for a second, but it doesn’t matter — and once “Intrusive Truth” kicks into gear, you won’t care how it came to be, either. The key ingredients are all there from the start: Palmer’s ear for melody fights with an impulse to shout and redirect the song that will be familiar to anyone who’s ever heard an early-to-mid-period Pile album. The guy’s got a great scream in Rick Maguire’s vein, too, even if his vocals are often just buried enough when he’s not shredding his throat and it’s difficult to make out much of the lyrical content (though you do get its contours through the cheeky song titles).

Irish Exit’s propulsion over the course of the LP exceeds any of those records, however, and in addition to that is a stronger emo and power-pop proclivity. “The Holy Land of Coney Island” is a slightly more ragged take on the latter tradition, but you also get the sense that Palmer’s had a steady diet of elder emo piped into his consciousness via Piebald or pre-On a Wire Get Up Kids. More contemporary touchpoints are Titus Andronicus and Cloud Nothings. Regardless of influences, what results is a bar band on 11, like Jason Anderson or The Hold Steady but more youthfully animated. The backing group is up for it, too: “5 Foot Something” is a pummeling number that foregrounds Grasso’s drumming even more than the other songs, and the frequent time signature changes are taken in stride by Horario’s anchoring bass. Hernandez’s guitar often twins Palmer’s but occasionally offers gentle color (“Pity Party” comes to mind) to the mix.

There are no miracles being performed on Tantrums in Tandem. This is, simply, a very good rock record performed by a group wholly in sync with one another. That’s always going to be an invigorating proposition amid the cluttered musical morass. I keep coming back to album highlight “Francis Forever Will Have Their Revenge on Bushwick (New Configurinè),” which starts slow but accelerates to a chorus that peaks with the very simple line, “You’re not so fast asleep and I’m / wide awake.” That kind of rumination to that kind of guitar? That’s eternal. Go on, then: Tap into the continuum.

Patrick Masterson

[just-some-of-the-angels]

Apple Music is coming for blood jfc I got Irish Exit, Family Line, and Matilda back to back. Being stabbed would’ve been gentler.

[wigoutlet]

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Most Likely To Make an Irish Exit - Irish Whiskey and Winking Shamrock