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vasiktomis · 3 years

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Pomegranate, Chapter 17: Quiet Earth, Part I.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here!

Notes: Thanks all who have been keeping up with this! I'm so consistently floored by the amount of content creators we have in this fandom corner and the sheer level of workmanship that exists here. This is the first chapter of Pom that I'll be posting to tumblr, and I'm hoping to draw up a little sketch with each update. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! Big thank you to @shallow-gravy and @consumedkings as always for dealing with my stupidity and being a pair of top-notch angels, and also just like, everybody who takes time out of their day to engage with this? Y'all really sticking with ultra slow burn and I swear after some wicked angst in the next couple of chapters I'll finally be able to throw some well-deserved smut at you. WARNINGS: Forced conversion, descriptions of dissociation and derealisation, explicit language, sexual content, depictions of violence, guns, blood and gore. Canon-typical debauchery.

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“Don’t touch him!”

Mary May lunged with enough force for John to feel the wake of air sweep through him, even with how quickly she was snatched up and yanked back to her place. The soles of her tennis shoes squeaked against the floor as she was dragged to the far side of the room, unable to be trusted with providing audience to Nick’s Atonement.

A shame, really. It was nicer as a shared experience.

The Baptist rolled his jaw, off-setting some of the tension arising from the shrieks that the blonde flung at the back of his head. He righted himself, taking the tattoo gun from one of his faithful with a gracious nod, and turned his attention down to the pilot currently pinned to the floor. Without a word, he sank to his knees, straddling the man, keeping silent as he could just to listen out for any change in his demeanour. Fear. Grief. Defeat. Acceptance. A sign to prove his readiness.

Nick didn't flinch, breathing hard through his nose and watching with hateful eyes. John hovered an indicating hand over the man’s bare chest, bruised from the fight he’d put up against his capture, mentally mapping out placement. Then, he came in with the needle, beginning with the stem of an ’E’, right in the centre of Nick's sternum.

The pilot snorted, masking discomfort with indifference, turning a wince into a scoff. “Figures you don’t use stencils. I ain’t got a hope in hell of this turning out good, do I.”

That casual old Nick attitude. He missed it.

If only he’d let him do this 5 years ago. He wouldn’t have had to miss it.

John feigned offense. “Oh I’m sorry, Nick. Did you want me to do the rest in cursive? Add a feather? Infinity symbol?”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Talk about tonal dissonance. It’s not meant to be pretty.” He grumbled. “Might’ve gotten a little more practice if you’d-”

A yell from the rear entryway pulled John’s hand away from his canvas. More squeaking. More interruption. Jerome Jeffries getting hauled into the church, held under each arm by the pair of Chosen that John had sent looking for him.

The Baptist cast a look over his shoulder at them, content with the sight of Jerome adequately beaten and bloodied. “Ahh. Pastor. Try to run and hide? It’s no wonder your flock ran astray with a shepherd so quick to leave them to the wolves.”

Jerome ignored him. No reply. No eye contact. A crime John noted to make worthy of capital punishment in the New Eden. The Pastor was set down beside Mary May, who immediately began seeing to his injuries. Murmuring bubbled between them.

“Did you reach them?” The bartender asked. Must’ve been a negative, because the next thing she did was curse.

“The Deputy was calling when they caught me.”

And if she had half the spine to come and broker an agreement for her friends, she’d be inbound.

“Could you at least gag them? I’m trying to concentrate.” John ordered no one in particular, earning another scoff from Nick. “The faster we work, the less we’ll have to get through once she arrives. The quicker we can be out of this heinous town.”

“Stay away from her, shitbag.” The pilot ground out, this time unable to save face when John retaliated, pressing the gun just a little too hard, digging down through an extra few layers of skin.

“Nick Rye, you’re a married man.” John tutted playfully, resuming his work. “That sin of yours again. Take, take, take. Didn’t think the Deputy to be your type. Wouldn’t say you’re hers, either.”

Nick looked downright disgusted at the prospect. Less concerned for the state of his wife - which meant she'd been a likely getaway. “Always been so fuckin’ jealous.”

“Come again?”

“Think folks are stupid? Think I don’t know you?”

“You don't know me, period.” John bit back, skin on the back of his neck flushing between boiling and freezing.

“Anyone else givin’ you this much trouble’d be long dead by now. That shit on the radio? Reckon you’d be talkin’ like that if your family could hear you across the river?” Nick continued, averting his gaze when John shot him a particularly poisonous look. He didn’t, however, find it necessary to respond to such a veiled accusation.

At least until -

“Everybody knows you wanna stick it to her, John-”

As if he’d been awaiting the chance, John’s free hand shot to Nick’s jaw, aching in protest when he squeezed, not stopping until he could feel the man’s molars beneath his flesh. “That’s about enough from you.” He crooned.

John had his desires, yes. He’d accepted that much. Had he not been sworn to celibacy, he might have jumped at the opportunity to respond to Cora’s advances last night. That said, she was still an outsider, and while her Atonement made the prospect less dicey, he couldn’t consciously consider laying with the woman in real life.

No matter how torturous it had become to gear his thoughts toward anything else.

He could be content with just her company, without making any further advances on her. Last night had simply been a moment of weakness, and he’d prevailed by stepping away.

“If you’ll excuse me.” John switched off the little machine once he’d completed his piece and promptly stood to beckon for replacement parts. Mary May might have gotten away with an allergic reaction last time he’d attempted this, but considering he’d be slicing it out of her within the hour, he couldn’t see any reason for her to be complaining. The bartender had been a thorn in his side from the start. While Nick and his wife had once lent John their...whatever a sinner’s closest equivalent was to friendship, Mary May had always been trouble. Wore her heart on her sleeve and trusted no one she hadn’t grown up around. Bolshie. Almost fucking killed him, once.

John busied himself with needle transfers and a pleasant expression. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him.

Did she think what Nick proclaimed? That complete and utter lie?

How fucking crass. No, he did not want to ’stick it’ to Cora. At least, as far as anyone else was concerned. He was fond of her, and - while yes, he had encountered temptation - if one disregarded the cum-stained, stolen panties in his pocket, and the conjured fantasies, and the purely incidental erection he’d maintained after the Deputy stuck her tongue down his throat last night - there was simply no evidence to suggest to anyone else that he was even remotely tempted to break the rules.

Sex was the furthest thing from his mind. It was mere coincidence that today had just so happened to fall on a morning in which he’d needed to trim.

…

If, however, she were to decide that she wanted to continue what she’d attempted last night, then surely he couldn’t be to blame if he only failed to stop her. It wasn’t technically fornication if he didn’t initiate it. Nor was it considered intercourse if -

“Brother John.”

John jumped, heart stopping, whipping his head around to the Chosen standing at the door of the church.

“What?" He asked thickly.

“The Deputy’s arrived.”

Right on cue, the crackling of gunshots drifted in alongside the Chosen’s announcement.

“Tell everyone to hold their fire.” John ordered. “We have them outnumbered tenfold. The Deputy can’t be stupid enough to create a hostage situation. Direct her here, and peacefully.”

The Chosen’s throat bobbed, swallowing back outrage, and John squinted hard at him, trying to dispel the flicker of green light in the mist outside as it settled against the man’s temple.

“John, I don’t think-”

He never got a chance to act on that incoming insubordination.

Instead, he jerked, cut off by a sickening crack as a section of his skull blew out of his head. Red mist and liquified brain matter followed, splattering against the doorframe, and the Chosen slumped lifeless onto the front step.

John wasn’t so much shaken by the killing as he was irritated by everyone else’s apparent refusal to let today go according to plan. Maybe also the pile of brains and hair now sitting on his once-pristine red carpet. He’d made this easy for the woman: kill everyone he could round up, leave her with no one to claim duty to, and get this all over and done with. Have her home by mid-afternoon. Embark on a new chapter and achieve salvation. It was that simple.

Woe to him for trusting in her common sense.

“Fuck’s sake. Wrath begets more wrath.” He muttered, smoothing a hand over his chin. He didn’t have the patience for this any longer. “Fine. Sister -”

A woman stood from the pews as soon as John made eye contact, equally as unshaken by the scene mere feet away.

“Send out word: the Deputy wants to sacrifice her friends for the sake of a fight.” John punctuated the end of his sentence with a click as he returned his focus to jamming the needles into his tattoo gun. “Give her what she wants. Take her by force.”

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The smokescreen was beginning to clear, but despite the weight it was taking off her lungs, Cora would’ve preferred it remain just a little longer. At least until they’d cleared out the town. Had they been quicker, it might have lasted longer. Covered their approach to Fall’s End. Given them more cover to sneak about unseen.

The streets, while still hazy, were visible now. It wasn’t a difficult task watching Peggie silhouettes run from building to building in search of her team. Resistance members and civilians were either in the process of being rounded up, or littered the road and pavement, dead. The Ryes, Mary May, and Pastor Jerome were yet to be seen amongst either group.

Same went for Boomer.

Aside from the barking of orders from Chosen and faithful, there was little sound. Knowing how much of a fuss her dog had put up the last time he’d been caught by the Project struck Cora’s nerves. He was his own alarm, and he would not go peacefully.

Not hearing him was an indication of the worst.

Some part of her brain argued against the idea. Vouching that John wouldn’t have hurt the creature. That was her dog. He had to be an exception to the massacre, no matter how vicious he behaved.

She had to find him, and creeping through the rear entry of the Spread Eagle was the first point of call.

Luckily enough, the back door had yet to be boarded up. Peggies who rushed past covered windows hardly stopped to peek inside the place for fear of being tainted by the presence of alcohol. Sneaking in was simple enough, too, at least once Jess had picked the lock.

“I’m going to pretend that door was open.” The Deputy murmured her equivalent to praise, passing into the building.

Grace headed straight in after her, taking a left to search for any sign of Mary May while she took a right toward the stairs.

“You pretend the Cook’s head was already gone when we found him?” Jess whispered.

“Freak accident. You all saw it.”

“First floor’s clear.” Grace announced from the serving hatch in the kitchen, clearly unhappy about it.

“Right.” Cora acknowledged, “I’ll check up top.”

The second story was as dead-quiet as the first. Furniture had been knocked over in the hallway and bedrooms had been raided. None of it indicated anything good, but she still had to know.

Cora pushed open the door to her room, and while she held no expectation of what she’d find, her heart sank anyway.

It was empty.

Boomer was gone.

Only his makeshift collar and a tattered bandana remained atop the rug he’d been snoozing on that morning.

Her dog.

John had either taken him or killed him, just like the rest. He’d do the same to the rest of her team. She should’ve taken the Baptist’s offer before the latter had even become a possibility.

“No sign?” Grace affirmed once the Deputy slipped back down to the first floor. “My guess is either they’re in hiding, or John’s giving them special treatment. If they were dead he’d be parading them.”

Sharky and Hurk exchanged a frown when Cora offered only a nod, notably more meek than usual.

“Was he in there, darlin’?” Adelaide asked, a little too gently not to invite a sting to her eyes.

Cora felt her jaw clench. It was a different breed of nausea, trying to keep her composure under the scrutiny of the rest of the team. She managed to shake her head, and Adelaide’s hand found her shoulder.

“Could still be with the others, yet.” The woman offered.

“So how do we find them?” Jess asked.

Find John Seed, of course.

“Finding them’s one thing. Getting to them might be the harder part.” Cora began. “The smokescreen’s only getting thinner and there’s Peggies everywhere. It's grasslands from here to the hills. No way we can herd everyone across a field on-foot, safely. We’ve got to make sure they stay freed, first.”

“And?” Jess huffed. “We’re gonna kill some Peggies, right?”

The blonde considered that.

“We split up. Search the buildings for anyone who hasn’t been caught yet. Round them up and plant explosives as we go. With enough chaos, maybe we can have a shot at turning the tide in the short term.”

Sharky was practically trembling. “Explosives, like, everywhere?”

“Everywhere. The more damage, the better.” Cora replied. “Adelaide, Xander, pair up. Sharky and Hurk, same with you.”

“And us on range?” Jess grinned, trading a look with Grace who maintained absolute stoicism. “I’m so into that.”

“No.”

…

“Say what?”

“No more ranged attacks. I need you and Grace to head back to the van -”

Jess was advancing on her before she’d even finished her sentence.

“You’re pulling me outta the fight? The fuck gives?” The huntress loomed over the Deputy, incredulous. Cora made an effort to stay put, but Jess’s insistence managed to outweigh her stubbornness, forcing the blonde to compromise by leaning as far back as she could without falling.

“We can’t keep running on short-term wins.” Cora insisted. “We have to put our foot down. No more small assaults. No more hoping John gets demoralised enough that he hands himself over.”

Sharky frowned. “What’re you saying?”

She met his gaze, puffing out her chest, retaking her space. “I’m saying the Henbane Bridge is unmanned right now. If we get word to the County Jail, there’s no roadblock to stop them from helping us win this. John Seed’s throwing everything he can at us. I say we try for the same. I say we end it for good. We’re gonna take back Holland Valley. Today.”

“...You really like that dog, huh.”

“That too.”

Jess looked unconvinced. “So the two of us are running errands while the rest of you are holding the fort? Fucking bullshit.”

“I told you. No more range.” Cora bit back, jabbing a thumb toward Hurk and Sharky. “You’d rather send Boshaws and Drubmans to convince Tracey to send us her best people? No offence.”

“None taken, bitch.” Adelaide grumbled.

Grace exhaled, throwing away momentary hesitation. “We’ll be fast.”

Cora traded a nod with the sniper before looking to Jess once more.

Still unconvinced.

“They have cars with guns on them, remember?”

The corner of Jess’s mouth ticked. Temptation.

Mission accomplished.

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The tacky fucking carpet was the first thing she noticed, creeping along Main Street. Bliss petals had been sprinkled all over the road leading up to the church.

The carpet ended at the door. An invitation if she ever saw one. Boastful. Arrogant.

A pang of dread ached through Cora's bones, holding her in place while she drew her revolver. It could be an ambush. It probably was an ambush, but there was nothing she could feasibly do to avoid it. If the others were in there, then she couldn't wait around any longer.

She had to do this. At least hold out until Jess and Grace returned, with or without help.

She'd been running for long enough. All other options had been exhausted. At least John offered the least awful defeat.

Drawing close to the entrance, the Deputy pointedly avoided examining a dead crow that had been impaled upon the wall. She inhaled, holding the breath in her lungs, steadying her heart rate.

It was only freedom.

She opened the door, immediately training the gun out before her, following its guide into the room.

About a dozen Peggies dotted the space, leaning against walls, lining the pews - all angled at the pulpit, observing Nick on the floor. He stifled a cry while John sliced through the final remaining layers of skin binding the tattoo to his chest, peeling the word 'GREED' out of his flesh. Blood pooled on the floor around them, and the moment John had stepped away, the pilot was descended on with antiseptic and bandages.

The Deputy waited for nausea at the sight to take its course. It never did. She was all but numbed to the sight.

"Deputy, run!"

Mary May's voice cut through the silence, and the bartender lurched from her own spot on the ground. Guns raised all around the room, swinging around to aim for Cora.

”Hold!” John barked immediately, unconcerned when the Deputy shifted her aim to him. Instead, he busied himself with washing his sullied hands. “Hold your fire.”

His followers obeyed.

Cora, meanwhile, cocked the revolver in her grip. One foot edged into the room, and she glanced around for the Project’s captives before returning her gaze to John. All on the other side of the room. Pinned. Fuck.

“Hope County Sheriff’s Department.” She announced, staring the Baptist down, ignoring the grin that crept onto his face - like he found it fucking funny. “Weapons on the ground. Step away from the hostages.”

“Hostages?” John snorted. He gestured Pastor Jerome, Mary May, and Nick. “These are guests! This is their Atonement. This is your Atonement.”

“Drop the fucking weapons.”

John’s patience thinned. Quickly. “I’m not doing this with you.” He replied simply. “Not today.”

With his own look around the room, John inclined his head. An unspoken order to which everyone carrying a gun turned them on her allies.

“We both know you don’t have enough bullets for everyone. Nor do you have the time. So why don’t you put down my gun and surrender.”

“Don’t-” Mary May was cut off with the tap of steel against her temple. Warning.

John was right. She was outnumbered. There was no chance of getting any of them out with force alone.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Watched the fondness slip back onto John’s face like it had never left, and set the gun on the floor.

“That’s my girl.” John murmured. Then, he motioned. “Get her ready.”

Cora’s stomach dropped as two sets of arms coiled around hers, each pulling and pushing, prickling at her skin with unfamiliar, sickening touch. Biology told her to resist. Escape the sensation. The downward pulling.

“No, stop it.” Escaped her while she squirmed. “Get off. Stop touching me-”

“Her friends can’t be far. Find them.” The Baptist ordered, turning away toward the pulpit.

Cora’s knees hit the floor. There was no holding the repetition of protests, but even as she consciously elevated the volume of her voice, it grew quieter in her ears. Calculated attempts to jerk away and make an escape became automatic twitches.

One of John’s followers - a female - crept into view, fingers tugging at the top button on her uniform collar. John readied a tattoo gun over the woman’s shoulder, and the Deputy’s mind screamed alarm bells. Get out. Escape. Fight back. Regain control.

“I won’t hurt you, sister.”

This time, she sank, curling forward, angling herself away from the woman. Another attempt, and she wrenched away again, snarling. Then, the Peggies around her must have gotten tired of all the fuss, because the tear of cotton clawed at her ears. Ringing through her brain.

Her back felt cold all of a sudden.

Green material slipped down her arms, and at the sight of her own uniform pooling in shreds in her own lap, Cora ceased her thrashing. The shredded shirt was yanked from her belt and tossed aside, and she watched with growing resignation while John turned back around.

His gaze found hers. Then flickered downward, first to the compression bra, then a margin to the right. “Here I thought you’d be unmarked.” He commented, inspecting what was visible of the old ink on her lower ribs while he approached.

Hands pressed against Cora’s shoulders, and she drifted back until her shoulder blades hit the floor.

John continued to loom until he stood directly over her. He sank to his knees, expression softening with his descent until he was on all fours on top of her. He looked almost adoring, and she hated how it comforted her, just slightly. She hated how the hands had disappeared from her limbs, and yet she still made no further attempt to escape. He had every ounce of power now.

She didn’t know she’d started trembling until his free hand swept over her collarbones, mapping out her chest, calming the gooseflesh beading on her from the chill, or the fright, or perhaps just that this whole thing felt so humiliatingly exposing.

A blush swelled over John’s throat, maybe indicating some straying line of thought. He snapped out of it and settled to sit on her hips. “This looks familiar, doesn’t it?” He teased, hovering the tattoo gun right over the centre of her sternum.

“Dont.” Was all she could manage. Weak. Pleading. “I don’t want you to.”

“You have no idea how good you’re going to feel after this.” John cooed.

One of his fingers drifted along her jaw. An attempt at comforting her, but to no avail. He looked equal parts gentle and feral with excitement.

The machine buzzed, lowering pitch when the needles finally pressed into her flesh.

This was it.

She’d lost. There was no going back, anymore. No more normal, no more ridding herself of this family. They’d taken everything, and now they were claiming ownership over her, too.

The others were being hunted. It was only a matter of time. John was working too quickly. They’d be gone before the Cougars even crossed the river.

Cora’s nerves muted. Sound closed to just the rumble of blood in her ears. She receded into herself. Found a backseat in her mind, away from the sensory overload and the humiliation and her own failure while her body quietly continued: ”Dont, don’t, stop.”

She’d lost, and John wouldn’t stop. Not while he was branding the evidence of his victory into her flesh.

Defeat tasted worse than anticipated.

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Bullets whizzed overhead while Sharky and Hurk took cover beneath the window, watching helplessly as the aisle of potato chips and bar nuts was torn to shreds by the onslaught. Dorito dust filled the shop like mustard gas.

“Cuz, I think they found us!” Hurk barked, snapping an arm over his head in defence when a stray round ricocheted off the front counter.

“What gives you that impression?” Sharky hit back, hurriedly setting down his shotgun and shrugging his backpack to the floor.

“How many are there?”

“How about you check?”

A moment of quiet occurred while the cousins glared at each other, leaving their standoff to a battle of no blinking. Then the Peggies outside must’ve finished re-loading, because the back wall of the shop was suddenly being shot into swiss cheese.

They were okay. Everything was cool. Addie and Xander had taken their share of explosives and gone the quiet route. Grace and Jess were gone. Shorty had disappeared into the church, and while he couldn't count the best, Sharky was pretty confident that John had caught her.

Could they have kept on looking for survivors and breaking out captives? Sure - but why do that when they could kill, like 40 birds with one stone and beeline for the gas station? It was conveniently across the road from the church, empty of any and all life barring the dormant tanks underground. An explosion that big was sure to fuck up like a good portion of Main Street. Not even the Chosen would be able to resist checking it out.

Disconnecting the safety switches had been easy. He’d been arrested for doing it like 5 times already. Cops, Peggies; it didn’t matter - Sharky knew what he was doing, and without the giant swinging dick of the law hanging over him, the man was on a mission. Cultists shooting at him was fine. He was used to that.

Threat of death or no, he wasn’t giving up the chance to see this place blow sky high.

“We’ll be outta here any second, Hurky.” Sharky assured. “Just gotta sprinkle a little C-4 around the place and we’ll be gone before it even goes off.”

Hurk was sweating. A lot. He was accustomed to being shot at, but normally, he had more than just Sharky to get him out of a tight spot. “Alright, bro. Gimme some. Many hands and what have you.”

“Fuck yeah. First step, toss some at the tanker outside. We wanna get the place as fiery as possible up here to wake up the big boys underground, and-”

Sharky stopped in his tracks, eyeing the backpack he’d just been in the process of unzipping.

“-uhh.”

“Uhh?”

“Hurky, can I be real with you?”

“Is now the best time for a deep and meaningful?” Hurk hissed, crawling toward him nonetheless.

The arsonist stuck his hand down the pack, rifling through fluff and mesh. “I, uh, I think I brought the wrong bag. And by think I mean know without a shadow of a doubt.”

Hurk watched as his cousin tugged the green, furry headpiece of a dragon out into the open.

“You brought-...”

“I brought my fursuit.”

“Not the C-4?”

“Not the C-4.”

“Okay, bro. That's fine. I'm not mad. Human error. Not even a little bit?”

Sharky checked again, just for good measure. “Nope...so, uhm...you got a match?”

Hurk ran a hank through his hair. “Not to poo poo your ideas, but that probably ain’t the best move.”

So just like that, they were fucked.

Jess and Grace still hadn’t come back. The others were nowhere to be seen. Shorty was holed up in that church, and he and Hurk were about to be rounded up by born-again virgins.

Shit, if that were the case -

“Well, if this is gonna be the last opportunity.” Sharky grunted, tugging the suit out and unzipping the back. “May as well enjoy our last minutes of freedom, huh?”

Hurk took the cue, creeping across the destroyed shop floor and reaching for a popped bag of pretzels. He sat back against the wall, leaning against the rocket launcher he’d propped up against the corner.

“Man.” The brunette sighed, staring at the floor. “If only we had some other kind of ranged, explosive device.”

“No shit.” Sharky agreed. “Some high velocity shit would fix this.”

They exchanged a sympathetic look once the arsonist had zipped himself up and crept over and sit beside his cousin, both leaning on either side of the RPG.

Hurk held out the bag.

“Pretzel?”

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“Was that so bad?” John asked, placing the tattoo gun aside and framing the Deputy’s marked chest. ’WRATH', in true black, beading with blood. The skin surrounding the text was mottled and inflamed. Excess ink covered the area in patches, gathering in the dip of her cleavage, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

All that sin, already leaking out through the exit he’d made for her.

Gorgeous.

Cora didn’t respond. That was fine. Shock was normal. She’d thank him once this was all over. For now, she just trembled, lock jawed, dissociated gaze searching what John had thought was him until he sat up. No, instead she was watching the ceiling.

John flashed a smile, blocking out a tiny streak of dread at the sight of the woman so vacant. Sweeping a lock of stained hair over her shoulder, he smoothed his fingers past her neck, attempting to gently angle her focus back to him. “Hey. You can come back now. We’re all done.”

You're finally on the other side. React to it. React to me. Look at me-

The boom came first, hollow and deep, and John felt the floor beneath him rumble. Chandeliers and decorations wobbled from the disturbance. Several of his followers shot from their seats, immediately abandoning the Resistance leaders they’d guarded in favour of pacing back and forth, trying to get a look at whatever was happening outside.

“Is this it?”

“Is it the Collapse?”

“It’s time?”

“John, is it the Collapse?”

The panic escalated quickly, forcing the Baptist to break his attention away from the empty woman below him and rein in the flock.

“Calm down.” He exclaimed, “It’s not the Collapse. It’s probably just-”

Another boom. Almost deafeningly loud.

This time, the whole church shook. Windows shattered in their creaking panes and smashed to the floor while pews squealed heavily in protest.

Contrary to his assertion, John dove down, covering the Deputy with his body. Holy shit, was it the Collapse?

The tremor must have been enough to snap Cora out of her trance, because a muffled “Get your tits out of my face.” buzzed against John’s chest.

Tragically, however, the Baptist never got the opportunity to reply to her. Had it not been for the fucking tennis shoe colliding with the side of his skull, he imagined he’d have something very clever to say. Alas, pain shot through his head and he jerked to the side, fighting against the blow to stay put. A snarl from Mary May, his apparent attacker, sounded in retaliation. She dove into him, knee driving into his ribs, throwing him off of the Deputy.

His thoughts left him for the briefest moment, overtaken by ensuing gunshots and shouts and the shrieks of the bartender as she was clawed away from him. Her hand shot forward right as she was yanked up, intended as a punch. It didn’t land, and John couldn’t help but shoot her a smirk for her failure.

“Deputy, gun!”

Nevermind. It wasn’t a punch after all. Mary May had been pointing over his shoulder at the revolver that had been surrendered on the floor. His revolver. The same one Cora was now scrambling toward.

No.

John lurched, heart leaping into his throat.

Not now. Not after he’d won. Not when they were so close.

His hand found the leg of Cora’s pants, wrenching, pulling her away from the weapon, and she kicked against him. Her finger tips slid against the barrel of the revolver, tugging it into her palm.

God wouldn’t fucking undo his victory.

John snarled, catching the Deputy’s wrist when she tried to aim - at him no less. Without her own recovery time achieved, he was able to wrestle the weapon from her easily enough, flattening her struggling body beneath his just long enough to hook an arm around her waist. He twisted around, holding the woman’s back against his belly. Her squirming ceased with the press of the muzzle against her head, and the moment her allies had taken notice of the change, everything went still.

Finally.

A little civility.

Several of John’s followers lay on the floor, either dead or close to it. Only a half-dozen remained, though the pair of Chosen had survived and placed themselves closest to their leader.

Pastor Jerome had procured a handgun from within his own bible - something that pulled a breathless laugh out of John as he surveyed the others. Nick hadn’t been able to arm himself, but he’d still tackled one of the faithful to the ground. His knuckles were bloodied. A familiar sight. Mary May had wrestled a gun of her own away from the woman who’d seized her. She aimed it shakily at John.

Armed but outnumbered, outgunned, and now, they were in check.

They never learned, did they?

“The way you people behave, you’d think salvation was a bad thing.” John tittered. “Right. Now, let’s try this again. Atonement, or damnation.” To punctuate his meaning, he tapped the muzzle against Cora’s head. She grunted in protest, and he ignored her. Of course it was a bluff. No one else knew that but him, though. It was too risky a move for the Resistance to let him do away with the one person that banded their factions.

She was their leader. They couldn’t lose her.

John looked around the room once more, locking eyes with Jerome first - then Mary May. “Are we going to behave?”

The answer was immediate and clear: a gunshot cracking through the Baptist’s ears and the flash of a blast spilling from Mary May’s weapon. Cora’s elbow driving into his stomach and the reaction time of his Chosen snapping to attention, covering him, already hauling John out of the church and onto the street.

Fuck no, he wasn't leaving without his prize.

"GRAB HER!" John howled, struggling against the attempts to get him to safety. "Leave the rest!"

It was a reluctant effort, but the Deputy was yanked along as well, shoved into Johns arms on his repeated orders, with me, with me.

“Mary May, what the fuck!” The Deputy roared over her shoulder.

“Sorry Deputy! I missed!”

Missed?

“You sure about that? Jesus fucking Christ!”

More shots sounded, but only the noise pursued them from the building. It wasn’t until John had shoved Cora into the back of the waiting truck that he realised how warm his hand had gotten. Wet, too.

“Get to the ranch!” One of the Chosen snarled up front, casting a look back at the Baptist while the vehicle took off, watching as he peeled away from the blonde to inspect himself.

Blood.

He was bleeding. But where from? Barring the sting of his scabs and that kick to the head, nothing hurt. There were no wounds hiding under his sleeves or -

A hiss sounded from the Deputy beside him, curling in on herself.

Shit.

She hadn’t elbowed him.

“Cora-” John scrambled for her. "Cora, let me see."

“Told you not to call me that.” The Deputy grit out, kicking at him until she’d well and truly jammed herself into the corner of the seat and the car door. Her left hand gripped her right forearm, just below the elbow and to no avail. Crimson coated the skin on her side, encasing her arm completely and seeping through her fingertips.

She was bleeding. Not heavily, but steadily.

”Deputy.” John bit back, advancing. “You’re hurt. Let me help-”

Just like that, the kicking resumed. “Don’t touch me-DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME-”

“For once in your fucking life, just relax!”

Only incomprehensible snarling came in response.

John rolled his jaw, brimming with as much irritation as he was adrenaline. The Resistance had made their choice. Regretful, but final. He’d gotten what he came for, and he wasn’t intending on losing her just because she was too stubborn to accept help.

He glanced at the revolver still in his grip. Then back at Cora, rotating the grip toward her. A threat. “Are you going to let me help, or am I going to have to calm you down?”

“Don’t you dare.” Her words came hoarse. She gave scowling a red hot go, but without the rationale to deny him, the Deputy lacked conviction. She exhaled. “Fuck it. We've done this enough already. You get ten minutes. Then you’re under arrest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her cheek twitched. A weak chuckle. The slightest flash of acknowledgement as she let him press his weight over her forearm. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t pulsing; nor was there a puncture wound. A gouged strip had been carved into her flesh where the bullet had grazed, but nothing vital seemed to have been struck.

“That - you can keep saying.”

"You're a flirt when you're in shock, Deputy." Had John not been too busy regulating about a dozen other emotions, he might have flushed at her words. For a moment, he just sat there, basking in the borderline friendliness on her face. Then, it occurred to him that they were among watchful company, and he cleared his throat, returning to his task.

Minutes passed. No more words were exchanged. Not until they’d passed the Rye and Son’s sign.

The Chosen in the front passenger’s seat looked over his shoulder, dismissing another over the radio before regarding the Baptist. “The Resistance isn’t making ground. The faithful are still rounding up stragglers, and we’ve taken casualties, but numbers are looking strong. Medic will meet you at the ranch, John. We can deliver our newest sister to the Gate while you recover.”

John inclined his head. “Much obliged. We need this one to stay with us until she’s completed her vows. She can’t be trusted unsupervised, but I won’t put the responsibility of containing her back on our people again.” He looked to Cora, then. Her face had run pale and she’d gone clammy, but she remained upright. Just...woozy. Pacified, for now.

He’d got what he came for. Fuck the rest.

“I have something to say.” The blonde announced, swaying against John’s arm. “I know why Mary May shot me.”

“This another one of your jokes?” John deadpanned.

“This one’s funny, I swear.”

“...go on, then.”

“It’s because I never tip.”

For a moment, Cora looked very satisfied with herself. Then, she retched, slumping forward into the Baptist’s lap when he instinctually jolted out of the potential line of fire. He hurried to steady her, keeping tight hold over her wound, and grimaced while the noise escaped her a second time.

Thank God nothing came out; his shoes would’ve been the first to know about it.

The Deputy didn’t sit back up.

That was fine. So long as she wasn’t dead. So long as she wasn’t fighting back.

“It’s all the sin escaping you.” John explained, off-handed, when a complaining grunt sounded below. “Evil being expelled from your body. You’ll feel better soon.”

“Pretty sure it’s my blood pressure, actually. Soon as I’m good again, you’re history.”

When one disregarded the fact that she’d had a gun trained on him earlier - and the blood drying uncomfortably on his clothes - and the persistent pounding of a headache from Mary May’s heel, this was almost pleasant. The quiet roads. The Deputy, all but atoned with her head on his thigh. Not fighting back. Conceding defeat. Peaceful.

He got what he came for.

He’d won.

He was saved.

Passing his thumb over Cora’s ribs, John’s attention was pulled back to the old ink peeking out from beneath the band of her top. Text, blurred and flattened enough to be years old, and too obscured to decipher.

“Thought I’d be your first.” The brunette murmured.

“Jealous?”

Yes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What’s it say?”

“‘The Mountains Are Calling’.”

A sickening wave of dread passed over the Baptist. The rock forming in his throat, icy and bitter and seizing him against any reply.

The mountains are calling.

Jacob. Joseph. The Trials. Atonement wasn’t the final step. Handing her over to his brothers was the final step.

He got what he came for, but the woman in his arms wasn’t the trophy intended for him.

He was saved. He’d redeemed himself. He’d completed his task and Joseph would permit him beyond the gates. That was all he was supposed to do. That was enough.

That had to be enough.

“‘And I Must Go’.” John completed quietly.

Cora tilted her head a little, not quite looking at him - almost like she was trying not to. “You know John Muir.”

“Not enough to warrant a photo on the bedside table.”

“Shut up.”

There was nothing convincing about the chuckle he offered. He was too busy observing her, studying the side of her face. Committing her to memory as if he hadn’t spent years acquainting himself with every spot and micro-expression.

“Maybe working for you will be bearable.” She murmured, and John’s heart only sank further. "If I don't manage to arrest you."

The mountains are calling.

She still had no idea that all the promises he’d made her had been fabricated. That she wouldn’t be staying. That he’d lied to her.

The mountains were calling. In a few days time, she’d know it. She’d despise him. She’d be taken off his hands and he’d assume his regular duties once again.

He’d saved both of them.

Cora’s thumb absently grazed back and forth on his knee. Ignorant. “Can I ask something?”

It took everything in him not to mirror the action against her skin.

“Of course.”

“Can I start next Monday?”

"What happened to you being such a workaholic?"

"To be honest with you, I'm really fucking tired."

She’d be incredible. Jacob would love her. Joseph would be proud. John had accomplished something near-impossible for his family, and even if the Deputy hated him - even if she forgot him entirely, he was content with the knowledge that he’d have brought her to salvation.

Even if they never saw each other again, he’d know that she’d passed through the gates. That she’d climb to the surface once the world had been scorched clean. She’d rebuild, and marry, and have children, and he’d do the same.

Hopeful anticipation and the agony of longing had never felt so similar before.

“Fine.” John smiled, giving in, sliding his fingers up her arm and coaxing a stray lock of hair out of her face. There were no promises he’d be able to do it again after this. “But on one condition.”

“What?”

“Spend those days with me.”

Cora stirred, angling to peer up at him out of the corner of her eye. She smiled crookedly.

“Deal.”

#far cry 5 #john seed #cora stammos #far cry 5 fanfic #far cry 5 oc #john seed x female deputy #all hail cora's big fucking muscles #no beta we die like men

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orsuliya · 3 years

Text

Dear General, just talk to your wife!

Let it be said: any male hero who interferes in his partner’s reproductive ability without her permission and/or knowledge is usually immediately cancelled in my eyes. That is certainly the case for any piece of media set in modern times. Fantasy/historical heroes get a bit of leeway depending on the cultural context, although not always. But the thing is, just as there are no blanket excuses, there are also no blanket condemnations. And you know what?

I do have to give Xiao Qi a get-out-of-immediate-cancellation card in this case! But not before examining his motivations and all mitigating circumstances. To be clear, I’m up to episode 37 at the moment.

So prepare yourself for Five Reasons Xiao Qi Is Very Much Not Cancelled (But He Certainly Deserves A Very Stern Talking To And Then Maybe A Hug).

To recap: Xiao Qi was told that Awu’s health is fragile and while she is able to get pregnant, any pregnancy is very risky and a considerable danger to her life. Upon hearing this he is visibly moved; three months later, when Awu comes back from the temple, there is a re-do wedding at the Yuzhang Manor, during which Xiao Qi announces that Wang Xuan is going to be the only woman in his life. At some point – either at the temple or after the wedding – Awu starts taking medicine prescribed by the Imperial Physician. The medicine, as Auntie Xu later discovers, is actually a tonic, which can be used to prevent conception. Eventually, though, after a year or two of continuous use, it will render a woman infertile for life. As of episode 37 (41 if I choose to trust the raws) Awu does not know what is going on.

And now onto the list!

1. The man is probably the most panicked he has ever been in his life and his mental state is not that great at the moment.

The first thing to remember is that this whole ‘let’s make Awu infertile’ decision is not taken in a void. It is not a case of an isolated event; the choice comes at an end of a veritable Trauma Conga Line. The exact timeline is very muddled, but in the last few months (up to a year) Awu has been: kidnapped, rescued, attacked by assasins, forced to deal with a rebelling city and then a siege, sent straight into a murderous conspiracy and then recruited to deal with a coup… and only then she was put in the very centre of a second coup courtesy of Daddy Wang. Which caused her to lose her child and her mother on the same day. And let’s not forget all the broken illusions about her family and her first love. That’s a lot to deal with and she is pure steel with a spine of titanium, there is no doubt as to that. But she is not the only one who’s had a really hard year.

From the kidnapping onwards Xiao Qi has been with Awu on this road; more often that not away from her physically, true, but from the moment he declared her his wife who will share his life and death…? He’s been in 100%. And being the strong, dependable, ride or die guy has taken its toll, one way or another.

It is quite noticeable that with every Big Damn Heroes moment he pulls off he gets more and more affected. The bridge rescue and its aftermath? Cool as a cucumber; the guilt and responsibility is certainly there, no fear though. Breaking of Huizhou siege? He’s proud as hell of her accomplishments, but he really came at the very last moment – she was getting ready to be killed rather than taken hostage. And there is this noticeable undertone of relief there. The Red Wedding? By then he is panicking. Hard. Which he readily admits, so it’s not pure conjecture. This man, who has never been afraid of attacking armies and not really afraid of death either, is scared as f***. Mind you, it’s not like he’s ever had anyone to be really scared for before; his soldiers are a different case altogether. And this time he was late, which makes for a really fertile soil for various ‘what-ifs’ during those two days when Awu is unconscious. He was late despite basically pulling off a miracle and risking entering the capital with only 10 000 troops.

And then and only then Daddy Wang pulls out all the stops. Two days of watching his unconscious wife is nothing compared to what happens then. First she runs into the middle of opposing forces, completely disregarding any danger to herself. For him (and her father, but that is beside the point)! I am sure that Song Huaien relayed her words to Xiao Qi once the dust settled. Then... Princess Jinmin dies and Awu starts bleeding.

After… After he claims responsibility for Princess Jinmin’s death. There is no doubt he is feeling doubly, triply responsible for the miscarriage. He can’t really help his wife. And he is grieving for their child. Not only for Awu’s sake, but for his own too.

It all culminates with the Imperial Physician telling Xiao Qi that there is another battle to be fought, one which Awu will probably enter with minimal hesitation and in which he is not going to be able to pull a Big Damn Heroes rescue. So in that moment he clutches at his heart… And – at least I think that’s the moment - takes a split-second decision: NOT AGAIN. Everything after that? He’s only holding to a chosen course.

2. He is feeling guilty as all hell and is overcompensating hard.

Xiao Qi is the epitome of a hyper-responsible hero. And not in the ‘Woe is me, everything is my fault!’ way that brooding heroes tend to veer to. No empty anguish or dramatic self-flagellation there! He is very matter of fact about both his responsibility and perceived guilt. Soldiers die under his command? He will honour their memory and take care of their families. Awu gets kidnapped by his personal enemy? He will admit his guilt without any excuses and offer recompense. Princess Jinmin becomes a victim of a stand-off that he did not even provoke? He will take the blame and then redeem himself by swearing an oath that he will not fail to protect Awu. And he takes his oaths very, very seriously, otherwise the Ma family would have a Really Big Problem.

All that responsibility comes from both his own character and the force of habit. Nobody ever worries about me, he says. To his soldiers he is the strong, infallible one and so he keeps this facade intact despite knowing it’s a load of bull.

So this hyper-responsible man has unwittingly sent his wife into danger, into battle (!) three times already (kidnapping, rebellion in Huizhou, Zilu’s coup) and was part of the reason she entered the fourth one. And while she has acquitted herself brilliantly every time, she paid a very steep price for saving him/the Empire. In his mind, he owes it to her and to Princess Jinmin for it to never ever happen again. And so he is not going to send her into the battle of childbirth for anything under the sun! The thing is, Awu is brave as hell and would enter it willingly in a blink of an eye. So he is arranging things so that she can never do that in the first place.

3. Xiao Qi is trying to spare Awu from mental and emotional anguish. It’s a pattern and one wildly spiraling out of control.

It’s really, really starting to show that Xiao Qi is used to being regarded as the infallible one, the one who must always find a solution and save as many people as he can. And while it is not a problem in Ningshuo, when he needs to tell Awu the truth about her father (and still he hesitates!), it tends to come through quite strongly in moments of stress and/or danger. Which is understandable, I think. In Ningshuo the stakes are not as high, everybody is safe and they are in the middle of Xiao Qi’s fortress, the very centre of his power. If there is any place he feels safe and at home, it’s right there. The capital is a wholly different kettle of fish; even on his first visit Xiao Qi is – quite reasonably – wary and on guard. For him the capital is behind enemy lines. So he reverts to his Infallible General mindset more and more: he keeps telling Awu things, but not all of them (money) and not always immediately (Hulans asking for a bride). Which is really stupid of him since Awu is in many areas just as smart - if not smarter - than him.

It’s not only the Infallible General mindset, though. In fact, that is the least of the problems there. By this point the panic is really setting in and so is the guilt. There is one more thing, though. Xiao Qi has this tendency towards self-deprecation. He does not wallow in it, but the undercurrent of his perceived social inferiority emerges from time to time, moreso in the capital. And it does factor in his behaviour; I sense that he has this need to keep deserving her. Coupled with devotion, it pushes him into a very touching, but also potentially dangerous single-mindedness.

Saving Daddy Wang by kneeling all night long clearly shows that Xiao Qi will stop at nothing to spare Awu’s heart, life and health. Personal pride? Enmity towards Daddy Wang? Political expedience? Disregarded completely. So what’s a year or two of lying if it means Awu lives? He’s set himself a Goal: protect Awu, just as he promised before Princess Jinmin’s grave. And it’s really been blinding him since.

Notice that he did not tell her about saving Daddy Wang either. She had to find out from His Imperial Spudness! True, it all worked out fine then, but whatever his reasons, he still did not tell her. And yes, I get that his reasons were really noble, but! But it is still a pattern, one that I hope she will break him out of rather sooner than later.

4. He is making a great sacrifice too; hear me out! And he does not leave himself an out.

This is the kind of argument that launches a flaming discussion, so please, be gentle. Anyway, we are not going to speak of whether any man has the right to make unilateral decisions about his wife’s body, that’s neither here nor there in this case, since it does not really enter into consideration in the drama itself.

What is clearly very important in the drama is the idea of family lines. The Wang and Xie families are all about this idea of legacy and bloodlines. Bloodlines are Important: propagating the bloodline is Wang Su’s main duty and both families fight over whose blood will sit on the throne. This clan mentality is clearly a Very Serious Business. Admittedly, Xiao Qi is an outsider to the clan-based society of upper classes. But even though his primary social group consists of his brothers-in-arms, he is very acutely attuned to the idea of family being the most important thing. It shows in many aspects of his life: in the care he gives to his soldiers’ families, in the consideration he gives Awu when she encounters another heartbreaking truth about her relatives and in the way he seems to take for granted that she will not stop caring for Daddy Wang no matter what. Also, he clearly likes kids, the mysterious shadow child gave us this much.

So it is not out of the realm of possibility that he would really like to have a child of his own. And why wouldn’t he? Awu may have trouble bearing him children, but there is nothing stopping him from taking a concubine or a dozen for this very purpose. Any other man in this drama would have (maybe except Zilu…?). And the society would not judge him, especially if the truth about Awu’s condition came out. It really is not a monogamistic society. Moreover, since Daddy Wang is not in the picture any more, nobody can even try to force Xiao Qi to keep to one bed (or poison his concubine…), not with his current position and power.

And what is the very first thing he does after Awu comes home? He declares – in public and with great pomp! - that Awu will be his only woman, thus staking his honor and reputation on all his children being hers. Which with the tonic in play means that there will be no children. It is a decision he takes very deliberately and in direct response to the previous events and the Wangs’ fall from grace. In fact, I wager this whole monogamy clause is a way not only to quell the rumours and stop any scheming families in their tracks, but also to keep things fair as much as it is even possible. Awu will not have children, well, neither will he.

5. He is setting himself up and preemptively hogging all the guilt and blame.

The short yet very poignant exchange with Pang Gui in episode 37 makes it clear that Xiao Qi knows quite well he is going to be found out sooner or later. Sure, he would rather that Pang Gui kept mum about everything, but in reality he leaves it wholly up to his judgment. Which tells me that Xiao Qi is not willing to ‘kill’ for this secret. In fact, it might suit his plans if it were to come out… though not at the moment. Maybe after the requisite year or two, once Awu is no longer in any danger. Relying on what we know about his character, I think he is wholly prepared for the truth to eventually come out and then to take all the blame. And I mean ALL the blame. As in: Awu will have no reason to blame herself for her fragile health and thus inability to bear children, if it’s actually Xiao Qi’s fault. He will have gotten her infertile, so her actual ability to give birth safely will be immaterial. She will put all her anger on him and not on herself, and anger he can take, it’s her getting quiet that he can’t cope with. And to hell with what it does to their marriage, she will be alive. Is it stupid, stupid thinking? Sure. But quite probable when you’re dealing with a man this hyper-responsible and clearly unused to family dynamics.

And that’s that. Do I think he is being a single-minded fool? Sure. The man is not perfect after all! Does he need to talk to Awu? Of course, but I get where his unwillingness to do just that comes from. Is it going to bite him in the ass really, really hard? Oooooh, is it! But Xiao Qi is not cancelled and if Awu forgives him, then so should we all.

#this rant may be long and unneeded #but so very satisfying #XIAO QI IS VERY MUCH NOT CANCELLED #why? because I say so #feel free to disagree #the rebel princess #monarch industry #rebel princess meta

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hologramcowboy · 2 years

Note

While Danneel could have health issues, I kind of doubt she does. Given her victim complex I’m sure we would have heard from her about it by now if she did. She loves to talk about being bullied, how hard being a stay at home mom with a nanny is, health issues would just be the cherry on top of her ‘woe is me’ sundae. Plus, she could use them as a reason as to why she doesn’t work instead of admitting she can’t act and no one likes her enough to regularly employ her. If anything, her speech patterns remind me of Jessica Simpson, whose old speech patterns and slight slur is a result of years of alcohol and pill abuse. It’s a bit of an uncomfortable topic to tackle because I don’t want to speculate too much on someone’s life without enough evidence, but unless she has health issues that stem from something not PR friendly, I can’t imagine her not capitalizing on them.

You make a valid point, hiding her health issues would go against her usual ammo. I still think she does have major thyroid issues or something chronic. One reason for not revealing them could be the fact that Actors are supposed to be in excellent health and full of energy, this is why you never tell your Agent about mental health or physical issues unless they are the kind that are easy to spot, place you in a certain category or might interfere with your work.

Actors stay away from being labeled as anything because having that might mean not getting most of the jobs and being placed in a limited category. Same goes for addictions and such. This doesn't mean that some celebrities don't use their mental or physical issues to their advantage or to benefit society, some do but it's usually after achieving a stable career or having very credible backgrounds. So it takes proving you are a reliable actor who can bring in audiences first to be able to play on certain things without getting limited.

As for labels, those thread into an Actor's branding. So, for example,if an actress is BIPOC you will see the promotes herself as such in everything that's because it creates a certain profile that is in line with the roles she is right for. Again, it's all about what that person's essence is and how they want to be seen by casting. But labels that may indicate productions risks, for example an addict who might turn up high on set and cause issues or someone with a particular health issue that affects their work, a person with mental health issues so serious they might impact their demeanor on set/ during auditions/ meetings with execs, those are all possible risks and therefore less likes to be chosen. Wow, that was a long explanation but hopefully I managed to explain why an Actress may choose to omit a certain physical/mental health issues and why Agents (when they are in the know) cover up these issues.

#anti danneel #anti elta graul #anti danneel ackles #anti elta

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qvid-pro-qvo · 4 years

Text

a southern education

rafael barba x female!reader. a series of moments during cases leads barba to learn a common turn of phrase from you, a detective on the squad.

word count: 4559

rating: teen, for endless teasing and the kind of contempt only the south can offer (canon-typical mentions of rape and violence, but frankly a whole lot of fluff, too, as well as an additional warning for the author knowing nothing about how law work besides what law and order tells me).

It was like a different world, when you and Rollins got to chatting.

It was the way your accents got thicker, the way your laughter seemed to echo. There was always an inside joke, always a tease before you got paired off with Fin and Rollins inevitably found Sonny once again, words dripping with something sugary sweet as the two of you parted ways. The others didn’t get it, what you two would get so riled up about, but with you and her, it was like two peas in a pod.

It was just the South in the two of you. And yes, the capital ‘S’ was justified.

The South. Muggy nights and wretched summers and air thick with humidity and the mosquitoes that didn’t even give you a chance. Cicadas yelling as soon as the sun set and sitting out on porches drinking your beer or tooth-achingly sweet tea. Tipping hats and holding doors open and taking your sweet time. It made New York feel that much smaller, just two Southern girls trying to make it.

There were the shitty parts, too. There were the parts that make you and Rollins come to New York in the first place – the realization that women would never make it like men do, the suffocation of trying to fit into a box not made for you. So New York was far from home, but for good reason, and sometimes all of the South you need was hearing Rollins say y’all just as much as you.

Like now, for instance.

The newest case was a weird one, for sure, but at the center of it all was a young boy in the crossfire. Caught between his adoptive parents and the criminal enterprises his biological father was involved with. The squad was waiting for some food, and you, Barba, Carisi, and Amanda were all sitting around the wooden table, using the chairs to move from section of evidence to section of evidence.

“Poor guy just wanted a good home,” you said, looking at one of the pictures of him. It was a sweet photo, and you sighed before pushing the folder away from you. You moved to stand from the table. “Bless his heart.”

It came out of you without thinking, your voice somber, solemn. Rollins just nodded, because she got the gist, but Carisi just turned to look at you like you just grew devil’s horns.

“What does that mean?”

You looked up from the picture and met Carisi’s eyes. His brows were furrowed, and there seemed to be something tense in his shoulders.

“What do you mean?” you asked, looking amongst them. Barba was raising his brow, but his gaze was fixated on his notepad, his pen in his fingers as he scribbled something. “It’s just a saying.”

“Well, because Amanda says it to me sometimes,” Carisi said, and there was a twist to his lips, one you wanted to chuckle at. He looked so… solemn. “And usually she’s being sarcastic. I just don’t think what they did to this little boy is funny, that’s all.”

You glanced back at Amanda, and the two of you shared a look, smiling in that way you shared. She was hiding it behind her hand, and you turned back to the two men, ready to placate.

“Neither do I.” When I was saying that, I meant… that’s really sad, for him, and… y’know. Poor thing. Poor guy.” You lifted your hands, pointing to the picture. “I wasn’t being sarcastic, this kid is… he’s in a shitty situation. It’s kind of a catch-all. It’s about the intention behind it.”

“It’s a Southern thing,” Amanda finished, shrugging a bit. “It just means what you want it to mean.”

That seemed to soothe Carisi’s troubled soul enough, and you smiled at him before lifting completely from your chair, moving to get some more coffee. You asked the table if they wanted anything, and the only response was Barba lifting with you, and the two of you walked towards the coffee maker.

You didn’t mind the lawyer. Sure, the ADA wasn’t always your thing – after all, working with him could feel like you just ran a marathon – but Barba was good at his job and treated you all well.

Plus, if you happened to know your favorite combination of suit, tie, and pocket square that he wore, that was between you and God.

“I could’ve just gotten you something if you wanted, Barba,” you told him. “I know you like your coffee, even the bad stuff here.”

His smile was small, but it felt real enough, and you gave him a returning one, trying to ignore the thrill you got from the way he looked at you.

“You always add too much sugar,” he admitted, and you just rolled your eyes, smirking.

“And you always add too little, so. Maybe one day we’ll meet in the middle.” His little chuckle was cute, and you leaned against the little bar, glancing out the breakroom to where Carisi and Rollins were. “Today I won’t touch it, how ‘bout that?”

“I appreciate it.” He too glanced over to the other room, and you watched as Amanda seemed to explain something to Sonny, her hands circling a little as Sonny just shook his head at her. “So, blessing your heart? A common thing?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you laughed, pouring a couple of cups and sliding one over to him to do as he wished. He just picked it up and sipped at it, the monster, but you added three sugars and stirred it plenty. “Trust me, sympathy isn’t always its message, but like I said. It can mean a little bit of everything.”

Barba just laughed again, shaking his head. “It seems innocuous enough. You’re telling me old women can weaponize blessing someone?”

That made your mouth twitch up, and you finished stirring your coffee with a flick of the plastic straw. With a little smile at him, you reached forward, turning him, getting close. You narrowed your eyes, pursing your lips a little. A once-over, eyes calculating, and he just stared, wide-eyed and brows creeping towards his hairline as you let out a little sound, putting all the condescension into it. And if your accent was a bit strong, well. You let it play.

“Oh, bless your heart. You just don’t understand. The South doesn’t pull punches.”

Your eyes didn’t break from his for a moment, and then you let out a little snort, shaking your head, moving past him. He seemed more than a little confused, and when you looked back he was just watching you, watching the way you walked toward the roundtable once more. You chuckled a little again, gesturing with your head towards Amanda and Carisi.

“Oh, Northerners. Come on, Mr. Barba. No more blessing hearts today. I have a feeling this’ll be continuing education.”

You stood in Liv’s office a few weeks later, the two interrogation rooms on either side of you. In one, the victim, the other, the perp. A classic he-said, she-said, and you found yourself lingering on the perp’s side, watching as Carisi and Fin interrogated him. Their voices came through a little staticky, but you caught every word, your mouth twisting into disgust as you watched him spin a tale of woe.

“I did not do it,” he cried out, and his entire being reeked privilege. It was so easy to watch him pull every card out of the book, and watch the two detectives stand by, unimpressed. If he thought his charm and his smile would woo them, he was sorely mistaken.

“Look, you wanna know the truth, kid?” Carisi said, leaning back in his seat as Fin leaned against the window. Almost as if he knew you were standing by, watching. “We don’t give a rat’s ass who your father is, we don’t give a damn about your GPA. All we care about is what happened that night. So tell us what really happened now, and we won’t have to drag you out of your classes with our lights going.”

You huffed out a laugh at Carisi’s statement, which earned you a fellow lurker. Barba, there next to you. He normally didn’t get the cases this early, but with something like this he liked to hear everything from the beginning.

“Anything of value from him?” he asked, and you shook your head, turning to face him, one eye still on the interrogation.

“Nah, he’s just spinning his wheels. He thinks Daddy’s money can get him out of this bind, like every other one. Hasn’t caught the memo that we’re not that easy.”

Barba smirked, shaking his head. He turned to you, and his gaze lingered on your face, making you straighten a bit as he glanced back to the glass. “We certainly aren’t, detective. You’ll let me know the details later?”

Your brow raised. “Yeah, I can come by, if this isn’t something you’re gonna pass off to Callier. Course, I can fill her in, too.” It’d become an unofficial part of your job description, relaying the updates of the investigations to the D.A.s office when needed, trading off with Carisi. Mainly because the two of you liked going to see the counselor the most, for… different reasons.

Barba’s nod was short, and then he started migrating to the other side, where Liv and Rollins were in talking with the girl.

Suddenly, the whiny voice of the perp caught your attention.

“You can’t do this! My father won’t stand for it, do you hear me?”

Your nose wrinkled, and your little scoff was sharp enough to make Barba turn back, stop in his tracks. “Oh, bless his heart. He just doesn’t get it, does he?”

There was a warm chuckle from the other side of the room that made it your turn to look over, and you watched as Rafael Barba ducked his head, a hand lifting to cover his mouth as he did his best to look innocent.

“What’s so funny, Barba?”

When he glanced your way, the hand on his mouth lifted in surrender, the other sliding into his pocket. “Nothing. I just… think this is part of that continuing education you were talking about, detective.”

Your previous conversation came back to you, all of a sudden, and you watched as he chuckled again and pushed towards the interview room to watch Amanda and Liv.

“Trust me, you haven’t heard the last of it, yet,” you told him, and when he glanced over his shoulder he was smirking.

“I hope not.”

It was your eyes on him now, and you found yourself grinning and ducking your head before it became full-on staring, a warm feeling on your cheeks as Carisi and Fin came back into Liv’s office. You found yourself chuckling to yourself for the rest of the day, thinking about the way he looked while he smiled, at the way he laughed.

You wouldn’t mind seeing that smile more often, you decided.

Wouldn’t mind one bit.

The SVU squad room didn’t always leave you with smiles, of course. It was a lot of heartbreak, a lot of pain that circulated through interrogation rooms and interview sessions. A lot of sorrow, sitting in courtrooms and watching strong, powerful victims testify against their assailants.

A lot of pain. But… friends were a bright spot.

And slowly, Barba was becoming that, too.

Your role as the inbetweener was essentially official. More often than not you were accompanying Liv to One Hogan Place, the two of you in his office and trying to talk him into something (and him usually trying to talk the two of you out). A lot of times, you went on your own, making it just you and him standing on either side of his desk, discussing what could and could not be done in the eyes of the law.

It was still work, at that point, too. Because you could give him the details without skipping the important facts, could give it to him straight without hemming and hawing. You could defend your fellow detectives without taking it personally, knowing when wrongs were wrong and when to push.

And if those conversations started stretching longer, and if you found yourself lingering in his offices more and more, well. Amanda had permission to tease you about it in private.

But only in private.

In public, she could only send sly looks, looks you stubbornly avoided by meeting others’ gazes or looking down at your laptop.

Like in that moment, when Barba’s gaze met yours in his office, and the little nod he offered seemed enough to make your heart pound. A glance at Amanda, with her laugh behind her hand and head shaking, told you all you needed to know about how gone you were.

“Detective?”

Your gaze shot back to Rafael. This time his gaze wasn’t one of equals, but one of concern, his head tilted almost a little. And in that moment, you realized that he was asking you a question, that he had been nodding at you to answer…

“Sorry, sorry,” you scrambled, blinking a few times, trying to ignore the way Amanda kicked you under the small round table. “What was the question?”

“You’re the one who visited Miss Stevens last,” he said, pushing from his desk to stand up tall, walk towards you and your friend. “What’s your take?”

The interaction with your witness came back to you, and you grimaced a little at the thought of her taking the stand.

“Bless her heart,” you said, on instinct, shaking your head as you thought about her answers to the simple questions you asked her.

“That bad, huh?” the blonde said with a wince, and you nodded, sighing.

“Unfortunately.”

“What?” Barba’s brow raised with his question, and you realized that while Amanda got the gist, you were leaving the counselor in the dust for once.

Well. How to explain… politely…

You bit your lower lip a moment before speaking. “Miss Stevens is very… kind,” you offered, shrugging, “but her attention span is not the… greatest. A little… naïve, is the word I’d use, I guess.”

After a moment, Barba looked to Amanda, who just smiled sweetly. “I think what Y/N is implying is that, after talking with her, she realized that… uh.”

Nothing from Barba, who just looked between the two of you.

“Is what?”

It wasn’t worth the games anymore, even though the confusion on Barba’s face was hilarious. You turned to nod at Amanda, before leaning back in your chair, sighing.

“She’s, frankly, as dumb as a doornail.” When Southern politeness didn’t work, the next step was brutal honesty. “Which shouldn’t matter, but you put her up there –”

“And any defense attorney worth their salt would have her saying whatever they wanted her to,” Amanda finished. You reached over to pat her hand in thanks, and she just grinned at you, the two of you turning to the lawyer simultaneously. He didn’t answer immediately, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you.

“If you prep her really well,” you offered to him, “there’s a chance. But it has to be… really well.” You and your fellow detective stood, and as she moved to the door you just shrugged at the attorney.

“And you have doubt in my abilities to prep well?” Barba shot back, and you grinned at him. For the moment, Amanda was gone, just you and him and some verbal flirting to finish off the day.

You lingered in the doorway, and ignored the sound of Amanda’s foot tapping on the carpet. “I have doubt in her abilities to listen well.”

He just chuckled, shaking his head and letting out a breath. Whatever it took to finish a case. “All right. Well. I’ll figure it out. Thank you, for the extra lesson today. Three ways to use a phrase is… more than I was expecting.”

You chuckled, shaking your head at him, before an idea sprung to mind that made you pause before you turned out of the room.

“Want me to call her in tomorrow? Bring her down to the precinct?” When he seemed to hestitate, you pushed a little. “She might be more comfortable with me there, and she’s already been to the precinct in one of our interview rooms. Might be best to introduce you at someplace she’s… familiar?”

Maybe you were hallucinating, but Amanda might as well have been on Mars. Because the smile Barba gave? It had to be all for you.

The case ended up finishing strong. Or, almost finishing. The tail end of the case found the two of you jogging out of the courthouse into a rush of cool fall winds, your noses going numb at the feeling as the sun started to set over the skyline.

“She did well,” you praised, hunching your shoulders against the cold. “Should never have doubted you.”

“Couldn’t have done it without New York’s finest,” he admitted, and when you glanced at him the only way to describe it was… mirth.

“Damn straight, counselor.”

Your steps were in time. No other detectives, no other lawyers, just the two of you making your way down to the street and relishing in the feeling of a well-fought battle.

“All that’s left is the jury,” you hummed. “Waiting’s always the hardest part.”

“We could go grab a drink,” he offered with a little shrug. “Kill some of that time?”

It was sudden, out of the blue. A moment that you were sure you imagined. “What?” you asked, turning to face him. You expected him to be staring out to the street, or up at the sky, but he was just staring at you, smirk ever-present and adding some sweet seduction to the offer.

“A drink. You, and me.”

You tried to ignore that butterflies that suddenly took roost in your stomach, and the way your hand hastily went to your hair to make sure the wind wasn’t messing with it too much. “The case isn’t over yet, Barba. Are you sure you want to risk it?”

After a glance around the front steps, he stepped closer to you, smiling. He was wearing that bronze-colored wool coat, and you resisted the urge to reach a hand out, brush off imaginary lint. When he smiled, it was like his eyes lit up, the browns in the coat making the greens shine bright.

“Then after the case,” he amended. “Once it’s over. Nothing to risk.”

He was serious. He wanted a drink. With you. You had to blink a few times, ducking your gaze to laugh. Amanda would get a kick out of this. Would probably also say that she told you so. “Hope you didn’t just push our luck saying that out loud,” you teased, but his smile didn’t waver when you met his eyes once more.

“I mean it.”

It was that moment, you supposed. That moment when you looked at him and realized the counselor was looking at you the same way you knew you looked at him.

He was looking at you, and he was smiling, and you couldn’t get enough.

When you nodded, it was short, a little shy, your head ducking again as you pulled your own coat tighter around yourself, your hand tucking your scarf in to keep out the chill.

“Yeah, counselor,” you said. “I’d like that a lot, actually.”

Then, because you couldn’t help it, you reached forward anyway, let your hand brush something off of his shoulder, flattened out the collar and let your fingers catch on the material. Smiled, as you looked at him.

“It’s a date.”

You loved watching your boyfriend in his element. Because before almost anything else, Rafael Barba was a lawyer. And a damn good one.

The victims, plural, shared some vicious horror stories when they came into the squad room, some stories that they were brave enough to repeat on the stand. Rafael walked them through it, led them to places where they could share all of the details, and prepped them well for the defense’s return volley.

And considering that it was Buchanan, the victory was all the sweeter, especially since the perp was a scumbag who hadn’t wiped the smug look off of his face the whole trial.

Until today, of course. Rafael did his job, and you got the joy of catching his wink as he moved back to his seat, the perp’s words fumbling in his throat as Rafael trapped him in one lie after another. It was like music to your ears, and the sight of Buchanan putting his head in one had was visually just as sweet.

“It isn’t over yet,” Rafael told you, meeting you at the doors once the jurors filed away, but you just shook your head.

“Not like you to be humble,” you laughed. “Come on, handsome. You know it was a good day.”

You relished in the way his eyes scanned you, the sight of the smirk on his face, the relaxed set of his shoulders.

“Let’s not jinx it. Just. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

You just chuckled, offered a brush of your shoulders to tide the two of you over, and together you started moving out of the courtroom. Only to be stopped by Buchanan, of course, whose voice made your spine stiffen.

“Just a moment, counselor.”

The two of you turned in sync, Buchanan meeting up with you right outside before the hallway. As the three of you stepped out of court, the tension you always felt between the two lawyers seemed heightened. Buchanan’s usual relaxed attitude was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow hestitation as he stepped towards the representative of the people.

“Well, that was quick,” Rafael sighed, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“I want to discuss your offer. Rape Three, on both counts.”

Rafael’s scoff was sharp.

“After what happened in that courtroom, I think we both know the deal has changed,” Barba shot back, raising a brow at the man in front of him. You couldn’t help the smirk on your face, glancing down to your shoes as Rafael talked to him. “Both counts of Rape Two, served consecutively, and I’ll consider only adding sexual misconduct for the Queens cases if he pleads guilty.”

“You call that a deal?” Buchanan scoffed, and your man just shrugged. “That’s barely a discount.”

Rafael didn’t back down, though, glancing towards the empty pews. “It’s better than two counts of Rape One, which we both know that jury is going to heavily consider. You had your chance for a better deal. It’s my final offer.”

The aghast look on Buchanan’s face was priceless. “Kicking me while I’m down,” Buchanan sneered, and you glanced up in time to see him direct his words at you. “Can you believe this guy? Punishing me for having an off day once in a while.”

It made your skin crawl. You hated the way he looked at you, and you found yourself lifting your chin to meet his gaze head-on.

“Well, bless your heart, Mr. Buchanan,” you told him, oozing fake saccharine from every pore. “Lord knows we all have bad days.” Your smile was tight, and he had the gall to return it.

“Look at that, Barba,” Buchanan said, nodding at you like your words actually meant something. “I think you should take a lesson from the detective here. No one likes a sore winner. Show a little courtesy, for me and my client.”

“My offer is final. Take it or leave it.”

Buchanan’s smile was tight, and he shook his head at the A.D.A. before turning away. “We’ll discuss it later today.”

“Is that a yes?” Barba called after him, and Buchanan visibly sighed, dropping his chin.

“I need to confer with my client,�� he called back, and he turned a corner, vanishing in the maze that was the courthouse.

You shivered as he turned the corner, hating that you even thought about smiling at him.

“Suddenly decide to play nice with defense attorneys, cariño?” Rafael asked, his tone light as he watched all of your hatred finally show. You could tell he was teasing, that he knew the taste of your tone as well as any other.

“That, darlin’, was a good ol’ Southern fuck you,” you ground out, and Rafael’s hand lifted to rest on your back, turning you towards the elevator. You glanced toward him, as the two of you walked, and there was something like admiration on his face, a little smile that nowadays made you warm because you knew it was all for you.

“I don’t think anyone else gets you this riled up,” he teased lightly, and your eyes rolled even as your chin lifted. The doors opened, and the two of you were the only ones who got on. “And believe it or not, I could tell just what sentiment you were trying to get across.” When the elevator door closed his hands went to your shoulders, squeezing a little, fingers rubbing into the junction at your neck to work the muscle there.

“But I don’t think Buchanan did,” you laughed, the tension Buchanan always put in your shoulders leaking away as he continued to touch you, pulling you close for a kiss on your cheek before the doors slid open again.

“Eres una bendición,” he whispered to you, walking behind you as the two of you got off, and you turned to smile at him, raising a brow when he used a word you didn’t recognize. He just shook his head, threw a wink your way. “Meet me at my office?”

You chuckled a little, waving your hand, already missing the feeling of his fingers on your skin. “After work, of course.”

“Of course, counselor.”

(The sign of a good education was always that the student could put the lessons into practice. And Rafael was nothing but a good student. So in the end, it was meant to happen, and you were just lucky enough to witness it.

A night late night in his office, different paperwork wars being waged. An occasional tease from his desk thrown to your position on his couch, where you had set up shop.

Eventually though, the night wound down as it always did. The two of you sharing the couch, shoes off and feet tangled in the middle as he scribbled where he needed you, and your fingers typed away on your laptop.

The exhaustion was starting to get to you both though, and after your eyes crossed and blurred for the third time, you had to click save and close your laptop.

“I think I’m tapping out,” you groaned, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “Any longer and I’ll go blind from the blue light.”

“Not even midnight, cariño. Don’t tell me you’re giving up now,” Rafael teased, and you kicked his calf at the comment, eyes closing as you settled in, feeling the warmth of him on your legs.

“Unlike someone, I was sitting in a car to watch an apartment at dawn, so I think I have a good excuse.”

“Well, bless your heart,” he returned with a little verve, and your eyes shot open. Widened, as you sat up to stare.

It didn’t sound right in his mouth. His own New Yorker tone, his quick lawyer beat, it made it feel all jumbled up. Not enough oomph to really get the point across. But even as painfully wrong as it was, he said it, and that was what made your mouth stretch into a grin, made you scoot a little closer to him as he flipped through his own file, your laptop set (perhaps a little precariously) on the arm.

“What did you just say, counselor?”

It hit him the moment after you asked. Confusion washing over his features, and then realization, followed by something that looked a little like astonishment.

Maybe horror, but you didn’t hold that against him.

“Rafael,” you laughed. “I think your lessons in the South have ended, and I am the best teacher.”)

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #female!reader #amanda rollins #sonny carisi #law and order: svu #my fic #fluff #the south

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thedreadvampy · 4 years

Text

like I am not trying to be unreasonable or excessively defensive when I say ‘oh my god shut up about Britishness’ or at least, not to talk the talk without walking the walk

I definitely have had a lot of unlearning to do from those heady far-off Bush administration days where we here in the UK all turbocharged our superiority complex about how America was a pit of fools led by an idiot and that made it not just ok but Noble and Politically Justified to rip the piss out of like. the McDonalds eating Walmart shopping mass media consuming oil chugging school shooting flagwaving white trailer park hyper-Christian anti-abortion racist ignorant American that lived in our heads and Spoke Weird and Thought They Were Real People and ate freedom fries and thought Iraq and Afghanistan were the same country and couldn’t do basic maths and barged around European cities in shorts and sunglasses yelling to each other about how cute it was and thought they were the only people in the world who mattered. and that’s not imo any different to the way American conceptions of Britishness tend to be framed

(not to say that that image of Americans is a thing of the past At All and it’s something I often notice myself slipping into)

and this was viewed as a moral position, particularly among the hard left, for a lot of the reasons that ragging on Britain is also often seen as a moral stance. America was (and is) powerful and imperialistic, culturally hegemonic, politically far to the right of where Europe tended to see itself. America was the architect of the Iraq War, and a whole string of imperialist invasions before that, and the “special relationship” with America was seen as emblematic of how far right the Labour government had swung. I knew old communists of my dad’s generation who took as a point of deep pride that they wouldn’t interact with American exports and were actively hostile to Americans. America was seen through the lens of Bush (and is now often seen through the lens of Trump). It felt good to shit on America and, by extension, Americans.

America represented imperialism and racist, exploitative global policy, filtered through a lens of glossy TV and film, stars-and-stripes-forever military glorification, Disney, loud tourists and a whole heap of shitty ideas about Things That Signified Americanness And Were Therefore Bad like

Talking funny

Simplified/differing spelling

Liking different sports

Being fat

Eating weird food

Using unfamiliar idioms

Seeing the world through a very culturally American lens

A lot of class signifiers that don’t exist to the same degree/don’t mean the same thing here (living in trailer parks, shopping at Walmart)

now you may have noticed that these aren’t.......super cool things to rag on? and also that there are a lot of parallels between that and the stuff I get pissy about when people make jokes about Britishness.

because the justification is that This Country Is Bad. It’s a Global Force For Evil. And that is, in both Britain and America’s case, definitely not wrong. Both Britain and America are violently imperial, culturally hegemonic, white supremacist world powers with a strong vested interest in considering themselves the Only Ones Who Are Really Normal People. It’s totally reasonable to hate Britain (I sure do!!!!!!). It’s also totally reasonable to hate America.

What I take issue with is the conflation of hating America with hating Americans. The conflation of hating Britain with hating the British. A country is not its people. A government is not its people. As I’m sure most of us have noticed, governments that fuck over the world are often simultaneously fucking over the poor, marginalised and vulnerable within their own borders (this is something as well that a lot of North Korean, Russian and Chinese people have brought up - that they’re held personally responsible for the shitty things their governments do even though they’re the people those things are targetted at)

That isn’t to say that people in both these countries (and indeed Canada, France, etc) shouldn’t think critically about the ways in which they benefit from their countries’ hegemonic power, or the ways in which they’re complicit in the imperialistic attitudes. But a lot of this mocking, both ways, boils down to

a) your government/country is bad and you should feel ashamed (like ‘you suck because the British Empire was a genocidal monolith’ or ‘Donald Trump just goes to show what America’s really like’) b) your country sucks to live in, haha, more fool you for living in it!!!!!! (Brexit! School shootings!) c) you are Foreign and that’s Weird (often coupled with ‘haha can you believe people in that stupid country do [thing that is generally associated with poverty]? GROSS’) d) you look/sound funny (British people all have bad teeth and are ugly, Americans are all fat and/or have had 20000 tons of plastic surgery and dental work)

and idk I just think perhaps that’s not...productive or good #praxis. like. not everything has to be Good Praxis it can just be a lazy joke about national stereotypes. but it’s not a Strong Moral Stance to hate (white) Brits or (white) Americans (and another thing is: these types of stereotypes very rarely include the racial diversity and multiculturalism of both Britain and America, choosing instead to only bring up non-white Brits/Americans as faceless Victims Of Bigotry). it’s not Good Leftist Praxis and people are, in fact, justified in getting annoyed about it even if they ARE white people from an imperialist country. because it is personal. it’s made personal.

and of course everything I and others have said in the past about classism holds true. in both the American and the British cases, a lot of the most commonly raised stereotypes other than language differences are about class (in that the things framed as gross/weird are overwhelmingly things which are looked down on within the culture because they’re associated with poverty - the Gross British Food, the People of Walmart, the lack of education, the slang, fatness, etc).

(also don’t get it twisted. a lot of people thought the last time I mentioned how class affects British stereotypes people thought I was making some class reductionist Working Class People Are Exempt From Racism And Benefitting From Imperialism argument which. no. but you’re not criticising racism or imperialism you’re criticising Poverty Food, just like you’re not criticising lack of global political awareness or a culture of rampant neoliberal capitalism when you laugh at Americans for being fat. you’re just shitting on people for things they’re already being shat on for.)

this is obfuscated by the fact that these stereotypes slap together high and low class signifiers at random, but the high class signifiers that get mocked, at least in the American stereotype, are mocked because in a British context they are low class signifiers. like a lot of what gets mocked in Britain about Americans is the high-capitalist Conspicuous Consumption of the Trump and McMansion types, and the plastic surgery and glow-in-the-dark Hollywood smile. but it’s mocked because it’s, at its heart, seen as gauche and tasteless and Not Classy, whereas the British rich know how to be Tastefully Rich (boke)

like I’m not saying people outside a country shouldn’t criticise that country. both Britain and America deserve to be criticised roundly, not just on a political level but on a societal level. yeah man I do benefit from power and I am very able to slip into cultural supremacist ways of thinking. but ‘har har they talk funny’ isn’t criticism, it’s bigotry. To Be Clear: it may be bigotry but it’s not oppression. It’s not a matter of ‘oh woe the Americans are Bullying Us From A Position Of Power.’ Neither side of this holds hegemonic power over the other, realistically (Americans are not oppressed by Britons for being American; Britons are not oppressed by Americans for being British) But what it is is round after round of the same sneering cultural supremacist oneupmanship that’s characterised the relationships between powerful imperial nations (and particularly between Britain and America) for centuries. we’re both, nationally speaking, desperately pitching the argument that We’re The Good And Civilised Ones and They’re The Stupid Weird Embarrassing Ones.

we’re BOTH weird embarrassing countries with sordid, racist, imperialist political structures. we’re both horrendously shitty nations it’s not a competition about which country is shittier because the answer is always Who Cares They’re Both A Nexus Of Awful Global Consequences.

also nations are not real. we should criticise nations as they exist but people? bully people about something real you cowards. “britishness” or “americanness” is only as real as you make it

#boy howdy that's a long post #lotta words to say 'actually I've just been insecure about my accent since I was 4'

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ailec-12 · 4 years

Note

Prompt: AU, bored and exploring Malfoy Manor at a social function, young Sirius Black finds an old diary belonging to T.M. Riddle.

Thanks so much for this prompt, Anon! To be honest, at first I had no idea what to do with it, but it would seem Tom’s diary possessed me as well, because once I started, I couldn’t stop. I’ve enjoyed writing teen Sirius a lot, so I hope you’ll also like it.

Shout-out to @mariagvogel for making this one shot better with her comments. It can also be read on AO3.

Sirius hated them all —every fucking member of his family. Nothing could really top his hatred for his mother, who insisted on dragging him to those pure-blood parties no matter how much her eldest son embarrassed her. He was wandering around, sneering at the portraits that lined up the walls of the Malfoy mansion.

Those events were always supremely boring, but Sirius had never felt so utterly alone. Regulus was socialising with their cousins like the good Black son he was. Yet, the only cousin that really mattered, Andromeda, was not present and no one talked about her. Her face still decorated the Black family tapestry, but Sirius did not think it would last long. It was a very odd feeling. When Andromeda talked about cutting ties with her family, they used to laugh about going out in style. He had not seen his cousin in months, though, and, if she had concocted any plans with her Muggle-born boyfriend, she had not breathed a single word about it to Sirius.

The dark corridor he was crossing at the moment threatened to be as dull as the guests downstairs. At least he had managed to slip unnoticed from the party. He could not have shown his distaste as freely there. A somewhat distant crack startled him out of his thoughts. He froze on the spot. That must be Dobby. Although Sirius could not say he liked the house-elf —who was always too overexcited—, he pitied anyone who had to live under the thumb of a prat like Lucius Malfoy. Dobby was also far nicer than Kreacher. Even so, if he saw Sirius snooping around, he would be forced to tell his masters. Sirius would rather avoid angering his mother so soon when there was still a long evening ahead of them.

Thinking on his feet, he walked quickly to the end of the corridor, where a door hid the stairs to the attic. Andromeda and Cissy had discovered that one dragging a very young Sirius with them. He could no longer remember the exact reason, but they had been hiding. It felt like a very far memory.

Sirius closed the door carefully behind him and waited until he heard the second crack that meant Dobby had left. The party seemed not to exist in the absolute stillness of the stairs and Sirius let out a long-suffering sigh. Glancing up, he decided to head for the attic. It was a good hiding place if nothing else.

The room looked dirtier and more abandoned than Sirius remembered. It actually reminded him of their attic at home, full of useless and forgotten pure-blood memorabilia. He stepped around the worn-out furniture, dodging the odd-shaped items scattered in some parts. He could not help thinking that, if the rest of his friends were with him, poking around Malfoy’s stuff would have sounded much more exciting. Alone, however, Sirius did not truly feel like exploring.

Looking round in order to find at least something to distract him from the fact that there was no one to share his findings with, his eyes fell on a small bookcase. The dust made his eyes itch when he got closer and most books did not even have a title on the spine. He gazed at them blankly for a moment longer, trying to decide whether picking them up was worth the effort. His interest was suddenly piqued when he saw a small rectangular item wrapped in fading brown fabric. That time, he took it with no hesitation, revealing a black leather book. It was rather thin and the year on the cover —1942— let him know it was not a recently purchased item. As he opened it, he was disappointed to find there was nothing on the blank pages except for a name on top of the first one: T. M. Riddle.

Sirius let it fall, huffing. An empty diary whose owner did not even have the right surname for the house. He did not really care if it had been someone who had married into the family or if some Malfoy had stolen it. Somehow, Sirius was not able to picture someone staying for a sleepover and leaving their diary behind.

Bored, he sat down on the floor, near the diary. He could already see the others’ faces when he returned downstairs having ruined his new, shiny robes. The mere thought brought a smirk to his face and lifted his spirits lightly. He picked the diary back up. Perhaps no one would ever see it, but Sirius wanted to leave his mark in case someone else found the old thing.

He searched through the drawers and found a couple of broken quills, but no ink. He cursed out loud, remembering the Muggle drawing kit that Moony had gifted him last Christmas. He would carry a pen everywhere if he was not certain his mother would enjoy burning it while Sirius was still carrying it.

Nevertheless, he found a small piece of charcoal and did not hesitate to open the diary at the first page. In big capital letters, just under the name, he wrote, FUCK PURE-BLOODS —SB. He had to admit it looked lamer than it had sounded in his head, so he was trying to come up with another epithet when the words faded away. Blinking, he stared down at the yellowish pages. If it was a means of communication like the two-way mirror he used with Prongs, he might be screwed.

The diary answered right away.

Interesting choice of words to write on someone else’s diary. And who might you be?

Sirius looked at the words for a few seconds. It had been quite a prompt answer for an object that had seemed abandoned just a moment ago.

I’m not telling you my name, he decided to write at last. He was not that much of an idiot.

As you wish. Mine is Tom.

Again, the reply was quick. Sirius bit his lip, rolling the charcoal between his fingers.

Are you friends with the Malfoys?

I might be, came Tom’s enigmatic answer. They must not have taken great care of my diary if you have got your hands on it, though.

The calligraphy was elegant, although not as flowery as Sirius’s. For all his faults, the Malfoys were not as exclusive as the Blacks. Tom’s elusive comments sparked the boy’s imagination and he was already picturing Riddle as the offspring of a marriage between a Malfoy and someone of not such a high standing.

Focusing back on the pages, which had returned to their original state, he decided to try his luck.

Do you write to them often?

I can’t say I do.

Sirius could almost hear the playful tone behind those words.

What would you do if I took you with me?

Write to you, what else?

Sirius’s smirk grew bigger as he closed the diary and threw away the charcoal.

II.

In the end, getting away from the gathering had indeed been worth it. His parents had not been able to do much in public, since they knew sending him home would actually have been a reward. By the time they had got back, both of them had been too inebriated to punish him properly. Sirius had got away with just his hurt pride at having had to apologise to the Malfoys plus a quick stinging hex before being sent to bed. Still, his leg hurt like hell from the surprisingly well-aimed spell.

He was lying on his bed, groaning into his pillow and with absolutely no intention of sleeping. He would like to contact James through the mirror —he did not think anyone would hear him despite the absolute silence—, but he did not want to come across as needy. He could wait until tomorrow to whine and tell his friends all his woes.

Turning around, he sat up and examined his leg. He concluded it would be better not to risk asking Kreacher for a pain potion, since it would lead to his mother hearing about it. In a couple of hours, it would no longer sting. Making what felt like an enormous effort, he stood up and started disrobing. It was only then that he remembered Tom. Still half dressed, he hurried to get ink and quill and got comfortable in his bed. It was pretty late, so he told himself he might have to wait until the morning for an answer.

Are you there?

Of course.

Sirius smiled at the immediate reply.

I —don’t— regret to inform you that you are no longer with the Malfoys.

His grin grew bigger as he felt clever. He would keep talking to Tom if it was going to help him forget about his misery for a while.

You sound like more interesting company anyway. I take it that you had fun and the event is over?

Sirius scoffed loudly.

I don’t think a single one in that bloody bunch of old snobs know what having fun is like.

You may be right, but why would you want fun when you already have power?

Reading those words gave him chills and sobered him up. Perhaps it was because Tom’s phrasing urged him to agree at first. He frowned and put down the diary to physically distance himself from that feeling. Almost right away, though, he picked it up again.

Do you believe that blood supremacy crap?

He felt something akin to disappointment and had to rein in the impulse to throw a cruder accusation.

What I believe does not matter. It is a fact they have power, is it not?

Sirius liked that answer even less and he felt his frown deepen. He stared as the ink faded, considering what he should retort. Apparently, Tom found his words sooner.

You benefit from that power, don’t you, S?

An inexplicable, overwhelming anger rose in the boy’s throat and he was scribbling furiously before he was aware of it.

Fuck you. My name is Sirius.

He slammed the diary shut and threw it in his trunk.

III.

I’m a fucking tosser.

It was the first thing he wrote in two weeks and the black letters were blurry.

Do tell.

Tom’s response came at once as usual, but it felt oddly impersonal. It was just what Sirius needed, because the last thing he wanted was a friendly ear. He was determined to avoid thinking about the next letter he would have to write to Prongs.

I was going to spend half the summer at a friend’s, but I crossed my mother and ruined everything. I’m not going anywhere now.

A little splash smeared the ink before it disappeared completely. He wiped his eyes furiously while he waited for Tom to say something.

Oh, boo-hoo. Why would you act out if you needed her permission?

Didn’t plan on it, you twat. Just happened. You’d also scream at her if you’d met her, he added before a reply could come.

I think not. I’ve been told I’m a great actor.

Pretentious prick, Sirius shot back. He was feeling calmer, though, and not truly annoyed.

Tom offered no reaction to that, but Sirius did not want to finish their conversation so soon. It was a very welcome distraction from the pain and humiliation that usually followed an argument with his mother.

I don’t know how I’m to survive an entire summer locked up in this house.

Have you tried to escape?

I’m only 14. The Ministry will find me as soon as I try to do magic.

Of course, living as a Muggle is out of question.

Sirius frowned, not liking one bit the mockery he could feel behind the words.

It is when I have neither Muggle clothes nor Muggle money, he retorted.

And your friend? Wouldn’t he take you in?

James would, he was certain of it. However, that would require detailing exactly how bad things were at home. It was not worth it, Sirius told himself as he had a thousand times before. It was only three more years until he could do magic and then no one, not even his mother, could stop him —after all, his fourteenth birthday was just a few months away.

My family would not allow it, he wrote instead.

Are you important or something?

Again that derisive feeling. Sirius could not explain why he felt the other’s intentions so distinctly.

Or something, he agreed noncommittally. He was about to add something else when a knock on his door startled him.

Swallowing with difficulty, he reminded himself that only one person in their household would knock before entering. Not that his dear brother waited for an answer. Sirius had barely had time to close the diary when the door opened. At least, Regulus was not in the habit of barging in.

“What do you want?” Sirius snapped right away, feeling anger consuming everything within him once again.

Any tentativeness disappeared from his brother’s demeanour and his young face hardened. He closed the door after coming in, but did not step closer.

“Don’t take it out on me. I did nothing.”

“Yeah, I think that might be the problem. You never do anything. The perfect son,” snarled Sirius, in a well-rehearsed course of action.

“What d’you expect to get when you insult the whole family? Couldn’t you just go along with it for once and say what she wants to hear?”

Regulus was frustrated, but his controlled manner paled in comparison to the ire running through his older brother, who jumped off the chair, not caring about the noise.

“I’ll never stand by while she badmouths my friends,” he said, barely restraining from shouting. “But of course you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. You’d need to have some friends for that.”

The jab hit Regulus as hard as Sirius had intended and his pain was plainly visible on his face. He refused to regret having caused it.

“I just came to see if you were all right, you imbecile.”

Regulus practically spat the words before turning around and taking hold of the doorknob.

“Hurry up and move along, then. I’m fine.”

Regulus opened the door and stared back one last time. His mouth was a hard line and his eyes glistened. He looked too old for his age.

“You’re a liar.”

IV.

Have you ever been trapped with no option to escape?

It was the middle of the night of a perfectly ordinary day, but Sirius could not sleep. Luckily, it seemed that neither could Tom.

Most people have at one point or another, came the answer, swift and vague as ever.

His friends were taking too long to reply to his letters and Prongs had forgotten the two-way mirror at home when he had packed for his holidays. Talking to Tom felt just as good, though.

More letters appeared in the centre of the page while he was lost in thought.

What matters is your ability to break free when the time is right.

What is ailing you this time? I can tell you didn’t steal an enchanted diary to complain about your house-elf’s cooking.

Their correspondence was getting more familiar and Tom did not hesitate to cut his ramblings short. Sirius decided not to beat around the bush, either.

Do you come from a pure-blood family?

I have old blood running through my veins, yes.

Sirius had never felt so grateful for Tom’s pretentious nature. He had a feeling the other would understand.

They burnt my cousin Andromeda’s face off the family tapestry. She has married a Muggle-born, so they say she’s tarnished our blood.

And you fear to suffer the same fate?

I’d fear to stay in this house forever, but

He hesitated. Sometimes, he felt as if he were offering up too much information, although nothing he had said so far was truly a secret.

she is my favourite cousin.

The words faded away slowly, as if the diary were absorbing Sirius’s strong feelings behind them, too.

I think she’s forgotten me, he wrote in a rush, feeling extremely self-conscious.

That time, Tom seemed to take an eternity to answer.

Pure-bloods are good at holding power, but their short-sightedness will be the death of them.

The words took Sirius aback and he did not think about his next response.

I thought you fancied that blood crap.

I told you. What I may believe or feel is not important. Ignoring the talent of those who do not fit the ideal perfectly will hardly do us any favours.

Sirius blinked, uneasy at how reasonable Tom sounded. He needed to think, so he wrote goodbye and returned the diary to its safe place. After a while, he realised he could contact Andromeda once he was back at school.

VI.

Sirius skimmed through Prongs’s last letter. He still needed to get back to Moony and Wormtail as well. However, no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake off the feeling that his friends were far too predictable. James told him all about his brilliant family holidays, whereas Remus was as bored and lonely as Sirius. And he really could not bring himself to care about Peter’s latest crush.

On top of his apathy, he was worn out all the time. The bright side of it was that he was usually too tired to pick a fight with his parents. He spent most of his time locked in his bedroom, listening to Muggle music or just staring up at the dark ceiling —or writing to Tom. Sirius could not consider him a friend since the bloke had not revealed much information about himself. Yet, during their exchanges, Sirius did not feel quite so sad or angry, just sort of entertained.

There was only a week and a half until the beginning of the new school year. The rest of the Marauders would not be surprised if Sirius told them he had been too lazy to reply to their last batch of letters. Thus, he picked up the diary, willing to forget about the world for a while.

VII.

You didn’t write yesterday.

Sirius felt a pang of culpability upon seeing the message. In fact, he had felt guilty ever since school had started. Normally, he waited until his friends had gone to sleep to take out the diary and write on it, sheltered by his drawn drapes. At first, he had looked forward to that nightly encounter, even if it made him feel like he was lying to his friends. During the day, Moony and Prongs were set on finding out what was wrong with him. Nothing Sirius told them stopped their nagging. He could admit he was bloody irritable around everyone those days, but it did not truly warrant their insistence. At least with Tom he had not needed to worry about reining in his temper so as to avoid worried looks.

Nevertheless, eventually, even Moony had let the matter of his bad mood drop. It had led to a more relaxed atmosphere in their friend group and, for the first time since their return, the previous night Sirius had gone to bed knackered and happy and, especially not feeling like he needed to seek out someone else’s company. Frankly, he had not thought Tom would care, but now the guilt rose back up and it was not because he was hiding something from his friends.

I was busy.

It was a lame excuse, but Sirius told himself he did not need to explain his reasons to a perfect stranger.

Hanging out with Hagrid again?

Distaste dripped from the ink of every one of those words.

No, planning a prank for a greasy git. He won’t know what hit him. Sirius’s smirk vanished before it fully formed. He frowned, still thinking about Tom’s comment. What have you got against Hagrid, anyway? He is all right.

That is because you do not know what he is capable of.

Sirius rolled his eyes at the condescending reply. He had known Hagrid for over three years and, while the man had his quirks, he was one of the nicest people Sirius had ever met.

Another sentence appeared as the first one was absorbed by the page.

Want me to show you?

He read the question a few times, trying to understand what it could possibly mean. Tom had never implied they could send anything other than messages through the diary.

“Can’t you– What are you doing?”

It was barely a whisper, but he had already jumped when Moony drew the curtains back and so, he ended up spilling ink all over himself and the diary. His wand was knocked off as well, falling to the floor with its tip still lit up. Sirius barely spared a glance at his friend as he attempted to get away from the mess.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“I’m so sorry,” Remus apologised right away. Turning around for a moment, he retrieved his own wand from his bedside table. “I’ll clean it up.”

With a circular movement, he managed to summon the ink and get it back into the bottle. The diary was intact, not a black trace on it, although Sirius suspected not all the ink had been collected by Moony’s magic.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, because his friend was looking at him with soft eyes full of uncertainty.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just couldn’t sleep and saw the light from your wand.”

“It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep, either.” Sirius huffed, unable to stand the awkwardness any longer. “Sit down, for Merlin’s sake. Unlike others, I don’t bite.”

He received a brief, albeit quite powerful glare as expected, which in return brought a grin to his face as he closed the diary and put it in a drawer for the time being.

“Was that… a diary?”

Moony’s incredulity was obvious, so Sirius forced himself to let out a dismissive snort.

“Just brainstorming our next pranks. Prongs and I still have to take revenge on that Seventh Year Ravenclaw prick for laughing at us when Snivellus and Evans dumped us in the lake.”

“To be fair—”

“I don’t want to be fair, Moony. I want to laugh at Mr Brainy.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but a long yawn interrupted whatever he was going to add. Right on cue, Sirius also yawned.

“I think I’ll go back to bed now. You should try to get some sleep, too.”

“I will,” promised Sirius, smiling fondly at his always responsible friend.

He drew the drapes and snuggled up under the blankets, having forgotten all about Tom and Hagrid.

VIII.

Guess who is not going home for Christmas?

Sirius was feeling light as a feather and needed to share his enthusiasm.

Did you get your face burnt off the family tree as well?

Not yet, he replied, beaming in the semi-darkness. His penmanship was messier than usual, because his brain was going too fast for his hand to keep up. I’m going to spend the break with Prongs. His parents have invited me to go with them to ski. The entire hols! he added, trying to convey his utter delight, for he felt like exploding every time he thought about the letter he had just received.

My mother will be furious, he kept on, not waiting for an answer. She will have to explain her disgraceful heir has once again chosen blood traitors over the family.

You do realise that, by cutting ties with them, you are only making things harder for yourself, don’t you?

As if I cared. I’m not going to put up with their pompous arses one minute longer than I need to.

Well, perhaps there is something better that you can do at school if you stay.

“What?” Sirius almost yelled, turning it into a whisper at the last moment.

I’m not staying, he wrote quickly.

Why did Tom feel the need to sour his mood like that? He had said he was not upset by the lack of daily updates on Sirius’s part, but he may have lied.

You never let me show you that memory about Hagrid. I could show you things about Hogwarts, places no other person knows about but me.

Sirius felt his hair stand on end. No one should sound so alluring through a written message. Without another thought, he slammed the diary shut and pushed it off his lap. He was suddenly afraid of how much he had longed to accept Tom’s offer.

As if a veil had just been lifted, he realised the diary was an object taken from a family with close links to dark magic and even darker social circles. He had been tired all summer and his bad temper had persisted after getting away from his family. He had only started to feel better once he had stopped writing to Tom every day.

He nearly tossed the diary out of the window, but he stopped when he took it in his hands. Surely, he was overreacting. He had been talking to Tom for months and, even though the other gave him the creeps from time to time, he had felt no dark influences trying to control him. Prongs always said he was paranoid about everything that had to do with dark magic and he reluctantly had to admit his friend may be right.

Tom must be even lonelier than he was to keep him company after all that time, for Sirius would not describe his life as fascinating. He was happier than he had ever been at Hogwarts, certainly, but Tom had put up with his continuous complaints about his family the entire summer. Perhaps it was only fair that he felt ignored since school had begun, because Sirius had indeed been writing less and less frequently as days passed. He felt like a terrible friend —even if they were not such—, so he picked up the quill again, dipped it in the ink and wrote,

Why do you like talking with me?

I thought you were braver. I thought you’d dare uncover Hogwarts’ deepest secrets.

The ink faded away slowly as Sirius found himself unable to tear his gaze away. New words appeared before he could think of an answer.

Let me show you, insisted Tom. It all started when

Sirius slammed the diary shut for the second time that day, although on that occasion his decision was fuelled by blind rage. The urge to know was still there, whispering in his ear that he should continue reading, continue writing. However, another feeling flooded him and he distinguished the sting of something else besides his hurt pride. He was under no delusions that they were friends, but he had hoped —believed— that the other’s interest meant he shared his feeling of comfortable attachment. Sirius had enjoyed being able to say anything without fear of being judged or pitied, but right then, he only felt manipulated.

Truthfully, he had very much longed to know the answer when he had asked why. Instead, Tom had insisted on talking about his own damn secrets and mysteries. In fact, Tom had elegantly sidestepped every personal question and had always sounded more invested in reading about Sirius’s troubles than any good news he brought up.

The hurt cleared his thoughts in the most painful way possible. At that very moment, he could not care less whether he was indeed paranoid or losing his mind. He had itched to know whatever Tom had been about to tell, but curiosity had played no role in it. The pull had been far less innocent than that and, once he could recognise it, he realised it had been there for a while. However, he had never expected that darkness would feel so sweet and intoxicating —so inoffensive.

Damn, he truly was a bloody idiot.

IX.

Sirius had bravely fought the temptation to write on the diary again to curse its very existence and, so far, he had won. Still, he had buried the blasted thing at the bottom of his trunk and only taken it out on their last day before the holidays. He was currently waiting for his brother outside the Great Hall, while the students who had already finished their dinner passed by while animatedly chatting about their upcoming plans.

At last, he saw the familiar pale face and hurried towards the small group of Slytherins.

“Hey, Regulus!”

His brother glared at him, but murmured something to his companions and they promptly left towards the dungeons. Sirius could not help frowning at their backs —if the tables had been turned and it was him asking to be alone with a Slytherin, he would have expected a little resistance from his friends. Focusing his attention back on the younger boy, he saw the scowl was still very much present.

“What do you want?”

Sirius swallowed the urge to snap back, irked by Regulus’s defensiveness.

“I’m not going back home these hols, so I need you to make sure this gets back to the Malfoys.”

He handed out the diary, wrapped in the brown fabric, but his brother made no move to take it. Instead, he asked,

“You aren’t coming home?”

All of a sudden, Sirius felt his mouth dry at the vulnerability clearly present in the question.

“Um, I’m… I’m not.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that bad, though, is it? Mother will be in a foul mood when she finds out, sure, but I won’t be there to aggravate you all every day.”

His light tone was weak and did not get a reaction from Regulus beyond a renewed glower.

“So what, you want me to deliver one of your funny pranks to Malfoy now that he no longer attends Hogwarts?”

“Don’t be daft, I’d never let you take the blame and steal my spotlight.” Regulus refused to say anything and so, a tense silence ensued. Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius noticed they had drawn the attention of some students. He pushed the diary against his brother’s crossed arms. “It’s something I took from them at the beginning of the summer. I’m not interested in it anymore.”

Finally, Regulus took it and started to unwrap it. Sirius hurried to still his hands. Physical contact between the brothers had become rare nowadays, but neither seemed to realise.

“Nuh-uh. Everyone’s always going on and on about how you’re so much smarter than I am, so show a bit of brains. It’s one of those diaries you can’t stop writing on. Took me a bit to figure it out.”

It was not all the truth, but he did not know what the diary was exactly and hoped it was enough to deter Regulus from giving in to his own curiosity.

His brother was still looking back at him with plenty of mistrust in his clear eyes, but he would not keep an item like that —Sirius was sure of it.

“You can give it to Cousin Cissy,” he joked, breaking the silence once more. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted to have a reason to call on the Malfoys and insult the white sheep of the family at the same time.”

He wanted to add something else, either wish Regulus good luck or happy Christmas. In the end, the right words never came to him and his brother walked away after uttering a curt, ‘Goodbye, Sirius.’

It turned out that getting rid of that diary was the best decision he had made in a while. James’s parents had also invited Remus and Peter to their winter house for a week —carefully chosen by the boys so that Moony would not have to deal with any furry problems.

Not even Walburga’s Howler managed to shatter his happiness. It had arrived one morning, while they were all having breakfast. Sirius had prayed for the ground to open up and swallow him whole when he had seen Euphemia’s and Fleamont’s faces as they heard the usual string of slurs and threats —fortunately, Prongs was used to those Howlers by then. For a very long moment, Sirius had also feared what they would think of him after learning he was a thief.

In fact, he had barely dared look up when an ominous silence had returned to their table. However, it had soon been broken by a new string of voices, only that time there was a mix of indignation and reassurance and it was all in his favour. Sirius’s eyes had been suspiciously wet when his friend had clapped him on the back and he had had to talk the adults out of seeing Walburga Black before they went back to school.

Even if he did not manage to find an excuse to stay at Hogwarts during the next break, he would not have to face her in months. It was a very freeing, hopeful thought. He knew that his little stunt would bring other, more serious consequences eventually, but he was not very worried about whatever hell his mother had promised. Hell could not scare him when he already knew what it was like to live in it.

#Harry Potter fanfiction #HP #Sirius Black #Young Sirius Black #Marauders #Prompt #My fics #100 Followers Celebration #*

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morningsound15 · 3 years

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i seem to remember you giving some podcast recs that i wanted to check out, but for some reason i can't find them on your blog anymore. am i mistaken? if not, do you think you could repeat them?

omg hi! sorry tumblr was NOT showing me any asks i’m really sorry idk when you sent this but yes! i love this question i love podcasts, and i think i’ve rec’d a few individual episodes? but i’ve definitely not made a whole post so i’m so down for this

idk what sorts of podcasts you listen to but i basically divide my podcasts into shit i listen to for education (leftist podcasts, news podcasts, etc,) and shit i listen to to keep myself sane (pop culture/movie/music podcasts, gay podcasts, tv recap podcasts of shows i used to watch) so i’m gonna give you a lot! basically my whole podcast queue list lol

i’ll link you to their online pages (if they have some! either youtube or a digital library) but most of them are on spotify i believe, a lot of these podcasts also have patreons and i personally listen to all of them through apple podcasts\

(under the cut because it’s LONG hope this helps!)

shit for education:

in a clump right off the top:

-- Revolutionary Left Radio - #1 essential listening for people interested in socialism, leftism, communism, marxism-leninism, etc. current events analyzed with leftist theory, great interviews, honest perspectives from organizers.

-- Red Menace - featuring the host of Rev Left, a podcast that mainly deep dives into leftist theory and texts (specifically marxist-leninist theory, but also mao, fanon, stalin, etc.) if you are new to theory and have trouble tackling difficult texts, this is the podcast for you

-- Guerrilla History - from the host of Rev Left, a podcast that looks at revolutionary uprisings from the perspective of those on the ground, using the past to help make sense of the present

and then some others:

-- 5-4 - "A podcast where we dissect and analyze the Supreme Court decisions that have made this country –by a wide margin– the worst country in the world" all about the us supreme court and the decisions that keep us strangled. great legal analysis highly recommend for people who care about the courts

-- Bad Faith - featuring former bernie sanders press secretary briahna joy gray and chapo trap house host (i know guys i know) virgil texas, this is a more accessible introduction to thinking outside of the american political binary. for people who liked bernie and need to figure out where to go next, this podcast might be helpful, or it just might feed your petty soul

-- Citations Needed - if you only listen to one american news podcast, let it be this one. with a focus on american news and how our news industry manipulates us into supporting imperialism and mass death

-- Death Panel - on pop culture and politics, particularly focusing on the healthcare industry in america and why it’s designed to kill all of us.

-- Decolonized Buffalo (youtube) - with a focus on decolonial theory and current events

-- IT’S GOING DOWN - with a focus on revolutionary anarchist, anti-fascist, anti-capitalist grassroots revolts and social movements across north america.

-- Millennials Are Killing Capitalism - i really recommend everyone follow the host of this podcast josh briond (@ jos.hau on insta and @ queersocialism on twitter) because they have been fundamental to my personal journey into leftist literature, their podcast is incredible and their pop culture takes are always fire. interviews, theory, essential takes on the news.

-- Moderate Rebels (podcast / youtube) - if you want to learn about international news/foreign policy from an anti-imperialist source, Moderate Rebels is the best recommendation i can give you. greyzone reporters Max Bluementhal and Ben Norton host a weekly news podcast that is essential listening if you want to understand what it is to live in the core of the world’s imperialist center

-- Radical Reflections - for an international perspective on revolutionary history, from a comrade based in scotland

-- The Black Sublime Podcast - for a black, queer perspective on pop culture, politics, oppression, and liberation

-- The East is a Podcast - for a perspective on leftist theory, history, and revolutionary movements centering people from the (quote unquote) ‘east’. recent episodes cover such topics as (including but not limited to) china, india, paul robeson, war, decolonization, palestine, iran, tunisia, and strongly centering muslim writers, thinkers and scientists

-- The Minyan - jewish comrades! (specifically marxist-leninist)

-- The Red Nation Podcast -- indigenous comrades (mostly in north america - USA/Canada). essential listening for anyone living in emperial/colonial powerhouses in north america. The Red Nation also has great educational resources

-- Useful Idiots - standard news podcast from people much smarter than me who hate the political establishment almost as much as i do. they have some really good interview episodes

-- Working Class History - some really cool episodes on important events in working class history! great episode on The Exotic Dancer’s Union aka the first stripper co-op in america

shit for sanity/fun:

-- Bad Romance Podcast - comedians jourdain searles and bronwyn isaac watch terrible romantic comedies and then tell you all about them

-- Buffering the Vampire Slayer - THE buffy rewatch podcast! they’re deep into season 6 at this point, but features great (gay!) content, buffy analysis, excellent guests, interviews with the original cast, and an original song every episode based on that episode. this podcast brings me only joy

-- Girls on Porn - a porn review podcast featuring only ethically-made porn, tackling kink, fetishization, racism in the porn industry, and so much more

-- GLEEwind - don’t judge me lol i like recap podcasts and this one has the right amount of fun with the right amount of will schuester hate

-- How Did This Get Made? - funny people (and great actors) Paul Scheer, June Diane Raphael and Jason Mantzoukas watch truly awful movies and then talk all about it

-- Keep It! - for everything in music, tv and celebrity culture featuring Ira Madison III, Louis Virtel, and Aida Osman. great interviews, always makes me laugh

-- Las Culturistas - bowen yang and matt rogers’ weekly culture podcast, also featuring great interviews and a lot of survivor talk

-- Popcast - i don’t like the NYT but i do sometimes like their music podcast, they review new shit, big shit, and all the shit you might be hearing about from the music world

-- Still Processing - again, do not like the NYT but DO like what jenna wortham and wesley morris have to say about what’s happening in the world

-- The Big Picture - another movie podcast! this one features great interviews with actors and directors, as well as takes on popular movies that i generally agree with (although way too much love for marvel movies for me)

-- Why Won’t You Date Me? - nicole beyer’s hilarious podcast where she talks to other comedians about their dating woes. surprisingly heart-felt, always hilarious

#anonymous #asks #communist on main #podcasts #recommendation #podcast recommendations #recs #reference #long post

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omniswords · 4 years

Text

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 1

because we all really wanted smitten!Luka so I’m making it happen, PERIOD. slight AU? canon divergence? where Luka begins to frequent Tom & Sabine’s bakery when his sister needs a pick-me-up through her first year in university, and may or may not have a thing for the new girl at the register once summer vacation hits. and tweets about it.

(yes, i’m still working on La Joconde! only two parts left :( but i hadn’t posted any lukanette content in a Hot Minute and wanted to share a bit of what i’ve been working on. enjoy, loves!)

at T&S for mom and sister and oh god there’s a cute girl i’ve never seen at the register

Post.

i think she’s got flour on her nose, and she probably doesn’t even know it’s there, and she’s adorable

Post.

send help

Post.

That’s the magical thing about social media, isn’t it. The cool, casual, even bored expression you sport in a waiting room or on the subway is a master at hiding away every all-caps rant you swipe out with your thumb. At keeping every moment you want to scream, excited or outraged, under lock and key in your chest while your fingers do all the talking. At cementing the lines in your brow and your lips while you broadcast how much you’re Gay And Dyingggg—and yes, you really need the capitalization and those extra letters for the emphasis—over the image of a kitten falling asleep mid-meal. The viral-video echo of a child’s singing in a big-box store. The pretty girl in the coffee shop with the floral cloth headband, the nude lip, the grey eyes that stop you in your tracks and somehow always seem to meet yours whenever you Just So Happen to look up.

It’s those capital letters, you know. They really do wonders for emphasis. Emphasis.

In a city like Paris, the hundreds of thousands of people you could pass in a single day would never know the intimacies they could stumble upon by happenstance. The ones you choose to share with a few hundred strangers, friends across oceans or friends of friends who happened upon you or lovers of art the way you love art, because the distance and the screens make it safer.

In Paris, almost no one knows who Luka really is, aside from a blue-haired busker downtown who sometimes frequents coffee shop stages. Or some guy who delivers their evening meals when they don’t feel like cooking. No one has to know. And he’s been fine with that for as long as he’s had these accounts.

He wouldn’t call himself a stranger to the internet. He hardly could; he’s a product of it, raised by it, like most anyone else his age. Frankly, he could go so far as to call it his third best friend—third, because his sister and his mother might fight him for not putting them first, and because he values them enough to put them there. But on the metro, he’s near invisible, and online, he’s Sort Of Someone. A set of hands and a guitar and strings of notes to pull in a few hundred admirers, and even fewer friends he’s never met in person. He doesn’t have to, he’s decided, for them to mean something.

And he’s getting the keen sense that they’re all already hanging onto his last three tweets. Or will be, if they’re not already awake yet. (He’ll never understand that—his body almost never lets him sleep in past eight, no matter how late he goes to bed.)

He has to gather himself before he goes in—which is hilarious, because he must have been to Tom and Sabine’s bakery at least a hundred times by now. Or at least, enough times that they know him by name and to save him a napoleon or two whenever he’s in the area. Is it really that difficult this time because of a girl?

And then she… whoever she is, she smiles at a customer, and it looks like utter sunshine, and almost instantly he wishes she were smiling at him. Just for a few seconds.

Yep. It really is that difficult.

With a flip of his stomach and one last post—all right, prayer circle before i place this order—Luka pushes into the tiny bakery just as the customer is coming out. He shuffles among the racks and display cases as though he’s in a museum, and given the care that goes into these decorations, he might as well be. Usually it’s Mrs. Cheng who’s at the register, humming along to some classical piece they’re playing overhead—it fits her, being so traditional—and there’s a stack of finished cake or pastry orders beside her on the counter. The orders are still there this time, but the music sounds younger; it must be one of those study playlists he sometimes finds online or touches upon when he needs some extra inspiration for his own music.

And there is the girl, with her chin in her hand and the flour still on her nose, absently twirling her pencil as she stares down at a sketchbook like she’s about to get into a fight with it. She doesn’t look bored there. Actually, Luka isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone so focused before, because even the bell over the door signaling his entrance apparently hasn’t gotten through to her. If anything, she looks like she’s toeing that impossibly thin line between mellow and frustrated, if the quirk in her lips or the pinch in her brow is anything to go by. Even from a distance, he can tell that her face is soft, that her lashes are beautifully long, and that she probably barely has to do anything with them. If it weren’t so weird, or showy, or even creepy, he’d probably stop in his tracks at the door and watch. Try to make up a song about her, for her, on the spot.

Luka takes a deep breath, readjusts his gig bag on his shoulder, and takes a few quiet steps up to the register, still keeping his distance. It isn’t until he clears his throat that she looks up, and he’d swear that he’s never seen eyes so… so blue, before.

He’s never played a song this color before, and he wants to. Instantly.

Before he can get a closer look at the sketches, one that would have been entirely inadvertent, the girl squeaks and snaps her book shut, immediately apologizing for not noticing him right away. Her fingers twitch a bit, but she smiles cordially in spite of them. There it is. That sunshine, just for him. “Welcome to Tom and Sabine’s. How can I help you?”

Luka wonders if that’s just her Customer Service Voice, or if she always sounds that sweet. Either way, somewhere inside him a cork pops, and warmth floods his insides, just for having heard it. Now that he’s this close, now that he’s really heard her, he’d think she’s only a couple of years younger than him. Nineteen or twenty, maybe. “Hi,” he says, as smooth as he can manage. Maybe it’s her first day; he knows some of the woes of customer service, even if most of his work experience has been in food delivery and not actually processing the orders. Maybe he can ease some of her nerves. “I was wondering if I could get something to go.”

“Oh! Sure thing.” The girl brushes some flyaway dark hair out of her eyes, twirls her pencil again, and taps a few colored squares on the tablet in front of her. “What can I get for you?”

“Let’s see…” He already knows the orders by heart, because in spite of their penchant for chaos and unpredictability, the Couffaines don’t mind anchoring themselves to some things. So much so, in fact, that if it were Mrs. Cheng at the register, she wouldn’t even have to ask. She’d already have the box ready. It’s just that he doesn’t want to overwhelm this girl right off the bat, even if he does have the feeling that she’d look even cuter with a blush. “An opera cake, a pear tart, a fraisier”—that’s for Rose, because he wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still over when he gets back. He goes slowly, gives the girl the chance to look for each item in the menu on her screen before punching it in, just in case she’s ever had customers who were less kind.

Yes, that’s definitely the only reason why, and it definitely isn’t because he wants to spend more time at the register, and has that liberty to do so since there aren’t any other customers in the shop and since he’s done with work for the day.

“Anything else?” the girl asks, her voice slightly more clipped now that she’s in the rhythm of it. She cocks her head, more at the register, and quirks the edge of her eyebrow. Maybe she’s more seasoned at this than he thought. Or maybe she just sinks into this mood when she sets to work.

He kind of likes it. Like, a lot.

But that would be incredibly weird to say, to her face or about her online, so he holds his tongue. “Yeah, um…” He looks around, narrowing his eyes at some of the display cases. “Has Mr. Dupain made any napoleons today?”

The girl’s eyes light up a bit, which makes him smile. “I’ll check,” she says—chirps, more like—and flits toward the room in the back like a hummingbird.

Oh, no.

She’s so cute. Too cute.

She’s back in seconds, before he has the time to agonize about it any further. “Yup, we have them. How many would you like?”

“Just the one.” Luka’s already fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. He holds his breath, card in hand, pushes it into the chip reader. “Say, is Mrs. Cheng… doing all right?”

The girl blinks a couple of times. Is it really that weird to ask? “Yes…? She’s fine. She’s just traveling—she went home for a bit to see her family. She’ll be back in… three weeks?” She trips on her words a bit, not in the way that she can’t recall, but in the way that she doesn’t want to be too forward in her speech.

Huh. Mrs. Cheng didn’t mention anything about a trip the last time he’d been here… “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you around here before.”

The girl smiles faintly, tearing away his receipt once it’s printed. “Well. I guess that makes two of us.”

Oh, she’s good. He doesn’t even know what to say to that.

She flits around the tiny bakery, different pairs of tongs in hand as she assembles his order, and Luka finds himself tapping out the melody of the current song against his thigh. “Nice music,” he says to make conversation. “You pick it out?”

“Uh huh.” There’s that clipped tone again. “Sorry, I know it’s kinda basic—”

“It’s cool.” He pauses. “Uh. I mean, the music is cool.”

The girl looks up from one of the display cases. It might be the lighting, or the distortion of the glass, but he thinks she might be blushing. “You… said that already?”

“Right—right.” Luka clears his throat, leans back against the wall with his arms folded, and resolves to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down. He knows he’s blushing; his face is too hot for him not to be. She’s working, he tells himself. He can’t bother her while she’s working. Still, he can’t help idly tapping the toe of his shoe, or pressing his fingertips into his arms, to that same rhythm, the same melody. At least that keeps him grounded. He only wishes there were lyrics he could mouth along to to make it easier.

He’s about to dip into his own mind, try to find a song that would do the trick, when he hears his name. “Luka?”

Instantly, his head snaps up. The girl is back at the register, a beige box with a gold sticker in her hands, and she holds it out to him. “Yeah,” he says, doing his best to stroll casually to the front and take it from her. “How’d you know my name?”

The girl looks at him, half-confused, before mutely holding up the receipt. On the bottom, along with the last four digits of his debit card number, is his name in tiny capital letters.

Oh. Duh. He heaves a nervous laugh, and on the inside, he’s looking away with wide, mortified eyes. He takes the box from her; the sooner he gets out of here, the sooner he can kick himself. “Thanks. Could you tell Mr. Dupain I said hi?” And also, could you tell him how dare you for hiring a girl who has no right making my heart stop on her first day working?

She nods, twirling her pencil one last time, and Luka’s off with a wave and a mutual exchange of, Thank you, have a nice day! And the instant the door closes behind him and he turns the corner, he sets the box aside, slides down to a squat, and rests his face in his hands, eyes wide and trained on the ground.

In Paris, no one knows that Luka Couffaine is even capable of being an anxious, smitten fool.

Once he’s churned out as many anxious, shaky feelings as he can—once he’s replayed her smile and the sound of his name in his head enough times—he pulls out his phone.

god, i hope she has a nice day. i hope she finds twenty euros on the ground.

Post.

#fic: chronicles of a parisian dumbass #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #COME GET Y'ALL FOOD LUKANETTE FANDOM #i have the urge to make a playlist for this fic but rest assured there is a lot of billie eilish on it

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delicioussshame · 4 years

Text

This was supposed to have two parts, but nope, still not over, so have more bodyguard/sugar daddy AU.

Shen Yuan had just survived the incredibly uncomfortable event that was his parents’ New Year party, itself having been preceded by the annual family reunion dinner, where they had all pretended nothing was amiss and no one was missing, when he was confronted with his newest hurdle: are you supposed to take your sugar baby out for Valentine’s Day?

Huh, yes. If you’re faking it, you’re faking it. That sweet thing you tricked into sleeping with you will be expecting a nice dinner, and, I don’t know, flowers and shit. Get him some fancy chocolate, he’s probably into that.

But it’s not like we’re really dating? It feels like I’m making a mockery of real people’s romances.

Because you’re participating in a foreign practise bathed in capitalism? There’s nothing to respect there. Spoil your boy before he goes looking for someone nicer. Wouldn’t be hard.

Hey! You of all people have no right to mock my romantic life. When was the last time you got some?

Bro! I’m trying to be supportive of your unhealthy mess of a pseudo-relationship! The least you could do is not kick me in the groin in my time of woe! You know I’m gonna spend that night with my computer.

Again.

Asshole. Some of us can’t afford to pay fit hot guys for sex.

It’s all a question of priorities.

Like eating.

Shen Yuan winces, and resolves to wire Cucumber-bro some money. It’s not his fault his trashy stallion novels haven’t caught on yet. It’ll happen someday. He’s not notably worse than his contemporaries, and Shen Yuan knows what he’s talking about.

Anyway, you can just ask him. That’s a thing people can do, ask their significant other what they want to do.

Huh. I didn’t think about that.

It’s gonna be a bit awkward to actually make plans, but that’s the best way. If Luo Binghe doesn’t want to spend the night pretending he cares for Shen Yuan, he can just say he doesn’t celebrate it or something, and they’ll spend the day like they do every day. And if he wants to go out, Shen Yuan will (urgently) get a reservation somewhere nice, possibly with a hotel adjoined.

Of course you didn’t. Come on, your boy toy is waiting.

“Binghe?”

“Yes?”

Here he goes. So what if he never actually asked Luo Binghe out and instead just expected him to follow along? They’ve been going on dates for months. It’s just more of the same. He’s just asking for input this time. “Do you want to do something for Valentine’s Day? It’s fine if you don’t, we don’t have to do anything, we can just stay home…”

Luo Binghe lights up, so Shen Yuan probably didn’t mess up too badly. “Actually, can we stay here? I would love to cook for you myself, if you don’t mind.”

…That’s fine, isn’t it? “We can do that.” Shen Yuan won’t have to pull strings to get a decent reservation this late.

But shit, he’s going to have to get Luo Binghe something, won’t he? If they celebrate, and Luo Binghe is preparing something special, Shen Yuan is going to have to meet expectations.

Fuuuuuck.

_____________

Luo Binghe’s food is delicious, of course. He can’t even say it’s better than usual because it’s always flawless. He would just enjoy it more if he wasn’t nervous.

It’s just… It’s a lot. What can you buy for someone you’re always buying things for? It must be special, because if not Luo Binghe will be disappointed. He must be looking forward to it, having prettied the place like he did.

Shen Yuan tried, but huh… it really is a lot.

Hopefully Luo Binghe won’t freak out.

“This is for you.”

Shen Yuan is thrown by surprise by the (perfectly wrapped) gift Luo Binghe slides over to him. Isn’t it Shen Yuan’s role to give gifts? Luo Binghe already cooked, why is he giving him stuff?

Shen Yuan opens the box gingerly, wondering if Luo Binghe bought him sex toys. Seems appropriate. Maybe it would explain the light flush on Luo Binghe’s cheeks.

…It’s not sex toys. It’s a book. A physical copy of Shen Yuan’s favorite web novel, with what appears to be a cover Luo Binghe must have commissioned from one of Shen Yuan’s most preferred artists, and yes, it’s signed with the author’s pen name.

If Shen Yuan had any delusion left that Luo Binghe didn’t know about every aspect of his life, he might have been embarrassed.

He doesn’t, so he’s just flabbergasted Luo Binghe 1) went through that much effort for him, and 2) is still willing to sleep with him despite being aware of Shen Yuan’s major character flaws. Shen Yuan must have done something really good in another life to deserve him.

…The book is the most beautiful thing he has ever possessed. It is possible Shen Yuan will insist on being buried with it. He turns the pages mindlessly, mouthing along his favorite passages. “…This author is a famous recluse. How did you even manage that?”

Luo Binghe smiles blindingly. “I have my ways.”

…Better not to insist. Shen Yuan closes the book and presses it to his chest. “Thank you. You didn’t have to. I’ll cherish it.” He’s going to have to make space in his best display cabinet, but that’s fine. He can just put that other book in the one beside the window, and that figurine on his desk instead, and…

He’ll just get another cabinet. He’ll be able to soon anyway.

Shen Yuan hands Luo Binghe a card. “Here, from me. You can pick whichever you like, or get something else.”

Luo Binghe opens the card. Inside are pictures of apartments Shen Yuan’s realtor sent him. “My place is small, right? I didn’t pick it for someone beside myself, so if we move you can have a bigger room, and a nicer kitchen and a gym within the building, but I bet you’d prefer we have one in the house itself for security reasons, right? If those don’t work, we can always talk about it with my realtor, give her your criteria and she’ll find something to your tastes. My parents always thought here was too small anyway. Money is no object, so don’t mind that, just-“

Luo Binghe kisses him silent.

…Shen Yuan must have done something right then? Go him! He knew his place was too small!

Luo Binghe hugs Shen Yuan to his (very firm) chest and pulls his head into his neck.

When he speaks, there are sobs in his voice. “Let’s make it our home, okay? God, I love you so much.”

…What!?

_____________

The last time Shen Yuan moved, it wasn’t anywhere near this hard. He called his realtor, she picked something fitting, he hired an interior designer who recommended movers, painters and other handymen until it was ready for him to move in.

This time, there are a lot more factors to consider. It turns out Luo Binghe has a lot of opinions about where they should live, included, but not limited to, the floor, the direction of the sun, the security of the building, the security of the neighborhood, the proximity of the surrounding facilities, the identities of the neighbors, the size of each room, the number of bathrooms, the noise level, the quality of the air, etc.

It. never. ends.

Luo Binghe also insists on getting Shen Yuan’s opinions on each and every of these things. Shen Yuan tells him he couldn’t care less, but then Luo Binghe starts crying and tells him he wants everything to be perfect for them both since it’s going to be their home, and Shen Yuan fold and just tells him whatever he thinks Luo Binghe wants to hear since he really doesn’t care. If Luo Binghe is happy, Shen Yuan is happy.

…Maybe Shen Yuan being such a doormat is why Luo Binghe gets too emotional. Honestly, Shen Yuan finds that hard to deal with. He knows where he stands, okay? He knows Luo Binghe doesn’t love him. He’s just a decent actor who is pleased with his current situation. Shen Yuan is a good sugar daddy. No one could complain with a sugar daddy that lets you pick real estate, right? Luo Binghe is just trying to give as good as he gets.

Still, it’s difficult not to react when someone like Luo Binghe claims to love you. Shen Yuan’s heart skips a beat each time.

A lesser man would be tricked.

Good thing Shen Yuan isn’t one of those.

#The Scum Villain Self Serving System #Scum Villain #BingQiu #bodyguard/sugar daddy AU

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shitposting-extraordinaire · 4 years

Text

College was a terrible time for me. And Animal Crossing was my savior. Throughout all the turmoil, it gave me this cozy reprieve from the madness.

As with any open-ended game of the sort, I made a project for myself. Making a story town for the dream suite - not a horror town, as many people try, a mystery. And reexploring my town after so long yielded so many details I’d totally forgotten, and some that still rang clear as day. And now that everyone's moved on from New Leaf, I think it would be fun to explore that old story.

So if you’re in for a long story about a forgotten passion project, click read below.

(Dream code is, sadly, now inactive)

For atmosphere, I suggest you listen to the town theme that would have been playing when you visited. The dream-town was accessed at 1am, so this song below would be playing softly over the tragic town of Opalvale. As this was early april, I invite you to imagine the cherry blossom petals that would slowly drift across the whole town.

youtube

My town was lovingly landscaped - and coated in flowers. This is what you’d open up to, with the two empty spaces being where the dream suite bed would lie. If you put on the four pieces of clothes provided, you’d get...

...your first hint something was up. Because most of the town was very traditionally pretty. With this being early April, the cherry blossoms would be in full bloom.

And some decidedly not so cute details.

Unsure if dream sutie villagers could tell you what nicknames they called the player, I had all of my villagers call my character “murderer.” But let’s get into the story proper. Not with the main character herself, but the house closest to where you would start. That would be the church.

One of three humans, Joan was the priestess of the village. If spoken to, she’d say, “Stay safe, my child.”

Inside was a traditional church setup, with pipe organs, mannequins as parishoners, and a few side rooms with no relevance to the plot.

But if you creeped behind the pipe organ, you could find a secluded room extremely relevant to the plot.

A memorial of some kind is in session. Black flowers for mourning surrounded by votive candles and offerings. The markings on the wall read “Tu Fui Ego Eris,” a traditional epitath. K.K. Lullaby tinks away on the gramophone, griddled with static reflecting the time passed. And in the middle, in a pure white frame is a photo of the villager Whitney. If you lingered enough, the lullaby would play a series of strange, disorienting triangle waves right at the end.

This would not be Whitney’s last appearance.

If you head up to Joan’s bedroom, there was one more detail - a map on her wall with a red X.

All that remains of this house is a basement room of no import. But related to the memorial room, at the top left corner of the town...

A small graveyard, with four graves, surrounded by fresh flowers. Three graves bear perfect fruit trees, and if you dig into the spot;

A grim detail. If you dig into the spot below the dead tree, where there is no gravestone, however;

A hat that, if worn, is revealed to be just a skull. Whitney’s presumably. But Whitney’s house is gone, she not among the villagers, you cannot investigate her house. But of the remaining two, one house is much closer.

Regina, the blue-haired DJ, and her home is full of details pertaining to Whitney.

The main room is a concert venue, with shirts on display showing various villagers at instruments. The mannequin is clearly Regina, but who are the other five shirts?

Most of the house is simply other rooms in the concert hall.

The basement is especially irrelevant, but looks neat.

The backroom, however;

This appears to be a writing room, with the whiteboard, some instruments around. There are four cushions around the room, meant to resemble documents. A fifth hangs on the wall, with the same pattern as the cushions;

“ＷＨＩＴ．ＰＡＹＯＵＴ“

Five insurance payouts, all in the band room. A band shown to have six members. And if you look at the photo in the memorial chamber, you can see Whitney is wearing a specific shirt that’s on display.

Whitney was on second guitar. Regina got one payout, leaving four to the other band members. To identify them, though, we’ll have to go to the final house.

This is Exie, and if you speak to her, she says in letters affected with accent marks and random capitalization, “I’m nOT aLloWEd tO sPeaK...” This is the village who, if the animals talk, will refer to as “murderer.”

Like her home exterior and outfit, Exie’s foyer is pontzy and extravegant. Exie’s home is the most interesting of the three for many reasons. The backroom is strikingly out of place.

To the right is a bar with melancholy music, to drown her woes.

And to the left, a study. If you rotate the camera, there’s a similar payout on the desk, only this one has been denied - by the killer, not allowed to talk.

Or is she?

The basement is barren, but most of the furniture inside is directly from Whitney’s default house design. Only now, there is money scattered around - wealth from both Whitney and Exie, presumably - as well as swords and skeletal models, foreboding symbols both. The fireplace crackles like static - perhaps it’s simply a memory for Exie? A look into her mind? And in her mind there are three mannequins.

One wears all the same clothes as Exie. One bears a wolf hood, Whitneys shirt, and white pants. Above these two is a scrolling sign with a heart pattern. Past lovers, now forever parter.

Curiously, there’s a third person in the room, wearing two things. A heart shirt - an unrequitted lover? - and an ever foreboding skull hood.

Exie loved Whitney. Someone else loved - Whether they loved Whitney and were furious as her lack of interest, or if they loved Exie and wanted Whitney gone, who can say. But it appears there was a third party in this crime. Despite the public opinion and denied life insurance payout, Exie was innocent. Perhaps the trauma led her to obsess over another - hence the shrine to Kevin - as a coping mechanism?

Upstairs in their twin bedroom is a chorus of singing lullaboids. And as you noticed, there’s tons of villager pictures around the room.

Using these pictures, you can see everyone’s default outfit, and figure out the rest of the band members who got insurance payouts.

Fang the wolf appears to be the vocalist. Klaus the bear was singer and lead guitar. Whitney on second guitar, Benjamin the dog on bass, Freckles the duck on drums, and Regina as a dj. Could one of them be the unrequited lover? A person furious at Whitney who also stood to gain financially?

Much of the town exterior is simply pretty. This extends to a well kept beach, with a curious arrangement of trees.

The same arrangement, in fact, as the map on the wall of the priestess’s room. If you dig in the hidden dig spot, you get;

...A secret of little relevance. Although, this can help in one small way. The graveyard is in the upper left corner of the town, bordering a small patch of land.

Barely a sliver of beach is inaccesable without a wetsuit, and from the cliff face you can see something has been buried. This is the only spot left in the town.

An outfuit, buried so long it’s gone to rot, a skeleton, and an axe. The skull without a body in the graveyard was disposed of here. You have discovered Whitney’s corpse, buried where no one could find it... save the preacher, who seems only tangential to the case.

If you noticed, there are five dig spots, one hidden behind the tree. The final clue, something left by the murderer... perhaps accidentally.

A single pink feather, small enough the killer missed it.

There is only one bird villager. A pink bird, in fact, who was a member of the band. Freckles, the pink bird who lives closest to the cemetary and body dump. The same color as the pink shirt representing the unrequitted lover. Who would have matched perfectly with the bright pink diving suit buried.

What happened exactly is meant to be for the player’s imagination. Freckles is the likeliest killer. But what of Joan? She knew the location of the diving suit buried. Did she simply bury it herself, perhaps at Freckles order? Or was the feather left to incriminate her?

Either way, the picture is far clearer than the simple idea that Exie killed her. Freckles and likely Priestess Joan were in some way involved.

Such is the story of Opalvale. What became of the band and it’s members, who can say. But the player, as the detective, has found the most important clues to the truth. The player can put the story to an end.

I don’t type this all because I’m boasting about a project I did years and years ago. It’s because this is a time capsule for me.

In the midsts of the lowest point of my life, New Leaf gave me sanity. To go back and discover this town was to discover that, at this point in my life, I still had a creative drive drilling away at my mind. Even in the mists of despair, I crafted a surprisingly intricate story in a game that was in no way made to house tales of murder and intrigue.

I share this as a thank you to the me of the past, who felt he had nothing to live for. This is a thank you to the me who found it in his heart to love this silly game and all his villagers, even as he swirled into chaos.

Even now, when I need a background town name in writing, I usually go for Opalvale. Perhaps with New Horizons, I’ll do something similar.

But that night is over. Opalvale will forever be the past. May the future be bright... and similarly decorated with wistful new Animal Crossing memories.

#Animal Crossing #Animal Crossing New Leaf #ACNL #Animal Crossing New Horizons #ACNH #Long post

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