#they deserve each other (pejorative) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

religion-is-a-mental-illness · 4 months

Text

By: Ben Appel

Published: Dec 26, 2023

In 2021, Harvard evolutionary biologist Carole Hooven stated on a television news program that there are “two sexes” and that “those sexes are designated by the kinds of gametes we produce.” She added that “understanding facts about biology doesn’t prevent us from treating people with respect” when it comes to “their gender identities and use [of] their preferred pronouns.” Afterward, a Harvard graduate student, in her official capacity as director of the Human Evolutionary Biology Department’s Diversity, Inclusion, and Belonging Task Force, tweeted that Hooven’s “dangerous” and “transphobic” remarks made the department unsafe for transgender people. The Graduate Student Union took out a petition against Hooven, and, since no one would agree to serve as her teaching assistant, she had to discontinue her popular lecture course. This past January, under duress, Hooven retired from her position at Harvard.

More recently, I heard Hooven speak at a conference in Denver. She talked about academic freedom and her dedication to creating a just society. She said something I believe: that the truth is the way toward true social justice, and that the truth is what ultimately alleviates human suffering. After Hooven left the stage, I tweeted my thoughts about what she said, concluding, “Yep, I’ll die on that hill.” A Twitter user, in a now-deleted series of replies, responded, “Wish you would then. And quickly.” Later, this person elaborated, “Cis white conservative gays can all d*e. Please do, no one likes you.”

This might be the first time I’ve been called “conservative” for voicing my support of the truth and social justice. Right-wing homophobia is nothing new, though the enmity for “cis white gays” like me from the other side of the aisle has sadly also become widespread online. Here’s a very small sampling:

“[C]is white gay men are the weakest links and idc who knows it.” — @ann_forcino.

“ur rave wasn't ‘100% queer joy’ it was a warehouse party full of white cis gay men who want to dance and fuck each other lmfao [...] “that's not queer joy, that's f^g joy.” — @Maxies_back

“Chelsea and Hells Kitchen, more so than other neighborhoods in New York, produce nothing better than prissy, entitled cis White Power pretentious gay men, who don't respect diversity, or the rule of law.” — “LGBT for Change”

“Maybe they were right all along and white cis gays really do go to hell.” — Jerry Falwell @obssdwmlp

“Behind every bad man there is an even worse cis gay white man.” — @ANIMETWTDNI

“We need to realize that gay cis white men are still cis white men.” — @pettypiedpipertake

“Maybe homophobia against cis white gay men is valid.” — @heartIwin

“Noah Schnapp is also evidence that gays will truly go to h£ll. especially a cis white upper class gay like i genuinely, genuinely mean that and i’m sorry if that comes off as problematic.” [Schnapp is a 19-year-old Jewish gay actor who has spoken out in support of Israel in the wake of the October 7 2023 terrorist attacks.] — @brat6z

“I love it when white gays erase the trans and black side of this flag [...] You faggots deserve to get hatecrimed to death.” — @daredevilshill_

Writing for The Nation in 1994, the gay playwright Tony Kushner argued that homosexuality and socialism are intrinsically linked. Homosexuals, he wrote, “like most everyone else, are and will continue to be oppressed by the depredations of capital until some better way of living together can be arrived at.” Kushner lamented the growing number of gay activists, like Andrew Sullivan and Bruce Bawer, who advocated a more pragmatic approach to equal rights. The radical contingent of the LGBT community has long pejoratively described these types of gay and bi people — those who prioritize marriage equality, the right to serve openly in the military, and peaceful inclusion in Western society — as “assimilationist.” Real gay liberation, the radicals argue, will result from razing Western civilization and its capitalist, cisheteropatriarchal system and rebuilding it in their utopian vision. Like the gay journalist Donna Minkowitz once said to Charlie Rose, “We don’t want a place at the table — we want to turn the table over.”

The thing is, the pragmatic approach won. Today, gay, lesbian, and bi people get married, serve proudly, have jobs, own homes, and raise families. Like black civil rights leaders who preached nonviolent protest and a politics of respectability, discerning LGBT activists took the long view. We don’t want to exist on the margins of society, they insisted, we want to participate in it. LGBT people, just like black Americans, are a vital part of the fabric of this nation.

But the radicals haven’t taken this defeat lying down. After the 2015 Supreme Court decision in Obergefell v. Hodges, which made marriage equality the law of the land, the radicals pounced. “You got what you want,” they seemed to say. “Now it’s our turn.” LGBT rights organizations, either under the influence of impatient extremists or in an attempt to stay relevant (i.e., donor-worthy), refocused their missions to a form of revolutionary activism that purports to fight on behalf of trans people but in practice agitates for a revolt against Enlightenment ideals, liberalism, capitalism, and even basic biology.

Every LGBT organization seemingly became an extension of a university Gender Studies department, whose purpose was not to produce new knowledge but to interrogate — or, in their academic lingo, queer — existing knowledge which they spuriously associate with “whiteness”, colonialism, and Western patriarchy. Alongside this, a new social hierarchy of disadvantage was erected, where everyone was in competition to be the most “marginalized” — and therefore deserving of resources, a voice, and power in the revolutionaries’ value system. According to that value system, being gay or bi seemed to matter far less if one were also white, cis, and male, and therefore deemed to be in cahoots with the oppressors.

In 2017, while I was a student at Columbia University, I interned for GLAAD, one of the largest LGBT organizations in the US. Not only had their mission absorbed this new orthodoxy, it had filtered down to the interpersonal level. On campus and at GLAAD’s offices, I was regularly called “cis” in a kind of sneering, vitriolic tone that reminded me more than a little of the bullies who called me “fag” in middle school. The oddest thing was that much of the vitriol was coming from people who didn’t seem to be LGB, or even T, but who identified only as nonbinary or “queer.” Many of the people I encountered seemed to be profoundly homophobic. Any gay or bi man that didn’t at least adopt he/they pronouns, especially if they were white, was considered assimilationist, right-wing, traitorous upholders of the evil sex binary.

I never quite got used to being eyed with suspicion by other activists for my normative, gender-conforming appearance, or the constant bad-faith interpretations of anything I said. The only cis white gays spared this unfairly cold treatment were the ones who made a public show of being self-hating — the ones who renounced their “cis white gayness” and frequently apologized for their white privilege.

It was alarming to be on the receiving end of such vitriol simply for being myself — for not shaving one side of my head, painting my nails, piercing my septum, and adopting plural pronouns. It was alarming especially because so much of the hate I received when I was young came precisely because I was way too sex-nonconforming (in fact, in middle school, my classmates would often ask me if I was a boy or a girl). I wondered if my peers cared that I had been mercilessly bullied as a gay kid, or that I had worked on a trans rights anti-discrimination campaign when they were barely teenagers. I knew that my volunteering for marriage equality wouldn’t earn me any points, since marriage was to them an antiquated Western institution and part of an “assimilationist” agenda. This attitude has become so entrenched in LGBT activist spaces, I suspect it partially explains why support for same-sex marriage among Gen Z Americans has dropped from 80% in 2021 to only 69% in 2023.

Last year, I got a little more clarity about this issue when I came across an article, also written in 1994, by Stephen H. Miller. The publishing journal, Heterodoxy, titled it “Gay-Bashing by Homosexuals,” although Miller’s original title was “Gay White Males: PC’s Unseen Target.” In the late 1980s and early 90s, Miller chaired the media committee of GLAAD’s New York chapter. In fact, Miller came up with GLAAD’s mission statement, which was to “fight for fair, accurate and inclusive representations of gay and lesbian lives in the media and elsewhere.” In the article, Miller wrote that he was “purged” from GLAAD in 1992 because he objected to the rising political correctness and censoriousness in the gay, lesbian, and bisexual movement. Similar to the cultural shifts of the past decade, Miller recounts how activist organizations began prioritizing race and gender (and of course, the Correct political views) over individual merit. New staff members had to attend “endless sensitivity sessions” which “identified white men (whatever their sexual orientation) as the oppressor class.” Suddenly, it seemed like there was more antagonism towards the “white males” within the LGBT rights movement than without. Miller, who described himself as a “political moderate who believed in dialogue with the straight world and a good-faith search for common ground,” found himself “shunned.”

The race and gender quotas that LGBT rights organizations began adopting, Miller wrote, included weighted voting that favored women and people of color. For example, after regional delegations of organizers for the 1993 March on Washington for LGB rights failed to achieve their quotas, it was decided that women’s votes would count for three votes apiece and non-white votes would count for two votes apiece. That decision — and the many others that have since followed in LGBT activist spaces — calls to mind some dark and creepy moments from American history best learned from rather than imitated.

Of course, this also raises the question: Who decides who is a person of color and who is white, and how? Will they apply the one-drop rule, the early 20th-century legal principle that deemed any American with even one black ancestor (“one drop of black blood”) as black? I suppose that would be illegal since the Supreme Court outlawed the one-drop rule in its 1967 Loving v. Virginia decision. And yet, I’m not surprised by these backward tactics. It was Ibram X. Kendi who recently wrote, “The only remedy to past discrimination is present discrimination. The only remedy to present discrimination is future discrimination.” Around and around we go.

Then as now, as Miller wrote, anyone who challenged this illiberal orthodoxy was “deemed racist and sexist” and accused of harboring the belief that “white men are the main victims of discrimination.” Naturally, Miller notes, such accusations serve to discourage people who sense this hostility toward gay white men from voicing their dissent.

Then after AIDS decimated gay and bi male activist communities, lesbian radical feminists moved in, and a “critical attitude toward men, male sexuality, and ‘the patriarchy’” became the norm. “Male solidarity, once a hallmark of gay liberation, is now anathema.”

A direct line can be drawn from this upheaval in the early 1990s and the divisiveness in today’s LGBT activist spaces, where “cis gays” — and, in particular, “cis white gays” — are seen as upholders of villainous Western cisheteropatriarchy and its henchman capitalism. These modern activists are sure to include “white” not only out of an animus against white people, but because they assume that all people of color are helpless victims of Western capitalism who, because of their oppression, invariably hold the “correct” far-left politics. In his aforementioned article, Kushner invoked Oscar Wilde, quoting “A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at.” He added that he is “always suspicious of the glacier-paced patience of the right.” Writing for The Advocate, the gay writer Bruce Bawer responded that he and so many others are “impatient with models of activism that involve playing at revolution instead of focusing on the serious work of reform.”

This anti-“cis white gay” attitude proliferates in LGBT media as well. “White Gay Men Are Hindering Our Progress as a Queer Community” was the title of an article published in the magazine Them. “You had your time — now, we have other things to fight for,” read the subhead. “Let's Talk About People That Aren't Young Cis White Gay Men,” a HuffPost article was titled.

I could go on and on.

A few years ago, I attended a conference for LGBT journalists. There, I met a young, white, gay writer who would go on to work for a progressive news outlet in New York. He said his upbringing in a Southern state had made him racist, but since then, he has “trained” himself to be attracted to black and brown people, and now black and brown people are the only types of people he wants to sleep with.

If this is the “progressive” strategy for combating racism, I want no part of it. And any liberal cis white gay person who opposes racism won’t either. This is racism, operating under the guise of “anti-racism”, plain and simple. It attempts to end inequality by inverting it and, in the process, is attacking the foundations of the principles that have enabled the remarkable progress our society has made in transcending bigotry and prejudice. I only wish more people who saw this dogma for what it is were unafraid to voice the truth about it.

Homophobia and anti-gay hate are alive and well as progressive virtues.

#Ben Appel #woke homophobia #homophobia 2.0 #anti male #anti gay #homophobia #anti white #anti gay hate #intersectional feminism #religion is a mental illness

26 notes · View notes

ash-and-books · 2 years

Photo

Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb: From the New York Times bestselling author of My Dearest Darkest comes another incredible sapphic horror.

When four best friends with a hunger for human flesh attend a music festival in the desert they discover a murderous plot to expose and vilify the girls and everyone like them. This summer is going to get gory.Three years ago, the melting of arctic permafrost released a pathogen of unknown origin into the atmosphere, causing a small percentage of people to undergo a transformation that became known as the Hollowing. Those impacted slowly became intolerant to normal food and were only able to gain sustenance by consuming the flesh of other human beings. Those who went without flesh quickly became feral, turning on their friends and family. However, scientists were able to create a synthetic version of human meat that would satisfy the hunger of those impacted by the Hollowing. As a result, humanity slowly began to return to normal, albeit with lasting fear and distrust for the people they'd pejoratively dubbed ghouls.Zoey, Celeste, Valeria, and Jasmine are all ghouls living in Southern California. As a last hurrah before their graduation they decided to attend a musical festival in the desert. They have a cooler filled with hard seltzers and SynFlesh and are ready to party.But on the first night of the festival Val goes feral, and ends up killing and eating a boy. As other festival guests start disappearing around them the girls soon discover someone is drugging ghouls and making them feral. And if they can't figure out how to stop it, and soon, no one at the festival is safe.

Review:

Four best ghoul friends, a music festival gone wrong, and complicated relationships. When the world went through the Hollowing, it caused certain individuals to become ghouls who wanted to consume flesh... however the world adapted and created SynFlesh, a way for ghouls to eat and still behave like normal individuals. now four best friends: Zoey, Celeste, Val, and Jasmine have all become ghouls and are just living their best life, Celeste ( the influencer of the group) got them tickets to a music festival in the desert. With a cooler full of hard selzers and SynFlesh, the girls just want to have fun... except things are about to get bloody when at the festival the girls realize that someone is drugging ghouls to make them go feral and bodies begin dropping. When Val is drugged they have to figure out who and why, and it does not help that some band boys have made it very clear that they think ghouls deserve to die.... on top of that Zoey has begun to have a crush on Celeste but having a crush on your best friend can be difficult if you dont want to ruin the relationship. What’s a ghoul suppose to do? With more ghouls being infected, and more bodies dropping, Zoey and her friends will have to find a way to get the cure before it’s too late and they all become feral or before no one makes it out of the festival alive. This was such a cute read it gave me Jennifer’s Body vibes and I adored it. The friendship and care these girls have for each other was so sweet and as the iconic scene from Jennifer’s Body goes:

So yes, I definitely recommend this book. It’s queer, its romantic, its fun and campy and its just an all around great read!

*Thanks Netgalley and SOURCEBOOKS Fire, Sourcebooks Fire for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

#book #book review #jennifer's body #ya book #sapphic book #lgbtq books #ya lgbtq books

40 notes · View notes

how-soon-can-they-kiss · 11 months

Text

A Soft Introduction To Something I'm Making

Word Count: 2159 T/W, C/W: Drugs and alcohol briefly mentioned, main character being beaten up, implied homophobia, swearing, using sex worker slurs (MC is not a sex worker), being kicked unconscious Notes: This is my own original story, the world and its lore is kind of shaky, so expect some things to probably change in any future one-shots. Kind of a non-canon, canon thing going on at the moment while I figure things out!

Characters: Dorian, Evander

Dorian reasoned that life was all about devouring. Either eat or be eaten. It was easy to be the consumer, taking people into the palms of his hands and his nest. They would always be attracted to his bike, scars, and especially his easy-going demeanour. He relied on the other beautiful people around him. Feeding off their outgoing personalities to lead him around while he picked the roses from their bushes.

Nothing else mattered as he absorbed himself in the bodies. The music was so loud that the bass made the glass coffee table buzz, and his ears faintly rang during song changes. When it came to parties, the drugs and booze were a plus; he frequently became intoxicated with the others, indulging in the same bottles until there was a pile. Nothing could compare to the sensation he felt while dancing and sliding his hands along someone's neck and shoulders.

Everywhere they touched felt like the summer sun, making him forget what it was like to be cold. During these moments, he was blank, clinging onto them and letting their hands melt him away. He never bothers to learn their names, preferring to take what he can and leave them to find another.

He desired more of his cake no matter how much he ate; something was wrong, and all Dorian could do was satisfy his craving until he couldn't feel it anymore. Nothing he did was ever enough, his hunger staying just as ravenous night after night.

A right hook knocks him onto the filthy, damp tarmac, where debris and grime have been crushed into the crevices. The frat house lining the alleyway added to the stench.

Dorian laughs as he reaches up from the ground, his palms scratched and littered with loose pebbles from the fall. As he glanced up at the large man, his nose spilt blood all over his mouth and shirt, his palm collecting part of it. His teeth are stained with blood as he smiles.

"How about supper, just the two of us? A working man like you deserves a nice little place."

His attempts to stand are futile, as each time he is kicked back down, the man’s steel-toe boots penetrate harsher than the ordinary kick Dorian was used to. He lays down when one of the kicks connects with his stomach, and he heaves, leaning against his forearms to keep the chips and dip at bat, his entire body shivering from the pain.

"Not such a pretty sight now that you're on the ground bleeding like that, are you?"

The man spits next to Dorian's trembling body, staring down at him as he gathers his breath, tears mixed with the blood on his face as he stares down at the asphalt. The booze raging through his system did nothing to soften the blows.

"Your brother finds my vulnerability charming. I'd bet he'd still kiss me with blood on my mouth." Dorian hisses and swallows, his throat feeling dry and tight.

The man calmly walks over, kneeling down to grab Dorian by his curls, hairspray crunching as his head is dragged back by his roots. His smile was long gone, replaced by a scowl as he stared into the eyes of the man hovering over his face.

"I’ve warned you before, slut." The pejorative rolled off the stranger's tongue smoothly, "I didn't care who you talked to, as long as you kept your soiled hands away from my brother. You don't listen too well."

"What your brother does is none of your business, in my opinion."

The man scoffs, shoving Dorian's face into the tarmac, gradually increasing the pressure. Dorian was punished every time he lashed back at the man, rocks biting into his cheek.

“Don’t go near him again. I’ve heard plenty of rumours about you whore.” He steps away from Dorian, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he pivots to return to the party.

“You kiss your mommy with that mouth? I’m sure she’d be embarrassed if you said such things around her.” Gravel scuffs against the ground, and before he can understand the fast-approaching feet a steel-toed boot leaves no room for negotiation as the rubber strikes his skull, and Dorian collapses unconscious on the ground.

When his eyes crack open, all he can taste is rubber, and he squints, the still dark alleyway being too bright before he fully closes his eyes for a few minutes longer, his body gradually awakening to severe aches.

Pressing his forehead against the asphalt leads him to jerk upright, his hand reaching up to touch the dried and tacky blood, moaning as his hair is lathered in the same stickiness. His fingers brush across the wound, the pain so intense that his vision flashes white. Unable to process anything, he pulls his hand away till it is again laid on the ground.

He stands carefully, leaning against the wall for support as each movement reveals a new throbbing and uncomfortable spot. The sun was rising, and his ride had long since vanished. He takes his time adjusting to standing, nausea increasing while he attempts to suppress it, staring at the ground. Dorian walks down the sidewalk towards his house, the taste of boot lingering behind the acidic sensation that’s growing on his lips.

Dorian took a moment to recognise the gate of the apartment complex before punching his code into the keypad and making his way through the parking lot.

The elevator is calm, muffling any extra noise as the doors slowly close. Dorian punches his floor number. He selects his floor number and leans against the railing. He couldn’t look at himself in the reflective metal, knowing full well that he looked just as bad as he felt.

It had been weeks since he had stood in front of the cheap plywood door, his keys jingling in his jacket pocket as he nervously flipped them over in his fingers. With a sharp exhale to ease his anxiety, he pushes his key into the lock and opens the door, grimacing at the smell of cooking food and the news playing on the TV.

“Expect thunder and lightning today, starting at around 9 and lasting…”

Dorian toes off his shoes at the entryway, trying not to make too much noise and hoping the newscast would drown anything.

He sneaks around the corner, dragging his hand along the wall, halfway to the toilet, and his chest feels lighter because he thinks he's gone unnoticed.

“Dorian?”

His steps falter and then slow to a stop as he leans against the wall. Everything hurts, and his head is pounding.

“A new rift opened this morning around 5 a.m., tearing Edoth in half, and citizens are scrambling to…”

“That’s the second cavern just today, how many do you think will come out?” His roommate's voice is quiet.

They both watch the live video in silence, people gathering around a massive crack in the ground and peering down into it. Some lie on their stomachs or go over with ropes in their hands, pulling humanoids from the darkness.

“I need to bathe,” Dorian interjects before his flatmate can speak again, and he walks to the bathroom, closing the door with a crisp click as news readers continue to speak over the footage.

The warm water lulls Dorian to sleep several times, his head resting against the wall. The steam moistens the blood once more, causing it to smear on the tiles as he shifts around. After thirty minutes, Dorian is sound asleep in the cooling water, bruises developing on his stomach and sides.

The door creaks open, followed by a sigh as it is fully pushed open.

Evander stands in the doorway, peering down at Dorian in the bathtub, taking his time to look over his chest and ribs, admiring the markings that complimented his physique.

Dorian crawled out of a rift sixteen years ago, his skin so black not even the sun could reflect off of it. He was the first of hundreds that day when a new species emerged from a pit of darkness, forever altering Cleo and the people who lived on her.

They begin as blank slates, all with similar markings on their bodies, with just slices of colour, indicating that they had some form in all of the blackness.

Evan was in his fourth year of pursuing his research-oriented doctorate. When the incident occurred, delaying graduation by two years. It shook the ground and caused parts of his school to collapse, briefly halting his studies until his lecture hall was repaired.

They quickly gathered around the gaping maw in the ground, and Evan was the first to notice a hand clutching and digging into the grass near the edge Panic sprang up in his throat as he rushed over, yelling that someone had fallen and needed help. However, his shouts died in his throat as he helped the person up, and all he met with was void. Their form was difficult to discern, almost appearing two-dimensional in the 3D landscape.

As he recoils, he wavers. From the grass, bright blue eyes peered up at him, and something so kind shone through them. Nothing could make him regret the day he sat down and smiled at the new creature. His voice was quiet as he shared his name, and the eyes squinted with brilliance in response.

Evan approaches the bathtub, crouching down and studying Dorian’s body more closely, dismayed at the dark green bruises. When he sees the blood on his friend’s forehead, his spine goes rigid, and he cautiously reaches up to push his curls to the side, revealing the wound on his head.

Dorian’s eyes flicker open, he grunts at the sudden presence next to him, the water sloshing as he sits up a little more in the tub, gently brushing the hand away as he yawns, his body shaking with the intensity of it.

“You look disgusting, you need to take a proper shower.”

Evan rotates Dorian’s head around, checking for additional wounds as he holds his face in his fingers, scrutinising every inch of flesh before making eye contact.

“You’re mad,” Dorian states bluntly, attempting to find a comfortable posture in his friend’s grip.

“Of course, I’m mad, Dorian. Someone beat the shit out of you and I haven’t seen you in weeks.” Evan scoffs, pulling away as he reaches over to a nearby cabinet and retrieves a washcloth, dips it in the lukewarm water and carefully begins to clean around Dorian’s wound.

Dorian hums softly, leaning into Evan’s palms as he holds his face again, watching his face as he concentrates on cleaning the blood off without scrubbing at the inflamed region.

The silence is soothing as Dorian allows himself to be tended to, his hair thoroughly scrubbed through. The water reactivates the sour smell of hairspray before artificial kiwi overwhelms and gradually washes it away.

“Take a shower, this water is disgusting.”

Evan takes a step back after lathering Dorian’s hair, wiping his hands on the soiled towel before tossing it in the laundry basket and drying his hands on his pants.

Dorian sits in the tub while the water drains, casually turning on the shower head once it reaches a certain level and watches the water splash over the tiled floor before draining down the drain embedded in the tiles.

“Can you stand?” Evander asks with a tone of worry evident in his voice as he offers his hand, leaning down to brace himself in case Dorian fell or couldn’t bear his weight.

Dorian gratefully takes his hand in his and stands with ease, the last of his grime and blood finally rinsing off, as does the soap clinging to his hair. Evander rests against the wash basin, glancing down at the tiles while Dorian cleans himself, using the wall as support.

He needs help stepping out of the tub, Evan carefully holds him under his arms and practically lifts him out, covering him in a towel, exhaustion evident on Dorian’s face. Dorian is enveloped in a familiar blankness as he settles in, allowing himself to relax against Evan.

Evan starts squeezing his hair with the towel, only getting a few good fistfuls before wet hands on the back of his neck distract him from his task. He looks down at Dorian, right into friendly and admiring blue eyes as his fingers wet the short hair on the back of his head, pulling him down to meet for a kiss.

“I love you, Evan…” Dorian’s voice is quiet as he pulls back, flinching as Evan resumes his drying.

“I know.”

#original character #original story #theyre gay your honor #original world #fantasy #creative writing #i hope you like it #Dorian OC #Evander OC

2 notes · View notes

batista12362585 · 2 years

Text

Really, like Jonerys Fan.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021168/chapters/66228512#main

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31505234/chapters/79837438

Sometimes, I feel disappointed in what the fandom has become. Hate stories no more. The fans, Jon Stan and Daenerys Stan, hating each other. And instead of blaming those responsible for these who are the D&D producers. They just attack each other in your posts whether they're here on Tumblr or anywhere else. No longer can one read any Jonerys story without the attacks on other characters coming out. I understand the hatred of the Stark clan in the last season, but it's toxic hatred, it extends to Pre-Season eight stories, even before the start of the series/books proper. It has degenerated into a toxic hate culture. Not better than the Jonsa, but they are at least more united. A little.

The next AO3 user, FairyDream, never approved of my comments. You already know him from other posts I made, where the so-called “Jonerys Stan”, which is more of a “Dany Stan”. He only dedicates himself to promoting and writing stories where Jon's character is denigrated. That added to the displays of racism and xenophobia against Northerners, and all those who are from the North. I wouldn't have a problem with this behavior, if they were just “fictional characters”, but when in his last story, he promotes male rape, he is a NO, from me.

Here is my unapproved comment, which explains everything I mean:

“ In this story of yours, while I understand the hatred towards the Starks now, more than anything from the Targaryen loyalists, the inclusion of Jon now bothers me. Because it just presents a sharp divide, as Jon Snow is both Stark and Targaryen. To hate the Stark part of him would be to hate his mother Lyanna for that, and it's a mistake most Jonerys authors don't seem to understand. also the fact that rape was committed against a man here, in this case Jon, who was drugged by Tormund and Ygritte, and such a crime should be reported. Instead, we worry about Daenerys, because her "feelings and emotions of her" are more important than the sexual crime perpetrated against Jon. This case, which should be aberrant, seems to be an indiscriminate display of indifference not only towards Jon Snow, but towards the entire male gender. I have a feeling that, if it were Daenerys, the sexually assaulted one, many who comment here would already ask for justice for her. Denoting her hypocrisy and her double standards. It's a dark time to be a Jon Stan. Like the Daenerys Stan they destroy all the other characters, just in order to put theirs on a pedestal.

Jon Snow's new TV show coming up. created by Kit and George RR Martin himself. It will further multiply the hate. Too bad this split in the fandom, the Books will never end, is possible with George Martin working on this show post-8th season. We'll never know what Jonerys would have been like in the books. And we will be left with all this eternal hatred within this fandom. Anyway, maybe this comment will be censored, since it does not praise the author, I just hope it is reasonable enough to understand, that it was not a pejorative criticism, but more towards the attitude that lately, populate within this fandom. Peace.“

That's it. The following news of HBO's “next Jon Snow show”, I hope it fester wounds, and make all those Dany Stans foam with rage, who have deserved it for their toxicity.

#jonerys #jonerys fanfic #jonerys no chlidren #pro jonerys #jonerys smut #anti-anti Jonerys #anti daenerys targaryen stan #anti dany stans #anti daenerys stan #Sick of this toxicity within Jonerys fandom #Just because you write fanfic doesn't make you a professional writer.#anti misandry #anti racism anti xenophobia #pro Jon snow #pro daenerys #pro daenerys targaryen #Your views on the characters do not mean that they are correct or that they express your opposite ideals to express hate to others

8 notes · View notes

buoyfriend · 2 years

Text

HC - Parenting Featuring Zenos

I am pleased to inform you that Zenos is a very fun dad.

Some slight spoilers for Stormblood-Endwalker! CW for pregnancy and childbirth.

He had pursued you for so long, each time finding your attention lacking until the Final Days had been averted, now he finally has you all to himself

Was not pleased to find out that soon, you both would have a new person in your lives deserving of your time

Immediately changed his mind when he saw you ill at the beginning of pregnancy

Absolutely fascinated by the fact that something the size of a fruit has you completely immobilized, doubled over a waste basket every morning

The birth was equally fascinating to him, thrilled as he watched his child tear through you to claim their first breath, certain that he had met another equal

He is forever amazed that this life with you could give him so much, that a third person in your home wasn't an intrusion, but another to completely know and understand

Zenos is, to his surprise, a Competitive Dad™

Has advocated for violence at your child's sports matches and is now asked to view from a safe distance with minimal commentary

He feels that formal education is a waste of your child's potential, but concedes that he lacks the social skills that they could be learning with peers at school

Nevertheless, he cherishes the time he he does get to spend with them, relishing each moment that they learn something new, surprised that each time he watches them swing a scythe matches the fulfillment he felt in that first, glorious battle with you

Slowly comes around to your way of life and is thrilled to travel to the Azim Steppe as a family to engage in absolute carnage with Sadu and Magnai

This experience has led him to reevaluate his own childhood, lamenting how little his own father understood him

Though he doesn't understand the valor and the kindness your child has inherited from you, he does catch the slight emptiness, the yearning for greater challenges that you both share and vows to never let them feel as he had as a child

To your chagrin, he celebrates his Tiny Beast's behavior in the worst moments. He cherishes his beautiful monster, never letting his father's disgust echo into his own words

He has been banned from providing relationship advice after you were called to speak with the parents of a child that your child attempted "glorious battle to the death" with after developing a crush

When asked "Zenos, they were both five summers old. Why did you think it was appropriate to suggest that your child...Oh, Zenos...'bloody the fields in search of the ecstasy of glorious battle among equals'?"

"I will not submit to further questioning on this, I ache with boredom at the suggestion. I will tell you that a beast cannot be tamed, only known. Only understood, only given what it craves. She simply was not the beast (c/n) was looking for, but they will find their equal some day as I did."

"You call your family 'beasts', can you expand on that?"

Zenos releases a slow, deep sigh.

"It is the truth, not a pejorative. When I met (y/n), they had been tamed by the Eorzeans, by the Domans, by the fools of another shard. They lashed wildly at the politics, the moral justifications, the philosophies that attempted to constrain me in Garlemald.

The freedom they felt, that we both felt when they finally saw my words plain, finally saw what chains we could break together! They accepted their truth, accepted their thirst for blood and challenge with me.

Another truth, while we speak so honestly. Upon the birth of our child, I saw much of myself. Only minutes into this world, tearing their way through flesh and blood and into life. Their first blood, their first taste of violence that begets satisfaction. They slept soundly that first night, much unlike other babes as I'm told. They slept deeply, knowing what I know. I see myself in them often, hearing my father's voice in my mind each time. I silence him now just as I had in his throneroom many years ago.

(Y/n) has shown me this...this vibrance in life that I had not thought possible. The absolute ecstasy of acceptance, of truly being known rather than shunned for all that is true about yourself. Every day, I would give them the same. I celebrate each thing they do, be it glorious or absolute folly. They will never know the emptiness I felt then."

#ffxiv fic #ffxiv headcanon #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv #zenos yae galvus #zenoswol #zenos viator galvus #zenos #ffxiv zenos #zenos x wol #ffxiv endwalker #stormblood spoilers #shadowbringers spoilers #endwalker spoilers

169 notes · View notes

blessedarethebinarybreakers · 3 years

Note

I have a theodicy-adjacent question if that's alright. How can I offer prayers of thanksgiving without implying that God "likes me better" than They like other people? For example, I often want to thank God for keeping my loved ones safe through this pandemic, but it feels weird when so many have lost dear ones. I've learned a lot about how to wrestle with God through your ministry, but how to bring your positive feelings to God without toeing the line of a prosperity gospel-esque mindset?

Anon, I feel you! Some point a few years ago I had a similar unsettling realization. I knew that gratitude is important not only for our relationship with God, but for our psychological wellbeing — yet I felt so guilty for thanking God for things i knew others didn’t have. Did attributing the good things in my life to God imply that God wasn’t with those who lacked those good things?

I brought that guilt and discomfort to God (and still do, whenever it arises anew). asked Them to help me sit with it, accept it, and then transform it into something more fruitful.

guilt transformed to motivation. discomfort transformed to commitment. what i was left with was an understanding that i did not need to stop my prayers of thanksgiving, but to expand them.

i take time to really feel and express my gratitude for the abundance i experience. and then i ask God to help my gratitude move me to a desire for others to experience that abundance too. I ask for guidance in how i can help make that abundance happen in the the lives of those around me and far from me.

___

i also make time for lament. many of us are taught how to ask God for things and how to thank God for things, but grief and lament are not taught. however, thanksgiving and lament are not opposites, but work together. they enrich one another. we need to take time for both.

a book that helped me embrace lament was Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark. You can read quotes and whole passages from it in my tag over here.

one of my favorite songs/psalms to sing/pray in lament is this one. The psalmist empowers us to question God, to ask why and how and when? and then the psalmist leads us to praise God anyway — to praise in spite of and with our doubts and our questions.

when we look at all the pain in the world — in our own lives, the lives of loved ones, the lives of those we don’t even know, and in the struggling pulse of all Creation — we feel all sorts of things. Distress, despair, anger, grief. But some of us are afraid to bring those feelings to God. We’d rather avoid the feelings in general, repress them, not sit inside them for a while. (And certainly, we should not wallow in the bad all the time.) Bt when we dare to assign intentional time to sit in those feelings, God sits in them with us.

And there is a strange thanksgiving in there, too — that we aren’t alone in the lament. We come to see that it is true that God does not will suffering upon any one of us — that the fact that sometimes i experience blessing while you struggle, or you find success while i go without, is not because God is choosing which happy few to bless that day. God really does will abundant life for all, and grieves when sin (individual, systemic, the rot that eats at this world) blocks that abundance for anyone.

___

in continuing to make time to feel and express gratitude, and then to make time to lament and to both desire and participate in abundance for others, thanksgiving does not elevate me above others as “better” or “more blessed” than they are. instead, gratitude reminds me of how interconnected we are with one another. In the Body we all share, “If one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it” (1 Cor 12:26).

___

When abundance wins out in spite of sin, we rejoice! When it is we who enjoy that abundance, our gratitude should not lead to smugness or self-congratulations, but to humility. it should shape us, move us to bring similar abundance to others.

A book that has really helped me understand that concept is Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass (which you can read online for free).

Christian texts have told me that the appropriate response to all God’s gifts is gratitude, but it’s Kimmerer’s book that helped me digest and embody just what that means. We acknowledge abundance, and we use that gratitude to connect us to the giver, and to others to whom that giver would also share Their gift.

Here’s one passage from her chapter “The Gift of Strawberries,” starting on page 33 of the webpage linked above:

Even now, after more than fifty Strawberry Moons, finding a patch of wild strawberries still touches me with a sensation of surprise, a feeling of unworthiness and gratitude for the generosity and kindness that comes with an unexpected gift all wrapped in red and green. “Really? For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.” After fifty years they still raise the question of how to respond to their generosity. Sometimes it feels like a silly question with a very simple answer: eat them.

But I know that someone else has wondered these same things. In our Creation stories the origin of strawberries is important. Skywoman’s beautiful daughter, whom she carried in her womb from Skyworld, grew on the good green earth, loving and loved by all the other beings. But tragedy befell her when she died giving birth to her twins, Flint and Sapling. Heartbroken, Skywoman buried her beloved daughter in the earth. Her final gifts, our most revered plants, grew from her body. The strawberry arose from her heart.

In Potawatomi, the strawberry is ode min, the heart berry. We recognize them as the leaders of the berries, the first to bear fruit.

Strawberries first shaped my view of a world full of gifts simply scattered at your feet. A gift comes to you through no action of your own, free, having moved toward you without your beckoning. It is not a reward; you cannot earn it, or call it to you, or even deserve it. And yet it appears. Your only role is to be open-eyed and present. Gifts exist in a realm of humility and mystery—as with random acts of kindness, we do not know their source.

...Gifts from the earth or from each other establish a particular relationship, an obligation of sorts to give, to receive, and to reciprocate. The field gave to us, we gave to my dad, and we tried to give back to the strawberries. When the berry season was done, the plants would send out slender red runners to make new plants.

Because I was fascinated by the way they would travel over the ground looking for good places to take root, I would weed out little patches of bare ground where the runners touched down. Sure enough, tiny little roots would emerge from the runner and by the end of the season there were even more plants, ready to bloom under the next Strawberry Moon. No person taught us this—the strawberries showed us. Because they had given us a gift, an ongoing relationship opened between us.

...It’s funny how the nature of an object—let’s say a strawberry or a pair of socks—is so changed by the way it has come into your hands, as a gift or as a commodity. The pair of wool socks that I buy at the store, red and gray striped, are warm and cozy. I might feel grateful for the sheep that made the wool and the worker who ran the knitting machine. I hope so. But I have no inherentobligation to those socks as a commodity, as private property. There is no bond beyond the politely exchanged “thank yous” with the clerk. I have paid for them and our reciprocity ended the minute I handed her the money. The exchange ends once parity has been established, an equal exchange. They become my property. I don’t write a thank-you note to JCPenney.

But what if those very same socks, red and gray striped, were knitted by my grandmother and given to me as a gift? That changes everything. A gift creates ongoing relationship. I will write a thank-you note. I will take good care of them and if I am a very gracious grandchild I’ll wear them when she visits even if I don’t like them. When it’s her birthday, I will surely make her a gift in return. As the scholar and writer Lewis Hyde notes, “It is the cardinal difference between gift and commodity exchange that a gift establishes a feeling-bond between two people.”

That is the fundamental nature of gifts: they move, and their value increases with their passage. The fields made a gift of berries to us and we made a gift of them to our father. The more something is shared, the greater its value becomes. This is hard to grasp for societies steeped in notions of private property, where others are, by definition, excluded from sharing. Practices such as posting land against trespass, for example, are expected and accepted in a property economy but are unacceptable in an economy where land is seen as a gift to all.

Lewis Hyde wonderfully illustrates this dissonance in his exploration of the “Indian giver.” This expression, used negatively today as a pejorative for someone who gives something and then wants to have it back, actually derives from a fascinating cross- cultural misinterpretation between an indigenous culture operating in a gift economy and a colonial culture predicated on the concept of private property. When gifts were given to the settlers by the Native inhabitants, the recipients understood that they were valuable and were intended to be retained. Giving them away would have been an affront. But the indigenous people understood the value of the gift to be based in reciprocity and would be affronted if the gifts did not circulate back to them.

Many of our ancient teachings counsel that whatever we have been given is supposed to be given away again. From the viewpoint of a private property economy, the “gift” is deemed to be “free” because we obtain it free of charge, at no cost. But in the gift economy, gifts are not free. The essence of the gift is that it creates a set of relationships. The currency of a gift economy is, at its root, reciprocity. In Western thinking, private land is understood to be a “bundle of rights,” whereas in a gift economy property has a “bundle of responsibilities” attached.

...

In material fact, Strawberries belong only to themselves. The exchange relationships we choose determine whether we share them as a common gift or sell them as a private commodity. A great deal rests on that choice.

For the greater part of human history, and in places in the world today, common resources were the rule. But some invented a different story, a social construct in which everything is a commodity to be bought and sold. The market economy story has spread like wildfire, with uneven results for human well-being and devastation for the natural world. But it is just a story we have told ourselves and we are free to tell another, to reclaim the old one.

One of these stories sustains the living systems on which we depend. One of these stories opens the way to living in gratitude and amazement at the richness and generosity of the world. One of these stories asks us to bestow our own gifts in kind, to celebrate our kinship with the world. We can choose. If all the world is a commodity, how poor we grow. When all the world is a gift in motion, how wealthy we become.

#gratitude #prayer tag #prayers of thanksgiving #prayers of lament #thanksgiving #lament #pandemic mention #braiding sweetgrass

79 notes · View notes

olderthannetfic · 3 years

Note

I get that there has been a lot of mostly young people harassing and such, but like... the amount of hate I see young people getting seems kind of hypocritical?? Like older fandom members are great, and yeah these kids probably don't know the half of it, but... I doubt the fandom moms were perfect as fandom kids. No one is. But there is zero empathy to be found, and all these people espousing downright hatred for kids on the internet. I *work* with kids for a living, if anyone were to dislike them it would be someone who is with them 24/7, but... they don't deserve this. Especially since some TERF or SWERF or some other conservative shit fuck got to them first, probably a parent. Idk. It's complicated.

“Fandom mom” is almost always a pejorative applied by somebody else, honestly. I’m middle aged and trying to get pregnant, and I would never use that dumbass term for myself. But yes, no generation of fandom is flawless. In the past, the m/m shippers tended to be more pro-kink simply by virtue of a homophobic world classing m/m with extreme shit, while the people yelling about ~problematique~ fiction tended to be overtly conservative homophobes. But my fellow m/m shippers were idiotic in plenty of other ways.

Having now spent several years hearing from more randos about the depressing shit that has happened to them, I find myself knowing a lot of 20-somethings who got ostracized by their entire friend group and threatened with all the material those “friends” knew because they had been friends. Even if they were shitty little bullies as part of that pack (and quite a few of them were), that’s no way to live! Nobody deserves to live in fear that all their friends will turn on them if they’re honest about themselves or that their tastes make them a future abuser or that it will be impossible to find another group of friends later.

The problems of ostracism by the other side are very real. It came up memorably after a bunch of the thanfiction stuff in the past and after Laura Hale fought with OTW supporters. I remember the conversations around how it’s important to give people space to back off from their more toxic friends without viewing them as Forever Suspect. All you do then is isolate them with that person you don’t think they should be listening to, whether that person is a full on abusive cult leader or just a persuasive jerk. (And the fact that those conversations were happening points more to the fact that being the bigger person isn’t the norm in these situations and never was.)

I’ve seen some of those conversations in recent years with that “support ex antis” stuff, but it’s pretty small compared to the volume of messages I see that are like “If I back off from my friends, they will hunt me, and nobody else will want me now either”.

I also pretty regularly run into 20-somethings who are much more ship-and-let-ship in the first place asking me where on earth they can go find some “pro ship” friends, and I never know where to send them. The fact is, all that “conservative Protestantism in a gay hat” stuff has its claws into their age group, no matter which labels people put on themselves.

I don’t think there’s zero empathy. I think when directly asked about it, a lot of older people who are actually paying attention to fandom drama will talk about the social forces in play and how it’s not every young person. But when it’s not the direct topic, people make sweeping cranky statements that are the age equivalent of “Ugh, men!” or “Ugh, the straights!”

I agree: objectively, young people don’t deserve all this blanket blame. OTOH, all the people bitching didn’t deserve all the harassment they’ve suffered, and overly general salty statements are a fact of life on social media. I’m not holding my breath for this pattern to improve any time soon.

I say 20-somethings because, in my experience, a lot of this is 20-somethings and not people younger than that. Tumblr discourse and a fair quantity of twitter discourse is a bunch of 25-year-olds fighting with a bunch of 35-year-olds. Or a bunch of 22-year-olds fighting with 27-year-olds. It’s old vs. young, but it’s not even all that old or all that young. I assume the actual kiddos are off fighting with each other on Amino or something.

People can be dumbasses, including about history, at any age. (Try asking your average person lecturing about strikethrough literally anything about anime fanworks fandom history...)

#fandom meta #Anonymous

61 notes · View notes

jaehyunspeachparty · 3 years

Text

1.18

warnings: This story contains content that could be problematic for one or the other. Among other things, the story may contain content about sex, rape, late pregnancy, relationship with a large age difference, and others. Just because it's in the warnings doesn't mean these topics will appear, but they will definitely be covered in the story. The content of the story is fixed and doesn’t change. If you don't feel comfortable with these topics, then it's okay if you don't read the story. I just write down my ideas here and I just enjoy writing about life. The fact that some things in life are not rational or weird for some people is also part of it.

When Miga got home, she saw her brother arguing with you and Jaehyun. "Tell me, why are you doing something like that?" You ask your son and your face was full of tears. You didn't want anything to happen to him, you wanted to give your babies the best life. You didn't want them to have problems with the police. Sunoh just folded his arms and looked at the kitchen counter. His hands were full of wounds, his lip was cracked and his eye was blue. He looked pretty exhausted that he could hardly be recognized. Miga was shocked because she couldn't believe that this was her little brother. "Sunoh, I know you do this for a reason. You don't fight for no reason. Did you want to protect someone?" Jaehyun was the quieter one in this regard. But you couldn't let such behavior go without consequences, after all, it all happened before. But Sunoh said nothing. "As long as we don't know the reason, you won't fly to Chichi." You actually felt sorry for it because you knew that Chichi was not doing well in Japan and she felt lonely. But you didn't want your son to think that violence was a solution. "THAT'S UNFAIR!" He suddenly shouted and his face turned red. "When you tell us what happened, then you can fly." You cross your arms and try to be strong, even if it wasn't easy for you. "MUM!" He tried to plead because he knew you often give in, but this time he pushed it too far. "Sunoh, I just don't know what to do next." You sigh and notice how tears welled up inside you. And when Sunoh realized he had no other choice, he hit the table and ran up to his room. At that moment the tears came again and Jaehyun took you in his arms. "Hey Mum, Dad ..." Miga came carefully to you and she could feel the tense atmosphere. "Hey Miga", you try to smile, but it was difficult for you. "What happened?", She carefully asked her parents and Jaehyun sighed. "He hit a couple of boys from your year or tried to hit them. Geon was with him, who then hid behind a car." Jaehyun tried to stay calm, but he was also worried about his son. "I'll talk to him", Miga said and you both nodded. "That would be great," you say quietly and lean more into your husband's chest.

Miga carefully went upstairs and knocked on Sunoh's door, but there was no response. She decides to come in cautiously anyway and she saw her brother lying in bed, the headphones on and staring at the ceiling. "Hey ..." She sat down next to him and looked at him worried. He looked worse up close. A vein in his eyeball had burst and everything was red. Miga saw the wounds on the back of his hand and she couldn't believe that all of this happened. "What do you want?" He asks annoyed and sat up. It hurt her that he reacted so coldly to her, after all, they were always like best friends. She confided almost everything to Sunoh and he actually confided to her too. They were the big ones who had to take care of the little ones. They have always been a team. "What happened?", Miga asked him and Sunoh just sighed. "Nothing.." "But nothing looks different." Miga pointed to the wounds. "Why did you fight yourself? You are Geon's greatest role model, you would never do something like that in front of his eyes." As Miga said the words, Sunoh turned his head to one side. He felt so incredibly guilty that he dragged Geon into it and was almost in danger because of him. "And what do the boys from my year have to do with it?" Miga had so many questions and Sunoh would like to tell her, but he couldn't. "They are idiots..." "Yes they are ..." She then sat down next to him and they both looked down. "They speak badly and pejoratively about you ... I was so angry ..." "What did you say?", Miga then asked carefully and she was already afraid. "They talked about doing things with Soori and Byungjoon ... They talked about it how you ..." Sunoh could hardly breathe, he was so angry. And that's when Miga collapsed. Everything she put aside came up inside her. Everything that happened in the library that night went through her body again, all her fear was there again. She knew she was going to get that around. She knew she was going to be the whore in this. "Miga?" Sunoh felt his big sister start crying. He didn't quite understand that and at first didn't know what to do. But then she told the whole story. She told of the evening when she just wanted to study and Soori and Byungjoon almost managed to rape her if Jaemin wasn't there. And then she told him the whole story about Jaemin and Hyunjin. She poured out all her heart and her brother was the first to whom she confided completely. Although her aunt Mia already knew more, she didn't know anything about the near-rape. "Shit ... I ..." Sunoh had no words. There was so much information that he could barely process. "Do Mum and Dad know about the thing in the library?" He asked and Miga shook her head. "Then tell them, or at least Mum ... she will understand and take you out of school." "But she'll tell Dad and he'll kill them." "They deserve that," said Sunoh then gritting his teeth. "If you tell Dad that you hit the boys because they talked about me in a negative way, I'll tell Mum about Soori and Byungjoon. Deal?" She wasn't ready to do that, but she would do anything for Sunoh. "Deal. And thanks ..." Sunoh smiled gently, but Miga could see that every facial expression hurt him from the injuries. "I'm doing this also for Chichi. I hope that you will finally become a couple." Miga smiled and Sunoh nodded. "Yes, I hope so too..." he confessed the first time. "And you really had something with Jaemin now?" He asked and Miga sighed. "Yes ... I was with him last night. Or when I said that I was sleeping with Dae, then I was with him or with Hyunjin." "Do you guys ..." "Almost, but then he threw me out. I think that was it now ..." "And Hyunjin?", Sunoh asked. "He doesn't know, he just knows that there is another guy too." "To me, Hyunjin sounds like a really nice guy." "Yes, he's really nice, a real gentleman ..." "You have to tell him about Jaemin ...", Sunoh suddenly said and turned seriously to his sister. "What?" "Do you want anything more from Hyunjin?" "Yes..." "If this is to become anything serious, then you always have to be honest with him." Miga looked at her brother and didn't understand when he grew up. "What if he leaves me? Then I have no one ..." "Miga, you screwed up. You have to stand up for these acts. You can't start a relationship with a lie." "Okay Dad ...", Miga said annoyed, because it was hard to hear the truth. "I'm just telling the truth. If Chichi would do something like that, then I would be totally broken ..." And at that moment Miga saw what nonsense she had done. She had just let herself be guided even more by her emotions and Jaemin was just there and she felt driven towards him. Hyunjin was always there, he was by her side and she was blind. She hadn't seen him, she hadn't seen what he had done for her. He was always there for her and she was making out with someone else. "Shit Sunoh ... when did you get so wise?" She grinned and Sunoh laughed too. "I'm just the guy on the other side, I know how you feel." Sunoh grinned and Miga was so proud of her little brother. "I'll talk to him ..." Miga nodded and got serious again. "Shall we talk to Mum and Dad now?", Sunoh then asked and looked at his big sister. "Yeah..."

"I'm so worried about our children. Miga doesn't go to school, Sunoh is fighting, Geon is bullied at school ... I really don't know what to do right now." Jaehyun and you are sitting on the couch and you were lying in his arms. "Geon is being bullied?" Jaehyun asked. "Yeah, he told me the kids were mean to him and Kiwoo also told me that the kids were really mean to Geon." You stroke your hair and wonder what to do. "Apparently a lot is passing me by too." Jaehyun sighed and looked out the window. "We should take a break and concentrate on the children now and not have another child ..." You look up at your husband and his look was sad but understandable. "I know ... as much as I want a baby with you, we should sort all this out with the kids first." He stroked your hair and kissed you gently. You stay that way for a while, just feel yourselves and you were really amazed how you can still grow together more after so many years. "Mum, Dad?" You hear the voice of Sunoh and you look back in surprise. You see how Miga and Sunoh stand next to each other and look at each other uncertainly. You look at Jaehyun in amazement, who also seemed surprised. "Dad, can we talk?", Sunoh then asked and Jaehyun nodded. "Maybe somewhere else?" Sunoh was unsure, but Jaehyun nodded and stood up. "Come on, let's go to the study." The two men got up and left the room. Then Miga took a step forward and looked at you with shining eyes. "Mum, I have to tell you something." You knew right away that it didn't mean anything good. "Come sit down." You became calm and make room for her on the couch. Miga sat down next to you and you start stroking her hair. So it was so preatty and sometimes you were so proud of her for creating something breathtakingly beautiful with Jaehyun. "Mum, I want to tell you why I don't want to go to school anymore." She looked at you seriously and you were curious what came next. "Do you remember when the party was from the drama where Jaemin, Dad and I were invited?" You think about it for a moment and then nod. "Before that I was studying in the library in school. There was hardly anyone. I thought there was nobody there." Miga took a deep breath and doesn't quite know how to tell you all this. "Jaemin picked me up because Dad was already there and it wasn't a detour for him. He wrote me that he would be there soon and I was on my way." Somehow you already had a bad feeling in your stomach. "And suddenly there was Soori and he was angry because I ignored him." At that moment it felt like a stone in Miga's throat. Her tears came and her hand started to shake. "And then all of a sudden Byungjoon ... he was always nice to me, I ..." She had to stop. By now your pulse was so high and you were afraid of the next words. "Soori was mad because I didn't sleep with him and he wanted to get this now. Byungjoon was so mad and said that I never give guys like him a chance. Then they said it would be quick ... and ... and ... Soori said that he wanted to pull my panties down quickly while Byungjoon held me ... " It was all so real for Miga. She still knew everything so well and she got flashbacks during the night too. You take her in your arms as if she were still your little baby and stroke her back. "They wanted to... I thought they ..." she sobbed into your shoulder and you couldn't suppress your tears either. "But then Jaemin was there and they ran away." You were relieved that it didn't come to any more. You had doubts about Jaemin, but now you were infinitely glad that he was there on time. "But now they say at school that I wanted that. Soori and Byungjoon tell everyone that I had a threesome with them. But Mum ... I've never slept with a boy ..." She continued sobbing into yours Shoulder and you hold her tight to you. "Could it be that Sunoh heard that?" You ask her cautiously and Miga nodded. "Don't be mad at him. Let him go to Japan. Chichi feels so sad and the two are so in love with each other." Miga looked up at her with her wet eyes and you nodded. "Yes, he's flying to Japan ..." you say gently and stroke her hair. "Thank you!" "Miga, why didn't you tell me about it?" You ask her worriedly. You brush away your tears and look at them. "I didn't want you to tell Dad, he would going to kill them and you still want a baby and I don't want to stress you any more." "Oh Miga ... never worry about us. We have to be there for you." You feel bad and now it was definitely the best decision to leave it with the new baby. "Please don't tell Daddy," she said and looked at you with wide eyes. "Do you want to report they guys?" You sigh and gently brush away her tears. Miga shook her head. "No, Byungjoon's father is the mayor." You have been working in women's counseling for too long and you knew that Miga had no chance anyway. There was no evidence, it was too long ago and politics was involved. "I have a suggestion. You're leaving school, but you finish it via online school. I just want you to graduate. I'm not telling your Dad, but I want you to see a psychologist. Okay? " You look at her seriously and Miga nodded. "Thanks Mum." She hugged you tight and you kiss her head like you always did when she was so little. Your heart ached that Miga had to experience something like that. You would love to protect her from everything. In the corner of your eye you could see Jaehyun running up. Sunoh ran after him and Miga and you look up in surprise. "We'll take Miga out of school immediately!" Jaehyun was angry and Miga immediately looked angry at her little brother, but he indicated that she should stay calm. "Yes, Miga told me. We'll see that she can do her degree online, then she can study on the set." Jaehyun looked at you in surprise, because he had expected that you would argue about it now. "Okay, yes that sounds good." He was a bit confused but thought it was a good decision. "I just told him what the guys said. No more, but that was enough for him," Sunoh whispered to his sister. Miga nodded and sighed. She never wanted to cause such a grief. "What if we get the little ones, order something to eat and watch a movie?", you suggest and everyone thought it was good. And when you got the other kids, Miga's phone vibrated. She looked at the screen and saw a message from Hyunjin. "Hey Miga, we just got back from a photoshoot and we're still driving for a while, so I want to send you a few lines. I know we both have a tight schedule, but I want you to know that I am there when you need me. The time with you means a lot to me and gives me the strength to continue. I know you are not ready yet, but you mean a lot to me. I just want you to know that .. . " "Shit", Miga hissed and she saw more and more what kind of mistake she had made. "You have to tell him," said Sunoh, who had read the message. "He'll hate me." She bowed her head and doesn't know what to do. She didn't want to lose Hyunjin, but she had played with fire. "Yes he will, but then maybe he'll forgive you too." Sunoh looked at her seriously and Miga nodded and it was clear to her that she now had to sort this matter out too.

The whole thing made you so angry. You think a lot about what happened to Miga. You knew there wasn't much you could do. But you didn't want the guys to get away with it that easily and you already had a plan. While the rest of the family was in the living room, you went out briefly and dialed a number from a very good friend. "Hey Y/N, how are you?" You hear Bambam's voice. You've developed a pretty good friendship since you became his daughter's godmother. "Hey Bambam, I have a question, but you have to promise me that you won't tell Jaehyun." "Um ... are you okay?" He asked more seriously. "No, I mean ... it's about one of your trainees." You knew that Bambam was looking after the trainees for JYP and that he also had the right to have a say in whether or not someone progressed. And you knew Soori was a trainee at JYP. "What happened?" "I know that it is important to JYP that your idols have a pure reputation and Soori did something to my daughter that is not okay ..." Since Bambam became the father of a daughter, he mutated - just like Jaehyun - to a Superdad and he doesn't want that any girl got hurt. "Shall we meet? I have time tomorrow," he said and you agree.

providentia masterlist

daddy jaehyun masterlist

#jaehyun #daddy jaehyun #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun imagines #bambam #jaehyun angst #jaehyun jung #nct #nct 127 scenario #nct u #nct 127 #nct 2020 #nct scenarios

59 notes · View notes

autisticandroids · 3 years

Text

ok here is the thing i love cas and i love dean and i love deancas but i do have to say that they deserve each other and i mean that in the most pejorative possible sense

#spn

18 notes · View notes

eclecticmiasma · 4 years

Text

Façade (Ghialone)

Melone struggles with the loss of Gelato and Sorbet while Ghiaccio listens to him self-destruct.

NSFW

Warnings: Some pejoratives, angsty

Artist Credit: Unknown

Melone winced as the door slammed, head buzzing. They always leave in a tizzy, as if he hadn’t explicitly laid out ground rules before the cocks were out.

No kissing, no missionary, no cuddling. Those were the three simple rules that guided his private life, and yet no one ever seemed prepared for him to actually kick them out when all was said and done. One more shit-fit and a slammed door and he might have to add a fourth rule: No Being a Fucking Pussy. Pathetic, he muses, peeling his thoroughly abused body from the bed to search for his laptop in the dark. He finds it next to the kitchen sink. A neon red “no-smoking” sign next to the bathroom door illuminates itself as he flicks on the light. He rolls his eyes. Fishing out his lighter he wonders briefly, what would management even say to a member of Passione for smoking in their explicitly non-smoking hotel room?

He answers his own question, disheartened. Nothing.

The cigarette reached his lips and he took a long, slow drag. Maybe if management were to come in and berate his blatant disregard for their rules like they would to any other person occupying their rooms he wouldn’t feel so intensely isolated. Instead they’d smile politely and inquire about his stay, they’d give him free gifts and free food compliments of the hotel, fearing for their lives that they’d piss him off and bring the ire of Passione itself crashing onto them. Those words of feigned appreciation spilled from the porcelain masks of society’s lowest dogs used to make him drunk with power. But after Gelato and Sorbet died, the porcelain cracked. Everything was gray. The hollow nature of humanity itself followed Melone wherever he went.

Unfortunately, it would always be true that Melone meant more as a gang member than he did alone. It was the few moments he got to himself that always pulled him back to that simple truth. His quest for power, for glory had failed. Two of his team members were brutally murdered, and not one of them could stop it. La Squadra put on their own porcelain masks just to get up and face the world each morning.

The only thing that helped him feel alive were his missions. Brutal five, ten, fifteen minute sessions where pleasure and pain wracked his senses and he could forget everything. He did it to serve his capo, of course, but more than anything he did it for himself.

A message popped up on his laptop. Ghiaccio, he groans inwardly. He set down the vile of semen he’d collected from the night’s conquest beside the sink. Risotto had certainly told him who the man was and why he had to be tracked, but Melone couldn’t bring himself to care. Taking another drag from his cigarette he took his stand and flopped onto a loveseat, wincing at the pain that radiated up his body. He already knew what the message said. You okay?

Same message, different day.

Yeah.

Without Ghiaccio, his own mask would have cracked long ago. He was the only one who knew that Melone was breaking, threatening to shatter into thousands of pieces. But he wouldn’t let him. The blue-haired Tasmanian devil was just as horrified as the others when they’d received Sorbet’s body. But unlike the rest of La Squadra, the tragedy only fueled his incessant rage. It was admirable. He was predictable enough to keep Melone grounded, and headstrong enough to make Melone think that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t fighting for nothing.

...

Ghiaccio always chose the hotel room next to Melone’s, though he hoped the blonde hadn’t caught on. Melone always asked for a room far away from any of the other La Squadra members, but slipping money to the concierge assured that Ghiaccio’s wishes won out.

He leaned his head against the wall, soft moans from the other side reverberating through it. How Melone always managed to get their marks back to his room, he would never know. But once they were ensnared in the lithe man’s trap they would do anything he asked of them.

They always did.

As Ghiaccio’s hand slid slowly down his cock, he took a moment to appreciate how much foreplay there was that night. Whoever the man was, he had Melone panting sweetly and begging for more. Usually, there was just a ruckus and some sucking sounds, and then Melone would order whoever it was to fuck him into oblivion. It was a nice change of pace, and every sound that escaped Melone’s lips had Ghiaccio’s blood rushing in his ears.

It wasn’t right, he knew, to take pleasure from Melone’s pain. Every mission left him exhausted and bruised, and lately he’d begun to grow even more and more solemn. Ever since their teammates died, it was like Melone had lost all his light. As annoying as his perversion and incessant flirting had been in the past, Ghiaccio found himself somehow missing the old Melone. He had become self-destructive in the most literal of ways. He hardly even ate. Even so, Ghiaccio couldn’t help how the thought of a flushed and wanton Melone writhing beneath him made him feel. Ever since the night he first eavesdropped on him impaling his reddened, abused ass onto some stranger, though that night seemed a lifetime ago, he was hooked. He made up for it by checking up on him as much as possible and making sure he knew that someone in this world was there for him- or at least that’s how he justified masturbating himself to his friend’s misery.

“Just fuck me,” Melone groaned impatiently. Ghiaccio sighed in anticipation, “No lube, just do it,” He nearly growled. Biting his lip, Ghiaccio stroked himself harder. He could only assume that the stranger must have complied, as Melone’s bed began to knock against the wall. A flurry of moans filled the air.

In Ghiaccio’s mind’s eye he saw the smaller man face down, biting a soft, white pillow and grunting from the force entering him. It was his own pulsating cock, not the strangers, grinding against the soft inner walls of Melone’s body. His white flesh was plush in his hands. He dug his nails deep into the other’s skin, making him scream in pain.

“Harder,” He gripped his cock tighter and quickened the pace, mouth agape. He’d do anything Melone asked of him, anything, “Harder!” He obeyed and thrust his hips as hard as he could, his own ministrations resounding throughout the small hotel room.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as Melone began to beg for the stranger’s cock louder and louder. Ghiaccio thanked God for whoever built the walls of that shitty hotel room. Melone made a high-pitched mewling sound that signaled he’d nearly hit the brink. He was on his back and looking into Ghiaccio’s eyes as his body clenched hard around him. His lips were reddened and bloody from biting them in pure bliss. Ghiaccio threaded his fingers through the other’s soft blonde hair and brought him in for a bruising kiss. Their tongues entwined and not a second later Ghiaccio came violently.

Panting for air, he listened to the stranger grunt out his own orgasm. He imagined what it must feel like to have someone empty themselves inside of you. A twinge of jealousy pulled at his heart, something he didn’t deserve to feel after mentally debasing his team member day in and day out.

Presumably, the stranger tried to overstay his welcome. He could hear the pair arguing and Melone telling him to get the fuck out. The door slammed and the walls shook. Ghiaccio waited a while to avoid suspicion, before finally peeling himself from his bed and grabbing his phone.

He sent the same message he always sent. A small bargaining chip to absolve himself of some of his guilt.

You okay? *all original work belongs to me. do not re-upload without explicit permission.

#jojos bizarre adventure #jjba #fanfic #yaoi #m/m #la squadra #ghiaccio #melone #ghialone #meloghia #part 5 #vento aureo #angst #jjbafanfic #writing #fics

21 notes · View notes

gabriellewebb · 4 years

Text

The Dark Wizard, The Witch and The Time-Portal - VI

Tom and Holly were walking near the female bathroom on the second-floor when they heard sobs. Holly noticed Tom rolling his eyes.

"Don't worry, it's just Warren... she's always crying around there," He lets out a sigh. "I almost forgot this year will be my turn to deal with her." Tom pointed proudly his silver Prefect badge to Holly, a faint smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. "I'll be right back." Holly hold a snort, watching Tom Riddle peacocking himself to her.

"Warren, it's almost past curfew, you need to go back to your dormitories," Tom said with a loud voice after knocking three times on the bathroom's door. The sobs ceased for a moment and then Holly heard some whimpers. Tom let out another sigh, clearly impatient. "Warren, I'll start to take points if you don't hurry up."

Holly thought Voldemort discovered the secret passageway to the Chamber of Secrets because perhaps he was just a pervert. If he had to deal with Myrtle during his prefect duties it made more sense. Maybe he even discovered by accident the small snake engraved on the side of one of the taps on the sink.

"S-sorry, I'm coming out," The bathroom door opened and from inside it emerged a face familiar to Holly, only this time as a living human being, not the ghost she knew as Moaning Mirtle.

The Ravenclaw witch had hair and eyes in a chestnut-brown color, thick glasses and some pimples on her face. She was also slightly taller than Holly, as it happened with most people above thirteen years old.

"Hello, I am Holly Portier," she extended an arm to Myrtle, causing her to jump in surprise like a scaredy-cat. "Nice to meet you." Holly opened a warm smile at her.

Myrtle stared at Holly like she just grown a second head, gaping like a fish out of water and clearly surprised with someone being so nice to her. Myrtle seemed more nervous by Holly's presence than Tom's. She didn't take Holly's hands, too shy, but she nodded to her, very tense, and burst out towards the stairs, in the direction of the Ravenclaw Tower.

Of course Mirtle would be more skittish alive than dead, being constantly bullied and mocked as Holly knew she was from the histories the ghost told her. She was more determined than ever to gain Mirtle’s trust and protect her from now on. Not only from the bullies but also from the death stare of Salazar’s basilisk.

It took Holly a long time at Hogwarts to befriend the sensible ghost, who was easily offended. They grew pretty close on Holly's fourth year during the Triwizard Tournament, while the majority of Hogwarts students treated Holly like an outcast, not for the first time. Even Ron turned his back on her.

Holly mused by the fact she only seemed truly welcomed by outcasts like Hermione, Hagrid, Lupin, Sirius, Myrtle, Luna... People's heart were very flickering and she was aware of this better than anyone else. She was the heroine of the magical world until they discovered she was a parselmouth. After that, it got worse year by year. From world's savior, she became a liar and a fraud in the eyes of the wizarding community.

That's why she was truly loyal to the ones who never left her side. Ghost or not, Myrtle was one of them, comforting Holly on multiple occasions.

"Don't approach her, she's a mudblood." Tom stated in a cold tone, interrupting the chain of Holly's thoughts.

"I don't like this name," Holly stared up at him, not concerned at all in hiding the disgust on her face. "What's the problem if she's a muggleborn?" Holly emphasized the last word, as if challenging him to say the pejorative term instead. Tom raised an eyebrow to her.

"Because she is lesser than any of us," Tom said with a scowl in his handsome face. He straightened his spine and looked down at her defiantly. "Unless you are a mudblood too, then maybe you two deserve each other." He spatted the 'm-word' with repugnance. In a way Holly didn’t expect young Voldemort start showing his true colors to her so soon.

"If she was blessed with magic even without magical parents, I think this makes her more special than any pure-blood I know of," Holly lifted up her her chin locking her eyes with his, not intimidated at all by his height.

Tom opened his mouth to quip, but he closed it and stared her in silence for a few seconds. Then, his brows furrowed. "I never considered it by this point of view," He sounded genuine and step back from her, seeming thoughtful for a moment. "Anyway, the people in our House don't like muggles or mudbloods. They are scum and it's better if you step cautiously or you will be rejected." He turned to an oppressive stance, his face a little closer to hers. " I’ll be honest with you, the other Houses don't like us, Snakes. The last thing you’ll want is to be a loner in Slytherin," He stared intently at her eyes and then all over her face before locking eyes with her again. "You will want people watching your back," He looked down her lips for a fleeting moment then stepped back from her.

Fury coiled inside Holly's body watching the young version of her Nemesis trying to intimidate her. She gave a step forward lifting her chin to him again. "Lucky me that I’m perfectly able to protect myself." She put her hand back inside the pocket on her robe where her wand was. That gesture made Tom breath out a chuckle, his dark eyes flashing with awareness. "Better alone than in bad company," She eyed him head to toe with a sneer.

Tom’s eyes twinkled with mirth, he pressed his lips together to hold a smile as if actually endeared by her anger. Holly suddenly felt like a puppy dog trying to intimidate a dangerous predator and that made her even more furious. She was about to hex him when he finally spoke.

"You clearly don't have the slightest idea of what you are talking about," Then, he opened a mocking smile. "Or perhaps the Hat should indeed have put you in Gryffindor... you surely talk big, trying to seem brave and all... but you only look pitiable." Holly gasped, outraged, making his smile widens. "Acting like that you won't last a week in Slytherin."

Holly pressed her index finger on his chest. "You know nothing about me!" Tom clenched his jaw with the sudden physical contact. His smile faded and his gaze burned on hers in a stormy anger.

Holly was playing with fire.

"Don't push your luck," He gave a step back with a cold expression. "I am the last person you’ll want as enemy." Holly couldn't contain the chuckle that come out of her. That made Tom narrow his eyes.

Holly knew better than anyone the bitter truth about his last statement. She glared intently at his dark orbes. "I can say the same," Their eyes remained locked and unblinkingly for a long moment. Obsidian fixed on emerald. Witch and wizard scrutinizing each other, searching for any sign of weakness, studying quietly their opponent. Tom was the first to break the silence.

"Why are you a mudblood defender? Are you one of them or not?" He asked with a serene mask, but Holly could feel the intensity of his rage. She knew Voldemort hated muggles, maybe because his father was one of them.

"Why do you care? Afraid to be my declared enemy?” Holly's brows furrowed deeper at Tom, and for her surprise, he breathed a laugh. This jerk isn't taking her seriously.

"If you are one of them, better keep that secret to yourself," He had a wolfish smirk. Before he could complement whatever else he wanted to say, the tiny witch interrupted him.

"Talking by self-experience, Riddle?" She said his surname as if savoring the sensation to throw his own prejudice against him. His expression darkened instantly into one of raw fury. Holly just broke his mask and even in his handsome features Tom could look pretty scared when angered. She faced the Diary before but he never looked as furious as Tom was right now. She felt a shiver running down her spine.

"I'm. Not. A. Mudblood." He spat the words at her with gritted teeth, his nose almost touching hers. His sudden proximity with his face contorted in fury made she recall the night Voldemort got his body back at the cemetery, how he got close and mocked her with that horrendous snake-like face when she couldn't move. Her breath faltered and Tom clearly noticed the fear that crossed her eyes. He gave her a smug smirk of victory, misreading the situation completely.

Holly let him thought he succeeded into making her terrified of him, realizing just now how foolish she was being, pissing off baby Voldemort when she was supposed to befriend him while his soul wasn't tainted beyond repair. She couldn't condemn a person who wasn't guilty of any crime yet.

At least anything related with Myrtle’s death, Holly actually didn't know the extension of Tom Riddle's sins or if he could be redeemed. She had to observe his actions and give him the benefit of doubt for now.

At the moment Holly wasn’t in position to judge even young Voldemort. Not after using the Cruciatus curse on Bellatrix. Holly was aware how easy was to slip in a path that could be of no return. After using an Unforgivable on the witch who murdered her godfather, was Holly now beyond redemption too? Her soul had a small tinge of darkness after her actions and that urged her to at least try to understand better the reasons that made Tom Riddle pursue the darkness that would transform him on the dangerous Lord Voldemort.

Holly recoiled from him. Trying to change the tension in the air she breathed in and out to calm herself. Riddle observed her in silence.

"What would change for you if you were just a muggleborn?" The witch finally asked after thinking carefully. "Why blood status matters so much as long as magic can be performed?"

His expression softened just a little. Holly didn't know, but she was the first person who made Tom see the situation of muggleborns by other points of view. It took him a few seconds before he finally answered her.

"I think you made a valid point about muggleborns." Maybe he was trying to be diplomatic, however, it was the first time he didn't used the term 'mudblood' in front of her. "But I still hate muggles with all my heart and nothing you say can change my mind." He sneered. She knew his disdain wasn't direct at her this time.

"Why do you hate muggles so much?" Holly looked up at him with her bright emerald eyes. Her expression was one of pure curiosity, not criticism. That made Tom feel a little more at ease to continue their conversation.

"I think you have no idea how cruel muggles can be with people they consider different from them," His eyes were filled with bitterness and anger.

Holly was under the impression that his childhood was as shittier as hers. If it was the case she could relate with his situation.

"Actually I know pretty well, I was raised by muggles." Tom was caught off-guard by her statement, his brows furrowing. "And they were despicable. The worst kind of people, if you ask me," She flashed him a wry smile," they were very bad to me, I'm glad I'll never see them again."

After her display of sincerity it was like the atmosphere between them shifted completely. Tom's lips tugged on a smirk. "So we share the same opinions about muggles, at least?" His eyes bored into hers with a renewed intensity. That awakened conflicted thoughts and feelings inside her heart.

She hated the Dursleys as much as most of the muggles she met until she was eleven. No adult ever cared about her and the visible abuse she suffered. The children bullied and tormented her. Tom's eyes scrutinized her face. He had a sympathetic smirk, as if well aware about the torments she experienced.

"I don't hate all of them," Holly finally said in a faltering voice. She swallowed a lump on her throat before she could complement. "My best friend was a muggleborn and their parents were good people... also my grandparents by my mother side..." Tom's eyes narrowed with her revelation. "They died and I never met them, but I knew my mother was a good person and I think they were too," Unlike her aunt Petunia, who was her mother's sister and a muggle she hated with all her heart.

"My mother and my best friend were muggleborns," Holly repeated. "And I am very proud of them... they were brilliant." Her breath was a little shaken in her last sentence. She held the air in her lungs, trying to fight back tears that were threatening to roll from her eyes.

Talking about Hermione as someone from her past made her chest tighten. She just talked to her a few hours ago and never could imagine it would took decades to see her again, as a complete stranger, IF she didn’t fail on her attempt to stop Voldemort from raising as a Dark Lord.

Holly consciously made her choice about coming back to the past, but just now the full weight of her resolution hit her. And how cruel and lonely it was.

Holly was truly alone and on the best scenario, where she is able to save the world and the future of her loved ones, nobody will know who she really is. She will never have the same bond with Hermione as before, or with any other of her friends and family. The bond of the first friendship, first experiences together at Hogwarts, the adventures, the shared secrets and even the bad moments.

All gone.

Achieving success, Holly would be from now on the lone bearer of memories that never happened in this timeline — and probably never will.

If she ever meet James and Lily one day, she won't be able to receive a hug from them as parents because she isn't their daughter in this timeline and will never be, and even if hypothetically another Holly Potter came into existence, it won’t be herself but a whole different being with different experiences and memories. Sirius won't be her godfather. Lupin won't be the Defense Against Dark Arts professor who teach her how to produce a Patronus. Snape won't be her potions mentor. Hermione won’t be her best friend or roommate at Hogwarts. They won't be able to have girl's talk as teenagers, sharing their experiences about boys or their first kisses… learning new spells together and discovering things. If she ever meet everyone will be as a full grown adult and there will be a wall between all of them, because she won’t ever be able to replicate the same type of relationship she had with them originally.

Her best friend wasn’t dead, she wasn’t even born yet, it was like Hermione was deceased to Holly in a certain way. All her friends and family truly gone. Holly is now in a moment in space and time where she doesn’t belong. Of course there is still a faint hope of a glorious future where the people she love will be alive and happy, but her sudden realization made Holly feel a void in her chest.

Holly felt more lonely than any of the times she was locked as a child inside the dark cupboard under the stairs.

A heavy hand squeezed her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. "Hey, are you okay?" Tom stared at her, more puzzled than concerned. Her vision a little blurry.

"I'm fine, sorry, I got distracted..." Holly started to walk again towards the dungeons, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands. Tom just followed silently, until he was by her side.

'I prefer the people I love alive and happy, even if they never know truly who I am.' She thought in resignation.

Tom was brooding by Holly’s side. She only told him about a muggleborn mother, so it was likely her father was a wizard. If she was raised by muggles, the witch was possibly an orphan just like him. Her father can be deceased like her mother appeared to be, or just absent.

He had no idea if the girl was a powerful witch or just a show-off. Tom was more inclined to believe Holly Portier had lots of hardships in her past, because she was quick to drawn her wand and wasn't easily intimidated. Of course she could just be an idiot, but she actually raised more questions inside his mind. The most important of all, how the hell she got sorted into Slytherin?

She seemed an easy person to read or at least someone who couldn’t mask her emotions. A mudblood sympathizer who seems to speak her mind and doesn't seem to care about external appearances or to be alone by herself. A tiny witch who isn't afraid to oppose someone twice her size and also Prefect of her own House who could bring her into real trouble. As a hatstall she was more like a typical Gryffindor — acting before thinking or without care about the consequences — than a Slytherin.

"What classes you'll be taking?" Tom asked after a long silence, they both near the entrance of Slytherin Common Room. Maybe he could find a few answers if knowing better her interests.

"Muggle Studies is the only one I'm not taking." Holly answered almost in auto-pilot, still looking lost in thought."What are the ones you are taking?"

"Same as you. I considered taking Muggle Studies on my third year just to see it by the perspective of the wizarding society, but I had enough of muggles for an entire life," Holly chuckled with his comment as if amazed by an internal joke only known by her. (He had no idea Holly’s best friend had a similar train of thought even being a muggleborn.)

"So, you must be a bookworm." Holly said, amused.

"We both are doing a lot of subjects... usually the other students just pick two or three electives." He smirked to her. "Pot, meet kettle."

The witch’s ears gained a tone of pink and she looked shyly at the floor.

"What are your favorites subjects?" Tom asked her with sincere interest.

"Potions, Defense Against Dark Arts and Transfiguration. But I consider myself very good on Charms too."

Tom narrowed his eyes, a small frown on his eyebrows. "Same as me... maybe I can teach you a thing or two," He said teasingly, showing her a haughty grin.

"Good for you, I'll probably suffer on History of Magic and Herbology... maybe in Divination too, but who knows?" The witch shrugged. Suddenly she looked up at him with a mischievous expression, as if wanting to taunt him. "So, are you trying to be the greatest wizard of all time too?" Holly seemed to struggle to suppress a chuckle with the expression of surprise he didn’t hide. "Maybe I can guard you a seat for the second position." She said in a provocative tone.

"We shall see." Tom gave her a cocky smile and a wink.

The tiny witch widened her eyes and her face flushed red as the color of the Lions, she averted his eyes nervously, looking down at the floor instead. Tom had to bit the inside of his cheeks to not laugh with her reaction. She was so bold and brave confronting him just a few minutes ago and with a small tease of his the little lioness got timid as a mouse.

"We arrived," Tom told the password and the entrance to the Common Room was revealed behind a bare stretch of stone wall.

The room was strangely cozy, considering it was a dungeon, with greenish illumination and expensive furniture. The room had rough stone walls near the entrance and in the middle part, with small round windows. The deepest part of the room had glass walls, like a gigantic aquarium. Holly knew they were under the lake and the sight was beautiful and very relaxing. The only time she entered the common room, was on her second-year and she was so nervous, polyjuiced like Crabbe, that she didn't pay any attention to the place.

There were just a few older students reading on the tables or on the couches. Tom pointed her the direction of the girls' bedchambers, and told her 'goodnight'. It was inside a large corridor, seven big doors on each side, like prison cells, one for each year. The girls' side was the left. Holly was curious about how worked the spells that prevented boys from visiting the girls' chambers. On Gryffindor, the staircase turned into a stone slide if a boy stepped on it.

When she arrived at the Girls' Dormitory, three of her new classmates were talking, already on her sleeping gowns. Two of them on the same bed, a blond chubby girl brushing the hair of the prefect, who seemed pretty well and talkative. On the other bed was a beautiful witch with dark-brown wavy hair and light-gray eyes. She was the only one who smirked at Holly, her eyes enigmatic. The tiny witch greeted them all shyly and darted to the only bed that had a big trunk by its side. She heard water running inside the bathroom, so probably one of her roommates was taking a bath.

Holly opened her trunk to look her new belongings. She didn't noticed the dark-haired witch observing her actions with interest, while the other two seemed to talk about girlish things. It was like just another night near Lavender and Parvati, but with different people instead in a room decorated on silver and green, not red and gold.

Holly took a plain cotton nightgown she knew was to big for her, so she would need to adjust later, inside the bathroom. She also took underpants too big in comparison with the ones she was used to, a model proper for the witches at 1942. If muggle lingerie was enormous at the 40's, the traditional witch undergarments were much, much worse. She would try them anyway to see if they are comfortable to sleep. To the ones for daily use at school, she could use her transfiguration skills to put them on a size more fit for her.

Her face flushed, thinking about Headmaster Dippet selecting her underclothes.

Of course the House-Elves did the job. Holly was very dense sometimes. The House-Elves were pretty familiar about the most common items found inside the trunks of ladies, specially clothes, considering they were the ones who did the laundry and cleaned their rooms. Holly didn't notice, but she had a basic make-up kit among her things. They were very attentive.

Holly eyed her school supplies. The books seemed in order, but the most important things she needed to take were a quill and an ink pot.

Holly hates quills. Not just Blood Quills or Quick-Quotes ones. The latter are actually a good idea, but it was extremely hard to use, demanding a huge amount of concentration. Holly tried to use once a Quick-Quotes Quill inside professor Binns' classroom, but instead of making useful notes about his boring lecture, the quill described Holly's random thoughts, like what she ate at breakfast or how she would do her new potions essay. It could be a danger if she had tested it on Umbridge's D.A.D.A class, considering she hated the witch more than Voldemort himself and thought very ill of her.

Holly was a lazy person in some aspects. That's why she hated the fact she needed to dip the tip of the quill in ink every 10 seconds, in a place were she was able to do magic. It was a retrogress. Why the Wizarding society never tried to adapt muggle ballpoint pens? They were quite simple to use and very practical. The wizards and witches were so old-fashioned sometimes it enraged Holly. They could mix the best of the two worlds, but few wizards were adept of learning about muggle science and technology.

So, Holly made some research and discovered about fountain pens, a muggle invention before the ballpoint pens and after quills. The writing style would have the same elegant essence and variable lines as if made by a common quill, with the practicality of the ballpoint pens.

She studied really hard a lot of styles and models of fountain pens and on the beginning of her fourth year she was able to transfigure a quill and an ink pot into a functional fountain pen in any form or color she desired. She was lazy to dip the tip of the pen on ink, yet she studied tirelessly to understand how the smaller parts of the pen worked, how they fitted in each other, among other things.

It was rather easy to make a perfect copy of an object. But to create a functional one, it was necessary to understand how every piece worked.

In a way, she was proud that her magic fountain pens were a little better than the muggle ones, capable to hold much more ink and refill themselves without much trouble, it was only required to put the tip inside an ink pot and it would absorb the pigment until it became full.

She put the quill and the ink pot on the nightstand, took her wand, and started to transfigure the objects. It was a rather slow process in terms of magic, lasting from 10 to 15 seconds until it was complete. She made her new fountain pen in the same model and colors as the one she gave to Hermione, with Gryffindor's gold and red colors. That way, she would remember her dearest friend much more, every time she studied.

Holly took a piece of parchment to test the pen. She drew some lines, it worked perfectly.

"Oh my...How did you do that?" Holly jumped in surprise with the silky voice of the beautiful brown haired witch talking to her. The other two girls just grimaced at Holly. Her roommate eyed Holly’s new pen with an unconventional interest in muggle technology for a Slytherin. The girl elegantly stood up and walked towards Holly, sitting on the other bed across from her. "What is this?"

The other girls stared the pair with wary faces.

"Its a pen. A fountain pen."

"Oh..." It was clear the witch knew nothing about it, but was very curious anyway.

"This is muggle tech, Lucretia." The blonde witch sneered to the pen in disdain. "Don't get yourself involved with it."

The dark-brown haired witch, Lucretia, smiled at Holly. "Can I try it?" She asked ignoring completely the advice of her friend. Holly nodded to her and put the pen on her hand, trying not to laugh with the controverted faces of the other witches. Lucretia's eyes widened in awe with the lines the pen made swiftly on the paper.

"It's so smooth... And you don't need to dip it inside the ink pot... It's so brilliant!" She looked into Holly's eyes with her gray ones. They had just a lighter tone than Sirius'. "I love it! Can you transform my quill and my ink pot in one too?" The other witches gasped. Lucretia didn't wait for Holly's answer, already taking the materials from the trunk under her bed. "I am so clumsy! I always spill ink on my notes and on my clothes!" Holly could relate.

"Sure," Holly smiled sheepishly at Lucretia, who looked at her again with a bright smile. She was very pretty. "What color do you want it?" Holly took the black quill and ink pot from the other witch. They looked very expensive.

"Can you make it black with silver details? Similar as yours?" Holly nodded and started to transform the materials. The body of Lucretia's fountain pen was longer and more slim than hers, with an elegant design.

"Here," Holly pulled the top and gave the pen to Lucretia. Her gray eyes sparkled, and she was really cheerful. The witch scratched some lines on the paper, her smile widened. Holly remembered Mr. Weasley and how he was fascinated with muggle inventions. Lucretia was like a child playing with her new Christmas present.

"Thank you so much! How much I owe you?" She said it with a formal smile.

"Oh... it's fine, you don't need to pay me," Lucretia raised her eyebrows. Holly knew Slytherins weren't used to small free favors, unlike Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, who did things for free all the time.

Lucretia stared at her with an unreadable expression and a smirk difficult to decipher. She could be suspicious or just amused by receiving a free gift. Maybe both.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it." Holly gave her a reassuring smile. The other witch put her present inside her black satchel and extended a hand to Holly. Slytherins also loved advantageous transactions and gifts.

"I am Lucretia Black, by the way." She flashed her perfect white teeth to Holly. "Nice to meet you."

Holly couldn't help herself to open a bright smile to Lucretia by the mention of the 'Black' surname, recalling it was the name of Sirius' aunt, but she didn't remember whom she married or if she had kids. "Holly Portier." They shook hands. "Nice to meet you too."

The other witches glared at Holly with narrowed eyes. At that moment, Holly knew that they would probably ignore Lucretia for wanting muggle technology if she wasn't from a noble and important pure-blood family.

Of course they would be more narrow-minded at the 40's. Even on the 90's the students looked disapprovingly at her and Hermione's fountain pens. Holly always glamoured hers into a common quill inside Dolores' classes.

When a blonde girl left the bathroom, Holly entered it. She adjusted the size of her nightgown, took a bath and used a 'Scourgify' to clean her school uniform, her knickers and her socks. She had other clothes to adjust, but she would do it tomorrow. A lot of things happened on the last couple of hours and she needed a good rest to process everything.

She took the book about Time-Travel she received from the Gatekeeper from inside a pocket on her robes that had an Undetectable Extension Charm. She would read it until she felt asleep.

Tomorrow would be her first morning on a blank-paged life. A new start full of possibilities and a new school term without the menace of a Dark Wizard trying to kill her. Not yet, at least.

Chapter VII

#harry potter fanfiction #fanfic #tomarry #tom riddle #voldemort #female harry potter #rule 63 #genderbend #time travel #hogwarts au #hogwarts #slytherin harry #slytherin #slytherin pride #gryffinrin #slytherdor #Harry Potter

28 notes · View notes

arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

Today the richest 40 Americans have more wealth than the poorest 185 million Americans. The leading 100 landowners now own 40 million acres of American land, an area the size of New England. There has been a vast increase in American inequality since the mid-20th century, and Europe — though some way behind — is on a similar course.

These are among the alarming stats cited by Joel Kotkin’s The Coming of Neo-Feudalism, published earlier this year just as lockdown sped up some of the trends he chronicled: increased tech dominance, rising inequality between rich and poor, not just in wealth but in health, and record levels of loneliness (4,000 Japanese people die alone each week, he cheerfully informs us).

Kotkin is among a handful of thinkers warning about a cluster of related trends, including not just inequality but declining social mobility, rising levels of celibacy and a shrinking arena of political debate controlled by a small number of like-minded people.

The one commonality is that all of these things, along with the polarisation of politics along quasi-religious lines, the decline of nationalism and the role of universities in enforcing orthodoxy, were the norm in pre-modern societies. In our economic structure, our politics, our identity and our sex lives we are moving away from the trends that were common between the first railway and first email. But what if the modern age was the anomaly, and we’re simply returning to life as it has always been?

…

Most of the medieval left-behinds would have worked at home or nearby, the term “commuter” only being coined in the 1840s as going to an office or factory became the norm, a trend that only began to reverse in the 21st century (accelerating sharply this year).

…

Along with income stratification, another pre-modern trend is the decline of social mobility, which almost everywhere is slowing (with the exception of immigrant communities, many of whom come from the middle class back home).

Social mobility in the US has fallen by 20% since the early 1980s, according to Kotkin, and the Californian-based Antonio Garcia Martinez has talked of an informal caste system in the state, with huge wage differences between rich and poor and housing restrictions removing any hope of rising up. California now has among the most dystopian of income inequality, with vast numbers of multimillionaires but also a homeless underclass now suffering from “medieval” diseases.

Unfortunately, where California leads, America and then Europe follows.

…

Patronage has made a comeback, especially among artists, who have largely returned to their pre-modern financial norm: desperate poverty. Whereas musicians and writers have always struggled, the combination of housing costs, reduced government support and the internet has ended what was until then an unappreciated golden age; instead they turn once again to patrons, although today it is digital patronage rather than aristocratic benevolence.

A caste system creates caste interests, and some liken today’s economy to medieval Europe’s tripartite system, in which society was divided between those who pray, those who fight and those who work. Just as the medieval clergy and nobility had a common interest in the system set against the laborers, so it is today, with what Thomas Piketty calls the Merchant Right and Brahmin Left — two sections of the elite with different worldviews but a common interest in the liberal order, and a common fear of the third estate.

…

Tech is by nature anti-egalitarian, creating natural monopolies that wield vastly more power than any of the great industrial barons of the modern age, and have cultural power far greater than newspapers of the past, closer to that of the Church in Kotkin’s view; their algorithms and search engines shape our worldview and our thoughts, and they can, and do, censor people with heretical views.

Rising inequality and stratification is linked to the decline of modern sexual habits. The nuclear family is something of a western oddity, developing as a result of Catholic Church marriage laws and reaching its zenith in the 19th and 20th centuries with the Victorian cult of family and mid-20th century “hi honey I’m home” Americana. Today, however, the nuclear household is in decline, with 32 million American adults living with their parents or grandparents, a growing trend in pretty much all western countries except Scandinavia (which may partly explain the region’s relative success with Covid-19).

This is a return to the norm, as with the rise of the involuntarily celibate. Celibacy was common in medieval Europe, where between 15-25% of men and women would have joined holy orders. In the early modern period, with rising incomes and Protestantism, celibacy rates plunged but they have now returned to the medieval level.

The first estate of this neo-feudal age is centred on academia, which has likewise returned to its pre-modern norm. At the time of the 1968 student protests university faculty in both the US and Britain slightly leaned left, as one would expect of the profession. By the time of Donald Trump’s election many university departments had Democrat: Republican ratios of 20, 50 or even 100:1. Some had no conservative academics, or none prepared to admit it. Similar trends are found in Britain.

Around 900 years ago Oxford evolved out of communities of monks and priests; for centuries it was run by “clerics”, although that word had a slightly wider meaning, and such was the legacy that the celibacy rule was not fully dropped until 1882.

This was only a decade after non-Anglicans were allowed to take degrees for the first time, Communion having been a condition until then. A similar pattern existed in the United States, where each university was associated with a different church: Yale and Harvard with the Congregationalists, Princeton with Presbyterians, Columbia with Episcopalians. The increasingly narrow focus on what can be taught at these institutions is not new.

Similarly, politics has returned to its pre-modern role of religion. The internet has often been compared to the printing press, and when printing was introduced it didn’t lead to a world of contemplative philosophy; books of high-minded inquiry were vastly outsold by tracts about evil witches and heretics.

The word “medieval” is almost always pejorative but the post-printing early modern period was the golden age of religious hatred and torture; the major witch hunts occurred in an age of rising literacy, because what people wanted to read about was a lot of the time complete garbage. Likewise, with the internet, and in particular the iPhone, which has unleashed the fires of faith again, helping spread half-truths and creating a new caste of firebrand preachers (or, as they used to be called, journalists).

…

English politics from the 16th to the 19th century was “a branch of theology” in Robert Tombs’s words; Anglicans and rural landowners formed the Conservative Party, and Nonconformists and the merchant elite the core of the Liberal Party. It was only with industrialisation that political focus turned to class and economics, but the identity-based conflict between Conservatives and Labour in the 2020s seems closer to the division of Tories and Whigs than to the political split of 50 years ago; it’s about worldview and identity rather than economic status.

Post-modern politics have also shaped pre-modern attitudes to class. In medieval society the poor were despised, and numerous words stem from names for the lower orders, among them ignoble, churlish, villain and boor (in contrast “generous” comes from generosus, and “gentle” from gentilis, terms for the aristocracy). Medieval poems and fables depict peasant as credulous, greedy and insolent — and when they get punched, as they inevitably do, they deserve it.

Compare this to the evolution of comedy in the post-industrial west, where the butt of the joke is the rube from the small town, laughed at for being out of touch with modern political sensibilities. The most recent Borat film epitomises this form of modern comedy that, while meticulously avoiding any offence towards the sacred ideas of the elite, relentlessly humiliates the churls.

The third estate are mocked for still clinging to that other outmoded modern idea, the nation-state. Nation-states rose with the technology of the modern day — printing, the telegraph and railways — and they have been undone by the technology of the post-modern era. A liberal in England now has more in common with a liberal in Germany than with his conservative neighbour, in a way that was not possible before the internet.

Nations were semi-imagined communities, and what follows is a return to the norm — tribalism, on a micro scale, but tribalism nonetheless, whether along racial, religious or most likely political-sectarian tribes. Indeed, in some ways we’re seeing a return to empire.

…

The middle-class age meant the triumph of bourgeoise values and the decline of the middle class has led to their downfall, widely despised and mocked by believers in the higher-status bohemian attitudes. Now the age of the average man is over, and the age of the global aristocrat has arrived.

#ed west #unherd

2 notes · View notes

snowbellewells · 4 years

Text

Self Promo Sunday: The Case of the Heart in Armor: Part Two

I’m re blogging this once more this morning. It was at an odd time earlier this week when I did it, and I thought I mind give it another go. There were a few who asked to be tagged in updates who I am not sure saw it the first time.

This was originally written for the CS Role Reversal event in October, to accompany the amazing fanart created by @courtorderedcake. I had SO MUCH FUN working with her and coming up with this story. I certainly didn’t mean to keep folks waiting this long for the second part. I still hope those who were reading and excited about it will enjoy!! :)

@courtorderedcake I don’t know why I can’t get your picture to post on here like I did with Part One. For everyone else though, don’t miss her gorgeous art!! You can see it in the link to Part One below...

~~~~

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…

Part One

by: @snowbellewells

Part Two

Chief Inspector David Nolan watched with weary acceptance as his erstwhile younger sister paced back and forth in front of the large mahogany desk in the private office at the Yard which he had worked bloody hard to earn. It wasn’t as though farm boys from Surrey made their way up the elite ranks of London’s police force regularly, and he could admit himself more than a bit proud of the distinction. It wouldn’t be the first time he had seen Emma in such a state either - she was as stubborn as the day was long, and had quite the temper besides, if a person had poor enough judgement to rile her. Though he didn’t mind listening to Emma’s tirade, he would have to quiet her soon, both because her rant was rising in volume instead of tapering off, and because the man she was ranting against was indeed an acquaintance of his and had helped him out of some tight scrapes - more than Nolan would actually like to admit.

Standing finally, and rubbing a hand over tired eyes - his latest case had already kept him from sound sleep three nights in a row - David rounded the desk with measured and steady stride to take Emma’s arm gently, stopping her wild gesticulations in midair before she could manage to clock him on the chin. Even though at present he found himself wishing she could be a bit more demure and correct, David did care deeply for the slip of a young woman his single mother had taken into their home when he was fourteen and Emma only twelve. His mum had caught Em’s hand in her pocketbook outside the market where she had been lurking, stealing to survive. He still remembered those half-wild eyes, her dirt-smudged face, and how thin and ravenously hungry the girl who became his sister had been. She’d already been alone on the streets for some time by that point, had trusted no one (she still trusted very few), and yet, Ruth Nolan, despite she and David having little to spare themselves, simply couldn’t abide the situation without helping. They’d only been in town to shop for a new sturdy coat to last David the winter and visit the theatre - a rare treat indeed - but when they had returned to the country, Emma had gone with them. Gradually, Emma had come to believe that they wouldn’t turn her out, that she couldn’t make Ruth rescind her welcome, and David had come to be glad for a sibling and hearty companion. There were still signs of that feral waif scrapping to survive when her eyes flashed with fury as they were doing just then, but David wouldn’t have Emma be someone else - even if it would make his life occasionally easier.

Hoping to placate her, at least a bit, before telling her what he knew might send her flying off the handle once again, David guided his sibling into the seat facing his desk, a soothing hand lingering at her shoulder as he attempted to commiserate. “It does sound as if your meeting with Mr. Jones was most vexing. No wonder you were put out.”

Emma was nodding along, her shoulders still radiating tension and looking only slightly mollified as he went back toward his own seat and lowered his broad-shouldered, commanding frame into it once more. “The sheer audacity!” She was still saying, clearly gearing up to tell him the whole story again, when David stretched his hand out to still her next torrent of hissed words.

“The thing is,” he began, rather hesitantly; regardless of his usual air of strength and authority, he seemed to be nearly tiptoeing around his sister, knowing her tart tongue and ability to hold a grudge could make him truly miserable if he handled the situation badly and she thought him to be taking Killian Jones’ side over her own. “Jones was not in the strictest sense out of turn to claim that he knew me… nor to be surprised we were related. He has aided us here at the Yard several times now, when we thought a case was about to reach a true dead end. He’s a right clever chap, and much as I hate to admit it, he sees things the rest of us miss - myself included. It’s almost uncanny, and no doubt how he caught you in the act - slick and nimble-fingered as you are, Sis.”

Emma’s mouth opened with a comeback; he could see her gathering a fortifying breath, but at the last statement, clearly reminding her that he knew she sometimes returned to her less-than-legal roots and he looked the other way, she snapped it closed again, her teeth clacking against each other with the force. Instead, she arched a brow at him sardonically as if questioning what he had to tell her and already warning him that it wouldn’t change her mind all in one.

However, before he could get around to explaining that she would have to learn to tolerate Mr. Jones as best she could, because they would soon be seeing each other more often, or warn her once more of the dangers she invited by haunting the seedier neighborhoods where he knew she most liked to set up her cart of flowers and put her old, erstwhile skills into practice, they were interrupted by two sharp, business-like raps on his office door before it opened abruptly. His second-in-command, Graham Watson, entered with an apologetic and rather sheepish look on his face.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir… Miss Emma…” the boyishly sweet-faced lieutenant nodded to her in deference before turning his attention back to her adoptive brother, a light flush actually crawling up the back of his neck toward his honey-colored hair, unmanageably curly and only adding to his tousled, youthful appearance as his eyes flicked back away from Emma. He had taken her to the opera once, and though he had been a perfect gentleman, Emma had the sneaking suspicion they would make for a poor pair beyond mere acquaintances. A faint smirk quirked one corner of her full, rosy lips upwards at the thought, but despite his clearly still harboring a bit of attracted interest, she had the distinct impression that he couldn’t handle her were she to truly let loose and be herself in his presence.

“That’s alright, Graham,” David assured, smiling and beckoning the other man forward.

Graham entered, but then turned back to usher another through the door behind him. “You told me to let you know when Holmes arrived,” he added.

Emma turned sharply in her seat, skin prickling with awareness at the sight of the tall, dark-headed and astonishingly blue-eyed man from the day before easing into the office behind Watson. He waggled an eyebrow at her, maddeningly aware of her strong reaction and raising her ire once more without even having spoken. Giving a brief dip of the head like a bow to her, he turned to face her brother as well, tucking his right thumb into the belt loop of his well-fitted charcoal slacks, and somehow making even perfectly correct dress attire look rakishly sinful as his hips preceded him a step forward into the room. “Afternoon, Nolan,” he greeted mildly, looking for all the world as though he had not a care. “Heard you wished to speak with me. Found the thief who took my watch, have you?”

He glanced over his shoulder at Emma, looking all-too-pleased with himself if the grin stretching his mouth in satisfied confidence was any indication.

“Why you…” she leapt to her feet, ready to stalk forward and challenge his accusation - true it might be, but she would like to see him prove it. However, she found that the creative and colorful arsenal of pejorative names and curses usually ready on the tip of her tongue were all tangled up inside her mouth. Opening and closing it several times uselessly, she finally shook her head with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him darkly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle for words.

Smirking with lazy ease, as if the entire situation amused him immensely, Jones rolled his tongue around in his mouth obscenely (it did not make Emma’s pulse tap noticeably in her throat at all) before speaking to her once more. “Aye, Love, it is me, as you say…. Always nice to make an impression.” And then (the very cheek of him!) he winked at her before sliding his gaze back to her brother.

It certainly didn’t help her rising temper to sense David, and Graham too it seemed, silently chuckling as he watched their volatile exchange. She supposed she deserved that to some extent, being quicker and more stealthy than most by half, and not ashamed to make it known and use it to her advantage, even with those closest to her when it suited. It probably was more than a bit amusing to both of them to see her genuinely rattled by this...this… Well, she didn’t even have a word for this Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones, but she wasn’t about to stand there and have them all snickering at her expense. Sweeping around her chair in the opposite direction, careful to avoid coming anywhere near Jones, she threw over her shoulder as she started for the door. “Well, David, if we’re done for the moment, I’ll be going…”

She was well on her way to stalking dramatically from the room, congratulating herself through her flustered nerves that it would serve them right to have run her off when they needed her for whatever they were gathered to cluck about like a bunch of old hens. David and Graham both knew she was a valuable and well-placed set of eyes and ears to the ground in parts of the city where the police could go but would see and hear nothing at all. David had accepted her help gratefully on numerous occasions - even if he always tried to go without it at first. He argued about jeopardizing her safety and the questionable legality of involving someone not part of the force to gain intelligence.

None of that concerned Emma though; she liked proving her mettle - and her skill. Deep down, there was also, she supposed, a part of her that wanted to do something in return for the gift David’s mother, and David too, had given her, taking her into their home and off of the street. He was the one person left in the world she could call family, and she would do anything for him, despite that sentiment going largely unspoken. She knew the same was true of him for her.

Before she could get out the door however, David’s voice drew her back in, a weariness and a resigned need to it that practically compelled her to wait and hear him out. David was capable and astute; good at his job no matter how much she might playfully heckle or give him grief. If he were this intent on having her assistance, then it was something serious with which he was dealing. A tremor of awareness, foreboding shivering up her spine, ran across Emma’s skin as she paused and then turned back to the three men now gathered around David’s desk and the precarious mess of papers piled atop it that she had failed to notice until that very second.

Graham’s voice spoke next, sounding both troubled and anxious as he did so, “Are you sure we should…?” His hands wrung themselves nervously, as if he was having to consciously fight not to reach out and cover the crime scene photographs she could just make out peeking from the stacks strewn across the surface before her as she drew nearer.

And when she actually laid eyes on what her brother’s lieutenant had wanted to shield her from, Emma’s stomach did make a large and unpleasant lurch for her throat. Pressing her hand against her abdomen to still its sudden roiling, despite all that she had seen in her rough and ramshackle upbringing and colorful present dealings, she had to hold back a shocked gasp of horror at the sight in front of her. It was a near thing indeed. Even as she struggled not to jerk her glance away and stand up straight and unfazed, not wanting it to be dismissed as “feminine vapors”, or something equally ridiculous if she showed too much distress. She knew her brother and his subordinate better than that anyway - and they seemed plenty subdued and disturbed by the pictures as well. But she would not show weakness in front of Killian Jones.

To her surprise, at just the moment she had that thought, and steeled herself against the tremors trying to overtake her limbs, she felt a light, surreptitious hand rest carefully at the small of her back. It took a mere moment to realize that the touch was Jones, and that he must mean it to be steadying, offered in comfort and solidarity. He didn’t make an attempt to look at her in mocking, nor did he draw the other two men’s attention to his actions. And though her eyes had narrowed to near-slits, ready to chastise him about keeping his hands to himself, and warn him that she had no need of his brand of comfort, Emma found herself doing nothing of the sort. Where she had felt herself going cold at the fearful sight chilling her blood from the displayed evidence, warmth seemed to radiate from where his large hand rested, fighting off some of the frigid ice that had infiltrated her veins with the repulsion she felt for the crime. Despite still wanting to show him up if she could, and despite not wanting to let a point of frailty show, she was glad to have the contact in that minute, while she battled to regain control.

The criminal David was chasing was clearly a monster… and they were going to need all the help they could get.

~~~~~~~~~~~~***

Deep, devious eyes, painted beguilingly, narrowed in intense concentration as they studied the carnage spread out over the worktable. Rather than finally seeing the last ingredient needed, there was instead merely one more bloody mess. A needless loss - not that the culprit was crying any tears over the unfortunate victim.

Not unexpectedly, it was now proven, as the villain had feared, that not just any organ would do. It must be a heart, fatal as that realization was. Moreover, no random heart would suffice either. Her last conquest had made that appalling fact abundantly clear.

No, if she wanted to truly put the alchemical possibilities she had studied to the test, and to discover if her abilities within the field were as great as she needed them to be, this final hurdle and greater risk was unavoidable. Bringing the dead back to life was seemingly impossible; none disputed that fact. And yet, she refused to accept those terms, ending her life’s happiness when it had barely begun.

Wiping deceptively pale and delicate hands on the cloth beside her, she did her best to remove the vivid red stains covering her hands and forearms where they were bared beneath her rolled up sleeves. Resurrection was bloody work indeed, but her course had long since been set. A specific heart it would have to be. Garnet lips painted as deep and dark as the blood splattered around her tilted up in an unnerving and sinister smile. Oh yes, she would get that heart she needed - no matter what it took to acquire.

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @cocohook38 @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @darkcolinodonorgasm @winterbaby89 @teamhook @thisonesatellite @laschatzi @stahlop @ultraluckycatnd @drowned-dreamer @resident-of-storybrooke @revanmeetra87

#cs role reversal #cs au mc #cs victorian au #Holmes! Killian #case of the heart in armor #part two #self promo sunday

32 notes · View notes

lovelylogans · 4 years

Text

love light gleams

previous chapter | chapter five | next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, teenage emancipation, emotional abuse, mentions of being disowned, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, classism, mentions of past underage drinking, crying, religious content (church, going to confession), remus cameo, mentions of choking/killing someone, something similar to the canon “have you thought about killing your brother?” monologue, please let me know if i’ve missed anything!

pairings: gen

words: 57,686

“can not.”

“can too.”

“can not.”

“can too,” and the argument really would have continued if she didn’t step in now.

“you know he’s not going to stop until you prove it, fred,” essie points out, amused, even as silas pulls a face at her.

“but she can’t prove it, because doing that is physically impossible,” her twin brother points out.

freddie puffs out her chest proudly. “watch me,” she brags, and essie politely averts her eyes because she loves her little sister, she really does, but the way she bends her body sometimes makes her stomach twist.

from silas’ “ugh, gross!” and wyatt’s tame “hm, interesting,” it was probably good that she did, and meets eyes with annabelle, who smiles at her, amusement making her eyes twinkle.

“i knew you had a sensitive stomach, but i didn’t know it was that bad,” annabelle teases, soft enough that the others won’t hear.

essie sticks her tongue out at her fiancée (and she wonders when she’ll stop feeling butterflies when she thinks about marrying annabelle) and annabelle giggles, just a little, before reaching and twining her fingers with essie. essie suppresses her happy sigh and uses it as an excuse to wiggle closer.

the entire danes family was staying at the independence inn for the holiday (well, with the exception of virgil, but that’s expected) and that’s where the four elder danes siblings, plus a danes fiancée, were staying. they’d managed to get an adjoining suite that consisted of a room with two queen beds, a couch, and a bathroom for each, with a door connecting the two. essie and annabelle in one bed, silas and wyatt in the other in their room; since freddie had come first, she had a bed to herself in the other, with their parents in the last remaining bed.

it wasn’t like essie had stayed in the inn very much, but it hadn’t changed a lot. the inn still had the same antique, historical furniture, the same navy blue duvets, the same dark gray couches and floral wallpaper and little chocolates on the pillow (annabelle had let essie eat hers, which really, that’s true love.) same staff, mostly, other than the natural turnover that came with a lot of high school and college kids who picked up shifts as one of the few places to get a part-time job in sideshire.

yeah, the inn hadn’t changed a lot. a lot of things in sideshire hadn’t changed very much, which essie found comforting. sometimes, she thought about how even years and years down the line, whenever she came back to visit virgil or childhood friends, taylor doose would still pick fights with her mother; the gazebo would still stay dreamily lit at night; there would still be a million fairs and festivals and ceremonies to attend; there would still be petty town meetings and Town Meetings, the first for town gossip that had bit too much into the time of the official Town Meetings, which dealt with tiny ordinances and regulations (and, to taylor’s eternal dismay, the unofficial town meetings would almost always garner the most interest and attendance.) same mayor porter, and same rudy, editor of the town’s decrepit newspaper, same maria who managed the inn. same danes’ family running the town’s diner.

even though essie felt like she’d changed so much, and yet not at all. strange. comforting.

home.

there’s the sound of keys clattering, then the door in the other room opening, and all of them seem to stir from their various lines of thought.

“mom and dad?” freddie says. “finally, wonder what took them so long?”

“they were probably prepping food for tomorrow, fred,” essie guesses.

no one else can make very many other guesses, before their mother’s voice cheerfully says, “like that, do you think?”

“you know, we could wait until the morning,” and they all blink at each other. virgil’s here. not home.

“what’s the point of that?” their mother asks, then, raising her voice, “kids, you there?”

“hi, mom,” freddie calls, and their mother leans through the doorway, grinning wide.

“good! get your coats!”

she vanishes back into their room while everyone blinks at each other, confused.

“our coats?” silas calls back, uncertainly.

“and one of you, bring your pocket knives in here!”

“pocket—?” essie begins, but wyatt shrugs, digging his out, and moving into the next room.

“here, mom.”

“thank you, sugar,” she says, sounding pleased, and essie gets up with annabelle to see what’s going on.

annabelle comes in next, and says, “what’s happening?”

“here, right?” meredith says, gesturing at the side of the mattress with the knife.

“probably the least invasive way to damage a mattress, yeah,” cara says; they’d been together at school, she and cara, it had been a bit surprising to hear how high she’d climbed on the inn’s employment ladder.

“again, mom, you could do this in the morning,” virgil says.

“but it won’t be a surprise then,” meredith points out.

“pretty sure it would.”

“um,” essie says, “why are we doing damage to a mattress as a surprise?”

“mom’s lost it,” virgil says wearily.

“shut it,” meredith says cheerfully, and then, with the same smile on her face, plunges the knife into the side of the mattress, using both hands to tug it enough to create a sizable slash, a disconcerting contrast. she removes the knife and tilts her head at it critically. “that good, do you think?”

“yeah, definitely fits the parameters,” cara says. “i’ll get one of the mattresses from an empty room in here for you, to replace this one. thanks, mrs. danes, i know maria was trying to figure that out.”

“oh, no problem,” she says breezily, waving a hand. “thank you for putting up with my late-hours shenanigans.”

cara nods and goes into the hall.

“well?” meredith says, and claps her hands. “coats! coats, everyone!”

silas gives her a Look, but she just shrugs at him and moves back into the other room to pick up her and annabelle’s coats.

once her mother surveys all of them and decides they’re all properly kitted out, she opens the door.

“let’s go!”

“go where,” silas grumbles.

“where else?” their mother says, and she beams beatifically—their dad, on the other hand, looks exasperated. granted, fond, but definitely still exasperated. “none of us have had the opportunity to fully bother taylor doose on this trip home.”

freddie and silas both scramble for the door.

“silas!” she scolds, a laugh in her voice, and grabs annabelle’s hand to more fully chase after her younger-by-seventeen-minutes brother.

it’s not a very long walk to doose’s market, nowhere in sideshire is a very long walk—and their mother stops them, and surveys the road, hands on her hips, every inch a general.

“right,” she says, with a decisive nod. “there’s enough snow on the ground. get packing into snowballs, kids.”

freddie outright cackles as she plunges her hands into the nearest snowbank, virgil not far behind.

“so, this taylor guy—” annabelle says in an undertone, as the pair of them bend to scoop snow into their hands.

“taylor doose,” essie elaborates.

“right,” annabelle says. “um, what’s the deal between him and your mom, anyway? it feels like every year i see your mom picking a fight with him.”

“oh, you know how it is,” essie says, trying to keep an airy tone. “small town feuds. it’s been going on for years, no one really knows what—”

“ess,” annabelle says, amused. “why are you getting involved in it?”

essie looks around, as if taylor’s listening. “because…”

“because?” annabelle prompts, when essie bites her lip and ducks her head.

“because it’s really fun,” she admits with a guilty grin on her face.

annabelle laughs and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. “troublemaker.”

“am not,” essie says. “virgil’s the delinquent and freddie’s the one who’s going to backflip her way through the window, if we let her.”

“yeah, and you’re the one with the innocent face to let them get away with it,” annabelle says.

“maybe so,” she sniffs, and ascends to her feet, a couple snowballs in her arms.

“right, then,” meredith calls out. “everyone ready?”

noises of affirmation from every danes in the street.

meredith arches her arm back, aims, and fires, her snowball hitting the window of the apartment above the grocery with a WHAP!

and then the rest of them take their cue from there.

there’s constant WHAP! s against the window as they all aim and throw—silas and freddie have the best aim, unsurprisingly, they’ve always been the most athletic of the five of them—but that almost doesn’t matter.

because essie was telling the truth, in why she gets involved with messing with taylor when she normally wouldn’t dream of deliberately being a nuisance to another person: it’s fun. taylor, in all his grudge-keeping, self-important, self-aggrandizing stuffiness was just fun to pick at and poke at and badger incessantly, partially because of his reaction, but mostly in the way that it brought them all together.

because wyatt is so rarely silly and pejorative, much more inclined to his theories and his books; because silas is so rarely teasing without being a little caustic about it, and seeing his sharp tongue applied to someone who actually deserves it a little is an absolute treat to behold; because freddie, well, freddie’s freddie, she’s pretty constantly a bombastic, fun-loving force of nature, but when they were all picking on taylor it seemed to be taken up to an extra level; because virgil so rarely smiles at something so obviously, and ever since his fierce bender as a teenager (essie had mostly been at college, when it had gotten really, really bad) it’s just nice to see him channel that energy into something, well, not productive, exactly, but something that wasn’t sneaking out of windows or breaking them.

maybe, she thinks, because she—normal, sweet, shy, kind essie, the good kid, the one they didn’t have to worry about all that much—was so rarely a hellion, and maybe fighting with taylor was one way to let her hair down that didn’t involve annabelle gently saying that if she got tipsy at a bar, cut loose, had a little fun dancing, didn’t mean it was the end of the world, didn’t mean that she wasn’t still normal, sweet, shy, kind essie, the one nobody has to worry about all that much, if she made out with her fiancée in the middle of the dance floor and did something a little naughty.

but now, as they all unite in hurling snowballs at taylor doose’s apartment window, cheering each other on and whooping whenever they get a good hit in, congratulating each other, it’s a bit like they’re all kids again and the world’s biggest trouble is getting back at taylor doose for trying to be mean to their mom.

and essie sees a distant light turn on, and the window starts to open, and

“oh for goodness’ sake, WHA— ”

meredith fires one last snowball and it lands its arc true, right as taylor opens the window, and the eight of them burst into laughter as taylor splutters around a mouthful of snow. even her dad, though at least he’s covering his mouth to seem polite.

“meredith,” taylor says sourly, and essie takes a look at him. wow, he’s actually wearing a stocking cap to bed. essie didn’t know people did that outside of, like, old novels and cartoons. “is there a particular reason that you’re causing this ruckus at midnight, right before a holiday?”

“oh, shove it, taylor,” meredith says heartily, hands on her hips. “open the store.”

his brow furrows deep enough that it’s visible on the street. “and just why should i do that?”

“good will toward your fellow woman?” freddie tries.

taylor scoffs, and moves to pull the window shut again.

“open the store!” meredith calls, and then, essie isn’t sure who starts it—freddie, probably, or maybe even annabelle—but soon all eight of them are chanting “OPEN IT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT,” even as taylor bellows, “i could file a noise complaint!”

“or you could just open the damn store, taylor!” meredith hollers back. “it’s eight paying customers or eight people with throwing arms and capable lungs!”

taylor draws himself up, clearly warring with himself, before he deflates and sighs, to a chorus of danes (and annabelle’s) cheers.

“fine!” he shouts. “but if you stay in that store for longer than it is absolutely necessary , you will be hearing from the sideshire business association, the sideshire tourist board, the sideshire neighborhood watch organization—”

“those are all just you!” silas yells. “the sooner we get done, the sooner you don’t have to see any of us for another year! other than virgil.”

“yeah, thanks, silas,” virgil says, with an eyeroll.

taylor scowls, but slams his window shut and, presumably, with a huff. usually, whenever taylor did anything that didn’t comply with his exact agenda, it was with a huff.

“all right, lists!” the mother announces. “i have lists, come and get a list—silas, here you are—”

“lists?” annabelle mumbles quizzically into essie’s ear, and she shrugs, just as lost as annabelle is, but she accepts the hastily-scrawled list that’s on one of the diner’s notepads—essie knows, she’d worked in that diner for the vast majority of her life—and squints at their options.

“i’ve got a ton of food,” silas says. “what about you?”

“um,” essie says, and scans it. “same here, ‘cept it’s nonperishable stuff. donations, maybe?”

“i guess,” silas says, and essie bumps shoulders with him.

“you good?” she checks.

silas clears his throat, and scuffs his boot through the snow. “yeah, m’fine.”

“okay,” essie says, and silas scowls, as if he detects the underlying it’s just that i was hugging you on the balcony a few hours ago while you spilled your guts on everything going wrong in your life, so forgive me if i don’t think you’re exactly telling the truth that she isn’t saying. he probably can.

that’s the way with the two of them: if one ever couldn’t do something, the other one probably could. essie couldn’t confront people for anything, so silas was the one who’d shoved bullies to the ground and yelled at them. but silas wasn’t very good at being gentle, so essie was the one who put band-aids on their friends’ knees and tried her best to kiss them better.

if one of them was having trouble, the other one could usually try and pull them out of it. essie was usually the puller, back in school—silas was a brawler, and a sasser, and didn’t have much patience for things he thought he wouldn’t use in real life.

she wishes helping him now was as easy as telling mrs. replegol that she’d accidentally put his math homework in her backpack, and handing over a paper that she’d hastily filled out during lunch, trying her very best to disguise her neat writing into silas’ untidy scrawl.

“you can always come stay with me, if you want,” she tries, and silas scoffs.

“i’ve seen your apartment,” he mutters.

“it’s not that bad,” she says.

“it’s tiny,” silas says. “where’d i stay? your couch?”

“yes,” she says, and, when silas sighs, “we could make a fort, like when we were kids. or we’d figure it out. you know you can come over anytime.”

“does annabelle—”

“annabelle can hear you, and annabelle says go for it,” annabelle says, not looking up from where she’s re-tying her boot. “annabelle also doesn’t appreciate being talked about in third person when she can hear you.”

silas grimaces in apology, and when annabelle gets to her feet again, taylor’s opening the front door of the store, effectively ending their conversation there. but essie loops an arm through annabelle’s, and her other arm through silas’, and tugs them both along into doose’s grocery.

she can practically feel that silas and annabelle are exchanging a look behind her back, but she doesn’t really care.

unsurprisingly, doose’s market hasn’t changed much at all, either; everything’s where it was when essie was a teenager, and it doesn’t take her very long to gather up the cans of food and baby food that her mother had hastily scrawled down.

the other four siblings are split amongst the store, gathering things up—wyatt’s got things like paper towels and diapers, whereas freddie has, like, yarn or something?—so really, it’s probably good that they’ve all got separate lists. even if essie has zero idea what’s happening.

she sidles up to virgil’s side, and says, “ you wouldn’t happen to know what spurred on this massive shopping spree, would you?”

virgil pauses, glancing around, and says, “you know how mom and dad kept dragging in all those stray cats and dogs when we were kids?”

the puzzle pieces assemble in her head almost immediately.

“so, welcome to the family, patton, here’s everything you could possibly need, merry christmas?” she guesses, and virgil nods.

“something happened to him after we left,” she guesses, quieter. and virgil, stony-faced, nods.

“poor guy,” essie murmurs. “is he… i mean. is he okay?”

“how would you rate first christmas without his family, ess?” virgil says, and essie winces.

“right. sorry. stupid question.”

virgil winces, too, and says, “sorry. sorry, i shouldn’t snap at you.”

“no, i get it,” essie says. “long day.”

“still,” virgil says, mouth set and stubborn, and essie smiles at her baby brother, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

“you’re sweet,” she says and means it. he is sweet. for all his bluster and gruff, sometimes, and yes, even as a rebellious teenager, virgil had never not been sweet, no matter how he tried to hide it. he’s thoughtful, and kind, and essie’s glad that he’s helping out patton and the baby. she really is.

virgil, however, flushes and ducks his head, mumbling a denial, before he escapes to finish up his shopping, and essie grins after him before she goes to do the same.

gosh, she knows neither of them like to hear it, but virgil and silas really do have a lot in common.

taylor scowls at them all, muttering under his breath about danes’ even as he scans them all out, and bellows “good riddance!” as soon as they all leave the store.

“merry christmas, taylor!” their mother yells back, and taylor grimaces even as he pointedly closes the blinds.

“where should we go with these?” wyatt asks, laden with shopping bags. they all are, really.

“fresh food at the diner, the rest of it’ll come back to the inn,” meredith says decisively.

“here, i’ll trade,” virgil says. “i can meet you back there.”

so virgil and silas swap shopping bags, and their dad suddenly says, “i’ll help too, bunny,” and essie moves forward to take his bags too, and as soon as they’re all sorted out all of them tramp back to the inn.

on the way, essie sees cara directing a couple people that essie doesn’t know, the pair of them carting the mattress their mother ruined down to the inn’s poolhouse. essie’s about to ask, but decides that her mom will probably know, and instead moves to catch up with annabelle.

“what’s up with that?” annabelle says, jerking her chin toward them.

“oh, i have no idea,” essie says. “storage, maybe?”

“yeah, i guess,” annabelle says, and shakes her head after it; she’s always been a little confused by the more unique aspects of sideshire, which makes sense, really. if essie hadn’t been born into it, she’d be plenty confused too.

“that was fun,” annabelle continues. “the—snowball thing.”

essie laughs. “yeah, it is,” she says, and looks over at annabelle. “what?”

annabelle shakes her head, smiling. “nothing. it’s just—you’re so cute when you laugh.”

essie blushes; silas boos.

“gross,” he says.

“shut up, silas,” essie grumbles.

“yeah,” annabelle says, grinning, “shut up, silas.”

“nope, i’m with silas on this one,” freddie says, catching up with them. “couples are gross, especially when half of that couple is my sister.”

“kids, stop picking on your sister,” their mother calls, and gestures for them to get inside, and into the room.

and so begins the process.

their dad and virgil come in not too long after, with even more shopping bags, and join the sorting process: last-minute presents there, food there, baby supplies there. essie and annabelle take the sky-blue wrapping paper that their mom had bought at taylor doose’s, one of the last ones left, and wrap up the yarn and sweaters and books and baby toys.

it’s blatantly a last-minute gift haul, but essie doesn’t think they did too bad. admittedly, she doesn’t really know patton that well, but he’d seemed nice when they all had dinner together, both tonight and when essie and silas first came to town, and she’d thought he looked cute with his baby all day today, and felt a bit bad for him when he’d dozed off so readily and virgil had muttered something about overworking himself. she has the feeling patton’s probably the kind of person who’d appreciate any gift someone got him, anyway.

it doesn’t stop virgil and their dad from clucking, though. will he like this and oh, we should get and are you sure he stays warm enough where but that’s where they cut off, looking at the rest of them, busy as they are at wrapping last-minute presents or just chatting amongst themselves.

essie stifles her grin as she watches virgil closely examine a toy, as if a teddy bear was an inherent threat, their father making a near-identical face as he makes sure that he’s wrapped a present properly.

mother hens, the pair of them.

of course, essie thought, as she caught her gaze moving to annabelle for the ten dozenth time that night, to make sure that she’s there, and satisfied, and happy, it’s not like they’re the only ones in the family.

⁂

patton’s stopped jolting in surprise whenever he gets woken up by an unexpected sound, because lately, the unexpected sound’s a baby.

his baby, to be very specific. but just because he doesn’t jolt anymore doesn’t mean he’s really stoped feeling sleep-slow and stupid whenever he wakes up in the middle of the night.

well. it’s not like he ever really stops being stupid, but.

he shakes himself—he has a crying baby to tend to, so he stumbles over to the corner and lifts logan out of the carrier, trying futilely to hush him, conscious of virgil just beyond the door, conscious of logan’s colic. conscious, generally.

“hey, fella,” patton mumbles to logan, and bounces him, just a little, and starts walking, because moving around usually calms him down. “hey, hey, what’s wrong, hon?”

it turns out it’s a diaper change, and really thank goodness patton always packs extra, because he doesn’t know what he’d do, otherwise. he’s pretty sure that virgil doesn’t also have diapers stashed away with this baby carrier that logan’s sleeping in.

but logan doesn’t want to seem to go back to sleep after patton’s changed him, and so patton acquiesces, pacing circles around virgil’s darkened bedroom and noticing all kinds of little things he’d missed when he was fresh out of a sobbing session, and embarrassed, and upset.

he’s still a little bit of all those things, of course, especially the upset and embarrassed parts, but that had been kind of near-constant ever since he ran away.

he had noticed the framed photos on top virgil’s dresser, but not of what they pictured: a family shot of all of them flanking virgil in sideshire high’s red-and-gold, virgil with a cap and gown on, grinning sheepishly at the camera; freddie, in the midst of a dance performance, looking very refined and graceful, arms stretched and leg extended in a way that would make patton’s legs ache, if he could even half-manage it; wyatt, as a kid, with who must be a toddler virgil staring wide-eyed as wyatt patches up a stuffed raccoon; essie with her ringed hand thrust toward the camera, in the midst of a kiss with annabelle, an engagement photo if he’s ever seen one; silas and virgil’s parents, sitting at one of the tables in the center of a desolate diner, deep in conversation and completely unaware of the camera; virgil, at the age patton is now, wearing a spiky leather jacket and a torn-up t-shirt, scowling, as the mustached man’s arms are thrown around his neck in a near choke-hold, pressed up against his back, baring his teeth at the camera— remus, patton remembers, the man’s name is remus.

it is, patton thinks as he bounces logan, a handy little collection of all the people virgil loves, sitting upon this dresser.

patton wonders if he’ll warrant a spot one day.

immediately, he feels his face heat and turns away; this isn’t your room, he scolds himself. stop snooping.

a voice that sounds remarkably like his mother seems to murmur in his ear, it would hardly be considered snooping if he invited you in and left you alone. there’s something you can use here.

patton shakes his head, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. but it’s a bit too late; here are all the people virgil loves, sitting on his dresser, all of whom he’s at least seen relatively recently. and of all the people patton loves—other than logan—he doesn’t have much else beyond bittersweet memories, and voices in his ear, and basically nothing else.

the rush of homesickness hits him so hard it feels like he can’t breathe for a few seconds.

god, he misses christopher.

it’s been a week or so since he’s seen him last, which feels a bit ridiculous to be sad over that, but the thing was they used to see each other basically every day— they’d always gone to the same school, so they’d see each other at recess, when they were little, or at each other’s lockers, as they got older.

patton chews at his lip and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. darn it. he can’t cry again. he cannot cry again. he needs to redirect his brain.

but it’s too late.

christopher’s whiskey-brown eyes, all warm when the sun hits them just right. eating biscuits with butter and honey. giggling to each other before making their daring getaways to the balcony. sitting side-by-side, pressed up against each other. when they were little, searching the skies for ufos. when they were older, spying on the neighbors. scotch-flavored kisses and pilfered alcohol. when patton would get giggly, and tipsy, and they’d be handsy, and patton had felt a glimmer of happiness when it felt like everything in the whole world was pressing him down and trying to bury him.

christopher’s easy smile, his warm hands, his tousled hair—

patton swallows his tears the best he can, closing his eyes tightly. no christopher. no christopher on christmas, no christopher on new year’s. no christopher in school, or in summer. no christopher and him, side-by-side, every day. no more of that. that was over now.

because patton had chosen to go off into the unknown. when he left his life, trying to look for something better, he left the best parts of his life, too.

christopher was that best part.

logan fusses, and patton sniffles, turning his attention back to logan. he’s still babyish enough that he can’t really see any resemblances to christopher, or to himself. he isn’t sure if that hurts or helps—logan’s his own person, after all. but he’d really like to hear christopher make some kind of lame joke right now.

“sorry, kiddo,” he says, voice wobbly. “sorry. i know. i’ve gotcha.”

he resumes walking loops around the room. he’d barely even realized he’d stopped. he takes deep breaths, and keeps bouncing logan, which serves to quiet him.

he’s about to lie logan back down in the carrier, maybe curl up in virgil’s bed and try not to cry a little longer, when he hears the creak-and-click of a door opening and closing.

patton freezes, before he timidly opens up the bedroom door to take a peek, and—

virgil’s unwinding the scarf patton made him from around his neck, at the same time attempting to toe off his boots. he pauses and turns, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“sorry,” virgil manages to say, barely above a whisper. “did i wake you?”

“no,” patton says, and clears his throat when it comes out watery. “no, no, logan was, um. logan was fussing.”

“he okay?”

“yeah, just needed to walk around a bit. he’s good now,” and tilts logan a little closer to the light, so virgil could see that he’s holding him.

virgil surveys him, and then he squints at patton. “ you okay?”

patton tries for a smile, a little startled that virgil’s bothered to ask at all. “oh, me? yep! fit as a fiddle!”

except virgil frowns, staring at him a little closer, and says, almost a little hurt, “you could just say that you don’t wanna talk about it and i’d respect it, you know? you don’t have to lie to me.”

patton swallows. his voice comes out timid and quiet. “sorry.”

“oh, hey, it—” virgil hesitates, before he says, “well, it’s not, like, great, but, y’know. it’s okay.”

there’s a long, awkward pause.

“do you?”

“what?” patton asks, adjusting his grip on logan.

“do you want to,” virgil elaborates. “talk about it, i mean. or not.”

“oh,” patton says. “um. i mean, it just—i dunno.”

virgil dips his head in a nod, and resumes taking off his winter gear.

“were you outside?” patton asks, and he winces. of course he was outside, why else would he be wearing his cold-weather clothes? stupid question.

“oh, yeah,” virgil says. “mom wanted help with something, so.”

“oh,” patton says. “okay.”

virgil looks at him, that same surveying look that makes patton feel a little shy, like virgil’s trying to look at him hard enough to read his mind. but instead of saying anything earth-shattering, he just says, “you want some more hot cocoa or something?”

“uh,” patton says. “okay, sure. that sounds nice. i’m gonna lay down logan.”

“all right, cool,” virgil says, and shuffles off toward his kitchen. patton scoots back into virgil’s room, and moves to lay logan down, holding his breath.

no crying.

nice.

so then he wraps himself up in one of virgil’s blankets, and creeps quietly back out of the room, sitting down on the couch. he listens to virgil clank and rattle around in the kitchen, the rush of milk hitting a metal pot, some shuffling of supplies, the clanking of a spoon stirring, the click of a stove turning on.

it seems like it doesn’t take that long, but it’s long enough that patton feels like he’s pulled himself together, a little, despite the ache in his chest.

virgil comes out of the kitchen and hands patton a navy blue mug, before he settles on the opposite side of the couch, wrapping his hands around his own black mug.

“has logan been up much?” virgil says. “because you can bring him out here if you, y’know. if you need more sleep. i could—”

“no, no,” patton says. “no, it—i mean, the nap earlier’s really helped, but i’ve been, um. i’ve been sleeping.”

“okay,” virgil says. “good. it kind of just occurred to me that i might be keeping you up, and—”

“no,” patton says. “i’m good. my sleep schedule’s ruined anyway.”

virgil’s eyes narrow, and he says, “well. still.”

“it’s nice of you to offer, but it’s okay, really,” patton says, and blows a breath across the top of the cocoa, before he inhales the scent—rich, chocolatey—and adjusts his grip on the still-too-warm mug.

virgil clears his throat, and says, awkwardly, “is it… um. the same stuff you were upset about before?”

“oh,” patton says. “um.”

“‘cause again, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s okay, but—”

“it,” patton says. “it’s okay. um. kind of.”

he fiddles with the mug, looking down at the cocoa. it’s easier to look at it and not directly into virgil’s eyes.

“is it stupid to be homesick?” he asks in a tiny voice.

“no,” virgil says immediately.

“okay,” patton says, and there must be a note of skepticism in his voice, because virgil says, “it’s not. okay? it’s not stupid. it’s how you feel. that’s real, and not stupid. you aren’t stupid.”

patton runs a thumb over the rim of his mug and, instead of saying anything in response to that, he admits, voice clogging right back up again, “i miss christopher.”

“oh,” virgil says, then, “patton, that—that isn’t stupid at all. he’s your—” virgil hesitates, just awkward enough that it’s clear doesn’t really know what relationship to categorize him and christopher as, before he plows on, “he’s important to you.”

patton sniffles, and runs a hand under his eyes, mostly out of caution to not cry again, virgil has seen him cry enough, and says, “yeah, he is. he’s my—”

patton clears his throat, before he continues, “he’s my best friend. he was almost—” and he clams up.

“almost?” virgil prompts gently, and patton lets out a laugh that’s closer to a sob.

“i mean, it—it wasn’t a secret that it was mostly because our parents wanted him to, but he—he tried to propose to me. ‘cause of logan.”

“oh,” virgil says, clearly a little surprised.

“i said no,” patton says quietly. “i… i mean, he was my—i love him. y’know? if it was any other reason, any other way, i think… i think i would have said yes. but.”

“but,” virgil prompts, and patton takes a gulp of hot cocoa to give himself a moment’s pause. it nearly scalds his mouth. he’s almost a little happy about it—it gives him a physical ache for him to focus on, instead of an emotional one.

“it just… it was so clearly because he thought we had to,” patton says. “i mean. we were in the hospital, and he was meeting logan for the first time—”

“while you were in labor?” virgil says, a little appalled. which, fair. patton was focused on a lot when he was in labor, he’d have been pretty peeved if christopher had come knocking asking about marriage during all that.

“oh,” patton says. “um, no. christopher couldn’t make it, when i was in labor. he came by the next afternoon.”

virgil frowns, but nods a little, like he’s signaling that he’s still listening.

“it was the… the little window room? where you can see all the babies in those little plastic cribs,” patton says. “and we were looking in, staring at logan, and he said, he’s a cute baby, and i said, he’s perfect, and he just said, i guess we should get married. just like that. i guess we should get married,” he mimicks christopher’s uncertain tone.

virgil frowns harder, but this time, patton nods.

“ right,” patton says. “and, i mean, i just—i mean, i love him. i really do. but proposals… that’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, right? proposals are supposed to be more than a desperate end to our parents’ bickering and all their expectations. it should be planned. it should be magical.”

virgil nods.

“it should be—it should be more,” patton says. “there should be music playing and romantic lighting and a subtle buildup to the popping of the questions. there should be a—a thousand yellow daisies, and candles, and—and more than just an oh, i guess. ”

“yeah,” virgil says.

“but i,” patton says, and sighs, taking another gulp of cocoa. “i mean, i know that if i’d said yes, i’d still be stuck there, and unhappy, and worried about all the same things that i was worried about that led to me running away, but—”

“but you still miss him.”

“yeah,” patton says, and sighs. “ yeah.”

“for the record,” virgil says. “i think you’re—i think you’re right.”

patton blinks at him.

“like,” virgil says, “you shouldn’t marry someone just ‘cause your parents want you to. if you really love him—”

“i do.”

“—yeah,” virgil says. “so. if you really love him. if he’s really right for you. it’ll make sense eventually. and you guys’ll get married for you. not for anyone else. not for your parents, or because the world thinks you have to, or because people think that you have to be married to have a kid. you guys’ll come back together for you guys. that’s the way it should be. okay?”

“okay.”

“plus, like, you’re sixteen,” virgil says. “you’re literally, like, a child groom. child spouse? whatever. the point is, you’re a kid. you have a lot of time to figure out if you wanna be with christopher or not, or if you wanna get married to him or not, or if you want to be with anyone at all. you have time.”

“i guess,” patton says.

“i know,” virgil says. “like, i’m twenty-three. i’ve got six more years of life experience than you, roughly. the things i thought i’d do at sixteen are way different. you’re going to look back on yourself in those six years and be like i’m glad i waited, okay? your brain’s still growing and all that.”

“isn’t yours, too?”

“yeah, exactly,” virgil says. “my point. both still growing up. you’ve got way more than enough on your plate right now. you’ve got a baby, and a job, you shouldn’t have to worry about a—a wedding, or whatever.”

“that is very true,” patton says wearily, and so they both sit and sip their cocoa for a while.

“virge?”

“yeah?” he says.

“thanks for all this,” patton says. “i mean—really.”

“anytime,” virgil says. “you done?”

patton hands over the mug, and virgil takes it, standing. patton, belatedly, stands too.

“you should get some more sleep,” he says. “but if you can’t, you can, y’know. we can hang out and do whatever you want, yeah?”

“okay,” patton says.

he shuffles into virgil’s bedroom.

“pat?”

“yeah?” patton says, turning back to face him.

virgil smiles at him uncertainly, and makes a gesture with the mugs he’s holding.

“seriously,” virgil says. “if it’s, y’know. true love or whatever. it’ll happen eventually. you’ll get your thousand yellow daisies. yeah?”

the corner of patton’s mouth quirks up.

“thanks, v.”

“yeah, well,” virgil says. “get some sleep, okay?”

patton gets into virgil’s room. he closes the door behind him, he falls into a bed that smells like unfamiliar laundry detergent, and falls into the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time.

⁂

her children are safely asleep and, for the twenty-ninth year running, it leaves her and her husband awake last.

“we don’t have any major christmas surprises to lay out this year, do we?” mark murmurs.

they’re sitting on the bed, the pair of them holding styrofoam cups in their hands, having one last cup of tea before they turn in for the night. meredith’s tucked her legs up underneath her; mark has his legs crossed, already dressed in his pajamas. they’re particularly paying attention to their volume, though freddie’s the heaviest sleeper of their children; meredith could probably start hollering and freddie would only barely stir. but there she is, still sleeping, and so their voices are quiet.

“no,” meredith murmurs. “no surprises. well, no surprises beyond what we’ve already done.”

mark acknowledges this with a quiet chuckle, and finishes up the last of his tea. meredith pats him on the knee.

“i might run down to the pool house to pick up patton’s clothes,” meredith says. “knowing us, we’ll probably be running late in the morning.”

“all right,” mark says, and leans to give her a peck. “would you like company?”

“you’re already in your flannel, you’d freeze,” she teases. “i’ll be alright. get some sleep.”

mark nods, collects their trash, and moves to throw it away and brush his teeth as meredith shrugs on her coat, pushes her feet into her boots, and leaves their room, leaves the inn.

the inn’s grounds are beautiful, even in the dead of night, even in the dead of winter. the near-dead grass crunched under her feet and she examined the bushes, devoid of any blooms, the trees, stripped bare, the artful landscaping. all of it tinged silver in the moonlight.

beautiful, even in its quiet. like the rest of sideshire.

she’s missed it terribly.

she descends to the poolhouse, attempting to shake off her malaise. it’s small and unassuming—barely more than a shed, meant mostly to store things, to double as a potting shed. it’s meant to be overlooked, but now that she’s staring at it, it seems a rather sorry little room, not even qualified to be called a house . she opens the door.

it’s just as pitiable on the inside as it is on the outside.

the couch that must have been patton’s bed has been pushed aside, to make room for the mattress that meredith had damaged; there are laundry baskets piled full of clothes, boxes of baby toys and books and blankets, a storage cart repurposed to be a changing station, a crib moved close to the bed.

the whole room is dark and dingy—there are still abandoned potting sheds scattered about the room, pool supplies shoved into corners. it looks like patton’s carried everything he owned into the room only to drop it, and he’d been so exhausted that he hadn’t been able to tidy it up.

she doesn’t blame the poor boy at all. she feels the sympathy rise in her heart, and is abundantly grateful that she and mark had decided to get as many gifts for patton as they could think of, plus a few more.

maybe, she thinks, there could be some anonymous deliveries of gift cards to get some supplies. make this place a bit homier.

but she spies the box with a woolly sleeve peeking out of it, and so she crosses the room to open up the box.

which one would he like? she wonders. gray, yellow, blue, green, white, black?

she hesitates, before she reaches for the blue one. may as well go all-in on the color-matching scheme, here.

she’s folding up the sweaters she’d examined when the door swings open, and meredith freezes where she is, staring at the person in the doorway, who’s frozen up, too.

meredith clears her throat, and lifts the blue sweater. “he asked me to bring a change of clothes tomorrow.”

raf nods, and then meredith sees the wagon he’s toting, piled high with wrapped boxes and gift bags. “gifts from everyone.”

she smiles. “good. we won’t be the only ones spoiling him.”

raf smiles wider, and she rises to her feet, gesturing. “can i help—?”

“ah, i’ve got help on the way,” raf says, and meredith’s about to ask who until in comes another person, toting another wagon.

“hi, cara,” meredith says, amused.

“oh!” cara says. “hi, mrs. danes. um—”

“gifts for patton?”

“this load is for the baby, actually,” cara says sheepishly, and meredith laughs.

“well, far be it from me to stop you,” meredith says, folding the sweater over her arm. “you’re sure the both of you don’t need a hand?”

“well,” cara says, and glances over at raf.

“we’ve all got a load of furniture that people aren’t using or just needed to donate,” raf says. “because. well. look at this place.”

it is pretty pitiful. the only furniture that seems like it could really be used for people is a broken rocking chair, the bed, the crib, and a potting bench that looks like it’s been repurposed into a changing table. no dresser, no table, no… anything, really.

“and some paint,” cara adds, “but we figured we could leave some paint chips and the note from hector saying that he’ll be out to paint it whatever color he wants, not just choose it for him.”

“how about i help organize the presents, then?” meredith suggests.

“oh, you don’t have to—”

“i insist,” meredith says firmly. “we’re all trying to make sure they have a good christmas.”

“well,” raf says. “if you insist.”

and so it begins, a crew of the three of them; cara’s taping paint chips to the walls, along with hector’s note; raf totes in a dresser, a nightstand, a few baskets that are filled up with yarn; meredith arranges the presents, and notices that none of them have notes.

when she asks, cara and raf exchange a glance.

“he’s a bit… stubborn, when it comes to presents and gifts and that kind of thing,” cara says.

“pauline slipped him some extra money and he spent a week trying to get her to take it back,” raf says.

“ah,” meredith says.

“ but,” cara says, “if you convince him it’s for logan, or it would really be more of a convenience for him to take whatever you’ve got—”

“then he’ll take it,” meredith surmises, starting to understand. “so, if we act apologetic in the morning and keep saying that we would have felt terrible not getting anything, and all of this is so last minute—”

“he’ll probably take it,” raf says. “it’s a manners thing, i think.”

“he is very polite,” meredith murmurs.

“that he is,” cara says.

they continue to work in companionable silence, meredith stacking patton and logan’s presents in a circle, like patton had done with the presents in the diner.

she hopes that he’ll take them. she hopes that he’ll love them.

he really does deserve to be spoiled at christmas after the week/month/year he’s had.

#my post #text #the sideshire files #my fic #my fanfic #sanders sides #love light gleams

5 notes · View notes