todays bird
Show & Tell
Origami Around
Product Placement
RMH
d e v o n
Love Begins
trying on a metaphor
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shark vs the universe
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
macklin celebrini has autism
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
noise dept.
gracie abrams
Sweet Seals For You, Always
PR's Tumblrdome
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@tayto-enjoyer
𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊.
Conor Kirkland ; Northern Ireland Semi-selective, multi-para, mostly-canon interpretation with historical interpretation where canon is lacking. Please be 20+. Writes with mutuals, am usually follow-for-follow.
carrd + about conor account info
He's more than a little hungover, one hand gripping grey-tinged red hair as he downs the paracetamol and sets the glass down with a solid thud. He picks up his phone and scrolls with squinted eyes, ignoring the soreness from the bright screen. When he comes across one particular news story, his caterpillar brows crease downward and his lip curls in disgust.
"The White House? Yer serious right nai? Away ta fuck! Next time that dense fuckin hoor is in a cage it'll be wi mesel."
oh god it's been a minute
@tayto-enjoyer
"I think the greatest invention of mankind was the potato"
Connor perks up quite a bit at the mention of potatoes, eyes shining with utter delight. "Och, a man of class, ye are! Get o'er here." He clasps Ludwig's hand in a firm shake and claps his shoulder, beaming up at him. "Nai, let's talk business. Hai d'ye prefer tae cook 'em?"
Lmfao Tumblr mobile is so fucking broken, not giving me my notifs then giving up when I try to respond. Christ. hode awn let me get back to my desktop I am SO sorry
my tin whistle came in yesterday. There is not a goddamn thing in this brain but swallowtail jig
After much debate I think that I will allow Connor to put the toaster in the cupboard when he's done with it
Also if I left you hanging recently. Dear god I'm sorry. Life is kinda hell right now. I'll be back eventually 😅
Connor muse go brrr. ❤️ for a starter from the old man.
Happy 2nd year anniversary to the silliest man EVER and his tragic love story <\3
"I see he's oet after his wee prostate surgery. . . Er, I guess the problem was that et wasn't wee, more like." 💧
. . . I'm thinkin' of gettin' a cat. Or maybe one o' those wee cows . . . ?
. . . Oh, I coul' be doin with a house cow.
Wait, he can get presents from multiple brothers? If he knew that, he would have amped up the cuteness throughout the year to milk him for all he's worth!
While that may have been his initial thought, only half-serious, the reality of the situation gradually sinks in as he stares at the boxes. It's not just that Connor saw him fit to receive gifts, but that he remembered him at all. His biological family, the brothers he barely knew, had him in mind while planning for Christmas. The excitement, though still present, softens under the weight of the boxes he gingerly takes into his hands and the implications they carry.
"Right, yeah, erm- No-..." What was it again? He'd seen the word a few times, usually in the context of educational infomercials about Christmas around the UK. "Nollaig?" His pronunciation isn't great, stretching the 'aig' into a harsher 'AYg,' but it's close enough. He can't for the life of him remember how to say 'happy' or 'good,' though, so he stumbled over into "God Nollaig?" in a sloppy mix of Swedish and Irish. That's fine. This is fine. It's the thought that counts, right?
Peter fumbles to open up the flatter box in hopes of brushing off his botched attempt at returning the greeting, too caught up in his own nerves to notice the way Connor shakes.
Nollaig. Connor got hung up on the word and took a few moments to fully register just what Peter was saying, but it finally struck him full-force. Oh— Oh, he was speaking—. . . !
Green eyes gleamed in response. How was it that Peter had just said it so casually, as if he weren't making Connor's entire year? His palm pressed over his heart for a very different reason, and he shifted on his feet as he watched Peter open his first gift.
It was a bodhrán, complete with a tipper. He played the drums, didn't he? What was another one, for some musical flavor. . . Was it weird? Maybe it was weird. Despite the absolute rush he'd gotten from Peter's snippet of Irish, Connor's mind was already starting to cloud over again with worry.
I'd like to write the old man... ♥️ if you want Connor to send your muse a Christmas gift.
@fort-no-more
Two boxes are in Connor's arms. One is square and flat, the other is rectangular and with quite a bit of depth. They're each wrapped up in crisp blue wrapping paper — one with sailboats, the other with stenciled drawings of various marine wildlife. Glittery bows and ribbons cross over each.
There's a smile on Connor's lips, but it's of the particularly nervous sort. How was it that Peter was a pure terror, when he was such a delightful lad?
Connor worked himself into a fit at the mere thought of him, fretting over whether he'd make him uncomfortable or, worse, traumatize him even more. Well, gifts weren't all that bad, were they? . . . Except that Arthur sent him a gift once a year, as if that would fix anything — and sure, but didn't he come off like a full cunt doing that, the neglectful older brother popping in once a year to say Happy Christmas before expeditiously fucking right off. Was Connor adding to that? Or maybe he was just a strange old man, whose thinly-veiled desperation to spend time with his youngest kin made Peter feel awkward — Connor could definitely sympathize with that discomfort.
The incessant worrying over whether he was going to cause any pain had Connor trembling by the time he finally got to Peter, his grin tense with the anxiety.
"H-Happy Christmas!" he leaned down and handed either box off to the boy, then clasped his hands over his chest. He swore he could feel his heart threatening to jump right out of it.
michael fry in his sweater vest, acting like a granda and sitting you down and telling you about how things used to be, with all the genuinely-toned sarcasm in the fucking world — that's connorcore, thinking of him telling the Peters that shit. Your nervous wreck of an older brother sits you down at christmas, and goes on what sounds like a genuine story until you realize it's just fucking pokémon. Aye son, an the professor was a protestant but he was always so kind tae us... An I lived there until the day I turned ten an me ma, she said, gwan now, catch em all...
I'd like to write the old man... ♥️ if you want Connor to send your muse a Christmas gift.
I pecan't pecan and the walnuts are walled off! I'll eschew cashews and tell pistachios to piss off! I might go madcadamia, but at almend over time There's a Brazil-lian reasons NOT to give in to pea or pine! NO NUTS IN NOVEMBER! Though, now I don't know what to do with all the Halloween chocolates that have nuts in them... Anyway, I wrote that all myself, so puh-lease show your appreciation for my creativity in the form of non-nut-based treats, a new toy, or basic respect! Thank you!
[Connor's eyes go wide, shimmering with dual horror and delight. On one hand, he's full of concern over someone so small discussing no nut november, of all things. On the other, he's bursting with pride; his youngest kin is talented!]
Och, ye nae'er told me you coul' write poetry!
[He closes the distance between them and firmly affixes a hand to Peter's shoulder. He's grinning ear-to-ear, eager both to discuss this gift and to change the subject.]
Hoeh long have ye been writin', lad?
"thousand lifetimes that we passed through
countless pieces of time
two souls coming back home."
