#deirdre x reader

[pparacxosm]

blue-eyed son

(homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; tw themes of poverty; tw strangely intimate vaguely unnerving eating scene; maybe i got carried away with characterising the motel receptionist; but it was necessary; tw corporate ennui; tw scathing outlook on new rochelle; i’ve never even been to new rochelle; there is a real prompt from the NYT mini crossword in here, and the answer was ‘aches’ but ‘zweig’ is also five letters; also maybe i got carried away with reworking the dialogue from the motel scene; but i maintained the essence of tragedy; in fact i enhanced it; tw enhanced essence of tragedy)

‘Not too shabby…’

The blue light miasma permeating from the screen of your brickheavy, moltenhot company laptop casts taunting shadows across your visage as you stare at the subject line of the email from your boss. You drag your finger across the mousepad and click.

Just got off the phone with Mr Smith from Kanonda Corp., and they had some great things to say about our chat today. Kudos to you for handling that. Just a quick reminder, though, that your numbers aren't quite up to par this month, so let's work on ramping those up. Keep it up!

Cheers!

You find three things hilarious about this email: 1) the use of the words our chat when you’re pretty sure you endured those three hours of Mr Smith’s overt attempts to incite a clunky game of footsie under the wobbly table in the shitty steakhouse in bumfuck New Rochelle completely solo, 2) the notion that adding an exclamation mark to the phrase ‘keep it up’ makes it read more like an encouraging pat on the back than a barked order, and 3) the use of the words your numbers when there’s about five other assholes on your team who aren’t in bumfuck New Rochelle, whose combined time spent sitting on their asses in the office, if harvested as energy, would be large enough to power up a small town for all four days of this wretched business trip.

Actually, the “kudos to you” is also pretty funny. Your boss, the comedian.

You shut the lid of the computer, drawing your knees to your chest and ignoring how the sharp lump of an errant spring in the old mattress is digging straight up your ass. You’re nursing a lukewarm can of Coors you’d snagged from this motel's halfway functional vending machine. You’re trying to ignore the noise from the room next door, where some douchebag is doing his best impression of a broken washing machine in bed.

New Rochelle sucks. New Rochelle sucks dick. The weather sucks dick. The food sucks dick. Your job sucks dick. Sunny Skies Motel sucks dick. And you’re considering redownloading Hinge, and setting your radius to ten miles and your standards to hellishly low, just so that maybe you can suck a dick, too, because you’d hate to feel left out.

The company you work for so graciously comps the room in the seedy motel. Real nice. The room reeks of piss and potpourri, old cigarettes and beer, and looks like a relic from the 70s. As in, peeling, avocado-green wall, visibly stained motheaten carpets that are an alarming shade of brown, and an ancient CRT TV whose only available channels are reruns of sitcoms from the 90s. Everything about this place wails ‘temporary,’ but, to you, there’s the stark, resigned misery of a lifetime sentence. The room is like your life, in a way: suffocating and stagnant, with no change in sight.

It's the kind of motel that no one would ever choose to stay at if they had a choice, or, perhaps, a modicum of selfrespect. But you, poor you, eyes going misty as you look out the window facing an alleyway, are beginning to contend with the fact that you have neither of those things.

You’re lying supine on the bed, arms spread out like a crucifix effigy, and your back is learning every lump and valley of the shitty mattress. You’ve downed your beer, and it’s sloshing about in your belly, and there’s a dampness gathering beneath the underwire of your bra.

You cast a glower to the thermostat, an old model with yellowed plastic and faded lettering. You note the temperature display.

“65, my ass.”

And who are you talking to? The roaches? They’re probably waiting for you to die of heatstroke so they can dine on your miserable, sweatstrewn flesh. The vent shudders droningly, spewing tepid air like bad breath, and you do consider just lying there. Sweating out your bitterness. But no. You need your bitterness. Your bitterness has always served you.

Like this, bitterly, you peel yourself off the bed, swinging your legs over the side.

You slip your tights-swathed toes into the firm leather of your kitten heels, tugging the hem of your skirt down your thighs, but choosing not to bother with the rolled cuffs or the top four unbound buttons of your button down, the dampness where the fabric clings to your back and armpits growing cool as you step out into the nighttime.

You’re twentyeight, which is seventyfive in corporate years.

You’re a wonder with a spreadsheet, and you work hard, and you’re reliable, but these are the sorts of things that only get you so far.

So they send you to New Rochelle. Fine. Here’s their thinly veiled, lastditch attempt to motivate you, or something.

And everyone’s probably sipping on fancy espresso in their cushy corner offices or having lunch in some upscale bistro back home. And you’re in sucksdick New Rochelle, wondering how many different ways a woman can feel disconnected and uninspired.

The Sunny Skies motel lobby is a hollow shell. It is lively as a morgue. The vending machine flickers with the weary lament of someone who is sick of dying. Not pained, or begging mercy. Just over it. Someone who wants to get the dying part of being dead over with.

There’s another roomtemp Coors can in there singing you siren songs, but you’re trying not to be tempted.

You’re stood in front of one of the twin front desks, tapping your manicured nail against the countertop.

You’re staring at a small sign behind the front desk, and trying to ignore the strange sort of aura of decay that seems to hang in the air. Sunny Skies knows her days are numbered, and it shows. Your eyes flick up to look at the clock as you hear footsteps approaching.

Enter Sally. Dear Sally. Sally and her jet black pixie cut and cold shoulder blouses and perennial disinterest. You identify with Sally on a deep, primordial level, because Sally has that soul-sucking look that only comes with years of forcing enthusiasm when you don’t feel any, and you can only hope to one day wield with as much grace that distinct emanating air of exhaustion. Sally is your hero.

“Can I help you?” she asks flatly, casting you a bored, fleeting glance over her narrow pink rectangle rimmed spectacles.

God, it’s artistry.

“I think the air conditioning in my room is broken?” you say. You pull out your phone and flip open the cover, retrieving your key card, because you have one of those flip phone cases. “I need someone to come take a look at it. The last repair guy said he’d pass the message along and no one’s come by yet.”

Sally takes the card and looks up at you sceptically.

“Are you sure it’s broken? Sometimes the thermostat just needs to be reset.”

You bristle a bit at the implication that you don’t know how to work a thermostat. You respect Sally like a soldier respects a war general. Which is to say, do you particularly like the woman? Fuck no.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you say firmly. “I tried resetting it myself like the last guy told me to, but it’s still not working.”

Sally sighs and jots something down on a piece of paper.

“Alright, I’ll send someone up to take a look at it,” she says. “Is that all you need?”

You want to say no, that that’s definitely not all you need, that you need to go home to your quiet, cozy, doesn’t-smell-like-musty-carpets apartment, to lay on your comfortable bed and eat a warm meal.

You just nod curtly.

“Yes, that’s everything. Thank you.”

Sally turns away to pick up a phone receiver, but freezes for a moment, her head tilted in an odd direction. You follow her gaze, your eyes landing on a figure at the far end of the lobby.

The first thing you notice is that he is a total mess. His hair is sticking up in different directions, like a child’s hair after a windy day, and his clothes are rumpled and chaotic, as if he’s just woken up.

You’re trying to determine if he’s extremely tall, or if it just looks that way because you can see his entire two legs with how short those shorts are.

You’re trying, too, to determine why he strikes you as being somewhat out of place here.

You suppose harsh fluorescent lights can sort of warp a person. But there is something almost striking about him. His face is sharp and angular, all hollowedout cheekbones and fierce, saxe blue eyes that house the sort of selfloathing hunger you only see in Eastern European gay porn. And they are staring directly at you.

He approaches the counter, and comes to stop at an odd place, almost slightly behind you. And you can feel a splendid heat radiating from his body, and you shift uncomfortably to put some distance between you.

Sally, from behind the desk, has been watching the man with a wary sort of glare, but she looks at him now with the same flat, exhausted expression she had used with you. No bullshit Sally. Unaligned and unimpressed.

“How can I help you?” she asks, monotone all the same.

This guy looks at her for a moment, still staring directly at you out of the corner of his eye, but then shifts his gaze to Sally completely.

“I need a room for the night,” he says. His voice is slightly hoarse, as if unused for a while.

Sally is already unconvinced.

“Do you have a credit card?” she asks, her fingers hovering over the chunky computer keys.

The man digs around in the pocket of his athletic shorts and pulls out a wallet whose leather has long ago seen the best of its days. He rummages around in it for a moment before pulling out a credit card and handing it over.

Sally holds the card between two fingers and begins to type something, eyes narrowed at the monitor. She looks at a screen for a moment, then looks back at the man.

“This card is declined,” she says matter-of-factly.

The man’s forehead creases up, a look of the defeated suffusing across his face.

“What? No, that can’t be right,” he says, but he sounds like he thinks it probably can be right. “Can you try again?”

Sally sighs, but, for her part, types the number in again.

Then she waits.

And a moment later, she turns the computer monitor to show him the word DECLINED on the screen in angry crimson.

His expression swims somewhere toward frustration and he leans forward, his voice taking on a hint of desperation.

“There has to be a mistake, that’s my only card.”

Sally looks at him with an air of very mild irritation colouring her general apathy.

“Sir,” says Sally, “I can see the balance on the card. It’s declined. You don’t have any other cards?”

The man’s face shifts again—his face is really very expressive—now bordering on despair.

“No, no other cards,” he says. “Is there anything I can do? I really need a bed for tonight, I’ve been driving all day, I’m exhausted…”

And—what, is he gonna seduce Sally? The thought alone is so funny (not him seducing Sally, really, but rather Sally being seduced by him, or maybe just him trying and failing) and you pull out your phone to keep from laughing, or, at least, then you can blame Twitter, or something.

Sally holds up a hand to stop him, her bangles jingling.

“Listen, sir. We don’t give rooms out for free,” she says, tone all no-nonsense. “If you want a bed for the night, you need to have a valid form of payment. Do you have cash?”

Now this man’s head is bowed, and he is visibly deflated. He looks up to meet Sally’s gaze, sadness and helplessness doing a miserable pas de deux behind his eyes.

“No, no cash either,” he says quietly. “I don’t have anything. I just need somewhere to sleep tonight. Just one night. Please.”

And, at that—at that, if my fleeting glance serves me correct, Sally’s expression softens a little. I think Sally probably watches a lot of AGT. She clearly has a soft spot for a pathetic story, but her job is, of course, to keep the motel from going under. And Sally has no golden buzzer here.

“Sir,” she says firmly, “I have bills to pay too. If I just gave away rooms without payment, we’d be a homeless shelter, not a business.”

Fuck, that’s funny, too. In a way. You’re actually not so tempted to laugh anymore, because this is all becoming a bit painful to witness.

The man lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can I pay in the morning, then?” he asks, and you can’t see from here, but his hands may be clasped together, because he certainly sounds like he’s pleading. “I’ll have cash by then, I swear. I’ll sign something, give you my driver’s license, anything. I just need a place to stay. Please.”

Sally leans forward on the counter, her tone growing a little terse. Whatever softness she’d started feeling now seems so far gone it may as well have never existed at all.

“Sir, I can’t do that either. If we let someone stay in a room without upfront payment, and you just disappear, then we’re out of a room and out of money. I’m really sorry, but we don’t make exceptions.”

And, to her credit, she does sound sorry, but she’s certainly not budging.

The man is definitely practically begging now.

“I won’t disappear!” he stresses, “I swear, I— Listen, I’m a tennis player. The tournament down the road. I just need a place to stay so I can rest before my match tomorrow. If I win, I get seven thousand dollars. I just need a bed for the night, that’s all. Please, you have to help me.”

Yeah, no, this is really painful. Like, uncomfortably so. You have the cruel thought of just turning around and leaving, and going back to your hot room, to go about your own—now considerably lesser seeming—wallowing, but an even crueler part of you regards this whole thing as a slow motion train wreck.

And, in your defense, you’re only halfway eavesdropping, because you’ve now struck up a passive aggressive argument with a coworker over a Microsoft Teams chat.

Sally raises a brow.

“A tennis player?” she asks dubiously, eyeing his disheveled appearance.

The man nods urgently.

“Yes, yes, I am! My name is Zweig, Patrick Zweig. You can look it up. I just need a bed, please, just one night. I’ll sign whatever you want, give you anything, just please.”

Sally now looks really unimpressed by his plea, her face betraying a hint of disdain.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, her voice laden with sarcasm. “You’re a tennis player. And I’m Beyoncé.”

And it’s funny again. Fucking Sally. You should try and ask her for a drink before you leave. She’ll say no, but you should ask.

The man’s face contorts in abject sorrow and impatience.

“Please, ma’am, if you just look me up—” he begins, but Sally cuts him off before he can continue.

“Sir, do you think I just have time to look up every person who comes in here claiming to be somebody?” she asks, her face growing increasingly pinched with annoyance.

It is then that Sally turns to face you, whose fingers are now really tapping away at your screen, because your coworker’s a bitch, but then,

“Ma’am, do you know who this man is?” Sally asks, gesturing a rednailed hand toward him as though presenting a case on Deal or No Deal.

And fuck if you hadn’t halfway tuned out of the conversation, because you’re suddenly being put on the spot.

You look over at the man, who is fidgeting and biting his chapped upper lip, and his wide blue gaze is a mural of anxious anticipation and pleading hope, and—okay.

So you hadn’t really been paying attention. But you now feel a palpable twinge of something resembling sympathy.

This guy’s face is so earnest and desperate, like an abandoned, infant monkey, or something equally as devastating, and there is something about… whatever he’s got going on that really compels you to give him the help he is so desperately seeking.

But that’s the thing. You were so busy insisting to Deirdre over Teams that saying you’re so articulate is, in fact, a microaggression, that fuck. You really don’t know who this man is.

But he’s looking at you, so desperate and pathetic, and his bottom lip may as well be jutted out and quivering, yet there is something—something—about him that intrigues you. In a stupid way. The way a kid may be intrigued by the mushrooms that have appeared between the wet grass after it’s rained.

So—okay—you give it a think. Because you do think he said it, his name, at some point. Your eyes flick over him. Your phone is still raised up to your face.

“… Peter Zeppelin?” you shrug, raising a brow.

And the guy’s eyes widen comically, and his face falls like the London Bridge, and Sally gives an amused sort of scoff. That seems to be the final nail in the coffin for her, and she holds up her hands in a resigned sort of there you go motion, going to turn back to the computer. And Peter Zeppelin—who is not Peter Zeppelin apparently—all but throws himself over the counter, and now you do see his hands clasp together, with all the desperation of Jesus in Gethsemane.

“No, no, no, come on, come on, that was close!” he says desperately, “Patrick Zweig, that was close, come on!”

But Sally seems done entertaining him, and the poor guy’s face twists with a dozen different alloys of disappointment and frustration and acceptance as he sees the conversation is over, and the gavel has been banged.

But despite his disappointment—and there are veritable oceans of disappointment he’s working with here—there is a hint of something else in his expression, something almost like amusement.

He shoots you a sidelong glance, as if trying to understand you. And you cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger, but you quickly look away, feeling a scattering prickle of guilt cascade over you, and you almost shiver. And why should you feel guilty, if you were only honest? You can’t be sure. Because you feel it all the same.

He lets out a sigh and gathers his things, wounded by the harsh blow of reality straight to his heart, it would seem. This was surely among the saddest interactions of his life.

But, as he turns to leave, he shoots another glance over his shoulder, his gaze once again finding you with magnetic haste.

It is a strange look he wears. A mixture of disappointment, curiosity, and something almost like… interest. You drop your arms, your phone hanging at your side, because that’s enough for you to feel a jolt of something. Something. Something you quite literally try to shake off as soon as he has departed, like a crestfallen cartoon character with all his belongings in a bandana on a stick over his shoulder. But his image seems to linger in your mind. His plaintive eyes and disheveled mien causing an odd sort of sensation to rise up in your stomach. You think it may be nausea.

Or the guilt is really having its way with you.

And the door swings shut behind him with a loud thunk, and you’re feeling a pang of regret, even. And fucking Sally, of all people, is giving you an odd look, as if to say you couldn’t have helped that poor man out a little more?

And you want to say hey, you mythic shrew, I don’t even know him, which is true, because you don’t.

And even if you had, would that have made Sally drop to her knees and throw him a room key? Who are you, arbiter of fame? You want to ask her. If you were less of a masochist, you probably would ask her. But the guilt makes a funny little home in your tummy, and you start to think it’s what you deserve.

You think, at some point, you were generous. In some tender, faraway time in your life, you housed a massive soft spot for anyone who needed help, you couldn’t help it. You’d grown up in a household with a Methodist and a Social Worker, and compassion and kindness were espoused with breakfast in the mornings. And now that you’re working in a cutthroat office full of bloodthirsty Type-A’s, you’ve been made hard as granite. Great.

You’re walking through the parking lot towards your room, and you spot a beat up Honda, its park job beyond redemption.

And who should you see slumped in the backseat, looking utterly dejected, but Peter fucking Zeppelin. He is staring at something on his phone, the glow illuminating his face in the darkness. And you’re holding another Coors from the vending machine like a world class capitalist shit stain.

Seeing him like that, so defeated and alone, makes the spot of guilt you’re nursing in your belly stand up and do a little jig.

And is it your fault? No. Kind of? Either way, you feel the tug of responsibility, and an unfamiliar need to make amends.

You reach your room. You unlock the door with your keycard. You do not walk in. You linger, of course, staring across the parking lot at the man sitting in his car. He hasn’t moved, still slumped down, head bowed over his phone. Your guilt seems to metamorphose into something more discomfiting, and its jig becomes a stomp.

Why refuse to help him?

It is so unlike you, that coldness.

You stand there for what tires you like an eternity, more than a little torn. But, ultimately, the image of his big blue pleading eyes, and the way they had laved you in abject despair, wins out. You’ll see them in your nightmares if you don’t do something. You can’t leave him like this, alone and dejected in his car. You certainly want to. You’d love to go back into your too warm room and drink your too warm beer and hope for Sally to have a come to Jesus moment. But you really can’t.

With a weary, longsuffering sigh, you gather your courage and make your way across the parking lot towards the car, your heels clicking against the tar.

You knock the knuckle of your index against the window, “Oi! Zeppelin!”

And the man’s head jerks up.

He looks… surprised to see you standing there. But there’s a gleam of expectation in his eyes.

The door is locked when he first goes to open it, which—good. At least he has a sense of selfpreservation. And then he unlocks it and takes off his grey track jacket and scrambles out of the car with a disoriented sort of grace, stepping out and straightening up to his full height.

So, yes, he actually is very tall. Much taller than you’d realised, actually, and you have to crane your neck to look at him. The light from the motel sign illuminates his face, accentuating his pallor and the tired lines around his eyes.

He is standing very close, this homeless stranger, and it suddenly occurs to you not to let your softness get the better of you. You look him up and down.

You wait for him to speak.

You want to see how he’ll react. And a furtive little part of you hopes that he’ll be a little angry, a little annoyed, at your still getting his name wrong. Because then you get to keep your guard up and maintain your distance, because even Mother Theresa knew the implications of standing alone with a large man in the middle of a motel parking lot in bumfuck New Rochelle.

His eyes, weary, harden just a fraction, the dim apparition of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s Zweig,” he corrects, his voice frayed at its edges but firm. “Patrick.”

He isn’t quite angry, but there’s a glimmer of irritation there, just enough to give you the satisfaction you hadn’t realised you’d been craving, and a strange sense of triumph tingles through you.

Oh, how much easier to be cold and standoffish when you have something to work with.

“Right, right, sorry about that,” you say, your voice dancing almost imperceptibly with sarcasm.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him, as though… assessing.

And then Peter—not Peter, Patrick—looks at you for a moment, his weary eyes registering your defensive stance and your rigid gaze.

He seems to recognise something. Something. A need to maintain something. To push him away and make a run for it before it’s too late. And yet, he doesn’t quite seem offended. Or even irritated, anymore. More amused, really, as he gives you a slow, crooked smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an odd, charming, almost absolute sort of way. Like he’s smiling, and that’s all he could be doing. Even as the smile itself has all sorts of nuanced implications. “I’ve heard worse,” he says.

The way he is looking at you, that easy grin, makes the guilt in your tummy flutter and still and wait. It does feel like he is seeing something, and, of course, that isn’t nice.

You feel a growing unease at his active refusal to react the way you expect him to, and maybe want him to. You work in white collar. There’s nothing easier to delineate than an angry guy. A guy frustrated by your callousness. But this guy seems almost entertained by your standoffishness. It is unsettling. Maybe strangely captivating. But mostly unsettling.

“You look exhausted,” you say, and you make sure any detectable concern is ostensibly feigned.

“Yeah, thanks for noticing.”

Simple. Dry. A note of humour.

He reaches up and runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement drawing your eye to his long, lean arm, the way it strains against the fabric of his helplessly rumpled T-shirt.

So you start feeling irritated again. Uneasy, unsettled, annoyed, these are easy things to start feeling, and you start feeling them. But not for this guy himself. Not necessarily. No, more by the way he is making you feel. And you think, fuck, has it been so long since I’ve had a beer that I can’t hold it down? And maybe that’s it. Or, maybe, you can’t help but find him marginally attractive. The fabric of his shirt, worn to gossamer, brushing over and revealing a glimpse of a toned, hirsute chest. His athletic shorts, which seem laughably short now, or maybe his legs seem laughably long. And strong. Maybe he should run for money, that’s a thing, right?

So anyway, you’re unsettled. And you find yourself growing even colder in response.

“No, you look really exhausted. Like medically. You look like you’re about to pass out. You look like you just crawled out from under a freeway overpass,” you say, and the words come out a tad sharper than intended, which was already quite sharp anyway. “Are you sure you’re not just some bum pretending to be a worldclass tennis player?”

This time, his smile turns into a fullblown toothy smirk.

“Oh, I’m a bum alright,” he says, leaning against the side of his car as he regards you with that flaying sort of intensity. “A real loser, actually. The kind of guy who ends up sleeping in his car in a motel parking lot because he’s too broke to even get a room for the night.”

The guilt in your tummy—remember that guilt?—yeah, well, it feels uncertain if it should even be there any more. If it shouldn’t be replaced with something more commensurate with the dense thump of your heart. But you don’t want to let him see how much his self-deprecating attitude has affected you. And you don’t want to let yourself see his reaction, if you were to give into a very strange sudden compulsion to tell him he isn’t a loser.

Instead, you roll your eyes.

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” you say, a wry hoist of your brows. You press your face against his car window, cupping your hands around your eyes so you can see in through the tint. “Where’s your guitar? Are you gonna start singing an acoustic version of ‘Hallelujah’ and begging for change?”

He chuckles at this, eyes lingering on the little patch of fog left by your mouth on the glass. “Ah, did you miss it?” he says, feigning sympathy, but his smile is still so wide, “I was strumming like a beast over on that street corner earlier. Gave my strings to this other homeless guy, though, in the end, figured he needed it more than me. Not ‘Hallelujah’, though. Dylan’s what really gets peoples’ hands in their pockets.”

“Righ… t.” You hesitate. You hesitate, because—well—he’s singing.

Yeah, no, he’s definitely singing. He’s closing his eyes and leaning against his car and singing Bob Dylan.

“Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? I’ve stumbled on the side of ten thousand graveyards.”

And—okay—those are the wrong lyrics, but the song choice certainly feels relevant to his current situation.

“It’s a hard—” He’s still singing. “—it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna—”

“O-kay,” you say, and he opens his eyes and for all their fatigue they are glimmering with mirth.

You try to remain expressionless, but his undeniable charm and abiding levity considering his obvious predicament make it difficult for you to justify being mean.

“You seem awfully comfortable with your circumstances,” you observe, a vein of scepticism threaded through your voice. “Most people would be freaking out right now, you know.”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets now, and makes an ambivalent sort of noise. “Well, what good would that do?” he says. “Won’t magically make the cash appear in my account.”

He pulls a hand from his pocket, the nylon rustling, and runs it through his hair again. You find yourself watching the movement, watching his hands now, which you think look oddly large. You’re unsettled again. Or maybe you’ve been unsettled the whole time, and you’re just still unsettled.

“So, you’re just gonna sit there in your car all night and hope a miracle happens?” you ask, a strange tremor in your voice that even you cannot presently put a name to. “You don’t have any… I don't know, friends you can call? Or parents you can beg money off of?”

And his expression seems to go dour at that, a noticeable trickle of humour draining from his eyes. “Parents are out,” he says bluntly. Pauses. Gives a humourless laugh.

Doesn’t mention friends, you note. But then you’ve never had many either.

Your guilt seems to settle again, deciding it is needed, and it is accompanied by whatever had had your voice tremoring seconds ago. You cannot help it. This is fucking sad. The way his selfdeprecating remarks have suddenly turned into selfdeprecating revelations. It’s fucking sad. And you don’t realise you’re staring into the middle distance all sadly until he’s ducking down into your field of vision, eyes searching your face, vaguely bemused, but sort of disgruntled.

“You feel sorry for me,” he says—says, not asks.

And then he straightens, and you think he’s gotten taller.

“Well, you’ve got no friends, no family, no money, and nowhere to go,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral, despite the fact that, yes, you find you are feeling quite sorry for him. “It sounds like you’re in a pretty shitty situation, Patrick.”

And where he could probably break down into tears—and maybe he should; you’re willing to give him your lukewarm beer and rub his shoulder a bit—a glimmer finds his eye. A fissure in his nonchalance. A look of surprise, and what almost seems like hope. He doesn’t even try to disguise it, and his smile is coming back, with the ease of something never departed.

“Hey! Look who remembered my name,” he says, and his voice has suddenly gone weird and tender, and the change sort of makes you shudder.

“Ah, shit, did I?” you say, looking down, rolling the beer can in your palm and letting it flick off your fingers and land in the other hand. You toss it back and forth like that a few times, and you’re trying to be… not too much of anything. You try to be Sally, unaligned and unimpressed.

It's hard, though, with the way he smiles like he knows something you don't. Like he's in on some kind of secret. You’ve always had a weird suspicion that everyone is keeping something from you. No one could surprise you, as a child.

Patrick—fuck, there you go—has the impish simper on his lips of a cat who’s just seized and maimed the canary.

“You did,” he confirms, voice still strange and heavy, like it’s laden with something.

You try to keep your gaze focused on the can—left, right, left, right—and the metal makes a little tck noise each time it hits your palm, the liquid inside sort of singing as it moves. But your eyes meander up to his legs, where a small patch of bright red road rash is visible on his knee. The guilt in your belly is up and dancing again, but it seems to have invited a whole bevy of other emotions alongside it. Stupid stuff, like sympathy, and shyness, and lots of other somethings of various discomfort.

And then you say, “Well, don’t get used to it,” and the can slips from your palm and onto the ground.

“Okay,” he says, stopping the can from rolling away with his foot.

And then he’s bending down to pick it up, and then he’s freezing, crouched down, like his whole body is wincing, and he makes a noise, like a guilty sort of noise, and he looks up at you, and says,

“Fuck,”

And stands up and sighs, shakes his head like he’s made a mistake, and shrugs his shoulders and says, “I’m used to it,” with a rueful sort of smile.

“Oh, are you?” You hold your hand out for the can, but he doesn’t give it to you.

He makes a tsking sort of noise, his elbow raising to rest on the top of the car, “I think I am,” he says, like it pains him, “I think you’re just gonna have to keep remembering my name.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“But you did.” He parrots your intonation.

Everything suddenly seems very loud. The sound of crickets chirping, the buzzing of the neon signs, the nylon swipe of his tiny shorts as he moves. He keeps moving.

“Because I feel sorry for you,” you say, and things seem quiet at that, as if for that, “You’re right, I feel sorry for you.”

He sort of kisses his teeth, nodding slowly and glancing off to the side in thought. And when he looks at you again, it’s with a gleam of vulnerability, like he’s conveying a silent message that you cannot quite decipher.

It is disconcerting.

His vulnerability is like a gaping black hole, something that will suck you into oblivion. You don’t really know what to do with your hands now. You wipe your palm off down the side of your pencil skirt.

“You’re not gonna spend the night in your car, are you?” you ask, like, maybe, if you ask, he’ll come up with a new plan of action.

But no. No plans. Only questions. He suspects you have a plan.

“Why?” he asks, “Are you offering me a place to crash?”

His smirk is returning, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He is clearly a seasoned scholar in deflection, but he bears the cross quite poorly, and his words send a shiver down your stilldamp spine.

Sunny Skies is the kind of place you'd expect a scene out of a thriller to take place.

You can picture the headline now: Woman found murdered in cheap motel room, career dead in the water long before.

You hesitate for a moment, torn between your better instincts and your uncanny appetite to help this man.

You know what you should do; you should tell him no, leave him with the beer, and walk away. Keep yourself safe from getting involved in his mess of a life, and potentially being found days from now with a racket jutting out your abdomen, long since festered in a pool of your own blood because the damn air conditioning still won’t be fixed. Fuck, Deirdre would love that.

But the way he’s looking at you, that deep dark supernova vulnerability you’d spied in his eyes just moments ago, it makes you hesitate.

“I…” you start to speak, then stop, sighing as you fiddle with your nails. “I'm gonna ask you something.”

Patrick's smirk falters slightly. He seems to sense that something significant is about to happen, and he tenses, as though bracing himself for an impact.

“Shoot,” he says, a thinly veiled wariness in his tone.

“Why the tennis?” you ask, your eyes on his, flickering, searching, like a bloodhound. “Why are you still doing something that’s clearly not working out for you? Why not give up and do something different? Something that pays, for one.”

And, now, you really do steel yourself for anger, but, to your surprise, anger doesn’t come. Nor do defensiveness or hostility.

Instead, he’s letting out a cynical, protracted sort of pfft noise. “You think I haven’t asked myself that a million times?” he says, his voice cloistered in irony. “There’s only tennis. Since forever. Maybe I fucked up with that, but that’s what I did, and now it’s all there is. I’m not exactly standing before you with too many marketable skills. I can run, I can hit a ball, not much else.”

And you’re frowning at that, at the resignation in his voice. You want to say something, some platitude about not giving up, about trying harder, but you know he won’t appreciate it. Instead, you ask another question.

You ask, “If you had a choice, what would you do instead?”

Again, Patrick surprises you. He doesn’t scoff or obfuscate. He actually just thinks about it for a moment, his whole face turning introspective.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, his voice low. “I guess I never really thought about what else I might be good at.” He runs a hand through his hair again, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s hard to imagine another life when this is the only one you’ve ever known.”

And that just makes you frown harder. You really want to say something now. But you don’t. Because you can’t. Because what would it be?

He’s an almost-has-been who’s fallen from the top of the ladder and is now scraping the bottom.

He'd once had it all, and now he has nothing.

How do you comfort someone like that?

You look at him for a moment, his lingering charm swirling like a wandering bee around you, pulling on your senses. You think about Ted Bundy, and how he lured women to demise by strumming their heartstrings like Bob Dylan. But then you suppose that any man trying to victimise a woman is not first going to try their luck on Sally, so. Well. You make a decision.

You make a decision, and take a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye. “I have a deal for you.”

He chuckles at that, his eyes dragging downward, a slow descent. He looks at your dishevelled working girl get up, and you realise, with a passing breeze that wafts the acrid, musky, but vaguely not unpleasant scent of him toward you, that your shirt is still half open, and your cleavage has been on exhibition this whole time, but you’re only realising now, because he’s only looking now, and he wasn’t looking before, and he says,

“I’m sure you do,” and he says, “You got a contract for me to sign?”

“My room has a queen and a sofa pull out couch,” you say, not-so-furtively, furtively creeping your fingers up to pull your shirt closed, “You can stay tonight—“

“I can’t let you sleep on a sofa pullout couch in your own room,” he says, and he’s able to feign absolute concern for but a moment before his smile is back again.

“—you can stay tonight,” you repeat, “on the couch, on one condition.”

He crosses his arms, the beer can slipping beneath his armpit, and you don’t even want it anymore, not the least because it’s now probably undrinkably warm.

“Let’s hear it,” he says.

You pause before responding, to make sure you haven’t been briefly possessed and given the suggestion by passing poltergeist, that it’s actually what you want. Maybe you’re tired, or charitable, or maybe it’s just whatever strange, striking quality he seems to have, but you say, “I’ll let you stay in my room if you let me come to your match tomorrow.”

And now you have managed to shock him. He’d been expecting some sort of request for a favour, or payment, but certainly not that.

“You…” his eyes are searching yours for sincerity, “… want to watch me play?” he asks.

“I’ve never seen a tennis match before,” you admit, and, for a fleeting, ludicrous moment, you feel a flush of embarrassment at your confession. “It might be interesting. And…” you steel herself, not sure you’re going to go through with sharing the next bit, “I’ve had a really shitty time here. My meetings here were… horrific. I could use some entertainment.”

He lets out a soft laugh at that, though maybe it’s a scoff. “You want me to entertain you?” he says, and his cadence is jesting, but there is something else there too, something in his eyes that makes your heart start thumping densely again. “You realise tennis can be pretty boring unless you know the sport, right?”

You shrug, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Hey, I’m willing to give it a shot. I have one day left in New Rochelle, and a day at the courts is a lot better than another day stuck in a meeting from hell. At least with you I’ll be watching someone actually do something, instead of pretending to care about some idiot’s idea for a corporate wellness retreat.”

Patrick’s eyes house a genuine amusement, his smile wide. “Corporate wellness retreat,” he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You in finance?”

“Worse. Way worse. Marketing,” you admit, like this is the most harrowing thing you can say. “But it’s all the same, really. It’s mostly idiots with big egos in boardrooms trying to outbullshit each other.”

“So you’d rather watch idiots with big egos trying to outbullshit each other on a court,” he nods solemnly, but, in a way, he’s issuing a warning. A beat, then he asks, “You always this sour?”

And you bristle for a moment, your pride affronted at his words. But you quickly relax as the irony of your current situation occurs to you—you’re letting a practically homeless tennis player stay in your hotel room, and you’re letting him joke at your expense.

And you suppose, not for the first time, that you deserve it, to some extent.

“Oh, no, usually I’m a blast,” you say wryly, and then, smiling vaguely with an odd sense of honesty, “But it’s been a long three days, and I’m not exactly in the best mood.”

He spends a moment studying you, taking a thoughtful breath. “You work too hard,” he says, as though coming to a profound conclusion.

“And you don’t work at all,” you reply, “Maybe we should swap problems for a day.”

“You got a house? I’m in.”

“An apartment, yeah,” you say, your voice lilting as though genuinely considering the prospect, “But I don’t have a car. Maybe we should just merge and form a symbiotic, corporate drone/middling athlete hybrid life.”

And there’s a pause there, and everything sounds loud again. The vague nyoom of each passing car rattling your teeth, because, in a way, what you’re suggesting is intimacy. And it’s beginning to occur to you that, though perhaps in different ways, you and Peter Zeppelin are two unspeakably lonely people. And to suggest such a thing as beastly as to share what’s tender, well… it feels a little unkind. A gentle brush against an open wound hurts the same way a slap does. 

Patrick takes a moment.

Then, sucking in a contrite bit of air through his teeth, he shakes his head, “I couldn’t wear a suit.”

“You could wear a suit,” you respond, shaking your head, rolling your eyes like he’s being silly, like that’s a silly thing to say. But now you’re picturing him in a suit which certainly feels like an untimely gust of air against that very same wound.

“I couldn’t,” he insists, shaking his head like he’s resigned, “I couldn’t, I’d look ridiculous in a suit.”

“You’d look great in a suit.”

“So, it’s a deal then? I get a bed to fall into tonight, and you get a ticket to the Patrick Zweig extravaganza tomorrow?”

You laugh at that, a sharp, amused ha, because that’s certainly some audacity he’s got on him.

“Slow down there, cowboy,” you say, and you’re smiling. “You get a sofa pull out couch to fall into.”

Patrick’s face swims with feigned despair at your words, a mock-offended noise leaving his mouth. “I thought this was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he says, a picture of exaggerated disappointment. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

You sputter a laugh. “I’m letting you stay in my room,” you remind him. “Free of charge, might I add. I think I’m scratching your back plenty.”

His eyes widen. He gives a dramatic sigh. He says wow like he just can’t believe it. He pretends to sulk. But the twinkle in his eyes ruthlessly betrays his amusement. “Okay,” he nods, like he’s doing something very big of himself, “Okay. I’ll take the couch. I’ll be good. It’s just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed.”

Something hot definitely flares deep in your gut, burning away all the guilt and concern and embarrassment and whatever else. There is something to being called beautiful by a man who looks like… well, like him. You’re not above admitting that he is becoming increasingly more handsome with passing time, like his face is blooming and ebbing and flowing before you. And that weird, vaguely unshowered musk is making your nostrils flare with something primordial.

“You’ll survive,” you say dryly, though your heart is back to thumping like a heavy fist.

The sound of the shower running is a vague cloud of pitterpattering, an ambient thrum, and you can hear the water rushing through the pipes behind the wall like a faraway steam engine.

You’re sat against the headboard, your nuclear reactor of a work laptop balanced on your knees, the fan whirring, the bottom permeating your skin with a volcanic heat and probably giving you radiation poisoning. You’re typing like a court stenographer, a sharp, erratic clacking of your nails against the keys, accompanied by the muted rush of waterflow from the next room over. You’re traversing the minefield of your emails. The light of the computer screen casts a pale, eldritch glow on your features, your brows creasing in irritation as you quickly scan and delete all your accumulated unreads.

You’re still in your tights, skirt, and button down, but now you’ve untucked the button down as well. You’re still sweating. The room is still a tepid rat hole. And it’s washed in the warm dingy glow of the beside lamp.

The only other light in the room comes from the ensuite bathroom, the door slightly ajar, leaking out a bright white beam that illuminates the swooping, swirling streams of mist that flow out.

You think the water pressure here’s a bit aggressive, but Patrick nearly sheds a tear when the sharp stream of hot water thrashes against the aches and knots in his muscles.

His whole body is sore. He sometimes feels like an earthbound corpse. It isn’t just the hours spent in his car, but it’s also the ardour of the matches, the unheard of notion of a good meal. The stress and toil of his lifestyle has taken its due toll on his flesh and bones, and here, in the shower, haloed by the thick fog of water vapour, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

The water sluices through his hair, emulsifying with the soap and sweat, creating a slick, frothy, chalky-floral scented trail down his face, chest, and arms. He lathers himself everywhere with the little motel bar soap until it is the size of a coin.

He braces himself against the shower wall for a moment, jaw slack and breathing laboured, letting the water batter his shoulders, feeling the muscles there tighten and loosen simultaneously under the hot, cascading stream. The steam and the heat seem to soothe something inside of him, and, for the briefest moment, he feels something approaching peace.

So Patrick is having his spiritual awakening in the shower, and you’re at the mercy of your emails. Deleting messages from your boss about the meeting notes and potential follow ups.

And Patrick spends the first ten minutes in there making unholy sorts of noises, like his skin is being torn off, which is a little disconcerting, but you figure he’s not had a nice long shower in a while, so you leave him be. And the next five minutes are just heavy breathing. And then he starts singing.

“It’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”

Which would be fine, but your irritation’s mounting; each new communication in your inbox serves as a needling reminder of the tragic, tedious day you’ve just had. The tragic, tedious life you've been living.

You rub your temples, and Patrick’s singing the guitar refrain of the song, and you’re trying to ease your burgeoning headache, but it’s proving stubborn. The more you read, the more you just want to thwack something. Or scream. Or both.

And so it is bad timing when Patrick emerges from the bathroom.

You’d been expecting an awkward moment. He seems the type to wear his towels irredeemably low on his waist and you weren’t particularly keen on knowing the intimate distribution of all his body hair.

But Patrick walks out in something else.

Patrick walks out in a baby blue Hello Kitty robe.

Patrick walks out in your baby blue Hello Kitty robe.

And you’re pretty sure your blood turns molten.

Your eyes widen like saucers, and your lips part softly. It is certainly both the most absurd and, perhaps, endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and you feel almost strange and lightheaded at the sight. You’d been imagining all sorts of stilted scenarios in your head, but this… this is beyond any of those.

“What… the hell are you wearing?” you manage to sputter, your chest kindling with both embarrassment and amusement.

Patrick glances down at the robe.

You’ve had it since you were nineteen, is the thing, and it only just fits you now, so, naturally, it looks absolutely comical on him. The sleeves come up to his midforearm. The hem is immodest, to say the least, rivalling his shorts in that regard. And the plush belt only just about encircles his waist, but he had the decency to tie a tiny knot at the front.

He looks back up at you. He seems remarkably nonchalant.

“Ah, this?” he says. “I thought it was, like, a complimentary thing. Y’know, like the little shampoo bottles?”

And he has the nerve to add a little shrug for effect, though, when you look closer, you can see the corners of his mouth are twitching slightly with suppressed laughter.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. A possessive part of you—well, the possessive part of you—wants to incinerate the robe with him in it, because he’s definitely naked under there. You can see the damp hair on his chest peeking out from the neckline, and water runs in rivulets down his legs, dripping on the carpet, and he’s getting your robe wet.

But the image of him raiding the bathroom, thinking he’d found some sort of freebie, is so strange and amusing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.

“You thought the motel—this motel, Sunny Skies motel—gives out Hello Kitty robes as complimentary items?”

Patrick grins in response. He is utterly thrilled with the effect he is having on you.

“Hey, Hello Kitty is a timeless icon,” he says.

And your eye twitches. You feel a little deranged.

“Yeah,” you say, enunciating sharply, eyes still a little wide, and you slowly move the laptop from off your knees, “That’s why I bought the robe.”

“You know, you’re not a very generous hostess,” he says, like he’s been sitting on the grievance for a while.

You release a laugh that is halfway a winded breath, “Oh, really?” because he’s not exactly getting a five star guest review on AirBnB either.

Patrick he tsks and nods slowly like he’s sad to break the news. And he saunters around the poky room, hands hiked high in the pockets of the robe.

He gives an exaggerated onceover, inspecting the room, before his gaze settles on you. You are now cross legged, leaning forward, your laptop immolating in front of you as your fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Can't believe this place actually has a TV," he muses, walking over to the small, ancient box. He glances at the remote, lifts it, and turns the TV on. A bright red screen flashes No Signal.

"Nevermind." He flops down on the edge of the bed next to you. "What’re you doing?”

You suppress an eyeroll, or violent screech, or spontaneous second degree murder at his question.

He knows what you're doing, but he's clearly itching for some sort of attention, a stray pawing at the restaurant door in search of warmth. And you wonder how long it’s been since he’s spent so much time with someone. You're a little hesitant to indulge him, partly because you're still processing your callously stolen garment and all the flesh with which it’s become familiar.

"Email," you say tersely. "Work stuff."

"Oh, right, right," Patrick nods and nods, as though only now realising that you're in the middle of a task.

He peers over your laptop screen, looking at the rows of email threads.

"Looks stressful," he comments.

You spare him a glance. His proximity is a tangible, intrusive thing, and robe gapes open, exposing a damp triangle of his chest and collarbone, his bare feet crossed at the ankles.

“Yeah,” you say, not even bothering to sheathe the irritation in your voice. “It is.”

For his part, he seems unfazed by your tone, or at least not willing to acknowledge it. He continues to peer at the screen, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

And you don’t know why, but you feel a strange, singeing humiliation at his scrutiny. You and your stupid mire of spiritdecimating emails. You feel pathetic enough to belong in a museum. An abstract sculpture portraying modern melancholy.

“Can you not... stare, please?” you croak, then clear your throat, your fingers against the keys growing jerky and feverish, like the sputtering adrenaline of something soon to perish. “I need to finish this.”

“Sure, sure.”

Patrick holds up his hands in surrender.

He looks around the room for a moment, as though contemplating his next move, and when he seizes beside you, like he’s just spotted a motion-activated grenade, it is so noticeable that it actually makes you stop typing and look up. He is facing away from you, is the thing.

There's a moment of silence. You watch his back. It looks like he’s not even breathing. The hum of the laptop fan and the low drone of the TV and the thick, tepid waft of the ventilation system compete with each other.

Slowly, slowly, as though you, too, have spotted the bomb, and you’re bracing yourself for flakspray, you look over his shoulder. And oh. Oh.

You see what has arrested his attention.

On the bedside table is a little black cardboard to-go box, Meyer’s Butcher & Grill printed atop in block lettering.

You blink. You had forgotten about the box completely. A relic of a day you hope will be extracted irrevocably from the flesh of your cerebral matter via some sort of alien abduction or government experiment.

But Patrick—well—he hadn’t been tightly shutting his legs as the polished toe of a hoary businessman conspicuously crept up his shin. He didn’t have to feign interest in golf for three hours while a cracked leather seat scraped the back of his knee.

No, Patrick is looking at that box like it houses nirvana. When he leans forward a bit, you can see how his throat moves involuntarily. He swallows. You see the muscles in his jaw flex with primal intensity.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The moment is heavy with tension, like the air before a storm.

And this seems to be an apt metaphor, because there is suddenly a deep noise, like the sky churning after thunder. And it is coming from his body. And it is such a loud, visceral noise of human urgency that you almost recoil.

A strange mix of shame and pity swell in your throat. The box, as it were, had filled you with such a strange sort of repulsed nostalgia that you really had let it slip your memory. You have no interest in its contents. But this man’s raw response rekindles the abject guilt in your tummy.

Patrick turns to you. He turns to you very slowly. And you can see how his eyes are almost glazed over. He wears the look of a man staring at the Holy Grail. A tentative shock, like he’s been marooned on a deserted island for a dozen years, and has just stumbled upon civilisation.

He opens his mouth. His jaw is slack and leaden. His tongue pools with saliva. And if a string of drool slips past his lip, it’s the least you can do not to mention it.

After a while, he manages thickly, “What… uh. What is that?”

“It’s, uh… steak. From the restaurant.”

He nods. He nods very slowly. As though he’s been rendered physically incapable of saying any more, though his words come suddenly, “Steak?”

“Uh, yeah. Filet mignon, I think. The�� fucking… guy ordered it, but…” you feel, in a fleeting moment, a feral sort of fear, like a fawn caught alone by a wolf in the forest. And it’s silly, obviously, but that’s how intense his gaze is right now. You clear your throat, “I mean, I’m not hungry.”

Patrick’s breathing is growing increasingly laboured. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, the wet muscle glistening in the dim light.

A moment passes.

“You can, uh…” you hesitate, a bit transfixed by his carnal hunger, your voice sounding oddly fragile, “You can have it… if you want…”

Patrick's eyes flicker almost imperceptibly at this. And you’re sitting there, and you expect him to just go ahead, and, maybe, in the background of your mind, you feel bad that the meal’s gone cold.

But he’s not eating. No, he’s suddenly become very still, as though waiting. As though trying to discern your sincerity.

"Are you sure… you don’t want it?" he asks.

And there is something about his voice, small and corporeal. It sends a strange, hurtful waft of pity through your chest. It sounds like it’s been scraped over barbed wire. It is raw and vulnerable and painful.

And you have the sense that, even if you did say no—which you wouldn’t—he has the look in his eye of someone who will definitely end up eating that steak, one way or another.

You shake your head, clearing your throat, “No, no, of course not. Take it. Please. It’ll just go to waste.” And your voice is sort of coloured by the notion that you’re on the verge of tears.

For a moment, Patrick's reaction is oddly unreadable. It's as though he can't quite believe his luck. And then, he turns, scrambling for the box as though it may spontaneously disappear now that it’s his.

He tears the lid off and, from here, his face looks cast in strange shadows, a shimmer flickering past his face as the low lamplight catches the foil in the carton.

There is something about the instant greasy, bloody aroma that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You’ve never liked steak. But he's already reaching inside.

Patrick can’t seem to chew quickly enough. He almost whines softly with each swallow.

It’s an animalic scene of consumption.

You think of hyenas mauling their prey, but he also looks very small, and vulnerable, and certainly odd, because he’s still wearing your robe.

He devours the meat voraciously, and he doesn’t even bother to wipe away the stream of red dribbling down his chin, but he has the decency to hold the box right under his chin so he doesn’t make a mess.

His fingers are covered in blood and mashed potatoes. There’s a little plastic container of chimichurri in the corner of the box, but he seems content ignoring it.

You have a strange sense that this whole ordeal is something you shouldn’t even be watching. And that, when a loud knock sounds at the door, you should be sort of embarrassed, but you don’t know why.

“Maintenance.” The man at the door seems so bored as to be disgusted. He towers over you, and is peering down, arm resting against the doorframe. He is gnashing open mouthed upon a wad of gum.

You are suddenly conscious of your dishevelled appearance, and find yourself scrambling to button your shirt up.

“Um?” you say, skewing your face a bit confusedly as you slip the buttons closed.

You let your sleeves roll down, the rumpled flare of the open cuffs falling over your wrists.

“Air conditioning maintenance,” the man repeats, as though you are a bit dense. You notice, now, he has a friend behind him.

And, “Oh!” you say, “Right, yeah, the air conditioning, the thermostats showing 60, but the air��s still hot.”

He blinks down at you, his head lolling to the side, and he tongues the inside of his cheek. His arms are big as boulders and tattoo strewn.

“You try resetting it?” he says.

Your jaw clenches.

“Yes,” you smile tightly. “It’s still not working.”

He harrumphs and then sort of coughs loudly and then sniffs, “Yeah,” he drawls, “we been getting a lot of complaints.”

“Lotta complaints,” he friend chimes boredly, tugging up the sagging waistband of his comically oversized grease stained jeans. He is idly twirling a screwdriver.

And then the one in front, the larger one, flicks his gaze over you. And then over your shoulder. He seems vaguely disinterested, for his part, in the story behind your blowsy, tousled appearance, and the half naked man tearing into a steak takeout in a Hello Kitty robe behind you. You figure working in a motel begets much stranger sightings, but you cringe to think of the conclusions he may be drawing. A disillusioned businesswoman and her famished prostitute? Does he think the robe gets you going? You shake your head of the embarrassment.

"Ah... ma'am," he utters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded overalls. "You and... your friend need to vacate the room for about twenty minutes while we work on the unit."

Outside, Patrick strikes his chest two times and manages a distasteful burp.

A draught sweeps past and the hem of the robe he’s still wearing sways dangerously. You aren’t even wearing your shoes. The soft soles of your feet lay flat against the warm tar through the thin gauze of your tights.

You’re holding the Coors can, still unopened, warm to the touch between your fingers, and Patrick’s got a cigarette he bummed off one of the workers between his lips.

“Nice outfit,” the guy had said—the shorter one, with the baggy jeans and crew cut and scar on his temple.

“Thanks,” Patrick had grinned, unashamed.

“Are you supposed to be smoking?” you ask.

The night is sticky in the mouth, sultry and thin, like a yawn.

The candescent red pearl of the cigarette’s end bobs with Patrick’s each inhale. The smoke curls past his lips like wisps of grey fog, the humid wind carrying them off like fragments of a weary conscience.

Patrick shrugs. Inhales deeply, his eyes trained lazily on the sky above.

You’re far enough from him, now, that when you look at him, he’s a strange tableau all on his own. This boy not yet a man, scantily wrapped in vivid blue, his too long legs and too large feet and too farfetchedness. He stands against the hellscape of Sunny Skies. Sickly yelloworange streetlights casting looming shadows that writhe like living things on the ground.

His lips and fingers still glean with the greased detritus of his cold steak dinner.

“Night before a match?” you ask then, and you find yourself following his gaze heavenward. The sky is effectively starless, but you appreciate the deep shade of indigo. “Doesn’t seem smart.”

“Smart,” he echoes.

He reaches up to pinch the cigarette, takes another drag before tugging it off his lips and flicking some ash off. You watch how the smouldering grey specks float down to the ground before dissolving into nothing.

When you look up at him he is looking at you.

“It’s not Wimbledon,” he says, like he’s breaking the news to you, a meandering coil of smoke swirling from his now halfway smirking mouth, the plume veiling the dim streetlight glow in an almost tender way. His voice is kind of loud, when he’s speaking to you now, because there’s a few feet of parking lot between you, but it’s quiet enough that he could just talk normally, if he wanted. But he doesn’t. He says, loudly, pointing at you with the brilliant orange end of the cigarette, “Helps me relax.”

He shrugs again, brings it to his lips again, and slowly turns around. And you think he’s hiding, but he’s made a full rotation by the time he exhales, the smoke streaming out his lazy smile and billowing all around his face, so you suppose not.

“It’s mostly a mental game,” he says, gesturing with the cig again, bringing it close to his temple in a way that makes your brows knot in slight concern, “Tennis. I could be the most disciplined guy ever—“

The concern in your furrowed brows turns to dubiousness. “Could you?”

“—could cut out drinking, cut out smoking, eat all the green shit, sleep at nine. But if I’m fuckin’ pulling my hair out about stepping onto a court, I’m fucked.”

You think he has a point. You think you remember a therapist, at some point, saying something about compartmentalising. But you don’t really know what that means. You stopped seeing her after three sessions, anyway, so who are you to cast judgement on discipline.

Still, “Where did you say you’re ranked again?”

Patrick chuckles at that, a slight nod as if to say touché. He takes another deep drag, the ember smoldering bright for a moment before the smoke spills past his lips again.

“Two hundred and one,” he says, and he’s ostensibly unwounded by this sentiment.

“Not exactly Federer or Djokovic,” you say, and it seems like he’s strolling towards you now.

“You want a good show tomorrow?” he says, hiking a hand into the waisthigh pocket of the robe.

“Oh, I expect one.”

He pauses, closer now. Cocks his head at the can in your hands.

“You want that?”

You snort, hide it behind your back as though he’s got object impermanence.

“You can have it if I see you win tomorrow.”

Patrick scrunches his nose up at this, like a kid who’s smelled something nasty and doesn’t know how to keep it off his face, but he’s really just considering, and maybe disgruntled at the dissipation of your giving mood. But he tilts his head to the side, raising his brows like he’s conceding.

Then, looking down at the robe.

“You want this?”

You laugh, “Yes?” you say, like it’s obvious.

But he seems surprised, “Still?”

“Yes!”

“I’m naked!”

“I’ll run it through wash twelve times. It’s mine.”

He throws his head back, making a real show at being putout by this. A protracted groan of longsuffering leaves his lips.

And now you’re really laughing. “You can buy your own with your prize money. Warm beer and a new robe, that’s the height of luxury.”

He takes his hand out of the pocket, claps it hard against his chest as if wounded, and his lips shape around the cigarette in a way that’s almost artful. He takes a long, terminal inbreathe. Drops the cig. Crushes it beneath the sole of his foot. Faces away, and all you see is a large, cascading cloud, swishing away from him and out into the night.

“First my beer,” he turns around, “Then my robe. What next? My car keys? You’re gonna take my car keys and hold them hostage until I win.”

You make a face of sort of abject disbelief, though you’re still smiling.

“My beer,” you say, slowly, like you’re speaking a different language, eyes still sort of manic with the shock of his gall, “And my robe.”

The robe in question is now halfway open, but then he seems unconcerned with modesty. The dark hair on his chest looks almost silver beneath the street lights, the faint glimmers of water still clinging to his skin catching aglow.

“That’s a real shame,” he says, and he’s walking towards you, the hand he had slapped in his chest to show you how you’d spurned him now stroking the soft material of the robe with a carelessness that borders on intimacy, “I feel like it brings out my eyes. Don’t you think it brings out my eyes?”

Your gaze flicks from the robe, to his eyes, and back again. He’s standing in front of you now, and he’s sort of towering over you. He has an ease when he moves, like a stray cat or a rogue cowboy. Or something else. You suppose you can’t think of it.

“You can get another blue robe, Patrick.”

He shuts his eyes. He’s savouring your saying his name, or mourning the robe, or both. But probably the latter with how his fingers caress the lapel.

“One that fits, maybe. Definitely one with a higher thread cou… nt.” You hesitate. Because he’s singing again.

“Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?” he’s doing something with his face; something like he’s trying to feign a compelling hurt, but he’s smiling too hard. “What’ll you do now, my darling young one?”

You laugh, and he’s close enough to you that when your head falls forward it hits his shoulder, and your nose brushes against a plush outline of Hello Kitty, and he smells like cigarettes and motel soap and—well—you because of the robe.

“I’m going back out before the rain starts a falling! And it’s a hard—”

“Okay,” you say, because he’s getting louder, but you’re still laughing and grinning wildly.

“It’s a hard—sing it with me—it’s a…”

He holds the note. His eyes are still closed. You roll your eyes and you don’t step away from him, and you’re still holding the beer behind your back.

Your voice is low, but, “A hard rain’s gonna fall,” you supply grudgingly—well, you’re still smiling—and he throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you against him and sings, loudly,

“It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall!”

“Okay,” you say again, pushing away from him, and having to sort of extricate yourself from his hold by slipping beneath his arm. “Very nice, you want some cash?”

“Whatever you can spare,” he says.

And you’re so intrigued by the way he looks at you. He has the sort of face that demands to be catalogued in intimate detail. His eyes crinkle at the corners now, in a way that makes them look almost wolfish.

“I love tennis,” he says, and he says it loudly, because you’re seven feet apart in an empty parking lot, and it makes it seem like he’s declaring something.

An empty Funyuns packet drifts by like a tumbleweed.

“What?”

“I love tennis. That’s why I do it.” He seems resentful, but resigned.

You hesitate, but when you open your mouth to speak again, he beats you to it,

“Doesn’t love me back though,” he’s shaking his head, sporting a huge rueful smile that seems to coruscate in the night, “Doesn’t love me back.” He huffs a sigh. “Story of my life.”

Across the lot, the two maintenance men emerge from your room.

Inside, the air conditioner blows frigid.

You're starting to think everything isn't half bad. You're a good person, letting a homeless man crash on the pull out couch in your dingy motel room, and you leave New Rochelle tomorrow. At this rate, you should extend an olive branch to Deirdre.

You brush your teeth. You change into your pyjamas, the satin of which Patrick is a little disappointed to see a lack of Hello Kitty printed on, but he doesn’t mention it.

He himself is now wearing a T-shirt, and a pair of boxers, and if he quite literally kissed the robe goodbye when he gave it back to you, then you don’t mention it.

And now he’s sprawled on the pull out couch, a thin sheet draped across his lower half. And you’re cross legged on the bed, the duvet gathered around you, and you’re doing your NYT word games because that’s part of your nighttime routine, even though you tell people it’s tea or reading or yoga. This is kind of like reading. You have to think about stuff.

What’s a five letter word that means ‘has a lingering soreness’?

Anyway, so, Patrick is sitting—kind of halfway laying—on the pull out couch. One arm behind his head and the other across his chest. And he’s wearing an expression that’s both intense and a little vacant, like he’s trying to read your mind.

Or like he’s having a silent argument with himself.

Or he’s just tired.

Yes, definitely tired, you think. His eyelids flutter, like they’re desperately trying to stay half open, and he’s sort of drifting in and out of awareness.

He’s quiet for a while, staring wearily into the ceiling like it houses the solutions to all the world’s problems.

And then he closes his eyes fully, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

Your own gaze follows that hand, his right hand—the hand not behind his head—the one that falls from his face back onto his chest, the one that’s rubbing his sternum like he hasn’t had a good sleep in years.

And he can tell that you’re staring. So he clears his throat and opens his eyes, catching yours. And you look away instantly. Maybe a little too quickly. Certainly a little too guiltily.

He smirks. He knows he’s caught you. And you keep your eyes averted, because you know that he knows. But you can feel his stare still on you. And you can sense a kind of curiosity in it.

Earlier when he’d said it—just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed—you’d laughed. You’d laughed it off. And you’d taken a bit of pride in being the sort of strong, independent woman who cannot be charmed into sharing a bed with a stranger.

But that had been then, and now it is—well—now, and the pull out couch, in retrospect, looks firm as stone. And here you are, sitting in this (comparatively, which must be emphasised) comfy bed, and, not for the first time, you feel like a heartless cow.

There are rings around his eyes, dark shadows like bruised flesh. And there’s just this look to him—something weary, but not just in that way that says he hasn’t been taking care of himself. It’s more an aching kind of weariness that’s sunk into the very marrow of his bones.

Patrick is watching you as your eyes flit from the bed, to him, and back to the bed. His eyes follow yours. The way he looks at you is vivid and penetrating. It makes you feel like he’s seeing all of you. But he still looks like he’s struggling to figure something out.

He lets his gaze linger for a moment longer, and then he sits up and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs.

Looking at the way his shoulders are hunched over and the way his neck kind of juts out when he cranes his head forward is kind of reminding you of a pigeon. Or maybe a falcon. No, probably a pigeon. But a handsome, scruffy, feral little pigeon, maybe. And you’re staring at him, trying not to focus too closely on any one part of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, lets his shoulders sag, and looks back at you, and now he has this kind of pleading look on his face.

And you can’t tell if it’s genuine or if he’s faking it to get what he wants, but there’s that veritable exhaustion in his eyes that’s making him look so vulnerable.

And so you say, “Get in the bed, Patrick,” and you say it like he’s been sitting there begging you relentlessly, even though this is the quietest he’s been all night.

He’s surprised. Surprised that you’ve suggested it, but that it was more a statement than a question. And he’s studying you intently again, and he’s trying to figure you out, and you’re trying to figure him out, and there’s a tension in the air that was there before but feels heavier now.

And he looks like he’s about to protest, like he’s going to put up some sort of token fight, but then he nods and says, “Uh, yeah, that’d be great, yeah,” and the relief in his voice is clear.

He scoots off the couch and walks towards you in these slow, silent strides, and when he’s standing in front of you, you look up at him—you forget, whenever he recedes, that he’s quite so tall—and he looks down at you, and there’s something expectant in his gaze, like he’s waiting for you to tell him that you were kidding, and he’s bracing himself for it.

His eyes flickering all over your face, you can see his individual lashes, and the freckle on his lip, the faint lines around his eyes, the way his nose is a little crooked, and you have to really look up at him, and that makes you feel a little small, a little vulnerable, and then he says,

“You’re serious,” like he just doesn’t believe you, like what he really wants to say is you’re shitting me, but he’s too tired not to be polite.

And you shrug. And you nod. Just once. A little nod, but it’s sincere. He can tell it’s sincere.

You do the stupid, twenty-year-old, wall-of-pillows thing. Because you refuse to go top-to-toe when he’s just been outside barefoot.

You peek your head over the pillows, like a child looking over the wall between two neighbouring gardens, and you look down at him. And he looks up at you.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

You’re a little unnerved by how unblinking he is, but you don’t look away either, and you both just sort of linger there silently for a few moments more.

“What time do you need to be there tomorrow?”

And he looks away a second and furrows his brow in thought.

“Eight,” he says, and he looks back up at you, and you can tell that he’s trying to stay awake.

“I’ll wake you up at six,” you tell him, playing with a loose thread on the pillow, and you’re whispering very quietly like you and he are the last two kids up at a sleepover, “Maybe six thirty. I wanna shower first. Then we can go get breakfast, we can get, like—McMuffins or something. Then we’ll go to the country club.”

And he does something like a nod, though it’s a hardly discernible motion, and his blinks are getting longer with every beat. You don’t know if you should say more, so you just wait a moment, and he’s still staring at you. He’s still looking at you like that. His jaw a little bit slack. He looks a little less present each time he blinks, his eyes closing a little longer each time, and his eyelids are drooping.

But he’s got that look like he’s trying to read your mind. And then his brows sort of twitch.

And you give him a suspicious look and whisper, “What?”

But he just lets out a heavy breath of a laugh and gives a little shake of his head. And he’s got a small, amused smile on his face as his eyes fall shut, like he’s thinking, if you only knew.

[reveluving]

It's missing Rick hours, so why not talk about Rick and (Y/N) (crazy) family fluff!

warnings: fluff & humour!

a/n: Dysfunctional but lovable family fluff >>> Hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I had fun thinking about it! Don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

check out my j. kinnaman m.list for more Rick content!

Do you guys remember the Dee Dee twins from Batman Beyond? I know they're supposed to be Harley's granddaughters but imagine if this takes place post-TSS events, and yes, Rick lives, okay?

He's always been—mf engaged to (Y/N) the second he woke up from unconsciousness and has lived together in a quiet lil' neighbourhood since.

But anyways!

I can't stop thinking about them being Harley's goddaughters or protégés instead, and one day, she begs you and Rick to take care of them for the week while away for a once in a lifetime gig. 

“You listen to your aunt (Y/N) and uncle Rick while I’m gone!” She’d say, though, she should’ve known better than to think her own carbon copies, of all people, would listen. 

I can just imagine you and the girls being joined at the hip, telling them stories from your days as a criminal, even if you’ve left that life behind. Rick’s the ‘grumpy uncle’ they love to annoy. But! They may be opposites, but the second someone talks bad about you?

Rick will see red, no doubt, but if he hears the girls discuss on how to get rid of the loud-mouthing pos, he wouldn't encourage it. But he sure as hell won’t stop them either—these are Harley girls we’re talking about; it’s not like they listen to him all the time. And, well, if they proceeded with whatever they had in mind, well, the bastard deserved it, didn’t he? Nobody really liked Mr Walker anyway.

What they'd do throughout the week their beloved aunt (Y/N) and uncle Rick, a headcanon:

Switching conversation topics when they're bored at the flower shop you work at. One second, it would be about the flowers, which, let's be honest, they're barely listening to, only to excitedly ask about what crimes you've done were the most memorable ones. Without the presence of customers, of course.

Pranking or scaring away any women who visits Rick's workplace solely for the purpose of gawking or flirting with the man, despite knowing he's married. A simple hiss or a quick display of the baseball bat they had with them ("We like playing baseball, don't we, Dee Dee?" "Yes, we do, Dee Dee!) and the visitor's out of the door!

Not once have you nor Rick seen these two play baseball.

They just really love their aunt (Y/N) and uncle Rick, okay!

BONUS: If you also have to babysit Bruce the hyena, the twins would sneak him out of the house at 3 AM, purposefully messing with Mr Walker's front yard and making sure he sees it. He didn't see the girls, however, so, when he tells his neighbours about a hyena on the loose, most of them just he was the one with the loose screws.

I initially thought Rick would work as a lumberjack, but, imagine if he was the sheriff of the neighbourhood?? Mr Walker calls him to complain about the hyena problem, obviously unaware of the culprits silently snickering at one another as they watch him desperately demand for 'justice'.

"Mr Walker, I personally don't think it's possible for a hyena to cross the city undetected for the sole purpose of terrorising just your garden," Rick responded calmly, though, he was unable to bite back the condescending hint in his words, "But, we'll look into it."

Once Walker's out, looking more stressed now that even the sheriff himself was looking at him funny, Rick would glance at the twins, raising a questioning brow at their futile attempts to look innocent before returning to his report.

"Good job." He'd say nonchalantly, and rather than looking peeved or disappointed, they spotted the small smile on his face. He didn't bother turning when they high-fived.

But other than the fact that he's been cockblocked since their arrival, and honest to God, it's been driving him nuts, they've made your and his days much livelier than the usual.

I can see it now; you're all watching TV, Rick holding you against him with one arm around you while he leisurely pets Bruce's mane with the other. Similar to the beloved house hyena, the twins sat on the floor in front of you, listening to them cheer for the antagonist and argue about what's for breakfast tomorrow.

Yes, the Flag's were quite the household, it seems.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚ 

[prythianpages]

Into the Dark | Eris

Eris x Chaos Witch Reader | Summary: You have a vow to uphold but time is clicking. The darkness that lurks within threatens to take over you but Eris uses the magic of your bargain and bond to bring you back to him.

Day 1 of @erisweekofficial for bargains/bonds

warnings: brief mentions of small injuries (cuts) and death

a/n: This was originally supposed to be posted along with my other witch series but 3K words is too long to be considered a drabble so I decided to post it on its own. I had hoped to post an intro/prologue for this series first but I really wanted to post something for Eris week so I hope this makes sense. If not, then I'm so sorry and hope this can be read as a stand alone for now.

Whispers in the wind stir violently among the Autumn trees, sending leaves spiraling to their fated downfall. A shiver runs up your spine as the wind’s cold fingers grip you, goosebumps rising in a wave over your skin, threatening to burrow into your very bones. The whispers are not just furious—they are vengeful.

A storm of voices lashing at you. 

Your heart hammers madly against your chest as your legs move on their own, driven by those whispers. The moon casts its silver light upon you but tonight, it offers no comfort. There’s something dark, something wicked awakening from somewhere deep inside.

Branches claw at your exposed arms and ankles, tearing into your flesh. But your feet keep moving. Relentless, unstoppable. Even as your vision blurs and your mind drowns in the chilling darkness. You don’t need to see where you’re going—you can feel it.

It’s like a pull deep within. You can feel the gloom looming ahead. The despair, the anguish. With each step, that pull grows stronger, the wind grows colder. It brushes against your skin, tangling in your hair. The trouble stirring in your chest harmonizes with the whispers carried in the howling wind, threatening to pull you down with them.

“Please.” You find yourself whispering–begging.

“We need you.” The wind whispers in protest.

Your steps falter, and as you blink to clear your vision, a cold dread settles in your chest. 

The sight before you is almost unrecognizable, a stark contrast to the place that once thrived with life and vibrant energy. Now, it lies shrouded in darkness, a harrowing shadow of its former self. The autumn flowers, once bright and full of life, wither on their stems, their colors drained. The trees nearby are twisted and gnarled, their ashen branches sagging under the weight of despair.

There were no fireflies fluttering about, no chirping of cricket or night birds. No sign of life. Only death.

It’s eerily silent for a moment until the wind picks up again and the mournful wail of the wind reaches your ears. It sings a song of fury, of vengeful mourning. A lament for what has been lost–what has been wrongfully taken.

At the heart of it all, where a great and magnificent tree once stood proudly, there is now only a void. This was no ordinary tree.

It was the tree of wisdom–the Mnemosyne. It bore magical apples that glowed softly, their surfaces a mesmerizing blend of ruby and gold. Your father had told you stories of it growing up and when you began to practice witchcraft, Deirdre showed it to you.

Deirdre had been your mentor. For many centuries, she had guarded the tree. Sworn to protect it with her life and she took that vow gravely, upheld it until her last breath…

And now, by a wicked strum of fate, it was your turn to protect the Mnemosyne.

But you found yourself in a more precarious situation than your predecessors. High Lord Beron, in a ruthless display of his power, had uprooted the tree and taken it from its sacred grove. Its roots, once intertwined with the ancient magics of the forest, had been severed. Where Beron had taken it, and what he planned to do with the Mnemosyne, was still unknown to you, but by the lengths he had gone to take it, you could only assume his intentions were far from pure.

Returning the Mnemosyne to its rightful home was of the utmost importance. The longer it remained away from the forest, the greater the risk that its memories, and the history it held, would wither and fade. Entire centuries of knowledge could be lost—forgotten forever. The thought chilled your blood, filling you with an overwhelming unease. 

You had to bring this tree back and restore peace to this forest. Even if it cost you the same price it cost Deirdre. Death was a stranger but not one you feared. It was oblivion you feared. To lose the very essence of yourself. It’s why you refused to let the wicked darkness that lives in you take over. You feared it’d consume you whole.

So Eris Vanserra it was. 

Desperate times had called for desperate measures. You found yourself striking a bargain with Eris Vanserra, Beron’s eldest son. Eris, with his sharp eyes and sharper tongue, had always been a figure of suspicion and intrigue. His loyalty to Beron was unclear, but his cunning and ambition were undeniable.  

Never had you imagined seeking his help. Caught in a delicate dance of mistrust and shared ambition, the bargain was the only way to ensure your safety. That was, until fate played a merciless hand and those strings of fate tethered your soul to his…

A mating bond.

It snapped into place like a steel trap, the golden threads appearing the moment your life teetered on the edge of danger. There had been no warning. Only a sudden, fierce tug that anchored your soul to his. One heartbeat you were fighting for survival, and in the next, you felt the bond latch onto you. Irrevocable and final.

You should thank The Cauldron—it did save your life, after all—but at what cost?

You’d worry about it later. At the very least, the invisible chain that bound your fates together strengthened the bargain you made. A mutual safety net. If you died, a part of him died too. Any loophole of betrayal the two of you had planned had been immediately forfeited the moment the bond snapped.

Because yes, he had promised to help you with the Mnemosyne tree and you had promised to help rid Autumn of Beron. A win-win situation for you both. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t coax him with one of your potions, poison his mind as you’ve done with his brothers to encourage him to do more of your bidding…

However, now it did. There were some things uncertain to you about mating bonds and you worried about potential consequences if you were to sneak one of your potions into his food.

Tears pricked your eyes as the whispers increased with the howling wind, a distant echo of sorrowful cries and anguished screams. It brought you back to the dire situation at hand. The very reason for your deal with Eris.

The forest wanted you to feel what it did. To feel the overwhelming grief, the melancholic heartache. It stirred the shadows sleeping in the pendant you wore around your neck–the ones that harmonize with the darkness that lives inside you now.

 “It’s a burden you must carry.” 

“No,” you cried, dropping to your knees, fingers clenching around the ruby pendant. It was a futile attempt to soothe the shadows kept inside back to sleep. “I can do it. I just need more time. Please.”

But it’s not the whispers carried by the wind that respond this time.

It’s that wicked darkness that has been lurking within you.

The forest grows angry. If you do not answer its call, we will.

That darkness writhes further into your chest. Your breath hitches as you feel it wrap itself around your heart, your body hunching forward.

You cannot keep us away. You are us now and we are you.

“No.” You repeat again but your voice is losing its resolve.

Let us out!

As if hearing that dark voice within, the wind picks up, whirling around you like the beginning of a storm. The whispers in the wind grow louder and so do the voices in your head until you can no longer discern which is which. With a pained cry, you clutch your pulsing and aching head.

You squeeze your eyes shut, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as you try to push the looming darkness away. It’s another futile attempt. The darkness has a firm grip on you, awakened by the howling wind and strengthened by its screaming pleas…

**

Eris found you in the forest.

One glance at you and he knew what was happening. Your body was hunched over, trembling hands pressed tightly against your ears as the wind whirled around you violently, rustling through your hair. The three hounds he brought with him tensed and let out low growls, their keen eyes on the glowing pendant wrapped around your neck.

The hour was late and he had been about to succumb to the sleep his eyes had begged for when he felt a strange stirring in his chest. Until he recognized that it was coming from the bond–from you. The two of you often shut each other out. He did not want to project his emotions to you and he sensed you felt the same.

So for him to feel a tug against his ribcage from you…he knew something was wrong or about to be.

Eris turns to his hounds, the sharpest of his pack. He now realized why they had been insistent on coming with him. The others had tucked themselves into their beds after a goodnight pat on their heads. “Stay,” he says firmly and though their instincts sense danger, they heed his command. Albeit, reluctantly.

He approaches you with slow and cautious steps, despite the urge to run to you. He tells himself it’s the bond. As he gets closer, he can hear you murmuring something but it doesn’t sound like you. Your voice carries a venomous undertone, dripping with malice and ancient wisdom. 

“You are us now and we are you.” The voice repeats over and over again like a serpent hissing in the dark.

A lump forms in his throat but he wills himself to call out your name, hoping you hear him among the many voices swirling around you.

He watches with bated breath as your hands, still trembling, fall from where they had clutched at your ears. Slowly, your head lifts upwards. Your gaze meets his and he finds himself held captive.

Your eyes are glowing red, the way they always do when you call upon your magic. But it’s not that crimson gaze that had startled him. It’s the veins surrounding your eyes that do–they have darkened, giving you a more sinister appearance.

“Son of Autumn. Have you come to play?”

The hounds, who remained feet away, release another growl.

“Y/n, can you hear me?” Eris asks, his heart racing as his amber eyes search your face for any sign of you.

Something flickers in those crimson eyes of yours, a brief hesitation that makes the darkness falter. Eris noticed it instantly, his heart tightening with a sudden urgency that compels him to step closer. He can feel you now—the sharp chill emanating from your body, a coldness that bites at his cheeks. It sends a shiver down his spine as the breeze rustles through his hair.

His body instinctively warms in response, the fire in his veins flaring brighter as if to combat the icy dread that clings to you. You were trembling, and Eris kneels before you, his eyes never straying from yours. He reaches out tentatively to that bond but is met with a steel wall.

So he reaches out physically. You flinch at the warmth coming from him before he can actually touch you and fall back onto your hands. It seems the darkness within you is desperate to put distance between you both.

“She needs us. She can’t do this alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” Eris says softly, ignoring the darkness and speaking directly to you. He knew better than to acknowledge the voice, fearing it would only give it more power. “You have me.”

“The forest wants its beloved back.” The voice hisses and your head tilts slightly, gaze narrowing at him. “It grows more restless every night. Fear makes you hesitate but not us. We can do what you cannot bring yourself to do.”

“Y/n.” Eris calls your name again. This time, when he reaches for you, his hands find their mark, cupping your face with a tenderness that surprises even him. Your skin is frighteningly cold. It fills him with a deep unease, a desperate need to bring warmth back to you.

Your trembling begins to subside, and the wind that had howled around you starts to calm. Eris remains cautious but feels a glimmer of hope. He could do this. He could bring you back. “We made a bargain, remember?” he continued.

“A bargain…”

That glimmer of hope flares up as you sound like you again. Something he’d never thought he’d feel as he often complained about your voice–how it could grate on his nerves. But now, it was the only sound he longed to hear.

The mark of your bargain appears–a ring of fire around your wrist–at the mention of it. It burns faintly with embers like a delicate bracelet, reminding you of the promise you made. That very same ring of fire appears on his left wrist, reflecting in your eyes. It fades away after a moment but the burn of it lingers.

“Yes.” Eris almost smiles. “Y/n, are you with me?”

Your body gives a shudder, wanting to escape from him. His hold on you tightens. The red glow to your eyes slowly gives out, the veins that had darkened around your eyes disappearing. Color returns to your cheeks, coaxed back by the warmth Eris is pouring into you.

“I’m with you,” you breath, your eyes wide with lingering apprehension. Eris’s hands remain firm on your face, holding you steady as you eyes wander. When you look back at him, your eyes seem distant, unfocused.

His brows draw together in concern, casting shadows over his troubled eyes. But before he can say anything, you do, a trace of your usual scorn creeping into your voice. “Why are you looking at me as if I’ve grown two heads?”

There you are.

Relief washes over him, so warm and overwhelming that it brings back that tightness in his chest, strumming those golden threads. The urge to pull you into his arms, to hold you close and never let go, is almost overpowering. But Eris ignores it, instead leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

You were no longer cold. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh. A mixture of relief and something else he wasn’t ready to name.

“Have you gone mad?”

“No,” Eris replies, reluctantly releasing his hold on you. The warmth of his touch lingering on your skin as he straightens up. He brushes at the leaves clinging to his pants, an attempt to regain his usual composure. “But you almost did.”

He extends his hand out to you and you stare at it for a moment, your gaze heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. “It happened again…” Your voice was barely a whisper, more to yourself than to him. Realization settled over you and your shoulders slump.

“Come on,” Eris says, motioning for you to take his hand. The sound of familiar whines catch your attention, and you look up to see three hounds, waiting anxiously a few feet away. “The hour is late and I’m already dreading dealing with a sleep-deprived version of you. Your usual self is enough of a bane in my existence.”

You shoot him a glare and he waits, watching you. He wonders if you’ll bite back. With a resigned sigh, you take his hand, allowing him to help you up. His gaze flickers to your arms, noticing the scratches that marred your skin and the bond in his chest rages with protectiveness.

“We can stop by the infirmary first.”

“I’ll be fine,” you huff out but that distant look on your face remains, betraying your words.

The hounds approach you with soft whines. They’re careful not to brush against the cuts on your arms, their noses nudging softly against your legs instead. Your hand remains in Eris’s and he takes a step forward, prompting you to let him guide you out of the forest.

A light breeze brushes against you, carrying with it the lingering chill of the mourning forest. You turn your head, your gaze falling on that vacant spot where the sacred tree once stood. Your features soften, a wave of sympathy washing over you. Your heart aches to fill the void, to restore what had been unjustly taken and bring life back to this part of the forest.

But you were running out of time.

The darkness within you was growing stronger with each passing day. If you didn’t return the sacred tree soon, the darkness would come for you again, more relentless, more determined…

“Eris?"

There’s a slight vulnerability to your voice that unsettles him. It has his body tensing. He can only muster a hum in response.

“What if–” Your throat seizes and you’re  grateful your head is turned away from Eris so he can’t see the fear that flashes in your eyes. “What if one day I don’t come back?”

Eris’s hand tightens around yours and a shaky breath escapes from you. His hand is strong and warm and for just this once, you allow the simple touch to ground you. When you finally turn to face him, you find his gaze was already on you, something strange and vulnerable swirling in those amber depths. 

That look in his eyes was enough to chase away the cold that had settled in your bones, kindling a warmth to your chest and tugging those golden threads that now reside there.

“Then, I’ll follow you into the dark.”

His words hung in the air, but a question arose. Would he still follow if it weren’t for the bond?

The thought hovered, restless, at the edge of your tongue, begging to be spoken. But you swallowed it down, unwilling to risk hearing an answer you already believed to be true.

You didn’t think you could bear it if you were right.

[eris x chaos witch masterlist]

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human, @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

[jiabeewrites]

He'll Never Be Prince Charming (2/?)

(aesthetic by @aesthetics-and-fuckery, yeah, that's me. do NOT steal this!)

Harry Potter/Wizarding World x DC

Pairing: Klarion Bleak x Fem!Reader, Lilith Bleak (OC) x Fem!Reader

CW: romance, past breakups, use of she/her, language, shitty attempt at angst, author attempted to not use y/n and i think i succeeded but who knows, klarion & lilith are being lil bitches who doesn't know how to romance, playing with feelings, wizarding relations are really weird, toxic relationships probably, pining, i think that's it but if there's more tell me!

Summary: Reader is an exchange student. She's a witch, but not the kind that hogwarts is used to. She uses pentagrams and incantations instead of wands and spells. She uses poisons and candles rather than potions and charms. She practices moonlit summonings instead of defense against the dark arts. So what happens when not one, but two lords of chaos appear in the middle of the great hall, both claiming to be her lover? (this is part two of a multi-part series, so look out for a pt 3!)

SONG: Devil Doesn't Bargain by Alec Benjamin

A/N: I'm sorry if I offended anyone! I just tried to portray traditional-ish(?) witchcraft in the way that I've kinda seen it portrayed in fiction. Please don't take this seriously, this is a work of fiction and isn't meant to portray witchcraft seriously.

HOW TO READ: Each set of lyrics is kinda like a divider! each section of words/blurb between the lyrics are their own moment, and this particular piece has multiple little moments. Definitely timeskips. You can find more stories like this one by looking under the tag #ryn writes songfics

<Prev ~ Next >

Previously...

"Klarion and Lilith Bleak get your asses down here right now!"

The two stopped arguing and grinned. With a pop they appeared in front of her, smiling like kids in a candy shop. One had a lovesick expression, the other had a flirtatious smirk.

"Hello, love."

I'm not one to lecture Talk down to a friend I don't mean to pressure Mean to condescend

She rolled her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, frowing.

"We're here to settle a little...disagreement of sorts between us." The female, Lilith, stretched her mouth into a cheshire cat smile.

"Oh really? And what is this disagreement?"

"Your heart, my love," the male, Klarion, replied.

She facepalmed. Noodle hissed at them both. The cat, Teekl, and the Raven, Deirdre, hissed right back. That was when the teachers *cough*umbitch*cough* decided to butt in.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Umbridge shrieked.

"This? Well, 'this' is used to identify a specific person or thing close at hand or being indicated or experienced. It can also be used to refer to a specific thing or situation just mentioned," Lilith said, cackling.

Klarion just rolled his eyes.

"Nobody likes a smart assault, Lily."

She sighed.

"It's smart-ass, Witch Boy."

"Whatever you say, my love." Lilith glared at her twin.

"Who said she's yours?"

"ENOUGH!" Umbridge screeched. "Who are you and why have you tresspassed onto these grounds?!"

The duo glared at Umbridge.

"You don't know us? How rude," Klarion said.

"Yeah, you'd think a magic user would know us," Lilith added. "Even if it's baby magic."

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Professor, this is Klarion the Witch Boy and Lilith the Witch Girl."

"Lords of Chaos, at your disservice!" The two said in unison. Umbridge's nostrils flared.

"I demand you get off this property at once!"

"Uh uh uh! We still need to settle our agreement!" Klarion exclaimed.

"Yeah!" Lilith turned her attention towards her. "So? Which of us do you love? Klari or me?"

"It's obviously me," Klarion said, scoffing at his twin's attempts.

"Puh-LEASE, you have zero game."

"Excuse you?!" He glared at his sister.

"Klarion, Lilith-" She pursed her lips at the chaotic twins. Umbridge decided she had had enough.

"So you're the cause of this!" Umbridge exclaimed triumphantly.

"Wha-You think I can control two people who are literally the embodiments of chaos?" She turned her attention to Lilith and Klarion. "Look, the two of you better get out of here."

"Wha-" Klarion cut his twin off.

"Do you want her to get into more trouble, Lily?" The female huffed and the two (along with their familiars) disappeared in a burst of red dust.

And the whole school was staring at the red-faced witch.

But I just want what's best for You in the end I know you don't want to let go

"So who are they?"

The whole school seemed to want to know the answer to that question.

Klarion and Lilith Bleak were twins. A chaotic duo, spreading destruction and mischief wherever they went. At times, they seemed like complete opposites. Lilith was the more mature one out of the two, sarcastic and flirtatous. Klarion was childish and disruptive, constantly bothering everybody he met. But when the two decided to cause trouble together, they showed the world exactly why they were twins.

Klarion "worked" for the Light, an organization that constantly plagued the JLA and the covert team. Since she dabbled in almost every corner of witchcraft, she met with the junior league on a normal basis to fix their magical maladies. Lilith, however, preferred to stay untethered to anything, wreaking havoc on either side depending on who she felt like helping.

"They're lords of chaos. Both have been around since the beginning of time and both are eternally confusing. But I can't exactly get rid of them, since they're immortal and a lot more powerful than I am," she finished.

"Was that cat and that raven their familiars?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah."

Harry grinned at her.

"So two of the most chaotic, powerful magic beings in the universe have a crush on you."

She groaned.

"Shut up, Potter."

A group of girls passed them, and shot her terrified looks.

"The whole school thinks you summon demons on a normal basis," Ron said.

"I mean, I've done it before but I'd never summon those two. I see enough of them as it is." The trio laughed, and they pushed open the door to potions.

And just like before I can see that you're sure You can change him but I know you won't

"Hey! Demon-girl!"

She groaned at the nickname and turned around in her seat.

"The hell do you want?" She grumbled.

"What was that in the Great Hall? Did you summon them?" He asked. She just scoffed in response.

"Trust me, I would never summon those two."

A malevolent purple mist appeared next to her. It cleared to reveal the same girl from the Hall.

"Never? I think never's a bit too long, sweetheart."

Lilith Bleak had infiltrated Hogwarts. Again.

She sighed.

"What do you want, demon?" Lilith frowned.

"Demon? You and I know full well I'm way more powerful than just a pitiful demon," she scoffed.

She sighed.

"Whatever, but Lilith, you need to leave." The lord of chaos pouted at this.

"Leave? But I just got here!"

"Do you want me to get into trouble?" Lilith huffed.

"Fine, I'll leave. But I'm leaving Deirdre with you."

Her eyes widened.

"Lilith...what if you get attacked and she's not with you?"

She regretted saying that as soon as a smirk appeared on the other woman's face.

"Aww, looks like somebody does care!"

She rolled her eyes, then shooed her away.

"Go perish."

"Anything for you, sweetheart!"

And she vanished in a puff of purple smoke.

She faced forward, only for Professor Snape to glare at her.

"Detention."

"What? But it's not even my fault! They just appear and I can't do anything about it!"

He frowned, but turned back to the board.

"If they disrupt the class again I will have to give you detention and take away house points. No matter whose fault it is."

She groaned. Deirdre cawed out a laugh.

"Oh shut up you stupid bird."

The devil doesn't bargain He'll only break your heart again It isn't worth it, darling He's never gonna change

The same blond boy sat next to her during Transfiguration.

"You never answered my question"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Why do you want to know?" He shrugged.

"I'm just curious."

"They're lords of chaos. Uncontrollable, destructive chaos. Over a trillion years old and freakishly annoying."

He scoffed.

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"That's 'cause you people practice baby magic."

"Baby magic?" He asked incredulously. She nodded.

"Real witches don't need wands or spells. Incantations work better and summoning demons or fae are superior to wandwork."

"So you do summon demons," he sneered.

"They're not all evil, if that's what you think." He just sent her a dark look and moved to another seat. Harry took his place.

"Malfoy bothering you?" She shook her head.

"Nah. Just being a nosy prick."

Deirdre cawed loudly, and she rolled her eyes.

"Go away, you lousy bird." The raven looked at her with utter contempt, and vanished with a poof of lavender smoke.

He'll never be Prince Charming He'll only do you harm again I don't mean to meddle But the devil doesn't settle

Elsewhere...

"Wha-Deirdre!" Lilith glared at her familiar. "You were supposed to look after her!"

The raven just cawed in response.

What am I, your servant?

"No, but you should be looking out for her anyway."

Creepy laughter echoed throughout the room.

"Ugh! Go away, Klair!"

The male witch laughed.

"She liked you, y'know." Lilith whirled around.

"What?!"

"Yeah. A couple years ago. When you hated the Justice Babies because they killed Amaranth." Lilith smiled.

"Ha! I told you she-"

"Liked, Lily. Past tense. Her feelings are gone now." Klarion grinned while his twin looked enraged. "She won't love you again."

No, the devil doesn't bargain

[grogusmum]

Hazel !!! I saw your selkie Ezra post and you have provided so many prompts that I would love to see you write.

What’s the limit on prompts to send in? right now number 8. “i can’t sleep without you here” from the soft smut list is tugging at my heart strings🥺 (but I think about them all the time, so there are others I could send in…👀)

-Ash💗

Aw lol m'dear!

I would LOVE to see the 8, idk that I'd be able to get to all 8 but I will pick the ones that speak to me and the one here 🥺 is pulling at my heartstrings too!! Thank you for the request, Ash 💚

SELKIE!EZRA X F!READER 

W/C: 500ish

A/N: part of the Seven Tears 'verse.

WARNING: Though set in Ireland, and Ireland's predominantly white, Reader is physically undescribed, as are her blood relatives, her missing spouse and his family are white, selkie Ezra is a Ezra and a selkie, oh and possessive Ezra, needy Ezra, Ezra dealing with "modern" conveniences.

Gaelic Translations:

Mo stór: my treasure

Mo stóirín: my little treasure 

Ezra's eyes map a pencil line fissure along the ceiling, and shifts disgruntled under the wedding ring quilt. The bed feels large. The back of his hand absently passes over your cool pillow. 

Huffing, he throws the bed clothes off and goes to the sitting room. 

Pacing, he looks out the windows as he passes each one. At the front door he opens then closes it, his mustache bristling. 

His dark eyes fall on the large black telephone and his brows knit. He has seen you use it. You told him how in case he needed to call you at the mongery, but he has never wanted to tangle with it.

He hates the thing… it is loud and diverts you from him. Sometimes having to leave, like tonight at supper.

Of course, Ezra cares very much for your family, and when Deirdre called and asked if you would help with your sick brother and father, he  completely understood. He just wishes he had gone too. But it is a terrible fever going round, and they are trying to keep exposure down. 

Ezra stares at the fool contraption, with a hesitant hand he picks up the heavy receiver and puts it to his ear, as you had done. There was a tone, loud and unnatural. He does not like it. He looks at the paper beside the telephone your parent's exchange on it, and dials slowly. The rotary dial whirring.

There is a sound of ringing and suddenly a loud click-

" 'llo, Brennan residence"

"Moonbeam," Ezra is unnecessarily loud. "Is it you on the other end of this monstrosity?"

He hears a quiet chuckle.

"Ezra, my love, here I am."

"No, you are there and I am, as you are aware, here. And I have to use this infernal doodad!"

"These doodads make it so we can speak to one another when parted."

Ezra knows, and is grateful- but not happy about it.

"I can not sleep without you here, moonbeam. The bed is too big. It goes on for absolute leagues!" 

You smile, you can hear his pout. After a moment,

"Everyone is asleep here. Why don't I wash up, and meet you outside."

You hear noises, boots maybe, the door, then the loud clunk and ring of the bells within the telephone- the base falling to the floor.

"Yes, mo stór (mu store), yes!" 

"We have to hang up, Ezra."

"Of course! Yes," Ezra says as he picks it up and puts it back on the table, you hear him mutter, diabolical machine, under his breath. "I am on my way to you, moonbeam!" 

Ezra hangs up the handset and flies out the door, sweater in hand. He pulls it on as he makes his way to the house behind the fishmongery. 

When he knocks, it is quiet but urgent. Thankful he only waits a few moments before you open the door to him. 

Ezra pulls you out of the house and envelopes you in a hug. His face, hidden in the crook of your neck.

"Mo stóirín (mu store-een)," he says, like a sigh of relief. And then the nips and kisses begin…

THANK YOU FOR READING 💚 

[hottpinkpenguin]

A Promise - Arthur Fleck X Reader

A/n: this is my first post in way too long AND for a new fandom/character. much love to those of you who keep sticking around! i am trying to dig in and write more. Pairing: Arthur Fleck/Ledger Joker X Reader (named "Deirdre") Summary: You went to school with Arthur and were one of the only people kind to him despite his odd behaviors and reputation as a misfit. As the two of you grew older, your friendship began to deepen into something more, until you were suddenly pulled out of Gotham by a family death and never returned… until now. Warnings: dark themes; combining of Nolan/Ledger Joker with Arthur Fleck backstory; major character death; angst angst ANGST Word Count: 7342

It was a brisk day in March. You’d missed Gotham, although there was also something about the city that made you incredibly sad. You weren’t sure if it was the pitifully overcrowded housing projects everywhere you turned, the shocking spike in crime since you were here last, or the memories of things you’d lost when you’d left almost fifteen years ago. You’d been young then, only twenty three, and at the time it had seemed like you really had a chance to do something, to be someone, despite the oppressive decay of Gotham’s society. You’d been a young musician, struggling to make a living playing the piano at different five-star restaurants to Gotham’s elite. Most of the time you played classics - Gershwin, Joplin, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven - whatever the patrons asked, you could provide. But sometimes you slipped in an original composition of yours or two. Your managers hated that, and made sure you knew it. Several had even fired you for it. 

“They just don’t know real talent,” Arthur used to say to you as he’d listen to you tickle out a new song on the ancient piano you’d managed to avoid selling and kept in your studio apartment just down the hall from where Arthur lived with his mother. 

Arthur…

It’d been so long since you’d thought of him, since you’d let yourself think of him. He was what made you sad about Gotham, and in the deepest recesses of your heart you could admit that to yourself. You’d written to him a few times, and received a few replies; but time and distance had eroded that relationship until there was nothing but years of silence and regret between you. 

You still remembered the pain in his eyes when you’d told him you had to leave...

**the rest is on AO3, you can read it here!**

[bookclub4m]

Episode 170 - Gender Theory & Gender Studies

This episode we’re talking about Gender Theory & Gender Studies! We discuss theory vs studies, memes, feminism, books that should exist but don’t, and more!

You can download the podcast directly, find it on Libsyn, or get it through Apple Podcasts, Stitcher, Google Podcasts, or your favourite podcast delivery system.

In this episode

Anna Ferri | Meghan Whyte | Matthew Murray | Jam Edwards

Things We Read (or tried to…)

A Burst of Light by Audre Lorde

Histories of the Transgender Child by Jules Gill-Peterson

Before We Were Trans: A New History of Gender by Kit Heyam

Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity by Julia Serano

Queer: A Graphic History by Meg-John Barker and Jules Scheele

Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon

A Quick & Easy Guide to Queer & Trans Identities by Mady G. and J.R. Zuckerberg

Other Media We Mentioned

BITCHfest: Ten Years of Cultural Criticism from the Pages of Bitch Magazine edited by Lisa Jervis & Andi Zeisler

Body Outlaws: Rewriting the Rules of Beauty and Body Image edited by Ophira Edut

A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

Female Masculinity by Jack Halberstam

Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity by Julia Serano

Gender Outlaw: On Men, Women and the Rest of Us by Kate Bornstein

The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by bell hooks

All the Rage: Mothers, Fathers, and the Myth of Equal Partnership by Darcy Lockman

For Her Own Good: Two Centuries of the Experts' Advice to Women by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson

X-Gender, vol. 1 by Asuka Miyazaki

A Quick & Easy Guide to They/Them Pronouns by Archie Bongiovanni and Tristan Jimerson

Feminism is For Everybody by bell hooks

Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny by Kate Manne

A Girl's Guide to Taking Over the World: Writings From The Girl Zine Revolution edited by Karen Green & Tristan Taormino

Links, Articles, and Things

A small sample of Bibliocommons user-curated lists:

Early Feminism Through 1847

Feminist Classics: Third Wave Feminism, the 1990s

Trans Classics: important books about the many trans experiences

Very Short Introductions (Wikipedia)

TERF / FART / “Gender Critical”

Transgender Childhood Is Not a ‘Trend’ by Jules Gill-Peterson

Gill-Peterson is one of 1,000+ contributors to the New York Times who signed an open letter condemning the anti-trans bigotry in their coverage. Read it here.

Hark! Episode 330: Fucking Pie

20 Gender Theory/Studies books by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) Authors

Every month Book Club for Masochists: A Readers’ Advisory Podcasts chooses a genre at random and we read and discuss books from that genre. We also put together book lists for each episode/genre that feature works by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) authors. All of the lists can be found here.

Living a Feminist Life by Sara Ahmed

The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions by Paula Gunn Allen

Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza by Gloria Anzaldúa

Decolonizing Trans/Gender 101 by b. binaohan

The Crunk Feminist Collection edited by Brittney Cooper, Susana M. Morris, & Robin M. Boylorn

Beyond Trans: Does Gender Matter? by Heath Fogg Davis

Women, Race & Class by Angela Y. Davis

Asegi Stories: Cherokee Queer and Two-Spirit Memory by Qwo-Li Driskill

Radicalizing Her: Why Women Choose Violence by Nimmi Gowrinathan

White Tears/Brown Scars: How White Feminism Betrays Women of Color by Ruby Hamad

Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center by bell hooks

But Some of Us Are Brave: All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men: Black Women's Studies by Akasha Gloria Hull

Indigenous Men and Masculinities: Legacies, Identities, Regeneration edited by Robert Alexander Innes and Kim Anderson

Patriarchy Blues: Reflections on Manhood by Frederick Joseph

Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall

Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde

This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color edited by Cherríe Moraga & Gloria Anzaldúa

Colonize This!: Young Women of Color on Today's Feminism edited by Bushra Rehman

I'm Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya

Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity by C. Riley Snorton

Give us feedback!

Fill out the form to ask for a recommendation or suggest a genre or title for us to read!

Check out our Tumblr, follow us on Twitter or Instagram, join our Facebook Group, or send us an email!

Join us again on Tuesday, March 21st when we’ll be talking about the Moving and Management of Books!

Then, on Tuesday, April 4th we’ll be discussing the genre of Domestic Thrillers!

[deirdrevongwrites]

Writing Commissions OPEN

Hello! I'm Deirdre and I can bring your ideas to life in writing! I've always been into writing and have had many ideas that I want to put on paper. I can write SFW and NSFW (note: will only write NSFW with 18+ year-old characters and if you are 18 years old or older). You will receive a PDF of your copy of my writing and I prefer that you tag me if you post my work publically.

I accept venmo and paypal. Please describe in detail what exactly you want (theme-wise and characterization-wise) in DMs or my discord (@christinevong46) and I will try to accommodate in my writing. Additionally, I may ask if I can post the writing.

What I can write:

-NSFW or SFW -Shipping pairings, OCS, self-insert, x reader, headcanons -If its an OC, self-insert, or x reader, please send an image or provide a description of them. -Nearly anything (within reason!) -Most fandoms (If its a fandom I am unfamiliar with, I will have to do some research and you will need to give me a description and more information)

What I CANNOT write: -pedophilia, triggering topics, necro, torture, beast etc. -Anything I am uncomfortable with, I reserve the right to refuse writing -Real-life individuals or celebrities

[pparacxosm]

hunger is ugly

(blue-eyed son 3 !! which, as any third and final installation of a franchise ((back to the future and spiderman withstanding !!!)), is obviously the best one; i’m only half kidding; homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; see parts one and two; tw eggnog; tw coworkers; cw smut but nothing crazy; if you’re seeking closure don’t hold your breath; i’m sick of these two; they clearly don’t know what they want; and i refuse to take blame; tw fitted sheets; tw cocaine talk)

He once told you he couldn’t wear a suit. I couldn’t, he’d said, I’d look ridiculous in a suit. But he cleans up quite nicely, actually.

In fact, he looks good, and you’re not above admitting that. He looks better, actually. Healthier. And he looks handsome in his casual blazer and charcoal linen slacks. Oh God, are you gonna look frumpy beside him?

“I’ve always wanted to go to an office Christmas party,” he says.

You’re on the floor before him, straddling your full length mirror, and all your tumbledown, halfway gutted makeup products are strewn wildly about you.

Your bed, behind you, is a skeleton state, too. When he’d come over, he’d nearly laughed at the fact that you’ve apparently been so busy, your clean bedding is still sitting in a laundry hamper in the corner of the room, and you’ve been sleeping in the inserts on a bare mattress for who knows how long.

Patrick doesn’t pass judgment on the mess in your apartment. He still feels he owes you in some weird, kiss-the-hand-that-fed-you sort of way.

You’re not a slob. You always look put together when you leave the house. You’ve just had to focus on work. You can’t stumble at the finish line. Or… the glass ceiling. Or the penultimate rung on the corporate ladder. Whatever. If you can successfully execute this next product launch, who knows what other doors might open for you. Probably doors in buildings very similar to the one you’re already working in. But that’s nothing to sneeze at. Every morning, you see your reflection in those immaculate windows.

So anyway, it shouldn’t matter. Things just get away from you sometimes.

Patrick’s standing above you pensively reflecting how many undone buttons says Corporate Shindig Eyecandy (Please Give My Date That Promotion) as opposed to Reformed Tennis Heartthrob. His shins are sort of bracketing your hips.

“Well, it’s half an office Christmas party, and half—like—a congratulatory… thing. For Deirdre’s successful proposal,” you murmur, leaning forward, tugging your temple to flatten your eyelid and flick on your liner.

“Aw, what?” he frowns, “Deirdre? We fucking hate Deirdre.”

You laugh. You try not to delude yourself, not to let these moments exist in some flowery vacuum in the eye of your mind, not to ask him to fix your bedding for you. But it’s hard.

Whoever let Sam replace the DJ halfway through the party was either a genius anarchist or too drunk to care.

You know it’s probably the latter. You down the cognacheavy eggnog from your glass and make a disgruntled face. You don’t know what you expected. Shania Twain is belting from the speakers while Sam wiggles his headphones in a dumb, awkward dance.

He’s pretty funny, all things considered, but you’d still like nothing better than to whack him up the head with an ink cartridge.

One of the blousy interns from your department is haplessly flirting with Patrick, pretending he bumped into her and made her plash some eggnog on herself, but she’s trying to be selfaware about it.

“Oh gosh, isn’t this such a cliché: the boss’ plus one wiping a dairybased drink from the subordinate’s—… oh no, I know she’s not technically my boss, but she’s sort of my senior within the company, like on the general corporate ladder, argh, I know, I hate it!”

She could’ve said superior, you think, instead of senior.

You’re feeling too pissy to go and save him from that failed interaction. You turn your back to the crowd and look out of the glossy black windows. That chorus keeps stomping its pointed heels over your fragile nerves.

The best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun!

Do you have a little fun? Are you a Good Time? You have to laugh. It’s just a stupid song. But you need the validation.

That’s why Patrick picks the wrong moment to come and talk to you.

“Hey, this chick is chasing me with a napkin around the room.”

You snort. “Not my problem.”

Patrick leans against the buffet, delivering a wry salute when Sam points at him from the DJ booth and winks. “That guy’s something,” Patrick chuckles, “He asked me to sign his dick.”

“Did you?”

Patrick hums like he’s ambivalent and places a large hand on the small of your back. “Would that be good for you, if I did?”

“I’m fun, right?”

You swirl the remains of eggnog in your glass. You ask the question like he’s been holding out some big secret from you.

Patrick blinks. He scoffs in disbelief, but also smirks pointedly at your glass. “You’re asking me?”

You stare at him through the briar lace of your eyelashes. Everyone who’s met him today has had their own lashes drenched in laughter. You hadn’t realised it first. You’d figured those were mutually exclusive things, downandout charm and the breathing room of comfortable success. But no. He’s charming, anyway. It’s just that he’s not haggling for scraps of generosity anymore so much as he’s lapping at the fleeting dregs of likability. And you hate that you notice that, and you hate that you notice him, that you know him, in a sense. Because what are you supposed to do about it?

“Everybody loves you. Just… be objective.”

Patrick still laughs. He rubs his stubble. He should’ve shaved this morning. He thought he was doing something for you, something nice, by coming with you to this thing and wooing everybody’s pants a little tighter, but maybe he’d missed the mark. “You know I can’t be objective.”

“Why not?” You sound petulant, leaning angrily against the buffet. You’re old enough to know what he’s saying, of course. He’s being nice. He’s telling you he thinks you’re fun, that the rest shouldn’t matter, but then he doesn’t need anything. Even when he had nothing. So he wouldn’t get it. He wouldn’t notice.

Patrick tilts his head and narrows his eyes in that way he does when he’s vivisecting you, then clears his throat. “You’re drunk.” He laughs again, a little gratuitous. Then, after a while, “I have fun with you. You’re engaging.”

“Engaging?” you echo, frowning. “Seriously? What am I, an essay?”

“No, I just— Jesus, what do you want me to say?”

You clench your jaw. Okay, you are drunk and you’re at this office party from hell and a hard rain’s a-gonna fall, so goddamn it, he will call you fun.

So you get right into his face. You’re good at that, even if you barely reach his shoulder. “Tell me I’m fun, because I am, and you think I am.”

You try to swat his hand away, but his palm stays put, a hot magnet just above your tailbone, and he doesn’t even look like he’s doing it on purpose. It’s just that he feels an emptiness in his stomach, depressing but also thrilling. Like taking a hit. Like you’re a little bag of white powder. Beyond the dark windows it starts to snow. He used to do a bit of coke, when everything around him dropped dead and started to rot, and he couldn’t stomach the smell. He doesn’t seem like the poster kid for moderation, but the coke was good, and he didn’t let it be any more than that. In fact, at times, the coke was great. The coke was fun. But he couldn’t live with the coke. You understand? He couldn’t settle down in New England and raise a cat with the coke.

“I don’t think I can win with you,” he murmurs, and, for his part, he at least sounds like he needs to change that.

It’s supposed to be a comfort fuck—and you call it fuck in your head dismissively—but it’s too raw and unknown. You’ve spent so much time in this questionable relationship with existence in his life. In and out. You thought you’d learned him, or at least learned the both of you, but his hands on you, his mouth on you—it’s frightening, finite, foreign. Somehow divorced from this man who, for all his egofueled casual mania, doles out intimacy like free samples.

This is what it feels like to watch him unravel, but it’s not just beggar’s desperation. No, he’s making room for someone else beside him in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

He keeps touching every part of you, frantically, trying to feel all of you, sinking his head between your thighs with a groan of relief, immersing himself in another body. But not just any body, because he keeps mouthing your name. As if to remind you that he is here, and you let him in. Because it matters that it’s you, that someone who knows him is letting him in. He’s humming to himself as you come against his fingers and mouth.

... hunger is ugly... souls are forgotten... I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it...

You like his full weight on you, sinking you into your undressed mattress, trapping you, suffocating you under his bottomless gloom. He has one hand on your thigh. He lifts it at an uncomfortable angle, sinking his cock deeper into you, making it ache. How does he know you like that, anyway? He doesn’t. He noticed.

You want to resent what he’s doing here, which is trying to ‘win with you’. Because he’s been on a winning streak, and you’re not about to spoil that.

And these demeaning, mechanical thoughts probably aren’t reflective of his inner monologue at the moment, but it’s easier to believe he doesn’t respect you than to contend with this whole thing.

You want to tell him, you don’t know what I like, but he starts talking about this tournament. There’s a match in Boston, for real this time. You’re having trouble paying attention.

You fall asleep with him still inside you, head on your chest, and you, crushed comfortably by his weight.  

You wake up before him. He must have rolled off you in the middle of the night. He’s sleeping next to you, one hand stretched towards you, head on the pillow at a strange angle.

You turn away quickly.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing in and out, staring at the heap of his cocktail wear on the floor. You feel sore and stupefied. You feel cramps in your muscles. You feel weak in the best and worst way possible. You keep breathing in and out, hoping you’re keeping quiet.

But he wakes up anyway.

You can feel his gentle eyes on the slightly hunched line of your back.

“Hey.”

“Morning,” you mumble, throat dry. Why does it have to be morning? Why does it always have to be morning?

“Come back here,” he says, as if it weren’t morning.

You shake your head softly.

His silence is edifying. It goes on for too long.

“You’re not gonna stay, are you?” you ask, serious and formal, gripping the edge of the mattress. You clench your jaw, body taut.

You can hear him swallow, throat working to get the syllables out.

“I’m not, like… leaving you.”

You close your eyes.

“No, I mean—yeah,” you chuckle miserably. “You’re probably doing the right thing. The best thing for you.”

You feel the tears slide out one by one, and your shoulders shake slightly.

“Please don’t cry.” He’s using that soft and primordially tentative voice he uses with your cat. “I’m not worth it.”

You look over your shoulder at him. “Then why is it so fucking hard to watch you go?”

It’s only recently you’ve started getting angry with him. You used to get grudgingly amused, perhaps vaguely reproachful, but now his stupid face just makes you livid.

His eyes tremble pensively. “I don’t know. But that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You turn your head away, rolling and wiping your eyes at the same time. “I just don’t see how it could work.”

And there’s a door he could open for you. There’s something he could say at this juncture to reassure you, momentarily, that it could. But he can’t bring himself to lie, because he cares about you too much to take a bump of that powder.

He hangs his head and looks at the beautiful line of your back, memorising it.

Then he gets up.

“I’m gonna make coffee, then we can get that fucking fitted sheet on, alright?”

You nod absently. You don’t turn to look at him as he puts on his clothes.

He comes up to you before he leaves. He runs his finger under your chin and lifts it up. There’s a kitten scratch on his cuticle.

You could come watch the match.

But he doesn’t say that. You haven’t seen him play since New Rochelle. “I’ll fill the demon’s bowl. I think she’s starting to like me.”

You laugh, wiping more tears.

Patrick takes that hand, your hand, wet with tears, and brings it to his mouth. He kisses and licks the salt away. He keeps it there for a moment longer than he should. You gently pull away.

You only exhale when he’s gone.

Toby slinks out from behind your mirror, swishing her tail back and forth in contempt.

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, shut up,” you whisper.

[tartrazeen]

🤯 Honestly?! You just changed my mind. He does think they're funny.

I know Fin Varra says it'd be bad if Maeve ruled so he's got a mutual interest with Kells, and kinda needs to work with them, but like...

The Mystic Knights are probably as much fun for the fae to watch as it is for the audience. Fin Varra's got that scrying pool, right? Tir Na Nog probably ha full-on livestreams of what's happening - in fact, I know they do, because how else would Fin Varra have known that Angus, Ivar and Deirdre were under Maeve's rage/paranoia spell while Rohan was in Tir Na Nog complaining about being Draganta? They were absolutely watching, and that pudding was Movie Night pudding, and Rohan was interrupting the fun A-Plot drama with his angsty Destiny subplot.

Now I'm trying to think of who their favourites are. 🤔

I know Aideen obviously has Rohan as #1, and Deirdre's her least favourite. I think she likes Angus more than Ivar, because even though he's done things like THROW A ROCK AT HER, she's had more heartfelt moments with him.

With Ivar, it seems a bit more... professional? He's more stoic than the others. He has his outbursts - OH BOY lots of them - but they're more spread out, and he's far calmer than the others. I think it's the royal upbringing that Aideen connects with less. The loud peasant vibe is more interesting.

So for Aideen, it's probably:

Rohan

Angus

Ivar

Deirdre

Which means Aideen is one of those fans who instantly hates the girl on the show 'cause they get in the way of her Rohan x Reader fics 😭

I don't know what she thinks of Garret. Aideen likes seeing humans brawl, but doesn't like when they argue. In fact, the fae seem to utterly loathe anyone getting their feelings hurt (which fits the lore around offending them, I think, if I'm not confusing it with other lore). That's what Aideen emphasizes when Angus storms off because Rohan was being a jerk, and also when she talks about treasuring gifts from friends after Angus storms off 'cause they were all being jerks. And it's Fin Varra's (and Midar's) go-to move when someone insults him: Spriggen Cloud Beam.

So Garrett would be funny because he's competitive, but not liked as much as Angus because he can be kind of snobby. That might put Ivar ahead.

As for Lugad...? 🤔 She might like him because he seems to mean well, and because he's competitive too. But he also brags a lot, and he doesn't have the same 'Chosen One' angst.

Okay - so maybe Aideen's list is this:

Rohan

Angus

Lugad

Ivar

Garrett

Deirdre

I think with how dramatic the first three are, Ivar is a refreshing amount of level-headedness to break it up. She probably has little chats with him off-screen. At least until he becomes the most competitive out of all them. But then he goes back to being chill again. uwu

(also omg no wonder she's always around and within earshot. if everyone's watching the scrying pool, she's basically watching on her own channel by being there in-person 🤣)

For Fin Varra, I know he likes Deirdre, but he oddly doesn't seem to show her much respect...? In that episode where he ruled Kells for a day, he kept directing everything he said to Angus. But he does respect her. He's also a bit... I don't want to say 'dismissive' of Rohan's whining, but he does seem more plot-focused that character-focused. Whenever someone's coming to ask how to move things along, he's on board to give answers. But wasting his time when he didn't summon them (like when Rohan and Angus brought the chesn with mini-Torc into Tir Na Nog), or coming in to complain about the plot is his least favourite thing. He likes action. That's probably why he didn't show Deirdre as much respect in the Switching Kingdoms episode: she was placating Fin Varra, which is boring, and Angus was inadvertently pushing the plot along, which might have been "insulting" but did deliver action.

Lugad pretty much just does whatever he's told, so I don't think Fin Varra has much interest in him (the 'placating' thing again). Ivar will go his own way when it serves him, but very often defers to the rules or traditions. Not as often as Deirdre, who's always having to be a Proper Princess™, but often enough. But he's not as easy to trick, which isn't as funny as it is with Deirdre.

Surprisingly, Garrett is constantly doing his own shit. I don't know if he'd suddenly play nice now that he's on the same team as everyone, but if he keeps up that hyper-competitiveness, he'd probably be a ton of fun for Fin Varra. So I think the list would be something like:

Garrett

Deirdre

Ivar

Lugad

With Rohan and Angus... 🤔

I think he actually likes Angus more. Angus doesn't ever go to Tir Na Nog unless he has to. Rohan'll check in for advice or just to chit-chat, it seems, so there's more chances for him to do the thing that almost got Angus turned into a Spriggen: correct Fin Varra on what the plot should be. The point would be in Angus' favour.

More than that, there's the difference in their shenanigans. When Rohan does something stupid, it's "I summoned a dragon" or "I accepted a duel." Simple and straightforward: here are the rules, go follow them. When Angus screws up, it's "Help I got framed for arson and now I need a lawyer" or "There's a 1000 year old wizard running around and mom said it's my turn to be possessed," or everyone's favourite: "I saw some gold in a field but the field was broken or something u_u." Way more interesting.

It's also harder to tell what Angus is gonna do. Rohan's very clear in his problem-solving: do the thing as fast as possible, even if it means skipping steps. Angus might act impulsively, or he might suddenly be cautious, or he might have a whole freaking strategy planned out. It kinda makes Angus the most fairy-like out of all of them, tbh. He's accidentally been speaking their language, or at least being crafty enough to endlessly entertain them.

So I think it'd be:

Garrett

Angus

Deirdre

Ivar

Rohan

Lugad

Rohan just wastes a lot of time struggling to do simple things. Angus wastes time doing elaborate things to get out of doing simple things, then goes and does the simple thing elaborately anyway. But I think Garrett's still at the top for the same reason Angus interacts with Garrett: he is so funny to torment.

Garrett just has to fight a little ghost for his test? Angus complains. Fin Varra's like, "no no dude watch this, it's gonna be hilarious"

Garrett and Ivar and Deirdre have to watch a baby dragon? Angus instantly stops complaining about getting herbs to laugh at them, and settles on Garrett.

The Dragonbow.

The

Dragonbow.

Angus even has the same kind of humour for watching people get put in their place. He's worried about Garrett and Rohan dueling, but when Rohan's in the water? Hilarious. Ivar's fighting Garrett in the throne room? Brings music. He himself is talking shit about girls net being as good at obstacle courses as boys? Admits it at the end. So just from what he thinks is funny (which we see more of), and what Fin Varra thinks is funny (which matches up even though we don't see as much), it stands to reason that Fin Varra also thinks Garrett is very fun to torment.

And now I'm wondering if maybe THAT had something to do with their tests. Fin Varra might have tested them to see a noble trait (ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ wait and then rohan became a prince, therefore angus = some sort of other prince confirmed), but maybe it was more like, "Idk, are you guys gonna be enough fun for us to watch?"

So Rohan being brave is good, because then they can make him do the dangerous parts of the plot. Ivar being loyal is good because that means he'll stay with the group despite his own quest. Angus being honest is good because that means his tricks are in the group's best interests. Deirdre being selfless is good because she'll find a way for the show to always go on. And Garrett being humble is good because LOLOLOL get wreckt garrett

Midar, meanwhile, who only appears when his plot's going on, is very much giving a "ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ this is a kid's show" opinion. So he's pretty annoyed by all of them for being dumb, but Maeve is so desperate for power that he can entertain himself by seeing what else she'll give up. Super mean, first of all, but that's gotta be why he's so quick to ditch her: the second she stops doing war plans and starts doing "I'm gonna marry the king uwu" plans, he's over it, and the second things get too 'expensive' for her to sacrifice anything else, what's the point of her? The fun with Maeve is what the next crazy thing she gives up will be.

Actually...

Another random thought.

I always wondered why Aideen was the one in the first episode who sent that dream to Rohan. Why her, exactly?

But if she's the one who's watching the show from her "own screen," and if Fin Varra seems to always know what the next part of the story is supposed to be before the Mystic Knights even ask, then maybe that was Aideen putting her thumb on the scale.

After all, Ivar already knew where the fairy ring was. Maybe Rohan and Angus would've let Ivar go if Aideen hadn't told Rohan about meeting a stranger, and then they wouldn't have found Tir Na Nog at all. And from there, maybe they go searching other, more hidden parts of Ireland, like wherever Lugad's been held. Being so big, and with Rohan thinking Draganta had to be some knight hidden away somewhere, everyone probably would have thought Lugad was Draganta instead. After all, they both have the Mark of Destiny.

It's sort of something I was hoping they'd talk about someday: if both Lugad and Rohan have that mark, how do they know it's Rohan? The only thing that clued Cathbad in was that Pyre breathed the mark of destiny onto the ground. But Cathbad's gotten signs wrong before, and the step after getting Pyre was finding Draganta. No one ever said how long after, and technically Lugad was found after. Maybe Pyre was just checking off a box or committing himself to the team, not necessarily branding Rohan. I mean, Angus eventually kinda tames Pyre, so it's not like the dragon only listens to exactly one person.

But with Aideen's dream in Rohan's head...

... maybe even Fin Varra was tricked - yes, tricked :3 - into agreeing that things pointed to Rohan, the kid who'd been a druid's apprentice for many years and not very good at it, more than to Lugad, the Half-Demon who can throw an army across a battlefield and was able to lead Maeve to victory as her legendary warrior.

Maybe - uhhhhh...

... maybe Rohan's not actually Draganta. uwu

Maybe that's why Aideen so delighted he gets named Draganta. If she hadn't interfered exactly when she did, changing the plot (remember: this is someone who actually changed her whole species to become a human!), the plot would've gone on to tap somebody else for it.

👀 That is extremely interesting to me.

I feel like I've said this before, but I'm saying it again: I love this show's characterization of King Fin Varra.

What an amazing choice all around. The whole first episode with his introduction, and especially his wrap-up with Deirdre's test in the second episode, probably had one line in the script to explain what Fin Varra's deal is:

Fucks with them. Endlessly. That's it.

I get that these are tests, and he doesn't know who these random people in Tir Na Nog are, but he picks the most deliberately dickish way of sending them along and just LOLs about it. One time, Rohan goes to him for help and to angst about how he can't be Draganta, and Fin Varra's like, "Dude, I'm eating pudding. Go save your friends or something."

Rohan's like, "D: Are they in trouble?"

And Fin Varra's like, "idk i guess - bro, fr, pudding."

And he doesn't even start with that!! He says it at the end of the conversation - just throws it in 'cause he really wants that pudding 🤣

Like - he isn't Cathbad. The stock "Wise Character" is already fulfilled. Cathbad gives his advice freely and as clearly as he can, and the only limiting factor is whether his magic is strong enough.

Fin Varra is limited by whether he's feeling the vibe or not.

Excellent.

In any other show, Fin Varra would be giving them cryptic messages and lessons to learn, and the Mystic Knights would rise to each challenge and see that they've been made better for facing it. That's the point of those cryptic messages: they're third-act revelations to solve the day. And because they help eventually, the cliché is to have the heroes fawn over what this mystery could mean.

But no! The Mystic Knights just get increasingly pissed off about it! They fucking hate his riddles, and Angus openly calls it garbage multiple times throughout the show. The second-last episode, Fin Varra gives them a clue to the vial with the potion that's going to save Rohan's life, and not only do Angus and Ivar not say, "Hm, what an interesting clue, we should reflect on this," but they never even go back to thank him for it! Stupid Garrett would've never revealed the potion without those words from Fin Varra!

The one time Cathbad tries to be like, "Ooh, I know what this riddle means," he ends the show by being like, "aw shit guys, i'm so sorry, i misunderstood what the riddle meant. i totally get it now though."

THEY ALL HATE IT AND IT'S SO FUNNY

And Fin Varra is so sick of them disrespecting his gifts - it's great, I love the dynamic, I wish we'd had more of the show just to show that.

[fanfiction-corner]

𝒟𝑒𝓁𝓅𝒽𝒾𝒸 𝑀𝓎 𝒮𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉

Tarquin X Reader

Oneshot featuring a character from @simpforthebloodgod ‘s books Tacenda and Versailles.

Here is part 2 to the Delphic series, this one features Tarquin! everyone's favourite awkward endertwin. L canonised that all he wants is his choccy milk and cant flirt for the life of him so here we go! XD i hope you all enjoy!

(pt. 1) - Deirdre x reader

Word Count: 1157

Pronouns: They/Them

Summary: Tarquin bumps into the reader late at night in the kitchen

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The sun had already set over the kingdom, most were asleep, except a few servants and guards that scattered around the castle. A few servants were left to clean certain areas of the castle, prepping it for the morning. This is where Y/n seems to be, left alone to clean that night’s dishes. The dim candlelight illuminating the sink enough to make sure each dish was scrubbed clean, the pile of dirty to clean dishes changing ratio over time. 

The methodical clinking of dishes in the sink fill the room and snuffs out most of the silence, something the cleaner despises. It always is followed by a faint ringing, it drives them half-mad, it was why they try to find themselves with others, enjoying the soft chatter of people around them or the sounds of daily work. 

They also seem to be seeking out Deidre, her company being rather enjoyable. Its always rather rare to find her alone, however. She’s either working under the king or with her brother, the quieter of the two twins, he was always more intimidating due to this. Always silent with an unreadable expression, though despite this, he is equally as ethereal as Deirdre. 

Y/n found themself lost in thought, scrubbing away at the same plate in a slow-motion as their mind rolled over the image of the twins. Ungodly attractive and seemingly extremely interesting to talk to - Deirdre was anyways - and holding a mysterious aura that sends shivers down their spine. 

“Oh, I didn’t expect anyone to be up at this hour”

The sudden voice caused the maid to yelp, dropping what they were holding and turning to spot the individual. Almost like history repeating itself, there stood one of the twins, except this one was distinctly not Deirdre, their voice was deeper than the one they remembered. 

Tarquin stood there in his nightclothes - which consisted of just a long baggy nightshirt - his hair slightly dishevelled from sleep and an edge of tiredness in his voice. His head was tilted curiously at y/n with a subtle amused smile playing at his lips. His amusement soon obvious within his tone when he next spoke. 

“My apologies, did I startle you?”

Y/n let out a breath, giving a shakey nod as they composed themselves, grabbing a nearby hand towel to dry their hands. Trying their best to calm fro the initial scare under the gaze of the enderman, his presence growing increasingly more intimidating within the dim light and uncomfortable silence.

“W-what can I do for you, sir?” They shakily asked, composed enough to speak and perhaps fill out whatever task the man could need at this hour. 

“Oh! no need to do anything-” he replied, sending Y/n an awkward smile before making his way towards a cupboard holding a variety of glasses and mugs. “I just came to get a drink, you can ignore me. I won’t be too much of a bother”

y/n watched him for a moment longer, seeing him quietly retrieve the milk from the icebox to make his beverage. Soon they turned back to their work, staying silent as they returned to cleaning dish after dish. Trying to ignore the presence of Tarquin behind them, his silence growing unnerving, as does the feeling of eyes on their back. 

“Why are you up so late?”

Yet again, Tarquin’s voice made Y/n jump. Turning their head to see the man standing closer by, the glass in his hand holding a brown liquid. The evidence of its creation being held on the counter he was previously nearby, there sitting the jug of milk and a pot of cocoa powder. 

“I-i” they stuttered out, momentarily meeting his eye before quickly turning back to finish their work, “im finishing up washing todays dishes, then I am to retire to bed..”

“They left you to do it on your own?” his question seemed to catch them off guard, blinking a bit before slowly responding.

“Yes... it’s my duty to have them finished. There just seems to be more today than usual.”

“Would you like any help?”

“N-no!”

Their sudden response had them both started, Tarquin left blinking in surprise. Eventually going to speak before being quickly stopped by Y/n themself. 

“I mean, no. ill be alright on my own.” 

Tarquin only nodded, deciding to just let them do their job. Although he stayed nearby, watching as he quietly drank his chocolate milk. The silence was filled with awkward tension, the soft clinking of dishes returning to fill said silence once again as Y/n continued their work. Neither seemed to want to speak or even know what to say at the moment, keeping them locked in an endless loop of thinking on what to say, trying to say something before deciding not to and lapsing into silence again. 

“My sister was right about you” Tarquin broke the silence, his voice quiet and hesitant. As if he was unsure of what he was saying. 

“What?” Y/n spoke, turning their head to look at him, “w-wait, what did she say?” it was clear they were worried, their eyes searching his desperately for an answer

“W-wait! No! Nothing bad, she said you were hot-” Tarquin tried to catch himself on the word, cheeks flushing a bright lavender. eyes widening in realisation, quickly starting to ramble to try and cover for himself.

“W-well she didn't exactly say that- I mean if she did she’d still be right- I mean no!- well it doesn’t mean your not hot, you’re definitely kinda attractive- not just kinda your very attractive- alright im going to shut up now!”

Tarquin quickly shut himself up, leaning back against the counter behind him and taking a long drink of his milk. Avoiding eye contact the best he could. 

Everything he said had caught Y/n off guard, their face heating up as each word set in. he, Tarquin, had called them hot. Not only that! He agreed to what his sister had said! She said they were hot!

“Oh..” They quietly responded, a shy smile waking its way onto their features. “thank you, Tarquin, that is very sweet of you to say”

Tarquin seemed to shrink a little, the already bright colour on his face seemingly darkening at their words. Merely nodding in response, soon having to pry himself away from the counter, quickly moving to clean up the left out milk and cocoa. he finishes his milk, placing the glass by the sink and ultimately disappearing into the night. 

He was clearly flustered, Y/n found that rather adorable. The mysterious quiet twin had an adorable awkward side, it made him seem a lot less intimidating than before. They thought on it, mulling over what they had been told. Soon, they had to turn back to their work, working later into the night as their thoughts distracted them, cheeks still red from the twin’s words

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Taglist

@lavenderdayspersonal

[brighteyedbushybrowed]

𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐜𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 (Eddie x Buckley!Reader) After sneaking Eddie in last night while your parents were out and making sure he got home safely before their return, your dad calls you and Robin into the living room for a family meeting. 

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 No smut, just something short, silly and fun that I cranked out. 

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 Inspired by this scene from EastEnders because I saw the potential and couldn’t leave it alone once it came up on my tiktok fyp. I just wanted to write something that’s fun and lighthearted and sometimes you just need Danny Dyer questioning people about a sock. 

Sitting in the living room with your sister beside you and your dad standing over the two of you, you realised that maybe inviting Eddie to stay the night while your parents had been on a work trip hadn’t been the most thought out plan. In your defense, you’d made sure your boyfriend was out of the house hours before your mom and dad had returned and you’d both used protection, so it wasn’t like you’d been completely irresponsible. However, the item dangling from your dad’s hand in front of you both had you cursing internally and kicking yourself for not making sure Eddie had taken everything with him. 

“It’s a sock,” Robin said, stating the obvious and breaking the awkward silence that had descended upon the three of you. 

Your dad nodded. “It is a sock. It’s a man’s sock.” 

You put on a concerned expression, furrowing your brows. “Sorry, are we missing something here?” 

“Well,” your dad replied, “it’s not mine. Which means one of my lovely children has been entertaining, and I’d like to be introduced before people’s socks start coming off.” 

There was a momentary pause as you took in the look of displeasure and discomfort on his face. He didn’t like this anymore than you did, but you had to admit that watching him sweat was kind of funny. 

“It’s big, isn’t it?” Robin commented and you had to fight with everything inside you not to start laughing. 

“It’s enormous,” you opted for, staring at the piece of clothing that shifted slightly in the air as your dad swallowed and looked as if he was ready for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

Your sister jerked her thumb towards you. “Well, it wasn’t me because I share a room with them.” 

The beginnings of fury in your dad’s eyes as he turned on you made you want to kick Robin in the shin. You’d specifically asked her not to say anything like that because it would just make him more suspicious of you. 

“Well, I found it in here,” he informed you both. 

Nonchalantly, you glanced over at the picture of your grandmother. “Could be Deirdre.” 

“No,” Robin said with a laugh.

“Well, you know she’s still got it,” you continued. “And she’s had her eye on that Harold from those bingo nights she goes to, so...” 

Your dad’s face was red from embarrassment at the notion. “No, no, it’s nothing to do with my mother.” 

With a sigh, you shook your head and through your hands up in the air. “It’s all a bit of a mystery then, isn’t it?” 

Just as your dad was abut to reply, the phone began to ring. The three of you remained quiet as it kept on ringing, nobody budging from their seats. He looked over at it then back at you and your sister, conflicted about what to do. 

“You wanna get that?” you asked with a smile. A moment later he gave in and dumped the sock on the armchair opposite the sofa, moving to answer the phone. 

Once his back was turned and he was occupied talking to whoever had called, Robin rose from her seat and wiggled her eyebrows at you with a grin. “It’s a massive sock.” 

You waited until your sister had returned upstairs to your shared bathroom and got up yourself, retrieving the sock and putting it in your pocket. 

Next time you snuck your boyfriend in for sex, you were going to make sure he took his massive socks with the rest of his clothes the morning after. 

[elementalwriter67]

Snapshots

Pairings: Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

Summary: This is a series of stories that are just a collection of snapshots of (Y/N) and Klaus’ love story and the struggles they’ve gone through to get to where they are now. 

Tag list: @clea-nightingale  @reclusive-chicken-nugget  @valsworldofcreativity  @thatweirdoleigh  @hallothankmas  @the-weasley-slut  @goldenthena  @byunniebaekhyunnie  @agentstarkid @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @madamerubrum @mineymak712 @elaacreditava @missryerye @smailaway @bellamy1998 @lupinpetersclearwaterodairparker @deirdre-belle  @1-imaginary-girl @gnarly272

A/N: Let me know if I missed you in the tag list or if you want to be added to the tag list at all down in the comments of this post

The Vampire Diaries: 

 Season Three:

Please Help Me, First Turn, How About a Dance, Second Turn and Strained Bonds, A Choice is Made, Happy Birthday, Decade Dance, A Kidnapping, A Death in the Family

Season Four:

It Should Have Been You, They Know

[crab-instruments]

The Crime Lord’s New Groove Part 2

Master <Part 1 Part 3>

Pairing: Silco x GN Reader

Summary: You find that your boss, Silco, has been turned into a cat.

Warnings: none, it's just stupid and self-indulgent

a/n: Listen, I don't know. Now I'm investing in characters and setting up plot points.

Sneaking out the back of The Last Drop with your boss turned cat hidden in your jacket took careful consideration and a well placed bribe to the bouncer out back. You weren’t sure if Silco heard the deal or understood what happened. Not many words needed to be exchanged for the already established agreement, certainly wasn’t the first time you escaped from particular work duties. If Silco did comprehend, he didn’t mention it.

Not that he really could, being a cat and all.

Your apartment wasn’t far, but you still had to look as normal as possible rather than smuggling something through The Lanes. You looked suspicious, like hiding loot or treasure you didn’t want to share. If someone got the wrong idea, they would get a face full of fluffy murderous rage. It didn’t help that you were alternating between jogging and quickly walking, the ultimate “I’m hiding something, please don’t look at me” types of walking.

Luckily, nothing happened. You let a sigh of relief out with your back against the building door. Ultimately you had made a mistake in thinking it was all clear, as you opened the door and walked right into the building owner, causing Silco to yelp in a very cat-like manner.

“Deirdre! So sorry, clumsy me, I did—”

“You know the rules, no pets, no exceptions.” Her voice was raspy and deep, like she smoked more than all the factories in the undercity combined.

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about.” You smiled sheepishly, as you took tiny backwards steps toward the stairwell.

She gave you a look, like she knew where you lived and where you would not live if you continued down that path.

New tactic. “You caught me, nothing gets by you, Deirdre, you smart, wise crone.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“But you see, this is not a pet. This is my boss.” Silco made a distressed meow-hiss noise.

“Silco… asked you to take care of that cat?”

“Uhh Yep! You know how he is.”

She snorted. “Certainly has you do the weirdest things. Like that time you had to turn the room into an indoor garden for those flowers the glow. Or that other time it was basically turned into a tailor shop because you needed to recreate his favorite coat. Or really it was—”

“Yeah, so weird, but c'est la vie. Anyway, the cat will only be here for—”

“You have three days.”

“Three days plus maybe anywhere between a week and ten months. Thanks! Love ya doll.”

You ran up the stairs before Deirdre could address anything else. The three stories never felt higher. Your hands shook with the keys, missing the lock a few times before you could finally get it in and twist it. Slamming it shut, you locked it before opening your jacket and letting Silco free.

The scruffy cat looked a little frazzled from the trip but quickly got his bearings. He observed the small studio apartment, taking note of how you lived your life (like a hot mess) before he jumped up on the tallest surface, the kitchen counter. He sat down facing you, and glared at you knowingly. Maybe Silco didn’t know about the bribed bouncer but now he definitely knew he was used as an excuse AND you weren’t as truthful about your work.

“You’re so spry in cat form, boss, nothing holds you back!” You nervously chuckled while taking off your shoes and jacket. When you glanced back at him, you could tell he was not amused. “Okay, look. The flower thing. It was back when Jinx was real little. She was an angel to you, but as soon as you left, it was a different story. The only thing that would get her on my side were the flowers so I grew them. The coat thing was my fault, I ripped your coat. So, I learned how to sew, found all the materials you liked and the pattern, and you never noticed it wasn’t by the same person. Anytime you requested a new coat, I just made it for you and charged you for the materials. Shit, I even added more pockets!”

When Silco only stared at you, making no other movements, you started to slip. “And now I’m explaining myself to a cat, who may or may not be a cat but worse, may or may not actually understand a word I’m saying.” You started pacing back and forth. “Oh, I’m so fired, if you are Silco. If you’re not Silco and I treated you like you were Silco… maybe I am just insane? Have the fumes finally got to my head? One too many concussions? Maybe I died back in March when I lost all that blood and—”

A loud crash stopped your tirade of words.

You looked back to the kitchen area, noticing Silco going back into his regal sitting position, now with a ceramic mug fractured all over the floor.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

His eyes narrowed, looking as angry as a fluffy, scruffy cat could. Silco meowed and chirped and hissed and grandstanded, like he was giving a speech. There was nothing you could do but watch as he monologued harder than any Piltie in a dramatic play, revealing their entire plot to the audience. You had seen him give similar speeches, especially to those who disobey orders. Truly a sight to behold.

There was no doubt in your mind; the cat was Silco.

That didn’t stop the whole scene from being fucking hilarious.

You started laughing, laughing so hard you couldn’t stand anymore. “Oh Janna, that was so… oh my sides, hang on… hang on…” You rolled over on to your back and curled up, laughing coming out closer to wheezes, “Boss, I’ve never… felt more inspired…” Tears were rolling down your face.

A few minutes passed before your breathing became even, small giggles like popcorn popping up every now and again. When you could look at Silco without laughing again, he was busy grooming himself. Extremely cat like behavior. For a moment, it made you smile. Just a very cat thing to do. But then, worry struck you like lightening.

“Wait. Do you know what you’re doing?”

Silco stopped mid lick before registering your words and promptly putting his paw down, scowl back on his little face. He hissed at you, daring you to say something at his expense.

“No, no. I mean…” You slowly started to get off the floor, “What if you’re like not fully a cat but could become a cat? Like… No more Silco… just… cat…”

The scowl melted away into something else. Could cats look worried? He looked apprehensive, like he hadn’t considered.

“Well, we don’t know, right? So, maybe not. But I feel we should consider this on a tight schedule of… three days. I’ll keep notes on your behaviors, if you start acting more like a cat, I should notice it, right?” Silco grunted in response. “Just the vote of confidence I would expect from the boss. Now, let me clean this up, and I’ll ask some questions about your encounter with this old hag.”

Part 3

[grogusmum]

Seven Tears part 5

SELKIE!EZRA X F!READER

W/C: 2800ish

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: Pearl and Ezra move to Rón Inis. Pearl learns there that her selkie love has his own past.

WARNING: Olde Timey gender norms and sexism, mentions of spouse abandonment,though set in Ireland, and Ireland's predominantly white, Reader is physically undescribed, as are her blood relatives, her missing spouse and his family are white, church nonsense and fisticuffs, food, reader is pregnant, Ezra is a selkie, yes, it deserves its own warning. Excessive use of pet names.

(as always see something say something. please let me know in my DMs if there is a warning I missed)

NOTES: I thought that we were coming to he end of our story, but I was surprised to find out I was wrong. There is more to tell, and more selkie myth I really wanted to include. So I hope you are interested in several more chapters. Happy birthday, Kindred! Enjoy💚

Swept Away

Part 1

Part 4

Gaeilge translation

A ghrá love

M'fhíorghrá my true love

Sláinte health or cheers

A stór my treasure

Rón Inis Island of Seals

Deirdre and Felicia are in the kitchen, Thomas and Patrick in the back bringing wood in when Ezra gives a knock as he walks in the door. Hugh, your younger brother was on the couch with you, both seemingly occupied by the crossword puzzle in the evening paper. Hugh looks very much like an Irish setter who sits on their owner's feet when feeling protective. Ezra smiles at the scene in the parlor, the smells of a roast and potatoes, the fire crackling. He, of course, brings with him the smell of the sea.

You look up and extract yourself from the afghan on your lap and Hugh, handing him the paper. You pull Ezra by his jacket toward the fire to warm him up. 

“Alright, Ezra?” Hugh asks.

“Just so,” Ezra smiles and then wraps his arms around you, quietly in your ear, “are you alright, moonbeam?” 

“I am,” you murmur, “now.”

“Suppers on the table,” Felica calls.

While everyone eats, you tell them what happened, Ezra squeezes your hand under the table occasionally, then Deirdre and Patrick tell their tales of the visit to St Bridget's and with Colin. 

The stories are interrupted periodically by different members of the Brennan Clan when emotions run high.

“But he is not an actual selkie!” Cries Hugh.

“Don be daft, of course he is, lookit him,” Thomas says, tossing a roll at him. Thus earning a glare from their father.

It seems everyone at once knew and did not know that Ezra is truly a selkie. 

"Don tell me everyone knew but me?" Hugh wailed.

Deirdre, of course, nods, being the only one who was told outright. Then comes a murmuring of the rumors and guesses. Your hands shake as you confirm it, looking at Ezra for help. He just raises his glass, winks-

 "Sláinte" (slawn-cha)

Your family laughs and raises their glasses, once over the shock, the relief you feel stings the corners of your eyes.

“It was only a matter of time before the seal people mixed with the Brennans!” Patrick proclaims above the din.

In the past, they had chosen not to talk about Colin since his desertion, speaking of him only if you wished it. He has shown his colors, was what your Mam would say. But the notion that he would return after all this time and why set everyone's blood to boil anew. Whenever he is mentioned this night, they practically hiss at his name. Muttering curses.

You chose to keep the story of becoming sick to yourself, and of Jamie and Colin fairly brief, being more interested in the part you did not know, like Deirdre’s trip to see Father O'Brien-

“How could he talk to you like that, Mam?” Hugh says scandalized.

“What about annulment?” Felicia asks.

“Oh I am going to the Bishop next, this is not over.”

You sigh, and Ezra puts an arm around you.

Then Patrick’s conversation with Colin-

“Did you pan him out, Da?” Hugh asks.

“Someone beat me to it.” Patrick winks at the pair of you.

You smile a little here and cock your thumb at Ezra, and your brothers erupt. Thomas who is next to him claps his shoulder. Felicia smiles into her lap and sneaks a look at you.

“To my way of thinking, it is my pearl here who truly deserves that honor.” Ezra calls over the pleased chatter and kisses your forehead.

Hugh agrees and surprisingly so does Deirdre.

After a moment everyone settles down.

“So what'll you do now?” Felicia asks. Diedre starts clearing plates, her nervous energy needing to be harnessed for something.

“Well, That of course depends on Moonbeam here. But I’ve spoken with Tilda, from the pub? She is sort of a cousin of mine. She has offered us one of the cottages on Rón Inis (Roan Inish).”

“Wait, she is a Conneely?” You say in wonder, “How did I not know that.”

“You’ve only known her by her married name, love,” Deirdre says over her shoulder  from the sink.

It is a commonly held belief that the Conneelys were well mixed with seal folk, no more so than by the Conneely's themselves, so no one questions Ezra’s claim, they just exchange looks.

Your Da looks down at the table.

“It’s not far, a row boat will do”, you assure him.

“I know,” he says with a sad smile, “ I know, darlin’ we would just miss seeing ye everyday.”

 “I know.”

Ezra squeezes your knee, and looks at you, his eyebrows lifted in question.

“So, you would come with me?”

You nod. Then a smile breaks wide-

“Yes, Ezra. I would.”

Deidre comes back to the table, the iron skillet in her hand, and smile on her face. She does not hide the tears in her eyes. You jump up from the table and hug her.

“Tis not far, Mam, just a row.” 

“You are right, tis just a row!” She shakes off her thoughts of being lonesome for you and puts down the skillet of fresh apple cake on a trivet. “Plates, Hugh.”

Your younger brother pops out of his seat to pull the dessert plates down from the shelf above the sideboard, the ching of silver means he remembers the forks.

“There is much to plan, but for now, let us enjoy some of your mother’s fine cake,” Patrick says, sending a wink your way.

The preparation was swift and quiet. You parents worked on the annulment, deciding you can come to the mainland when needed instead of waiting as it can take months. Your family helped you pack and loaded everything on his fishing boat, you’d have to row a curragh (cah-ra) as well, so you had means to get to and fro as needed. 

When the early morning of your departure arrived, you both looked at the somewhat bare little house you had shared. You had decided to only take what was indisputably yours. Which meant anything you brought with you, wedding gifts given to you from your family (thankfully that included the bed, which was a gift from your parents), and anything  you bought or made after Colin left. Only months ago you would have left this house without a backward glance, but now, it was the home you had made with Ezra, where you fell in love with him. 

Ezra finds you in the bedroom folding some linens. He looks at them, then you. Searching. You look up from the laundry and smile.

“Never let it be said I left a mess behind.”

“We should go, Moonbeam”, Ezra says it like a question. His head cocked to the side, searching your face, for reservations, for fear, for regret. 

“We should.” You say looking at him with nary a sign of trebiation. He smiles a huff and bumps his head to yours. You folded the wedding ring quilt and laid it on a blanket rack that rested by the wood stove. Neither had come from your side.  

You open the door to find Tilda and Fergus. Fergus carries a large basket filled to the brim. Tilda, a large something, wrapped in a sea green blanket.

“Just want to keep you fed while you settle in,” she smiles, kissing you both on the cheek. 

“Wanted to see you off,” Fergus explains, giving Ezra a squeeze on the arm.

The four of you walk together to the dock, your siblings and parents are already there. Not that you can see them in the half light, but dark heads bob in the water. Ezra’s family has come too. He watches the water, with a lopsided smile. 

“Do you mind two more,” asks Fergus amiably.

“More hands make lighter work!” Patrick says, shaking his hand.

Your father explains that they would have to use the curragh and jon boat to bring everything to the shore. As the sun rises in earnest and you become anxious to set off. 

You and Ezra get in currah, a funny round wicker boat, your two brothers in the flat bottomed jon, the rest board the fishing boat.

"Are you ready, a stòr?"

"I am ready, m'fhíorghrá (MEER-ggrah) ."

The sun told you it was mid morning when the island was in full view, and by this time Ezra’s family had made their presence known to all of you. They gamboled, rolled and ducked under the boats. Their excitement growing.

While most of the seal were curious of all three vessels, there was one, small light colored seal, that stuck close to your boat. Eying you occasionally, but watching Ezra. 

“Who is this,” you ask. 

“This lovely pup is my-” Ezra looks down at her, giving her such a warm look you should have guessed the answer,. “She is my daughter, Cee.”

Ezra looks to you, wondering if this will make a difference. 

“Your… daughter?” you say a smile slowing growing. You look down at her, leaning down close. “Hello Cee! Why, aren’t you wonderful!” 

Cee rolls in agreement, Ezra gives his hearty laugh and you just beam at the two.

For a time, you let your mind wonder at the life Ezra had known before you, in the sea and out of it. Would it be inappropriate to ask? You know the reputation of selkie men. Some have been confirmed and some debunked with your time with Ezra. Do you want to know?

“How old is she? Cee?”

“Fourteen.” Ezra says, still looking at his seal daughter.

Two sevens, you think. Two possible visits, two possible other lovers. You can not change a selkies nature, and you surely do not want to change Ezra’s so you sit with this, settling yourself with the knowledge, that you knew in abstract but…

“A ghrá? I can see the wheels whirling,” he smiles kindly, he nods to Cee and she dips into the sea and visits another seal beside your fathers fishing boat. “You can ask me anything, I am but an open book to you, to be perused in your good time.”

“Where is her mother?”

Ezra eyes softened still, your question was matter of fact, though not cold, he could see you trying. He smiled. 

“She is no longer with us, she passed many, many years ago. Cee was on land with her mother, she would not part from her. But when she fell ill, she brought Cee to the waters edge and introduced us properly and I helped Cee transform, so she could join me when it was time. She was 7. The fates were looking favorably upon us. I could leave the water and help her.”

There was so much more to this story you want to know but there is something more pressing-

“I, we…” you look down at your belly, that is still not giving away the secret of the life growing within. 

“Yes,” Ezra eyes shine and his face radiating adoration.

“Ours?” You ask rhetorically, smiling eyes wet, a hiccup of a laugh.

“Ours.” Ezra repeats.

Oh, he wants to close the distance and wrap himself around you, blasted boat… later, he reminds himself. We have all the time in the world, especially if-

“Did you love her very much?”

“I did, though I must admit, there was another. I could not have her so I tried to put her out of my mind. Move on and find something for myself.” 

“Oh,” you say your voice sounding small, and Ezra looks at you. His eyebrows drifting up. “Oh,” you say again. Your face warms, both in embarrassment and pleasure. 

“Oh,” he repeats playfully.

“Was there anyone else,” you say feeling more confident. You look at your seal man, he could have had one hundred lovers. It does not matter. He loves you, and he always has. You are having his baby. 

“One other, a fellow,” Ezra says grunting into the oars. “Before I ever laid eyes one you.”

You are only taking by surprise momentarily.

“Did he summon you?” 

“A stór, I am not avoiding your inquiry indefinitely, but we are to come ashore momentarily.” Ezra settles the oars in the boat. “I will regale you the tale of my first love, if you wish it, at a more opportune time. Perhaps not in front of your family.” 

“Well, it would be a fine how do you do, to be accepting of us and not you and your fellow.” 

“Truly, my Moonbeam, I heartily agree, but you would be surprised. Regardless, it would perhaps be unseemly to speak of any past sweethearts with your parents, at all. 

“Can’t argue with that,” you laugh and the jolt as the curragh beaches. 

The fishing boat stayed in the deeper waters, and the small boats were loaded running back and forth. The many hands did make swift work. Soon, your sister, Felicia, was busy sweeping the sand out of the cottages. Your father was up on the roof of the largest cottage, inspecting the thatch. While your mother hollered for him to get his fool self down before he fell off and let one of his sons do it. 

“Get up there, Thomas!” Deirdre shouts. “Hugh help your sister.”

Inside, you are getting an impromptu lesson in seaweed soup and how to use it in seafood chowder, from Tilda, while Ezra and Fergus shuttles back and forth from the strand with the last of the furniture, baskets and creates.

“I should help,” you look at them apologetically.

“You need to learn this recipe handed down from the seal people in my family. And you will have plenty of work once we leave. Rest, you are doing so for two.”

You look at her thunderstruck.

“Cousin Ezra confided in me, when he was looking for advice on what to do with, when your-”

“Colin.”

“Yes that,” she says as though finding something distasteful stuck to her shoe. You can't help but smile.

“Thank you,” you suddenly wrap your arms around the older woman, “Thank you for this. We can never truly repay you.”

“You can,” Tilda says, and she walks over to the large basket. Beside it is the large something. Tilda sets that down and unwraps it reverently.  

“Use this cradle for your babe.”

Your eyes are saucers, it is a tiny boat, encrusted with shells and carved with intricate design.

“Carved from the mast of a sunken ship. Been in my family for generations.”

“Tis beautiful, Tilda! I will use it with honor.”

You place it next to the fireplace, next to Ezra’s pelt awaiting it’s new home, and then turn back to Tilda, filling the cauldron with seaweed.

“Where is Cee?” you cry.

Once the bed was restrung and made up, and Patrick was satisfied with the state of the thatch, your family bid you farewell. It was tearful, but there were many reminders that you would have to go to the mainland weekly for supplies and that they were welcome on the island whenever they wished.

Soon, it is just you and Ezra. You smile, and you make your way into the cottage and close the door on a very long day. Settling into the two chairs by the fire. You put your feet up, thankfully, on a small stool. Then you open your eyes wide and sit up -

“Cee will come and go, my pearl. She is quite independent having spent the lion's share of her remembered life in the water.” 

“Oh,” you say, then add quietly. “I didn't know I was taking you from someone, Ezra.” 

“Oh Moonbeam,” Ezra takes your hand, looks around, “I will miss our settee, come-”

You stand, and he brings you onto his lap, tucking you into him. 

“Is she okay, does she prefer being in seal form?” 

“Yes, most Selkies, yearn for the sea. Though, this island feels different. Liminal. A place between. She may be of a mind to come and stay for a spell and then be on her way. So long as she has control over her coat, she will feel at ease.”

“And you?”

“I, a chuisle mo chroí (ah coo-shil mu cree), am at ease where ever you are and yearn but for one thing. You know what that is?”

You look down, playing with the buttons of his shirt-

“Me?” You look at him, bashfully.

“You,” he says. “And soon there will be a little one.”

“Will- what-”

“Someday the child will enter the sea and will not want to return to land. It is different for everyone. We, you will have to be ready. My own, do you think you can do this?”

Ezra watches you closely. You are struggling. Trying. 

“Not so little that as a pup or babe that they still need their mama. But no one can stop the march of time anymore than the ebb and flow of the sea.”

“What if I want us all to be together?”

Ezra looks you in the eye. You wait patiently.

“There is one thing, but you would need to want it with your whole being.” 

“What is that?” You say quickly.

“You would have to become a selkie yourself.”

PART 6

THANK YOU FOR READING! 💚

You can find more of my writing here MASTERLIST and if you would care to be tagged for this or any of my writing fill out my taglist form

[inmyfxith]

The Wolf and the Griffin.

Pairing: Ciri x OC!reader / Lambert x OC!reader

OC: Nareth of Ard Carraigh

Warnings: None (I think)

A/N: Sisters' thoughts // The Sisters of Ard Carraigh / Meet Again / Friends out of interest / The End of a Myth

Words: 2 458

Feeling alone when you are surrounded is a strange and unpleasant feeling. Yet that was what Cirilla felt only a few hours after her arrival in the witchers’ den of the Wolf School, Kaer Morhen. Witchers were not necessarily nice people, especially since they were mostly men, only men in the case of Geralt’s brothers. The girl was already trying to make a place for herself in the mutant sanctuary, with difficulty. Kaer Morhen was nothing like Cintra or the other shelters the young princess had seen.

Sitting on the bed she had chosen for herself, Cirilla placed her hands on the most precious object she still had, the only material memory she had left of her kingdom, of her grandmother. As she pulled it out, Cirilla dropped a small object that rolled to the floor, breaking the silence that had filled the room. Bending down to pick it up, she realized that it was the small wooden figurine Deirdre had given her when she and Geralt had left Cedrel Manor. Taking the piece in her hands, the Lion cub of Cintra stroked the carved face of the figurine with her fingertips, insisting on the more or less deep cut that decorated the left side. With nothing else to do, she lingered on the tiny details when suddenly the figure began to vibrate in Ciri’s hands. Surprised, the figure hit the ground and continued to move, spinning around and making a shrill humming noise before it calmed down. Not wishing to see this event take place again, Cirilla slipped the small wooden statuette under her pillow before resuming her exploration of Kaer Morhen.

In the main hall, the witchers of the Wolf School had just met to spend the winter. Drinks were flowing and laughter could be heard throughout the building. But as Geralt listened to his friend Lambert’s wild stories, something caught his attention as well as the attention of all the other witchers of the room. Someone had made the great door speak, and the men expected to see one of them walking confidently towards the only thing that could warm them, but instead, a woman with black hair and amber eyes stepped forward to meet them. Some armed themselves while others just looked on. Geralt was one of them, he had recognized the face of the young woman as soon as she entered. She was one of the sisters and he would bet his life on it. Stopping in front of them, a few meters away, the young woman remained silent for a moment, scrutinizing each of the witchers in front of her carefully, especially those she felt were ready to attack her. They would not strike the first blow, however.

“The wolf and the griffin are old friends, are they not Vesemir ?” Setting her gaze on the old witcher, the young woman drew her sword from its scabbard which caused several witchers to rise around her. With a deft and controlled gesture, she twirled her sword to prove her identity before putting it away and presenting herself in better conditions.

"My people call me Nareth, and you may do the same." Vesemir approached her, handing her a drink with that wary look only he had.

"Well, if you are indeed from where I think you are, you must have something very important to tell us."

The young woman suddenly froze, rolling her eyes for a moment before snapping back to reality.

"I'm here because I was called. I was in the area, chasing a mourntart, when I received a distress call. But it was probably a false alarm." Nareth calmly explained to Vesemir while keeping a distant tone. She had felt it deep down, one of her sisters had called for help, or so she thought. But what would the women of Ard Carraigh be doing in the wolves' refuge, it didn't make sense. She then cleared her mind to hear as audibly as possible the thoughts of her sisters to see if any of them were really in danger. Deirdre was the only one to answer.

[Deirdre] - It was Cirilla.

Entering her younger sister's memories, she saw through her eyes what had happened a few weeks earlier when the wizard and the little princess were trying to escape a snowstorm. Finally, she saw the wooden figurine that Deirdre had given to the girl.

Coming to her senses, she turned to Geralt, whom she had recognized through the visions.

"Where is Cirilla?" Nareth asked. She didn't know the history of the witcher, in fact, she had no idea who it really was. Although the bond with her sisters was strong and had been since birth, Nareth had once hoped that she would never again be parasitized by the thoughts of others. She was finally alone the day the mutation process began after the painful and intense ordeal of the herbs. Only three students had managed to complete their mutation and Nareth was miraculously one of them. Placing his glass on the table, Geralt let out a deep sigh and, with his eyebrows furrowed, he stood up to face the young woman. He asked her, looking protective, what she wanted.

"She called me. So I won't say it a third time..." taking out her sword again, she clenched the pommel so hard that it turned her knuckles white. As the tension rose in the room, the young princess finally made her entrance.

The atmosphere eased a little when Nareth could see that the little girl was in no danger so, by way of apology, she put her sword and all her weapons on one of the racks in the room. She then raised her hands on either side of her head as if to clear her name.

"You can never be too careful."

A heavy silence then filled the room and, to end the unpleasant scene, Lambert filled her glass with beer.

"Kaedwenian stout, I never knew wolves’ tastes were so good."

[Deirdre] - How is the girl?..

[Cedrel] - Nareth answers her before she gives me another fit!..

[Deidre] - I knew better than to let her go alone with that strange character...

"Deirdre shut up!" There was another silence in the room as the young witch once again lost control of her thoughts. At the end of the mutation, the phenomenon had been amplified. She was now permanently connected to the thoughts of her sisters without being able to have a single moment of respite. It was as if Cedrel, Seirsa, and Deirdre were constantly behind her back. Of course, she had looked for solutions, undergone a whole bunch of experiments to revoke this very special gift but nothing had ever worked. After a long sigh, Nareth felt compelled to explain why she started talking to herself from time to time.

After the incident with Eskel, Nareth had stayed a few more days in Kaer Morhen. Sitting on one of the high walls of the ruined fortress, the young woman was sharpening her sword while the northern wind blew the few strands of hair that were not tied up in her large bun. The height wasn't scary, at least to her. When her mind was too overwhelmed with the thoughts of her sisters, Nareth punished them with the adrenaline rush of falling several feet. Since the death of one of their own, the wolves had been in a foul mood, so the young woman had already organized her departure. There was still a mourntart on the loose who was probably planning an attack on a village. However, when Nareth saw Cirilla coming out into the main courtyard she whistled to get her attention and when the girl reached her height the witcher jumped from her perch to land face to face with her.

"I didn't get a chance to ask you why you called me." Cirilla frowned.

"I didn't call you. I've never even met you before." Making a few reels with her sword, the young woman suddenly stopped her action when she heard the princess's reply.

"When you left Cedrel Manor my sister gave you a small wooden figurine that looked like her. It was through her that I got your message..." Nareth then took out of one of her inner pockets a similar figurine except that this one had no scars on its face and that between its hands was carved a sword "...We all have one." Cirilla took the figure in her hands to examine it more closely, as Nareth had just settled on a log.

"Why aren't there any others?" The little girl asked, her eyebrows still furrowed.

"Others what?"

"Other women witcher."

"There must be, you know I don't know all the witchers. Besides, there aren't really any schools left. The few remaining witchers of the Griffin school underwent their mutation in the old ruins of Kaer Seren under the eyes of our mentor, Erland of Larvik." The fortress of Kaer Seren had been destroyed by the council of mages and old Erland guarded the ruins in the image of Vesemir with those of Kaer Morhen. Moreover, Nareth's relationship with her mentor was equal to that of Geralt and the old wolf.

"Does it hurt? The mutation I mean..."

Letting out a sigh, the witcher carefully placed her sword in her lap before resting her elbows on it. The mutation had been the most intense and painful sensation she had ever felt. It was a long and arduous process, not everyone survived it.

"It's not something for the weak. It is a process that is thought out, not everyone can go through it. I hope that in bringing you here Geralt doesn't have the idea of turning you into a mutant." As she finished her sentence, the white wolf appeared like a good protector. After exchanging a look, Nareth stood up, putting her sword away before leaning towards Ciri.

"Be careful, the world is changing and you must prepare for the worst..." She then straightened up before whistling at her horse and giving the witcher a frank smile, "...but you are in good hands."

Nareth then disappeared behind the great door of the Wolf School fortress, leaving Cirilla to begin her training with the witcher.

The first stages of Cirilla's training were very different from those of Nareth. The school's mentor, Erland of Larvik, followed the rules of chivalry to the letter and therefore all his "children" had to follow them as well. Following several of Geralt's brothers out of the fortress, Nareth was surprised to find the young princess in training. The witcher hadn't had the chance to train on such structures, the world needed protectors and old Erland's training wasn't as fun.

[Deirdre] - She'll hurt herself... Nareth you need to stop her before she gets wounded!

Turning a deaf ear to her sister's advice, Nareth watched Ciri's movements with great attention. It was obvious that she was trying hard to succeed. When Geralt appeared next to Vesemir and Nareth's comrade, Coën, everyone could feel the rush of bravery that took hold of Cirilla. But it was not enough to allow her to face the wooden structure in its entirety. The young woman first let Geralt approach the princess before elbowing Lambert, who couldn't help but gently scoff. Eventually, she approached the girl, holding out her hand to help her up.

"You've done well, you'll get there eventually!"

As Cirilla left with her protector to clean her freshly opened wounds, Nareth landed in the main room and poured herself a glass of beer under the amused gaze of Lambert and Coën. With the liquid still in her mouth, the young woman gave him a questioning look.

"What?" she asked after swallowing the contents of her glass.

"Nothing, I just think you drink a lot for someone of your… stature."

Frowning, Nareth placed her empty glass on the table before standing up to face the red-haired witcher. "And by 'of my stature' you obviously mean the fact that I'm a woman." Raising his hands in front of him as if to clear his name, Lambert's sly, provocative smile left no doubt as to his real intentions.

"You're the one who said it. I only hinted that if you don't stop drinking we'll be in trouble for the next meal." While pouring herself a fresh glass, the young woman made sure to get into the witcher's game.

"You're right Lambert, we'll finish the supplies quicker if there are two of us." With a cheerful air, she patted the seat next to her to invite Lambert to join her before pouring him a drink.

The alcohol had slowly managed to loosen tongues and ease tensions. After a slight verbal confrontation with Geralt, Cirilla had finally joined the others. The drinks flowed, the card games went on and so did the anecdotes.

"...a woman called for help because she saw a griffin flying over her village, we were near Velen if I'm not mistaken. So I go to the mountains to see if there's a nest somewhere. And there, looming over me, a ferocious creature half-cat half-bird..."

"Yes, a griffin, you’re speaking to witchers, you stupid bastard" Lambert cut her off. Letting out a grunt, Nareth threw the contents of her glass at him, starting one of the funniest and most ridiculous fights Cirilla and the other witchers had ever had the chance to witness, which did not have the expected conclusion.

The next morning, at dawn, when the sun had just begun to shine, Nareth was in the main courtyard sealing her horse. As she was about to mount him, a voice behind her stopped her.

"You are leaving us like a thief." Lambert, still a little red-faced, stood a few feet away from her.

"I remembered that a mourntart is always lurking around, I'd hate to think that she'd attacked a village and that children were missing. I came for Cirilla, she is safe with you."

Nareth replied while petting her horse so as not to be tempted to turn back. She then felt the witcher's warm, still boozy breath, on her neck.

"You can at least stay a little longer, you'll leave in the afternoon." Tightening her bridles, the young woman mounted her horse while tying her cloak.

"We are witchers Lambert, I have a contract and the sooner it is completed the sooner I can get back to you. Don't tell me you'll miss me."

The redhead's pride could not allow him to admit that he did. Without answering her, he let out a contemptuous sigh before returning inside.

[Deirdre] - Your horse is the only man you really need...

"Thank you...Deirdre... your interventions are always of incredible quality."

[Deirdre] - I will always be there to help.