#{in the tags. its a rather silly discussion} | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deripmaver · 9 months

Text

Which is worse, rape or murder? - Or, should Casca have died during the Eclipse?

Unlike most of my meta posts, this is one I'm making as a direct critique of a specific take I've seen. It's similar to my meta about apostle Casca in that regard, where I want to look at a specific idea and why I dislike it, as opposed to wanting to explore my thoughts on an aspect of canon. To be clear, this is only something I do if I've seen a take a bunch of times, enough so I know it's not a one-off. It's also not something I do because I want to engage in discussion with the people who've said whatever the take is, it's something I do in case other people who agree with me might be interested in a meta post that's more in line with their viewpoint.

I provide this disclaimer because, as I've said a few times now, the idea that it's the better choice to have Casca die during the eclipse is one that I just really dislike, and I make that preeeeetty fuckin clear. I can't control who sees this or who comments, but I did think I should make my stance explicit.

Berserk fandom is an absolute treasure trove of bad takes about rape and sexual assault. Considering the seriousness with which the manga takes rape, despite it's sometimes quite dodgy framing and portrayal, the fact that the fandom is Like That is fully a testament to cishet men's inability to consume media without turning into a brainless amoeba of toxicity.

I have to say, though, what shocked me the most was that this particular take, that Casca should have just died during the eclipse, was not from the dudebro side of fandom ('cause if she had they couldn't make their silly little "casca enjoyed it" jokes).

I'm coming right out of the gate with my opinion, which is a firm no, Casca should not have died during the eclipse, and the story would be weaker if she had. I'm going to presume during this analysis that the people who say this assume that her death would be instead of her rape, as opposed to her being raped and then dying, which would be... Horrific. Even more horrific than canon, lol.

I do have sympathy for some of the people who wish she had died, and in a way I understand, though I vehemently disagree. Some of the posts with this POV sound almost traumatized as they proclaim I wish she would have died, it would have been better. As this is something I've only noticed in the tumblr fandom side of things, where most people are women, I think this comes from women readers feeling furious and sick about one of the most vile rape scenes out there. In some ways its intentionally vile, in others - ie how grotesquely sexualized it is - it's unintentional. Then, of course, she continues to suffer in her disabled, infantilized trauma state. I hear these readers wanting to shout at Miura that he should have just killed her off rather than force her, and us, through reading that. It would have been kinder.

I have... Far less sympathy for others. There's a side of fandom that simply does not care about Casca (in a different way than the dudebros who don't care about her despite gushing about how she's peak tomboy waifu). It's amazing the veneer of progressivism these people put on as they say that Casca should have died, because she did not contribute to the narrative before the eclipse, and she certainly hasn't after. Going to get even spicier for a second and point out fandom's long history of wanting female characters dead because they get in the way of mlm ships, and how I think this is SOMETIMES simply another manifestation of it.

To be fully fucking clear, I do NOT think that being a grffgts shipper (censored so this doesn't show up in the tag LOLLLLL) precludes being shitty about Casca. I think tumblr's demographics, and those demographics' typical shipping preferences, mean that grffgts is naturally going to dominate. By simple statistics, most of the people whose opinions I hate are going to be grffgts shippers. Same with most of the people's opinions I like on tumblr tbh. I do, however, think it's prudent to point out old school fandom misogyny, and how I personally feel it's showing up in the fandom, and also point out that it pisses me off that Casca dying during the eclipse is at all presented as the least misogynistic outcome.

I'm also going to say now that this is firmly being kept in the realm of fiction. In real life, there are horrific discussions about how being a victim of rape defiles you for life, and that it's better to die without the "shame" of being raped than live with it. While I have to be blunt it's difficult for me to separate some of the discussion of Casca dying during the eclipse from that anti-survivor bias I see in real life just because ~we live in a society~, I in general think this sentiment is coming from a place of simply analyzing, narratively, which outcome is less misogynistic given how the rape in canon is portrayed.

Would it narratively have been better for Casca to have died? What about the impact of her death versus her current storyline?

First, I think I need to outline my interpretation of the eclipse rape. I don't think that the decision to have Griffith rape Casca was Miura simply being a misogynistic cishet dude who threw in rape for the hell of it. I also don't think it's OOC. Again, there's much to critique in how it's drawn, but not in the fact that it happened. Griffith, in his moments of feeling out of control and powerless, uses sexual advances to reassert his control over the situation - see Charlotte, or the wagon scene with Casca. A distaste for sexual violence committed by his enemies doesn't mean Griffith is incapable of wielding sexual violence as a weapon himself. In real life, there's a paradox where rape committed by political or social enemies is seen as the worst crime one could ever commit, while the mundane rape committed as a consequence of patriarchy is excusable and the victims should be blamed and shamed. Did Miura have the gender studies acumen to think about that when writing? I dunno, but neither does anyone who thinks he didn't.

I also think it's supposed to establish his actions during the eclipse as fully over the moral event horizon. Without it, it's easy to ask if ultimately, Griffith's decision to sacrifice his followers to a cruel death is justified to create a perfect utopia. With it, it establishes Griffith as acting fully on cruel, malicious impulse in moments of emotional turmoil, which puts his future utopia in jeopardy. I can't be the only one who sees Falconia as a ticking time bomb. Of course, this doesn't mean he needed to rape Casca, but simply that I think it was necessary to his character to do something that crossed that moral line. He could have raped Guts I suppose. Killerbambi has entered the chat.

While I think this might sound strange, I actually think it's immensely validating to have a character who is a victim not just of rape, but of rape committed by someone she already knew. That's genuinely unique in media on the whole, which plays into that paradox I mentioned earlier - in real life, the vast majority of assaults are committed by someone the victim knew. Having the story surround the continual, horrific trauma of betrayal, of having to watch the person who hurt you move on while trauma keeps you in horrible stasis is almost so realistic it's... uncomfortable. Painful. Hard to read.

There's no greater purpose to what happened to Casca. She didn't grow from it, instead she regressed.

Her general lack of agency post-eclipse is much critiqued in the fandom and like. Fucking yeah fair LOLLLLLL BUT ALSO... But also. Fandom on the whole can be so cruel about traumatized female characters, like there's no way they can do trauma "right." In Casca's case, her lack of agency is turned into a reason she should simply have been killed off instead, as though there aren't so many survivors who, while not as literally as she does, retreat into a shell of themselves and are frozen with trauma as the world begins to pass them by. Of course, the critique would be that she's not a real person, she's a female character written in a misogynistic way by a man, but I personally think this overstates Miura's issues with his portrayal of rape. To me, it presents what they think are his biases as justification for their own biases.

Time and time again, I see survivors discuss feeling validated by Casca's trauma response after being assaulted. Even the parts of the rape scene that I vehemently dislike, such as the hyper-focus on Casca's body and the physical reactions she's having, I've seen more than one person say they felt validated because they too had an unwanted arousal response during an assault. I'll still critique the scene, but regardless of if this was Miura's intention, its impact is clear.

I'll again plug this article by Jackson P. Brown, How Berserk’s Casca challenges the myth of the “Strong Black Woman.” Just to show a quote from it:

All of the action of the story after Conviction Arc is in service of restoring Casca's mind. During Conviction Arc and after, Casca has groups of women who love and protect her, with women as her source of safety. Guts is single mindedly focused on bringing her back, putting his body on the line again and again to protect her and restore her. I wondered about including Guts here because I'm sure I'll get some anon about the Beast of Darkness, which again fair LOL. I have complicated feelings on that, but mostly I think the importance the narrative puts on her mind and her protection is touching, and I think this outweighs how the negative things apparently mean that she should have died.

Her story and trauma, despite its flaws, is shockingly realistic and validating to so many people. She's also a key narrative component post-eclipse, and not just ~for Guts' manpain~ or as a helpless plot device, her story is her own. I've written about Elaine as a character and what she represents, but in brief, Casca doesn't disappear after the eclipse. Miura wrote Elaine with these moments where Casca comes to the surface, and while I wish we had more of her POV I think you can look at how she's coping from how Elaine reacts to the world around her.

I also think it's necessary to have Casca at the Hill of Swords. There's Guts, who Griffith torments in the way only a bitter ex can, and Rickert, who doesn't know what happened the day of the eclipse, but I think Casca is the key component in that scene that cuts through all of Griffith's posturing and Guts' anger. She is there, making the real, human cost of what Griffith did during the eclipse unignorable in a way that no other character could. It's one thing for Guts to be furious with him and Rickert ignorant, it's another to have someone who loved him so innocently and dearly trembling just at the sight of him. Let's not pretend that the depth of betrayal in this scene would be the same if you swapped her for, say, Judeau.

It's funny, Miura is quoted as saying that his initial reason for keeping Casca alive was to provide Guts an ever-burning flame of vengeance, an eternal reminder of everything that he lost during the eclipse. What's wound up happening, on a meta level, is that Casca provides the reader a constant reminder of what happened during the eclipse. As more and more focus is given to her PTSD with her revival, the cruelty with which Griffith acted (and continues to act) becomes harder and harder to ignore. It becomes more difficult to push it aside as just bad, misogynistic writing.

And also, quite simply, I like narratives about trauma recovery, and therefore I'll always find Casca's story worth telling despite my frustration with a lot of it. It's absolutely wild to me that for how often I see the fandom complain about her being "fridged" they think it would have been better to see her ACTUALLY fridged, no chance of coming back at all, just dead to fuel Guts' revenge arc. Would it really be better to have her be just another dead girlfriend? Really?

That's really what it comes down to. I like Casca as a character, and I want her to have lived. The people who wish she had died, many of them simply don't like her as a character. Not all, particularly in that first group I mentioned at the start, but many. Everyone has their preferences of course, but I don't think I need to respect when someone thinks a character has so little influence on the narrative that they should have just died, especially if that character is Casca.

If Casca had died during the eclipse, it would not have been a good death. It would not have been brave, or triumphant, or worth anything for her as a character. Judeau died to protect Casca, but even his death was not brave, it was just sad. That's the whole point of the eclipse.

To have Casca die that way would be a disservice to her as a character, far moreso than to have her struggle on as a traumatized victim of sexual violence. That's genuinely what I believe.

#berserk #casca #casca berserk #berserk meta #casca the og victim of yaoi IN CANON

138 notes · View notes

shivunin · 2 months

Text

15 Lines of Dialogue

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

Thank you so much for the tag @dreadfutures! I love this, and it's given me an excuse to comb back through Wander again c: This was honestly a really fun exercise because so much of character voice for me is carried by the context/narrative tone (and Emma especially writes a lot of letters in this fic, which aren't really dialogue).

So - for Emmaera Lavellan (Emma):

“We hear your concerns, ambassador. My advisor and I will discuss it at length, I assure you. Please, feel free to find either of us if you have concerns about the accommodations at Skyhold ahead of the fete.”

“It doesn’t feel like we do, Josie. We already saved the world. Why couldn’t that be enough?”

"When I’m sitting in those meetings, I think about all the ways I could get away from here without someone noticing. I think about climbing down from the tower, or hiding in the stables until night and taking the dracolisk out."

“Your new owner was a bad man,” she continued, “I’m sorry for that. But if you’ll let me help, I will make sure you’re cared for as long as you stay with me.”

"We didn’t have to put other faces on for each other–when we were alone, we spoke plainly and left behind the facades. So when I tell you he wasn’t the one who put the knife in my chest, believe me: It wasn’t him.”

“It had better be little. I’ve had enough parties in my honor to last a lifetime.”

"This woman would not know her Maker if he picked her up by the heel and shook her."

"I don’t know. Is there a problem? I’ve heard I can’t do anything myself. Seems like I should be no manner of threat at all to one such as you–who killed a single , individual Venatori three years ago."

"You once saw me throw a fireball into a dragon’s mouth while it had me between its teeth. I think I can manage to walk down a dirty street alone, missing arm or no."

“You’ll see. I’m just - not suited to lounging around this manor and hoping for the best. I have to do something. And if I have nothing to do here–”

“But it would look so dashing. Maybe I want it to heal crooked.”

"Silly choice of metals, gold. All soft and shiny. I’d rather a heart of iron or steel or–ooh, dragon bone would be fantastic. Very durable, dragon bone. Velvet, though–-that would be novel. A heart of velvet: prickly one way and soft the other. Uncomfortably warm in the summer. That fits much better.”

"If the choice was between forgiveness and moving on–what else could I choose?"

"He knows how to open doors. It hasn’t become a problem yet.”

"Even if you forget someday, this is yours to read as you wish. I thought you should have that, to decide for yourself what you want to know."

Tagging @greypetrel @inquisimer @nightwardenminthara @idolsgf @transprincecaspian @star--nymph @vakarians-babe and you!!

#tbh tempted to compile lists for the others but what i realized while doing this #is that emma talks a lot less than i realized #and that doing this for maria would probably be a nightmare lmao #because she talks so much #it would be hard to pare the list down #tag game #emmaera lavellan #emma talks most when she's mad and delirious is what i learned in this exercise haha

12 notes · View notes

legitelizabethwwefan · 2 years

Note

Hello!!!! can i request a drabble or hcs of chamber, yoru and reyna when they had an argument with their s/o but then their s/o's birthday is near? maybe some hurt/comfort stuff? :"D thankyou!!!

Thanks for the request, anon! This one took a little thinking, and I ended up doing headcanons because it just worked easier with the scenario. Since it wasn’t specified, I wrote these headcanons with a general reader in mind and with it being the first birthday you would celebrate with that agent since dating (if that makes sense lol). Also, I didn’t get into how these agents will celebrate your birthday, as I think I will turn that into its own thing instead. Hope that’s alright.

I hope you guys like it!

If you want to request anything, you can do so here.

Word count: 874

Warnings: Suggestive themes, implied sex.

Argument Before Your Birthday - Chamber, Reyna, Yoru x General Reader

Chamber:

The argument broke out two weeks before your birthday over you not wanting Chamber to spend a ton of money on your gift.

He wants to spend a ton of money whereas you would rather he didn’t do that.

You believe that it’s the thought that counts.

It’s not a big argument per se; it’s a rather stupid one where both of you are willing to die on your respective hills.

With the argument left unresolved, you kept your distance from Chamber to avoid another fight breaking out.

Chamber tried to talk to you during this time, but you refused to engage out of pettiness.

Things are tense due to this and you resorted to sleeping on the couch to keep your distance.

All of this results in you not looking forward to your birthday, much to your dismay.

A week before your birthday, Chamber insists that you two hash things out despite your concerns that it will end in another argument.

Chamber apologizes and admits to being wrong.

He’s used to buying expensive gifts for others, so he just assumed that you wanted one too.

You explain that the thought behind the gift is more important than the price tag.

Chamber apologizes again and promises to listen to what you want more.

You apologize for keeping your distance from him so much, as you were worried about another argument happening.

Chamber figures that that’s what was up.

Both of you promise to respect each other’s boundaries from now on.

You two kiss and then engage in some much-needed make-up sex.

Now you’re more excited for your birthday than ever.

Reyna:

Reyna is the type of person who doesn’t believe that birthdays should be a big deal.

So when you suggest celebrating your birthday in a week, Reyna doesn’t feel as though it’s necessary.

You argue that you want to celebrate because you were never able to as a child, so doing so as an adult feels really special.

Despite your counterpoint, Reyna isn’t interested and sees your birthday as just another day.

Frustrated, you shout a few choice words at her before storming off.

The argument leaves you really upset and questioning if it’s silly for you to want to celebrate your birthday after all.

You spend the next few days avoiding Reyna as much as possible, refusing to speak to her and even going so far as to not make eye contact with her.

A few days later, Reyna shows up to your apartment, insisting that she has to talk to you right then and there.

You reluctantly let her in despite still being angry with her.

Once inside, Reyna starts by apologizing for not being considerate of your thoughts and feelings.

She admits that she discussed your argument with Sage earlier that day, only for Sage to lecture her over her actions.

Reyna then reveals that she hasn’t celebrated her own birthday since the death of her sister and hasn’t seen the point in birthdays since.

You begin to apologize for not being sensitive to Reyna’s feelings, but she insists that you’ve done nothing wrong.

She vows to make your birthday a special occasion that day.

While you accept Reyna’s apology, you also vow to make her birthday special when it comes around.

The two of you kiss before getting into the obligatory make-up sex that you both love.

With this fight behind you, you and Reyna have a new reason to look forward to your birthdays- as well as her’s.

Yoru:

Less than a week before your birthday, Yoru hasn’t mentioned any plans for it.

You decide to ask him one day out of tentative curiosity.

Yoru’s (dead serious) response: “Your birthday’s coming up?”

Considering that you two had been dating for some time, you’re more than a little offended that e doesn’t know your birthday.

Yoru swears up and down that you never told him when your birthday is.

You’re confident that you did.

The two of you bicker for a few minutes before you storm off in an angry huff.

A couple of days later, you’re ranting to Jett over breakfast about your fight with Yoru.

Jett didn’t know your birthday, causing you to realize that you actually never told Yoru (or any of the other agents, for that matter) about it.

You catch up with Yoru that evening when you knock on the door to his apartment.

He isn’t happy to see you until you blurt out a heartfelt “I’m sorry.”

He invites you in, where you explain your conversation with Jett and apologize again for getting upset.

You had thought that Yoru couldn’t be bothered to remember your birthday, which is why you had been as angry as you were.

Yoru accepts your apology, especially when he sees how teary-eyed you are as you spoke.

He gives you a hug and a kiss before telling you that he wants you to have a good birthday- especially since you two are currently working for the Valorant Protocol.

With things now resolved between the two of you, Yoru promises to go so far as to make this your best birthday yet.

Now you’re eager to see what he has in store for you once your birthday arrives.

#chamber x reader #reyna x reader #yoru x reader #valorant chamber #valorant reyna #valorant yoru #chamber valorant #reyna valorant #yoru valorant #valorant x reader #reader insert #valorant #headcanon #headcanons #valorant headcanon #valorant headcanons

397 notes · View notes

protect-daniel-james · 2 months

Note

WIP asks: what is your oldest? What is the one you will probably never finish?

Omg, do unfinished chaptered fics count?

AO3 tells me the oldest non-finished chaptered fic is Silent Freeway, an Alex Turner/Miles Kane fic from ancient times. I am kinda ashamed of it now, because ultimately it was too much for me to write about - I chose the light topics of mental health and psychosis with my poor English skills, and obviously it was a pain in the ass to write in the end. I wasn't brave enough to go back and read it but I can imagine the shit I wrote back in 2016 in English. It was too much drama for the sake of drama, no characterisation, no reasonable behavior... I will definitely never finish that one. I'm not that much into Milex, and the whole story seems childish today.

Fun fact - it has over 11 000 words making up 11 chapters. Yes, 11 chapters. Which means about 1 000 words per chapter (I was so proud of it back then, lmao). Good old days. Nowaydays I write a 11 000 word fic about Inzaghi brothers fucking.

WIP which I might actually finish one day is definitely Let's fade together, let's fade forever. No football. Historical Figures RPF combining two of my favorite fruity couples from late 18th century, Alex Hamilton/John Laurens and Frederick II/Hans Hermann von Katte. As the tag says, I imagine Heaven as a waiting room. A waiting room where Laurens and von Katte meet and talk and wait for their loved ones. I think it was a nice lil' idea, a fic that became known as "sad gays in heaven". Yeah, it is still rather naive and silly looking back, but I am still quite proud of that one. It's literally missing one chapter.

My problem is I get too excited about a new thing, and I am able to produce quite quickly a new fic when I am excited. A planned out multichaptered fic even. But then, the excitement fades - either because I find a more interesting new thing, or because the response is non-existent, and I see that something I was excited about and cared about isn't really interesting "to the outside". Now don't get me wrong, I'm not one to count kudos and comments because I know that the ships and themes I write about are very niche (I am well aware that if I write a Pedri/Gavi fic, it would get to 200-300 kudos, if I write a Grizione fic, it would be around 50, but if I write about Unai Emery, there will be like 5) - but even with this awareness, if a fic I truly was excited about doesn't really get a response, I just don't feel motivated to prioritise it, work on the next chapter, or write something about the pairing again (unless it's Unai and Football, because those fics I take as a form of experience, exploration, and almost academic work so I don't care if y'all aren't reading those; they are for me to explore the unexplored. although it's nice when people read and comment on them, and want to discuss its topics, obviously).

When it comes to unpublished WIPs, I don't really have many of those because I tend to start my WIPs when excited and then I usually work quickly (unless it's literally a 10 000+ words fic like the yacht fic or like the Inzaghicest one might be). One that I promised to do was a Henderson/Stevie G in Saudi Arabia engaging in bad, sleazy, desperate sex because they have no clue what they are doing there, but I haven't really started to work on that.

I started working on a Mourinho/Abramovich fic (with a flavour of Abramovich/Sheva).

"Mr. Abramovich - " José made a significant pause, spread out his hands over the edge of the desk that separated him from the addressed man. "I know you like him. Is easy to see." For a moment not a single muscle in Abramovich's face moved. Then, his eyebrows rose up, and he tilted his head, smiling; not just smiling but amused at such a simple yet daring statement. "Is it?" he asked, although José wasn't completely sure about the wording. It might have been just a simple, bemused repetition of the word he himself used to describe his reading of the situation - easy.

I think it's now the oldest actual draft that I have, but it's only 2 months old lmao. As I said, I finish my fics pretty quickly (after all, I usually write directly in AO3 - believe me, I did regret it a few times), and the one month due date on drafts works miracles.

#thank you!#myfics

8 notes · View notes

fluffmugger · 10 months

Text

RIGHT

*Slams hands on balcony railing* I AM GONNA SAY THIS HERE RATHER THAN SHIT UP SOME POOR REBLOG THAT CROSSES MY DASH AND I’M GONNA SAY IT LOUD.

Apologies as it will land on the public tags, but I’m tagging stuff as Good Omens 2 as some followers are blocking the tag until they catch up. I PERSONALLY FUCKING HATE THE DRUGGED COFFEE THEORY AND I FUCKING HATE THE OMELAS THEORY AND HERE’S WHY (Brought to you by 3/4ths a bottle of baileys)

1) Drugged coffee to ensure Aziraphale’s compliance resulting in him deciding to go with the Metatron completely destroys his agency. It’s a BAD plot contrivance that offers a piss-easy out and I ain’t having it. The dude fucked up of his own accord. Accept it. Was the coffee a tactic? absolutely. Just in case you missed the whole shaming in the first season of how Aziraphale polluted himself, they went out of their way to reinforce a major schism between the forces of heaven and hell and Aziraphale and Crowley : They do not imbibe human food or drink. It’s gauche at best. There’s repeated moments with Muriel refusing a drink, Gabriel losing his shit when he finally tries hot chocolate for the first time, it’s presented as an actual temptation by Crowley to Aziraphale (and boy oh boy did he take after that shit like a disgraced vestal virgin at a bacchanal) and even in flashbacks we see Beez and Gabs, even while cheerfully violating every other unspoken rule that they literally tried to melt Aziraphale and Crowley for refusing to drink a beer and eat a bag of crisps. And all of a sudden the literal voice of god rocks up with an incredibly bougie coffee - that he’s clearly ordered before given how thoughtlessly he rattled it off - going “yeah man, I drink this shit all the time, it’s awesome, we’ve changed, we’re cool, come join the gang az”. Whether its a manipulation tactic or a genuine attempt to show good faith in an attempt to change remains to be seen, but drugging it? Fuck offffffffffffff

2) OMELAS OMG Lift Us Where Suffering Cannot Reach!!!! Ok. What’s the point of that.

Honestly. What. Would. Be. The. Fucking. Point. We are literally discussing biblical heaven here, not a sociopolitical commentary on capitalism. It doesn't run on someone literally being continuously shat on (sit down catholics), the only figure who fits that messianic role - and I use the term messianic very deliberately - is friggin’ christ if you’re a christian and the Passion’s been and gone my bitches. So what would be the point of it? Oh no, Aziraphale the lamb to slaughter! Oh my bby~ Oh no! Crowley must rescue him!!! NO. Again, it’s a wipe of agency and it frames Aziraphale as this agentless silly thing NOT TO MENTION that whole trope would rely on Crowley once again slavishly running to rescue him and after the shit that went down in s2 ep6? No. That shit’s not romantic, it’s toxic. It’s the same crap Nina just got out of. It might work in a fanfic but in S3 it would just be shit storytelling.

Thus concludes my rant, I am now hurling my baileys bottle into the front yard and breaking up an overexcited cat fight in the loungeroom.

#Good Omens 2

32 notes · View notes

filmografo · 9 months

Text

series intro - BIRTHPLACE

genre: space opera, sci-fi, litfic (a bit)

status: drafting / “outlining” book 2/3.

pov: third person limited, present tense.

tropes / themes: the unbearable weight of mortality, the terrifying realization of Want, space lesbians, growing up / apart / back, lgbtq+, exes to rivals to whatever it is austrakit are currently, found family, finding oneself, (space) war era, ambiguity, subjectivity, capital p Pining (+ more tba)

summary: After finding out her ex-girlfriend is training a ten men crew for what is essentially a suicide mission to map a planet Earth that’s been left behind, Kit Nikon desperately tries to give her life a new meaning.

tags (more TBA): #: birthplace #[we] have the sun in common

Space station gardens, neon green & blue, roots taking place, the smell of damp earth, bright unflickering lights, starfighters, healing bruises, hands against cold metal, sea water, warm sunshine, home in the valley of someone else’s ribs.

characters:

nalkita “kit” nikon (23 - she/her?) | 🌱

emigrate, novo amor

de selby (part 1), hozier

glossover, afternoon bike ride / lowswimmer

strangers, ethel cain

austra andante (23 - she/her) | 🌊

repeat until death, novo amor

i wouldn’t ask you, clairo

the end of love, florence + the machine

there’s nothing left for you, mitski

excerpt:

To know something is to be in constant battle with it: the plaguing of a garden, trying to disinfect a never-healing wound. Being near Austra, hands dripping with blood that never belonged to either of their bodies, means Nalkita has to fight against her own humanity, fight against desire. Close up her throat so the words I wish you would, Lieutenant don’t come out, raw and real. Kit understands so little about herself and knows Austra so much — the feeling of her expressive eyebrows against a fingertip, the weight of every responsibility she carries. Who is she to add another sandbag to Austra’s already aching shoulders but a soldier, a sinning one, at that? Refusing to give up on something that was never hers to begin with.

rambles / more about the series under the cut! :D

this was born from a fanfic/short story i wrote 2 years ago when i wasn’t ready to face what came after the events of what is now book 1 of the birthplace series. i took inspiration from novo amor’s birthplace album, which re-enlightened me about the meaning of “home”. i still hold it extremely close to my heart and will forever.

for book 1 of this, “astro-garden”, the journey kit goes on is extremely personal, quite lonely, quite difficult. titles never meant something to her until austra got one. there’s not much i can say except kit is a firecracker of a person and she’s going to need a lot of luck (she’s strong, she’ll manage)!

book 2 “roots in infertile soil” is as chaotic as i can possibly make a book. there’s more pining (for reasons...), more action, more drama... the characters are all a joy to write and flesh out, and the mercury ii crew are the type of found family that i’ve always loved to read about <3 i’ll introduce each and every one of them with tags in the near future so stay tuned for that!!! :)

book 3 is still in its early earlyyy development stages but hopefully i’ll have something cool to say about it sooner rather than later !

feel free to ask me about anything birthplace-related seeing as this is the only project i am currently (actively) working on!!! i would love love loooove to chat more about secondary characters, locations (the spaceships are Alive), discuss the plot / themes more in depth, etc!

i will be making a taglist with everyone who wants to get updates from this (i'll post more abt that later!) so send me an ask if you’d like to join it :D !

thank you for reading this (kinda long?) intro post for my silly little still unwritten novels hehe! i hope to hear more from u soon

17 notes · View notes

pridepurgatorium · 11 months

Text

— Differences To Some Are Similarities To Others

@ombrotherlylove2023 , Mammon and Beelzbub

Day 2: Arguments and Bonding Experience

Gluttony and greed are strikingly similar. Both ruled by the ever-consuming want. Greed is flashy in its presence, you know what a greedy person wants and you know what it means for them to not get it. Gluttony, however, is subtle, it’s never sated, it always needs to be fed. It creaks up on you, slowly, but always there. Maybe that makes it scarier.

Their respective avatars did not often fight. Mammon was drawn to materialistic items, cloths of the highest quality, befitting a god, clothes, of the flashiest styles, jewels, of the ones that shimmer the most, cars, the ones that go the fastest. Whatever it was, if it had a high price tag, Mammon had to have it.

Beel needed food. Not in the way we need to survive but rather to fill the bottomless void of him. Gluttony cannot be sated and therefore, he cannot be sated. He misses the days when he was satisfied. Since the fall, there has been nothing that will fill him. He’s empty.

So when Mammon (that scumbag I tell you —Levithan [probably]) complains about his greed, angry he didn’t get a modeling gig and that he’d have to look for another one. Beel wants to snap. Mammon and him are similar, yes, but the difference is that at the very least, Mammon will be temporarily satisfied. Once he gets money and buys the next newest shiny thing, he will be full. It’s a patchwork fix and Beel knows it. He knows he shouldn’t get mad at Mammon and that they were perhaps the only two people to truly know what the curse of unending want feels like, but he does.

“At least you can be sated! Even if only temporarily!”

Beel does not shout, maybe even mumbles it a little, but regardless, Beel is perhaps the most level-headed out of them, if he has a problem he will bring it up in a calm manner and have a discussion. He does not argue.

“What’dya say? What does that gotta do with anythin’?” Mammon asks.

“I’m sorry but I think I should text you my feelings so I don’t say anything rash, I’m angry right now.” Beel said, taking a moment to step back.

BeelsBurgers: I am like a bottomless hole personified! You are more like a slot machine at a casino, contempt to wait for the next gambler, which, now that I say out loud sounds silly but it wasn’t meant to and I am mad!

Mamooney: LMAO. ur so silly.

BeelsBurgers: I’m just, I don’t know what to do and when I see you complaining about not having something you want it makes me angry and I don’t really know how to deal with it.

BeelsBurgers: And I know it isn’t your fault and that if anything we should understand each other but I can’t help but feel like I got the short end of the stick. And also I’m sorry for getting mad at you.

Mamooney: I mean, it’s valid to be upset or angry because you feel I have something you will never have and I can’t begin to imagine what you go through on the day-to-day, but it’s unfair to only look at one part of me and say that one of us has it worse than the other. I’m the second oldest so my sin is stronger than yours, there’s a downfall right?

Mamooney: And I don’t mean to make this about me, I just wanted to show you an example. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to completely stop talking about what I want, it’s in my nature, but Beel I believe we are very similar.

Mamooney: So when you feel angry about your sin, I want you to talk to me!

Mamooney: i mean! only if you want! but why would you want to talk to the Great Mammon!?!

Mamooney: [Sticker sent: Laughing, menacing crow]

BeelsBurgers: Thank you Mammon, and thank you for chatting online. I have…difficulty properly expressing my emotions in person but I usually don’t get angry or anything.

Mammoney: Ofc!

Mamooney: [Sticker sent: Proud devil holding peace signs]

Chat end

Maybe Beel would still get angry at Mammon but it would be ok, he knew, because he had his understanding big brother.

Ok so some things I wanted to note, I thought the idea to have them text eachother was really neat because I often have to do it myself anddd I know this isn’t Mammon centered please forgive me 🙏

#ombrotherlylove2023 #obey me #obey me shall we date #omswd #om brothers #om mammon #om beelzebub #obey me mammon #obey me beelzebub #omswd mammon #omswd beel #mammon angst #mammon fluff #purgatory’s fanfics

46 notes · View notes

raayllum · 1 year

Note

you don’t have to answer this if its too discoursey but i’m too afraid to say it off anon cause I don’t wanna get yelled at, but I am not the biggest fan of emperor/king Callum fics, mainly since it feels out of character for me (since he feels more connected to magic than he does royalty as a whole, he’s only the crown prince because he & Ez don’t have any family left to take up that role)

and also because to me, as a black person, it feels really weird that it just sidelines Ezran, they always just kill him off for no reason except to put the white person in a position of power

Its okay as a concept, i suppose, say Ezran feels like he can’t bear the responsibility at his age, so Callum takes up the mantle, but it just feels Weird to me, and maybe I’m reaching but it does feel like there’s a hint of racism going on even if its not exactly the author’s intention

So back in like 2020 in the months following S3, Regent Amaya became a popular headcanon in the Janaya corner of the fandom (because they wanted to have to interact Politically with Janai rather than just personally? I don't know) and it never sat right with me for similar reasons. (Cue people complaining in S4 that Janay's plotline was more Janai centric than Amaya centric. Mmhm.)

Because here's the thing (and I've said this before) while Callum is not white (he is mixed, he's half Asian and half white) he is lighter skinned than his brother and I do understand why people think he's white at first glance (more discussion/perspectives on Callum's race in this tag) and Ezran very clearly is not, and it's also very clear how that can affect them sometimes fandom wise. Of the five like main Main characters (although that list is 100% expanding in S4), Ezran is one of two main characters of colour (bonus core protagonist points alongside his brother) and he is the only darker skinned character of colour, comparatively in the trio.

There are other reasons I think as well about why Ezran doesn't have as much fandom made about him (he's the youngest in the cast, most of the fandom is older; he's not part of a main ship, etc) but race absolutely affects a lot of the critique he (and Harrow) get as kings. I have seen people with their full chest go "I hate TDP's monarchy, they're such bad kings Viren was right" because their issue isn't at its core the monarchy, it's that their white fave's bloodline wasn't the one on the throne for once.

Also talking about race is never discoursey IMO so always feel free to drop stuff in my inbox about it. (I'll happily take getting yelled at for it, it's way easier to bear as a white person & it doesn't happen as often as a result.)

Since 2016, we've seen this mini trend of casts having one Black character, usually a boy who's a best friend of the protagonist, get routinely sidelined. Lucas had to carry Stranger Things on his back (although I think it's gotten better? Idk for sure I stopped watching the show after s2 for unrelated reasons), Finn from Star Wars deserved so much better (and I left the SW fandom bc the racism was so bad and he was my favourite after just six months), Bow from She-Ra got virtually nothing, and Gus from The Owl House actually did.

TDP, thankfully, does not fall into that trend (having more than like 1-2 Black characters in general also helps a great deal, JC) and I now no longer watch every season like a hawk to ensure that it won't, because I trust that it won't.

So. King Callum AUs. The first thing is that you're right, Callum isn't that interested in politics. While he has a mind for politics (he immediately realizes what the egg could mean globally) he's not motivated by them. In 1x06 he gets pissed & fed up because Rayla insists on giving him only the political reasonings for why she's travelling with them and not stealing the egg, and it's not enough (he wants the personal reasons). His Tales of Xadia bio reaffirms this, stating outright that he's "beholden to [his] inner circle, not some silly kingdom" in spite of being Crown Prince. I think in some ways if Callum was left alone as King, regent Amaya would be more likely, not less, even if Callum might resist out of a grief fuelled desperate "I have to do this" at first. Being King is genuinely liberating for Ezran in ways it'll just never be for his brother, thematically / personality wise

And Callum being king because Ezran died is, IMO, unnecessary and actually more restrictive for both of their characters. If you want Callum grieving but away from the throne off adventuring with Rayla in an angsty AU, you can just have him think Ez is dead and achieve the same aims. If you want Callum on the throne, you can just have him do it out of love/loyalty for his baby brother. Otherwise, Ezran actually being dead leaves Callum solely grieving and stranded away from magic (his true calling, or the temptation of dark magic). But if Callum becomes regent to try and shield his baby brother, it leaves a lot more for them to grow, disagree on and develop, etc. Just a lot more avenues. How I think this would go (honouring Ezran's role to play and how I think their dynamic would realistically develop with this addition) here.

Being aware of what does or doesn't displace a character can be tricky, but I always think of it in regards to "do you take something another character has earned and give it to another character with little consequence," killing a character off when it wouldn't change that much to keep them alive and just tweak other things (like the above), or "are you taking the challenge one character has set before them and giving it unequivocally to another".

For example I've thought about "is my theory of Callum sacrificing/handing over the Key of Aaravos for Rayla's life displacing him" but it's not, in my eyes, bc 1) all the repercussions that come from that action is still something he has to deal with, 2) he'd have a vested interest and arc in reclaiming the cube, 3) it highlights the tragedy of Callum regaining his agency from brainwashing and still being forced into Aaravos' tragedy, 4) still leaves Callum perfectly free and motivated to uncover the secrets of the key himself beforehand, it just won't end well for him. And if Callum was having big conflicts with Ezran RN, I'd probably swap in Ez as a possibility for who he'd hand the key over for too

Last but not least I do wonder if Callum will even remain his brother's High Mage. The symbolism of a brother on either side of the Border has always felt fitting to me, and I think Claudia would make a great high mage to Ez if/when she gets redeemed / she'll want to stick close to her brother. Now that Callum has Ibis' staff, I wonder if that'll also eventually include having Ibis' post, especially now that Soren has stepped up in S4 to really be Ez's protector (and Cal and Ez would still write letters all the time, of course <3 Ez checking in on him through his link with Zym).

But yeah I think if Callum did continue to be in a political role beyond high mage, he'd be best suited to be one of Ezran's top generals, and that would take its own interesting toll on Ezran's psyche

Anyway this is probs longer than you were expecting but thank you for sharing your perspective! It's something I think the bulk of the fandom has noticed and it's always good to look at areas of like, perhaps more casual than outright racism when it comes to characters of colour, and how we have a responsiblity to examine those areas when exploring things, even just in fanon

#in regards to #bc that's my tag for race things #thanks for asking #anonymous #ezran #tdp broyals #broyals #AU #canon divergence #tdp

40 notes · View notes

flutter2deceive · 1 year

Text

Started typing this in the tags of another post but i had more thoughts than i thought and ran out of tags lmao so here's its own post

one of the disconnects of melissa and joe's marriage is melissa wanting to chime in when he talks about work cuz he's living her childhood dream and that's so cool! and joe just brushes her off like 'nah that's not how it works babe... hey grab me a beer while you're in the kitchen.' end of discussion.

and yeah he's probably partially coming from a place of not wanting to rehash his workday cuz it's tough and sometimes really depressing, but he doesn't communicate that; he just scoffs at his silly little wife thinking she knows anything about firefighting. and her face falls a little more each time, until eventually she just stops trying. until eventually she starts to forget that it was even her dream to begin with.

which is probably for the best anyway. it's what her ma always hoped for at least, always pitching a fit about how it's not safe and you should want a big strong man protecting you. 'not running headlong into danger yourself! i swear melissa ann i don't know where you get these crazy ideas'

and then one day this woman comes into school for career day, standing in the hallway decked out in all the gear, hat tucked under her arm and she looks like she might be lost. and melissa thinks 'wow good on her for following through!' melissa thinks 'wow i wish i coulda done that!' melissa thinks 'wow she's... gorgeous!'

and by now this woman has clearly noticed the fiery-haired white lady staring at her with a somewhat dreamy look on her face. (she knows this look well; knows the effect this whole get-up has on certain women.) so she walks over and melissa is startled out of her thoughts now that the object of them is standing in front of her.

melissa offers to walk her down to the cafeteria when she says that's her destination. the music teacher is in with her kids for the next half hour and melissa has some time to kill, so she sticks around and watches this woman- this firefighter's- presentation. and she's instantly transported back to her own childhood, when she'd sit cross-legged on her nonna's living room floor, rapt with wonder as nonna's friend carla spoke of the massive fire she'd helped put out, the kitten she'd saved, the baby she'd placed safely back into its mother's arms.

melissa is just as caught up now listening to this woman- this firefighter- talk to the kids in the cafeteria. melissa could listen to her talk for hours, but there's some guy up there now talking about his accounting firm and oh would you look at the time. melissa stands up quietly and is almost out the door when she feels a hand on her sleeve. she turns around expecting to be called out on leaving in the middle of a presentation- which she wasn't required to be at anyway so she can leave whenever she wants thank you very m--

she already has the response on the tip of her tongue, but she instantly relaxes when she sees that it's her firefighter. or the firefighter, rather. her firefighter is another story, one who is not often associated with instantly relaxing.

"hey, i just wanted to say thanks for the escort."

melissa smiles, says "no problem." she doesn't continue out the door, and the firefighter doesn't move to sit back down. they stand in the back of the room for a few more moments before melissa inclines her head toward the hallway, and the firefighter follows.

as she walks her back to the front office, melissa mentions how she used to dream about being a firefighter. the other woman- aisha, as she'd learned- extends an offer for her to stop by the station any time she wants.

"i can return the favor and be your personal escort."

the offer is not accompanied by a sly wink, but it may as well have been because melissa senses it all the same, a blush heating her cheeks.

the two women exchange numbers, and the following weekend melissa shows up to the fire station (thankfully a different part of town than joe's- she checked to be sure) with a baked ziti and a childlike wonder. aisha meets her at the door, smile warm and welcoming, and melissa feels a fire stirring within her. and she knows exactly who she wants to tend to it.

#abbott elementary #melissa schemmenti #rambling in the tags #that turned into a kinda fic lol #and yes i was picturing hen from 911 so i named the firefighter after her actress lol

35 notes · View notes

pyrriax · 10 months

Text

Welcome to this weird little corner I've made o/

You can call me Pyrr, Utopia, or Sol(ar). I've got a habit of getting fixated on specific content; this is my primary blog and it all goes here. Currently I post about Lifesteal, Outsiders SMP, & Kaboodle SMP. Though that's not the limit of what I post. I engage in mcyt cubito shipping! Be wary if that isn't your thing, I don't tag it.

It/its or onei/oneir pronouns. Aroqueer, genderfluid, taken, and not interested in elaborating. I'm a supporter of all good-faith identities, contradicting labels, and all sorts. Love is love, nobody can define how you identify, and you're the expert on yourself!

I love getting asks & talking to people! Feel free to ask about my fandoms, fic recs, worldbuilding for fics, all the sort. Or hell, even just send me asks with whatever's on your mind! Writing, art, creativity of any sort is always welcome in my inbox. As well, I'm a writer, and I tend to write elaborate AUs.

This blog is run by somebody who has difficulty typing from time to time due to pain. I do my best to catch spelling errors and other such, but if something is unreadable, please try to be understanding.

Looking for art? Check @pyrhura for my more completed art, or the "apparition sketchbook" tag on this blog for my silly doodles and other scraps.

I do not tag content warnings on this blog, as I do not have the energy to do so most of the time. You have been warned!

I write fanfic, and currently am taking fic requests, though it's not a high priority while I'm focused on the TWB MCC event editing event fics to post. I'm actually participating in five different fic bingo challenges at the same time, and seem to always be finding challenges or exchanges to participate in! You'll see me talk a lot about longfics, and I tend to always be working on at least one AU at any given moment.

Do not pry me for personal info. I'd rather you don't try and learn too much unless we're actually friends/friendly. (If it's something I've mentioned before then you're fine to ask about it)

Also, I have a tendency to color-code text posts, or otherwise find a means of emphasizing words. This is to help me personally be able to read my own posts / discern important information.

My AO3 is avoxutopia, though I'm currently in the process of reorganizing things there. I basically only write & post things centered around angst, since it's a point of personal fascination.

Interests include but aren't limited to: Minecraft, HTML/CSS, Web design, Speculative evolution, Cyberpunk Edgerunners, Lifesteal, Outsiders SMP, Kaboodle SMP, Homestuck, Taxidermy & Other such preservation methods, Decay/Death, Diablo 3, Borderlands, Writing & Worldbuilding, Conlangs (Constructed Languages)

Tags / Tagging system:

haunted ecosystem : original posts & anything i've added original text / content to haunted bookshelf : writing discussion, snippets, links to writing; anything that i've written ask a ghost : answered asks apparition sketchbook : art posts (relatively unused since i don't draw much) from the haunted archives : queued posts au: [au name] : discussion of any specific au; any content that relates to it in any way, including silly posts world: [world name] : discussion of any specific worlds; typically for larger projects, used interchangeably with [story: story name] oc: [oc name] : discussion of any specific oc; used as a catch all for specific oc content, previously i used a "tagging as [oc name]" format but this is now mostly defunct rb; : reblogged content (this tag is now defunct/not in use, but anything already tagged with it will remain that way to preserve blog history)

#felt like redoing this because the old one feels so fuckin clunky #all current active tags:#haunted ecosystem #haunted bookshelf #ask a ghost #apparition sketchbook #from the haunted archives #rb;#self rb;#au: where the dust settles #au: seraphim

17 notes · View notes

gekidasa · 9 months

Text

Fic Stats Game

Thank you for the tag, @jaimebluesq!

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the fewest words.

1 - Most Hits: And I will stay with you / And you will keep me close (or as I call it, Sangcheng Roommates AU). I was always somewhat surprised that this fic took off like it did, since it was a threadfic that got out of control, based on a rather silly premise (what if they were ROOMMATES at the CR!! And then unknowingly started dual cultivating to the point htat NHS developed a core earlier). The first half WAS entirely written as a thread (very unwieldly!) that I then cleaned up and separated into chapters.

And then... I will forever wonder if I should have left it at that. Except that the actual point beyond the silliness was that this was actually a canon divergence which would eventually lead to things going down differently when the Wen attack LP. I never actually wanted to get into THAT part of it, but I did choose to go into what would happen when NHS came to LP in the interim between the CR and the Wen indoctrination camp. And I also decided that they would end up betrothed. But despite researching, it was only after having written a lot more that I found out about the 3 letters and 6 etiquettes, and that... changed things. So I had to decided whether to/how much to rewrite. Anyway, I got bogged down. It's been hard. Currently there is just one chapter (part of which is already written) and maybe an epilogue to go, but... it's been awhile. I somehow haven't been in the mood to write this.

But I do plan to finish out what I'd planned. I just get distracted by newer ideas that maybe better fit how my headcanons and knowledge evolve.

2 - 2nd Most Kudos: When a secret isn't really secret. And I am ALSO continually surprised by how popular this turned out to be. It's a short little Touya/Yukito fic in which they are already a thing and Yukito sleeps over, and then has an unexpected middle of the night conversation with Fujitaka (spoilers: Yuki didn't realize that Fujitaka has been well aware of how he and Touya feel about each other for a long time). The reason its popularity is surprising is that Touya is barely in it, most of it is just Yuki and Fujitaka talking... but I admit, it IS rather sweet, like CCS tends to be.

3 - 3rd Most Comments: How Jiang Wanyin avoided being blacklisted by matchmakers. My current baby of the moment! I'm having so much writing this, I call my sangcheng Betrothal AU, and it's also a fairly silly premise. It was inspired by a tweet where a guy says his parents were trying to play matchmaker, so he told them he was gay... and then they came back with a binder full of men for him to potentially date. So in this one, JC yells in the middle of a meeting with matchmakers that he doesn't want to marry any woman. He THINKS he means "right now", but YZY takes it to mean he's a cutsleeve. She has the matchmakers prepare a list of young men to potentially be the consort of Jiang-zongzhu, and he winds up betrothed to his friend NHS. This very much plays into my headcanon that JC is ace/demi (demi, in this case) and not very selfaware about his preferences. It's also a canon divergence: YZY and Yinzhu survived the massacre of LP, and JC never lost his golden core.

4 - 4th Most Bookmarks: The Half-Eaten Peach Longs to be Filled with Cream. This is just straight-up sangcheng porn. 😂

The morning that a discussion conference at Qinghe is set to start, NHS asks JC to fill him up and plug him up so he'll feel it all day. Halfway through the day, he gets a refill.

5 - 5th Most Words: Hold the doors. My one NieLan fic so far. Also porn. Modern AU, LXC has moved into a new building and has noticed his hot neighbor NMJ. One day they ride the elevator together and NMJ helps him with his groceries. And then LXC gives dage a beer and a blowjob.

Bonus - Fewest Words: The final gift. Super short (201 words) post-canon Kamen Rider Ryuki fic, about Kitaoka's fate in a timeline without the Rider War. Yes, that sentence means it's both post-canon and canon-divergence. If you know Ryuki, you understand why. It's also Kitaoka/Reiko but more about Kitaoka himself.

Tagging @angie-s-g @revesdelimonade @apocrypha73 @lostheartkix @trixietricoter @mulberrylotus

#fanfic #sangcheng #nielan #touya x yukito #tag game #kamen rider ryuki

6 notes · View notes

weenis-beenis · 2 years

Text

Not-So Lonely Room

Werewolf!Jud Fry x F!Reader

Chapter 2

prev / next

Ao3 link

Word Count: 7638

18+ Minors DNI

Tags (for the whole fic): Werewolf AU, Fix-it, Fix-HIM, Laurey and Curly and Eller slander here, Suicidal Thoughts, Discussion of suicide, Abuse Involving Food, Restriction of Food, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Smut, Some Canon Dialogue, Slightly Altered for Ease of Reading, Blood and Injury, Bathing/Washing, Intimacy, Scent Kink, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex

Note: Special thanks to @molina-fix for beta-ing this fic

The hanging lanterns shone bright against the setting sun in Ike Skidmore’s yard. The music was loud, the chatter louder, and the joyous buzz damn near infectious. You watched it all with a hopeful smile, the first you’d had in weeks.

As the summer approached its end, with the air cooling and night making itself known sooner, you had fallen into something of a slump.

You had begun to regret. You regretted leaving the comfort and stability of city life. You regretted giving up nearly everything you had to your name for a crummy piece of land and a ramshackle house. You regretted ousting yourself from a new and welcoming community for some man you knew nothing about. And that budding, well you weren’t quite sure if you could call it a relationship, with Jud was just that, budding. He was quiet when you first met, he was quiet now, and, you assumed, he may just continue to be quiet even as you tried to further some sort of friendship with him. Though the occasional chat with him may have become something of a comfort to you, he was still just about the only person in a twenty mile radius that was willing to spend more than a few minutes in your presence, and that didn’t exactly satisfy your need for human interaction. You began to feel helpless, lost.

Amongst your growing tangle of emotions, made mostly of despair and bitterness, but sometimes infused with moments of pleasantness, feelings of calm and contentment and even joy worming their way in, you had to face an annoying, and entirely unwelcome, flicker of affection. Try as you might to tell yourself that it was just your loneliness that made you feel the way you did, you still felt it. Jud was there, he was odd and rough around the edges, but he never left, never turned you away or snapped at you like folks had made you think he would, not to mention that he wasn’t bad on the eyes either. Yes, there was that flicker, that unreasonable and unshakable thing, and it gave you rather stupid ideas.

The prospect of the Box Social, when it had first been brought to your attention, had been a sort of stressful thing. A charity event for a new schoolhouse was all fine and well sure, but for the money to be raised by essentially auctioning off dates with the local women had left you rather nervous. Yes, there was the anonymity of auctioning off the contents of the meals in their baskets alone without revealing who it was that had prepared them, but what if someone found out which was yours, would it even sell? The idea frightened you. Was it worse to make a fool of yourself by trying, or to make an ass of yourself by staying home?

You decided it was best to just go. Maybe if you made this attempt, folks might look at you with a little less reproach.

And then there was that flicker again, pulling at your heartstrings, giving you girlish and naive ideas.

For a while, you had toyed with the idea of asking Jud to come with you to the social, like you had heard many girls were asking their prospective interests to do. It was a silly thought, stupid even, but just imagining it left you flush, abuzz with something that drowned out all the unhappiness, and, as it was, much of your reason too.

Back and forth, back and forth you went, nearly seeking him out during one of your still frequent check-ins with Eller, and a few times almost bringing yourself to ask during other encounters in town, stopped only by your nerves, the words catching in your throat. You were still considering, still debating, all the way up until the day before the social, when you caught wind that he would instead be accompanying Miss Laurey Williams.

The news had sat like a rock in your stomach. And, trying to ignore the bitterness that came in remembering how plain she had made her disgust with him during the many times you had spoken to her, you wiped the idea from your mind, told yourself that if you had really wanted to, you would’ve asked him sooner. Instead, you went alone.

Discouraged by your hesitancy, you once again began to consider not going at all. And after hearing that most girls were decorating their baskets in certain ways with different colors and ribbons so that their fellas would know which one to bid on, you figured that folks would be able to deduce which was yours relatively quickly. It was an embarrassing thought, taking your time to prepare something nice for your basket, only for the auctioneer to be met with silence when asking for the first bid. That notient nearly kept you in, but you reminded yourself that all the money made was going toward the new schoolhouse, and it was better to at least try than to be the bitch that didn’t show.

Getting everything prepared that day had been a far more pleasant experience than you had expected. It had started in the morning right as you woke and told yourself that you were going to fight tooth and nail for a nice evening, you had earned it after all, hadn’t you?

You tended to your few morning chores and took to cooking sometime before noon, bustling about your kitchen preparing roast rabbit, potatoes, stuffing, and even a few blueberry hand pies. So lost in the small delights of preparing such a lovely meal, in the motions of slicing and kneading and mixing, it almost came as a surprise to you when you had a full meal laid out on your table, ready to be tucked into its basket and walked out the door.

With plenty of time remaining, you decided to draw yourself a bath, your second of the week, an indulgence you allowed if not just so you could be perfectly clean before putting on the dress you had picked for the evening. And after a wonderfully long soak, you emptied the tub and slipped into the dress. It was a fine thing, the best you had, and the only nice one you had allowed yourself to bring with you during your move. It was a well fitted thing, all soft white with baby blue ruffles. You felt clean. You felt good.

But you had little time left after your bath, that having been perhaps a little too long and a little too luxurious, so you hurriedly packed your meal in a charming display in its basket. You felt a small swell of pride at your handiwork, it had been a long while since you had felt any pride. Maybe your basket would sell for a halfway decent price, even if you didn’t have a date looking to buy it like most of the other ladies would. Then again, maybe you could find yourself a date before the end of the night. You waved away the first face that came to mind with that passing thought, and walked out the door.

Standing in Ike Skidmore’s yard, the party in full swing, you watched as younger couples danced to the bouncy music of the band and others milled about, laughing and chatting as they did. It came as a surprise just how many folks you recognized, with as much time as you spent at home anymore. Though, the reason you knew as many of the men as you did was because most of them had found themselves at your kitchen table, all banged up, looking for your care. Yes, even with the cold shoulder everyone had decided to give you, it seemed your services were still of use.

You took to the sidelines as the band started a new song, hoping that maybe some of the older folks might give you the time of day if nothing else. Luckily for you, a few of the married women, already so familiar with each other and each other’s gossip, were more than happy to have a new set of ears to talk off, even yours. One of the ladies pointed you in the directions of a group of cowhands, some of whom you recognized, with an impish smile on her face.

“See tha’ one in the middle there?”

Him you had yet to meet, a handsome fella with an award winning smile and hair that fell in soft curls around his head. His deep voice carried so far across the yard you could almost pick out bits and pieces of what he was saying beneath the music.

“Tha’s Curly McLain,” she said. “Ya heard of ‘im?”

You shook your head.

She seemed surprised by your answer, but continued all the same. “That Jud Fry’s s’posed ta come with Curly’s girl t’night, Laurey Williams. Heard ‘a her?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, eyeing the cowboy again.

“We’re all hopin’ he does somethin’ ‘bout it t’night. Sure ta be a hell of a show, huh?” She nudged you playfully, offering a wink and a big smile.

You gave a weak laugh in turn, excusing yourself to wander off on your lonesome. Your eyes kept scanning the crowd as you strolled through the yard, even as you tried not to. He wasn’t there, you couldn’t see him in the sea of faces, and you told yourself that it didn’t matter, certainly not to you anyway. Problem was, you weren’t very convincing.

Unwanting and unwilling to try and find yourself a dance partner as the festivities continued, you contented yourself to watch couples, young and old, spin around the yard. It was pleasant, such unbridled joy filled the air that you almost forgot about your public shunning. You basked in that moment, everything bright and golden right up until a fistfight broke out halfway through a song.

The whole thing took you completely by surprise, some folks taking jabs at each other during a little group song, something about farmers and cowmen being friends. It had been fun, teasing prods and pokes from either group until someone took umbrage with a particular comment about their women-folk, and took to swinging fists. You hadn’t even known of any sort of bitterness between the two groups until there was a pile of men in Skidmore’s yard, throwing punches with musical accompaniment. Aunt Eller stepped in and split it up with a gunshot pointed toward the night sky, and, like nothing had happened, everything returned to normal.

You stood stiff as a board for a moment, rattled to the bone by the bang of the gunshot, and still in awe from the strange, almost stage-like performance that just played out in front of you. And you stayed like that for a while, watching while your body settled, how only you, it seemed, felt the strangeness of it all.

After the next song ended, and with you still in your stupor, Mr. Skidmore called to start the auction, both Eller and him leading everyone back toward the front of his house. You, still unnerved, scanned through the crowd again as they gathered in a semi-circle around the porch. They still hadn’t come.

Standing as tall as she could with her petite little frame, Eller motioned to the baskets lined up beside her on the porch, one less than expected. A brief flash of worry passed over her wrinkled face before she opened the bidding to the one closest to her, but you could hardly bring yourself to focus.

You were jolted to attention when, halfway through the bidding, a frazzled, breathless Laurey came running through the crowd. There was a wild jitteriness to her movements as she sat her hamper down and took her place right at the semi-circle, as close to her aunt as she could be.

Before the two could even exchange nervous glances, Jud’s booming voice called for her from the opposite end of the house, where everyone had hitched up their horses and carriages. Laurey took a shaky half-step backward, barely cowering behind some of the other girls, and gave a meek nod to her aunt, who, with the wave of her hand, picked up the auction right where it had left off.

Not nearly a minute later and all fell silent again. Jud, imposing, glowering, rounded the side of the house. Everyone watched as he made his way through the crowd, and granted him a wide berth as he passed. And then he stopped, just a few feet from Miss Laurey. Eyes stayed fixed on him, hands hovering above holsters, itching for an excuse to open fire.

Laurey looked away, and, without another word, Jud walked himself past her through to the back of the group, almost directly across from you. He turned his stern gaze downward.

A beat of silence passed before someone cautiously threw out a new bid, pulling attention back to where it was supposed to be. And again, like nothing had happened, things returned to normal.

Your gaze, however, lingered on Jud. He had dressed himself up for the evening, hair slicked back and donning a vest you had never seen before over what you assumed were his cleanest clothes. You couldn’t help but notice though, even from a distance, that his face was still dirty, obscuring those scars, or what you assumed to be scars. Even in all the time you had spent trying to get close to him, you had yet to truly discern what all that was on his skin. You turned back to the auction.

For a while, things continued in relative peace, and you were even given the pleasant surprise of watching your own basket go for a little over a dollar. Slim, a man who had found his way to your kitchen table a few times before, flashed you a bright smile as he plucked it from the porch and came to stand at your side. It was a warm smile, so kindly in fact, that you almost thought your public shaming may have come to an end, but from the corner of your eye you saw the odd glances tossed your way and tried to will away the embarrassed knot forming in your stomach.

“Them pies looked mighty fine, couldn’ help m’self,” he said, setting the basket down on the grass. You heard the immature giggles of his cowhand friends mere feet away, and the knot tightened.

You were suddenly struck with a deep distrust, and you bristed as he settled himself beside you, kept yourself still and quiet when he began speaking. It was just as surprising to you as it had been to him, your sudden coldness, but those icy walls built themselves up with such ease in your defensiveness. You startled, tried to put on an easy smile and relax as he kept talking. Never had you felt the need to shield yourself in such a way, and never had it come to you so naturally. You didn’t like it.

After that half second of unease, you cautiously opened yourself up to his kindness and chatted idly, quietly as things continued, with Slim occasionally pausing to throw out bids for the fun of it. He was friendly, far more so than most anyone had been to you as of late. You couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy the company, the attention, what with the haze of loneliness that had settled over you recently, though you hadn’t any intent of courting the man. He was nice, sure, the first person to speak to you so genuinely in a long while, but you found not even a flickering spark of interest toward him.

The auction, which had continued without a hitch for a long while, began to go awry with the last two baskets. Everyone had seen Laurey put hers down last, so once a a Miss Ado Annie made it known that hers was next up for bidding, that Will Parker fella you had met once before, and the local peddler, who Slim informed you was called Ali Hakim, made an absolute scene bidding for that hamper.

You gaped, dumbfounded, as Hakim took the basket for fifty-one dollars, and, as you managed to gather from Annie’s father, a Mr. Andrew Carnes’s shouting, that Will Parker fella got to keep the money, which he had been foolishly bidding, to put it down for her dowry.

Laughter rang through the yard as Will spun Miss Ado Annie around like they had just gotten hitched right then and there. Hakim and Carnes both looked deeply displeased by the turn of events, Hakim wearing a more dour expression and Carnes one of righteous anger.

Andrew grabbed the peddler by his collar. "An’ what’re you gettin’ fer yer fifty-one dollars?” He growled.

Hakim shrugged, a nervous grin splitting on his face as he looked to Annie’s basket. “A three day bellyache?”

“Now!” Eller called out proudly, halting the laughter that had followed Hakim’s words. “Here’s my niece’s hamper.”

An excited murmur rolled through the crowd.

“I took a peek inside a while ago, an’ I must say it looksy mighty tasty. What do I hear gents?”

“Two bits!” came Slim’s voice from beside you.

A hint of a smile teased at your lips. “Hungry there?”

“Famished.” His grin was wide and his chuckle genuine. You felt what you had thought to be a dying hope begin to swell within you again.

Another man who’s name was, if you recalled correctly, Fred, offered up four bits in turn.

“What d’ya say, Slim?” Eller asked, turning back towards you both. “Six?”

He shook his head and waved a hand in defeat.

A deep voice cut through the chatter, “Dollar an’ a quarter.”

A hush fell over the crowd as Jud pushed his way to the front, his face not betraying an ounce of emotion. In your excitement, in your fun, you had nearly forgotten about him. He, who you had made yourself an outsider for, stood tall against the nervous and judgemental gazes of dozens and dozens of eyes. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your cheeks flushed, and you pretended it was just your nerves.

The deafening silence was quickly filled with anxious murmuring, eyes now turning to Eller and Laurey. Yours stayed fixed on Jud though, brows drawn together as you watched his tensing frame. He turned his gaze downward once the whispering began, that air of bravado withering away as he hunched his shoulders and buried his hands deep in his pockets.

Andrew Carnes was the first to not so much break the tension, but more so seize it, the hot tempered man staring down the farmhand as he offered up another bid. “Two dollars.”

“Two fifty,” said another.

“Three dollars!” Carnes shot back.

“An’ two bits.”

Jud met Carnes’s eyes with a matched intensity, expression unreadable and unwavering.

“Three dollars an’ four bits!” someone spat out quickly.

Another, “Four dollars!”

Jud’s gaze stayed firm and sharp, but you caught the way his hand anxiously wrung the bills he had pulled from his pocket. “An’ two bits,” he said again.

Laurey fidgeted with some of the ruffles on her skirt, her anxious eyes darting his way, and you saw a nervous smile tug at his mouth when he met them. He got a tight-lipped frown in response.

“Four an’ a quarter?” Eller turned to that Curly McLain, who had stood silently during the whole of the exchange. “Ain’t I goin’ ta hear more?”

McLain cast his fiery eyes on Jud for a moment and, to everyone’s great surprise, walked away without a word. Some gasps and Curly don’t-s followed him as he strode out into the yard.

Jud stood a little straighter, breathed a little easier, thumbed his money a little less nervously. He flashed Laurey a brighter grin this time. She didn’t return it.

Eller sighed, a profoundly disappointed sound, and continued. “I got a bid of four an’ a quarter from Jud Fry.” She motioned to the crowd. “Ya goin’ ta let him have it?”

Carnes’s eyes jumped from Eller to Jud to the basket. “Four an’ a half.”

“Four an’ a half! Goin’ fer four an’ a half! Goin’-”

“Four seventy-five,” Jud grunted, expression turning cold again.

“Four seventy-five,” Eller repeated, not bothering to keep the disappointment from her voice. “Come on gentlemen! Schoolhouse ain’t built yet. Gotta get a nice chimbney!”

That burning flame of curiosity roared to life within you again, and at once you remembered yourself. The hate, the fear, everything Jud inspired that could whip up this crowd into a panic, you watched it all in near disbelief. Who was he, what had he done?

Another bid, five dollars this time.

“Goin’ fer five dollars! Goin’-”

“An’ two bits,” Jud insisted. When he looked to Laurey that time he didn’t offer a grin, more of a nervous once over. She avoided his eyes.

“Too rich fer my blood,” said the other man, “Cain’t afford no more.”

“Five an’ a quarter?” Eller asked the crowd, a slight shake to her voice. “Ain’t got nearly enough yet.” Yes she did. “Not fer cold duck with the stuffin’ an’ that lemon meringue pie.” She was speaking directly to Carnes then, drawing out every syllable of the descriptions of foodstuffs with a charming, if desperate, lilt.

He thought on it for a moment, quickly flipping through the bills in his hand. “Six dollars,” he conceded with the lick of his lips.

“An’. Two. Bits.” Jud scowled at the older woman, his body rigid and tense.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “My, yer stubborn, Jud. Mr. Carnes’s a richer man’n you.” She looked to Andrew pleadingly. “An’ I know he likes custard with raspberry syrup. Anybody goin’ ta bid any more?”

“No,” Jud growled, making a wild gesture to the cluster of folks gathered around the porch. “They all dropped out. Cain’t ya see?”

Some even nodded dejectedly along with him, having grown tired of her delaying the inevitable.

“You got enough, Aunt Eller,” that Fred fella groaned.

“Let’s get it on,” another cowhand called out, waving dismissively.

Jud cracked a smile again, walking toward Eller, cash in hand. “Here’s the money.”

But Eller was looking everywhere else, frantically searching the crowd for someone, anyone else to bid.

“Now- now hold on, you!” She stormed off the porch when no one stepped up, stopping him in place with an accusatory finger in his chest. “I ain’t said, Goin’, goin’, gone yet!”

“Well, say it!” He thrust the money at her.

She swallowed, grimaced, and stepped back onto the porch. Her indignation wavered, if only to give one last look of desperation to the crowd before speaking slowly, deliberately, “Goin’ ta Jud Fry fer six dollars an’ two bits… Goin’... goin’-”

“Who’d you say was gettin’ Laurey?"

Curly’s smooth voice carried across the yard from behind you as he meandered his way to the front of the crowd, something leather slung over his shoulder.

Eller’s wrinkled face split into the widest smile you’d ever seen on her. You didn’t fail to miss the way she mouth hallelujah either, as she urged the cowboy closer. “Jud Fry.” she answered.

“An’ fer how much?” he asked, waltzing his way to stand right face to face with the farmhand, staring him down as he spoke.

“Six an’ a quarter,” said Eller.

You couldn’t see Curly’s face, but you could hear that teasing smile in his voice when he spoke. “I don’ figure tha’s quite enough, do ya?”

Jud sneered. “It’s more’n you got.” Even slightly hunched, he stood taller than the cowboy.

“Got a saddle here,” Curly said, hefting the fine piece from his shoulder to show off to the crowd. “Cost me thirty dollars.”

Jud laughed. “Ya cain’t bid saddles. Gotta be cash.” Though he spoke with confidence, he cast a nervous glance Eller’s way, waiting for a confirming nod before waving his fist full of bills in Curly’s face.

McLain rolled his eyes, shifted the saddle in his hands and looked to the folks gathered around. “Thirty dollar saddle must be worth somethin’ ta somebody.”

One cowhand made his way up to Curly, gave the saddle a quick once-over, and said, “I’ll give ya ten.”

Mr. Ike Skidmore himself came up to place a warning hand on McLain’s shoulder, hissing through grit teeth, “Don’t be a fool, boy. Y’cain’t earn a livin’ without a saddle.”

Curly fixed his gaze on Jud instead, giving a slight nod to the cowhand beside him. “Got cash?”

“Right in my pocket.”

He turned from Jud just long enough to hand over his saddle to its new owner and pocket the ten dollars before meeting the farmhand’s eyes again. He squared his shoulders. “Don’ let’s waste time. How high’re ya goin’?”

Jud glowered and bared his teeth to the cowboy. “Higher’n you, no matter what.” His words may have dripped venom, but the way he held himself was odd. He was a good deal bigger than the cowboy. He didn’t tower over him like he did others, but Jud was a broad fella, intimidating to most in his sheer size alone. The way he was standing now though, it looked as though he was trying to shrink into his clothes. As though he was trying to make himself smaller.

“Aunt Eller,” Curly called out, waving his cash high, “I’m biddin’ all of this ten dollars Joe jist give me.”

“Ten dollars!” she hollered with joy. Murmurs of excitement filled the air and for the first time that night you saw Laurey smile. “Goin’-”

Jud’s eyes flicked from Curly to Laurey and back. You saw him shift, rolling his shoulders, face twisting into a grimace like he was sore. “Ten dollars an’ two bits.” Annoyed groans followed.

He was looking at Laurey again, but she quickly looked away again. You watched him curl further into himself, arms folding over his chest, shoulders hunching even more so, and yet he still stood so tall. You blinked, narrowed your eyes. It almost felt as though he was getting bigger.

Eller looked to the cowboy, desperation wetting her soft old eyes. “Curly…”

With a sigh, he turned to face your side of the crowd, the expression he wore downcast, but his eyes shone with something you found disconcerting. A vicious fire. “Most ‘a you boys know ma horse, Dun. She’s a-” he swallowed, wringing his hands together, “a kinda nice horse- gentle an’ well broke.”

You gaped at him. His horse? Why? You looked to Jud. Why are they so scared of you?

Laurey sprang from the spot she had spent the evening cowering in, running to Curly and grabbing his arm. “Don’ sell Dun, Curly, it ain’t worth it.”

Jud stared the two down, fists balled at his sides, expression dark.

“I’ll give ya twenty-five fer her!” someone offered.

“Sure.” Curly walked over to him, slipping from Laurey’s loose grasp. “I’ll sell Dun to ya.”

With an apologetic clap to his shoulder, the man handed Curly his money, and the cowboy meandered his way back to Jud, radiating a kind of confidence that only comes when you feel you’ve bested your opponent. Jud seethed.

“That makes the bid thirty-five, Aunt Eller,” Curly said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and giving Jud a proud nod.

The older woman laughed, almost wildly in her joy. “Curly, yer crazy! But it’s all fer the schoolhouse, ain’t it?” she asked, gesturing to the crowd. “All fer education’ an’ learnin’. Goin’ fer thirty-five. Goin’-”

You watched wide-eyed as Jud suddenly drew himself to full height, taller than you thought you remembered, squaring his shoulders as he loomed over Curly. “Hold on!” he barked, “I ain’t finished biddin’!” The corners of his lips twisted into a wicked grin as he looked down at the oh-so confident McLain. There was a glint, a flash of something in his dark eyes, something animalistic.

That look twisted your gut in an odd way, not like the many ways you had become familiar with gut twistings in your anxieties, this was new. Heat rose to your cheeks as you looked on with interest and fear, a prickle on the back of your neck now finally getting to see what it might be that made Jud so deserving of fear.

“Ya jist put up everythin’ you got in the world, didn’ ya?” Jud said, tone dark, smug. “Cain’t bid the clothes off yer back ‘cause they ain’t worth nothin’. Cain’t bid yer gun ‘cause ya need that.” He slid his tongue over his teeth, and you suddenly realized just how sharp his canines were. “Yes sir. You need that bad.” His eyes flicked to the holster at Curly’s side. He smiled.

“So, Aunt Eller,” he turned to the porch, “I’m jist as reckless as Curly McLain, I guess. Jist as good at gettin’ what I want.” He strolled over to the basket with a confidence that rivaled the cowboy’s moments prior, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he spoke. “Goin’ ta bid all I got in the world- all I saved fer two years, doin’ farm work. All fer Laurey.” With a little flourish, he proudly removed all the cash from his pockets, brandishing it to the crowd with a self-satisfied grin. “Here it is! Forty-two dollars an’ thirty-one cents.” He slapped the money on the basket and gave Curly a cock-sure grin.

Quick as a flash, the cowboy drew his gun from its holster, and, for just a fraction of a second, aimed the barrel right between the farmhand’s eyes before pointing it skyward.

A deadly silence seized the crowd. Those closest to the action took nervous steps backward. Those farthest took steps closer. The stiff air that swallowed the scene was pervaded with an almost giddy energy that left you feeling sick, and no one dared speak a word.

Jud’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, a wild fear flashing in his eyes as he backed away from the basket. And you saw him recede into himself again, trying and failing miserably to make himself smaller, with hands balled in tense fists at his sides.

“Anybody wanna buy a gun?” Curly asked, not tearing his eyes from Jud for a second. “You, Joe? Bought it brand new las’ Thanksgivin’, worth a lot.”

“Curly,” Laurey hissed, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot, eyes bouncing back and forth between the two men- less vying for her affections than competing for them like beasts- “Please don’ sell yer gun.”

Reluctantly, Curly turned from the farmhand to Joe, eyeing the man intensely, expectantly.

Joe swallowed, gave the gun a quick once over, looked to Jud, and then looked to Curly. He didn’t seem to like what he saw on either man’s face. “Give ya eighteen dollars fer it.”

A self-satisfied smile found its way onto McLain’s face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sold.”

You watched Jud while the other men made their exchange, pity rather than fear pulling at your heartstrings when his eyes darkened. He took another step away from the basket, jaw clenched, fists flexing. You wanted to leave. You wanted to take him with you.

“The hell they treatin’ you like this for?” you muttered as Curly took his money.

“Wha’s that?”

You jumped at the sound of Slim’s voice, having nearly forgotten that he had made himself your companion for the evening. He had leaned down to whisper in your ear, his eyes still fixed on the auction.

“Oh, nothin’,” you replied with a dismissive wave of your hand.

Jud was staring at you. When you looked back to the scene, your eyes met, and the hurt you saw in them before he turned away made your chest tight. You swallowed, righted yourself. If Slim hadn’t hadn’t heard you, then Jud certainly hadn’t.

Curly turned to Eller, waving his cash high and proud. “That makes ma bid fifty-three dollars, Aunt Eller. Anybody goin’ higher?” He flashed Jud what was perhaps the most smug smile you'd had the displeasure of seeing.

The farmhand responded in kind, standing tall, looming somehow even bigger than before- even his clothes looked stretched tight, like they were suddenly a size too small- and set his jaw with a snarl. He stalked toward the cowboy like a predator closing in on its prey.

“Goin’ - goin’ -gone!”

Eller leapt, as much as an old woman could leap, between the two men, and snatched the money from Curly’s still outstretched hand.

Jud froze. Blinked.

There was stillness. Everyone held their breath, all waiting for someone else brave enough to make the first move. The moment passed like an eternity before Eller herself took a cautious step back towards the porch. “Wha’s the matter with you folks?” She called out, waving her arms wide to the crowd. “Ain’t nobody gonna cheer or nothin’?”

Hesitantly, folks began to clap, some beaming with pride over Curly’s triumph, others looking deeply discomforted by the entirety of the display, you of the latter group, and Slim of the former. All the while, Jud stooped down to gather his money, all his money from Laurey’s basket.

Your hands stayed defiantly at your sides amidst the clatter, anger and indignation swelling in your chest as you watched him tuck everything he had to his name back into his pockets.

Curly came and picked up the basket, bringing it back to where he and Laurey had been standing, Jud following behind.

The cowboy rounded on him, brought their faces inches from each other. The clapping ceased.

“That’s the idy!” Ike Skidemore’s well meaning, but not entirely welcome, voice called as he made his way through the crowd. “The cowman an’ the farmer should be friends.” He clapped a hand on Jud’s shoulder, effectively halting whatever sure-to-be-deadly confrontation was about to happen. “Ya lost the bid, but the biddin’ was fair.”

No the hell it was not.

He grabbed Curly’s shoulder with the other hand. “C’mon, cowman. Shake the farmer's hand.”

Curly kept on staring, unmoving and unyielding, a sneer curled on his lips.

To your, and many other’s, great surprise, Jud seemed cowed by McLain. He relaxed his shoulders and bowed his head almost apologetically. “Sure, I’ll shake hands.” He reached out tentatively.

Curly raised a brow, eyes flicking between Jud and his hand before finally taking it. He shook it, dropped it, and kept staring.

“Tha’s better,” said Skidmore, patting the two men on the back before walking off as though he had accomplished something there, as though the tension wasn’t still at fever-pitch.

Sounds of the band suddenly picking up filled the dead air and coaxed folks away from the scene. Slim draped an overly-friendly arm around your shoulder, guiding you alongside the crowd to the other side of the farmhouse, but you kept an eye on Curly and Jud as you made it to the dancefloor.

When they rounded the corner, Jud pulled Curly off to the side, putting on what looked like, even from a distance, a rather poor show of friendliness. You couldn’t make out what he was saying, only saw as he pulled a trinket from his pocket, something small and kaleidoscope-like, and tried to show it to the cowboy. A sudden dread gripped your heart as you watched Curly bring the device up to his eye. Jud smiled, reached out-

“Curly!” Eller’s voice pulled his attention and his head away from the device.

Jud sneered.

You sighed.

The woman came and took the cowboy by the arm, dragging him into a dance, and leaving the farmhand to scowl and jam the device back in his pocket.

“Come on now,” came Slim’s cool voice beside you, his hand outstretched, waiting for yours to greet it when he turned around. And for the second time that night, you allowed yourself to believe that you could be a part of the community once again, shed the strange curiosity that was nagging at the back of your mind worse now than ever. You took his hand with a sweet smile, and let him lead you into a dance.

And yet, no matter how desperately you wanted to indulge in this fleeting feeling of acceptance, you still found yourself stealing glances over your shoulder as Slim spun you around, curious, always curious eyes looking to Jud. He had himself leaned up against the clapboard wall of the house, arms crossed and brow furrowed in indignant fury. You didn’t need to follow his gaze to know that he was watching Laurey as she laughed and twirled around like nothing had happened. The spell flickered for a moment, and if it weren’t for how tight Slim held you in his grasp, you may have just walked over to him, offered your hand-

“Don’ worry ‘bout him none.”

And for the second time that night, Slim nearly scared you out of your skin.

“Feller ain’t worth your time-” so there it was- “Sure he won’ be ‘round here much longer anyhow,” he said with a wink that lacked any charm in your eyes.

The allure of normalcy vanished, and you realized there wasn’t truly any to be had here. Not when folks behaved, conspired, in the ways that they did.

Your expression soured, and you kept your head turned from him for the rest of the dance, no longer bothering to keep your glances toward the farmhand subtle.

Even with your newfound spite, you fought to ignore the small voice in your head that went on about how nice Jud looked in that vest of his, how that scruffy look had its charm, how he was still handsome, even with his face twisted into a grimace. Curiosity, you reminded yourself, that’s all it was. Despite the dreams, despite the fluttery feeling in your chest when he was around. The growing protectiveness was simply a part of your nature, a kind of familiarity that grew stronger as you were pushed from the community and into his company. You were intrigued by him, maybe even pitied him. Nothing more.

Slim’s hold held firm, kept you from sulking off the dancefloor like you wanted to once the song ended and folks took to switching partners. He quirked a brow at you in a way that asked wanna go again?, but the strength of his grip spoke clear. I’m not letting you talk to him. With a sigh, you caved, and he led you into another dance.

Amongst a tangle of tumultuous thoughts, of twisting, bitter, and indignant feelings, you saw Jud rise from his spot on the wall, and watched with intent, unable to find it within yourself to care if Slim took notice, as he butted his way between Laurey and her dance partner Ali Hakim. He grabbed her, held her tight, and danced her off to the front of the house. You swallowed a lump in your throat, unease settling over you again.

You were worried, of course you were, how couldn’t you be? The man seemed ready to snap at a moment’s notice, and even as deeply as you wanted to believe he wasn’t the monster everyone had made him out to be, even having staked your social status on the idea, you could always be wrong. Though, what you found far more concerning, was the familiar welling of jealousy, of all things, inside you, catching in the back of your throat and taunting with unsavory and entirely unwelcome thoughts in the back of your mind. You tried to swallow it down, ignore the deeply distressing feeling in favor of the concern that should’ve taken priority, but it lingered.

Once you were able to loose yourself from Slim, you took to the outskirts of the boisterous group and watched them have their fun, all the while anxiously chewing your lower lip and picking at your hands like a lost child. You very nearly felt like one, trapped by social convention in a group of people that were becoming more and more like strangers to you with every passing minute. You weren’t welcome here. You hadn’t been all evening and you wouldn’t be until you made it known that you were giving up on your inconvenient and annoying search for knowledge. But you couldn’t, even after that taste of normalcy you simply couldn’t.

You wanted to know what his deal was. No one would tell you why they thought it fair to treat him the way they did, what he had done to deserve such contempt, and it made your blood boil like nothing else. Didn’t you deserve to know? Hadn’t you earned the right to know exactly what sort of threats this place held the moment you moved in? Or had you been pegged as untrustworthy from the moment you stepped foot in Claremore, an outsider, just as much of a threat to the peace as Jud by inserting yourself into the lives of these people?

Maybe it was wrong, stupid even, to sympathize with him, especially when everyone else was so certain of the danger he presented. But you felt this contrarian, almost childish desire to befriend him, no longer driven by, but definitely born from, spite.

Against your better judgment, you slowly inched yourself toward the front of the house, creeping along the side wall just enough so that you could hear Laurey’s voice.

“-nuthin’ but a mangy dog, and somebody orta shoot you.”

“Christ,” you muttered, slinking just that much closer to the corner.

“Ya think so much ‘bout bein’ a h’ard hand. Well, I’ll jist-” She then grew too quiet for you to hear without rounding the edge of the house, though, in a matter of seconds, she was yelling again, “-ain’t a h’ard hand fer me no more! You can jist pack up yer duds an’ scoot! Oh, and I-” Again, she grew too quiet for you to quite make out what she was saying, though you suspected it wasn’t anything good. You inched closer, winced, and pressed into the corner of the house. “Don’t you’s much as set foot inside the pasture gate or I’ll sic the dogs onto you!”

Jud growled something then, too low to you to hear, but you did hear him stomping off to the far side of the yard.

“Damn.” You slumped against the wall and turned your eyes back to the dance floor. Slim was walking your way, a tense smile on his lips. You barely returned it, feeling rather worn by the evening, grappling with a tangle of emotions in your belly, especially a sudden and overpowering homesickness. You should’ve just asked Jud to come with you. Maybe things wouldn’t have been so bad tonight, or, at the very least, rejection may have discouraged you from coming at all.

“Gettin’ wore out?” Slim asked, settling himself beside you despite how plain it was that you didn’t want company.

“Yeah, ain’t ever been much for parties.” You don’t know why you bothered to keep a halfway friendly face. You knew when you were unwanted, wished he'd just say what he meant to your face.

“Ah, gettin’ a little wore out m’self,” he said instead.

You both sat and watched the folks dance for a moment, him more so than you. Sure, you may have been looking that way, but you weren’t really there, you were thinking about him, thinking about what you had overheard, thinking about that cozy apartment you had given up… And even with the monotonous prattling from Slim lulling you further into your own thoughts, you did take notice when that Will Parker fella led a concerned looking McLain over to the front of the house.

“Fixin’ ta have that meal t’night ‘er what, darlin’?”

You jolted, Slim’s pointed question forced you from the circling, unpleasant thoughts you had lost yourself in. “‘Scuze me?”

He nodded to that basket of yours he had set off in the yard. “Dinner?”

“I-”

His gaze was fixed, intense. “I’d like ta talk to ya ‘bout somethin’.” He tapped his foot against the side of the house and your stomach twisted.

“Slim-” Your voice didn’t sound like your own, a certain irritation sounding through his name that you hadn’t intended for it to carry. But you were tired, and even if he meant well, which you believed he did, you truly, deeply just wanted to be left the hell alone. “I don’-”

“Hey!” Curly’s voice suddenly rang out across the yard, bright and loud and joyous. “‘F there’s anybody out ‘round this yard tha’ can hear ma voice, I’d like fer you ta know that Laurey Williams is my girl! An’ she went an’ got me ta ask her ta marry me!”

Damn.

You cringed, there wasn’t much else you could do really. Your first thought was of Jud, and how could it not be, after the uncomfortable scene that was made of the auction? The words had struck you physically and you could only imagine what a sharp sting they must’ve left him with, of course assuming he was still on the property, that was.

Slim, looking damn near triumphant, turned and asked if you wanted to take another swing around in celebration for the happy couple, but you opted to decline as politely as you could manage, offering the excuse that you were tuckered out and needed to get back home. You promised to have that basket lunch with him tomorrow when he asked about it, trying to coax you into staying for just a while longer, just long enough that you couldn’t go find him. And he tried again, but you cut him off with a near frantic goodbye and bolted toward the back of the house where everyone had hitched up their horses, praying he’d still be there.

#Jud Fry #Jud Fry x reader #Oklahoma!#Alfred Molina #Food tw #Blood tw #weenis writes

14 notes · View notes

coffeedrgn87 · 1 year

Text

December 22nd Drarry Drabble: "Manners Maketh"

Read Parts 1 through 6 here.

Tags: Silly Dueling, Bless them they are talking, there's even banter, discussion of six-year bathroom incident, Harry's mistletoe drives him nuts, Smoking

Less than five minutes later, Harry started to feel uneasy. He had no sensible explanation for it, but the sensation was intense, all-consuming, making him dizzy. It wasn’t the sensation of Malfoy’s spell, at least Harry didn’t think it was, but rather a strange sort of apprehension that made him feel hot and cold in equal measures. He shifted his legs, stretching them out, but that didn’t ease the discomfort.

If anything, all it did was make his stomach churn uncomfortably. Harry simply could not keep it together. With a tight chest, tingling fingertips, and a feeling akin to quivering insides, he struggled to control himself.

A heavily subdued internal voice tried telling him to alert Malfoy, but instead of giving voice to his sudden agitation and asking for a break, he quite literally fled to the other side of the room and crossed his arms to form a barrier between him and Malfoy.

If Malfoy looked surprised, it didn’t show on his face; he simply pointed his wand at a nearby staircase.

“My office is through there. The door to the terrace is open.”

As his gaze followed Malfoy’s wand, Harry rolled his shoulders to ease the tightness in his neck and shoulders. A chance to escape outdoors sounded like heaven, and bounding up the stairs, neither looking left nor right, Harry dashed outside.

When Malfoy joined him several moments later, Harry was leaning against the balustrade of the first-floor terrace. It offered access to the ground floor garden, but Harry was in no mood to explore. Instead, he inhaled deeply, drawing London’s crisp, cold winter air into every fold of his lungs. He still felt uneasy, and keeping one arm securely pressed against his stomach, Harry rocked in place, shifting but unable to get comfortable.

Malfoy didn’t question his sudden need to escape; he simply folded into a nearby chair, crossed his legs, and, leaning back, produced a packet of cigarettes and a Muggle lighter.

Harry’s eyes widened.

“You smoke?” he asked, flushing when he realised his voice was an entire octave higher than usual.

Malfoy shrugged.

He placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and took a deep drag. Afterwards, he rested his hand on the chair’s armrest and exhaled rings of smoke.

“I wish I didn’t,” he said. “It’s a vice I’m still trying to shake, although I admit I’m in no rush to do so. Want one?” he asked, offering Harry the pack.

Harry shook his head, then promptly changed his mind a second later. He crossed the terrace, nabbed a cigarette and accepted when Malfoy offered him the lighter.

“I smoked for a couple years after the war, but Hermione gave me such a hard time about it I eventually quit. Well, I limit myself to social smoking when I go out, and she isn’t around.”

Malfoy grinned.

“You know, Harry, this does not surprise me; I am well-acquainted with just how terrifying Granger can be. Feeling better?”

While taking another drag, Harry took stock of how he felt. The knots in his stomach had eased up somewhat, and his chest no longer felt inexplicably tight.

“Surprisingly, yes,” he said. “Sorry about that; I’m not trying to be a pain.”

Malfoy waved his hand.

“You’re not a pain; this curse has been quite literally hanging over you for quite a while. It’s only natural that me trying to pry into its core will make you feel weird.”

Harry grimaced.

“Honestly, it wasn’t that. I just—”

Trailing off, Harry glanced around. He took another deep breath, held it inside him until the crisp air had warmed up, and then exhaled. His breath vapourised in the cold, and watching the white puffs rise up, Harry took another drag from his cigarette. It wasn’t especially strong, a bit on the light side, but the influx of nicotine calmed his frayed nerves.

“Cabin fever,” Malfoy suddenly said.

Harry looked at him with a deep frown etched on his forehead.

“Huh?” he asked.

Malfoy offered him a lopsided grin, and Harry felt his stomach flip, though he tried to pay the reaction no head.

“Cabin fever,” Malfoy repeated. “It’s hard to live a normal life with a mistletoe bobbing over your head. I imagine, since it appeared, you’ve been spending most of your time inside, and perhaps that is unconsciously bringing up things from your past.”

Inexplicably, Malfoy’s suggestion made Harry furious and glaring at Malfoy, he snapped, “What? Are you a Mind Healer too?”

Malfoy remained unperturbed. He shook his head.

“I am not. Just a suggestion.”

Harry ground his teeth together.

“Why the fuck are your like this, Malfoy. We aren’t friends! Stop acting like you’re concerned about me. I did my healing after the war. I saw mind healers, and I did the work. I don’t need you suggesting I need more.”

Instead of allowing himself to be goaded into a fight, Malfoy raised both hands in surrender.

“My apologies.”

Harry growled.

He wanted to throw something at Malfoy, but there was absolutely nothing in his vicinity, so he hurled a hex instead.

Malfoy dodged it easily.

“Manners maketh man, Harry, this is hardly a mature response.”

The taunt had Harry see red, and not bothering with his wand, he wandlessly directed a deluge of hexes at Malfoy. It wasn’t pretty. Colourful spells rained down on Malfoy, who drew his wand to cast several protective charms and a few defensive ones to cancel out the one or other hex. Harry simply threw a second barrage of spells at Malfoy. He didn’t think before casting, didn’t even stop to breathe. Whatever came to his mind rolled off his tongue. Malfoy defended himself effortlessly. He didn’t even bother to get up. It vexed Harry more than he wanted to admit, but after bombarding Malfoy for the third time, his magic temporarily gave out on him.

Feeling lightheaded, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together to stop himself from throwing up. He swayed dangerously and blindly searched for something to hold on to, but in the unfamiliar environment, he struggled to find anything. He was vaguely aware of Malfoy lending his support, and then his world temporarily went black.

***

When Harry regained consciousness sometime later, he was in bed. Not his bed but a bed. Feeling too warm, he kicked the blanket off but did not attempt to sit up. The mattress was just firm enough, and the mountain of pillows underneath his head was beyond comfortable.

“Welcome back.”

Jumping at the familiar sound, Harry turned his head sideways. Malfoy sat in a wingback armchair by the window. He had one leg folded over the other and a book with a pink cover in his lap.

Harry ground his teeth together and grumbled. He caught sight of the mistletoe out of the corner of his eye. His mood immediately plummeted, then his mind unhelpfully supplied him with a play-by-play of him duelling Malfoy and embarrassment settled in. A rush of heat rose into his cheeks, and groaning, Harry rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillows.

“Just AK me already.”

Malfoy’s soft laugh sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“I can try, but I doubt I’ll be successful. It’ll probably just tickle you.”

Peeking at Malfoy, Harry arched a brow.

“Huh?”

Malfoy shrugged.

“You have to mean it, don’t you? Casting an Unforgiveable, I mean.”

Harry nodded into the pillows.

“Hm, yes.”

“And therein lies the problem, Harry. I hold no grudge against you. This makes it damn near impossible for me to cast an AK at you and mean it. Besides, it’d probably just bounce off you like water off a duck’s back. You’re kind of famous for that.”

Harry snorted.

“Arsehole. I slashed you open once; you have every reason.”

Malfoy let out a long-suffering sigh. Harry was tempted to take another peek at him but resisted turning his head and kept his face buried in the pillows instead.

“I can understand why you’d think that way, but our bathroom duel wasn’t just you attacking me out of the blue, Potter. I played my part, too. Sure, casting an offensive spell you do not know was an absolutely daft thing to do, not to mention perilous, but it was done in self-defence. Besides, Severus did an outstanding job at patching me up. Most of the scars are barely visible. Unless you look very, very closely.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, but he turned his head again to look at Malfoy.

“Can I still apologise?”

“I thought you did that when you spoke up for me during the trials.”

Harry shook his head.

“I did that because it was the right thing to do.”

Malfoy smiled.

“I see. Well, I’d rather we leave the past in the past and remain in the present, but if it means that much to you, I’m prepared to accept an apology.”

Harry frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy chuckled.

“Well, if you desperately want to apologise, go ahead.”

Harry threw a half-hearted glare at Malfoy.

“Stop mocking me,” he grumbled.

Malfoy laughed.

“I am not mocking you, that is.”

“Feels like.”

“I assure you, I am not. On a different note, your spells earlier were quite impressive.”

Harry buried his face back in the pillows and pressed one over the back of his head.

“Yeah, right. So impressive that I fucking fainted,” he muttered.

“You launched a wandless attack out of anger; of course, you fainted. There’s only so much magical energy our bodies can store, and you basically exhausted all of it.”

Harry moved one of the pillows and looked at Malfoy.

“Is that why I feel like my body is made of lead?” he asked.

Malfoy nodded.

“Likely. It’ll wear off in a couple of hours, faster with a hearty meal.”

“Sorry for going off on you like that. I didn’t mean to be an arse.”

Malfoy huffed a laugh.

“You know what, Harry. It’s okay to feel frustrated, but please know I’m not playing some sort of game. If you absolutely insist, I can be a snarky fuck, but I don’t see the point of making both our lives miserable.”

Harry chewed on the inside of his mouth for a while, then shifted to take a better look at Malfoy.

“I’d like the Malfoy who sent me that snarky note, please.”

Malfoy’s laughter reverberated through the room, bouncing off the walls and making Harry shiver with its intensity.

“Alright, Potter. If it makes you feel better, I can be that Malfoy. So, do you want to stay cooped up over Christmas, or shall we try and get rid of that blasted mistletoe once and for all?”

A strange thought entered Harry’s head, but he couldn’t bring himself to entertain it, much less keep it in his mind for long enough to accidentally say it out loud. It was one thing to engage in a bit of banter with Malfoy and quite another to ask him whether a kiss from him might disappear from the mistletoe. Harry didn’t even know where the idea had come from. It suddenly entered his mind, and the harder Harry tried not to think about it, the more insistent it became. He glared up at the mistletoe.

“Malfoy, that fucking thing is messing with my head; get it away from me.”

6 notes · View notes