#It’s not about “I guess cheap groceries are more important to you than…” it’s about how you idiots lack critical thinking skills
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matriokshya · 4 days ago
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Except there will be no lower prices because you idiots who voted for lower price of eggs didn’t actually understand what was going on at all.
Anybody who says 'I guess cheap groceries are more important to you than...' is REALLY showing their privilege.
Because Yeah believe it or not, food is kinda important to most people. And if you don't think 'can I afford to eat?' Is a huge motivator for a lot people you've clearly never been in a position to ask that question
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philosophicalparadox · 1 month ago
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Got a Japanese grocery store near me. It IS kept very meticulously neat and orderly, but in a completely different way than what we usually see in the US — the “flow” of foods breaks up differently I guess.
Even so, despite now living on the East coast where literally anything from Japan is easily three to six times the cost as it was in California, many foods are still much cheaper.
And there’s WAY more variety. If you ever wanted to know about 21 different types of edible seaweed, and how to use them, that’s the place to go, and they WONT bankrupt you like a health food store.
The exception is some snack foods and other imports — but largely, the produce in that store actually comes from California; it often says so right on the boxes.
You see, the US has very weird food standards aesthetically, so we import a huge quantity of produce, and export the stuff that’s Ugly or that we just aren’t interested in.
But some of it stays here — and goes principally to markets aimed at minorities.
SO if you actually want to support US agriculture AND get cheap groceries, do absolutely find an Asian or even Hispanic / pretty much any minority market/store. I grew up next to the latter, with a similar butcher shop across the street. It was often times the only way we even could afford produce and meat; neither store was pretty by US standards, but it was INFINITELY better than relying on the quite literally rotten food that came in the food boxes. At some point FREE just gets used as a convenient excuse to dump waste somewhere and make it someone else’s problem; and while we did need to rely on those boxes at times, you bet your ass we nickel and dimed our way into those produce markets and learned to make preserves, because nobody should have to eat f-ing rotting food. But that is another story for another day.
Point is you are doing a lot more good for a lot more people shopping in a store like that than feeding the corporate overlords.
(And for the record, when I say cheaper, which is not a term most Americans associate with Japanese anything, I mean it — a bushel - that is about two pounds- of apples at Acme/safeway is like 4-6 bucks, so 2-3$ a pound. At this particular Japanese and sometimes Korean market, THE SAME APPLES are like 50c- 1.00 a pound, because They’re From The US and often are just not as pretty as ones you’d buy elsewhere. Yeah, you’ll have to cut around some nicks and bruises on that pear (and OMG do they have pears! Like 6 varieties!) but it’s perfectly edible and delicious.
Same goes for herbs. Whole Foods is a freaking rip off selling fresh mint for 2 dollars for like 12 stems. The Japanese market? You can get an entire damn mint plant for that price. Dried spices are sold in bulk like at Winco, from hoppers with bags. You pay by weight, not brand. So you can in fact get more than 6 stamens of Saffron for the 9$ that freakin’ McCormic sells that stuff. (You pay for the glass bottle more than anything).
The ONLY thing that makes this market unappealing to people: They put just about everything they can in Metric. Weights are sold by mg and kilo first; there are numbers that correlate to the respective pound /ounce on some things, and others are just in US imperial like the apples. But if you weigh the spices or pasta or anything like that, you’ll be charged for the metric conversion. Which apparently upsets dumb people who don’t understand that a gram is far more precise than an ounce, and that it keeps them from losing stock too fast since they’re pretty small fish — it’s owned by two people, and staffed by maybe 7 at a time. They don’t get priority on restock.
Anyway, small business grocery = best place to buy food
How to Shop at an Asian (or other ethnic) Grocery Store
Do you live in or near a city in the US?
Need to save some money on groceries?
Might I introduce you to... shopping at the local Asian grocery?
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Asian grocery stores aimed at an Asian-American customer base almost always beat the prices of their western (or for-western) counterparts. Often by a significant amount, especially in categories like produce, meat, rice, and spices. Plus in addition to lower prices, you get the satisfaction of supporting a small, local business instead of a larger chain store.
(Note that a lot of this information applies to other ethnic grocery stores as well, but we're using Asian because they're common in many cities, and have particularly good prices on produce.)
But it can be a little bit of a learning curve when you first start to shop at them. This post will give you the information you need to navigate them.
So how do you find a good Asian grocery store?
First, go on google maps and search "grocery".
Note that you are NOT googling "Asian Grocery" or "Cheap Grocery". If you search "Asian Grocery" you will get results for Asian stores marketing toward a western audience, and because of this, will be neat, shiny, and very pricey. If you search "Cheap Grocery" you will get stores marketing themselves as cheap, which generally are only slightly less expensive than their "expensive" counterparts (think Aldi). Okay in a pinch, but you can do better.
Second, look at the pictures of all the stores you can easily get to.
Here's what you want: not a lot of printed ads, pictures of hand-written signs (especially in languages other than English), food in cardboard bins, and you want it to look kind of "junky". Bonus points if you can see prices listed in the pictures or the people shopping there are mostly older, ethnic women.
Third, If you couldn't find anything like this, go on your city's subreddit.
Search "cheap", "cheap grocery" and "expensive grocery". Why "expensive grocery"? Because you want to find people complaining about grocery prices, and you want to see the advice they get. Many times, that advice is Asian or ethnic grocery stores.
If you're still not getting anything, google "[city name] cheap grocery" and "[city name] expensive grocery" (see above). Scroll until you get to FORUMS discussing groceries in your city. You DO NOT want blogs or articles. Again, you're looking at the advice people are given when they complain about grocery prices.
One of the first questions people ask upon walking into an Asian grocery store of the type discussed in this post is:
"Is the food I'm getting here safe to eat?"
The answer is just as safe as anywhere else you might shop.
You're probably used to very clean, pretty, well-lit, well-organized stores. This will probably not be that, but it will be regulated by the same health department that regulates those stores. They are held to the same standards.
It's a lot of work to keep a store looking like a western consumer expects. It's a lot less work (and thus less money) to keep a store looking like an ethnic career housewife or grandmother expects. That is largely where the savings comes from.
What's a good deal at an Asian grocery?
Produce. You're probably used to things like onions and carrots being the cheapest per pound. Here it's going to be greens, apples, pears, radish, cabbage and maybe squash and sweet potatoes. Check unit prices and prepare to try some new things. Also a pound of greens is a LOT of greens. Keep that in mind. Also keep in mind that you might see a few pieces of produce that are bruised or have mold on them. That's okay. Just don't buy those pieces. The rest of the batch is probably fine. Wash produce when you get home if you're concerned, though you should be doing that anyway.
Rice and dry beans. If you like to buy in bulk, you're in luck. Don't expect to walk away with a pound or two of these. They come in 40lb packages. But if you tailor most of your meals around them, those meals will be cheap af. There are also lots of different types of specialty rice if you want to make your own sushi or mochi. Learn how to soak and sprout beans.
Tofu. Tofu is expensive when you buy it at a health food store. It is not when you buy it at an Asian grocery. It probably won't be in pretty packages, but again, cheap is not going to be super pretty.
Meat and fish. Meat is generally going to be cheaper here, though maybe not by as much as the produce is. Pork will probably be your cheapest option. You may also see cuts you don't normally see, like tongue, intestine, liver, kidneys, blood, etc... "Weird," however, does not automatically mean cheap in this context. Check unit prices and prepare to be adventurous. If you don't know what else to do with them, dried fish and animal organs make fantastic stock when boiled.
Spices. Again with the extremely large quantities here. But very inexpensive compared with their western counterparts.
Candy. This makes a great inexpensive gift if you need one, since the candy sold at these stores is fairly exotic for a western audience.
What isn't a good deal at an Asian grocery?
Dairy. This includes fresh milk, butter, cheese, etc... If they have it, it will be very expensive. Consider buying elsewhere.
Eggs. Again, this will probably be as expensive or more than the eggs you could get at a western supermarket.
Snacks. Pre-made items will be expensive in general, even though they may be tempting because they are different from what you are used to and you don't need to learn to cook a new thing. Do your best to avoid these and make your own if you can. If you can't, frozen pork or vegetable dumplings are probably your best bet for a quick meal.
Bread. It's pricey. A lot of Asian cuisines use rice, noodles, or buns for their starch instead of western-style bread. So if you can find it it will often be a novelty item.
What else do I need to know?
It's okay to be overwhelmed by new ingredients. Look up some YouTube videos on how to cook certain ingredients if you're not familiar with them.
These are not supermarkets. They sell food and sometimes the kitchenware (steamers, woks, chopsticks, etc...) needed to cook it. You will probably need to get your soap and household items somewhere else.
Pay in cash if you can. Most of these are very small businesses and paying them cash makes it so they don't need to pay credit card fees. At the very least, make the minimum purchase before paying with a card.
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dzpenumbra · 2 years ago
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3/17/23
I was having a pretty good productive day today. All it took was... getting excited about Habanero cheese... and it started falling apart.
This is so annoying. I hate how razor's edge the difference between a good day and a frustrating day is.
I did yoga and meditated, which was good and helpful. I did dishes, I ate some food. I started brainstorming my stream stuff. I have a nice mic that I've been using for streaming... I mean... it's over 7 years old now... but who's counting, right? -_- It still gets the job done though, but my mic stand is cheap and once I get it set up I really don't like moving it. And... for art streams... I'm going to have to move it. I really just don't have a choice, that table is like 7 feet away. It's either that or not have a mic. Or get a new mic, but that shit ain't cheap.
And even now... I just... I get hit by a wave of depression thinking about streaming. I feel like no one engages, like no one really looks forward to it. It just feels very strongly like I'm background noise for people. Which... I guess that's kinda what streaming is for a lot of people. Maybe I'm just getting a bit greedy on it. Wanting friends. Wanting social interaction, social engagement.
I might as well get into this. The guy who used to be one of my biggest fans during my Rimworld YT series back in like 2020 (ouch, time files, huh...), he dropped by. It's the third stream of this colony, half an in-game year has already gone by. He drops in and says like 3 words. And is silent until he leaves. Fun. Guess the thrill is gone, eh?
I was really enjoying the story in this new playthrough. And some really dramatic shit happened, and I just... barely got a reaction. Like half the fucking colony died and no one really cared. And it's really goddamn hard to be excited about something in an interactive medium when people don't really care. It took the wind out of my sails a lot. I noticed myself narrating less. Treating it more like a game than a story. I cut myself off. I cut the game short and switched over to Session, which was like taking the interactivity of the stream behind the shed and putting it out of its misery. But I enjoyed Session, which is really the most important part, I think.
I'm still really grumpy about that. Like... all I want to do is just share my life with people, to have friends and share something I find fun. I come from an upbringing where friends would come over and watch you play games, or you would go over to their place and watch them, and the only thing you're doing is watching. And you're really engaged. And when I watch streams, I'm either working on art with the keyboard nearby to interact... or I'm just full-on watching the stream. But it seems like the guys who watch my stream just put me on in the background while they are playing games themselves. Like... this guy is playing Destiny 2 with a party, and has my stream on in the background. You really think he's absorbing the story? You really think he's invested in the characters? This is someone who goes out to the movies and is playing Candy Crush on their phone the whole time.
On one hand, I feel I should be grateful anyone is showing up. And, in a lot of ways... I am. It is better than streaming to no one. But it just... sucks. And I feel like I should be honest about that. Nothing is really more alienating than to have something you're really really passionate about... and no one to share it with.
The big thing that set off the tone shift in the day though... was the Habanero cheese. Yeah, I found my way back there. I have to do grocery deliveries now, on account of the whole "not having a car" thing. The grocery store is garbage at keeping up with the stock in their store. I have no fucking clue how... since they literally have every individual item scanned into a machine as it's brought out of the store... I have no fucking clue how they can't keep their inventory stocks organized and updated... Like... good lord... it's 2023, how the fuck do you not know what is on your shelves? So... pretty much every time I order Instacart groceries, there are substitutions or refunds. And I had a whole plan for tonight. I saw habanero cheese and I got really excited, and I had a whole plan to cook the potato skins I've been saving in the fridge from the other night, mixing that habanero cheddar with some smoked cheddar I have... I was pretty stoked for that, some cheesy rice on the side, maybe some chicken with it. And then, after like 4 substitutions... the lady is at the end of shopping and just straight up refunds the habanero cheese... and I'm typing in the chat "hey, if you can't find the habanero cheese, go check in the produce section by the deli meats and shit, there's a display case there, it should be there... and if not, please just grab me some pepper jack." And I got like 6 words into that and the jerk closed the order and went to checkout. Like straight up ended the order mid-sentence on me. And I'm giving this person like 17 bucks to drive this shit 1.3 miles from the grocery store to my apartment. That's not too shabby for like... half an hour, 45 minutes of grocery shopping, man. That... really threw me. It really upset me.
I got myself Chinese food to make up for it, but the night was just really thrown off. And the Chinese food wasn't that great tonight. I just... I'm trying really hard to keep positive momentum, but it's so damn hard to do that in an isolation chamber. Getting a "sorry for your loss" letter from the Animal Hospital didn't help either. I mean, the thought was nice, the gesture was nice... but... it's also kind of a token gesture. I appreciated the phone call from my vet who actually knew her... more than the signatures of like 6 people who never met her or me. But yeah, just... bringing that back it... it was tough. Like... ever since the sun went down it's been a bit rough.
So yeah. Doing my best with all that.
I feel stupid. I've been through so much shit lately... and this is what I'm getting upset about. Cheese... and distracted nerds who don't value the entertainment I'm providing. I just... stream-wise, you know I'm still stuck on that. I feel like I could be doing something better. I do. I know I'm just antsy or whatever... I just... I feel like I should be doing art. And art and music streams are just the only shit I can't do right now, because I don't have the shit set up.
Here's the run down. My notes I took today:
GAMES Rimworld - Load and go Session - New controller, ideally
WORK Music - Map the audio routing, test if you can just capture desktop audio and monitor through Cubase. Take a day and troubleshoot. - Set up Magic preset to make visuals a bit more engaging. Make sure audio routing works with that too, since they might compete for ASIO use. - Audio routing is an absolute bitch.
Art - Set up webcam and stand. - Check if second mic is here. If so, brainstorm a setup. - If not, brainstorm a new mic setup, or… I hate to say this… move the current mic over there for art streams. It's gonna be annoying as fuck, but it's the easiest solution right now.
STREAM CONTENT Music - Right now, I can do programmed music in Ableton. Pretty sure, might wanna test it. Audio drivers are the real variable. - Find and add more OST music to the playlist for Rimworld streams, it's working so far. - Consider listening to bands from Deathwish and other smaller labels.
So yeah, that's sorta where I'm at with that, I guess. Any moron thinking streaming is as easy as just pressing a button clearly hasn't put in the effort of setting up something with decent production value. Especially with makeshift equipment. Especially when it comes to audio routing. Good. Fucking. Lord. What I would give to never have to watch another fucking YouTube video about audio routing for OBS or Cubase. I have been recording music off and on since I was like 17... and I still fucking nod off every time drivers and ports and routing and blah blah blah. AGH. My life would be so much easier if it didn't bore me!
The same goes for this art idea from last year that has come back to haunt me. And it really won't leave me alone. No idea if I shared it last night, I might as well now. The idea was to create a completely custom coded from-scratch rudimentary organism. A thing. A thing that can move, and see, and choose where to move based on sight. Very basic. A thing - like a single-celled organism - that is capable of moving, that can see in a range front of it with a photoreceptor, that can discern from... let's say to start the average light level of the area in front of it... which way to move. Like a Roomba. Life. Something that makes its own decisions within the parameters given to it. Intelligence. Artificial Intelligence.
Wow, I actually got some clarity. My older brother is really into languages and computer stuff. He might be able to help me code this stuff. I can figure out the logic chains, and I know exactly what I want this thing to do. I just need help with like... translating it into coding language. That's where I was going with it. I learned a bunch, enough to make organisms that could randomly move around on their own last year. But just to random locations, not specifically choosing based on environmental parameters, which is what I want. If my brother could help, that would be insane. But... he has a very young son. And a young hyper dog. And is basically co-running the severely understaffed family business. I doubt he'd be able to make the time even if he wanted to.
Ugh.
Welp, the ultimate idea is this, and I can see it in my damn head it's so clear. I want these organisms to function off of sight or smell, or both - at least analogs for those senses. I want this thing to avoid the boundaries of the simulated world. I want it to avoid collision obstacles. I want it to seek areas of high nutrition density. And I want it to leave a path behind for others to follow starting when it has identified a food source, which will diffuse and fade over time, a pheromone trail. I basically want to create an input map of nutrition nodes, and track the creatures' desire paths.
I want to make art out of desire paths. That's the big thing at the core of it. Maybe all this AI stuff is convoluted, maybe it's my way of simulating something we already have... real fucking life. Desire paths have fascinated me for so long. Maybe it's just being on the trails out in the woods, and exploring off-trail and finding deer trails and shit, and seeing which paths they like to take. I used to like blazing trails in Minecraft too. The concept is really alluring to me, very interesting, and very beautiful how they are some weird fusion of manmade and natural. Like... sometimes the difference between manmade desire paths and natural ones is almost indiscernible. And I think they're really beautiful.
And I've had these patterns in my head for so long of like... nodes... with paths leading between the nodes. Every path a bit different from the last. I've probably already written about this, I'm just... really enraptured right now and want to keep it in my head. Like if you look at Google Maps of a city, one with a pretty organic layout, if you just disregard the grid shit we do in cities because otherwise every major city would be like Boston... XD Maybe a town is a better example. If you really zoom out, you see a concentrated area in the center, a concentration of Life. And the winding paths to get there. And to leave there. Almost like an organically shaped spiderweb. And... I don't know. Something about those patterns keeps calling to me.
I really wanted to code AI and have them draw these randomly influenced individual paths towards nodes and between nodes. I really thought it would be a cool concept. But the work involved. The learning. Learning code, when I'm not 100% fully into it... it literally makes me nod off. It's not that I don't care, I just... can't get it. It just frustrates me. It's like... all these extra fucking steps! And, with this project at least, I'm tempted to just get a big piece of brown paper, tape it to the wall and just draw these fucking paths myself with a pen. And I might. I might just take a day and do that and see how it comes out. I just... I really wanted to find a way to choreograph this where I wasn't able to influence the level of randomness. Because, intuitively, I'm going to add some bias for aesthetics... which completely fucks up the concept. The concept is that the individual that is taking each individual journey (i.e. the roller ball in the ballpoint pen, or the AI cell) has no real idea of what their macro journey looks like from a birds-eye view. The only see what's right in front of them. They see their immediate goals. They see where they are heading, they see their immediate choices of forward, right, left, go, stop. They see whether this area is travelled or not, whether it's safe or not, whether it's passable or not. I see the paths others have taken. I see their entire path so far. And I see the patterns and the trends. So if I am controlling that pen? It's going to be really hard to force myself to tunnel-vision on --- Holy fuck. I got it. I figured it out.
Digital art. That's it. That's how I can hand-draw this. I can do each journey, each individual "hike" or "walk" or "journey" through whatever map I put them on... I can do each one as a different layer. And turn off all the other layers when it's time to go. So that they're not influenced by the one before. Oh shit, it's coming together. So... I can check after and overlap them... and when areas overlap say... 5 times? 5 different travelers overlap one specific area? Make that visible on the main map for other new travelers to see. So a trail starts naturally forming in that area. And people are definitely drawn towards traveled areas, so if a traveler is passing an established path, and it's heading the direction they are going... it makes sense that they would use it. Like... we would all walk on the shoulder of a road rather than straight through the woods as the crow flies, because even if the cleared path is a longer distance, it still goes faster and easier, and safer.
That could be a good solution. Hm... Worth experimenting with. That would be pretty easy. I just need to set out parameters. A map with distinct landmarks - points of interest (destinations), impassable areas, we'll start with that - and a bus stop route for each traveler. Maybe just roll a d20 to pick each stop. That could be cool.
I love inspiration. More than that, I really love capturing it like I did right here. Seriously, it was like a lightning bolt, it just came together. My brain does this constantly, I can't turn it off. Unless I'm super depressed and distracted, like... the first half of this... XD I love my gift, I just... it can be very frustrating to lack the tools to make some of these ideas... or to lack the training and not be able to pursue it properly... and even more so to actually complete them and then... have them go nowhere.
But I'm not going to tarnish this glow with any more of that shit. That was a great vibe to end on. I'm going to put this project on my whiteboard and make sure I take sometime to prototype it tomorrow. I can very easily do this on stream. That could be a nice way of just chilling and making fun process-based art, and sharing the process with anyone who wants to come chill.
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rostovs-lover · 4 years ago
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dalí on tuesday
charlie dalton x reader | cursing, smoking, brief mentions of sexual things, charlie (probably) has daddy issues, cameron | she/her pronouns | fluff | wc.2562
i am in love with charlie, this is now a charlie dalton centric blog, also ignore how terrible the title is please
anon : Hi!! I love your blog! can I request a charlie Dalton x reader fluff where reader is an artist and he visits them while they're painting? (maybe they end up wiping paint on his face?) I don't know, something really sweet at cute <33333
Charlie Dalton had been resigned to relish in small pleasures to keep himself sane at school, never did he think the library would be one of those. More specifically, the painter tucked into the basement of the library. 
                            ───☮︎───
     Charlie Dalton was a connoisseur of many things. Pretty girls, expensive wine, shitty poetry, and hand rolled cigarettes - to name a few. His imprisonment at Wellington made only one of those things readily available. So he settled - boxes of cheap smokes bought through upperclassmen, bottles of grocery store wine someone would sneak in from a party, and the two girls that occasionally came with Knox. The shitty poetry was always on deck, he had that at least. It was a tragedy to be resigned to such a bland life, there was absolutely no carpe diem-ing happening in a school that held adolescent boys to uniforms.
      It was miserable, truly, but Charlie scrapped by on the thought that soon enough there would be no more stuffy Catholic school and he could finally have a taste of freedom. In the meantime, he would have what little fun he could. The meets in the cave were always the highlight of the week. A place where he could talk and people would listen, and not because they had to but because they enjoyed it. They enjoyed his words and thoughts and presence. No one else had ever really seemed to enjoy Charlie’s presence. They could tolerate it, handle it, but they always had more pressing matters. A business meeting to attend, a bill to pay, a dinner to go to. Always something just a little bit more important and never quite enough time for Charlie. But the other Dead Poets, they valued him. He wasn’t just a kid, a college tuition to pay and a life to layout. He was a person, with interests and hobbies.
      It had been there, in the safe haven of the cave, that the idea for the library first came up. Meeks had already talked Pitts into coming, Neil didn’t take much convincing at all, Todd was also easy to lure, Cameron groaned about leaving school grounds but refused to be left out, and Knox agreed to go but only if Nuwanda came too. Charlie had already started to cover what there was to do at a library, read?
      Meeks dove into the technical manuals and Pitts followed tentatively, cradling their science project in his arms. Todd had followed Neil to the S authors, Cameron was trying to chat up the woman at the register, and God only knew what Knox was doing. He had been stranded with few options. He could find the geniuses and be talked over for the next hour or third wheel Neil but that guaranteed intruding on something he probably shouldn’t. The polite thing to do would be to rescue Cameron from making a complete fool of himself, throwing bad pick up lines at a clearly uninterested college student, but it was amusing to watch.
      Charlie settled on trying to find Knox, at least then he could have some company. Said company was absolutely nowhere to be found. The rows of shelves wound in a confusing maze and Charlie was lost before he could even begin to look. Weaving around he did come face-to-face with a rather large picture of Charles Dickens that made him recoil. It was perched just at eye level above a short staircase and it seemed to judge his every movement. Charlie followed the carpeted stairs down to escape Mister Dickens’ strange little beard and beady black eyes.
      The further down the steps Charlie descended the brighter it appeared. The lower level was the children’s section. Considerably more fun than science books or Shakespeare. The big oak counter was abandoned but the lights were still on. He was alone, still.
      Charlie sighed, sitting down in one of the bright red wooden chairs. He was much too big for it but it held well under his weight. A sad stuffed bear stared dully into him from the green glossy table.
      “Well hello,” He mumbled, picking it up under the arms, “And you must be?” He cleared his throat to take on a gruff baritone, “Mister... Bearington,” Charlie sighed, that was bad. He dropped the bear into his lap, “This is so stupid,”
      “Bearington?”
      Charlie shot around in the chair, tipping himself off center and stumbling to his feet, bear still clutched in his arms, “Where the hell did you come from?”
      “A few blocks over, walked here actually.” You turned back to your work. A painting. Not just a painting, Charlie realized, a mural. It stretched the length of the wall, roughly sketched in pencil and waiting to be finished.
      He blinked, “That’s good. The wall I mean,”
      “Thank you,” Your face flustered and Charlie took notice, “It’s not much of anything yet, just an outline. It’ll look better painted.”
      He took a few steps closer, sidling up to you, “What’s it supposed to be?”
      “A forest,” You pointed to a rotund blob perched on a long line, “That’s an owl, and there’s going to be a fox somewhere down in the grass,”
      Charlie grinned, “That’s an owl?”
      “That-” you tapped the blob, “Is a shape, objectively. Subjectively, it’s an owl.”
      His brow creased, “Subjectively it’s an owl? That's like saying Mister Bearington is a rabbit, subjectively,”
      You stared at him, baffled. It was almost irritating that he could so casually come down to your domain and invade your creative bubble. And it was even worse that he talked to himself as a stuffed bear but now he was challenging your judgment on what was and was not subjectively an owl. But he had a wonderful smile and it lessened the intrusion. Plus, you had never seen a teenage boy develop an attachment to a stuffed bear as quickly as he had, “What’s your name?”
      “Nuwanda,” He grinned, setting his chin atop his bear’s plush head.
      “Nuwanda?” You blinked at him, “That’s… neat. I’ve never heard that before.”
      “What can I say? The only Nuwanda this side of Vermont. What’s your name?”
      As you opened your mouth to answer several sets of footsteps thundered down the stairs. Knox spun around the corner first, closely followed by Pitts and Meeks.
      “Charlie!” Knox called, “We gotta go before Cameron proposes to the clerk.”
      You looked at the boy in front of you, “Is Charlie short for Nuwanda, or just a nickname?”
      He shrugged, “I’m Nuwanda, subjectively. It was truly a pleasure meeting you. Can’t wait to see your thing DaVinci!” He set the stuffed bear back on the table as he made his way out of the room. With Charlie’s energy gone it became much quieter and you were plunged back into the impressionistic outline of your artwork.
      The next time a library trip was suggested Charlie didn’t completely dread it. Yes, it was still numbingly boring because it was a library and he didn’t have clerks to fall in love with, people to write love letters to, anyone to kiss in the aisles, or a spaceship to build, but he did have his own personal Van Gough to torment.
      The lower level was the first place he went, not even hanging his coat on the rack inside the big double doors. He made his way past Cameron’s preoccupied receptionist and under Dickens’ hard glower. Halfway down the steps, the smell hit Charlie. Wet paint.
      You had just picked out a brush when he pulled one of the wooden chairs next to your station. He sat in it backwards, holding Mister Bearington out in front of him, “Never got your name Monet,”
      “Well, it's not that. Or Da Vinci.” You stroked the brush up the grassy outline.
      “Do you want me to guess?”
      You had yet to look at him, “Nope,”
      “Are you gonna tell me?”
      “Should I?”
      “Obviously, I told you my name.”
      You set the brush down and turned to face him, “(Name).”
      “Pretty,”
      Charlie Dalton liked many things and the musty old library uptown had never been one of them. It had ancient red carpets and gaudy gold ceilings and it was trying too hard to look regal. So it was a sheer shock when he began to leap at the suggestion of going and even more so when he chose to go by himself one afternoon. Naturally, the other poets followed him, they had to.
      Charlie didn’t dally upstairs, waving hi to the clerk and rushing down to the children’s section. A sign was posted outside the entrance warning of wet paint but he stepped around it.
      “You’re making progress Picasso!” He set his hands on his hips and took in the wall.
      You turned back to look at him, “Did you not see the caution: wet paint, do not enter sign?”
      “Oh no I saw it,” He pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, “It's bright orange, hard to miss, really,”
      “So you just chose to ignore it?”
      He nodded, making his way over to sit by you on the ground, “I choose to ignore lots of things, it really makes life easier,”
      You shook your head, “Are you just going to sit here and bother me?”
      “Yes, that's actually the whole reason I came today, believe it or not.”
      You blubbered in vague disbelief, “Please tell me you’re not serious,”
      “Dead serious,” Charlie grinned, leaning closer, “I had to see how your weird owl was going. And also make sure you hadn’t gone mad and cut your own ear off yet,”
      “You’ve already used the Van Gogh joke, Charles,”
      “Maybe I want your ear,”
      You paused, “You… what?”
      Charlie’s confidence cracked, “That was bad. Shit, that wasn’t supposed to sound that way. It was like, a bad pickup line? Because Van Gogh cut his ear off to send to his girlfriend,” He sighed, shaking his head, “Sorry,”
      “I mean if I had to pick someone to give my ear too I guess you would be my first choice?”
      Charlie looked at you, eyebrows pinched together, “Why?”
      You shrugged, “No one else has asked, first come first serve.” You dipped your brush back into the blue paint and went to work on a patch of flowers.
      “Huh, well I do appreciate it,” Charlie scooted closer, leaning over your shoulder. He was close, very close. When you took a breath you could smell his cologne and whatever it was he used in his hair and you could feel the edge of his sunglasses brush your ear. He brought an arm around to dip his finger into the soft sky colour on your palette. And then he wiped it on your nose.
      You gasped sharply at the foreign feeling, snapping your head to the side to glare at him, “Why?!”
      Charlie snickered, leaning back, “The opportunity presented itself, how could I just let that pass?”
      You reached back, squirting a touch of purple paint over the palm of your hand, “That was truly a horrible idea,”
      Charlie shot up just as you did, stumbling backwards, “I’m sorry-” He stuck his hands up in surrender, “I regret my actions and if I could take them back I would,”
      “Hmm, but you can’t” You took a step closer, “Surrender now and it doesn’t have to get any messier than this,”
      He pointed towards your paint coated hand, “Do not,”
      You grinned, “I might,”
      “I’m begging,”
      “Fine-” You offered him your other hand, “Truce?”
      Charlie mulled it over for a moment, “Fine, truce,” He grabbed your clean hand and you used it to pull him towards you.
          “Why on earth would you trust me?” You tugged him even closer as he shrieked and smeared your hand down his cheek, “There, now we’re even,”
      Getting distracted by your triumph gave Charlie the upper hand. He pulled you to him the same you had done to him and pressed his cheek flush to yours. The paint was cold against your skin and you jolted back, away from him.
      “Vile,” You hissed, “You are vile and evil. That's so cold. You will pay, I hope you know that.”
      Charlie snorted, “Oh please, what’re you gonna do?”
      “You underestimate me, you ass, I’ll figure something out,”
      “Will you?” Charlie grinned, “I will be waiting in anticipation,”
      “You better be,”
      Meeks elbowed back into Cameron’s ribs, “You’re going to knock me over,”
      Cameron craned his neck further to peek around the corner into the children’s section, “I just want to see, let me look,”
      “Nothing is happening-” Meeks snipped, “They’re just talking now and I might be able to hear if you could can it!”
      Cameron rolled his eyes, “Of course, whatever you say,”
      “Will you shut up?” Knox batted at Cameron’s shoulder, “They’ll see us, we’re not super well hidden,”
      “If you don’t stop talking they’ll realize we’re here,” Pitts mumbled, rolling his eyes. Cameron started to rebuttal, turning to look at Gerard but the motion knocked Meeks out of place and he gasped, stumbling forwards. This did indeed draw Charlie’s attention.
      “Meeks, what the hell?” Charlie snapped. He was in a state, sunglasses askew in his hair, paint smeared from his cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth, and his shirt was wrinkled away from his collarbone.
      Meeks stared, “Hi Charlie. Are there any textbooks down here, uh… the science ones?”
      Knox groaned, stepping out from behind the wall as well, “We wanted to see why you came here on a Tuesday afternoon by yourself,”
      Charlie blubbered, “Did you all come? Is Keating there too?”
      “He could be,” Meeks shrugged.
      Charlie rolled his eyes, “Will you leave, I’ll be upstairs in a second,” The other poets nodded, scampering up the steps to the first level.
      “Assholes, should have known they’d come,” Charlie sighed, adjusting the sunglasses atop his head, “I need to go before they decide to intrude again. I’ll see you soon though, anxiously anticipating payback,”
      He was almost out the door when you bucked up the courage to call out to him, “Charlie, wait.” You let him turn back to you before continuing, “Could I have your phone number?”
      He clicked his teeth, “Don’t have one, private school. But I’ll find the library number in the books and try to shoot you a call sometime,” He winked and started back up to his friends.
      Knox was waiting at the landing with a handful of tissues, which he shoved into Charlie’s hands, “So you’re gonna read your stupid poem about tits at a Dead Poets meet and then not tell us you’ve got a girlfriend?”
      Charlie grabbed the tissues, “Not my girlfriend, I meet her like two weeks ago,”
      “Didn’t stop Knox,” Neil elbowed him.
      Charlie wiped at his face, “Well I’m not Knox. I like her painting, she's good.”
      “It looks like she was painting you,” Cameron slapped at Charlie’s chest and he threw the tissues at him in retaliation.
      “Shut up, at least my library worker actually talks to me,”
      Cameron fumbled with the dirty material, batting it away from his chest, “You dick!”
      Charlie grinned, pulling his glasses down and starting towards the door. Something about it was thrilling, having this to himself. A little secret that he and you shared. His personal Salvador Dalí, something to look forwards to besides bad tobacco and Keating’s eccentric lectures. It was bright and exciting and he felt seen. He felt important. The blue paint he had stolen from your tray was still on the tip of his pointer finger and he wondered how long it would be until he could see you again.
 ( @interwebseriesfan24 )
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therenlover · 4 years ago
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How The Evans (+ Quicksilver) Would React To Yoplait’s New Gushers Yogurt
a/n: I don’t honestly know how I came up with this. I guess I just really liked the yogurt I bought (I have big Gilear Faeth vibes rn) and decided I wanted to share it with all the Evans and you guys. I hope you enjoy and, like, maybe go buy some if you’re intrigued.
Warnings: Mild language, very small non-graphic mention of murder, recreational drug usage (Tate is a stoner, sue me)
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Tate Langdon
Because he died as a teen in the early 90′s, Tate would be a big fan of the types of crazy, super processed and flashy snacks that came out of that era.
Tate pretty much lived on 3D Doritos and Crystal Pepsi before his death. He still misses Dunkaroos.
He also has the biggest appetite of any ghost in the house because when he smokes he gets phantom munchies, so he sneaks into the kitchen and steals snacks to fulfill his cravings.
His first encounter with gushers yogurt would be on a snack run for the two of you while you were both zooted to high hell. 
He would return almost entirely snackless, fully fixated on the little yellow cup in his hand. 
“What the hell is this?” “Uh, yogurt?” “No, it’s not just yogurt, it’s weird!”
You’d finally look up from your place on the bed to find Tate in the doorway, red eyed, giving the yogurt cup a thousand yard stare.
Tate would be extremely confused because as far as he knew gushers were filled fruit snacks and definitely did NOT belong inside yogurt.
“Does it have gushers in it or something? Because that sounds awful,” “Kind of? It’s like... well, it would be easier to show you than to explain it. Did you bring a spoon?”
Of course he hadn’t.
When he did return with a spoon the two of you shared it.
Unsurprisingly, Tate didn’t hate it. It was a little weird, but overall it reminded him of the rare good times he had when he was still alive and the house hadn’t fully sunk it’s claws into him yet.
His favorite flavor is green apple. It just matches his vibe. 
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Kit Walker
Kit is a man with pretty old fashioned values. He’s the kind of person who believes that he should be able to provide for his family so you don’t have to work. He also thinks it’s important for you to spend time with the kids because he’s gone at work so much.
This whole situation combined with the fact that money was a little tight led to you taking Thomas and Julia with you whenever you had to run errands and they weren’t at school.
One such time you were grocery shopping. That’s when they found the gushers yogurt.
 Kids have an eye for sweet things. Any food labelled like a dessert will make them go crazy, even if it’s just a flavored yogurt. 
In the end you bought a few. They were cheap enough that they didn’t make a huge difference to your budget and they were perfect to go in the kids lunches. 
Only the next morning did you realize that when you got the kids their yogurts you forgot to get Kit his own plain ones to put in his lunch. You mulled over your options and, in the end, decided to give Kit one of the gushers ones in his lunch pail for work. it’s just flavored yogurt, what could go wrong?
A lot, apparently.
At around lunch time you got a call from Kit at the shop.
“Mrs. Walka’, I believe I might have picked up the wrong lunch today,”
You’d immediately ask him what was wrong before remembering the yogurt.
“Nope, that’s yours Kit,” “Sweetheart, you’re killing me,” “Did I forget a spoon?”
Kit would explain, after some laughter, that the guys at the auto shop were giving him shit about the ‘kids yogurt’ in his lunch.
If you tried to apologize he’d stop you. It was all the same to him, he just wanted to make sure he hadn’t taken one of the kid’s lunches accidentally.
You’d laugh about it later as a bright spot in what ended up to be a long and tedious day for the both of you.
Besides that one occasion Kit wouldn’t eat gushers yogurt often, but sometimes if he was home during breakfast he’d have a cup of it with his cereal or toast.
He’s a fan of the classics, so his favorite flavor is tropical punch.
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Kyle Spencer
Before his death, Kyle wouldn’t have any strong feelings towards gushers yogurt besides liking that it was a cheap snack that went on sale a lot.
As a broke college student with a calcium deficiency, he would appreciate it for what it was, a sweet means to an end.
After his death, though, it would be a different story.
Franken-Kyle had to re-learn all of his basic life skills from the ground up after the accident, which meant chewing food and not choking weren’t things he knew how to do automatically
In the time while he still couldn’t eat by himself, you fed him a lot of yogurt.
Most of the time it was cheaper and more pleasant that the baby food or health puree alternatives. It also was a food he had eaten pretty regularly when he was alive, so you thought it might make him happy to have some sense of normalcy in his new world.
He enjoyed the gushers yogurt particularly for a few reasons.
For one, it had fun colors! The bright reds, blues, and greens were entertaining and more mentally stimulating than the normal neutral colors of his food. It was also sweet, kind of like a dessert instead of a meal.
The big selling point, though, was the popping bubbles inside.
For a while after his death all Kyle ate were smooth semi-liquid foods he couldn’t possibly choke on while he re-learned how to feed himself. Gushers yogurt, though, had little popping bubbles that added texture while also not being large enough to choke on.
It was a win-win for both of you.
Even once Kyle had regained his ability to chew and eat normally, he still liked to have gushers yogurt with his breakfast.
“Bu...bbles,” “Huh?” “I want....bubbles” “Oh! You want the yogurt with the bubbles, Ky? I’ll get it in a second,” 
He wouldn’t have the words to express it, but the real reason Kyle likes gushers yogurt and continues to eat it is that it reminds him of you and the time you spent together while you taught him how to live again. 
His favorite is blue raspberry by a large margin. He enjoys tropical punch too, but he dislikes green apple.
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Jimmy Darling
Jimmy has very few opinions when it comes to food. To him, eating is just something he has to do to keep himself alive and performing, so he doesn’t put much thought into what and when he eats, even at the diner.
When you first met him, he was barely eating one good meal a day just because he was so busy. 
So, one of the things you started to do when you and Jimmy got closer was bring him little snacks throughout the day he could eat quickly to keep him going.
They weren’t huge things, just an apple here and a sandwich there, but Jimmy really appreciated you putting in the effort to search him out and keep him healthy.
 The gushers yogurt would be introduced, once again, because it’s super inexpensive. 
You were out shopping for Jimmy’s snacks when you found it on sale, 20 for $10. It was a great deal, and Jimmy’s diet was severely lacking in calcium, so you bought a bunch of different flavors and brought one to him as a trial-run the next day after a performance.
“Hey dollface, you got something for me?” “I just might,” 
Only after he swept you up into a crushing hug would you be able to offer him the yogurt, which he’d take gratefully and eat in less than a minute. 
You took this as a good sign, and ended up buying some for Jimmy whenever it was on sale.
He asked you about why you bought them once and you genuinely couldn’t give him an answer. You just thought they were an easy snack and found they were on sale a lot more often than other things were.
Jimmy doesn’t have a favorite flavor, but if you asked him he’d just respond with whatever your favorite was.
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James Patrick March
James Patrick March doesn’t usually have strong feelings about trivial things. As a serial killer and a ghost, small strange details of life in the 21st century just aren’t important enough for him to care about. Even modern foods with all of their artificial dyes and preservatives don’t tend to bother him. Well, all except one...
He fully believes that gushers yogurt is the worst, most evil thing that man has ever created in history, including himself.
It is entirely irrational how much he hates it.
The weirdest part is that he doesn’t mind how it tastes, he just has a random grudge against it by principle.
The first time he saw it was after Liz picked some up for you while she was out getting some groceries for the hotel.
James had come into the habit of asking you to make him grocery lists so the hotel had foods you enjoyed ever since the hoover stew incident. This time you had asked for something sweet you could eat as a snack between meals. Liz ended up picking out the gushers yogurts along with a few other little snacks
When you ran down to the kitchen to help Liz and Iris put the groceries away you grabbed a cup and ended up taking it upstairs so you could eat something while you were reading in bed.
It just so happens that James was finishing up with some office work and walked into your room right as you ate a spoonful of the bright blue yogurt. 
He was, to say the very least, concerned. 
Why was it that color? Food is not supposed to be that color???? And what were those little lumps?
While he fussed over your health, you held out your spoon and offered him a bite. He was skeptical at first, and his fears were only confirmed when he accepted the bite.
His delicate 1920′s tastebuds couldn’t take it.
“Darling, how do you eat that slop?” “James, it’s just yogurt!” “That is not yogurt, it’s an affront to the universe,”
Never one to back down in the face of James, you asked Liz to keep buying them every time she went out for groceries
Things were quiet until, a few months later, you found James standing over a recent kill eating a gushers yogurt.
“Darling, this isn’t what it looks like,” “I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” “There wasn’t anything else in the fridge,” “James, you’re dead. You don’t have to eat,” “...drat,”
James is adamant that he doesn’t have a favorite flavor because he hates it.... but its actually tropical punch.
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Rory Monahan 
Rory normally wouldn’t feel any which way about gushers yogurt.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a goof and has nothing against eating fun little dessert yogurt, there’s just no reason for him or you to buy and eat it.
But if he got a brand deal with Yoplait to advertise it?
Count him in.
You’re eating gushers yogurt with every meal while he vlogs.
Breakfast? Yup. Lunch? Yup. Dinner? Yup.
Oh, you’re getting a snack? Well the only snack Rory bought when he ran out to the store is gushers yogurt. 
It’s all over his social media.
He ends up becoming the face of Yoplait and does quite a few primetime commercials, which surprisingly help out with his career. Think what Shaq is the The General Auto Insurance. 
“Now with new popping bubbles that gush with roarin’ fruity flavor,” “pffffft!” “What! It’s paying our bills!” 
Despite being surrounded by gushers yogurt, Rory wouldn’t actually have a favorite flavor. Once you eat that much yogurt it all tastes exactly the same.
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Kai Anderson
Kai... well Kai is a tough one, as usual.
He’s not someone who likes to be perceived as weak, and what’s weaker than a man who’s seen eating flavored yogurt made for kids?
Well, a lot of things, but Kai’s toxic masculinity doesn’t let him see that.
In his eyes, gushers yogurt is simply not befitting of the divine ruler.
If you were close enough to him to offer some in a private moment, he’d probably find some way to use it in a weird, extended metaphor about the world in the hopes of manipulating you.
“In this world there’s people like me, like this yogurt, and people like you, fragile bubbles waiting to burst and spread your issues to the people who can still be saved. People like me cushion-” “Oh shut up and eat your yogurt, Kai,” 
Kai doesn’t have a favorite flavor, but kind of like James he’s only being pretentious. Who knew divine rulers are above picking favorite flavors?
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Peter Maximoff
Peter would be the most on-board of anybody on the gushers yogurt trend. Like, even more on board than Kyle. 
This man uses a loooot of energy while he’s running around, so he needs super sugary foods like twinkies to be around for his inevitable snackfests at random hours of the day.
He also loves junk food. At one point you started wondering whether the X-gene prevented Peter from getting cavities, because he eats more sugar than anybody else you know. 
You like to go shopping with Peter because it keeps him from stealing (well, keeps him from stealing as much, but that’s beside the point) and even though he acts like a literal child whenever you make him come with you, he appreciates slowing down and spending time doing something you like.
Usually he gets bored easily in the “healthy food” aisles at the grocery store, meaning anything that isn’t the soda, chips, or snack aisles, but during a random trip to the store he suddenly rushed off out of your sight while you were in the dairy aisle picking up cottage cheese.
When he came back a second later, his arms were full of yogurt.
“Peter, what are you doing?” “Have you seen these? Look at the flavors! They have starburst, and key lime pie, and gushers with popping beads!!!! Popping! Beads!”
You would try to insist that he didn’t need to buy that much yogurt, especially because he hadn’t tried it before and didn’t know if he’d like it, but Peter would give you his world famous puppy dog eyes and you’d give in. 
From then on he’d have gushers yogurt (and starburst yogurt, to be honest) in his mini-fridge most of the time.
You didn’t mind. Technically it was healthier than his twinkie addiction, so as long as your speedster was getting calcium in his diet you weren’t about to complain.
He probably has stronger bones than Wolverine with all the yogurt he eats.
His favorite flavor is green apple, but he’d say it’s blue raspberry to go with his aesthetic. 
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swamp-world · 2 years ago
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And yes, of course it’s not easy!! No one is saying that it is!! Yes, depression makes it feel impossible to do things like this, and yes, your personal circumstances probably don’t make things any easier (poverty, work-life balance, a lack of easily accessible community or places to go and walk and be outside) and that’s completely understandable!!
But saying “I can’t because X” is missing the point. It isn’t easy, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to do what little things you can. That’s a self-defeating cycle. And I know it can feel cruel to say “just do it!” because it isn’t that simple, but I’m saying this as someone still in the process of this. It helps to do what you can. You need to at some point force yourself out of these states. The most important thing about it is that it doesn’t have to all be big things!! Doing any of these can be so small, and that’s all you need to do to start! And behold, I guess, what tips I have to make it less daunting, based on personal experience.
When you go shopping for groceries, take a close look for discounted vegetables—a lot of places have steep sales on things that are about to go past their sell-by date. If you struggle with veggies, don’t be afraid to add whatever dip or dressing can make you like them more!! Something is better than nothing.
Step outside for five minutes and no more if you can’t do more! If it’s warm enough out you don’t even have to put on shoes if that feels like too much. You don’t even have to get dressed. Just get outside for a few breaths and some sunlight if you can.
Stretch a bit! Dance for two minutes to your favourite song if you don’t want to do structured “exercise”. Do one (1) of your physio stretches if you haven’t done them for a while or have mobility issues/injuries that can be helped by those. My grandmother has a little wooden cube about 2 inches across, and it’s her exercise cube. It comes in a little bag and has directions for how to use it: “Step one—place the block on the ground. Step two—walk in a circle around it. Congratulations, you’ve done it!” You don’t have to do it all—just a bit of movement to start.
Read kids’ books if you find that your attention span is shot or that adult books are too heavy for you to get into right then. Reading and taking time away from distractions to read is a skill that a lot of us have lost or let wear down, but it’s not unrecoverable. It just takes time. Be kind to yourself, don’t get upset if you find yourself unable to read the same tomes you could as a kid. Get a book of short stories. Of short essays or something fun to read. Kids books, novellas, etc. Something that’s fun to read. Just take a bit of time to try.
If you can’t or don’t want to have sex or don’t know where to get started, you don’t have to fuck other people. Whatever self-pleasure you can or want to engage in is equally valid and important. Get yourself a cheap (but safe!) toy. Find your preferred entertainment. Practice tying knots if that’s what sex means to you. And if you want nothing to do with it that’s totally fine! But just know that “having sex” doesn’t have to be penetrative and with a partner.
If you can’t brush your teeth, use mouthwash once or twice a day. If you hate mint flavour, get kids toothpaste. If you can’t use toothpaste at all, just scrub for a bit longer. This one may not make you feel better in the short term but I promise future you will thank yourself for doing what you can. Dental health is exhausting and expensive to repair but it’s never too late to start, and doing more than nothing is the best place to start.
Talking to other people and finding other people isn’t easy either, but it’s one of if not the most essential piece on this list. Find a community group for something you’re into. Check out things like meetup or community Facebook pages. If you drink and are able/willing to go out, I actually can’t overstate how much a good bar can do for meeting people. Other people go out also with the intent of meeting people. Other people are equally as lonely and I promise want to get to know you. (If you do go to a bar for social time tho just be mindful that not all of your social time is intrinsically linked to drinking. Give yourself other options. Invite people over. Take people up on their invitations to go back to their place for dinner or to keep chatting. Trust your gut, but also, don’t let yourself be entirely ruled by the kind of individualist fear of others that we’re perpetually inundated with.)
Drink water. Drink one glass of water. Add lemon or lime or mint leaves or berries or cucumber or whatever it takes to make you want to drink it. Drink sparkling water drink vegetable-fruit juice just make sure you’re hydrated with more than just soda and energy drinks. You don’t have to cut them out of your life, just make sure you’re drinking water alongside them.
It’s not easy. The unfortunate news is that it takes work to be well, and it will always take that work. Being healthy—not the kind of “that girl” “gym guy” “I get up at five am and only eat organic” health, but literally just “I am checking off my base needs to the extent that I am able to” health—does not happen passively. It is a skill. But more importantly than that, it’s a skill that you can learn. It’s a skill that you can practice. You’re not a talented woodworker or computer programmer or artist or dancer or person who can identify the model of a specific bus on sight or conversationalist without practicing it. That can take years. Your health is the same way, and that’s ok. Just like you wouldn’t think of yourself as being hopeless if you can’t make an intricate four-poster bed when you’ve just started, if you can only get up and walk in a circle in your room for forty seconds and drink one can of Super 8 and that’s your exercise and vegetables, that’s a start! And that’s all you need to do. Don’t set goals of drinking eight cups of water a day if right now you’re only drinking Mountain Dew. That’s how you set yourself up for failure from the start. Instead, aim to drink one glass of water a day, but for 4 days this week. Give yourself room to succeed without being perfect and perfectly consistent. That’s all it takes to start.
But you have to try to start.
if you're a human adult you physically need to eat actual vegetables, read real books, work, exercise, be outdoors, have sex, and have other real adult humans to talk to all on at LEAST a weekly basis or else you go will literally go completely insane and the problem is too many people choose to skip all those basic needs on purpose
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ironmandeficiency · 4 years ago
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pedro boys + spending habits
word count: fuck if i know, wrote it thru the app
characters: din, marcus m, dave, pero, marcus p, oberyn, max, frankie, whiskey, maxwell, javier, ezra
a/n: idk what caused this to happen but it works i guess. hope they make sense
✨support my ko-fi✨
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trust him with your money, your drink, your social security number, everything:
din. this man is barely scraping by on his own when you first meet him. when he adds the kid to the mix, he gets even more frugal than he already is with an old as sin ship that many people are surprised to see fly. he will have a policy of “you earn it, you choose what to do with it” and since he goes after most of (if not all) the bounties to keep you all alive, he has the final say in how most of the credits are spent. he does want you to have nice things though, so he makes sure to configure the budget to where you don’t have to pour your credits into the group’s survival money very often. it’s the least he can do. he’s very big on taking care of his people and will show that in small ways.
marcus m. he’s a single dad for a significant amount of time, he has no choice but to be responsible with his money. he has to take care of missy, keep them both fed and housed and healthy, and that’s not even touching on how expensive all of high school graduation and college will be once she gets there. he teaches missy very early in life how important money is bc he doesn’t want her to ever know how it feels to not have enough. he makes a considerable amount of money w the heroics tho so he can afford to responsibly splurge on you both, but not constantly. is very cautious abt the splurging becoming a habit
dave. yeah he may be a murderer, but he’s scary great at managing his money (to continue being able to murder). he’s got his ex wife’s alimony (that still pisses him off but that’s another story) and two girls he takes care of, there’s no other choice for him either. there’s never a worry about dave having a midlife crisis and spending money on some stupid dad thing (like a motorcycle or assless chaps or a country club membership) because he murders to keep his mind off that sort of stuff. files his taxes diligently every year the day tax season starts and will pass this wisdom to the girls.
pero. he’s very good at judging if you need something or not. if it can’t feed you, keep you healthy, kill someone, or protect you, you don’t need to buy it. definitely not a man who indulges in trinkets and frivolous things that do nothing but weigh down his horse and his person. will encourage this way of thinking with whoever travels with him to whatever extent he can, but won’t be a dick about it if you have something sentimental on your person. if it’s a necessity, he will splurge on a bed and bath at an inn but not much else for a while. cheap because he has to be
marcus p. i don’t think i have to explain this one so i won’t. no i’m not being lazy who said that?
maybe you’ll be fine if he’s in charge. maybe:
oberyn. being a prince (and himself), there are different ways this could go. he spends his money frivolously at brothels & on his daughters + other loved ones (as well as other luxuries) and doesn’t really seem to be the type to keep tabs on it all as he goes. but... he’s a prince in a prosperous kingdom and so there isn’t really a worry for money. he’s known as the red viper for many reasons, including his clever nature and the ease with which he can get what he wants thru whatever means necessary. if you want for something that he can’t buy, you know he will find a way to get it for you (which can be a problem sometimes).
max. he’s good with money in the sense of perpetuating capitalism — that’s the red flag here. hell, he’s gonna be investing into bitcoin and who knows what stock market bs & bc it’s max, of course you trust him. max can’t control the stock market tho, so sometimes things are a little iffy. it always evens itself out though, and you make sure in the future that he invests his money instead of your joint money. he’s still gonna share anyways, it just helps you have a little more peace of mind.
frankie. he just wants to take care of you, okay? you can’t fault him for that 🥺 he maneuvers his budget around to make sure he can do all these nice things for you while leaving his own needs unchecked, which isn’t okay. he just wants to provide for the ppl he loves the best he can, but the problem begins when he starts to think he isn’t doing enough. his insecurity & lack of self-worth (fueled by his guilt for “not being everything you deserve”) is what makes him agree to the Trip™️ in the first place. once he comes back & sees you frantic, only wanting him home and not giving a flying fuck about the money, does he realize that you’re devoted to him and not what he can do for you.
whiskey. working for statesman made him forget what things really cost bc he suddenly never had to worry again about not having enough money. being with someone that isn’t practically made of money will snap him back into reality. he looks at his bank statements and his balance occasionally, but our big spender cowboy hasn’t really counted money as something he worries about for a while. when he constantly showers you in expensive gifts (only the best for his baby, that’s his motto) and you tell him that he has to not do that bc he’ll go broke, he plays it off because he doesn’t remember having to worry. separate bank accounts are only because you want to make sure your money is being spent smartly (even though jack has offered constantly to pay for literally anything you need).
don’t give him anything you want to see again:
maxwell. as much as i love this dork, he’s absolute shit with money. when his business is falling apart (bc he made the stupid ass decision to buy the oil rigs no one wanted bc they weren’t producing oil), he throws it all into saving face and trying to make investors buy into something that isn’t there. what a smart business man would’ve done was liquidate his assets and possibly try to get into a business that will yield at least some profit. he does learn his lesson tho and eventually can be trusted with money, but even he is hesitant to do anything with the household finances. he’s a dreamer, and dreams and money are the same as oil and water.
javier. i know you’re possibly surprised but hear me out. he’ll go all in to get info, whether he’s spending american taxpayer money or his own money or anyone else’s, if it’s valuable info that can be bought, it’s gonna be bought even if he goes without groceries for the next two weeks. before being with you, it was booze and prostitutes and cigarettes that ate away at his checks outside of buying information. the only thing that really changed once you got together was the prostitutes and slightly less cigarettes and booze. however, when he goes back to laredo permanently, he’s perfectly capable of keeping his shit in line. he’ll balance every checkbook in sight and run a tight af ship.
ezra. this man is a scavenger by necessity, a con man by choice. he has a silver tongue and a roguish charm and pretty questionable morals; he’s not gonna have any issue with getting his hands dirty. he’s probably gonna use your joint money to try and pull a fast one on some unsuspecting stranger (“it’ll double our money,” he says, “it’ll be fine,” he says), but then said stranger will end up turning the tables and leave you both absolutely broke. yeah he will feel guilty, no doubt. the only problem is that he won’t take it as a “hey don’t do it again” lesson, it’ll be a “this is how i can improve for next time.” eventually you have to put your foot down and take control of the money and when he realizes that you’re improving your lives much better than he is, he will thank you for it.
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startanewdream · 4 years ago
Text
Godfather duty
Summary: When James is surprised by Sirius and Harry coming home drunk four in the morning, he questions himself when he got too old for that.
For @theblueocean 
Part of the Jily Lives AU
Rated M for mentions of underage drinking and some swearing.
Read on AO3 with all the correct italics, or below the cut:
_________
His eyelids feel heavy, but James keeps writing. He is almost finishing the first draft of the article for Transfiguration Today; it's due Sunday and he still has five days to finish it, but James is really anxious for presenting it. It's not his first paper for that magazine, but his article will be the headline this time, and he promised himself he would send them in advance as much as he could - and he still needs to send it to Minerva for her to read and review.
It feels a lot like he is back in school doing essays, but James doesn't remember being that excited back at Hogwarts - well, not about homework anyway.
He puts the final dot and lets the quill rest, satisfied. He will proofread in the morning, maybe even rewrite altogether from a different perspective, but it's done and it's a competent article, he knows.
Human transfiguration was always a point of interest to him.
He raises, stretching up and looking at his watch. It's past four in the morning already; he really lost track of time. He remembers Lily calling him to go to bed - and then he promised her he would go in a minute, which he clearly forgot.
He suppresses a yawn as he leaves the library, thinking only of sinking on his bed when he hears a sound coming from the front porch.
All his sleepiness is gone instantly, and he turns with his wand already raised, alarmed and with his instincts screaming even though it’s been months since the war ended; someone is turning the doorknob. The spell is almost leaving his lips when the door opens wide and he sees Harry's joyful face.
Harry is not alone; Sirius is with him, their arms around each other in a brotherly gesture and for a moment James has a flashback of himself with Sirius with that same easiness, both of them beaming happily and goofy; it's a memory of twenty years ago, of a night they went around Muggle London joining a pub crawl that ended up with James' mother finding them passed out in the middle of the Potter’s living room in Godric’s Hollows.
A lot of things happened that night - a flight from the Muggle police when they tried to climb Cleopatra’s Needle, an attempt to perform a serenade to Lily only to realize they were on the wrong street and throwing eggs at Grimmauld Place number twelve - but what he remembers clearer is the smell of the alcohol on him as he woke up next morning - and then the taste of it all as he threw it all up.
And right now Sirius and Harry have that same smell of cheap whiskey mixed with beer.
James blinks, confused. As far as he thought, Harry had been back from work hours ago - James was sure Harry had been sleeping on his bed right now.
It’s evident he was wrong.
‘Hi, Prongs’, Sirius says, grinning from ear-to-ear, sounding much steadier than James would have guessed from the smell coming from them. ‘Care to let us in?’
'What's going on?', James asks, worried, stepping aside to let them enter. Both of them are stumbling, but James has the impression that Sirius is supporting Harry more than the opposite.
For some reason his question makes them look at each other.
'What I said?', Sirius asks Harry as if they are sharing some old joke. Harry lets out of one of his rare carefree giggles. 'What d'you think we are doing, dear Prongs?'
'Coming home drunk in the middle of the night?’
‘Chill out, Dad’, Harry says, winking at him.
Chill out?
‘It’s four in the morning of a Tuesday - I thought you were home already!’
‘I had to work late’, Harry answers immediately, grinning. Sirius takes him to the living room, trying to help him on the couch, but Harry slides to the floor, falling on the carpet.
‘On a bar?’
‘It’s for work’, Harry insists, eyes open as if that was obvious. 
‘It was a very important mission’, Sirius agrees. ‘Stealth. Mixing with locals. Spying on people’.
‘Oh, were there Death Eaters on that bar?’, James asks, rolling his eyes.
‘It could have been! Harry needs to know how to handle his alcohol!’
Harry giggles.
‘I handle it very well’, he says proudly, clapping his hands. ‘Tell him, Sirius’.
‘He won us money on darts. He even closed his eyes for the last shot. You would be proud!’
‘That you were letting my barely out-of-age kid bet on games?’
Sirius rolls his eyes.
‘Everything was under control, he won. Stop worrying, I was on godfather duty tonight -’
‘Between a drink and another, you mean?’
‘ - and I brought him home, right?’
‘Speaking of that’, James raises his eyebrows, now sounding openly reproachful. ‘How did you come home? Don’t tell me you drank and apparated’.
‘I would never!’
‘Or that motorbike - if you came here flying, I swear I will -’
‘Relax, Dad!’, Harry intervenes, now raising on a jump, ignoring how he tumbles in the process. ‘We got a cab. Eeeeeeverything under control’.
James watches his son go to the cabinet in the room, searching for something until he takes out a feather to doodle something on a parchment, not realizing it’s a grocery list.
‘I see the control’, he says dryly. ‘What are you doing, Harry?’
‘I am making a howler’.
‘What? What for?’
‘To howl, duh - hey!’, he turns to Sirius, his eyes sparkling madly. ‘Remus never sends letters - he only sends howlers!’
Sirius chuckles. ‘I howl too! Owoooooo!’
‘Hey, hey, you are going to wake up Lily!’
‘And?’
‘And maybe you don’t want her to see what you did to Harry - Harry, stop that, you are not sending anyone a howler’.
‘I have to tell Ginny I love her!’
‘She already knows, I am sure, you’ve told her’.
‘But I never yelled it!’
‘And she loves you more because of that, come on, give me that letter’.
‘I knew he wouldn’t let you send it’, Sirius says, his voice now smug. ‘Prongsie is old’.
James rolls his eyes.
‘Same age as you, Pads’, he remembers distantly, taking the letter from Harry, though now he realizes he didn’t need to worry. Harry’s letter is unintelligible and he doubts he could cast the spell to turn into a howler.
Harry pouts.
‘Sirius is right, you are square’.
‘What?’
‘We can never have fun’.
‘And you are so serious - more than me, haha!’, Sirius adds, now laying down lazily on the couch, his legs spread. James is about to complain that his shoes are all muddy and Sirius should take them out, but he stops.
Oh, Merlin, he is really getting a bit square, isn’t he?
‘I can be fun’, he stresses, making Sirius let out one of his bark laughs.
‘Yeah, years ago. Before you were a dad - no offence, Harry’.
Harry doesn’t seem to have heard him, which James considers a shame. Harry would surely defend him - he was a cool dad to Harry.
No, he is still a cool dad. The kind that Harry can feel at will to talk about anything, that supports Harry and that is always there for him.
Except that Harry didn’t tell him about working late tonight or going to a bar. Except Harry and Sirius didn’t ask for his company.
And if they did - he thinks of the paper he just finished and how excited he was for it.
He would have said no.
That’s not very cool of him.
‘I will take a flight!’, Harry declares, his eyes shining with this idea and for once James doesn’t feel satisfied with the mischievousness in him.
‘No drinking and flying’, James says sternly, and he decides that he will have to remain uncool for a little longer. ‘You - you stay here! Sirius - watch him. Better than you did so far, I mean’.
Sirius grimaces, evidently annoyed, but he sits next to Harry, who is now mumbling something incomprehensible, though Sirius seems to be listening to him with attention. James leaves them in the living room, locking the door behind him just in case, and goes to Lily’s office hoping she has stored a Hangover Potion. He is in no luck, of course; it’s been years since he and Lily even needed one - James believes it comes with the age knowing when to stop - and there was nothing in Harry’s latest behaviour that showed them they would need it.
For a second James almost considers waking up Lily, knowing she would make the potion in minutes, but he doesn’t want her to see the mess Harry is right now; it’s far better she hears it later than witnessing first hand. He grabs a small cauldron and the ingredients he will need and returns to the living room.
In the few minutes he was out, Harry and Sirius managed to make things strangely worse. There is snow in the room, that he sees Sirius casting from his wand; Harry is perfectly still, the snow making a sort of white hat on his head, his arms wide open and also covered in snow.
‘What -’, James tries to ask, but he just blinks at the weirdness on the scene.
‘Shhhh’, Sirius says, a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t distract him!’
‘What is Harry doing?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Disguise training! He is a snowman!’
‘He is missing a carrot nose’, James notes, grimacing, and that makes Sirius turn his wand to Harry’s face. ‘I am joking!’
It’s too late; there is a flash of light and then there is a carrot on Harry’s face, replacing his nose.
‘Sirius!’, Harry complains, raising his hand to touch his new nose. His voice is muffled. ‘I can’t have a nose this big! How can I snog Ginny now?’
‘That’s your concern?’, James asks, half-amused, now taking out Sirius’ wand to make sure he doesn’t cast any more magic.
‘I will poke her in the eye!’, Harry says, moping, scratching the tip of his pointy nose thoughtfully.
‘I will transform you back as soon as you drink this potion, now lay still’. Harry sighs, sitting on the couch. Sirius sits next to him, patching him in the back as if he weren’t the one that turned Harry’s nose into a carrot in the first place.
‘Your nose matches her hair’, he says bracingly. ‘You will look beautiful together’.
‘I am not sure this is much comfort, Padfoot’, James notes, placing the cauldron in the fireplace and starting to throw in the ingredients. He could add something for the taste, but he believes the bitterness helps build character.
‘Well, I got him quiet, didn’t I?’, Sirius asks, pointing at Harry who is now sitting on the couch, still playing with his carrot nose.
‘You could have messed up so badly’.
‘I am not that drunk - I watched over your kid, no matter what you think of me’.
James shakes his head.
‘Letting him drink that much? He barely can stand - what if someone -’
‘The war is over, James’, Sirius tells him, sounding much grim now. ‘And like I said, I was there. Me, half-a-dozen junior Aurors and some seniors too’.
‘Unless any Death Eater threat would be a challenge to a drinking contest, I don’t think it would make much difference’.
‘Oh, Merlin’. Sirius sighs, walking to the drink cabinet and opening it to take a bottle of firewhiskey. ‘Here, drink this’.
‘What?’
‘You are sober, I hate talking to sober people when I am pissed. Sober people are boring’.
‘I am not boring’, James complains, pushing away the bottle that Sirius extends in his direction. ‘And I am past the age of being forced to drink to look cool’.
‘Then drink because it’s nice!’, Sirius says forcefully now. ‘Drink because you are alive! Drink because you are happy! Drink because for the first time in his life your son is properly pissed!’
‘That’s not a reason -’
‘That’s enough reason! He is eighteen! What age were we when we first got pissed?’
‘Seventeen’. Sirius raises his eyebrows, waiting for him, and James flushes, turning his attention to the cauldron. The potion is almost over. ‘Fine, fifteen - but it didn’t count, we weren’t thinking straight then’.
‘Yeah. Our first transformation’, Sirius remembers, but there is something heavy on his voice now.
‘What is the problem, Padfoot?’
‘Nothing’. 
That makes James stop. He takes the cauldron out of the fire, to let the potion cool down, and turns to Sirius, watching him. Sirius’ eyes are watery as he always gets when he drinks, but he sustains James’ look for a surprisingly full two minutes before he sighs.
‘Fine, you are the problem’.
‘Me? You take my son out for a drink without telling me, return home four in the morning and I am the problem?’
‘Look at what you are saying! He is of age! He was with his friends - and his very trustable godfather! He was having fun for once in his life, instead of living that responsible life you want for him’.
‘Responsible?’, James repeats, dumbfounded. Nobody had ever accused him of wanting to do the responsible thing. ‘I am just being his father’.
‘Well, maybe Harry doesn’t need his father anymore’.
There is a long pause after that. James blinks, once, twice, very slowly, trying to understand what Sirius means by that, and it’s only when he reaches for the drink cabinet to get a glass for the potion, that Sirius moves.
‘Shit - I didn’t mean like that - sorry, James, it’s not -’
‘No, I get it’, James says, his voice forcefully steady. ‘Harry wants the cool father figure that allows him everything - and, well, Sirius “what’s life without a little risk” Black is perfect for that’.
‘Don’t be absurd - that kid worships the ground you walk upon -’
‘And yet he was with you, not me. I get it. I am a father, not a friend’. He offers Sirius a full glass. ‘Drink this, you’ll feel better tomorrow’.
‘No, I deserve the hangover tomorrow, but that’s beside the point. It’s my fault’.
‘I don’t think you forced Harry to drink’, James notes dryly, sitting next to Harry to help him drink the potion. Harry seems to be in another world now, but he obliges to James’ help without questioning.
‘No, that was all on him - I mean it, he’d make you proud, he won a drinking contest with Thompson and he is twice Harry’s size - er, not helping, sorry’. Sirius sits on the other side of Harry. ‘He was going to tell you we’d be out for a drink. And I didn't let him'.
'Why? Why would you -'
'Because I thought you would overreact. Worry too much about him. Don't let him have any fun'.
'I would not -'
'And because I thought he'd ask you to come’.
James blinks. Between them, Harry lays his head on James' shoulder, now watching Sirius with mild curiosity.
‘I would ask’, he agrees, a note of pride in his voice. 
'Am I that bad company?', James asks in a low voice. Sirius shakes his head.
'Would you come with us?', he challenges. James keeps his gaze for a few seconds, but just like Sirius didn't lie for him before, he wouldn't dare speak anything but the truth.
'No, I had things to do today'.
'That article', Sirius scoffs. 'You don't talk about anything else'.
James frowns.
'It's really important - a chance of -'
'Getting yourself a name, I know, I know. But see -', his grey eyes are burning over James now, somewhat desperate. 'The Prongs I know would never care for reputation'.
'Sirius…'
'The Prongs I know would be honest with me'.
'I am - what are you -'
'I heard you and Kingsley, ok?', he blows off. 'Registering as an animagus? After all this time?'
There is another silence, broken only by the crackling fire.
'I was going to tell you', James says finally. 'I didn't think it was important - you don't have to register too -'
'That's not the point - you are breaking our trust -'
'It's just an entry on a list. It doesn’t change anything, I will keep our full moon nights -'
'When Remus has time, you mean?', he asks, sounding bitter now. 'He missed the last two, he'd rather stay home -'
'He has a kid now -'
'So do you and… you guys are getting old and responsible and too serious for me'.
'Nobody is more serious than you', James says, smiling at him, but Sirius just rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle of firewhiskey on the coffee table, taking a sip.
James extends his hand. Sirius raises one eyebrow, in disbelief, and his expression only relaxes a little when James takes a long sip of the firewhiskey. The drink burns his throat, infusing him with that weird dose of courage and a will to do something, but James just sighs.
'You are no less serious because of it', Sirius notes.
'I got serious - the war, the first one and then the second one and everything - and I think I forgot how to relax - but that doesn't mean… you are my brother, Sirius'.
'The annoying prettier baby brother?'
'You are older', James says, grinning, and after a second of hesitation, Sirius smiles too. 'You can invite me - I mean, we can do things together. Even if it sounds - or is - stupid'.
'Things together like… registering our animagus form?'
James rests against the couch, and Harry moves his head to rest more comfortably on his shoulders; James thinks he will sleep soon.
'You don't need to do it too - Kingsley already knows about you and he is the bloody Minister of Magic, isn't he? This was not about doing the responsible thing'.
'Then why -'
'I want the credit'. James presses his lips, before admitting something he didn't even share with Lily yet. 'I talked to Minerva - if I get back to my studies, get enough recommendation to be approved by the board, I could get her position'.
Sirius blinks, startled.
'Her position? You mean -'
'Transfiguration professor, yeah'.
He looks away now, feeling somewhat embarrassed. It had never really been an ambition - teaching was much more something Remus had always wanted to do than him; James had been glad to focus on his studies and develop new theories of transfiguration until then. 
But ever since Minerva had vented that possibility to him a few weeks after the end of the war, when they were repairing one of the halls destroyed in the battle, that thought had been on his mind. He wasn't in a rush, but the idea of getting back to Hogwarts, this time as a professor, watching other students learn from him as much as he had learned from Minerva McGonagall… he couldn't deny that idea had taken root in his mind.
James always teased her that he had been her favourite student, but the fact was that she was his favourite professor and there was some part of him that wanted to impress her and prove himself good enough to replace her someday.
He waits for Sirius' response, but there is only a silence that doesn't seem good.
'I know it's huge', James mumbles. 'There are others far more capacitated than me, I am starting now to -'
'Shut your mouth, Prongs', interrupts Sirius, and James turns to him. There is a grin on his face. 'Being humble never suited you'.
James laughs softly.
'I wasn’t trying to', he assures him.
'I thought - I thought you had wanted to do the right thing. You know, registering just because you wanted to follow the law, as if… as if you were ashamed of what we did illegally -'
'Now it's you who needs to shut up, Padfoot'. He takes another sip of the firewhiskey. ‘Animagus at age of fifteen? I’m damn proud of it. Also, that’s the only thing that I have done that’s cooler than half the stuff Harry got into’.
‘Yeah, I suppose it’s hard when your son is a bloody hero’.
Harry chooses that moment to start snoring loudly, which sends James and Sirius into a fit of laughter. James raises, careful to let Harry sleep on the couch, and Harry doesn’t look remotely close to waking up.
‘I am glad you took him out for a drink’, James says, taking out Harry’s glasses. ‘I was just jealous - it should have been me’.
‘I am sure there will be another occasion’, Sirius says dismissively. ‘He will probably forget every embarrassing thing he did, you know how that works’.
‘Oh, he embarrassed himself?’, James asks, a glint of fun on his eyes. Sirius smirks.
‘That happy giggling Harry you saw? Just the last stage. He was all cocky at first - that’s how we got into that darts bet’.
‘Harry? My son? Cocky?’
‘Oh, yeah, he reminded me a lot of you’, Sirius’ smirk increases. ‘He was strutting and all’.
‘Tell me you took pictures of it’.
‘I would never’, Sirius declares, though James isn’t sure he believes him this time. ‘And then he got very… honest’.
‘That doesn’t sound good for that stealth mission’.
Sirius shakes his head.
‘If he was spilling out Auror secrets I would be happier - no, instead I had to hear about the time he and Ginny -’
‘Nope, nope, I don’t want to know’.
‘Well, me neither, I won’t ever use your Invisibility Cloak again, you can be sure. But anyway - that’s why he got here so drunk. I decided vodka was the only way to shut him up properly’.
Sirius looks so satisfied with himself and his choices, that James knows what he has to do.
‘It’s late’, he says pleasantly. ‘Crash here tonight’.
‘Oh, I think I will - I am not fit to apparate’.
‘Let’s go upstairs then’.
‘And Harry?’
‘Oh, look at him. He is sleeping so well, he can stay here tonight’.
‘If you are sure’.
‘Yeah, yeah, everything will be fine’.
_________
James has slept barely four hours when he wakes up with Lily’s cry. He puts on his robe lazily, waiting a few minutes to go downstairs; when he passes Sirius’ room, the door is already opened.
Good.
He finds them all together in the toilet next to the kitchen, and by the sounds coming out of there, his Hangover Potion wasn’t very efficient.
‘We were working late, Lily’, Sirius is saying, sounding properly desperate. ‘And we went out for a drink -’
‘It was a Tuesday night! He has to work in one hour!’
‘So do I - but you see, I’m his boss, so everything is fine! Also, I don’t think any of the boys will show up -’
‘Perfect’, Lily interrupts him, her eyes sending daggers in Sirius’ direction. ‘Then you can take care of him’. She sees James. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Me? I was working late on my text, you know’, he answers, yawning and looking very innocent.
Sirius waits until Lily is out for the kitchen to turn to James, his eyes narrowed.
‘You knew she would be mad. That’s why you told me to stick around’.
‘If I knew how my dear wife would react to knowing you got our son pissed? How could I?’
Sirius grimaces as there is another retching sound coming from the bathroom.
‘Oh, you better go there and don’t forget to keep Harry hydrated’.
‘Watch it’, Sirius says, but he goes into the bathroom anyway. ‘I won’t ever show you the pictures’.
James shrugs, undisturbed.
‘That’s fine. Next time Harry gets drunk, I will be there’.
‘I won’t ever ever ever drink again’, Harry moans, hugging the toilet seat now, his face sweaty.
‘Oh, kid, we’ve all been there’, Sirius sighs, flushing down the toilet and helping Harry raise.
James grins to himself, glad that Sirius is doing his godfather duty once again, and leaves them alone.
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thepartyresponsible · 4 years ago
Note
For the wip ask (they all sound very interesting ngl it was hard to pick just one!) LostSteve
lost steve! yeah, so. what if shield defrosted captain america, and he broke out and just...kept running? what if they lost him? what if he ended up hiding out in tony’s tower, away from the fight for long enough to get his feet underneath him?
this fic is mostly about steve and tony finding each other first, so they can form the heart of the avengers, instead of the fault line that splits the team in half. here’s the first part of it.
                                                          —  
There’s an alert from Nick Fury that Tony chooses to ignore, for the sake of his convenience and Fury’s ongoing character growth. JARVIS announces its arrival and then diligently reminds Tony about the message twice before Tony tells him to mute it until morning.
“If it’s really that important,” he says, “they’ll just send someone to break in anyway.”
Which is why, on some level, he’s not at all surprised to find a man sitting on a couch in his penthouse twenty-seven hours later. He will admit to being caught somewhat off-guard by the specifics of the situation, though, because Steve Rogers has been dead for longer than Tony’s been alive.
“Zombie?” Tony asks. “Hallucination? Oh, clone? Are you a clone?”
Steve Rogers looks at him the way people look at wax sculptures. Like he’s interested in the details of the creation in front of him, but doesn’t believe for a second that what he’s looking at is real. “Mr. Stark,” he says, politely. His voice is deeper than Tony would’ve guessed.
“Robot,” Tony theorizes. “Sexbot? Updated Trojan Horse? If I let you inside me, are you gonna--”
The man’s brow furrows, and his mouth twists down, and his eyes are too sad for circuitry. No one would code that kind of grief.
Tony pauses for a moment, rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels. He studies this intruder carefully. Someone sent him a Steve Rogers lookalike in a white t-shirt and stained khakis. He’s hale and healthy, built like a god, but his feet are bare and dirty.
Bloody, too. There are bloody footprints on the carpet.
“Wait,” Tony says. “Wait. Who the hell are you?”
There’s a long beat of silence. The man on his couch just stares at him, eyes tracing over Tony’s face, his shoulders, looking at him like he’s starving for something. He’s quiet and small, somehow, in a way that doesn’t relate at all to the amount of space his body takes up.
And then he stands, light and graceful on his bloody feet. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders pull up, and he’s an American Hero, suddenly and decisively, like he’s made some kind of choice about it.
“Mr. Stark,” he says, again, “I’m Captain America.”
And he is, Tony thinks. The same way that he’s Iron Man. Because once you put on that kind of armor, whatever else you used to be is irrelevant.
                                                           —
He’s Captain America, and he’s back from the dead. SHIELD had him and lost him, and Nick Fury wants Tony to go looking for him. That’s the message he left with JARVIS over a day ago. And Tony can’t imagine he was the first name on their list, which means Steve Rogers has been alone in the wrong century for an unknown but considerable amount of time.
“Hey,” he says, calling out from where he’s slouched against the kitchen island, watching Captain America dutifully eat through every scrap of leftovers Tony had in the fridge. “How long have you been here?”
“I was born here,” he says, through a mouthful of fried rice that he hides behind a napkin. He chews, swallows, and jabs his fork over Tony’s shoulder. “In Brooklyn.”
Tony knew that. Of course he knew that. He memorized everything about Steve Rogers back when he thought he could become enough like him to make Howard consider him worthwhile. “No, I mean,” he says, waving his hands, “in this century. How long have you been--- Jesus. I dunno. Awake? Aware? Unfrosted flakes?”
Steve blinks at him. He stares for a second and then ducks his head, stirs his fork through the open takeout box in front of him. “Spent a couple days,” he says. “Looking around.”
Looking around. Steve Rogers, unwitting time-traveler, barefoot in New York. What had he been looking for? Why did he come here?
“Why didn’t you get any shoes?” Tony asks, instead of any of the more complicated questions.
Steve tucks his feet under his chair. He washed them half an hour or so back, walking uneasily into the bathroom Tony showed him and then locking the door behind him, like he thought Tony was some kind of pervert who would bodyslam through the door to catch a glimpse of him sudsing up his bare ankles.
“Didn’t have any money,” he says, surprisingly mulish about it.
“You couldn’t smash and grab a pair of Sketchers?” Tony shakes his head. “If you get lockjaw, you’re gonna have to tell Fury you caught it from somewhere else. Fuck’s sake, when was your last tetanus booster? 1943?”
He shrugs. He doesn’t seem concerned. He’s busy eating his way through enough calories to keep your average winter-starved grizzly happy.
It’s hungry work, coming back from the dead. Tony remembers the unholy things he would’ve done for a cheeseburger.
“Didn’t have any money,” he repeats, scraping his fork around the sides of the takeout box, diligent and serious, like it’s the very last scrap of food he’ll ever get.
Tony clears his throat, hip-checks the counter to heave himself to standing. “I’ll get you some cash.”
                                                           —
There’s a weird moment, when Tony gives him the money. It’s just a few hundred dollars. He’s not Tony’s problem, not his project raised from the dead, but he still doesn’t want to give Steve Rogers the means to get himself truly lost in a world he doesn’t know.
Five hundred dollars will get him some food and somewhere to sleep for a few days, but it won’t get him far enough out of SHIELD’s orbit to get himself in trouble.
He looks up when Tony gets close. There’s a well-worn wariness in his eyes. He watches him the way a dog from a bad home might watch him through the bars of the shelter’s kennel. Resigned instead of hopeful, like he knows how this goes, like he knows he can survive it.
“Here,” Tony says. He leaves the money two chairs away from him, within easy grabbing distance. “And I have shoes your size, if you want to borrow them.”
“I don’t need that,” Rogers says, pointing at the money.
Tony lets his mouth tip up sideways, smirks like this is the part of the whole situation he finds truly unbelievable. “You’re going to come into my house,” he says, “uninvited, unannounced, and then you’re going to refuse to accept my hospitality? Rogers, what would your mother think?”
There’s a stall point in Roger’s stare, like watching a bird fly into a window. There’s a moment, right around the word mother, when those blue eyes blank out, and Tony’s just staring into empty space.
“She didn’t,” he says, and it’s fascinating. He’s stitching himself up right here at Tony’s dining table. Tony can practically see it happening, vertebrae stacking up, pulling him taunt like a needle tugging on a thread. “She never liked charity.”
Tony is familiar with pride. He has something of an overabundance himself, although he comes by it honestly. He knows hurt pride hates an audience, so he looks away.
“I imagine she hated the idea of you starving, too,” Tony says. “Probably worked very hard to make sure that didn’t happen. Going to waste all her work now, Rogers? Seems ungrateful.”
He’s half-taunting by the end of it. He’s not sure why. He finds weak points like a magnet finds iron. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s pulling on until after he’s accidentally ripped out someone’s heart. It’s not one of the traits he’s proud of, but, like his pride, he knows where it came from.
Rogers glares at him, but he hooks the next takeout container over anyway.
“I’ll get those shoes,” Tony says. JARVIS has already measured; Rhodey left some boots that should fit.
Steve doesn’t say anything, but, when Tony comes back, the money is gone, and so is he.
                                                           —
Tony doesn’t tell Fury a damn thing. If Fury lost a national icon, that’s his problem. And anyway, Tony’s still not completely convinced that the blonde who materialized in his penthouse was actually Steve Rogers and not some kind of really confused, really well-built homeless man. Or a stripper.
Tony’s never actually met a stripper who showed up in khakis, refused to disrobe, and then ate ten pounds of takeout before silently disappearing, but he’d be willing to pay another five hundred dollars for a repeat performance.
He figures out how the maybe-Steve got into his penthouse. He upgrades the security, but he tells JARVIS to let him in if he ever comes back. He’s not sure what he’s hoping for, but he’s too curious to lock him out.
                                                           —
There’s a bit of nothing that kicks off in New York, some Hammer tech that goes haywire. Tony puts it down like the cheap knockoff that it is, but he gets stuck in debrief with Phil Coulson afterwards, because he’s not quite quick enough to abandon the scene after the fight’s over. In his defense, he was holding a car above a partially-trapped bicyclist, and Coulson caught him before the EMTs could finish disentangling her.
He makes it back to the Tower after an hour of mostly-wasted time. Steve Rogers is sitting at his dining table. Tony bites back the ludicrous urge to “honey, I’m home!” him.
“Hey,” he says instead, as he steps in from the balcony, stripped down to the skintight suit he wears under the armor. He didn’t expect company. “You get something to eat?”
Steve seems somehow offended by the question. “I didn’t break in here and steal anything,” he says.
“Okay,” Tony says, moving past him. “Well, that’s a gold star and an empty stomach for you, Rogers. We’re all very proud.”
“It’s not my food,” Steve tells him. If he had hackles, they’d be raised. Tony wants to pat him on the head, but only because he’s always had a sort of neurotic tendency to see how hard people bite before he decides whether to trust them.
“Yeah, and a twenty-dollar grocery bill is really gonna break me,” Tony says. He takes a smoothie out of the freezer. “You want pizza? I’m gonna order pizza.”
Steve stares at him for a long moment before he shrugs. “I could eat,” he says.
“Great,” Tony says. He has JARVIS order three pizzas, because he wants at least half of one for himself, and Steve Rogers is a human garbage disposal.
Steve takes a shower while they’re waiting. He asks first, which Tony supposes is the polite thing to do, and he takes his backpack with him, like he’s worried Tony’s going to steal his wallet.
“You know,” Tony says, when Steve remerges, wearing another knockout set of some grandpa’s Goodwill khakis and button-down shirt, “you keep showing up like this, and it’s gonna get harder for me to lie to Fury about having no idea where you are.”
Steve flips open a pizza box and carefully selects a slice. His hair is wet and neatly combed back from his face. He’s handsome from a distance but damn near devastating at close range. Tony takes another bite of pizza, hopes it’ll help swallow back the urge to sink a few grand into war bonds.
“Fury’s the guy with the eyepatch?” Steve doesn’t settle into a seat. He takes his pizza and wanders over to the window, stares out at the skyline.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Tony says.
Steve makes a face. Tony can see it, dulled and faded, in the reflection on the glass. “He’s persistent,” he says, slowly. Not like it’s a compliment.
“Yeah,” Tony says, again, “that’s him.”
Steve doesn’t say anything else. Tony finishes his slice of pizza, eats another one. There’s an ache in his right shoulder from being wrenched around by Hammer’s ridiculous creation, and he should be icing it, but he doesn’t want to. Not with Steve Rogers here.
He’s never liked looking human in front of an audience. His problem has always been that he couldn’t figure out how to stop. At least, not until he built his armor.
Steve comes back when he’s out of pizza. He’s catlike in his wariness, in the way he seems pissed at Tony for daring to exist in his proximity.
“That fight,” he says, apropos of approximately nothing at all. “Earlier.”
“Oh,” Tony says, rising out of his chair and moving toward the bar, giving Steve the room to loom over the pizza like he’s defending his kill. “You see that on the news?”
“Saw it on the street,” Steve says. “Heard the screams.”
Heard the screams and came running. So he’s still in the hero business. Fury will be happy to hear it.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Steve tells him. He sounds angry about it. At Tony, not the situation. “Where’s your backup?”
“Backup,” Tony repeats. “Cap, c’mon. Read a newspaper. I work alone.”
Steve Rogers looks up from his pizza perusal just long enough to roll his eyes. It should feel like a slap across the face, and maybe it does. However it feels, Tony likes it. Wants more of it. There’s always been something grounding in being dismissed, like Tony’s never known where he stands until someone shows him how he doesn’t measure up.
“Is that supposed to be impressive?” Steve asks. “Men who work alone die alone, Stark. And they’re not very effective when they do.”
Tony knows he’s meant to be offended. He is, probably. But he couldn’t bite back his smile for anything. “I think I liked you better when you called me ‘Mr. Stark.’”
“Seems to me,” Steve says, “you want everyone to call you Iron Man these days.”
“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Tony says, “surely they had that line about glass houses in the ‘40’s?”
Steve frowns at him. “I never asked anyone to call me Captain America.”
“And yet,” Tony says, tipping a bottle of whiskey his direction, “that’s how to introduced yourself to me.”
Steve gives him a look like he thinks Tony’s being deliberately obtuse. “That’s who I am,” he says.
Tony rolls his eyes and flips a tumbler right side up. “But when I start using a stage name,” he says, “suddenly I’m a narcissistic asshole who doesn’t--”
“Do you think,” Steve says, looming up suddenly, shifting gears like something mechanical, going battle-ready with more decisiveness than a faceplate clicking down, “that anybody spent years, spent—I don’t know. Millions of dollars? Do you think anybody did that for Steve Rogers?”
Tony’s caught wrong-footed. He did it again. Drilled until he found the nerve, cut until he broke the skin.
“I think you don’t get one without the other,” Tony says, trying now to soothe. But he’s not very good at it. His instincts don’t run this direction. His whole life, the only things he could ever repair were machines.
Steve shakes his head. He steps away from the pizza. He looks around, eyes zeroing in on his backpack.
“Stay here,” Tony says, sidling out from behind the bar, whiskey now in hand.
Steve straightens up like a cobra, like he’s going to spit venom in Tony’s face. Tony wants to put his mouth on him, which is probably only half because he’s always been hellbent on his own destruction. The other half is that Steve Rogers is beautiful like something made in a lab for aesthetics alone, carefully designed for universal appeal. Tony likes to tell himself he has a taste for the exclusive, but the reality has always been he wants exactly what everyone else does.
“You don’t want SHIELD to find you,” Tony says, “then stay here. Trust me, this is the last place they’d think to look.”
He’s not standing between Steve and the exit. He was careful about that. Whatever SHIELD might think about him, he doesn’t have a death wish. And also, when he’s thinking about it, he’s not usually deliberately an asshole. It’s just that, most of the time, he’s not thinking about it.
“Why should I trust you?” Steve asks.
Tony shrugs. Hell, he has no idea. “Why’d you come here? The first time. When SHIELD lost you, you came here. Why?”
“I went home,” Steve says, argumentative, all squared shoulders and tight jaw. “I went to Brooklyn. But it wasn’t there anymore. None of it was—I couldn’t find…”
He trails off, shakes his head, sharp and agitated, a horse bothered by a fly. It’s hard to look in his eyes. There’s something in them that Tony doesn’t want to see. It’s like watching a statue bleed.
“I heard there was still a Stark in New York,” Steve says. “I read about you. I thought maybe you’d--”
“You thought I’d be like Howard,” Tony finishes for him. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I thought you’d be like me,” Steve says, which doesn’t make any sense at all.
“You,” Tony says. And then, a little helplessly, “What?”
Steve looks away. He shrugs, looks back. “I saw the suit,” he says. “On the news. I saw what it can do. I didn’t think--- things have advanced a lot. I didn’t understand. I thought Howard had…”
Tony squints at him. “You thought Howard did a Rebirth redux and tested it on his kid?”
“I thought a lot of things,” Steve says, snappy. “It was a very confusing couple of days.”
Tony can imagine that it was. “So you thought I was Rebirthed, and you wanted--”
“I didn’t want anything,” Steve says, and there’s that flash of exposed nerve again, that look like a sinkhole in the backs of his eyes. “That’s not the point.”
Tony takes a sip of his whiskey. It settles, warm and sweet, into his stomach.
I didn’t want anything.
I shouldn’t be alive, unless it’s for a reason.
Tony holds the tumbler out. Steve needs the warmth more than he does. “Here,” he says.
Steve takes it, seemingly on reflex. “I can’t get drunk,” he says.
“Well,” Tony says, circling back toward the bar, “not with that attitude.”
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possumcollege · 1 year ago
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🤦‍♀���I have learned something that has made this topic even dumber.
Since the post above, I've learned that some of the cat-child panic has been fueled by photos of kitty litter in a classroom. Cranks are fretting themselves raw over the notion that schools are providing litter boxes for students identifying as cats.
My mother taught kindergarten for over 30yrs. I was a child. I've been in more public school classrooms than I can count. I now have a young child in school. I have been intimately acquainted with the needs and practices of public school teachers for most of my life. I now work in higher education.
If the litter isn't there for a class pet or science experiments, I can say with damn near 100% certainty that it's there to clean up vomit, urine, or other nasty liquid spills.
Kids are messy. Especially little kids who aren't great at knowing when they need to go pee, are too embarrassed to ask, or just have accidents. Their bladders don't always grow proportionately with the rest of them and you can't just shame kids into mastering their bodies. Kids also throw up a lot. From being over-excited, angry, sad, drinking too much chocolate milk, playing too hard, eating junk they shouldn't, they're kind of like cats. There's a non-zero chance of someone throwing up at least once a month in pre-k through maybe 5th grade.
When that happens, teachers or staff can:
Attack the mess with the institutional-grade paper products schools provide, which are about as absorbent as newsprint.
Call and wait for a custodian. Depending on the school, there may only be 1-5 people servicing facilities used by hundreds of students. My small town K-5 had at most 3 regular custodians, one of which was also the building engineer.
Use the precious good paper towels donated by parents because public school teachers in the US almost universally have to purchase their own everyday consumables .
Dump cat litter on it to keep the pool from spreading, buy time for the custodian/janitor/housekeeper to show up, and cut The Smell before the rest of the class starts a chain reaction.
I've seen teachers include litter in suggested donation items at the beginning of the semester along with spare socks, underwear, t-shirts, instant ice packs, band-aids, etc. because again, the average public school teacher's budget for materials is razor-thin.
Someone on Twitter questioned my assertion saying "wouldn't sawdust be better and cheaper? that's what my school used." Sawdust is damn near perfect for containing wet messes and it can be cheap, but it's not generally as accessible for the average consumer in 2023. Institutions will buy it cheap in bulk, or products like it specifically made for cleaning up bio-waste. However just about anybody can buy cheap kitty litter in gas stations, dollar stores, groceries, hardware stores, pet stores, pharmacies, convenience stores, in less- than-industrial quantities. I can virtually guarantee a box of litter will be cheaper and easier to find than a package of specialized vomit dust.
I've also heard the litter is somehow related to mass-shooting prep but that seems like more of a stretch. I heard someone on a podcast guess it was in case someone couldn't get to the bathroom during an emergency lockdown (a lot of US schools call them Code Reds), which isn't entirely implausible but still far less likely than regular spill/fluid management. I've also seen people online say the litter is for bleeding control but pouring cat litter into a wound is a fucking terrible idea. It can't be sterile and cleaning it out would be a trauma surgeon's nightmare.
This is a lot of words to reinforce the point that the "concern" over cat children is firmly rooted in transphobia and anti-LGBTQ+ bigotry. I think it's important to interrogate the reckless incuriousity that is such a structural element of bigotry. The core principle that the world has come to be the way it is because it is supposed to be that way, can create such toxic adherence to the status quo that it can turn just about any new piece of information into an existential crisis.
Why is cat litter in a place where there are no cats? The answer could be a sign that our society has become so soft that kids who want to be cats must be provided with litter boxes by administrators too afraid of being called bigots OR the answer could just be boring and kind of gross.
I saw this happen like a decade ago where people who didn't know how cars are moved by train were TERRIFIED to hear that the FBI was buying bi-level rail cars with "shackles" and air holes in the sides. Did this mean patriots were going to be shipped off to death camps on trains? Or does it mean the government has a lot of vehicles to move across the country and those vehicles need to be tied down so they don't smash into each other, and the trains need ventilation so those cars don't melt inside the giant steel box that the sun shines on? Instead, when someone pointed out that these train cars were for moving vehicles, the cranks theorized the state was somehow planning to round up undesirable Americans by hacking their vehicles' computers and kidnapping them in their cars.
Conspiracy theories and this kind of moral outrage always hinge on people needing there to be some nefarious, coordinated. intentional effort behind the parts of the world that "shouldn't" be. If the world is right and good, and the natural order is correct then why did this incomprehensible or terrible thing happen? What normal person could be so hostile to reality without being pushed by bad actors?
Sometimes shit does just happen. There will be things that don't make sense under a fixed model of existence. People are complicated creatures. We can treat these things as aberrations and spend our entire lives fighting the mere presence of the uncategorized, or learn to live in a world of the possible, even when seems frighteningly improbable. I understand that there is comfort and safety in the knowable, for there to be meaning, and a plan, that hell is simply chaos for some people. I also know that curiosity is one of humanity's greatest attributes and that imagination is what has enabled us to thrive in the world when it isn't being used to turn us against each other for the benefit of a privileged few.
That privileged class needs people to believe "this is how the world works." They need people to be afraid of gray areas, threats from outsiders, the unfamiliar, weird shit. They need us to have faith in their word or faith that our reward lies outside earthly things so they don't have to provide for us. This is so essential to entrenched systems of power that simple transparency and understanding of how the sausage actually gets made can't be treated as common knowledge. Incuriosity is the weapon and the shield of systems of control.
"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood?..."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
Transphobic parents love to eat their own trails over that post about Unnamed Public School where a kid identifies as a cat.
Their monocle hasn't hit the ground yet before they post shit to their school board like, "I'm not sure if this is a thing or not but it sounds exactly like something they would do and if it's half as bad as I'm imagining, I fear any of us that survive will soon come to envy the dead!"
You can't make this shit up? It sounds exactly like the stories they make up to justify their need to get violently angry about a complete stranger's genitals. Even if it was true, it absolutely can't hurt them. The real police couldn't make these people wear masks or stop going to bars during a pandemic and they think the Woke SS is going to mass-grave them for defending their right to be a shit to other people's kids.
I get that it's because being that furious about a real thing makes it too easy to call them a bigot. "I don't hate the kids, I hate what could come next if we stop reminding kids how to be good boys and girls."
It's easier to pretend they're worried about escalation instead of owning up to the confusion and rage they feel because the image they hold of the world isn't the majority position anymore. Condolences.
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alfredosauce50 · 4 years ago
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would you be down to do 2p china hc’s? im very curious on how you characterize him!
I’m down! I’m guessing you figured I had my own interpretation of the guy after I answered an ask saying I’d write for him. I really like 2p! China as a character, but I have to say, I haven’t properly written for him before. Nevertheless, I’ll give you my thoughts on him as a person!
2p! China Headcanons
Zao’s appearance doesn’t give away much of his personality. He’s got a bit of a baby face, and he has a sociable and pleasant demeanor for the most part. So if you didn’t know him well enough to see past those traits, you would be surprised at how shady he can be.
Appearance
Like his 1p counterpart, his dark brown hair goes past his shoulders and is tied back in a low ponytail. It’s pretty thin too, so it stays flat against his back. But that’s what makes it look so good. He isn’t the tallest guy out there, as he stands around 170cm or 5′7″. Doesn’t mean you can easily take him out in a fight, though. He’s quite slender, but he’s muscular and knows a few martial arts to boot.
He has a lot of tattoos, and he doesn’t try to hide them. He has dragons curling down his arms, as well as Chinese characters etched into his back. Most of the time, he wears traditional clothing, such as a sleeveless Tang suit, so his arms are exposed. It’s almost as if the colors black and red were made for him. And he knows it. So unless he’s having a bad day where he’ll go for a simple T-shirt, he likes to dress to impress. Not that he even needs to try.
He’s devilishly attractive, and the way he talks gets girls flocking to him.
Personality
Zao is very easy-going and open-minded. He’ll talk about anything with anyone. Everything is fascinating in a way, and nothing seems to faze him either. So he’s the type to question the most trivial things in life--or list drugs as casually as you would your favorite candy bars. It’s also difficult to shock him, or anger him. When life deals him a bad hand, or springs up inconveniences, he’ll go with the flow because that’s life. So unless something involves the person he likes, he keeps himself pretty level-headed.
With his willingness to talk about anything, comes his brutal honesty and bluntness. So sometimes, he’ll find himself offending people even if he never meant to. If he does this to women, they’ll slap him before storming off, leaving him in confusion at what he did wrong. But if he does this to men, he’ll have to be quick on his feet to escape a potential fight. Unlike a few other 2ps, he has a good temperament so he avoids violence, but he’ll resort to it if he absolutely has to.
Despite the careers he’s depicted to have, like being a drug-dealer, something in adult entertainment, night-life, or anything illegal, he has strong fraternal instincts. If somebody embodied the “big brother” trope, it would be him. He cares a lot for his younger siblings, and they look up to him as a role model. But he’ll always tell them, “Do as I say, not as I do!” As comfortable as he is in his own skin, his own identity, he wouldn’t want them taking after him.
He’s very flirtatious, and a huge tease. How he shows he likes you is through making you blush, or embarrassed. He’ll call you pet names. Shower you with compliments. Refer to you as if you and him are already an item. If you bumped into him at a grocery store, he’ll help you shop, then say, “So, is that all we need? I can’t wait for dinner tonight.” Zao is also unapologetically dirty-minded. He’s all about dirty jokes, conversations, and gestures. The bigger reaction he gets, the more addicting they are.
He doesn’t have any qualifications, not even a high school diploma, but he’s street-smart to make up for it. That’s how he makes so many connections and hustles his way up to the top in shady businesses. If you need something, anything, legal or illegal, expensive or cheap, you can ask him, and 99% of the time, he’ll say, “I know a guy.” If he likes you, all he wants in return is something perverted. A kiss, maybe. Or maybe your underwear.
Interests
He loves anything cute, and he doesn’t hide it. Sanrio is a must--he keeps a collection of their plushies, most of them being Hello Kitty, but he also likes other characters such as Cinnamoroll and Pompompurin. Sometimes, he can get a bit obsessive over whatever sells fast. So if he has to, he’ll stay up and keep refreshing the page selling whatever he has his eyes on. If he’s infamous for his connections that let him get pretty much anything he wants, surely he can get his hands on the limited-edition Hello Kitty-themed towel, right!? He isn’t against having other kinds of merchandise either, like household items, but he keeps it lowkey for functionality.
In his house, you’ll find a lot of imports from East-Asian countries. Not only is he used to using them when he was back in China, they’re better than what you can find in America. Or at least, in his opinion. This includes cosmetics, snacks, alcohol, and decorations.
Although he doesn’t have a lot of time to, he enjoys watching anime. That’s why he makes sure to get through the most popular and mainstream ones first.
Zao likes to keep connected with his culture. He doesn’t care to assimilate, and being ‘different’ doesn’t bother him at all--he thinks it’s what gives him a unique personality and background. Since he doesn’t have a lot of friends to speak Mandarin with, he’ll look for his neighbors who can, and strike up a conversation every now and then. As well as that, he’ll give his siblings red pockets for Chinese New Year so they can spend it on food, videogames or whatever they want.
He can’t cook for shit. Even then, he has strong opinions on food, especially Chinese. While he enjoys westernised take out like Panda express, he wishes people would stop assuming Chinese cuisine is just dumplings, fried rice, noodles and yum cha. They’re B-tier at best. For a country with that rich and long a history, there’s so much more to indulge in. Too bad he can’t make anything if he tried.
Psychology + romance
Zao is used to being a second choice. His cheerfulness and bluntness make other people think he’s creepy or weird, so he can’t quite wrap his head around somebody liking him to that degree--or getting particularly close to him. At least, emotionally. There are a lot of girls who want him for one-night stands. But this doesn’t stop him from flirting with someone he genuinely likes, even if he doesn’t expect anything in return. It’s fun because they get flustered, after all. But when they start returning the same energy, get persistent, or even make him suspect that they like him back, he will get nervous. He’s used to being the chaser, not the other way around. So if the tables turn and things start getting real, he will back away.
As confident as he is with his image, it’s difficult for him to get intimate with somebody romantically. He’s open, but can’t be vulnerable. He’d rather keep things casual, so when he really falls for someone, he’ll be conflicted between keeping things the way they are, or pursuing them.
Eventually, these feelings will deepen to the point being just friends becomes suffocating. That’s when Zao loses his cool and gets frustrated. It could happen due to a build-up of his emotions, or an event that makes him explode from jealousy. He’ll get desperate after so long of not doing anything and make it very clear he wants you. “Just date me already!”
When he finally gets together with you, prepare to be coddled. He’ll want to help you with anything the best way he can, and go to extreme lengths to do so. Nothing seems extreme when it’s for somebody he cares so much about. While he never holds it against you--how much he does for you--he may or may not guilt trip you into giving him more affection. But only subtly. Instead of him kissing you, he'll loiter around your presence until you kiss him. And when you do, he’ll smile like an idiot.
He never makes it explicit when he wants to take you out on a date. Zao will just ask you if you’re free, and take you out for the night. He doesn’t see a point in labelling it as a ‘date’, because he doesn’t just see quality time with you through a romantic and sexual lens. He values the friendship aspect of it as well, and you really appreciate him for it.
Zao loves to cuddle. He doesn’t hug you much throughout the day, but when you’re at home and about to sleep, he will hug you, a lot. He won’t let go while he talks to you, and will only loosen his coils when you fall asleep.
Acknowledgements
I was mainly inspired by the 2p! China in the story, “Dragon District”, written by xYourHero. So props to them. The fandom’s perception of him has definitely deepened because of it, and it’s great seeing underrated 2ps finally getting the attention they deserve! I’m one of the people who’s had my characterization of Zao take after hers, so I’ll also be crediting her for my headcanons.
You can find the story on DeviantArt, Archive of our own and Wattpad. I adored that fic back in the day. Such good memories. I wasn’t even writing back when I was reading it. Any who, let’s get right into it. I’ve divided the headcanons into subcategories, appearance, personality, interests, and psychology + romance.
(Look at this fanart is by Amphany on DeviantArt. It was drawn for xYourHero. I’m gonna put it here for reference. https://www.deviantart.com/amphany/art/Dragon-smoke-548426383)
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wasabito · 4 years ago
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had so much fun writing for my baby boy tendou, so here’s my entry for the hqhq sfw server collab! be sure to check out the rest on the masterlist found here! enjoy ✨
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words: 3.0k
prompt: “you woke me up at 3am for this?”
synopsis: your neighbor is ridiculous, kind of annoying and little bit on the weird side, but you wouldn’t have him any other way.
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You had to be the biggest idiot on the planet—an obvious exaggeration, yes, but you were still inclined to believe it was true. 
How else could you explain the feeling of being so utterly fed up with one’s actions like this? Were there enough words in the dictionary to describe just how exhausted you were by your own antics, more specifically, your forgetfulness since that’s what had landed you in a world of pain and embarrassment?
The answer was no.
You sat with your back pressed against your front door, head in your hands and chin tucked between your raised knees and chest. At your side was your wallet along with stacks of newspapers, coupons and whatever else had been stuffed in your mailbox, bills probably. Advertisements too. Honestly, it was hard to be happy about a new restaurant opening up down the block when you were currently stuck—locked out of your apartment to be precise.
The landlord of your cheap little complex wasn’t expected to be back for another hour according to the sign posted outside of his office. So until then, you’d remain posted up by your doorstep like some loiterer. 
You shifted in place and blew a puff of air from your lips, feeling little pinpricks in your legs. For the fifth time in the last forty-five minutes you felt like kicking yourself, hard.
The sun hung low, nearly touching the distant horizon signifying the end of another day. Even the sky was painted a warm umber, casting dim shadows.
“Locked out, huh?” came a snide, but accented voice.
It took you way longer than necessary to realize that suddenly you weren’t the only person on this floor. God, where was your head at?
A pair of forest green crocs stood before you, complete with a few odd charms and trinkets. A cartoon volleyball, pinned next to a smiley face, a donut and a gaudy “i heart paris” chain dangling from the ankle strap. A person’s shoes could say a lot about who they were...your mother thought so, at least.
Resisting the urge to projectile vomit all over this stranger’s rather questionable taste in footwear, your wary gaze panned upward, glossing over white tube socks and a pair of the longest legs you’ve ever seen on a person—yet another exaggeration. You came face to face with a crooked smile. Curious ruby eyes returned your stare with almost the same amount of scrutiny.
Who the hell was this guy?
Mystery-man easily towered over you, and not only because you were hunched over and sitting. He was tall as hell, all lanky build, gangly arms and legs disguising lithe muscle and a surprisingly sturdy frame. He looked like the i-run-every-morning type; semi-athletic at the very least. His buzzed hair was the color of cinnamon, no that wasn’t right, paprika maybe? Either way, it contrasted sharply with the paleness of his skin, so much so that you could see the faint blue of the veins in his arms.
“Yoohooo, anybody hooome?” He tilted his head at you.
“Huh? Oh uh, yeah, I’m locked out. I forgot my key inside and Mr. Laurent won’t be back until later.”
“Hmm. That sucks...”
“...Um… do I… do I know you or something? You look a little familiar.”
He pinned you with a funny look, before pulling out a set of keys from the back pocket of his shorts.
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t~ I mean we are neighbors, after all.” Laughing as if he’d made some sort of joke, he entered his apartment with a twirl and a dramatic wave of his arms.
You stared at his door for a solid minute, only to finally succumb to your urges and facepalm at your own idiocy. Of course he looked familiar, how could he not when he literally lived four feet away.
With a sigh of resignation, you braced yourself for another hour spent sitting outside your front door. It wasn’t like there was any other place you could go or anyone you could call. The battery icon on your phone blinked red, warning that it was soon to run out of juice. Guess that meant no Among Us or Subway Surfer for you.
Five minutes later, the door next to you opened. It was Mystery-man again, but this time, he sat in front of his door, just like you were. And he did so with a bag of pretzels and a jar of nutella in hand.
“Must be bored out here by yourself.” He crunched on a pretzel before offering you the bag to take some. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep ya company.”
You weren’t sure why, but there was something about this guy that intrigued you. You half-wondered if it was the funny little curl of his smile, or the wideness of his eyes that made it seem like he was looking at all of you, all at once. 
"You must be pretty bored...uh,"
"Satori Tendou, but most people call me Tendou. Miracle boy works just fine too."
"Right... Tendou, as I was saying, you must be incredibly bored to come sit out here with me. You sure you don't have anything important to do?"
Tendou's grinned widened. "Positive! And it costs me nothing to be neighborly, so don't even sweat it."
That was...nice of him?
If sitting outside with you was the way he wanted to spend his late Tuesday afternoon who were you to deny him? And truthfully, you didn't mind the company, at least not really. Provided this guy wasn't some creepy-stalker-weirdo, you were sure there wasn't any harm in getting to know the person who lived one door over.
"So, Tendou, how long have you lived in the area? You don't really look like you're from around here...I could be wrong."
Tendou raised a thin brow at you. "Weeeell, if you're asking about how long I've lived next door, it would be about three maybe four months give or take, but if you're asking how long I've lived in Paris, it would be a year next month. Speaking of, I think Semisemi has a birthday coming up..."
You watched as he pulled out his cell phone and tapped away at the illuminated glass screen. You couldn't help but notice the goofy little anime stickers on his phone case. One in particular caught your attention.
“Is that...Kirara? From Inuyasha??”
“Oho! So, you recognize this?”
Backtracking, you mumble out, “Ah, well…only a little.” Though your face was turned away, the tiny smile on your lips was not hidden from Tendou and he thought you were pretty cute.
Funnily enough, what you had expected to be a rather unnerving and possibly creepy exchange turned out to be anything but. Tendou was incredibly fun to talk to—a bit teasing and a little overwhelming with his superfluous hand movements and gestures. But he was funny and a lot kinder that you would’ve given him credit for.
You learned that he was originally from Japan; it explained his accented French. He had come to Paris right out of high school to study culinary arts in one of the most renowned countries for it. Now he worked as a chocolatier, under the tutelage of a master patisserie in the city, an older man who was both a creative genius and a thorn in Tendou’s side. Tendou spoke of his teacher with equal parts awe and annoyance. 
And he got to know you too. How you’d found yourself in Paris, thousands of miles away from home in an effort to rediscover yourself in the city full of rich history and culture. 
You didn’t have many friends here, and it truly was a pleasure to make his acquaintance.
Soon, you both heard the telltale sound of jangling keys as your landlord rounded the corner with his clipboard in hand. Once you were able to get your door open, you waved a goodbye to Tendou.
“Thanks for keeping me company, you really didn’t have to.”
“No biggie, it was fun!” He threw a mischievous little grin and a peace-sign over his shoulder and reentered his apartment. 
You found yourself wanting to cross paths with him again, and hopefully in better circumstances. But you hadn't known your wishful thinking was soon to manifest as you ambled through grocery store aisles a week later, eyeing down any items with pictures on it.
“Why in the hell is this toilet paper so expensive.” You mumbled.
“So, you complain about the price of toilet paper, but wear sneakers that cost two-thirds our rent.” That voice sounded familiar, and after hearing it for about an hour just days ago, you were a bit surprised you could recognize it so quickly. 
Stunned, you looked up to find Satori Tendou, your quirky neighbor with an arm full of pita chips, a milk carton, and baby carrots.
“I never said I made the best choices.” You found yourself smiling despite the previous crease in your brow. “...Dude, get a cart before you drop everything.”
Instead of getting his own, he simply dumped what he had into your cart with a teasing grin. You couldn’t argue with his logic there. Tendou sidled up against you, once again towering over you with a kind of ease that should be criminal. “Need help reading something?”
You wanted to say no. You almost said no. But swallowing your pride, you gave a weak nod. “Yeah, this word right here.” Pointing to the unfamiliar script printed on the label. “What the heck is this?”
“Weeeeell, looks like that brand is scented, ya know, for when ya—”
“Don’t bother finishing that sentence...please.”
You quickly grab what you need and continue on down the aisle with Tendou following closely behind.
Just like when you’d first met him, he made conversation the entire way. By the time you both made it to the cash registers, you’d argued at least three times over french pronunciations and whether cashews were the cousin of peanuts.
And just as last time, he left you with a grin and a peace-sign while you stared after his retreating back, paid groceries in hand.
After an entire day spent baking, you found yourself on Tendou’s doorstep with a tupperware full of baked goodies later the next evening. You had been meaning to thank him for being such a good neighbor to you. It was certainly unexpected, but a welcome gesture nonetheless.
You only had to knock twice before the door was wrenched open and you were greeted with the set of...vanilla? Some pop song played in the background while your neighbor looked at you curiously.
"H-Hey Tendou, I um...I baked you these." You held out the plastic container, hoping he'd simply take it from you without question and you could return to your apartment without somehow embarrassing yourself. "There's a little bit of everything in there, oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, macadamia nut—wait you aren't allergic to anything, right?"
"Nooope! Not a thing, thanks neighbor!"
"It was no problem, especially since you've helped me, not once but twice now."
Frowning, you couldn't help but be a little upset with yourself. You'd come to France to prove that you could, in fact, live a normal life outside of your family’s jurisdiction but day by day you were proving to need them more and more. 
It was disappointing, to say the least.
"Hmm, what’s with the constipated look on your face. Did the toilet paper not help?” Tendou tilted his head at you with a teasing grin, lips curled at the edges, taunting. You blinked up at him, surprised, and if you were honest, a little annoyed too. 
"Hah?!"
"Just thought it was worth a mention, nighty-night~!"
Tendou proceeded to shut the door on you; one hand rested on the frame and the other held on to the cookies. You quickly took a step back lest he chop your entire arm off, ready to trudge off in the direction of your own home but not before sticking your tongue out at him.
Stupid Tendou, always saying stupid shit. 
You were on the couch, half asleep when it dawned on you that it had been his own twisted, “Tendou” way of cheering you up. 
The rest of the month passed just like that. Occasionally, you would bump into Tendou at the grocery store, or the leasing office, or even the laundromat. And every single time, he’d either make you laugh until your sides hurt or annoyed enough to want to give him a friendly punch. At one point, you two had even exchanged phone numbers, because according to Tendou “it was ridiculous not to have your friends on speedial” which only led to hours spent on Facetime or playing iMessage games.
You knew exchanging numbers would come back to bite you in the ass, it was only a matter of when.
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It was clear you weren’t going to any sleep tonight, that was for sure. The incessant buzzing of your cell phone every five minutes was an enemy to your circadian rhythm. You could name on one hand those in your contacts with enough sense to know that you lived in a completely different time zone from them now.
Somehow your neighbor was the very last person you suspected, but it was his contact photo that stared back at you, goofy looking grin and all. You squinted against the brightness of your screen in your otherwise dark bedroom.
you up?
come quick
gotta show ya somethin
come oooon
you're awake, i know you are
It took you less than a minute to shuffle on a pair of slippers, grab your keys (you weren't going to forget them this time) and slip out of your apartment.
You hadn't even knocked twice before the door was pulled open. Tendou looked a mess, more so than usual. Unidentified stains littered the apron looped around his thin waist, streaks of what you hoped were just flour and granulated sugar were all over his hands. You almost wanted to ask if he was baking or dealing dope.
“You woke me up at three in the morning...for this?”
“Yuuup!”
"When I said you could call me at any time, I really didn’t mean any time.” You scratch your side, a contemplative look on your face at the sight of Tendou in what you would assume to be his pajamas. An old volleyball hoodie with the words "Shirazorizawa" printed across the front, and old sweats the were so obviously cut with scissors at the knee.
Rolling your eyes, you mumbled a curt, “Alright, move aside.”
Tendou ushered you over to his kitchen where several of his cooking supplies laid on the island, along with a tray of some chocolate dessert spread.
“It’s all still in the testing phase, but I think I’m onto something here.”
He was definitely giving off “mad scientist” vibes. You tried not to snort.
Holding a small chocolate cake in his hand, he smiled, a genuine smile this time. "Open wide."
You obeyed, far too tired to argue, and let him pop the treat into your mouth. Tendou watched as you chewed, as if it were the most interesting thing ever. His wide gaze carefully took in every shift in your expression.
"So? Whaddya think?"
"I...," You chewed a bit more. "...It's delicious! Is that—"
"—Pistachio, why yes it is!" 
Tendou was practically bouncing on his feet with excitement. "It takes the entire thing to a whole new level."
You had to agree with him there. This was probably the best chocolate madeleine you'd ever tasted. "Great work, miracle boy. Will you be introducing this new recipe to Claude?"
Mentioning his teacher seemed to sober him up a bit. "Ehh, maybe? The old man's a bit of traditionalist, so I'll just have to figure out a way to get him to approve."
"Maybe try calling him at three in the morning?" 
Tendou stuck his tongue out at you before popping a dessert in his mouth. The pure delight on his face was so contagious, you found yourself smiling just the same. You couldn’t help but admire his passion.
“Hey, Tendou… do you like your job?”
He blinked at you, chewing coming to a slow halt. “Well of course! The pay isn’t the best just yet, but it’s a labor of love. I’m willing to put my all into it at least.”
“Huh… that’s pretty cool.” You wiped your fingers on a nearby rag. “I hope to feel the same one day… if I can figure out what I wanna do.”
“Why not bake? You’re pretty good at it.”
“Oh am I? Last week you said my baking needed some work.”
“Well, duh, but my standards when it comes to confectionaries are impossibly high. Even so, I think you’d be successful as a baker. What’s stopping you from pursuing your labor of love?”
And that was the thing with Tendou. He talked a lot, teased even more, but it was never idle ramblings. Somehow, he always seemed to hit right at the heart of the issue with almost painfully uncomfortable accuracy.
“I don’t really know so…” You looked away, trailing off.
“Either way,” he said and placed a finger under your chin, raising your head until you were looking him in the eye. “I’m rooting for you.”
For a moment, you simply stared, awestruck. It was the first time in a long while someone was actually putting their faith in you, believing in you. He had come blazing into your life unabashed with his easy grins and gaze alight with mischief. His encouraging words, sincerity, sensitivity. Tendou was really incredible.
“Tendou…” You took his hand in yours, squeezing it. “Thanks. For everything.”
“Of course, what are neighbors for.”
BONUS:
Three months later you sat curled up next to Tendou on his sofa, his entire apartment smelled of chocolate cocoa with hints of cinnamon.
Before you was an application. Culinary school.
“You really think I can do this?”
Tendou placed his head on your shoulder with a tiny smirk. “One hundred and twenty percent!”
You pondered for a moment, then decided that if he thought you were up for the challenge then you’d believe him.
“For the record, you probably aren’t supposed to recommend your girlfriend for an interview. You know, conflict of interest and all.”
Tendou laughed and pulled you closer. “Trust me, we’ll be fine, so don’t worry your pretty little head, ‘kay?”
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iknowicanbutwhy · 4 years ago
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Heads up we got an
Adult Hikikomori Sunny AU
I've been waiting to find an AU after the neutral end of the Hikikomori route for a while. What happened to Sunny? How did his life go on after that? Did he go to college? Did he get a fulltime job? Did he figure out what he wants in life?
these are all very good questions because literally anything could be the case. So this AU is just gonna be stuck in a hospital setting for a while.
Here's what I got so far:
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Past:
Hospital Psychiatrist (practicing? Training?) Doctor Hero
I imagine after Basil's death, Hero would (eventually) turn to learning how to identify and help people with suicidal tendencies, if he's gonna be a doctor anyway.
In a choice between psychologist and psychiatrist, Hero went psychiatrist. Hero's parents would pressure him into getting a more lucrative job. PLUS psychiatrists go to college for 8 years, then take four more of psychiatry residency. Hero might feel just a little more accomplished, just a little better about himself for earning a higher degree, just to reassure himself that he's working hard and doing his best towards helping people.
Hero did extra studying in psychotherapy. He tried doing it at the same time as he did medical college. He's not.. the best at it because of that, for several reasons, but he knows it's better to combine medicine and conversation. When he has his head on straight, he can manage it.
I have.. no idea whether to put Hero into practice or residency. He'd have to be at least around.. 31, if he were in practice. That's a long time to have unresolved trauma. That's a nice hunk of research i gotta do.
That's it that's all for Hero. His goals are set in the present and focused around other people, as per usual.
Sunny is... not doing so well. He lied about going to college when he moved into some hole far away from his mother. He has no reason to get up in the morning when he can just lie around. He doesn't enjoy whatever hobbies he used to have.
He doesn't even know Basil is gone and he's so bad off.
He's honestly convinced himself that he doesn't care about anything. He still cares about people, however. He'd have stayed with his mom and burdened her with himself if he didn't. When they had moved from Faraway, it was to a cheaper, smaller place. That meant Sunny's mom didn't have to work so much. That meant more time with Sunny. He decided it was.. preferable not to stay.
The only times he does anything is when he tries to remember the past and relearn the person he used to be. What did he do? What did he like? He'd play games, and read comics, and would get frustrated? move on to something else when those did nothing for him, searching for.. some feeling to occur. And then he'd question why, why, why.
Why can't he enjoy anything? Why does he want to feel enjoyment? Why can't he just do something and be happy? Why can't he just do nothing and be fine? Why does he need to exist? Why does he want to move? Why does he want, but can never have, can never get by himself?
If there's nothing he can do, then what is he waiting for?
Vague memories would become clearer with introspection, until he would feel something, finally. An old guilt aching from deep inside his bones. A haunting self hatred, ripping away whatever minuscule strength his limbs had to try anything fun. A sense of iron resignation blanketing and anchoring his body, reminding him that it's much too late to try getting up now. Ironically, apathy got him up in the morning, as much as it keeps him from enjoying anything enough to stay up.
He was always a little too thin, but he used to force himself to do things like eat and work enough to survive. Mostly because to sleep means to not have headaches, and to not have headaches means to eat well enough, and to eat well enough means to have food, and to have food means to have money from a job.
But it's not as if he was all too desperate to sleep, anyway. His dreams have stayed the same for years. They're more eventful and colorful than bland reality, but it's a mix of the same thing every day. Staring at the swirling kaleidoscope of his dreams is exactly like observing the same beige ceiling for hours on end, until it all mixes together into the same shade of empty grey.
It probably doesn't help Sunny's mood that he thinks dramatic things like the previous point, just to pass time.
He only got worse once he was forced to move into one of those really bad apartments. You know the ones, with the rusted metal stairs nobody wants to risk their life on, and practically no privacy with four-to-five thin-walled neighboring rooms, and bad heating in one corner of the apartment. But it was cheap. Too bad he had to go up and down the stairs all the time.
He didn't have a problem with them when he just moved in. Generally, the most he notices is starting at the top, teleporting to the bottom, and a slight shaking of his hands that he barely glances at with empty curiosity.
As it is, some part of him knew this was going to happen. That he'd have one of those terribly introspective weeks, when he just so happens to have his new job with a boss ready to fire him and his sullen face and poor (somehow complete neutrality is offensive) attitude. He's emotionally vulnerable, and the memories on top of the stairs are devastating.
A week goes by. He's fired. He doesn't look for another job. He hasn't gone for groceries in a while. He's exhausted.
He was waiting for death, he guesses. He still wants, still feels that urge in the buzzing of his fingertips, the ghost of movement from his limbs, the phantom shiver in his back - the intent of every muscle in his body one after the other pleading with him to move, but never all at once - and Sunny laments that the human body is pretty stupid. Moving wont help. What would he do, make the end come quicker? He's already thrown away too many chances for that.
He'll stop wanting once he's gone. That's what happens when you get what you want, right?
His landlord finds him. He forgot the rent. He's taken to the hospital. Ugh.
Present:
Sunny is stunted and underweight. He wears baggy shirts stuffed into slightly less baggy hoodies, and sweats. Warmth. He couldn't find his hoodie after they took it off to put in an IV on his first trip to the hospital.
Usually nurses do things like bring food to patients, but Sunny only ever interacts with Hero and Hero wants to make sure Sunny is okay anyway. Not that it's much easier for Hero to encourage Sunny to eat.
Sunny stresses Hero the hell out. But Hero kinda missed Sunny, and his depressing and concerning reappearance brings with it a deadpan, world-weary, often childish humor that fails to take anything seriously when everything in Sunny's situation should be taken seriously. It's as much a relief as it is incredibly frustrating. Some days Hero loves it. Some days it makes him angry. Some days it makes him want to cry.
I tried doing research into the conduct Hero should display regarding patients/clients in general but it just. Any professionalism quickly devolves between him and Sunny.
As in, at one point, him and Sunny were whaling on each other about having no lives. Hero felt really bad afterwards; he had no idea what came over him. It was a great way for both of them to let out some hidden frustration, though, and they turned out fine afterwards. They even lowkey pick on each other every now and again.
Sometimes one or the other gets a bit too accurate in their teasing, however.
Psychiatrists are supposed to be able to understand, diagnose, and treat mental, emotional and behavioral disorders. So, if Hero were a completely capable psychiatrist, which he is, he wouldn't break down in front of his client. But Hero's late teenage years are wrought with so much grief and trauma, so to see Sunny and not just another client in this state is.. something i imagine he'd break down about eventually. There's also the fact that Sunny is mostly closed off to any help, which only makes things harder.
Hero is trying his best, but after years of never understanding why Mari died, years of thinking and wondering and second-guessing himself, years of guilt after never visiting Basil before he died, years of doing what he was told was "best" yet failing in what's most important to him (his friends) - his best never feels good enough around Sunny. It feels too little, too late. For this reason, and possibly because even if Hero were able to keep himself together he may just not be the right psychiatrist for Sunny, it would be better for him to find another psychiatrist for Sunny. He won't, though.
Hero really needs some time to himself to just think, or perhaps he needs someone else to talk to. Kel is nice, but Aubrey would have better experience handling emotions.
I have a very limited idea of what Aubrey and Kel are doing. Aubrey is a childcare instructor to parents and works in child services. She has studied child psychology. She has studied how childhood affects adulthood. Kel's off trying to make a name in basketball while giving kids high fives and heartfelt support.
Hero, in fact, does not like to be called Dr. Hero, but his shyness (feeling of unworthiness) about it only endears everyone to call him that more. He tells the kids that everyone calls him Hero, but the adults merely find out from the other doctors and nurses. Hero tried introducing himself as Henry to the other doctors, but Kel told them his nickname, and it stuck for obvious reasons.
Sometimes, on days when Hero has to wear his lab coat, he ties it around his neck like a cape. The kids like it, say it makes him look like a superHero.
Hero doesn't really cook. His schedule is always too busy to make anything that isn't quick. But he does eventually figure out that cooking for Sunny is the best way to entice him to eat, so when he makes something, he makes enough for both of them. They eat together.
Hero had to gather Sunny's change of clothes from his apartment when he found out that the reason Sunny has been in the same clothes for the last week is because he's had no one to visit him. Not even his mother. Why?
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leave-animals-alone · 8 months ago
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Ok, first of all, you and your family aren't consuming only that dear alone for months on end. It wouldn't remotely last that long if you eat it without any sides, not to mention that eating only meat would leave you with all kinds of deficiencies. So you need to buy vrggies anyways and need to factor them in in that calculation which would result in an much higher price than 30$.
I won't talk about the whole gardening thing because home gardening is a mere hobby and is never profitable when compared to buying industrial produced veggies.
So what about those veggies? Right, they are dirt cheap! Sure if you buy vegan meat, cheese and dairy replacement products it'll get expensive really quick. But so it does when you buy real meat, cheese and dairy. Guess what, you don't need any of these products. Take a look at the poorest counties in the world, what are they eating? Nuts, Seeds, Legumes, Wheat, Vegetables and Fruits because These are the cheapest thing when shopping for groceries.
Even if hunting would be more profitable, which it isn't, that's an extreme edge case, not everyone is either capable or allowed to hunt nor has enough money to buy a rifle.
So please, for the love of god, don't compare random edge cases while leaving out half of the relevant information to make some fucked up point. Also, and that is the most important thing, don't ever say you'd care about animals if you kill them, because you clearly do not!
Even if you'd starve (which you clearly wouldn't) wo gives you the right to kill another animal just for you not to die? What is the difference between you and the dear that allows you to decide if it lives or dies?
Hi yallsies, I always get so annoyed when people say it is cheap to be vegan/vegetarian. Spoiler alert, it's not for a good portion of the US.
I am not saying this to annoy people, I am saying this because I get yelled at for not caring about animals, when I would starve if I didn't eat those animals.
I live in the midwest where you can buy a deer tag for about $10-15. After shooting the deer and gutting it, you can take it to a butcher and the will charge you around $70-80, depending on the size. So if you bring it to the butcher that costs you $80-95 including the tag, and if you butcher it yourself it cost $20-30, the extra price added on is for properly sealing the meat.
One deer in my family lasts us about 5 months. So for $30 and a day for hunting and butchering, my family can have meat for 5 months.
And yes we have a garden, but we don't have a big enough one as to properly feed all of our family and we would have to put hours more effort per week than we already do if we were to try to make it big enough. Since everyone in our family works, it is virtually impossible thing to do.
To summarize this nicely, it is more economically responsible for ME to spend a day hunting/butchering and spend $30 to gain 5 months worth if meat, than for me to spend more than that on a garden and even more time tending to said garden that would not bear food as filling.
I am not saying this to get people to stop being vegan/vegetarian, I am saying this so you don't shame everyone you see who is not following your lifestyle. Sometimes they are just doing what the do because the have to survive, and even if the do enjoy eating meat don't shame them for doing it. I have never seen a person who eats meat shame a vegan/vegetarian for not eating meat, but I get shamed all the time, even in my town, for eating meat.
If you have any questions or want to have a conversation about this, try to be civil and leave room for true discussion, not just yelling.
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mmvalentine · 4 years ago
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But You pt 2 | Feysand
Modern AU. Read Part 1 Part 3
Rhys hadn't seen Feyre in a year.
He had meant to see her, of course, but their colleges were so far away, and both he and Feyre had been busier with their workloads than they had anticipated. Feyre, in fine arts, had been part of no less than four community exhibitions since she had started. And Rhys in journalism had been told it was compulsory for him to join the school newspaper in his first year, so that ate up a lot of spare time.
And then of course there was that little voice in his head that played Feyre's words back to him day in, day out.
"You always want to see just me."
Rhys didn't know if she had meant it to sound accusatory, but had realised that night that he had monopolised her their whole life. She had been so keen to leave town and it suddenly occurred to him that out in the world, she would be free of him, wouldn't have to look out for him all the time, wouldn't have to think about the weird little hermit who hadn't bothered to make any other friends.
So Rhys put a lot of effort into to trying to wait until she initiated contact, to make sure that she had enough room to breathe and grow like she deserved without the stress of him hanging onto her. There were phone calls here and there, and Feyre always forwarded him the pamphlets for her shows. They were often on weeknights when gallery spaces were cheap to rent, and so Rhys never went. But he followed voraciously on social media and made sure to always share her work.
Missing Feyre was... was something she'd never understand, because she had actual healthy social networks. For Rhys, it had always been just Feyre, and being so far away from her made him feel like he was missing a limb. His arms, his legs, his Feyre. That's how it always had been, and he carried the ache around with him like a phantom itch.
Then finally his semester ended and Feyre called him up.
"Rhys!" she said when he picked up. The sound of her voice sent shivers down his spine, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers before he answered. He didn't want her to hear the shake in his voice. Didn't want to put his weakness on her, like he always did.
"Hey you," he managed to say. "Rhys, how come I haven't seen you all year?" Feyre asked him. "Because we're first years and being at the bottom of the food chain is a full time gig?" Feyre laughed, the husky sound of it melting Rhys' insides. "Well, it's officially our day off. When do I get to see my best friend?" Rhys shoved his phone between his ear and his shoulder, and continued folding his shirts.
"Well," he said, "I'm actually in your neighbourhood this weekend for an event, if you want to catch up." He was lying. "That would be amazing!" Feyre yelled. "You sure it's not too far?" "Of course not, I need to be there anyway." He didn't. "I'm packing my bag as we speak." He was. "Alright well, give me a call when you get here. I can't wait to see you." "Me neither," Rhys said, and his heart squeezed so painfully he closed his eyes. "Okay I guess I'll see you soon then! Bye!" Don't go, Rhys wanted to beg. Instead, he forced himself to say "Bye, Feyre," and hang up the phone.
In the end it took him 30 hours to drive down the coast. He didn't tell Feyre that. Just arrived breathless at the address she had given him, and knocked on her front door. Waited a second, then the door opened, and Feyre appeared, and Rhys was whole once more.
"Hey," he said, and then Feyre was hugging him and he was burying his face in her masses of honey-gold hair.
Inside her house, Feyre made them hot bitter tea and sat opposite him at the kitchen bench. She leaned forward with her hands in the sleeves of her sweater, and Rhys instinctively leaned forward too. It had been so long since he had seen her in person, so long since he had touched her.
"So," she said. "What's this event that you're going to?" "Event?" Rhys stared into her grey-blue eyes. "Yeah, what's so important you crossed the country for?" "Oh." Rhys remembered his excuse for coming up. "Yeah. I'm on assignment for my school newspaper." "In California?" "Yes? It's, uh..." he glanced at the newspaper folded up on the table. "The Adult Convention." Adult convention?! Feyre just raised an eyebrow.
"Well, it's a controversial topic, you have to admit. It's been banned in some states." Probably. "Right. So, for the sake of public interest and social conversation, you're going to go hang out with a lot of nearly naked people, and peruse the latest technology in self-pleasure." Rhys cocked head. "Interested in coming along, Feyre darling?" She snorted. "Not really my scene," she said. Rhys' eyes sparked. "Then what does turn you on?" She reached out and smacked him upside the head.
Rhys caught her fingers, and brushed his lips against them.
"I've missed you," he said quietly. Feyre's face softened, and she stroked his cheek gently. "I've missed you, too," she said. She dropped her hand, but Rhys held onto it on the table top and rubbed his thumb in her palm. "You've no idea," he said. "I missed your skin." "You did always need a lot of affection," Feyre murmured. "Is no one giving you hugs up there?" Rhys shook his head. "Not one," he said. He slid his elbows forward and put Feyre's hands on his face. "I'm starved." She leaned a little closer, and smiled fondly at him. "You big baby," she crooned. He put his forehead on hers, the magnetic pull of her overwhelming.
"You know," he said. "I think that I spent so much time with you I got desensitised. Now that I've been away... I can barely handle you." "Rhys," she sighed. Her breath blew across his lips, and not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to taste her. To just move an inch closer, and lick the air from her lungs off her tongue.
At that moment, the sound of keys in the front door startled them apart. Feyre sat up straight, her finger slipping through his grasp and he growled under his breath.
"Hey Feyre," came a voice. A male voice. "Hey guys," Feyre called back. Guys plural?
Next thing he knew, two enormous men shouldered through the door with grocery bags, and filled the kitchen immediately, breaking the little tea-steam bubble they had at the table.
"Guys, this is my best friend from home, Rhys. Rhys, these are my housemates Cass and Az."
Rhys just gave a curt nod of his head.
"Nice to meet you," the bigger one said. "We're going out later, our friends have just set up a bar downtown and it's opening night. You're welcome to join us." That was the smaller one.
"No thanks," Rhys said smoothly. "I'm not into crowds." Feyre frowned. "Come on, it'll be fun. I'm going." "Nah, I've got to be up early." "Well," Feyre said, "then I'll stay here with you. I don't get to see you very often." "Aw no Feyre you have to come!" the bigger one wheedled. Cass, possibly.
And then Rhys remembered that Feyre had been tied to him for eons, and no one was as unfair to her as he was.
"Feyre you go," he said. "I have to go to that event anyway, remember?" "I thought that was tomorrow," Feyre said sadly. It almost broke him. "It's tonight, I have to leave tomorrow. Deadlines, and all that."
"Okay, we're sorry you'll miss it," Az said. "Feyre, we'll head off about six, okay?" Feyre smiled and gave him a nod, and then they disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
"So... those are your housemates huh?" "Yeah, they're lovely." "And are you... dating either of them?" "Rhys they're dating each other. They literally just disappeared into the same room." "Right, right."
Feyre stared at him.
"What's going on with you?" "Nothing," Rhys said. Too quickly. "Well, I should get going." "What? You just got here," Feyre said. "I know, I'm sorry. I really do have to get to that event." "Don't you want to stay and meet Cass and Az properly?" Rhys rolled his eyes. "You know how I feel about other people." Feyre gave him a half smile, that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. I do."
Rhys headed to the door. Before he could turn the handle, Feyre wrapped her arms around him once more.
"Let's not leave it so long next time, okay?" she said. "Okay," Rhys agreed, and didn't mean it.
He drove the thirty hours home, and when he saw an ad for exchange students to Brazil a week later, he put in an application.
****
Is this toooo much angst?!
TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher
MASTERLIST
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imaginesupply · 4 years ago
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Homecoming - Chapter Three
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(Gif's not my own.)
Summary: The day has arrived, Captain Syverson is going home. For good, this time. He is going home to a civilian life he can hardly remember and a wife he barely knows, with memories of the war still fresh on his mind. Love might not be able to heal everything on its own, but it’s a good start.
Genres: Romance, drama.
Story warnings: Smut (always fully consensual), mentions of PTSD and nightmares and mental health, angst, hurt and comfort, fluff, mentions of war (minor), mentions of cheating (minor), mentions of pregnancy (very minor), police appearance (very minor), violence (very minor).
Notes:
It’s my first time writing for one of Henry’s characters and I’m unsure I did Sy’s character any justice.
This is a Capt. Syverson x OFC (Ada) story, written in 3rd person POV but OFC’s physical description is very limited so it could also be read as Capt. Syverson x Reader, I think.
English is not my first language, so there might be some mistakes. Proofread, but not beta’ed. We die like men and all that.
Timeline is a little wacky: The movie takes place in 2003 and the U.S. forces were withdrawn from Iraq in 2011, but I never set a precise date because I don’t think it’s essential for this story. However, some elements might not be realistic because if we set this story in 2003: Phone cameras quality was not as good as it’s now, but for the purpose of the chapters, I will need you to imagine you could film great videos with your flip phone haha. Plus, it says Sy is coming back after being deployed for more than three years which makes no sense unless we set this in 2006 or later. I am asking you disregard any time inconsistencies.
Also: I am not American. I only lived in the US for six months and it was in the Midwest, not Texas so please bear with me if I write something stupid.
Finally: This will be a Christmas fic and I intend to post the last chapter (there will be seven in total) on or before Christmas. However, religion is never mentioned in this story and the Christmas-sy elements of this story are limited to family gathering, gift giving and tree decorating.
Chapter Three starts after the cut. (Chapter Two can be found here.) Let me know if you wish to be tagged in future chapters or if you wish to be removed from the tag list.
Chapter Three
Chapter warnings: Smut, alcohol consumption (moderate), mentions of contraception and of pregnancy.
I think that’s it, but this chapter killed my brain – it was very difficult to write and I feel like I botched it. There are various important moments in this chapter that I found very hard to translate from my brain into words. And the smut, oh my God, it’s so bad!
"You know, when you came to me all bossy and told me to lose my clothes, I had something a lot different in mind." Sy grumbled from the bed, where he was sat wearing nothing but boxer briefs.
Ada laughed and turned around, sticking out her tongue at him before going back to what she was doing, namely sorting through Sy's clothes in the walk-in closet. She slid a pair of jeans off its hangers and threw it at him without looking back. "I admit that I probably don't need as many clothes as I own, but you're definitely a minimalist."
Sy grunted noncommittally, he was not amused, but tried on the jeans all the same. They didn't fit, he couldn't pull them up past the thighs. "Hey darlin'," he called her, a hint of amusement audible in his voice.
She turned around at the pet name and then forced herself not to laugh at the sight in front of her. Sy had already been a burly man when they had met, but it seemed he had managed to gain even more muscle mass in the past few months, now looking like an absolute bear of a man. Ada grinned and tilted her head at the cardboard box at the end of the bed. "Put those in the donation pile."
"Yes, ma'am," Sy said, getting up and doing as asked.
Ada grabbed her small pencil and added another item to the list. "So, you need jeans, new boots, sweatshirts, t-shirts..." She went on, listing the items. What he needed was a whole new wardrobe and she was the woman for the mission.
Turning around, she found Sy rolling his eyes at her. "I ain't need no new t-shirts, woman. I got the black one, the red one and the khaki one."
Ada chuckled and approached him on the bed, coming to stand between his legs. It was unusual for her to be taller than him, and with him sitting on the bed and her standing up, she still didn't have that much of an advantage. With a grin, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead before pulling back to look into his eyes. Instinctively, almost an automatism, his hands found purchase on her hips.
"Last time you wore your red 'DILLIGAF' t-shirt, three separate kids stopped and asked you what the acronym stood for and you looked at me for help."
Sy held her gaze, not keen on losing the staring contest. Ada didn't want to relent but she didn't want to force him either, not after what had happened while grocery shopping. "It's okay if you really don't want to go, I won't for-"
Sy shook his head, silencing her before she could even finish. "Let's get this shopping over with. But I'm warning you: I'll be complaining the whole time."
For a moment, Ada pursed her lips, seemingly unconvinced but eventually her frown was replaced with a grin. "I would expect nothing else from you, grumpy bear," she teased before turning around, excited about the task at hand.
Sy left to get dressed but not before landing a playful smack on her ass.
°°°
It went just as Ada had imagined. Sy sat down on the sofa at the far end of the store, keeping everything in sight, and she would occasionally come up to him with suggestions. To an onlooker, they resembled a devout worshipper trying to make offerings to a very picky and very handsome god.
His replies to the items she presented to him went anywhere from 'no' to 'not a chance in hell', without forgetting the classic 'you lost your mind, darlin’'.
After visiting three stores and Ada trying to visually guess his size because Sy absolutely refused to try out any of the clothes, they had managed to get most of what he needed. It just turned out to be near recreations of the clothes he already owned, just bigger and newer. And with more child friendly texts.
They stopped for coffee by the center of the open-air mall. True to himself, Sy ordered just that - a coffee with 'none of the fancy shit'.
"You're sure you don't want to go to any of your stores?" Sy asked, watching her sip on her colorful drink.
Well, the idea was tempting but she already had more candles and blankets than necessary. And she knew he was uneasy even if he was hiding it well. "No, it's okay. I know you don't like shopping and I can just ask some friends if I really want to go." Sy hummed.
By the time Ada finished her season exclusive drink, she noticed Sy was staring at a shop window. She was almost excited that he was finally interested in buying clothes before noticing that it was some video game advertisement.
"You can buy the game, if you want. No need to stare," she teased.
He reverted his attention back to her. "It's only compatible with the new console that came out last month and that one's sold out." Ada started beaming as he spoke. "What?"
"Well... a few months ago, I came across the launch announcement on the Internet. And I had seen the old model in the study, so I knew you liked it and since you were coming home soon..."
Sy's eyes became even bluer for a moment, a huge grin threatening to illuminate his face. "Are you saying that...?"
Ada laughed, shaking her head. He looked like a kid on Christmas Day. "Yes. It's wrapped in gift paper in the basement under the utility sink."
"I love you, wife."
Again, she scoffed. "Yeah, yeah... Now let's go get you that damn game."
°°°
Later that day, or rather night, Sy wasn't even paying attention to the movie they, or rather, she was watching. He had gotten the gist of it - superheroes teaming up together to save the world - that sufficed him. His focus was entirely on his wife nested between his legs, her back resting against his chest.
When they got home from the mall and went to sort through his clothes and belongings, finally unpacking the rest of his duffel bag, Ada came across his dog tags. She asked if she could keep them. Sy frowned at the odd request but agreed nonetheless, shrugging dismissively.
Ada then proceeded to put the chain around her neck and slide the tags under her blouse. He had stared at her a little confused; she was smiling, looking all smug as if she had managed to trick him out of something valuable and not just two cheap metal tags hanging off an equally cheap chain.
"The fact that I get to have both your tags means I am very lucky to have gotten you back alive and in one piece. I don't want to ever forget that."
With his height advantage, even sitting behind her, Sy could see the chain disappearing under her pajamas and the tags resting in the valley of her breasts. Somehow, the sight made him feel even more possessive than the wedding band on her ring finger.
Things always had felt slightly uncertain with Ada, there had always been the shadow of a doubt in his mind when it came to her. They had gotten married on a whim and she knew he was a green beret, deployed most of the time. It's an entirely different thing to marry someone you get to see for a couple of weeks every once in a blue moon and to actually live, share a home with someone. When Sy had told her, he was coming home for good over the phone, he had half expected her to ask him for a divorce or to find himself alone at the airport. His face hadn't shown it, but when Ada put on the damn chain he had hated wearing in the goddamn desert where it would chafe his nape or get tangled in his chest hairs, Sy felt as happy as a sand boy.
She seemed honest when she said there was nothing going on with that Tom guy. Not that he could truly blame her if there was, even if it would have broken him. His parents had been married for over thirty-five years and his mom found a new boyfriend not even two years after his father's passing.
And yet, Ada was there, cuddling with him on the couch. She hadn't served him with divorce papers upon his arrival. Instead, they had spent the past few days pretty much glued together as they usually did when he was on leave.
Maybe it was time he started to believe that he had come home to his wife and she really wasn't going anywhere. Especially since she hadn't asked him to wear a condom ever since he got home and he hadn't seen her contraceptive pills on her nightstand either. Sy even checked the bathroom cabinet where he knew she kept some medication, but he didn't find anything there either. This morning, he had even considered asking her about it, but he figured that if she hadn't mentioned anything so far, it was because she wanted it to be a surprise and he didn't want to ruin it. Though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't going to be checking the same cabinet for pregnancy tests in the future.
"You good?" Ada asked as the film came to an end, tilting her head back but only getting a view of his beard. It made her smile, though. Sy really was her bear: big, strong and hairy.
"Yeah, I just," he stammered slightly as if waking up from his thoughts. "I was thinking we should probably change the stairs' railing into something safer before we have kids running up and down."
"Yep, that's not gonna happen," Ada chipped in, jumping off the couch before starting to fold the blanket.
"What?" Sy blurted out, turning all his attention to her. "The railing or the kids?"
"The kids," she replied nonchalantly, now laying the blanket in the basket by the sofa. "If you want to redo the stairs, that's fine. I think we could even paint them white."
In a second, Sy was up on his feet, his imposing stature crowding her. "What do you mean, that ain't happening? You don't want kids?"
Ada frowned, suddenly uncomfortable at his intense stare. "No.”
"Why did you never tell me?"
"Why did you assume kids were a given?" Ada retorted, taking a few steps back to put some distance between them. "I figured that if it was important to you, you'd have mentioned it sooner, at some point at least."
Sy had to fight the urge to yell at her, the feeling of betrayal and even anger overwhelming him. If he never spoke of it before, it was because he didn't want to have kids while he was deployed and miss their first years. Instead, he forced himself to calm down, taking a deep breath. "Is that a not now or a not ever?"
Ada looked away for a second, gathering her thoughts before moving her eyes back to him. "I got a new Mirena coil a couple of months ago, so I'm set for the next three years at least."
He had no idea what the fuck a 'Mirena coil' was supposed to be but it wasn't hard to figure out. Instinctively, his hand went to the back of head, raking through his short hair. "Just to be clear, Ada," Sy paused, his nostrils flaring, "you don't want children?"
It didn't even take her a second to start regretting her counter after it came out. "Do you?" She snapped back, the enunciation of the 'you' harsher than she had intended.
The effect was instant, her question giving him pause. Did he? Now reflecting on it, Sy realized he had never asked himself that question. It was just something that you did. First you got a house, then you found a wife and started a family. He had never thought about it as an option, just as the next step if he was lucky enough not to die in Iraq.
"I'm so sorry," Ada apologized, her tone alone expressing her regret. She took his hand, forcing him to look at her only to find her eyes glistening as she attempted not to cry. "I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't questioning your parenting skills. I know you'd make a fantastic father, Sy." Her eyes closed as she took a deep breath before opening them again, their corners wet with tears this time. "I just never saw myself having kids, but if it's something you really -"
"I ain't gonna force you to start a family with me," Sy rebuffed, offended at the very thought. The abruption of it even making Ada smile, if only briefly.
She shook her head quickly. "What I meant was that if you want to be a father, then I wish for you to become one. But... I won't be a part of that scenario."
"No." He said, dismissing the idea as soon as she voiced it, catching her hands in his and stilling them midair when she started gesticulating instead.
"No, this is important!" Ada protested. "I want you to be happy, Sy. And I won't stand in the way of your happiness. You deserve to live the life you want and if that includes a family -"
"No." Sy ordered, his tone final and resolute, silencing her instantly. He had never used this voice with her in the past, usually reserving it for the soldiers in his unit. "Stop with that ridiculous suggestion, woman." Ada blinked. It was obvious in her eyes that she wanted to argue but she didn't dare defy his hard stare.
Sy closed his eyes and swallowed, searching for the right words. "The choice between having kids with some other woman or getting to be with you, is a damn easy one. I'd rather we be a family of two than have children with some woman I could never love."
She was crying again, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks. Had he said something wrong? Ada didn't let him wonder for too long, her hand fisting in his t-shirt to pull him down to her lips for a ravenous kiss, their teeth clicking together.
"You know," Ada breathed out against his lips once they parted for air. "It doesn't have to be just the two of us. I am partial to pets."
Later in bed, with his sleeping wife snoring softly and her head resting on his chest, Sy tried to process their conversation only to realize there wasn't much to process at all. It didn't feel that much like giving up on a dream, as it felt like defining the contours his future with Ada. All that mattered to him was that it was a future with the woman whose contagious laugh he had manifested in his mind time and time again to drown out the sound of gunfire and make it through. Children might have been a bonus, he wouldn’t deny that, but their absence was something he could live with. He couldn’t same the thing about Ada.
°°°
"Got your," Sy paused, frowning as he read off the label, entering the kitchen, "Willamette Valley Pinot noir. How many do you need?"
Ada looked away from the oven to find him carrying four bottles of her favorite wine. Did he think they were drunkheads? "Do you want for Tom to have to spend the night here because we're all over the legal alcohol limit and unable to drive?" She laughed.
Sy grimaced. "One bottle it is," he announced, making her laugh all the harder as he set down a single bottle on the table that was already set before casting away the other bottles in the pantry - where they did not, in fact, belong.
Just as was his habit, Sy sneaked up on his wife as she leaned over the kitchen counter, putting away the remaining ingredients and hugged her back to him with one arm. He then dipped a finger in the jar she had filled with leftover caramel and brought it to mouth.
She gasped at his manners. "You can't just stick your fingers in everything that's sweet and lick it off, Sy," Ada chided. She heard it as soon as the words left her mouth, but it was too late.
A deep laugh rumbled in his chest behind her. "Can't I?" Sy goaded her mockingly.
Ada took a deep breath. She knew where this was headed and they didn't have time. It was primordial her pie didn't overcook, and Tom would be there soon. "You know what I meant," she groaned, attempting to sound annoyed but he could hear the smile in her voice.
"Do I?" He whispered against her ear, his beard tickling her skin and his warm breath making her shiver as he slid his hand under her skirt until he was cupping her damp sex over her panties. "Are you certain about that, darlin'?"
Her hands held on to the counter and her eyes closed as he started rubbing his hand along her folds over the fabric. He was also beginning to harden behind at an impressive rate. The temptation made her whimper. "We don't have time," Ada protested, even as her head fell back against him and she leaned into his touch, silently begging for more as she not-so innocently ground her ass on his crotch.
A swift glance at the clock on the wall told him all he needed to know. They had seven minutes. It would have to be enough, Sy decided. Time being of the essence, he was determined not to waste any.
“Open up your legs for your captain, darlin’,” he rasped, his nose nuzzling in the shallow of her neck, his hands already busy bunching up the soft fabric of her skirt around her waist.
“Sy,” Ada lightheartedly protested his eagerness. The idea was certainly enticing but they truly didn’t have time and she really needed to keep an eye on the pie. “We can’t-“
“I said, open your legs,” he repeated, gritting out the words as his foot snuck between her ankles, forcing her legs open himself. Sy barely had to apply any pressure, Ada complied instantly at his tone. There were very few situations in which she let him boss her around and this was one of them.
His hands brushed over her naked thighs, enjoying the way she shivered as he did so. Sliding his fingers higher up her inner legs, Sy expertly slid the scanty lace of her thong aside in order to access her clit. Ada keened under his touch, the rough skin of his finger pads slowly circling her already swollen nub. She couldn’t decide between pressing into his touch or attempting to pull away from it; it was both too little and too much all at once. “Already so wet and I’ve barely done anything to you,” he teased, hoping to sound less worked up than he was. Sy was set on keeping the upper hand. “Tell me, what is it that you want, darlin’?”
Ada whined as he removed his fingers from her core, his hands going to her hips instead and pulling her to him, letting her feel how hard he was for her. His wife reacted by rubbing her ass against him, determined to get what she wanted without having to voice it. “Sy,” she complained when he didn’t bite the bait, still grinding on him, surely getting his jeans wet with her slick.
“That’s not how it works, darlin’,” he chastised, going back to teasing her. His touch was ghostlike, too light to provide any real satisfaction and she groaned in frustration. “You have to ask for it like a good girl.”
He felt her body tense up against his as she tried chasing the friction of his fingers where she wanted them most, but Sy drew away before she could. “I swear to God I am going to make you regret-“
Smack. Ada gasped at the sharp spank on her ass, her body bending over the counter at the impact. Her ass was just too tempting in this position and Sy was running out of patience. “Ask like a good girl,” he ordered between gritted teeth, his hand descending to palm his crotch, hoping for some relief. Her little stunt was turning him on more than it should have.
“God, Sy, just fuck me already!” She sobbed, her legs rubbing together out of their own volition but her husband stayed put, rubbing his palm of his covered cock as he watched her. He wasn’t going to give up any time soon, she realized with a strangled sigh. “Please fuck me, captain,” she whispered, relenting.
Within a second, Sy was unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper. His cock was red, hard and throbbing impatiently. With time running out, Sy pushed himself into her without a warning. Ada whined at the stretch, gripping at the flour covered kitchen counter as one of his hands grabbed hold of her hips, the other moving to her breast. Then he started ploughing into her like there was no tomorrow.
Ada kept whimpering his name, but even she didn’t know what it was she was asking for. Her hips were digging into the cold stone and she knew there would be bruises come morning. He had barely started fucking her and she was already beginning to tense up with how worked up she was. “Are you gonna cum for me, darlin’?” Sy grunted, his jaw tense as her inner muscles clenched all around his cock. Ada nodded meekly, unable to speak. Just when he was starting to doubt he’d be able to hold off long enough for her to climax, Ada cried out, her tight walls milking him as she came. Sy exploded inside her with a strangled groan, slowly coming to a still inside her.
The doorbell rang. At seven o’clock on the dot.
"Fucking Brits and their punctuality!" Sy cursed, still panting before pulling away from her and tepidly leaving her warmth. Ada chuckled at his reaction, holding onto the counter for support for a few more seconds until she felt somewhat steady on her feet.
Sy tucked himself back into his pants and she adjusted her skirt over her thighs again before letting out a panicked squeak and turning around. Her front was covered in the flour she has spread on counter for the pie and the white handprint on her breast where he had held on to her was very visible on her black blouse. Sy couldn't keep himself from laughing. She looked great if you asked him, especially since Tom would be going to see just how well he took care of her. "I'll go get changed and you get the door!"
°°°
Sy’s eyes widened, positively surprised as he brought the first forkful of boeuf bourguignon to his mouth. The dish hadn’t appeared particularly appetizing on the plate, but it tasted so much better than it looked. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ada glancing at him with an ‘I told you so’ smirk.
“I received a new shipment of books at the store today,” Tom told Ada in between bites. He owned a bookstore downtown, Sy had learnt. “There’s a new murder mystery I’m sure you’ll love.”
Ada stilled, a look of excitement washing over her face. “Is there… poison?”
Tom laughed. He had expected that question from her. “Ah, yes. And it’s set in the 1920s!”
Sy glanced from the one to the other, forcing himself not to sigh. Ada’s excitement was adorable, but Tom was grating on his nerves. All the conversation so far had been about novels they’d read recently.
“Please tell me that you saved me a copy.” Ada shrieked enthusiastically, prompting Tom to laugh before he suddenly producer a hardcover out of seemingly thin air. As if she was scared that he was only taunting her with it, Ada leaned over the table and snatched the book out of his hand, a smug look on her face before she started reading the back cover. Sy looked at her and chuckled, shaking his head fondly at her almost childish elation.
"So, where did you two meet?" Tom asked, shifting his attention to Sy. "Ada always told me that it was a story for another time."
Sy's grip tightened on his cutlery. Admittedly, the strong animosity toward the man had faded, but he was still not keen on making conversation with the man. "Here in Austin," Sy replied before going back to his food. Ada had to stifle a laugh at the face Tom made at the curt answer.
"I'll tell you," she offered, capturing Tom's attention. "I had just graduated with my Masters and managed to land a PhD position here in Austin. I was freshly debarked out of France and I was only to start to start mid January but I flew over in December already - wanting to fly with my own wings and all that." Tom chuckled as she gestured derisively with the story.
"Anyway, I hadn't found a flat yet, all my stuff was in a storage unit and I had the brilliant idea of going to Vegas. On my own. In a 1979 black Camaro rental."
Sy finally looked up from his plate. "It was from 1980 and it was dark gray, not black, darling’."
Ada found herself staring curiously at her husband as he interrupted her story before laughing. That's what it took to get him to talk?
"So, it was a 1979, dark gray Camaro,” Ada correctly herself. “Anyway, obviously it did not have a navigation system and I stopped at one of the few open bars open at 5pm on Christmas Eve, ordered a beer and tried making sense of the maps I found in the glovebox, making a list of the different exits and turns I would have to make.
"Sy was there drinking with some friends – loud friends, might I add. Well, I am struggling with the maps and he must notice because he approaches me at the counter, takes of his cap and asks me if I need help, in his southern drawl. Actually, no wait, his exact words were” Ada paused, clearing her voice. “’Need some help reading that map, darling?'" Tom laughed at her ridiculous attempt to imitate Sy’s baritone voice. To Ada's surprise, Sy blushed. It was barely visible beneath his beard, but it was there and it was the cutest thing she had ever seen.
"I looked down at the map she was studying and asked her if she was headed somewhere on the east coast. She then slowly looked at me and confidently told me she was going to Nevada, until I pointed out that she was highlighting the road that went East and her face burned up, all self-conscious." Sy recounted, now laughing as well and even Tom scoffed. " I said: ‘At this point, even a navigation system can’t help you, darlin’. You’d need an escort.”
Ada bit her lip, remembering that moment clearly in her mind. She had flushed, staring at the muscular man that towered next to her. He was burly and rugged and yet still exhaled a little softness behind it all. 'Well then, will you be my escort to Vegas? I am leaving tonight,' she had blurted out before she could stop herself.
"I cannot believe you drove from Austin to Las Vegas with a stranger, Ada!" Tom said teasingly, clearly surprised by his friend’s spontaneity and recklessness.
"Yes, I made him miss Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with his family, and the best part is that we got married the day we reached Vegas on New Year’s Eve.” They had stopped a few times along the way, visited some towns and she had only known Sy for seven days when we got hitched at the kitschiest chapel imaginable. “We had to hurry to get a marriage license before the courthouse closed and a half-naked dude officiated because everyone else was already booked.”
Sy chuckled, sitting back against his chair and wrapping his arm around Ada's shoulders possessively. "She made me wear my old uniform that lasted all of fifteen minutes and was presided by an officer dressed as a cherub." He gestured at the framed picture standing on the cupboard next to them.
They looked absolutely ridiculous. Sy's uniform made him look too serious next to a tipsy Ada who wore the only white dress she had been able to find on such short notice and that definitely hadn’t been meant for a wedding because it turned out to be partly see-through under the camera flashes.
Ada shared some more stories about Vegas before excusing herself to the bathroom, the conversation instantly dying out as she disappeared, leaving both men in an uncomfortable silence until Sy’s curiosity got to him.
"So, you and her...?" Sy left his question unfinished. He wasn't sure what exactly it was that he was asking, he just wanted to know all there was to know.
In front of him, Tom gracefully dabbed him mouth with the ivory napkin and shook his head, with a tight smile. "No, nothing of the sort," the Englishman replied dismissively before Sy's inquiring stare forced him to expound. "It's not that I didn't think of pursuing something more with her, but Ada made it very clear from the beginning that she was a married woman and a faithful wife."
Sy hummed noncommittally, though internally he was reassured and maybe even elated. Mike had really filled his head with shit. Deep down, he always knew his Ada wasn't like that, it just felt good to hear it.
"My wife, for whom I left England, passed away only two months before Ada and I met. I was going through a rough patch then - and that's a euphemism. Carla had been talking to me about watching a particular film ever since it had been announced, it was an adaptation of her favorite novel." Tom explained, a smile warming up his features. "When she died before it premiered, I wasn't even sure if I even wanted to watch it without her... But the tickets had already been purchased and part of me hoped that for two hours, it would feel like Carla was sitting right next to me."
Sy listened, feeling sympathetic, if not a little uncomfortable by the man’s openness. He still wanted to dislike Tom but at the same time he couldn't imagine the wreck he'd be if Ada were to die on him.
"The cinema was packed and to accommodate a large group, Ada asked whether I minded if she sat down next to me,” Tom paused briefly, smiling at the memory. “I think it was listening to her laugh, cry and eat popcorn next to me during the movie that gave me the strength to drive home instead of off a cliff that night."
Sy gulped down the rest of his wine, still not a fan of the taste as he faced the Englishman before him. Not that he would ever say it out loud, but if he had failed to make it alive out of that godforsaken desert, he had to concede Tom would not have been the worst for Ada.
Silence fell again and Sy became uncomfortable, deciding to pour Tom some more wine. “I am glad Ada and you were there for each other.” When I should’ve been there for her myself but wasn’t, Sy thought but left it unsaid.
Tom chuckled as he observed the burly man in front of him. For all his muscles and gruff exterior, he carried the slightest of insecurities when it came to his wife. "There's a thick silver notebook Ada has kept for a couple of years. Maybe you should have a look at it.”
Sy wanted to ask what he was talking about but was interrupted by the sound of Ada's high heels clicking on the wooden floor as she made her way back to them. "I hope you weren't talking ill of me behind my back," she teased, squeezing Sy's shoulder absentmindedly. "Now, who's ready for my slightly overcooked tarte tatin.” Ada eyed her husband pointedly.
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