#But my god it's like a bingo of bigotry | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starlightshore · 1 year ago

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explain Danny phantom to someone who’s never seen it before?

uhhhhh so i can only talk about it as the most insane kinda fandom person because

i was obsessed with this show when it first aired when I was 8 years old. it was my first fandom. i read fanfic for it before i even knew what fanfic was. its HEAVILY tied to my nostalgia and I've been engaging with the fandom on/off for literally 19 years. at this point DP is in my DNA.

while it's not my main hyperfixation (thats undertale) its the one tag i visit regularly and the one fandom I'll jump to every few months and binge fics for. i don't even read UT fics anymore but the DP fandom is always doing something. its very active!

under the cut I talk about my thoughts on the show, the fandom and explain the premise. It's a wild ride.

TLDR; i have a lot of THOUGHTS on this show and i do not actually recommend it. MAYBE if you're curious explore the fandom and some fics but be careful about it, it's a bit gratuitous with its angst.

If you want a basic premise: local 14 year old accidentally lets loose hell but also has become part ghost. This kid can fit SO much trauma in him.

first off: I fucking love Danny Phantom.

And I'm going to spend the next two segments complaining about it. Feel free to skip if you're already aware of this /or don't wanna linger on it.

Second off: This show fucking sucks*

* Ok fine yes sometimes it can be good, but it will always have an asterisk next to it.

it has NOT aged well. it was created by an asshole who's got a long shitlist of things he's done and still does that's all terrible. i am not one to hate someone publicly unless its for something like this. Feel free to google what Bitch Fartman has done if you're curious but I'll warn you: he is a horrible person and he disgusts me. I only acknowlege him when its to mention how awful he is and how I do not want to support him.

This is not like with FNAF where supporting that franchise supports Scott. Danny Phantom first aired 19 years ago. The show was written, directed, and sure as hell animated by a team of professionals. It is not his sole creation. Studio Animation is not the sole work of an individual. I respect (most) animators and the hard work they've done and do. IIRC Shitfartman doesn't even have the rights to the IP anymore. I assume he gets residuals though. That said the only canonical piece of media we've gotten is a graphic novel that was released last month. Up until then, supporting DP was just not literally a thing you could do!

Its not just the creator who sucks. There's a lot of BS in the show too.

the show is very early 2000s (and even then thats no excuse) and it has a bingo card worth of shit in it. racism, bigotry, ableism! you name it. I do not condone and i do NOT recommend this show because of this! its horrible with what they did with this show and its shocking it was acceptable enough to put on TV. you literally can't do shit like that anymore.

I'm not going to go list every detail of every horrible, fucked up thing the show has done. The list is too long and I haven't watched the actual show in a few years now. by god, I know there is a list out there though.

Anyway outside of my obligatory "fuck this show actually" rant aside

i do love this show because it DOES have a lot of good and cool stuff outside that. but also. its so much wasted potential.

the core premise is:

Hey what if a pair of paranormal obsessed mad scientist parents punched a hole into the after life hell dimension- and what if their son was basically spiderman-ed about it?

youtube

And here's the core part of the premise: Danny only keeps his identity a secret to the humans. Ghosts learn like, pretty much straight away that he's a Halfa (half human, half ghost). He's if spiderman's worst fear wasn't the villains but if like. Aunt May was going to rip him apart.

Oh yeah that's. a thing. Danny's parents literally want to rip his ghost identity apart from, and I quote, "molecule to molecule."

For a an comedy-action show its WEIRDLY morbid and dark at times but then has the tonal whiplash to make you question what the fuck did they just do. How'd they do that and then not care they just wrote that in. Seriously. It'll just lore drop or hint to dark things and then brush it aside because it's main focus is comedy.

Anyway back to explaing what the show even is about. the show likes to say Danny got his DNA merged with ectoplasm but that's stupid af i'd rather say he died but only stayed half dead. He can transform between the two states: living and dead. But he's not just two halves that make a whole -the two sides blend together. He can use his ghost powers as a human -and early on he couldn't control them so he'd just. go intangible or invisible at the worst moments.

The show just. jumps right in. You don't get to see the accident outside the intro (at least until season 2 when they retcon some stuff) you just have it thrown into your lap. He has powers now. He sucks at it. Deal with it.

I think it's important to acknowledge that this show was written before Netflix did streaming. Before Plot heavy cartoons were a thing. (Not to say they didn't have reoccuring plot, it justw asn't the same thing as it is now.) You had to write the show with the limits of:

Comedy being a major focus

You have to write it with the expectation that anyone could jump in and (reasonably) understand most things going on. While there's some continuity and plot progression, the status quo is god.

because streaming wasn't a thing yet, you could only watch the show by jumping into whatever the fuck episode was playing. I doubt it played in order all the time. You just couldn't make a cartoon that had weeks upon weeks of plot developments and expect people to keep up.

The show is, in fact, meant for kids. While it does dive into some darker stuff (being ya know, a ghost show) its still going to be overly silly.

So while YEAH i'll complain about the very very shitty things the show did but I can't soley blame Fuckhateshitman for all of it. It's the restrictions it was made under + likely a lot more circumstances I don't understand. I am a hobbiest animator. I have no real world experience in the animation industry. I can critique the final product but I can never understand what shaped the cartoon. If shitheadmcgee wasn't involved and the studio gave the show more room + had you know, more POC and women on team + animation (even for kids) was respected more then who KNOWS what the show could of been! But like. its a 2000s show. It is what it is. I think the show has its good and bad and i'll harp a lot on the bad rn because I think its important to acknowledge especially to new people, but I do want to frame it by saying it really is the product of its time.

I want it to be better and I hope if it gets rebooted its better. We expect a lot more from cartoons now then we did then. (I know this was a long tangent + kinda over simplifying things but whatever, moving on.)

The (Ph)Fandom

19 years later and here we are. Enter the Phandom (called that before that phill and whoever used the term, idc i'm still going to use the term.) We, the fandom, almost completely just retconned the show's finale. (obviously SOME people still like it but its like. an incredibly small percentage) Like. we straight up pretend it didn't happen. i don't even want to get into it rn. It was SO BAD that the graphic novel that just released literally (spoilers) retconned everything about it aside from a ship pairing.

Anyway the Phandom- personally I think it goes a little TOO harsh in its angst. LIke, maybe a bit too much. But it DOES add nuance and explores the themes and lore that the show just flat out refused to engage with at all. It really digs into the premise of "hey wtf this 14 year is half dead. hello? hello??? thats fucked up.... lets explore that." and i'm here for it.

As long as its not like, masochistic and gratuitous for no real reason. 😬That is my biggest complaint with the fandom is that sometimes it goes over board.

But yeah outside of that, it can also be VERY silly so expect tonal whiplash here too! We got memes. We got fandom holidays and events. Whacky stuff.

OH AND OCs. We have fandom OCs like Wes. The best nonexistant character ever. Love that lil weirdo <3. His whole schtick was "What if Danny had another human villain? What if this random background classmate knew his secret and was trying to expose it?" and its spiraled from there. No one ever believes Wes and he's tortured by it. Some make him out to be a conspiracy nut while others make him more of a threat. (or a joke, as I do) Considering this show has a ghost-version of the Men in Black (Guys in White) conspiracy actually lines up accurately for what Wes does. And, you know. The Fenton's have a portal to the afterlife in their basement. Honestly pretty reasonable.

so like the fandom just kinda... picks and chooses the canon. It does have an edge of "we can do better" but in fairness, as I just discussed, there's an awareness that the version we make is not restricted by the environment the show was made under. I would hope most of the fandom understands this and doesn't say it in the sense of like "oh yeah I know better than professional writers and artists fuck the show 1000%" instead of acknowledging Yes He Fucking Sucks but its also more complicated. I don't want to foster an environment of superiority and disrespect to any media/creators (with exceptions ofc) cause. Jesus christ we live on the internet in 2023 you have to know why I feel this way by now.

Anyway with that in mind, I do think it's a positive thing! I mean, fuck, the show had no new content for almost 20 years I think its obvious by now we'd just make our own doll house out of it by now.

So yeah the Phandom is like this:

We're oddly consistent with the phandom lore we've built around from the canon's lore. We expand it, we make it more queer, we do our own thing. And I really enjoy it! I partake in it! It's pretty cool.

So while there's some merit to the OG show I would not recommend it on account of the amount of BS I mentioned at the start of the post. But I would recommend the fandom! As long as you got a strong black list with trigger warnings in place. Again, I think the fandom is a lil too gratuitous. But oh my god I love so much of what the fandom does. There's so many fics that just stick with me and (ha) haunt me. There's a reason I still come back after all these years. there are SO many good fics.

also the fandom got adopted by the DC fandom a year or two ago. personally i have to have like 80 tags blocked so i can even navigate the tag. Its not my thing but i'm happy people are having fun!!

#personal stuff #dp talk

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cloudsmovingcastle · 2 years ago

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...one of these days I’ll encounter a “health” textbook that doesn’t make me furious, I’m sure of it.

but alas. evidently, today is not one of those days.

#g speaks #the fact that this textbook has an entire page about eating disorders #even going so far as to ask: why are eating disorders become more common?#when the entire previous page gives guidelines for putting ELEMENTARY AGED CHILDREN ON DIETS #IF THEIR BMI IS ABOVE A CERTAIN POINT. YOU KNOW BMI? THAT THING THAT HAS REPEATEDLY BEEN PROVEN TO BE COMPLETE BULLSHIT?!#the fucking audacity. to ask why eating disorders are becoming more common. when the entire previous page is just a fatphobic manifesto #using studies that are almost two decades old to boot #I am so fucking angry #lord god give me the strength to not start shit in class tomorrow #this is the same class where the professor called autism and adhd 'birth defects' last week though so. I don't have high hopes honestly #i swear to god my academic career just feels like im playing bigotry bingo at this point #im gonna have to start keeping separate scorecards for the various different 'isms' i encounter on a daily basis just to stay sane #god. im in this field to try and bring change and hopefully push to eliminate at least some of the ableist bullshit #but sometimes i really wonder if im ever gonna be able to make a difference when i see shit like this

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makingqueerhistory · 4 years ago

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People using black trans women to make a point (and usually be really shitty) is a real problem.... got told at a ballroom event by a cis fucking white gay man that I "was biologically female" and that out of respect for the black trans women who created ballroom, I should "know to stay in my place" (I was literally just gently correcting him on the use of pronouns to address me, and he went on a rant about boohoo afab trans people are so mean for not wanting to be seen as women boohoo denaturing ballroom by existing in it). And like its not the only time I've witnessed this kind of bs in irl queer spaces... How dare these people use black trans women to justify their shitty behavior. I think they would have wanted you to shut up and stay in your place, actually.

This sounds like an awful experience and really makes it clear that the more we glorify historical figures, the more people will use them as tools rather than seeing them as people.

This way of thinking really feels like an unexpected result of the demand to stop talking about uncomfortable aspects and people from queer history. It comes to the point where the good people can't just be good people, they have to be saints, martyrs, gods, images of perfection, and if they are all those things, using their names is enough to validate any point a person tries to make.

Marsha P. Johnson can't just be a transgender woman, who was imperfect, but did her best to support the community around her; she has to be the progenitor of the queer community and the reason that any queer person has rights.

Oscar Wilde can't just be a deeply flawed anti-Semitic man, he has to be the epitome of the dandy archetype who led the way for all queer men. Of course, if we acknowledge his bigotry and imperfections, that means we must ignore the moments where he did get things right, and how, deserved or not, his name and legacy have served the queer community in positive ways.

Then there is Walt Whitman. A queer poet who has meant so much to me personally, and was racist. He has deeply impacted the roots of the queer community in both Europe and North America, and those roots are tainted by racism. There are letters from other queer heroes of mine, telling him how he taught them how to love themselves and be queer at the same time. My other favourite poet Langston Hughes also loved Walt Whitman's work. None of this erases the racism.

If I wanted to justify my love for Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes could become a tool to do so. An incredible Black poet who shaped my understanding of compassion could become just a name to use to win points.

Having all these stories in my head can be difficult, I have written around 150+ of these articles now. To be vulnerable for a moment, a part of the reason I went to therapy for the first time was because I was beginning to experience second-hand trauma from some of the things I have seen and learned. But I love these stories, I love them so much. Queer history is not a tool, or a trump card, or a point in your progressive bingo, it is a series of stories, a web of truths, and a legacy of imperfection that is just waiting to be explored. So seeing people use them, use these full massive intertwining stories, with no love, no respect, no care, can be incredibly disheartening.

When looking into history, the whole truth can feel like an impossible goal. So many things are lost over time and misinformation has won out over fact more times than we like to think about. But we can do our best, and look for reality beyond the fiction, and some people will still choose fiction, but truth is the antidote, and I believe it can always be found.

#answered

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holistic-alcoholic · 3 years ago

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It’s All About Love

my stony 2012 fic :D

rating T, humor and pining, minor Sam/Nat, Steve's a disaster, Tony's oblivious, and Sam's the only one with a braincell. For stb-bingo prompts prompts Verbal Bondage, Frenemies to Lovers, Coulson Lives, Roommates, and Dog Park.

read here or on AO3

Steve knocks at Sam’s door, feeling exhausted. He’s an image of a dried seal who hasn’t seen the water in weeks, only more pathetic.

Sam opens after a couple of knocks and doesn’t even judge him too much. He mostly looks amused, to be honest.

“Rough day?”

“Yes. Sorry to barge in, but—”

“It’s okay, man. We had plans, you knew I was home, I told you — many times — that it’s fine. Mi casa su casa.”

Steve smiles, a wave of gratitude for Sam’s existence hitting him in the chest. Sam’s great. And the day was rough.

He hadn’t got much time to rest since the end of the mission, and the sleep always has troubles coming to him; he barely got an hour of shut-eye before the press conference. And he hates those ones. Even the easy ones like today, when SHIELD parades them — mostly him, but Natasha and Clint are recognizable, too, after the battle of New York — showing that they have the world’s safety under control. The politics of it makes Steve’s skin crawl.

They asked all types of questions, today, and it seemed that the reporters cared more about his personal life than the recollection of actual events they were supposed to talk about. Natasha said to him, after, voice gentle, that it’s just how they are now. He was pretty annoyed. He knows it’s how they are. But it doesn’t make it right. Logical. Doesn’t make any sense.

The end of it was... interesting. A young guy — he sounded nervous, but they all usually did in the face of the uniform, or maybe just more polite, more reserved — asked what he thought of transgender rights. Not so blunt, of course, the question was veiled, but Steve perked up, ready to answer — he wanted to answer that. He had a lot of thoughts on the matter.

His awe in the early days of learning about the bright new future matched the resentment that came later. How he despised the fact that people were still hurt, still marginalized, that there was still an argument about the right to exist. How he despised that argument because, honestly, do not change your God-given body? They didn’t say that about him, did they? It was nothing about faith and all about bigotry. He was Catholic, he fucking knew that.

Yes, Steve had a lot to say. He started, mournfully, with his disappointment over the fact that in seven decades there has been not enough progress — not enough acceptance. He said that he found the whole argument so ridiculous, so undeserving of thought: there shouldn’t be any doubt about a person’s life, person’s decisions, identity, freedom. He talked about his body issues and the hypocrisy of men who praised him but drew the line at more misfortunate.

Steve was about to finish with an accentuated ”Fuck transphobes” when Natasha cut him off.

She sounded in agreement with him, and she made the transition flawless, but it still felt like she undermined him a little.

Steve’s tired of it.

Natasha keeps doing it — changing the narrative of his conversations with the press whenever she feels the need. It began after the time when Steve was asked whether he had troubles with technology — for a millionth bloody time — so he told in his best deadpan voice about the mortal dangers of email. It was supposed to be funny.

Nobody got the joke. Not when he was dressed in red, white and blue — not when he was wearing a symbol, a hero, a story atop himself. Captain America doesn’t joke. Captain America doesn’t know what email is.

They only mocked SHIELD about its tech support for a week, so since then, Natasha plays the moderator. Steve doesn’t really know whether she gets his jokes — or honest opinions that have too much of Steve Rogers in them, not Captain America. Natasha is hard to read, but he hopes she understands at least part of it. She’s a friend. Friendly. Closer to him than anybody else at SHIELD, more informal to him. Even if that mostly shows in her futile attempts to set him up (although, always with women). That’s probably the reason he lets her: Steve genuinely likes her.

And he has a bit of a habit to yield to strong women in his life.

But, well. It’s fine. It’s ridiculous, to be bothered by a friendly gesture. Steve doesn’t let himself be bothered.

He comes to Sam, Sam doesn’t ask more than that first question, and they play video games for a little while — until Sam swears at him and tells him to go away and stop preventing him from doing some real-life adulting.

“Maybe one last match?” Steve asks, his face a picture of innocence. “You haven’t won once today.”

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Sam grumbles and goes to his paperwork, but at least he doesn’t kick Steve out of his apartment.

Sam’s great.

Steve stays on his couch. It’s peaceful. Steve likes it way more than his own house — provided by SHIELD, furnitured by SHIELD with all the discomfort of his past but none of the real memories. Sam is the first real friend Steve made in the future, a first one who isn’t a work friend (who doesn’t know about Captain America, only Steve Rogers, a bit of a dork and a little shit who works in something incredibly confidential). Sam’s place is a safe haven.

In a while Steve grows bored watching Sam being a responsible adult, and since Sam forbade him both from helping around the flat (stop it, don’t touch my stuff! You don’t live here, man, you’re a guest, no house duties for you) and from cooking (Steve, look, I love you and I value your friendship, but if you boil anything in my kitchen ever again—), Steve gives up himself to the horrors of the internet.

He checks Twitter first and spends a peaceful minute checking out the new pieces from several artists he follows — it’s really beautiful, and he’s amazed still that it’s so much easier now to learn, to show your work, to be part of a community that transcends the physical distance, with people all over the world. Then, not wanting to delay the inevitable, he checks what’s trending. Captain America is in third place. Several first popular tweets say “Cap accidentally supports trans rights”.

Accidentally.

Steve looks at his phone with despair. He wants to throw it at the wall. He wants to throw himself at the wall. He wants to put on the uniform back and go to the Times Square and yell I fucking support every fucking human right at people, but at this point, everyone would probably think him to be a fake Cap or something.

Steve grimaces at one of the most annoying tweets and can’t stop himself from replying with a sarcastic “or, maybe, a person whose whole deal is punching injustice in the face wants to punch injustice in the face”. Then he closes the tag. Online fights are draining and pointless.

Should he punch some senator in the face? That might help. At least help him to feel better.

Steve slumps at his coach. The world’s very sad. He grows restless soon and opens his feed again, but nothing catches his attention. He needs something else to raise his spirits. Something...

With a face heating a little like it always did whenever he felt guilty as a kid, he taps a search bar and types Captain America Iron Man in it. Glancing at Sam, as if Sam would care what he does on his phone. Steve scrolls, pausing at pictures. Most of them are photos from the battle of New York — reporter photos, blurry amateur ones, and the actual art of them — of him and Tony. Sometimes with others, too. The captions always use the codenames, even for Tony — the only one of them known to the world. Some photos are from the press conferences they had together: everyone clean and presentable, Tony without the suit — or, well, in the other kind of suit — rolling his eyes at something or in the middle of saying something probably sarcastic or genius.

The amount of time Steve spends staring at those ones is strictly between him and his phone.

80% of the art is recapturing moments from the battle or comics about daily superhero life. Captions proclaim them frenemies. That word comes from some of the interviews when they had to play the opposite roles, of sorts, Steve realizes, and has nothing to do with their actual team dynamics, unknown to the public, but he still feels the discomfort, remembers the way Tony and he clashed at the first meeting, the way they were awkward and distant after. He scrolls down.

The other 20% of art is, well, porn.

Steve’s still getting used to the whole concept.

(He saves a couple of well-drawn pictures.)

In twenty minutes he gets a reply to his what if Captain America actually meant what he said tweet. It reads: “and I care about your fucking opinion so much user tonystarkstan1918”.

Steve frowns at it.

He thought he figured out the typical pattern of choosing a nickname.

Sam turns to him.

“You okay? You’ve been sighing at your phone for a while now.”

Steve grimaces. He doesn’t want to complain — his problems are pretty stupid. It’s nothing big. He tells Sam so.

“Is it about your guy?” Sam asks in a second, voice gentle.

When Steve came out to him — not that far ago — he said he liked someone, but nothing more. It’s still odd, still scary and nerve-wracking to talk about it. To know he’s allowed to talk about it. But it’s also pretty amazing.

And, well. He was staring at Tony’s face and feeling sad for himself and his (non-existent) chances.

“Partly, yes,” Steve admits.

Sam lifts his head, inviting him to speak.

“He’s just... so great,” Steve says and blushes, and then doesn’t know where to put his arms. He’s bad at this. “But he’s so out of my league, it’s not even funny.”

“Come on. Steve. You’re great. And objectively very attractive.”

Steve scoffs.

“But it’s not really what matters, is it?” He shrugs. “And we had a bad start.”

“Uh-huh?”

Steve sighs, frustrated, not sure how to explain the endless distance between him and Tony without giving out their identities.

“Look. Imagine you have a, a celebrity crush. And it’s someone big, I don’t know, a princess or something. And they’re not only famous but genuinely an amazing person. Using the status that they have to actively change the world. Succeed in it.”

“Okay, I’m crushing on Princess Diana, sure.”

“I guess. And you can’t even — can’t compare to them in any way, so you could only watch them from a distance. But you actually know this person — meet this person regularly.” Steve winces and looks directly into Sam’s eyes to continue. “And they fucking hate your guts.”

Sam stares at him for a while.

“Right. Firstly, I think you’re being a little overdramatic — I said a little, I believe it’s a serious problem, but the amount of spectacle in that last delivery was too much — and secondly, Steve. He might be great, and you guys might have a strained relationship now, but it’s not the reason to diminish yourself that way, okay? Not the reason to compare anything. You’re an amazing person. Love yourself. And while you do that, I can give your a shoulder to cry about the greatness of Mr. Right or some advice or whatever, but don’t forget step one.”

Steve nods, a little bit choked. Then he takes on the invitation and gushes about Tony. After a while, Sam looks like he regrets his suggestion, but he doesn’t say anything. Sam’s great.

It’s 9am on a Monday, and they have the Avengers meeting. It’s pretty boring. Clint doesn’t hide that he’s sleeping. Natasha had the same blank expression for 15 minutes at least; Steve thinks she’s asleep, too. Thor didn’t show up on account of not being on the planet, and so did Bruce — on account of nobody willing to make him.

Tony sauntered in twenty minutes late. He hasn’t stopped complaining about the ordeal since.

His tie has little Iron Mans on it. It’s very cute.

Steve told him “hello”, and “nice tie”, and managed not to blush or stumble over himself. He’s counting it as a win, even though the tie comment got him a frown.

Suddenly the room freezes. It happens like this: Tony stops talking, his face changing into a shocked expression, there is a sound of something falling from Clint’s direction, Maria Hill — standing in front of them — tenses in the corner of Steve’s eye, Steve turns, Steve sees it.

Agent Coulson walks inside the room.

He looks exactly like the last time Steve saw him. A non-descriptive suit, polite smile, a tablet in hand.

Alive.

“What the fuck?” Tony says in the silence.

“I second that,” Clint echoes faintly.

Natasha just looks murderous.

“Third,” Steve adds.

“Hello,” Coulson says. “Excuse me for interrupting, I have news for all of you about the future structure of this team.”

He waves a hand with the tablet.

“What the fuck is going on,” Clint says, voice slightly hysterical. “How the fuck. You were dead. I saw your body.”

“Are you a shape-shifting alien? Are we sure he’s not a shape-shifting alien?”

“You have received the instructions on your emails about the changes.” Coulson continues. Steve feels a little dizzy. “The main problem, however, is the housing. For the most effectiveness of the team, you should have a common headquarters. Preferably, live near each other. Mr. Stark, if your offer to allocate several floors of your Tower to it is still on the table, this conversation is finished.”

He pauses and waits for a nod from Tony.

(Floors of the Tower?...)

“Great. Any more questions?”

They’re all silent. It’s the shock.

“All right. Then the meeting adjourned,” Coulson nods to Hill, who turns off the presentation.

They are still all staring. Steve feels like he has a concussion. He’s probably not the only one.

“It’s great to see you again,” Coulson says after a second. It’s quiet, soft, with more emotion than he let on before.

It’s a mix of a greeting, an apology, and a dismissal. Then he leaves.

Later Steve’s at VA — Sam needed some brawn to help carry around furniture — and he’s still reeling with shock. Sam finished telling him all his job-related anecdotes and now looks at him with suspicion. It’s justified: Steve usually talks more. Recently, since Sam is okay with talking about his feelings for Tony, Steve talks a lot.

Now, well, now it’s harder. A person I knew and admired was thought to be murdered by an insane alien, which was a pivotal moment for me and other people starting a superhero team, and today we found out he’s alive.

Way too complicated.

In the end, Steve just says there have been big changes at work, and that he will soon move to a place that’s being organized for them — to live around each other.

“Does this living with each other thing include your crush?” Sam asks immediately, astute as always.

“Yes,” Steve admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s not really— it’s just the same building.”

“Oh no, don’t give me that. You’re gonna be roommates,” Sam sing-songs, obnoxious.

Steve swears at him.

He repeats the word afterward, alone: roommates. Says aloud, trying it out: they’re going to be roommates. It sounds pretty happy to him.

Also: really fucking nervous.

The living arrangements are these: Tony made them apartments in the Tower. Everyone gets a floor.

(A literal fucking floor, Steve’s so not okay with this.)

Moving is a process. Tony gets them all to come together so he can show them around at once. He doesn’t explain beforehand why, so both Steve and Clint show up in uniform (they look ridiculous). Several floors (several fucking floors) are common: gym, kitchen, all the strange equipment (Steve’s pretty good at SHIELD-level tech, not Tony-level tech). Up from that come the personal ones. Tony herds them into the elevator and kicks out one person on each floor. The last one is Steve’s. Tony walks out with him.

Steve is being so normal about it.

It takes him a second to distract himself from thoughts of Tony and actually look around. He stops.

“Is that...” Steve knows these things.

An old radio Bucky found and fixed to bring it home. A stack of journals, old snd battered and familiar. The bag that contained clothes too small to fit him the last time he saw it. Oh. His mother’s photograph.

”Tony,” he says, strangled.

“Uh, yeah. That, I think, is everything yours that was stolen by the government. They were very annoyed about giving it back, mind you. But honestly, what are they — the British museum?”

”Thank you.” Steve thinks he is going to cry right here.

Tony looks very uncomfortable and avoids Steve’s eyes. Fuck, of course, he does — Steve is on the verge of — Steve needs to calm down.

“Eh. Wasn’t a hardship. I needed to have something here, considering I barely made anything for you.”

Only then Steve’s attention, so thoroughly zeroed on his things, widens: the rest of the room is half-empty.

“There’s a gym fitted for your needs, the kitchen is fully stocked, bathroom, etcetera, but I need your input for the actual living space. Draw something you like, show JARVIS, and it will be done.” Tony points to a red light on the ceiling, probably meaning a camera, then turns and finally looks at Steve.

Steve feels a little light-headed under the full weight of his attention.

“Didn’t know what you’d like best.”

It’s said like a concession. A suggestion to move forward, to advance: Tony Stark showing he didn’t know something. Showing vulnerability with a smile. A clear step toward.

“Am I a hard man to understand?” Steve answers with a similar smile on his face. Trying to match Tony’s move. “Everyone seems to know more about my life than I.”

“Captain America — maybe not so hard. But that,” Tony waves at the room, “is the place for Steve Rogers. Him, I don’t know yet.”

If Steve hasn’t been in love before.

It’s a little bit awkward after that. Mostly because Steve’s touched about his things, part of his life, and the yearning for Tony inside of him grows and grows and becomes too much, and he can’t do anything but stare at the man’s face wordlessly and try not to cry. It’s ridiculous. Tony fidgets under his eyes.

He probably waits for the moment to go. He doesn’t want to spend time with Steve.

But he gave me this, Steve thinks. It has to mean something. And he doesn’t want to let go yet, wants to bask in Tony’s presence some more, to look at him here, so close, with defenses brought down. He wears a simple T-shirt and ratty jeans, so unlike those pristine suits he wears at his interviews (that Steve spends a normal amount of time watching). Tony looks approachable, for once. Steve doesn’t want to lose it.

But he doesn’t know what to do to make Tony stay.

“Alright,” Tony says at last, a crooked smile on his face, “that’s more or less it. Ask JARVIS for anything you might need. And, oh, come here—”

Suddenly Tony is so close, and his arm is around Steve’s shoulders, and there’s a sound of a camera clicking.

“Great. Very patriotic. I would ask for an autograph, but I don’t have a pen with me. Send it to Coulson, J, make him know we’re all happy roomies now.”

“Me too, um, JARVIS.”

Tony lifts his eyebrow at that, but doesn’t say anything, waves his hand in goodbye, and goes away.

Steve needs to lie down for a while.

Steve goes to Sam’s place the same day. They were planning to catch a movie.

(Looking at his schedule, Steve begins to realize he doesn’t have many friends.)

Steve barges in with a huge smile on his face.

“Sam,” he says with feeling, “Sam, he doesn’t hate me.”

“Uh-huh. Told you so. How’s being roommates going?”

“It’s great. I guess. Don’t know, haven’t really moved in yet. But Sam. He found my lost things. He made me an apartment. He thinks— he took a selfie with me, look! He was so close, and he smelled so nice, it's the best day of my life.”

Steve shows Sam the picture, then faceplants on his couch. He’s overcome.

Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, which is pretty weird for him. Steve doesn’t care.

“It was so great.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s so amazing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think it means something that he showed only me my place? Not anybody from the others?”

“Sure.”

Sam’s voice sounds farther away. Steve stands up and follows him to the kitchen.

Sam has a glass on the table, and he’s pouring pure vodka in it. It’s 5pm. His face shows great focus.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Great. Peachy.”

His voice sounds a little off.

“Are you sure?”

“Just currently rethinking all the choices I’ve made in my life. Especially concerning choosing childhood idols. Nothing serious.”

Steve stares at him.

What.

“Are you—?”

“It’s fine, Steve,” Sam continues in a normal voice. “I just wanted a drink. Go on.”

He still looks a bit disturbed, but clearly doesn’t want to discuss it more. Steve lets him drop it.

He goes on.

Sam quickly returns to his normal state, so Steve doesn’t worry about it.

In a while, though, when Steve has a little break in his gushing-about-Tony, Sam makes an awkward face and says:

“Look, Steve, can I say something?”

He sounds uneasy. Steve nods.

“It’s just — I fully support you, and your love life is very amusing, I mean it, it’s basically your regular soap opera, only with more twists. But sometimes it’s just — I’m not your therapist, okay? And I say that in the most loving way possible. I just don’t have the strength to be a good listener sometimes. And maybe, you know, let’s talk about my love life sometimes, or I’m starting to feel like one black guy in a rom-com.”

Steve’s immediately horrified. He spends the rest of the evening ashamed and apologetic. But they talk about it, and Sam’s very right to begin this talk. They agree to communicate better. They watch a movie they were planning to.

Steve asks about Sam’s love life, but it hasn’t changed since Sam’s last date, which Steve remembers the horrifying story of, but Sam talks more about the fear of opening up to the new people and not meeting anyone new. Steve listens.

(Steve also strategizes. But doesn’t say anything yet.)

It’s a good evening, still, a great day. For the following week Steve stops himself from venting to Sam about anything and gets an exasperated text about it after.

In the end, they find their balance.

Steve moves to the Tower.

He finds out — to his own surprise — that he likes the new apartment, even if it feels too big sometimes. It’s so much better than the SHIELD’s one.

He works. He makes friends with JARVIS. He sees the others, sometimes. Life finds its routine.

There’s Bruce making coffee and offering to share. There’s Clint, inexplicably jumping from the ceiling vent.

There’s Natasha, who shows up at the common kitchen at weird times, and sometimes knocks at Steve’s door and spends time on his floor.

She still holds herself close to the chest, but Steve calls them friends now. She doesn’t try to set him up anymore. It may be connected to the fact that the last time she did it, he said only if you agree to go out with my friend.

Steve thinks she agreed mostly out of surprise. Or curiosity.

He asked Sam later that night, more seriously, of course, and told him he has this great friend, that they could find some common interests, get on well, and it doesn’t have to be romantic.

They’re dating now. Sam doesn’t shut up about her.

Steve fucking won this matchmaking thing.

And, of course, there’s Tony. Steve almost got used to his presence, or so he says himself.

He’s still nervous around the man sometimes. Clammy hands, fast heartbeat. It’s ridiculous. But also pretty great.

There are nights like this. Steve can’t sleep — sleep problems are something everyone in this Tower has in spades — and he reads, lying on the couch of the common floor. He tends to gravitate here whenever he feels too lonely, to the place where his teammates spend more time, where he feels the connection to him. Tony appears at the doorstep. He looks tired, but slightly manic.

“Hey,” Steve calls out quietly, something about the night not letting him speak in full voice. “can’t sleep?”

Tony jumps as if he hasn’t noticed him before.

“Cap. Hi. Yep, no sleep for the wicked. You too?”

Steve nods. Waves for Tony to sit with him, and he complies, which is a gift in itself.

They’re silent and tired, not used to conversations away from the field.

“How’s the book?”

“Eh. Pretty boring.”

“But you’re still reading it.”

“Thought it could lull me to sleep.”

They both laugh at it. Then it’s silence again, but less awkward, now.

It’s strange, Steve ponders, the reason for them to lack a conversation topic is that all is well. It’s unfamiliar. Pleasantly so.

They talk about SHIELD’s latest idiosyncrasies, Clint’s hijinks, and the mean curry Bruce made last week and shared with everybody.

“A perfect roommates experience,” Tony snorts. “Are we to have a cooking schedule? Friday movie nights? God, it’s been a while for me. I graduated — what, twenty years ago? More, actually.”

“Not sure I’d trust you with the cooking. I can see you blowing up everything.”

“You wound me, Spangles. Cooking is just chemistry, I’m great at it. And all my explosions are deliberate.”

“It’s settled then, you’re on kitchen duty for the movie night,” Steve says in his team leader voice, then can’t stop himself and smirks at Tony’s dumbfounded expression.

It’s great.

At some point, Tony has Steve reminiscing about his childhood, even — something he tries not to do, as a rule. But it’s different, now. The pain’s not too loud, and he smiles, telling a particularly ridiculous story about him, a yard dog, and an angry baker left without his meat pie.

“I wanted to bring her home, you know. So much. I was nine, I think, the perfect time for dragging every cute animal home. But I had an allergy, and my ma’d never let me. Even if I wasn’t allergic — another mouth was hard to feed. It did well, though. The dog. I’ve seen it around the place years later. People were kind, everyone in our neighborhood was. Looked for each other. For the dog, too.”

Tony’s answering smile looks bittersweet. Steve feels like his is too, as well.

“Did you have a pet as a kid?” He asks.

“A robot one,” Tony says, and of course he did. But he doesn’t elaborate.

There’s no robot pet of any kind living with them now. Steve feels like it wouldn’t be by Tony’s own decision.

They almost fall asleep like that, on the couch.

Steve spends the next day with the widest smile on his face.

Three days later Steve comes home after his morning run, and Tony’s sitting in his living room with a dog on his lap.

Steve stops. The back of his brain says that he looks laughable in his sweaty t-shirt and shorts, but the insecurities are silenced by the main thought: dog!

A real, alive dog. In his living room. Looking at him, its tails moving.

Steve stares at the dog. The dog stares at Steve. Tony also stares at Steve, but somewhere below the head (does he have dirt on his shirt?).

The dog is the first one to break the silence.

“What?” Steve asks after it barks.

“I brought you a dog?” Somehow it sounds like a question.

“You brought me a dog.”

“Yep. From the dog shelter. She’s very nice, they say, and trained, although she has anxiety.”

Steve keeps looking at the dog. She seems glad to meet him, not anxious, or at least not visible.

Holy fuck, Tony got him a dog.

“I feel like I have to point out,” Steve begins slowly, “that when I mentioned the other night that I liked dogs, and wanted one as a kid, I didn’t mean— that I wanted you to get one.”

Tony starts to look sad, and Steve curses himself. Backtrack!

“I love the dog!” He adds hastily. “Don’t get me wrong, the dog’s amazing. But. Please don’t get me anything I ever happen to mention?”

Tony snorts, schools his face, and nods solemnly.

“I can’t promise you anything, but I will try.”

After giving him all the details on the dog — her name’s Daisy, she needs special food and meds and walks — Tony tries to shuffle toward the exit.

“Wait,” Steve says, an opportunity arising in his mind. “We’re roommates, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you got me a dog.”

“True, yes.”

“And we’re co-leaders of the team, and you’re technically the landlord—”

“What are you saying?”

“That means Daisy’s our dog.”

“Um, Steve—”

“Oh no, you don’t get to get out of it after bringing me her without a warning. And look at her! You wouldn’t leave her in an incomplete family, would you? Daisy needs both her dads.”

Both Steve and Daisy make puppy eyes at Tony. Steve sees the moment when he breaks.

“Fine, but—”

“See you at the dog park tomorrow!”

The dog park is great. They got one not far from the Tower, so it’s convenient. Daisy loves it.

The first few days leave a trail of paparazzi photos — Steve looking happy, Daisy cautious, Tony uncomfortable. After that they seek more secluded spots in the park, come at odder times — to help Daisy feel more at peace. At least they both have a horrible enough sleep schedule for it not to be a hardship.

Daisy falls into the routine pretty soon. Tony — not so much. He looks like he wants to be somewhere far, far away in the first two weeks — even though when Steve asks if he’s good with coming with them, he frowns and says he won’t miss it for the world.

After these weeks he makes a 180. Daisy gets a new collar and leash, insane robot toys, a playroom, and several clothes that are both perfectly safe for a dog and can probably withstand a bullet. Tony himself suddenly throws himself into playing. It’s amazing to see him like that. He smiles more, at Daisy, at the world, at other dogs.

At Steve.

It’s a happy smile, a real one, a bit crooked and mischievous and beautiful, and Steve’s heart aches looking at it. It’s a privilege to be looked at like that.

Sometimes Steve feels like he’s living on borrowed time, has these moments of happiness, bliss, Tony. Undeserving and precious. But sometimes, sometimes, when Tony grins at him while petting Daisy, both of them playful and full of joy, Steve feels hope.

Recently, the latter starts to win.

Natasha’s lying on Steve’s couch, snuggling with Daisy. She looks effortlessly elegant for someone who just traded kisses with a dog. Steve doesn’t know when she got here.

“You should ask him out,” she says out of the blue.

Steve chokes.

Out of surprise to hear her voice behind him, not the words — that’s nothing new. Natasha is dating Sam, of course, and since Sam is Steve’s number one go-to about all things connected to Tony, it was hard to keep it from her.

Natasha’s insistence to see Steve happy in a relationship came back, enlarged, since then. But now, instead of trying to find a partner for him, she pokes him unexpectedly and says stuff like that. Like a matchmaking ghost in a horror movie.

(Steve’s pretty sure Natasha mostly does it to get back at him for successfully setting her up on the first try. Sam says that they are weird fucking people, and he’s worried about the safety of the world.)

“Go away,” he tells Natasha.

She pokes him again. Daisy sees an unknown game and imitates Nat by jumping on Steve’s leg.

“I just need a perfect moment,” Steve whines at them after a while, when it becomes clear the two of them have more patience than he does. “What am I supposed to do, barge in the workshop and say Tony, want to go out with me?”

He’s coming around to the fact that he’s doing it in general. It’s just. It’s scary, still. And too important.

“Great plan, let’s go with it,” Natasha says and kicks him out of his own apartment.

“You’re bullying me!” Steve yells at the closing door.

“I know!”

Well. Nat doesn’t seem like she wants to let him back. He goes to the workshop. Maybe Tony isn’t there.

Tony is inside. Tony turns around, noticing Steve, and grins at him. Steve automatically grins back. Then stops.

Tony’s wearing a tank top.

Steve doesn’t say anything.

Natasha throws a dog toy in his face.

“Why the fuck didn’t you do it?”

Steve hides his heated face in his hands.

“Biceps,” he says with feeling.

Natasha calls him a useless dumbass. She may be right.

Tony wanders into Steve's living room when Steve and Sam are playing Mario Kart.

It’s a little bit embarrassing. Steve hurries to get up (and subsequently loses, to Sam’s unholy glee) and manages to introduce them. They make awkward three-way conversation until Daisy comes to say hello to Tony. Tony bends to her level and scratches her head, telling her soft endearments. Steve tells himself he isn’t jealous of his dog. Sam looks at Steve with a smirk that says he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking.

Tony stands back up, oblivious to their hijinks.

“Right. Well, that was my daily dog time. I probably should go. Leave you kids to your own... thing. Nice to meet your, uh, friend here, Cap.”

He sounds weird. Uneasy. His face is unreadable, no matter the smile, and his eyes are focused on Daisy, who lies down at Sam’s feet.

Steve is about to ask him what’s wrong, but Sam gets ahead of him.

“I’m dating Nat, by the way. And I’m straight.” Steve looks at him with surprise — what the fuck is this about. Does he want Steve to come out or something? “Just providing the information. Also, speaking of my girlfriend, I need to go see her. We had plans— hey, Steve, don’t you get that thing you wanted to ask Tony? The one you and Nat were talking about.”

All those times when Steve thought Sam was a great friend? Lies. He’s going to strangle him.

And he and Nat didn’t have any plans. Bastard.

But before Steve can kill Sam with his eyes, he goes away. At least Tony looks more cheerful, and even says his goodbyes in a much more sincere voice, telling Sam to relay something to Natasha.

“So, what was it?”

“Hm?”

“The thing you wanted to ask me?”

Oh. Steve freezes.

It’s not a perfect moment by far. It’s not romantic, it’s daylight, Daisy makes ridiculous noises in the background, and Steve doesn’t look in the least presentable (it’s not that important, he knows, but there’s still this idea in his head, this image of how it should be: a nice suit, flowers, perfect manners). But. He looks at Tony, and Tony looks back, open and at ease and here. It doesn’t matter.

And Steve’s not a coward. He’s not going to lose his chance.

“Do you want to have dinner sometime?”

(It comes out so sure. Soft, but confident. Steve’s surprised at himself.)

“Oh. Okay. Do you mean like a, a team thing or—?”

“I mean as a date. A romantic one.”

The moment stops. It’s nerve-wracking, but also calm. Steve doesn’t freak out. He knows in his heart that even if Tony doesn’t— even if it’s a no, they’re going to be alright in the end. His heart doesn’t believe Tony can ever truly hurt him.

He watches as Tony’s eyes widen, and he’s — he didn’t expect that, sure. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

“Um,” Tony says, and fidgets, and oh. He’s flustered. Steve’s heart starts beating faster. “Okay. Um. Yes. Let’s do this. Sure.”

“Friday?”

“Uh-huh. Friday’s great. After seven?”

Steve nods. He grins so hard his cheeks hurt.

Tony nods too, and he still looks like he’s not sure what’s happening, eyes wide and astounded and beautiful. But he smiles back. It’s a bit shy. Steve’s in love, in love, in love.

After Tony’s gone he has to lie down for a while. He sends a text to a group chat with Sam and Nat, telling them the news. They sent a lot of emojis back. It’s ridiculous how happy he is.

Their first date’s a little awkward. The knowledge of it being a date hangs over their heads, making them both unsure of how to proceed.

They meet at the Tower, of course, what with the both of them already living here, and the ride to the restaurant is silent and giddy. Steve steals little glances at Tony, who’s wearing a very him combo of jeans, a t-shirt and a suit jacket. The jeans are very fitting. Steve blushes thinking about it.

(Steve himself spent a better part of his day suffering in front of the mirror with Natasha mercilessly bullying him. Her efforts are not for nothing, though: he thinks he looks alright.)

Happy — he’s driving — kicks them out at the restaurant door and tells them have fun, kids in an obnoxious voice, to which Tony protests, but Steve just laughs, and it’s a start of a conversation. It runs more or less smoothly from that moment on, after they remember that they are friends, too, and actually enjoy talking to each other. There are some bumps in this smoothness, of course, attached to their new status, but they’re mostly enjoyable.

While Tony shares some SI anecdotes, lively and hilarious, Steve can only think how beautiful he is, so engrossed in the story, and he realizes, suddenly, that he can actually say that aloud. So he does.

Tony drops his fork and loses his train of thought, then sits there for a second, staring at Steve with a see what you did expression, but comes back at him without abandon, making Steve blush so hard he wants to hide under the table. He doesn’t hide, but he does keep silent for a while, overwhelmed, hands covering his very red face.

“Steve? I’m sorry, was that too much?” Tony does sound genuinely sorry.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. You’re just so— give me a second,” Steve takes a breath. “That’s why it was so intimidating to ask you out, you know. You, with your... verbal bondage thing.””

“Verbal— oh my god, Steve. How the fuck do you even know this phrase?”

“Oh, it’s this site — urban dictionary!” Steve perks up, embarrassment forgotten in the face of a more comfortable topic. “Such a great resource, all the modern slang I didn’t know. Really helpful. Especially with all the sex stuff.”

“Wow.”

“I’m not that comfortable with the concept, I think — outside of joking. Of verbal bondage, I mean. It’s complicated, and sounds too close to manipulation... very different from the usual type of bondage — so much more straightforward. And the whole concept of a safeword? It’s great. Just — it’s wonderful, how people try so seriously to mind the boundaries, consent, be more ethical, you know?”

“Uh-huh. No, yes, I agree with you, I’m just still processing your whole— saying those words in that order.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Rogers, you’re the one casually bringing bondage in conversation. And you say the compliments are too much.”

“Just because I lost a battle doesn’t mean I’m not winning the war,” Steve says, Tony laughs, surprised, and it’s on.

Competitive flirting is not your typical first date activity, maybe, but it’s very them. And it’s great.

They walk back home. It’s already dark, quiet and warm. Tony’s hand finds Steve’s, and they lock up until the Tower. Steve walks Tony to his floor — he is a gentleman, after all, and it’s just manners, which he tells Tony in his best serious voice.

“And here I thought you were aiming for a goodnight kiss,” Tony teases in answer.

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Tony snorts but then reaches for him. His hand finds itself on Steve’s face, and he’s so close. Steve’s brain captures the moment, never to forget. The kiss is short and chaste and tender, but Steve has to stand there, afterward, eyes closed, for a second to come back to himself. When he opens his eyes, Tony smiles, wide and happy and like everything’s right with the world.

Hours later Steve can’t fall asleep.

It’s nothing new, but today instead of worries and loneliness his mind focuses on the memories of the evening. He’s still giddy, happy. It’s a good change.

After a while he gives up and wanders to the common floor — a place for the sleepless, a trove of good memories. He threads silently but stops at the doorstep as he sees Tony on the couch with a tablet in hand.

“Hey there,” Tony lifts up his head, “can’t sleep, huh?”

Steve hums his yes and sits near him.

“What’s keeping you up?”

He loves this version of Tony: relaxed, homey, voice tender and the look so soft when he asks his question.

“Pent up energy, I think. It’s been an eventful day.”

“In a good way, I hope?”

“The best. Had a great date.”

Tony smiles.

“Me too.”

It’s easier, feels more right like that. Together.

The next day Steve comes to Tony’s office to give him a giant bouquet of flowers. They are red and gold. Steve saw them at the flower booth by accident and couldn’t help himself. Tony stares at him for a second, at the flowers, dumbfounded, then yanks them from Steve’s hand and tells him to go away, because he’s a serious businessman and has work to do.

“Uh-huh,” Steve replies. “See you in the dog park this evening.”

Pepper snickers at them in the background.

When Steve leaves, he hears — superhearing — how behind the closed door Tony says:

“He can’t do that. That’s not allowed. Seriously. Stop laughing. I can’t deal with it. This is unfair,” but he sounds like he grins all the same, so Steve doesn’t worry about it.

In yet another SHIELD press conference, Steve and Natasha at its front, decked in uniform, a rather unpleasant-looking reporter asks Captain America about his previous statement that can be read as the support of transgender privilege.

“I don’t know how else it can be read as,” Steve answers. “And since when are we calling basic human rights a privilege?”

The reporter scoffs. He produces some ridiculous hateful rhetoric that he finishes, cheeky, with the question “Would you sleep with a so-called woman if she had a dick, Captain?”.

Steve looks at him for a while, feeling oh so tired of this bullshit.

“Your silence is an answer in its—” the reporter starts.

“My silence is contributed by the fact that it’s an incredibly stupid question,” Steve says. The room grows silent as a graveyard. “But if you insist. I do not, in fact, choose my romantic partners by the look of their genitals. And, hypothetically, were I to have romantic for a woman who happened to be not cis, I wouldn’t mind. However, practically I am in a committed relationship at the moment that I don’t see ending, so your question isn’t relevant here. I also have no desire to disclose what’s in my boyfriend’s pants.”

There’s silence. Then:

”He would, though,” Natasha says in her mildly amused voice.

“Yes, he has no qualms about taking his clothes off to make a statement,” Steve grins. “I love him so much.”

That last bit is said with a decidedly Steve Rogers voice, not Captain America one, happy and giddy and awkward.

The room breaks. Natasha declares the event to be over, not even trying to placate the crowd. She looks very proud of Steve.

At home, Tony greets him with a hug and a kiss.

“Besmirching my honor on live TV. Am I a bad influence on you, darling?”

“You’re proud of me, really,” Steve tells him, unrepentant.

It gets him another kiss.

They turn off the news and social media for the evening, all the speculation and gossip and uproar banned from their little world. Daisy, so grown already, falls asleep on both their laps.

#stony #stevetony #tony stark #steve rogers #my fic #writing #fanfic #mine #pining #humor #2012 tower fic #sam wilson #natasha romanova #stb bingo #let steve rogers say fuck transphobes 2k12

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empty-masks · 3 years ago

Text

Book Two, Chapter Sixteen

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

In the dead of morning, some occupants of the infirmary are woken up by the clicking of heavy boots against stone flooring. Baker, the lightest sleeper in his group, sits up in his bed, groggy and barely lucid from his pain medication, and groans loudly. He peers out into the blackness, and finds it peering back at him through the lens of a heavy-duty gas mask. At least, it appears to, before it strides down the length of the clinic, seemingly looking for something. The Elf grunts.

“Aren’t we supposed to be sleeping? I thought it was too early for another dose.”

“Doctor’s orders,” the darkness responds, as it quietly rummages around on a few of the shelves. Baker cocks his head to the side. Wait, is that the voice of one of the nurses? Or am I too high for this shit. Hallucinating, maybe? God, this sucks.

“Are you real?” he asks. He rubs his eyes in an attempt to get his vision to stop swimming. In the corner of the room, the darkness seems to have gotten its hands on a large candle. A soft orange light now emanates from it, and the darkness walks back over to Baker’s bed. The candle is held in front of his face, which makes him softly recoil.

The darkness chuckles lightly. “What kinda question is that to ask?” Before the Elf can react, there’s a black-clad hand gripping his throat firmly. “Where’s my quarry headed? Tell me.”

“Quarry?” Baker manages to get his hands around the darkness’s massive wrist, finding it to be made of some kind of leather. This is definitely not a dream, but if it’s a hallucination, it’s a pretty damn vivid one. Maybe he should invest in some of this painkiller later down the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

The hand tightens around his throat slightly. “I know you know. Tell me where they’re going.” “Who?” The hand tightens again. “Think a little harder, before the blood stops heading to your brain.” “Well, that’s a little mean,” Baker responds, adjusting his neck in the darkness’s grip.

“You really don’t wanna fuck with me right now.” The hand pulls the Elf forward, and moves the light between their faces, revealing that it is, indeed, a gas mask that the darkness wears. “Last chance. Tell me, or I’m killing you.”

Baker frowns, and takes a gulp of air. “Wait, what did I do?” A sudden burst of lucidity hits him, and he holds out an arm as he’s lifted from his bed. “Wait wait wait! You’re here because… because of the bounty we just lost, right? You want in on it?”

“Bingo.”

“They headed out the northern entrance, I think. Closest town that way is Fusillade. I think Jules and Lucille are already on the case, though. Don’t tell’em I told you, please.”

The darkness lets Baker go, and sets the candle down on a bedpost. “Who else knows?”

“Everyone here,” he says, rubbing his neck. “They put us all in the hospital. All fucking six of us. What makes you think you’ll do better?”

“Hah! That just means I won’t feel bad about what comes next.” A belt is audibly unbuckled somewhere on the darkness’s person. It’s followed by a click, and a deafening explosion.

When Baker finally opens his eyes again, he’s standing in a massive dark room, where tendrils of prismatic, kaleidoscopic gemstones wind like twisting liquid barely out of sight. Soon after, Killian and Jamie pop in beside him. They open their mouths to speak, but try as they might, they can’t seem to vocalize any sound whatsoever. All they can hear is the low sloshing of the tendrils, and the distant, booming voice of someone they all find familiar. Since they have nothing better to do, they decide to go and investigate.

CONGRATULATIONS CITRINE, YOU HAVE UNCOVERED MY GIFT TO YOU. ITS NAME IS “THE WORK,” AND IT SHALL SERVE YOU WELL ON YOUR JOURNEY.

Baker and company creep closer, two other figures shortly coming into view at the edge of the dark room. They stand motionless, looking up at the wall of black mist in front of them. One of them wears red, the other wears blue. To Baker and company, they look familiar, but it’s as though a hole has been punched through their memories. Like a picture being burned from the center out, almost. They can’t even place why they’re here, much less who they are.

SUNSTONE, YOU HAVE ALSO UNCOVERED YOUR GIFT. ITS NAME IS “THE NERVE”. MAY ITS POWER PROTECT YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS.

The group of three decides to get closer. Before they can get within a few yards of the figures in red and blue, the air sucks itself out from their lungs all at once. They all fall to the ground, clutching at their throats in vain, hoping to get some semblance of breath back.

YOU THREE? The booming voice says. It sounds a little put off by their presence, as though it wasn’t on the books for this encounter. YOU HAVE BEEN RETURNED TO ME SO QUICKLY. THOUGH I CANNOT SAY I EXPECTED LESS, I CERTAINLY EXPECTED MORE. Tendrils shoot out from the wall of mist, wrapping each one of their choking figures up and lifting them a dozen feet into the air. Baker desperately looks to his friends-- or, who are they, again? They’ve both got something shiny growing out of an eyesocket, and in some vague way, he feels like he might too. He swears he recognizes them from somewhere. But, in his attempts to try and catch the memories as they float away like ash from a campfire, he realizes that he’s stopped breathing entirely. The air had stopped coming, so at some point he must’ve stopped trying to catch his breath. All that’s left is him, the other people being grabbed, and the wall of mist before him.

I WOULD ASK YOU TO REFRAIN FROM INTERRUPTING MEETINGS WITH OTHERS, BUT IT SEEMS AS THOUGH IT COULD NOT BE HELPED. NO MATTER. The one furthest to the left (what was her name?) begins to visibly panic as a tendril rises out of the darkness and approaches her face. YOUR GIFTS SHALL BE REDISTRIBUTED FOR LATER USE. Its tip morphs and twists into a claw, ripping the stone that had engulfed half her head from her face. A shower of blood fountains from the wound and into the mist, but her body doesn’t struggle, nor does it cry out. It simply dissolves, from the feet upward, into a green, fuzzy mist.

Baker, or, was that his name? He can’t seem to remember. Another similarly sized tendril approaches the Android beside him. THOUGH THEY WERE NOT REALIZED, THEIR POTENTIAL WAS NOT LOST ON YOU. It again, morphs into a claw before ripping out the stone in his eye. His body goes limp, dissolves, and both tendrils retract back into the darkness.

WHEN WE FIRST MET, I BELIEVED YOU NOBLE. I GIFTED YOU MY BLESSING AND REVIVED YOU. I SEE NOW, AFTER THE SHORT TIME WE HAVE KNOWN ONE ANOTHER, THAT THIS WAS A MISTAKE. The last one, realizing on a basic level what is about to be done to him, struggles to break the tendril’s grip. He moves his head back and forth in a futile attempt to avoid the smaller tendril from getting too close to his face. He knows what it does, but he doesn’t know where it sends him. There’s something in the mist that matches his panicked gaze, something incomprehensibly large and writhing around the edges, but solid in the center— until it turns inward, counterclockwise into the mass of wriggling matter, like a massive rotating machine. A new, harder set of eyes meets his.

I MISTOOK YOU FOR VISITORS WHEN YOU WERE MERELY TRESPASSERS. LET MY CONFLATION OF THE TWO CONCEPTS DIE WITH YOU. In one swift motion, another tendril steadies his head as the smaller one rips the gemstone from his eye socket. He feels as though he’s had a cork pulled on his body, and everything is draining at an alarming rate. Nothing hurts, though. In fact, it’s getting hard to tell if anything’s happening at all. It’s surprisingly peaceful, in its absence of feeling. He fizzles away, up and up through the rock and out the bowels of the earth.

Blondie, after having rubbed the gore off the eyeball-sized gemstones, stuffs them into a side pocket for later inspection. The Elf, the Android, and the Human, all limp in their beds, all containing a vicious, messy puncture wound and a missing eye from their head, seem peaceful in death. He wonders whether he should’ve made it a little messier, really send a message to the town. Then, Blondie looks behind him at the Golem, face-down on the ground but with a hole bored through his skull, alongside the other two bodies in their beds, and decides that the scene is gruesome enough. He steps over a growing pool of blood near the infirmary’s floor, making his way out the building. The night air greets him well, and though he wishes he could stick around to enjoy it (and his bonus), the sound of whistles, a sure sign that the local authority would make some kind of attempt to catch him, gives him enough spring in his step to hop back into his car, and speed out of town.

The moonlight catches the stones as he holds them above his head in his roofless two-door. He roars down the road, brisk wind whipping against his mask. Another easy couple bonuses, he thinks to himself. There’s maybe a couple thousand between the three of these. Another thought hits him, and he chuckles. Pin the deaths of those adventurers on them too, the bounty goes up again. All that’s left to do is find them, somewhere between here and that town. Blondie pockets the three blood gems, and returns his off-hand to the steering wheel. There’s nothing quite like a good hunt.

==============================================================

“I never expected you to be the type for shrooms, Jules.”

“God, I wish I was. These aren’t hallucinogenic though, according to Davey. They’re just supposed to taste like people. Or blood, or something. They taste a bit more like pork in my opinion, but my palate’s not quite as refined as some of my other brethren.” The Vampire smiles, popping another red mushroom into his mouth, and reclining the passenger seat of Lucille’s beater.

“Still surprised there’s a Mushroom Farmer’s Guild, and more surprised you knew about it before I did. You told me that working with Shepherd was the first time you worked with any above board organization? Seems like an oversight.” Lucille scoffs as she pulls off her shawl and scarf, bundling them both up behind her head. She’s lying down in the back of the car, across the flat, but somewhat soft back seats. “Anything else I ought to be told about while we’re talking about crap we’ve decided to hide? Are you going to tell me your favorite color isn’t actually red?”

Jules lets out a hardy guffaw, letting his partner see what blood-mushroom looks like chewed up in his mouth. After swallowing his mouthful and twirling his mustache, he says, “The Shroomers’ Guild aren’t “above board” by any stretch, if the one alumnus we met tells you anything. And while I have been on more than a few jobs for some of their members a bit further south, I’ll let you know, Lucille, that I didn’t level with him over mushroom farming.”

She nods, brushing her hair back behind her head with one hand. “You mentioned something about a symbol. I didn’t see any symbol.” The other nods in turn.

“The symbol,” he begins, “was the Carnevale Family’s. He had a pin lying on his countertop. You never got into city work all that much, did you?”

“No. Work in cities tends to be rigid. I prefer my jobs flexible. Too many options off-limits when you have to worry about local police. They only ever do their damned jobs when it’s inconvenient for anyone but them.”

“The difference between a powerful gang and a local government is political, and I mean that seriously. An animal can’t see the difference in those words, and the structure’s about the same. Got someone running the show, a bunch of people under them handling dirty work, and then the people beneath them handling the dirty workers’ dirtiest work. City’s got the police, gang’s got enforcers—”

“And Shepherd had security. Has? Had.”

“Bingo. Organized crime. Technically, I was an associate for a while.” Jules laughs after he finishes speaking, then turns to look at Lucille, who’s sat up to carefully count her throwing knives in the meanwhile.

Hearing only the faintest sound of gloved hand touching against cool steel, he decides to continue as he ties up the mushroom bag. “Davey’s an associate too, like I used to be.” Again, no answer from Lucille. “Associates are people not actually a part of the family but still in on the business, by the way. Helpers, or something like that. If they do well enough for long enough, sometimes they get the offer to sign on. Davey’s been an associate for a while, though. Usually, it’s the kind of associate that doesn’t mind a bit of blood that gets given a way up. I mean, you ran with a gang once.”

“Jules, the kind of gang I ran with didn’t have “associates.” You join or you’re meat.”

“Shit, right. Forgot.”

“They offered you the chance to join up, I assume. Anybody would stab their lieutenant just to make an opening for you to settle in their place,” she states. As she does, she glances over at him. “If they’re willing to offer associate positions to a stoner like that then you’re a shoo-in for something higher up.”

“They did. I preferred being an associate.” He clears his throat and corrects his mustache in the passenger side mirror. “After that, I joined the Shepherd Gemstone job as your second. I liked the flexibility more. Taking orders from weirdos in masks who threaten you with bodily harm if you fuck something up wasn’t my cup of tea. Even if corporations are about the same with a slower reaction time.”

“So, it’s like a company, but just mostly illegal rather than mostly illegal and pretending not to be?” She asks.

The Vampire nods, and Lucille finally puts away her remaining throwing knives. That fight ate a little less than a quarter of what she kept in total, and about half of what she kept on her person. When he speaks he’s bringing his tone down, and there’s half a yawn attached to the beginning of his sentences. “Basically. And they’re both like a government, which is just a bunch of people saying that they make the rules and kicking the shit out of anyone who says otherwise. Flagrancy is another key word here. Governments won’t care if you see it being nasty, while gangs tend to keep their nastiness to their underworld. I’ve found that companies like to dance between the two. Once you get that figured out, your merc resume is better off. Helps you know where to look for jobs, helps you understand how to duck through the red tape and get shit done in cities.”

As Lucille looks out the window into the deep, purple-black shadows of night in the Eternal Autumn, she sets her jaw. There’s an orange pinprick peeking from between the trees, distant enough to be little more than a speck in her vision, but she can see it. A courtesy torch on the road to Fusillade, far as she knows. Every so often there’s a lit one, set up by the closest living local, more often than not some poor idiot that got conned into setting up a cabin in bat country. The kindness is sickening.

“Whatcha staring at, Lucille?”

Lucille lies back down and shrugs, then answers him, “Nothing Jules, just thinking to myself.”

“Dangerous, as you say.”

“Damn right it is, thanks for pulling me out of it. So… Who do you think those Carnevale types are gonna send? Odds are if they’re half as shady as you say then they’ve probably got someone pretty intimidating to send out. If they don’t send an associate.”

Jules tilts his head. “I was an associate, so don’t underestimate those guys. That said, if I had to guess? They’ll probably send a real member of the family. Probably some lieutenant’s number two, if not someone they keep in their back pocket just for bounty situations like this. If I was given the chance to hope?”

“Hope?”

“If they’re being sent after our quarry, we’ll probably have to fight them. Probably even kill them. Either way, I’m hoping they send someone who can throw a punch. The orc hit me more than a few good times back in town, but I’d bet my ass that she won’t be hitting anyone after what we did.”

“You want actual competition. Masochist.”

“Better than being a sadist! I just want a fun fight. I want something realer than whatever the hell we’re gonna get out of our targets.”

Lucille laughs, loud and harsh. It grates on Jules’ ears, but it’s the kind of sharp a person gets used to. It’s the trill of the bird outside one’s window in the evening, distracting and irritating, but ultimately better to hear than its absence. And with a sigh, he turns onto his side to shut off the light.

“Seeya in the morning. Betcha a fiver that parking this piece of shit in the woods is gonna cost us our head start on that acquisitions guy Baker was rambling about.”

“And if we get them before him, you owe me ten. Night, Jules.”

Jules is an easy sleeper, despite his occupation. He’s had his fill of blood recently and things are quiet, save for the general sounds of the forest, slightly muffled by the doors, the cushion and metal between them and the woodland. The soft rippling of warmly colored leaves underneath the moonlight and the sounds of small animals crawling about the underbrush fills Lucille’s ears with a kind of music she never hears in towns like Kiln or Fusillade. It’s the song of the world moving under her head, the wind against the trees and through grass, the feel of bone between her fingers. It’s the sweet melody of an owl sinking its talons into yet another field mouse that got unlucky, or the flapping leathery wings in the lightless spaces between the Moon and the stars.

She can hear Jules breathing deep and easy while he sleeps, and she can hear something small and insignificant using the undercarriage of the scrapheap she calls a car for protection from the elements. It’s the sweetest kind of downer that works on her.

Lucille falls asleep in the back of her car, pulled into her dreams by a wordless lullaby.

Beside that speck of orange light far in the distance, a pair of bright, golden headlights appear for a moment, then fade out as they turn on the road toward Fusillade.

==============================================================

Brie vomits into a nearby trash bin, unable to keep her breakfast sandwich and goat’s milk down. The infirmary had been kept locked until the local law enforcement had given it a look over. When the sheriff, a large, red draconid man, exits the room while wiping his hands, Roxanne sighs loudly.

“Roxanne, you tell my sister her best customer’s dead. I ain’t botherin’ to wrangle her when she gets mad,” he says bluntly before sighing, scratching the side of his head. “No local did this. That’s just about six dead mercs and three missing eyes.”

“Irons, this is downright sickening.” Roxanne replies, walking in with the aid of her cane, followed by Brie, who still has the trash bin on hand. “And it fits all of what I know about that bastard, Blondie. You mentioned a local saw someone coming in last night, but they didn’t think to report it until they started hearing gunshots?”

“To be specific it was an out-of-towner that described it as ‘a motherfuckin’ cannon blast in that shitty hospice,’ so I have every reason to believe they had no clue who were or weren’t official medical staff here. I am glad to hear you know just who the hell did this, but if it’s as bad as this and done as quickly as it was by one man, then odds are he’s one mean son of a bitch. I tip my hat to you and I wish the best of luck, but you’re on your own ‘less he comes back around here. At which point we’ll give him a proper Kiln welcome.” The sheriff pats a large revolver at his hip, then turns and exits as his tail whips behind him.

Brie nearly pukes again as Roxanne looks over the carnage from the previous night. With the moderate warmth of the town and the open window, it wasn’t long before local carrion birds had attempted to get in and get a few pecks in, based on the way Baker’s face bore marks that obviously weren’t from when the rock was pulled from his skull. The sight of Steiner’s slumped body pushes her over the edge.

“Ms. Brie, swear to me that when we find Blondie, you’ll allow me to take a shot at him. I understand that he’s your associate, but this is absolutely horrid. You can lie on your report so that you don’t get your pay docked, or something to that effect. Please.” Her tone is a low, growling sound, followed by a harsh coughing. Brie walks over and takes her by the shoulders, then points her back out of the room.

“I understand to some extent, but I am not certain that it is a good idea for you. You are still recovering, and he is, as far as I know, quite likely one of the most dangerous things wandering around these territories.”

“Take a look at what he did to Baker, to Killian. You talked to them the day prior.” The older woman demands, turning her gaze to lock with Brie’s. “There used to be a stone there, girl, in their eyes. He took them as trophies. He maims, kills, and loots, and he’ll do the same to the people I care about if I sit around like a languid old hag. And as much as I dislike the prospect of you hauling them in for wanting to live their lives, I prefer that outcome to the alternative. You won’t skin and debone them like farm animals for your job. I know you won’t.”

The human’s mouth opens for a brief moment, then shuts again as she walks the Fox out, heading back toward Cobalt’s smithy. “I do not know what to say to that,” Brie admits, leaving the trash can behind as a couple of the local enforcement filter in after them. “Normally I would not assume a coworker would be willing to do these things. After what he has done to you and what he has done to these people, I can safely believe that this man is some kind of monster. While I will continue to fulfill my contract, I feel that this is something I should help you with. His methods are morally red, and someone needs to make sure his bosses are aware.”

“I would assume,” Roxanne starts, frowning, “that Jessup was his doing, as well. I want to believe that, anyway. I don’t think Judith has it in her to murder. At least, when I last met her. Additionally, she’s missing her dominant hand, and nobody’s a good aim with their off-hand unless they shoot in their spare time.”

Brie blinks, and nearly drops Roxanne in the process of pulling out her clue log to jot down what she’d just heard, brow furrowing. ‘JUDITH LOST GOOD HAND, JESSUP MURDER TOO CLEAN!!!’ She writes, before her older companion clears her throat and, with a sheepish purse of her lips, Brie returns to escorting Roxanne toward Cobalt’s place.

“So, where do you think they will go now?” She asks.

“Ms. Brie, there’s one town close to Kiln and it’s Fusillade. They’re more than likely heading there, unless something bad happens.”

Chapter End.

==============================================================

[ Table of Contents ]

#b&tsm #empty-mask #writing #original content #oc #fantasy #adventure #creative writing #writeblr #original writing #original novel #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

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arcenciel-par-une-larme · 5 years ago

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Before anything else, I would like to ask my brothers and sisters in Christ, IN ALL HONESTY, whether I erred in any way in the reply which I offered to this original post (there was also an intermediate reply which I did not include into the screenshots; either way it was OP who replied to me). (@ignorant-against-christians @anscathmarcach @doctorbluesmanreturns @bagheadautist @a-quiche-in-med @anotherpointlessargument @strawberry-milktea and anybody else who might need to chime in, please feel free to PM me if you prefer that to reblogging all this mess.)

And while I'm awaiting that, let's dive right into the last reply and give OP a much-needed reality check. (Translation: let's try to set some things straight for anybody who is willing to listen, since OP has already declared themselves sinless, infallible and above reproach.)

Where are my children growing up that you think they’re not going to be interacting with Christians and being exposed to Christian theology on a daily basis? Hell, my children will have multiple Christian family members, as well as several queer Christian honorary aunts and uncles. Also, you know, a Catholic-educated mom.

It isn't all that much of a good sign when literally the first paragraph in your reply is a mile-long appeal to false authority.

First of all, it is completely inane to consider my response as personally addressed to you. I didn't even reblog it from you or tag you.

Secondly, please accept this PSA: Having Christian friends does not make you an authority on Scripture. Nor does having a Catholic-educated (not even practicing Catholic) mum. In fact, if the state of millennial liberal "Christianity" online is any indication, it is very much a possibility that your "Christian friends" might very well be teaching you that "Yeah, basically atheists are right in all that they say about Christianity, but I'm a good Christian and I love Christ and I don't believe any of that outdated stuff that's in the New Testament!" in which case, yeah, the fact of the matter is that you WON'T be getting an accurate image of orthodox Christian theology from your friends, or from your mother who might very well have prayed her latest Rosary when she graduated high school.

You have completely misunderstood the point of this post if you think the above beliefs (which are overwhelmingly held and spread by Christians and ex-Christian atheists, not Jews) have the same negative effects on Christians that harmful beliefs about Jews have on us.

Right. So, in other words, you didn't want to draw attention to and decry anti-[whatever religion] slander and, in the course of that, also spread awareness of common anti-Judaism lies. You just wanted to compete in Oppression Olympics, and to virtue-signal your victimhood. Yeah, how dare I assume that you wanted the former just like any virtuous human being! HOW DARE I assume that you're not an intellectually dishonest SJW! THE HORROR!!!

Also, nice job pretending that you're "fair" and "not bigoted" when you try to blame CHRISTIANS for the ANTI-CHRISTIAN bigoted lies which are commonly propagated.

And again, the only reason that you think I blamed these beliefs on Jews is, as it seems, because you want me to mean that. Because you want to score oppression points. In reality, I made it perfectly clear that it is of no importance whether the person peddling anti-Christian slander is Jewish, atheist or whatever else; but that is something which either you missed entirely or you deliberately refuse to acknowledge.

Christians might not be uniquely bigoted, but you damn well are uniquely powerful in western countries, and with that comes unique responsibility, to paraphrase Uncle Ben.

Why didn't you just go the full "Check your Christian privilege, we live in a Christian hegemony, one can't be bigoted against Christians, a minority cannot oppress a majority, PREJUDICE PLUS POWER!" route from the get-go so we can know where we are standing, then?

This is a perfect example of why I shall always insist that

At the Oppression Olympics, nobody wins.

Because you looked at my response and you immediately saw not a complementing opinion (which it is), but a competing one. You saw an opponent, and in your mind you cannot be anything short of 100% right a priori, because of course it's a competition. Of course oppression and injustice are a zero-sum game.

Only in real life, THEY ARE NOT.

Any rational Christian, and any rational Jew, is horrified both by anti-Christian and by anti-Jewish bigotry. You, on the other hand, insist upon trying to find the "bigger victim" at all costs. And from your reply, it seems fairly certain that you had no rational reason to do that. You just wanted to downplay the injustices and slander which is aimed against Christians. It almost reads as if you vehemently refuse to even remotely sympathise.

By the way, I think that Devin Kelley, Chris Mercer, and Floyd Corkins (among others) might be some names which ought to debunk your opinion that anti-Christian bigotry has no tangible real-life effects.

Oh, but I forgot. "Prejudice plus power"...

I have every intention of teaching my children about different religions, but this reply was obviously in bad faith and just about jacking off your persecution complex as part of the poor, downtrodden 80% majority.

THERE WE HAVE IT!!! THERE IT IS!!! I F***ING CALLED IT. HEAVEN FORFEND IF IT DOESN'T HAPPEN ONCE. "A majority cannot be oppressed!!!! PERSECUTION COMPLEX!!!"

At this point, your rhetoric is barely distinguishable from an "AtheiSJW bingo" of sorts, or from the inane hate asks that we get at anti-christophobia...

I don't know why I expected any better. Maybe because I DARED to assume the best about you. Yeah, what a heinous thing to do...

And OF COURSE it must be true that I came into this in bad faith. Of course. Why? Because you say so. Because it's a JACKPOT for you. You've found before yourself the perfect chance to set the scene with me as "Le Mr. Evil Bigoted Christian" and score brownie points, and BY GOLLY you aren't going to let such an opportunity go to waste!! I mean, WHO EVEN CARES about such trivial technicalities such as TRUTH...

..........and in the wake of all this, you have the gall to accuse ME of playing Oppression Olympics???

Can your projection and intellectual dishonesty get any worse?

And the PERFECT FINALE of inimitable intellectual and moral superiority:

Do not interact with this post further.

Classic pigeon chess strategy. No comment needed.

Again, for what I have done amiss in this whole story, I apologise sincerely. My mistakes, however, do not bar me from calling out the errors of others and defending myself against unsubstantiated charges or pointing out their bigoted behaviour.

As for the potential few idiots who shall hasten to accuse of antisemitism (for whatever contrived BS reason their sick brains might conjure), do not even bother. Antisemitism is one of the many kinds of bigotry which I have decried in the past and shall continue to decry, and thus I do not automatically become guilty of the same bigotry just because I do not self-flagellate for being Christian and I refuse to bow down to your short-sighted, sociopathic cultural Marxist dogma of competitive victimhood.

God bless you all.

UPDATE: A few mere hours later and OF COURSE another Bingo square was checked off: I have been blocked. Should I pretend to be surprised?

#teamblocked #oppression Olympics #pigeon chess strategy #christophobia #anti sjw #personal post archive #muh persecution complex #muh bad faith

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flyswhumpcenter · 6 years ago

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Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card!

Don’t ask me why. It’s like I did a 360° on my ideas about being that one local whump hipster asshole. It wasn’t even a request, but the art block was stronk and the tentation even stronker so... DBH whump! I can’t explain, just take it! Father-son Hank & Connor + “Blood from the Mouth” wasn’t in my inbox but fuck it. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

Nothing Ever Goes Right Around Here

Summary: It was supposed to be a normal case of missing deviants, goddammit. Instead, it turned into a shower of blue blood.

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Wordcount: 3.5K words

Event organized by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

There was this thing about being in the police that all cops knew about: the danger of death. Unless you were stuck behind a terminal waiting for shit to happen or filling goddamn paperwork for the tenth time in two days, you were going to put your life in danger. Criminals were all over trying to get away with their crimes: if it meant killing an officer or two to evade it, then they’d probably do it.

Everyone was aware of these dangers when androids started to become a thing. Housekeeping and making stuff in huge hangars in what used to be the desert part of Detroit hadn’t been enough to contain the “epidemic”: in the end, that one corp named CyberLife had managed to slip some of policer/detective/whatever robots in the police forces to fight against other robots having gone deviant/defective/however they called it.

In a way, Hank could say his career changed the day he had gotten a partner assigned to him in 2018 Anno Domini (and he only knew what “AD” stood for because he once had gotten through a torrential lecture about it, holy shit that had been boring as balls). A non-human partner. A plastic prick assigned to him because now he was investigating androids or something. Wished he had been warned about facing these assholes before Fowler had slammed them in his face. Would have been nice to get prepared, y’know.

The thing was awkward to look at. It looked goofy with puppy eyes, a haircut which seemed to have dated back from when he was born and with a weird-ass voice with a weird-ass accent. “CyberLife androids are conceived to work harmoniously with humans”, sure. It kept trying to do some fake small talk, including such classics as “I like dogs” and “Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”.

It wasn’t like it wouldn’t follow him around all the goddamn time. The thing was tenacious as fuck: no matter how many times he’d tell it “don’t go there, you’re gonna get killed”, it’d still do so. Fucking prick. Drinking himself to death? It’d break his window. Eating lunch? It was there, commenting on his street friends taking part in illegal gambles. Getting shot in the fucking head? It’d come back the next day as if nothing had happened, “My predecessor was unfortunately destroyed, but I was sent as a replacement”.

After a while, though, Hank noticed himself warming up to the fucking robot. In fact, he started to refer to the latter as a “he” instead of just “it”. In a way, advanced androids showed: at times, Connor was more human than he would have liked his artificial partner to be. It was too real when he had had to slam his heart back into his chest as it bleed blue everywhere in a staff room.

Way too real.

In the end, deviant androids weren’t in the wrong and lead a peaceful revolution. Bigotry was still there (when wasn’t it? Being an asshole was a part of being a human being), insults and slurs were still there, deviants hating humans and vice-versa were still there. The world would change, he figured. It always did, so why wouldn’t it change this time? Androids had claimed back the tower in which they had once been conceived, built and stocked: it was already changing.

It was easy to perceive: instead of just having some kind of plastic partner crossed with a poodle trying to sound human, he had a workmate with just a different colour of blood and way to express himself (“androids cannot die, we get shutdown”, “androids cannot get sick, Hank, they can get infected”, yada yada yada). In a way, Connor was the son he had never gotten the chance to see grow up, but he’d be damned if he ever spat that in front of the kid.

It wasn’t about hunting down deviants for the sake of making them go back to being machines anymore, at the DPD. Now, it was about hunting down violent deviants, find missing androids scared by deviancy, or arresting even more assholes killing androids. Hank wished he didn’t know android sex trafficking was a thing, but it was a few cases too late. It was better than before: he didn’t feel like he was being an ass just for making his job. Connor still licked blood off the floor as if it wasn’t any big deal (God, that was still gross as fuck), but it was better.

So now, he was teamed with a sentient android investigating android-related cases and it wasn’t even swerving his hate nerve anymore. Getting over what had happened to Cole was finally going somewhere thanks to him not being a blind piece of shit about it anymore. How things had changed in such a short span of time.

All this had brought him to this day. They had been assigned to the case of the disappearance of an SR300 which had apparently gone deviant and fled the place with a similar model, a JL900. Both were android models specialized in education and teaching, and had fled from the high school they were used in.

“I guess being a teach is only slightly better than findin’ corpses on the ground,” Hank grunted as he turned on the car. “These two must have fled because the brats weren’t worth the shitty-ass wage.”

“According to witness accounts, the two have taken shelter in a nearby abandoned school, of which the current school is a rebuilt one,” Connor stated, looking through window to a decrepit building barely standing.

They both got out of the car, making their way to the old building. It was a disaster to look at: shattered windows, rotting walls with tags all over them, shards of glass and wood on the concrete, weeds starting to take over the entire place and a few animal corpses to sell the thing. It seemed like little shits liked to come here to get a quick laugh by being assholes to innocent animals.

“Look at this. Isn’t it a place where ya wanted to spend a nice afternoon, Connor?” he asked his partner who looked way more serious than he was.

“We usually visit unpleasant locations such as this one,” he replied with an unnatural seriousness. “I don’t see how this is any worse than our usual investigations.”

“Ain’t wrong.”

They walked into the building through its busted doors, glass breaking even more under their footsteps. The walls weren’t just about to collapse under the weight of four abandoned floors: they were also covered in incoherent, compulsive writings.

“The words on the walls were both written by humans and androids. They used a standard font to write about rA9 again…” Connor seemed to mutter to himself as he scanned the walls.

“So both have been there, huh. That’s just fantastic. We’re trying to find androids and we’re faced with the possibility of humans having put their dirty noses in there.”

The ground floor was at times inaccessible, huge chunks of wood and concrete having long since blocked most corridors to what seemed to have been administration-related rooms. Oh well, was for the best: the less places to access, the less to actually investigate. Moreover, it blocked most of the staircases, which meant there was no risky stair climbing today. Hey, if the place wasn’t so creepy and such a hazard, it wouldn’t be too bad of an investigation.

But there was a catch to it (there was always a catch to things anyway): there were two ways to go. They’d have to either split up and cover more field or remain together but lose time. He couldn’t tell all by himself what thing to do, even if he was more inclined to split and spend less time in this goddamn debris of a place.

“Which way is the most likely to have these deviants, Connor?” he asked, thinking some fancy-shmancy scan ability could maybe make that easier.

“I can’t tell. The writings on the walls seem to be very similar on both ways.”

His LED cycled to yellow, a sure sign he was scanning something, perhaps simulating, if he wasn’t wrong about these specificities that was.

“I’d go as far as to say the two androids could have gone either way and could have split at some point.”

“Fuck. Let’s split too then. I’m going left, you’re going right, got it?”

“Got it.”

Gun in a hand and a flashlight in the other, Hank made his way into the left corridor. It was everything an abandoned school would be in a clichéd horror movie: blood dried on the walls, broken wooden floor tainted in red (from what, he didn’t want to know), incoherent tags filled with penis crudely drown on former paint job… Truly the “work” of some shitheads.

Doors to classrooms were completely busted, revealing most of the furniture had either been moved to the new school or had been stolen. Because of the state of the building, these rooms were all identical: dark, smelling like wet red ice, rotting and just unpleasant to look at for more than three seconds.

Eventually, his eyes stumbled upon two blue diodes shining in the dark. The deviants were in the last room of the corridor (of course). Making sure to have his gunned hand lowered (if seeing Connor act upon deviants had told him something, it was that being unarmed was better in these cases) and the flashlight more visible. Violent confrontation wasn’t really his cup of coffee these days.

He shined his light onto the two female androids, revealing them to have been sitting still on top of a desk. They didn’t look that scared or surprised to see him, as if they had expected him to come in at some point. He wasn’t the stealthiest cop around, to be fair.

“Detroit Police,” he told them as he put his gun in its holder for the moment. “Stay put.”

They didn’t say anything back, just stayed there. They were still dressed in their factory uniforms, looking undisturbed enough to seem like they had never gone deviant in the first place.

“What? You’re not reacting or trying to kill me or something?”

The SR300, a brown-haired one with blue eyes, got up and walked closer to him.

“We don’t have to fear anything from you. We already know who you are and who you came with.”

“Guess info does spread amongst deviants. Look, I’m not good at negotiating, especially compared to my partner, but I still wanna know why you fled the place like that. Was it the brats?”

That was soft coming from him, but he didn’t feel threatened by two female androids smaller than him.

The second android got up too, revealing herself to have brown eyes, darker than Connor’s he’d say, even if the shitty lighting of the place didn’t help.

“We didn’t know what they’d do with us once they knew we were deviants. It was starting to look too obvious.”

“Who, the brats? I don’t think they’d give two shits. Kids are usually nicer than adults about that kind of stuff.”

If he remembered one anecdote from Connor before the latter had deviated, it was the one about the little girl who was taken hostage by the family’s android she loved.

“No, the school staff,” SR900 interjected. “Discrimination against androids is still a thing for us deviants. These dicks wouldn’t want us to think too much. Ironic, considering that’s what school is supposed to teach the kids.”

An android who cursed freely. Felt like talking to a real human for a second over there.

“We escaped so we wouldn’t be chained to our original, programmed mindset,” JL900 added. “Being free is being able to think for ourselves and being able to teach how we want. For once, the students aren’t the issue.”

“So ya escaped because ya wanted free will, right? Seems like a cool motive. Ya killed people while ya were at it?”

“We’re supposed to be teacher androids, Lieutenant.” JL900 seemed offended at this. “We wouldn’t kill people. I don’t think we’ve even unlocked that.”

“Now, if you want a killer deviant, there’s one in the building,” SR300 said as she glanced towards the corridor. “We were about to leave the place anyway, it was just so they’d lose track of us. Now, if I was you, I’d leave too.”

Wait, how did they know he was a lieutenant? Huh, no, wait again. There was something worse about this.

“There’s another deviant in there?!”

SR300 didn’t seem this disturbed.

“Yeah. A deviant with a knack against other androids and humans alike. He calls himself Brandon, if you ever come across him.”

JL900 didn’t seem this tranquil with it, though.

“Sarah,” she said as she looked at the other android, “isn’t Lieutenant Anderson always accompanied by an android?”

“Oh, yeah, he is,” she replied looking at the ceiling, before starting at him again. “You should go check on your partner, Brandon may have found him.”

That smelled like shit. The calmness of that swearing android was pissing him off beyond reason, to the point he wanted to scream at her for not telling him earlier, but Connor was a priority there.

Not even saying something again, Hank hurried to the other end of the corridor he had gone in and into the one he hadn’t been in before. As he did so, he armed his other hand with his gun, determined to make it to where the deviant was and shoot him in the head if it meant having his partner alive and perhaps saving the two pacifist androids in the back over there.

As he did so, the stench of the place had changed. It smelled much, much more like plastic and machinery. It was probably his mind playing tricks on him, considering he was getting concerned and almost scared of finding Connor in pieces by that point.

Getting breathless, he stopped running, trying to catch his breath as soon as possible. Heart beating against his ribcage, cursing himself for having tried to attract death glass after glass, his hand dropped down, lighting the floor. There was this weird ambient noise of someone dragging something on the floor,

His eyes went wild when he noticed there were drops of blue. Whatever Connor had to get his parts functional was spilled on the floor, his or not. Considering the short timespan during which it’d stay wet, it had to belong to one of the four androids in the building. Also considering the pristine condition of the two female androids he had just left, despite the place where they were, it had to belong to either Connor or the deviant. He needed to act fast.

As he was about to continue delving into the corridors, something grabbed his ankle, almost making him fall.

“Goddammit! Don’t pull my legs, for fuck’s…”

His heart skipped a beat.

“Jesus Christ!!”

The hand clutching his ankle belonged to Connor, whom he kneeled in front of. There was blue blood all over the android’s fingers and dripping from his mouth, ragged breathing also coming out from it.

“Goddammit, Connor, you’re okay?! What happened to ya?!”

“A deviant… shot me in one of the classrooms… He’s armed…”

“God fucking dammit…”

Putting his partner’s head on his lap, Hank put the gun back in this pocket and shone the light on the android. It wasn’t too hard to spot the wound: there was a blue hole right in his chest from which liquid oozed, tainting everything it touched in cobaltic tones. The damage seemed to have been enough for Connor to cough up even more blood, all contributing to tainting even more of the place blue.

It was a storm inside Hank’s head. Should he try to stop the haemorrhage the same way he’d so with a human, with red blood? It didn’t cost anything to try. He put his hand on there, trying to use pressure to his advantage, when footsteps arrived next to him.

There was no LED light around the footsteps’ noise. A “shit” escaped his mouth as he realized this wasn’t any of the two girls from before, but the last deviant in the building. The one with the homicidal tendencies and a lack of empathy to his fellow androids. He needed to get rid of it before it got rid of him.

Regretfully targeting his flashlight towards the deviant, other hand already moving from the wound to his pocket and to his gun, he noticed there was a barrel pointed right between his own two eyes. This was going to end in a bloodbath, wasn’t it.

“Sorry, son,” he whispered under his breath as if Connor could hear it, ready to shoot and get shot, until the barrel disappeared from his immediate vision.

Two lights had appeared in his field of vision.

“Sir!” SR300’s voice rose from the darkness. “Get away from here as fast as possible! We’re gonna keep him in there long enough, don’t worry for us!”

He wished he didn’t have to resort to that, but seeing Connor cough up some more blue blood was giving him the urge to leave as soon as possible.

“We… we can’t leave them here…” Connor said with echo in his voice and liquid pouring out as Hank was putting him over his shoulder.

“We can’t wait around here, or you’re gonna die! No officer dies on my watch!”

It was a chore to get moving with someone barely able to walk weighing down on his shoulder, but it had to be done. His partner was attempting to speak despite the leak continuing. Hand on his phone, phone to his ear, ear twitching, he was barking into it to request backup and some kind of medical assistance for androids, whatever that was called.

“Hang on there, we’ll get you to safety and repaired in no time. Just… don’t die on me.”

Connor attempted to speak, only for more blue to come out from it, spilling on the ground.

“And don’t speak, Jesus Christ! You’re gonna make yourself even worse if you do that!”

Sirens filled the air, lights blinded the eyes, backup deafening sounds and visuals alike. That had been tougher than expected… Of course it’d be. Why did he have expectations of anything going right, again? At least, question solved, right?

If there was a thing Hank hated deep down, it was waiting for something to happen whenever things turned to shit. He was covered in blue, staring at the wall in a fucking waiting room because he couldn’t focus on anything else. Order from Fowler himself, he didn’t need to add another page to the goddamn bible that was his behaviour history.

The kid had been shot in the chest and he couldn’t have done much about it. He knew he couldn’t have guessed, couldn’t have known, but it still felt like his fault nonetheless. He didn’t care if Connor was supposed to just be robotics with a humanoid face, he was still alive and he had almost died right in his arm for the second time. Fuck this deviant, he deserved the bullet in the head he got from the backup.

He had seen the two female androids from earlier pass by him, apologizing for not telling him earlier. One of them, the SR300 if he wasn’t mistaken, had almost been shot too, but it only grazed her instead. They had seemed to be adamant to join society as functional members, albeit deviant androids by default. They weren’t bad persons, he supposed, so it was only fair that they had survived the ordeal and had left that decrepit school straight out of Satan’s asshole.

That still didn’t make that shitty situation okay. He hadn’t been here for long and he knew that: at best half an hour, at worst a couple minutes, the time to want to punch something and throw coffee at Gavin for the tenth time in the week. It was pissing him off to dick around like that waiting for something to happen.

“Lt. Anderson?” a voice called for him, unfamiliar and neutral all the same. Some random technician, he figured.

“Yeah?” he simply replied, before realizing it could be important. “Did the kid make it?” he proceeded to ask, a bit more concerned about the entire ordeal.

The small smile on the guy’s face betrayed the answer.

“He did indeed make it. You may visit his room now.”

The lieutenant obviously followed. In all silence, yet sighing internally in relief because never again, he made his way in the room. Closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall, he looked at the unconscious (or so he assumed) man in the bed in front of him. A smirk crept up on his face.

“Never do that again, kid, got it?”

#bad things happen bingo #dbh #never believe me in me ever again #hank anderson #connor (dbh)#whump #gunshot #injury #i have to invent new tag smh #brotp: hang on son #bthb 1

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the-great-lightwood-bane · 3 years ago

Text

(beyond) this place of wrath and tears

Malec | Rated general | tw for mention (not graphic) of the following: biphobia, racism (anti-Downworlder and anti-POC), whatever it's called when people want men not to wear makeup, suicidal thoughts, and depression | Bingo Square: “There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s a lot wrong with the world you live in.”

Summary: Sometimes he felt darkness rise in his mind that whispered with the voices of others that he was eternally doomed to cause naught but pain; sometimes logic only reminded him that he did feel that impulse to destroy; sometimes he wondered if the world would be a better place without him in it.

People tend to hate what they do not understand, and while Magnus can ignore most cruel words, he sometimes fears there might be a fragment of truth in them.

Fortunately, he has Alec.

A/N: This work was created for the Shadowhunters Pride Bingo presented by the Malec Discord Server. @malecdiscordserver

(this is my last bingo fic! oh my god!! I'm finished!!!)

Title is from the poem Invictus.

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

Over the several centuries he’d been alive, Magnus had learnt well how to love himself, if only because nobody else did.

Well, that wasn’t quite accurate — there were plenty of people, Cat and Ragnor prominent among them, who cared for him — but it was certainly true that there were more people willing to hate Magnus, for anything and everything they could think of. His skin colour, his sexuality, the way he dressed, the makeup he wore, the words he spoke, his demonic heritage — there never seemed to be any shortage of reasons to hate him, and it took his hardest, sharpest walls to keep all the cruel words out.

Or at least most of them. Some slipped through: not the majority of the senseless bigotry, but the whispers to which Magnus was himself most susceptible — the ones that told him he wasn’t, couldn’t be, good.

Coloured people don’t have morals. Bisexuals cheat on their partners. Men who dress like that are predators. Those were usually possible to block out, based on obvious ignorance as they were; it was harder to not listen, though, when it was warlocks are inherently evil because of their demon blood.

For most warlocks, of course, any such claim was easy to dismiss, but Magnus wasn’t most warlocks. His father was a Prince of Hell, and — worse — Magnus had once done his bidding. He’d been young and misguided and desperate for kindness; he’d latched on to the man with eyes like him, who told him the mark that’d killed his mother was a mark of power — but sometimes he couldn’t remind himself of that. Sometimes, all he could remember were the screams he’d caused at his father’s bidding, piling on top of his step-father’s screams as Magnus burned him alive.

Magnus’ magic brought death and destruction. It was powerful, and he did his best to do good with it, but it was never as good at healing as Catarina’s; he trained it to build portals and wards and potions, and he was good at that, but there was always that faint whisper of destroy break crush tear it all down that lingered in it, threatening to turn blue into red. Help into hurt.

And it was made all the worse because he had hurt before — he’d killed his stepfather, first of all, his panicked instinct to kill; he’d killed under Asmodeus’ thumb, gloried in the praise Asmodeus gave him; he’d even killed since then, usually but not always in the heat of battle, usually but not always feeling bad about it afterwards, often enjoying it in the moment. They were all bad people, those he’d killed, but everyone had the possibility for redemption — he had to believe that, if he was to forgive himself — and he had snuffed out that possibility for them.

Usually, he knew that none of that meant he himself was evil; usually, logic won out over insecurities. But sometimes he felt darkness rise in his mind that whispered with the voices of others that he was eternally doomed to cause naught but pain; sometimes logic only reminded him that he did feel that impulse to destroy; sometimes he wondered if the world would be a better place without him in it.

It rarely got that far, and when it did, he was always pulled back from the brink but friends or family or, once, Camille. But it was less rare for him to wonder whether the Shadowhunters’ whispers were right, at least in his case — whether he was inherently evil, doomed to turn on the world and use his father’s power to burn it to the ground.

(Because he could do that, if he wanted to, and that was terrifying. Tessa was the only other child of a Prince of Hell that he knew, and her power was insufficient to match his — she hadn’t yet grown into her full strength and anyway, Belial had always been weaker than Asmodeus. If Magnus gave in to the temptation to destroy, he could bring the whole world down with him, and there was nobody who could stop him.)

It wasn’t a problem, most of the time — he refused to let Edom’s siren song pull him in, channelled his magic into creating and not destroying, reminded himself that had it been anyone else, he would’ve been far more forgiving than he was of himself. It cropped up only occasionally, a bad day or two that he passed in bed or with his friends, fading away with time.

With Alec, it was even less of a problem. There was something about the way Alec looked at him, whether he was wielding magic or washing dishes, eyes glamoured or warlock mark on display, that helped close up that gaping fear inside. Alec blocked out the cruel whispers Magnus didn’t want to believe (but did anyway) with warm words and glowing smiles; he made Magnus feel like he was good, when he was with Alec.

That, perhaps, was why he didn’t have one of his bad days until a year after their marriage. It was longer than his usual between bad days, long enough that he wondered if maybe it was gone, but (of course) it wasn’t, only faded slightly into the background. He’d hoped that having Alec had — magically, impossibly — cured him of that insidious insecurity; when he woke up one morning to the old whispers, the old darkness, it felt like he’d fallen back to how he was before.

He tried to hide it from Alec, but his husband was nothing if not perceptive, and Alec had barely been awake for five minutes before he asked — gently — what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Magnus said reflexively, and immediately regretted it — both he and Alec were trying to train themselves out of that automatic denial of any problems, and he was supposed to be getting better at it.

Alec sighed, but still gently. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to, but please don’t pretend nothing’s wrong.”

“A lot of things are wrong,” Magnus shot back, and then relented. “I’m just — upset. For no particular reason.”

He didn’t feel like he deserved the softness in Alec’s eyes, or his offer: “Can I help?”

Magnus went to shake his head, then paused, aborted a nod, opened his mouth, and shut it again. Alec interpreted it — correctly — as a silent stay that Magnus couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, and promptly took the day off. Magnus protested, but Alec knew him well enough to see his quiet relief underneath it all.

They spent the morning in bed, eating pastries that Alec had summoned with the help of the Alliance rune on his wrist (Magnus hadn’t been able to bring himself to use magic, and as soon as he realised it, Alec had promptly snapped his fingers to do the spell Magnus had taught him not so long ago). Alec didn’t push Magnus to talk and Magnus didn’t offer; that would come later, when Magnus had reminded himself that Alec wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he was a little bit evil inside.

Lunch was sandwiches Alec made using the contents of their kitchen, which were far more numerous than they’d been before Alec had come into his life, and then the two of them curled up on the couch with Magnus half lying across Alec, half sitting in his lap. It was possibly Magnus’ favourite position; Alec’s arm was wrapped around him, his warmth enveloping him. Even if he didn’t deserve to have Alec here, Alec was here, and that was everything.

“Want to talk about it?” Alec asked into the quiet between them.

“I don’t — nothing happened,” Magnus said, words seeming to tangle together in their unwillingness to be let out. He’d never talked about this before, not with Ragnor or Cat or Raphael who already knew what it was, not with any of the people he’d loved who he’d never told about this for fear they’d leave. He turned his head, shifting so that he could see Alec’s face but not yet meeting his eyes. “I just — I don’t know how to… to be good.”

Alec blinked at him for a moment in blatant confusion. “Magnus, you are good. Of course you are.”

“No, I’m — it’s not—” Magnus broke off, shaking his head. “You have such faith in me, Alexander, but I have done… bad things. Things that I regret.”

“And it’s precisely because you regret them that you’re good,” Alec returned. “Magnus, you have the best, brightest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. You love wholly and unconditionally. You give second chances when they’re really not deserved. You drop everything to come help us whenever we need you, without regard for yourself.”

“Edom’s magic pulls at me to destroy,” Magnus said, dully, Alec’s words battering against his defences. “Eventually, I’ll slip up — I’ll get angry or distracted and it might — I might — I could hurt somebody, hurt you, so easily—”

“Your magic,” Alec said with sudden intensity, “has never hurt me and never will.”

Magnus was struck silent by the depth of certainty in his voice. Previous partners had all fallen somewhere between fearing his magic and reluctantly tolerating it; Alec adored it, and it adored him in return. He didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he opted for levity instead. “That’s not something I’ve heard many Shadowhunters say.”

Unfortunately, it didn’t have quite the intended effect — a realisation dawned across Alec’s face and he looked at Magnus with a sharper gaze than before. “You’re worried about this because of what you’ve been told in the past, aren’t you?”

It was almost more a statement than a question, so Magnus didn’t say anything — what was he supposed to say to that? No would be a lie, and yes felt like an admission of weakness — but Alec read his acknowledgement on his face anyway.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he said quietly. “There’s just a lot wrong with the world you live in.”

“Perhaps,” Magnus replied, spurred to sudden admittance by the tenderness in Alec’s eyes that chased away the fear, “but it will take a while for me to believe it.”

Alec hummed and pulled him closer, settling Magnus between his arms as they reclined on the couch. “That’s alright. I’ll keep telling you so until you get there.”

Softly, Magnus smiled.

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