#but he should have taken that goddamn award home with him that night
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jittyjames · 2 months ago
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TONY AWARD RARES ✨✨
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guqin-and-flute · 4 years ago
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nieyao or 3zun + prompt 64 with cat!baxia
64. “I think your cat wants to kill me.” [This got way away from me WHOOPS]
“So. This date is going fantastically. Do I make top 10?”
Meng Yao huffed a short, polite laugh through his nose at Mingjue’s rueful question. “Being nursed back to health by a handsome man is certainly adding back points lost in the cat attack,” he replied, and some of the frustrated dread bled from the ball in Mingjue’s chest. “I really could do this myself, you know,” he added.  
Mingjue sighed. “Yeah, well, since it was my cat attack, I feel like I need to make reparations. I’ve also taken First Aid more times than I can count and cat scratches can get really nasty.” 
If this were a one of the sappy romcoms Huaisang loved so much, standing at the sink together as he tended to the 2 gashes scoring down Meng Yao’s forearm with several antiseptic soaked cotton balls had the potential to be romantic. Except Mingjue had never liked those movies and he just felt like a fucking asshole who owned an unruly animal.
He had met Meng Yao at the grocery store. Mingjue had looked up from his phone at the sound of a sharp voice--a middle aged business man was snapping at a young man in front of him in line; "Fucking Christ, you're going to hold up everyone."
"You can go ahead of me if you'd like--"
"There's a whole line of people here! We all have places to go!"
The man being yelled at--(the very attractive man with round, dark eyes, he noted)--had grimaced placatingly, as the cashier was saying, "We can hold his groceries while he goes out, sir, you won't have to wait."
A the business man threw his hands into the air in disgust, Mingjue had slid his phone into his back pocket and interrupted in his 'is this guy bothering you' voice; "What's the problem?"
3 pairs of eyes had darted to him immediately and gone wide. The very good looking man had tensed completely, eyes darting to the door in a way that looked involuntary--and well, Mingjue had been struck by the completely overwhelming urge to tuck him back behind him and make this asshole between them shit his pants in fear. And anyone else that made him look that scared, for that matter. "I'm sorry," the scared, attractive, adorable, fragile-looking, harassed young man had said a tight smile, "I forgot my wallet in my car, we can just--"
"Here," Mingjue slid out his credit card handed it--pointedly--over Mr. Business-Asshole's head to the cashier. "I'll cover it. You know what," he had added, fixing the quickly wilting dickhead with his best 'I-can-bench-press-you-and-then-feed-you-your-own-esophagus-no-problem' stare, "Why don't you get the nice lady behind me, too. Once this guy is done running for the biggest jackass award. I'll wait."
And, you know, weirdly enough, Mr. Asshole had actually left the line, red faced and without his shitty little protein shakes. As the cashier bit back a grin and rung up the card, the harassed young man--who was even prettier up close, holy hell, it made his lower back sweat--had tried to insist that it wasn't necessary, that really, he had the money, he could just go get it, he appreciated it but didn't need Mingjue to put himself out. Mingjue had just shrugged and held out his hand. "It's the principle of the thing. Nie Mingjue."
The man had opened his mouth, looked down at his hand; then, he had smiled and holy goddamn fucking shitballs he had dimples. Shaking it firmly in a hand that was soft and cool and slim, he had said, "Then...thank you. Meng Yao. I'll have to pay you back. Do you have a cash app?"
"Don't bother."
"I insist."
"You can buy me dinner sometime, then," Mingjue's mouth had decided to say without permission, but luckily he agreed with the idea and so had been quite pleased to see Meng Yao's ears go pink.
"...That sounds fair," he replied, finally, those lovely dimples returning.
The cashier had cleared their throat, brightly. "Do you by chance have our loyalty card?"
They agreed on a first date in a public restaurant where they could verify that the other wasn’t some sort of serial killer. It had even been a nice one that Meng Yao had insisted on where they had also shared a bottle of wine and interesting conversation. Meng Yao was exceedingly smart and easy to talk to--the perfect conversational partner with a knack for solving many of the problems that Mingjue hadn't even realized he complained about. In return, he had made his attraction quite clear and Meng Yao had ducked his head.
"I'll have you know that I don't go home with anyone on the first date," he had said carefully, eyes on his fingertip as he ran it around the rim of his wineglass. "It's a personal rule of mine. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression."
"That's fine with me," Mingjue shrugged. "If you're up for it, I'll wait for as many dates outlasts your rule, 'cause I grill a mean steak."
Those dimples came back and he had sat back in his chair, voice light as he asked, "Oh? Won't you get bored?"
Mingjue had snorted and finished off his glass. "Just because I'd like to sleep with you doesn't mean I don't also want to get to know you, you know."
Mingjue was just getting to know the guy, so he couldn't be sure, but that answer seemed to please him.
The night of the cat disaster was the 4th on their run of dates--Mingjue had shooed Huaisang over to Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng’s house for the night and invited Meng Yao over via text for dinner and a movie and also the option of sex, if he wanted. 
Apparently, the bluntness had made Meng Yao laugh. Mingjue had texted back that he preferred honesty in all things and could handle a ‘no, thanks’ with plenty maturity. Meng Yao had replied, ‘I’m sure you can,’ which, he had very keenly noticed, was not a ‘no, thanks.’
Dinner had gone great--homemade meals always seemed to impress--and they had been preparing to split a chocolate lava cake in front of a shitty action movie they had both agreed on with the understanding that neither of them minded missing anything if they decided fooling around was more interesting.
But now, there was blood everywhere--on the dishes in the sink, on the towel they had hastily staunched it with, on the countertop and the mood was ruined because his giant, grumpy ass cat had decided to savage his date as they were cleaning up the table. Baxia had sniffed his leg suspiciously when he first came in, flinching away as he knelt down to offer his fingers. Then, she had fixed him with a glare, hissed, and turned around and stalked away, fluffy gray tail held high--which, for her, was practically a warm welcome. She had her boys--Huaisang and Mingjue--and hated pretty much everyone else (except for Wei Wuxian's older sister Jiang Yanli when she had dropped him off to hang out with Huaisang when his license got suspended. Which had happened a few times, now).
Everything had been fine with her while they ate--she had even spent it under the table, rubbing up against Mingjue's legs, staring up at Meng Yao without making so much as a peep. It was when they had risen that disaster struck. She had hopped up onto Meng Yao's chair and decided to take personal offense to his existence with absolutely no warning at all when he passed by with his hands full of silverware.
Now, Meng Yao’s long fingers curled into a fist as the cotton passed over a particularly deep part of the slice, though his face remained calm, so Mingjue winced for him. "Sorry. I swear, she's never done this before, I don't know what the hell her problem is."
Meng Yao shook his head, smile pressed and polite as he said, "Really, it's fine." He shifted on his feet to lean his hip against the cupboards and, immediately, Mingjue seized his elbows. 
“Are you dizzy?”
The other man had stiffened at the sudden movement, staring up at him. Then, he blinked and smiled, shaking his head. “No, I'm alright.”
Mingjue eyed him suspiciously. “You’re sure?”
He laughed. “I’m not going into shock, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve had much worse, trust me. I’m not going to pass out.”
Mingjue remained unconvinced. Instead of arguing further, he simply lifted him by the waist to sit on the island across from the sink for lack of a chair. Meng Yao let out the beginning of a squeak, hands automatically flashing up to bunch in the front of his shirt for balance. He blinked down at Mingjue, then the ground, then back at him, eyes wide and nostrils flared. Mingjue couldn't tell if it was annoyance, horniness, or a combination of both--and that was all well and good except that he was still bleeding and he knew from experience what a bitch blood was to get out of clothing. So he just pulled Meng Yao's arm out again and went back to work, asking, "So what was the 'much worse'?"
"Pardon?"
"You said you knew you're not going to pass out because you've had 'much worse'. What's the story there?"
"Ah. No story. I broke my arm. Compound fracture. I stayed awake the whole time, so a cat scratch is fairly minor, in comparison."
Mingjue hissed in through his teeth reflexively in sympathy and scanned him. Either he healed fantastically or the scar was higher up on his arms, under the soft cream sweater sleeves that were rolled up to his elbows--luckily, they had been rolled up before the attack and had escaped blood thus far. "Fuck. How'd that happen?"
"Fell down some stairs."
Mingjue raised an eyebrow at the stark explanation. "Well, maybe you shouldn't fall down stairs. Ever thought of that?"
Meng Yao smiled thinly down at him, dark eyes glinting in the fluorescent lights. "Mm. I'll have to keep that in mind." The dimples he searched for avidly were there, faintly, and Mingjue found himself wanting to nibble on them.
They hadn't done much else besides a kiss goodnight in the shadows near the entrance to the parking garages of their dates, because Mingjue was being good and keeping his hands above the belt. And he should probably figure out whether or not this date was going to have the eject button pressed, first. There was blood everywhere, still.
"Why all the First Aid classes?" Meng Yao asked suddenly, keeping his arm extended out even as Mingjue released him to rummage for the antibacterial spray. "Was it because your demon cat kept attacking people?"
Mingjue barked out a laugh and sprayed down his arm--Meng Yao didn't flinch. "At first, it was for lifeguarding, every summer since I was 16 until I graduated college. Now, I take refresher courses because I run a martial arts studio and shit can get real real fast, especially with newbies who try to fuck around." Tearing open the packet of sterilized gauze with his teeth so he could still hold his arm, he situated it and held it with a gentle thumb. "Tape or gauze wrap?"
Meng Yao shrugged. "I have no preference. Surprise me."
Gauze wrap it was. It would hurt less than pulling tape off his arm later. Meng Yao watched him finish up quietly, ankles linked, posture straight and proper even sitting on a kitchen counter. On impulse, Mingjue lifted his now bandaged arm and kissed the skin of his wrist, just below where the gauze stopped and got a slight shiver for his trouble. He looked up at him, then, an angle he was not used to but was definitely enjoying. "This has been a piss poor date. I really am sorry."
"The dinner was lovely before it ended in bloodshed, I promise," Meng Yao assured him, smiling. Then, it grew a little sly and he leaned in, slowly, stretching his arms out over Mingjue's shoulders to link behind his neck. "Although, you could always kiss it better."
Well, there was no possible way to misinterpret that particular invitation and he heartily took it, snugging Meng Yao up against him with hands on his hips and devouring him just as indulgently as he would the forgotten lava cake cooling on the stove top. He hummed in appreciation as Meng Yao's arms wrapped tighter, his thighs squeezing around his hips as he kissed back with just as much enthusiasm. He tasted like the dry wine they had finished the meal with.
All at once, though, Meng Yao froze, hands stilling in his hair. Before Mingjue had time to be confused, he whispered against his mouth, "I think your cat wants to kill me," eyes fixed on something over Mingjue's shoulder.
Mingjue craned his neck around to find Baxia perched on the counter next to the sink, tail swishing, gaze locked with Meng Yao, ears flicked out to the sides. She let out a low, quiet growl.
"Oh, for fucks sake," Mingjue growled back. "That's it. You're going in Huaisang's room for the night."
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fishfingersandjellybabies · 4 years ago
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I Wonder What It’s Like (2/3) - fic
Characters: Damian Wayne, Jon Kent, Kathy Brandon Pairing: jondami Summary: Damian is a mess. A big, sappy, romantic mess. A/N: This hot *~garbage~*. Sorry.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
~~
He was just walking down the hallway in their team’s shared apartment. A loft that overlooked the city of Chicago, the ridiculous rent paid for by his father, no questions asked.
The little kitten he’d found on patrol the night before was pattering excitedly after him as he walked, Titus protectively on the little thing’s tail while she meowed loudly. Damian was laughing as he walked, and had just felt her jump at his ankle and stumble, so turned to make sure she was righting herself.
But then he froze.
In his attempt to glance down at the kitten, his gaze caught movement nearby, in the bedroom he was passing.
Jon’s bedroom.
The door was open and Jon stood there in front of a mirror, fiddling with the collar of a white dress shirt he was already practically busting out of. Not that Damian noticed the shirt too much. No, he was too busy staring at the perfectly form-fitting black slacks that hugged Jon’s ass and thighs – and that in the mirror he could clearly see they were not buttoned yet.
“Jon…”
He felt the name come out of his mouth without consent, and instantly snapped his lips closed, practically sucked them between his teeth.
Kept staring, though.
Refocused back on the shirt, on the sliver of chest he could still see, and the muscles rippling as Jon shifted. Stared at those long fingers fumbling against each other. Felt his breath catch in his throat, as Jon slowly glanced over his shoulder at him.
Jon blinked and his face brightened, and Damian – motherfucking Damian goddamn Wayne – felt his knees go weak as Jon smiled at him. As his violet eyes shone, and absolute joy radiated from his being.
“Hey, D.” He said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, I…” Damian cleared his throat, thanking his lucky stars. Jon had heard him, but he hadn’t heard his…tone. Good, that was good. As he exhaled his relief, he glanced down and saw the kitten, Titus still tight on her heels, stomping forward into Jon’s room. “Theadora!”
The kitten mewed grumpily as Damian stepped into the room and swooped her up into his hands. She wiggled even as he held her to his chest, and tried to bite at his fingers.
“We do not enter rooms uninvited.” He scolded, touching his finger to her nose. He looked back up at Jon. “My apologies.”
Jon snorted. “You know you and your animals are welcome any time. I don’t mind.” He turned back to the mirror. “In fact, I enjoy it. Always a nice break.”
Damian hummed, biting the words on his tongue. A nice break from what, doing nothing? No, that would be rude. He was working on not being rude, on saving the sarcasm for when it was warranted, not every word out of his mouth. He was better than that. He should be better than that.
(Especially to Jon.)
“…What’s the occasion?” Damian nodded towards him. “I don’t recall you being much into suits.”
“I’m not. It’s some shindig at the Planet. Mom’s getting an award. Again.” Jon chuckled as he rolled his eyes. “She said since I’m barely home any more the least I could do is come tonight.”
Damian couldn’t stop his eyes from darting downwards again. “I doubt it’s an…ahem…open-trouser affair…”
Internally, Damian winced at himself. It wasn’t sarcasm, but it was still rude. Jon wasn’t an idiot. Obviously he wasn’t done getting dressed. There was no need to tease. There was no need to open his stupid mouth.
But Jon laughed anyway. “I’m getting there, I’m getting there.” He stuck his tongue out thoughtfully, returning to his task at his collar. “I’m going to tuck my shirt in, but I can’t get these stupid buttons up top, here.” He tried for another second, then spun back to Damian. “A little help?”
Damian felt himself smiling, almost instinctively stepping forward. “Sure.”
Jon cooed as he grabbed Theadora from Damian’s hands, petting her as Damian took over button duty, gently folding the little round plastic through the fabric of the shirt. He ignored how close he was to Jon’s skin, how easily it would be to reach out and just touch him.
(Just caress his jaw, just lean forward and kiss him, just–)
The buttons were finished, and he quickly stepped back. Jon twisted his torso back towards the mirror. “Perfect.”
But then he turned back to Damian with a sheepish grin. “Help with one more thing?”
Damian shrugged.
And he watched, almost bewildered, as Jon didn’t give his kitten back (much to Titus’s disappointment in the doorway) but instead placed her on top of his head, right in the center of his nest of curls. Then he turned towards his bed, hastily shoving the shirt tails into those unbuttoned pants before grabbing a red ribbon that was lying across his comforter.
“I know you’re going to think it’s cheesy, but it’s kind of an inside thing between me and my dad.” He spun around, balancing Theadora perfectly, and held the ribbon out. “But I never learned how to properly tie one.”
Damian glanced between Jon’s kitten crown, and the ribbon in his hand. “A…bowtie?”
“It’s a thing, I promise. Inside joke.” He walked closer. “Please?”
Damian sighed, annoyed that his default exhale made him sound put off, when in reality, he really wasn’t. Not at all. He was happy to help.
He was always happy to help Jon.
But he took the ribbon and looped it carefully around Jon’s neck. Ignored the urge to pull the other forward with it, ignored those thoughts already popping back into his brain, and began to knot it.
“…I’m really only going to make my mom happy.” Jon let out his own sigh as he finally buttoned the stupid pants. Damian was happy to have a task, anything to stop him from looking down again. “These things are so boring.”
Damian snorted. “Welcome to my life.”
“Hey, I bet your dad will be there. And Diana. Apparently this is like. A huge award. Wouldn’t be surprised if Bruce Wayne showed up for some reason. You know, beyond my dad inviting him and Diana as a friends or something.”
“Unfortunately I do not know my father’s schedule.” Damian hummed. “I can call and ask if he or any of the family are going. While my siblings are complete Neanderthals, they might ease some of your boredom.”
“Or better yet…” Jon grinned. “Why don’t you just come with me? I’m sure no one will mind if I bring a plus-one. Besides, it’s been a while since you’ve been home too, right? Might be nice to see your dad.”
Damian laughed before he thought about it. “Absolutely not.”
And he wanted to absolutely stab himself, immediately, at the disappointment that flashed through Jon’s eyes, the way his smile faltered just a little. All because Damian laughed.
At him. In his face.
God, he was the worst.
“I mean,” Damian coughed. He slowly pulled Jon’s bowtie through its last loop, and then carefully tugged Theadora from Jon’s hair. “I’m on monitor duty tonight. And the girls are already out for their own night off.”
Jon’s grin, though it never disappeared, softened now. “D, when was the last time you took a night off?” Damian opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out because he didn’t have one. “The world would survive if all four of us were out acting like normal people for one night.”
“That’s how all apocalypse stories start, isn’t it?” Damian mumbled, keeping his gaze lowered. “Besides, if it’s like you said, half of the Justice League will be at this event. Someone needs to be out there watching.”
“No one said it had to be you.”
Damian glanced up, felt his cheeks warm as he realized Jon had stepped closer. Was staring gently down at him, that simple smile still on his face.
But Damian was a coward.
Emotions were a weakness. Wanting was selfish, and selfishness was unbecoming. Rejection was a useless pain and so easily avoidable.
He would not mess this up. He would not mess up one of the only friendships he had. He would not mess up Jon.
So he stepped back, an apologetic smile on his face. “Enjoy your party, Jonathan.”
He scurried from the room with his pets before he could see Jon frown.
~~
“Damian?!” Jon practically screamed, even over Maya’s attempts at soothing him. He smacked his hand against the door again. “D, please, just open the door!”
Damian, instead, turned away from it, rubbing his fist angrily against the tears pouring from his eyes.
“He just wants to help.” Kathy whispered from the desk. “You know him.”
“And he knows me.” Damian spat. “He knows better than to do this.”
“You just heard your mother might be dead, what else did you think he was going to do? Shrug it off and go play video games?” Kathy snapped back. “You’re his best friend, of course he’s going to want to comfort you. Take care of you.”
“I don’t need it. I don’t need comforted. I don’t need…” His face twisted in disgust. “Taken care of.” He shook his head. “I don’t even need you here.”
“Well, sucks I was there when Batman called and can move faster than you, huh?” Kathy smirked. “Jon may respect your boundaries, but that doesn’t mean I have to.” She let her smile drop. “Besides, I know what it’s like. Losing…questionable family. Not knowing how to feel about it. I…I get it.”
“…I know.” Damian sighed. Sniffed and ran his hand across his nose. “I know you do, Kathy. And I…despite everything, I do appreciate it.”
“Damian, please!” Jon whined.
“I can’t.” Damian whispered, twisting purposefully away from the door. “I…I can’t look at him right now.”
“Why, because he’s trying too hard? Or because he wouldn’t get it?”
“Both, maybe.” Damian shrugged, reaching for the tissue box on his nightstand. “And because…it’s embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“I’m mourning the not-yet-confirmed-death of a mass murderer, and here the son of fucking Superman wants to make sure I’m okay.” He shook his head. “This is not worth his time. I’m not worth his time. When’s he going to see that? Why does he think I am?”
“He’s your…best friend.” Kathy reiterated, but she seemed to struggle with the words. Like best friend wasn’t supposed to mean that. “He just wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay. I’m always okay.” He dabbed the tissue at his eyes. “I have to always be okay.”
“Why, because you’re the son of Batman and anything less than okay is a weakness?” Kathy mocked. “I thought you were over that line of thinking. Years ago.”
“It’s…I am, it’s not just that, it’s…” Damian sighed, dropped to sit on the edge of his bed. He pulled the photo of him and his mother back into his hands, the one he’d had in his desk drawer up until his father had called. “If I’m okay, people think I’m good. That I’m a good person.” He gently touched Talia’s face. The smile was warm in this photo. It wasn’t always. “If I’m not okay. I’ll…then I’ll go back to being bad. I’ll lose control. I’ll…be that monster again. The one I used to be.”
Kathy blinked. “And?”
Damian waited a beat. Listened as Jon continued to bang on the door, desperately call his name.
“Jon deserves better than a monster as a best friend.” Damian whispered.
“Wha…that’s it? You have to be okay for his benefit?” Kathy drawled. “That is the most convoluted bullshit I’ve ever heard. Especially because Jon loves you no matter how messed up you are. Jon loves all of us, no matter how messed up we all are.”
Damian remained silent. Listened as Jon pleaded with him still to open the door.
“Meanwhile he’s crumbling at the mere idea that something’s wrong with you and he can’t personally fix it.” Kathy grumbled, standing from the chair. She paused there, for a moment, looking between Damian and the door. “…You know?”
Damian glanced up at her.
“If you asked me, it almost sounds like you’re more upset about upsetting Jon than your mother potentially being dead.”
Damian didn’t answer the accusation, just shrunk deeper into himself, into his own brain. Let guilt swirl in his gut, both for Jon and Talia.
He closed his eyes. He truly was a monster, wasn’t he? In more ways than one.
After another second, Kathy sighed, and Damian opened his eyes to see her moving. “…You two, I swear.”
Damian watched as she walked over to the door, throwing it open.
“Jon!” She yelled. Jon jerked back at her tone. “Give it a rest, okay?!” Gentler, as he lowered his hand. “He’s fine. He just needs a little time to himself.”
Jon, the epitome of a kicked puppy, glanced over Kathy’s shoulder. “D?”
Damian sniffed, wiped at his eye. “It’s fine, Jon. I’ll…be out later.”
“You shouldn’t be alone right now, D.” Jon rattled off immediately. “I can-”
“You can leave him alone.” Maya cut off, pulling Jon back. “Now you saw him, okay? With your own eyes. He is alive and he’s in his room.”
“Damian…”
“Don’t worry on my account, Jon. Please.” Damian tried, offering a weak smile. It just made Jon frown deeper. “I’m fine. In fact, feel free to take Kathy with you.” Kathy glanced back at him. “I give you full permission to give him all the details of my father’s phone call, and everything we’ve talked about, if you believe it will help.”
Kathy looked at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes.
“You need therapy.” She sighed. Then she turned to Jon. “Both of you.”
Jon blinked dumbly as she took his other arm and began to pull him down the hall. Maya leaned into the room to grab his doorknob and gave him a wink.
“Preferably some couples therapy.” She hummed. “And, like, soon. Or Kathy and I are gonna lose our minds.”
She pulled the door shut. Damian just sighed, rubbed at his tears, and stared at the picture of his maybe-dead mother.
~~
Damian Wayne didn’t dream.
He had nightmares. He had flashbacks, absolutely. He woke up in cold sweats, screaming, crying, whatever. You name it.
But he didn’t dream. He had nightmares, or nothing at all.
So…this didn’t make sense. This didn’t make any sense. He was lucid, he knew this wasn’t real. He recognized it as a dream.
Because he didn’t own an antique shop.
But here he was, behind the counter of one, refurbishing an old cabinet, carefully painting along its edges, listening contently as a pair of customers were rung up.
By…by Jon.
“Thanks for stopping by K.W. and Sons. Have a great day!” He called as the old couple waved and walked out the front door, bell above the door chiming. As soon as the door slammed shut, Jon gave a happy sigh. Damian, still facing the cabinet, sensed more than heard Jon turn around. “…I still can’t believe you did it.”
“Hm?” Was all the response Damian had.
“I cannot believe you found the book Mr. Hamada used to propose to his wife.” Suddenly there was a weight on Damian’s back, arms wrapping around his waist. “Like…how do you find that? How do you even know where to start looking? They didn’t even realize they’d accidentally given it away until three years after the fact!”
“Well, for starters,” Damian laughed as Jon kissed his cheek. “It’s nice to know a private detective or two. Then it’s just a simple retracing of steps.” Damian placed his paintbrush along the edge of his paint tray. “Also – the internet is a great tool. There’s only so many books with the phrase ‘will you marry me?’ written in English and Japanese in the front cover. That kind of thing goes viral all the time.”
Jon hummed, leaning his chin into Damian’s shoulder. “Mrs. Hamada cried when I brought it out. It was sweet.”
“Such a shame I missed it.” Damian drawled cheekily. Jon squeezed his sides.
“Don’t be rude.”
Damian turned his head, keeping his smirk. “You love it when I’m rude.”
Jon hummed again, glancing downwards. Damian was so distracted by the lashes splaying across his rosy cheeks that he didn’t notice Jon dipping his finger into the pastel teal paint until he was dabbing it against his nose.
“I don’t know if I said love.”
“I don’t know.” Damian said thoughtfully, leaning over until his nose brushed Jon’s, smearing the paint against his skin as well. “I think you did.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeah-huh.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeah-huh.”
“Nuh-uh, times a thousand.” Jon countered, dragging his nose along Damian’s jaw to make a bigger mess. At the same time, he squeezed Damian’s torso again in an attempted tickle. “No take-backsies.”
And despite the childishness, Damian laughed, leaned into Jon’s embrace. Accepted paint-filled butterfly kisses and real ones too. Gently twisted in Jon’s arms to face him completely, and take a tender hold of Jon’s face.
He had a beard here. A small one. And it was graying. How old were they? Do you age in dreams? Damian found himself not caring.
He let his laugh drop into a sigh, stroking a thumb across Jon’s face as he stared into his eyes. After a moment, he smiled. “I love you.”
Jon beamed. Like it was the first time he’d ever heard it. Like it was the only thing he ever wanted to hear in his whole life. He pressed his forehead to Damian’s and closed his eyes. “I-”
“I love you too.”
Damian jerked, his head shooting up.
Wha…what?
He blinked rapidly, wiping at his lip instinctively. There was drool there. Since when did he drool while he slept?
Since when was he sleeping?
He blinked a few more times, the room becoming clearer. It was still a dark space, but he recognized it. Their apartment living room. The girls were in the loveseat nearby, also asleep. There was light coming from the TV across the room.
Oh yeah. It was their monthly team movie night.
“You okay?” Came a whisper to his right. He flinched again, spinning around to see Jon staring down at him with an amused look. Damian let his eyes dart around, and the situation became clear.
He’d fallen asleep during the movie. On Jon’s shoulder.
And dear god, he was drooling.
“Uh…y-yeah.” Damian stuttered, throat dry. “Is the movie over?”
“Just about. Guess I’m the only one who made it.” Jon laughed softly. “I don’t blame you though. It’s pretty boring.”
Damian nodded silently, trying to look at anything but Jon. Glanced over to their teammates. No modesty there, Maya had Kathy’s head pressed to her breasts, her own legs contorted around Kathy’s waist. He frowned – there was no way that was comfortable for either of them. Freaks.
“You can…uh…go back to sleep, if you want.” Jon murmured. Damian turned back to him as he yawned. “I was about to fall asleep myself, actually. And…honestly, I don’t feel like getting up to go back to my own bed.” Even in the dark, Damian noticed Jon’s cheeks brighten. “And, uh…you’re warm.”
Damian smirked. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Jon snorted, fiddling with a nearby blanket, and throwing it over the both of them as Damian resituated himself closer. Without a word, Jon slouched, throwing his arm across the back of the sofa, forcing Damian closer into his side.
“Team slumber party.” Jon said absently. “Been a while since the four of us did one of these.”
“Indeed.” Damian breathed. His heart was pounding as dared to lay his head back on Jon’s shoulder. Waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for Jon to say something. To tell him off.
Instead, Jon just…leaned his head against Damian’s in return. Whispered: “Goodnight, Damian.”
Damian – giddy, frozen, and oh-so pleased – just closed his eyes once more.
“…Goodnight, Jon.”
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bangtan-sonyeonddaeng · 5 years ago
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BTS Reaction| You are an idol in a co-ed group
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Namjoon
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He understands what it’s like being an idol so he never really makes any negative comments towards it. He knows it’s just for show and that your company picks the choreography. 
But damnit if your group mate touches you one more time he’s gonna snap. He’s at an award show, watching your performance and although he is blown away with how amazing you are performing up on stage, he can’t help the way his hand clenches into a fist every time he sees one of your other members touch you in a way he feels only he should. 
“Namjoon snap out of it or that vein in your forehead is gonna burst through your skin.” Yoongi scolds him. He unclenches his jaw and stretches his hands out to try and get the feeling back in them. 
“I’m sorry. I really try to keep my slight jealousy in check but I can’t help it. Like I know y/n loves me and everything and would never do anything to hurt me but still.. I can’t help it.” 
“That’s a little more than slight, Namjoon. Like you said y/n loves you so just focus on that okay?” He sighs and continues watching your performance. At the end of the show you smile brightly and bow to the crowd, but then your eyes lock on his and you blow a kiss to him and mouth that you love him and all of his worries immediately disappear. He smiles to himself, and can’t wait to praise you endlessly for how well you performed tonight. 
Jin
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He’s your number one supporter. When he’s not on tour you can bet he’s going to be in the crowd at your shows cheering loudly for you and hyping you up. 
That’s currently what’s happening now. You were performing your comeback stage and right in the front row was Jin. He was wearing a mask and hat hoping to not be seen but you immediately knew it was him by how loudly he was yelling. 
“Yeah!! That’s my y/n up there absolutely killing it like an absolute boss! Get it baby!” Even though it was a live recording you couldn’t help but laugh as you were singing your lines. You found yourself smiling throughout the entire performance hearing Jin loudly yelling your fan chants like the number one fan he was. 
After the show he joined you in your dressing room with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He nearly dropped them when he ran over to you and enveloped you in a tight hug. 
“Y/n you did so well! I’m so proud of you!” He glances around the room at your fellow members and offers all of them a smile as well. “You all did really well, sorry I didn’t mean to leave you all out.” 
“It’s alright, Jin. We know y/n is your priority. No offense taken.” 
“Thank you, Jin.” He pulls away from you and looks at you slightly puzzled.
“Why are you thanking me?”
“For being so nice to all of my bandmates. I know it can’t be easy for you to watch me up on stage when-”
“Hey, hey none of that. I don’t care about that I know it’s strictly professional and you all are friends. Besides I happen to like your bandmates they laugh and appreciate my dad jokes.” You smile and lean in to kiss him, happy that your boyfriend was so supportive of you. 
Yoongi
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“So, Yoongi you recently announced your relationship with y/n?”
“Yes.” Yoongi already didn’t like where this interviewers questions were going as he tried his best not to roll his eyes. 
“And how is everything between you two?”
“We’re great. Never been better thanks.” 
“How do you feel about y/n being a coed group?”
“I don't have any feelings towards it? Why how am I supposed to feel?” Yoongi challenges him, as if daring him to make a comment about you and see where that leads him. 
“Well I’m sure you’ve seen their most recent performance.”
“Yes. And y/n absolutely killed it and looked goddamn beautiful and powerful up on that stage so if you are about to say anything else other than praises I suggest you shut it.” He mustered his most intimidating glare and the interviewer cleared his throat and immediately moved onto the next question, not mentioning you again.
Later that night when he walked through the door he was immediately enveloped in a tight hug from you. He chuckles in surprise but immediately wraps his arms around you too. He tries to pull away but you only tighten your hold on him further.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the warm welcome but what’s this for?” 
“Thank you for standing up for me. I could tell where that question was going but you didn’t hesitate to shut him down.” He kisses the top of your head.
“Of course, love. And I meant every word I said. It doesn’t bother me that you’re in a coed group because at the end of the day it’s me you’re going home to, and my bed you’re sleeping in.” 
Hoseok
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“Hobi?”
“Yes, sunshine?” You giggle at the petname.
“Can you come to the studio? Minki and I are really struggling with our choreography for our duet and I can’t get this one part down.”
“Sure thing baby! I’ll be right there!” You hang up the phone and smile at your bandmate where he’s collapsed on the ground huffing loudly. 
“Hoseok said he’s coming.” 
“Great! Maybe he can finally show us what the hell we’re doing wrong and then we can take a break.” You sit on the floor next to him scrolling through your phone. A short while later the studio door is clicking open and there is your boyfriend. You smile and get up to walk towards him and kiss his cheek. 
“So what are two having trouble with?” You open your phone to the video your choreographers had sent you of your routine. He watches it though twice and somehow manages to get the whole thing down. He asks you both to run through the part you’re struggling with and sure enough you both end up tripping over each other at the same part. 
“Ah there’s your problem. You aren’t holding onto y/n tightly enough.” He grabs Minki’s hand and places it back on your waist and your bandmate freezes.
“Uh.. are you sure this is okay? I didn’t want to like, be disrespectful and touch y/n when.. you know...” He chuckles lightly. 
“It’s fine. It’s for your choreography and trust me you’ll get it down within minutes if you just stop being afraid to touch y/n. As long as you don’t get any funny ideas I don’t care.” He listens to him and sure enough with you standing closer to one another you get your positioning right and no longer trip over each other. You smile in relief and high five Minki. 
“Thank you Hobi! You really are amazing at what you do, you know?” He waves off your praise. 
“Ah, it’s nothing.” 
“No seriously man, thank you. I was exhausted and thought there was no way we’re ever going to get it right.” 
“Why don’t you run it through once all the way through? I can give you guys more pointers if you want.” 
“That sounds perfect. Thank you so much.” You perform the choreography for Hoseok and he gives you tips here and there as you perform but by the time you’re done he’s beaming. 
“Ah you both did so well! I’m proud of you! You’re going to kill that performance next week especially if you keep working at it. I’ll be there too, watching and cheering you on every step of the way.”
Jimin
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Jimin is pouting. He had been all night and you asked him multiple times what was wrong but he just kept brushing you off and telling you he was fine. You knew he most definitely was not. It was now night time and Jimin was tucked into the corner of the bed with his back facing to you. You had enough and couldn’t help when your emotions just began pouring out of you. 
“Are you seriously going to sit there and ignore me the rest of the night or are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Because I am going to go sleep in the guest room if you don’t get your ass over here and cuddle with me and tell me what’s wrong with you.” You hear him huff and let out a little snort as if he’s trying to hold in his laughter. 
“Baby, please come here.” You hold your arms out and within moments he’s back to snuggling up to you with his head laying on your chest and arm wrapped around your waist. “Now tell me what has been bothering you all day.”
“It’s stupid..”
“If it’s got you this upset then it isn't stupid now just be honest with me, Jimin.”
“Well I watched your new music video..”
“Yes?”
“And um.. your bandmate was very touchy with you... too touchy. Hands were all over you, and...didn’t like it.” He mumbles out the last part and you almost didn’t hear it.”
“Ah, Jimin! Is that what had you so upset? You know I don’t have any say in the choreography. I’m in a coed group and they want to do that kind of stuff because the fans like it.. You told me you were okay with it.”
“Well I’m not okay with it I just, accept it I guess? I don’t know I’m just being insecure and jealous don’t listen to me.” He tries to lift his head off of you but you place back down. 
“I’m sorry. You know if I could stop that I would. We don’t like each other like that. None of us do, we’re all friends.”
“I know that. I just can’t help but get a little jealous sometimes.” You kiss the top of his head and feel him smile by the way his cheeks puff up. 
“You have nothing to worry about. I love you and only you Jimin. And you know you have no reason to be jealous you know why?”  He shakes his head. “Because you have me whenever you want and you can touch me whenever and wherever you want.” Jimin lifts his head up and has a mischievous smirk on his face as he begins trailing his hand lightly down your chest.
“Oh? So can I now?”
“Whenever you want. I’m yours.”
Taehyung
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You came home from your company that day absolutely exhausted. Taehyung was standing at the door anxiously waiting for you and bouncing up and down looking like an excited child on Christmas morning. 
“So?! What did they say?! Are you going to debut?” You set your bag down and look at him and smile. “You are?!” You nod your head and he immediately runs over and scoops you up in his arms, twirling you around and peppering kisses all over your face. You giggle happily and kiss him right back. “Y/n this is amazing news! When are you going to debut?”
“By the end of the year. We already have our group put together and they’ve been having us work on the choreography and singing for a while now so they could see who would be ready to debut and who was going to get cut.” 
“I’m so proud of you! So insanely proud.” You smile but a few moments later it falls. “Uh oh, I don’t like that look. What’s wrong?” 
“It’s just.. well I don’t know if this would bother you but.. It’s about the other members.”
“Okay? Why did one of them hurt you? Say anything weird to you?”
“No no nothing like that. It’s just that it’s a coed group.” He tilts his head at you. 
“Okay?”
“Meaning I will be in a group with guys too?”
“Again... okay?”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No? Why would it?”
“I don’t know I mean.. I’m going to be spending a lot of time with other guys and we’re going to have to dance together.”
“And that’s totally fine with me, sweetheart I don’t care about that. I love you and I know you love me. I feel really secure in our relationship and I don’t feel it will be in jeopardy at all.” You smile and kiss his forehead, ruffling his hair slightly when you pull away. “But you know if any one of them does something you’re uncomfortable with you tell me and I will knock your group down from a 4 member group to a 3 before you even debut.” You giggle at that and pull him back in to hug him. 
“Thank you Tae. I like knowing that you have my back and will always be there when I need you.”
Jungkook
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Ooooh look at that Jeonjealous has resurfaced his tongue is about to poke right through his cheek
He looks like he’s about to straight up smack y/n’s bandmate
I think it’s kind of cute. He cares about y/n a lot obviously if he’s getting so jealous over the male members
Jungkook locks his phone and throws it onto the bed, sighing loudly. He thinks to himself that he really needs to work on hiding his emotions a little bit better because they seem to be written all over his face. He hears the bedroom door open and sits up to be met with your smile. He offers a small smile back but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes. 
“Hey, y/n.”
“Hi, Jungkook. I take it by the look on your face you must have seen the comments from last night’s award show?”
“Um.. maybe..” You sigh and sit down on the edge of the bed. Jungkook sits up and moves down to join you. 
“You know if this really bothers you I can just not renew my contract next year.”
“What?! Y/n no! You love performing don’t let my stupid jealousy stop you from pursuing your dream.”
“But I want you to watch and enjoy my performances not be looking like you’re about to go fight my bandmates every time I am on stage.” 
“I do enjoy your performances, genuinely I do. I just can’t help the little bit of jealousy that flares up every time they touch you because I can’t help but wish it was me up on that stage with you.” 
“Maybe you should talk to your company about that then.”
“Huh?”
“See if we can do a performance together! Or if not we can just make our own and post it on social media just as a surprise for our fans. I think they would really like that.” 
“That’s... actually not a bad idea.” You smile and move to straddle his hips, lightly pushing him back so he’s laying down with you hovering over top of him.
“Besides, you have nothing to be jealous of. Because you get to have me in ways anyone else would only dream of.” 
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vangoghmusings · 5 years ago
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muted. | present mic x reader
a/n: hello! this is chapter three of “muted.”! i upload primarily to wattpad (@/vangoghpoets) but i update here too! this chapter is a little bit long but i hope you guys still enjoy it! also, my inbox is open and i am currently taking requests <3
previous chapters: chapter one    chapter two
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The sunlight streaked across the room, its bright rays hitting your closed eyes. You hummed softly, not remembering your bed feeling this luxurious. As you shifted awake, your head began to pound.  
“Ow,” you mumbled, holding your head in your hands as you sat up. As you rubbed your temples, you heard snore beside you. Your eyes shot open to see Hizashi Yamada, the Present Mic, sleeping soundly.You sat in shock, your hand covering your mouth to stop you from screaming.  Still shocked, you looked down at yourself.  
I’m naked. Oh my god, I’m naked.  
You turned to look at Hizashi, who was shirtless. You gulped, praying to God that he wasn’t naked as you lifted the sheets to check.
He’s naked. Oh my god why is he fucking naked? His dick is kinda big though- wait what the fuck am I thinking?!  
You took a deep breath and tried to collect your thoughts despite your pounding headache. You blinked realizing you were hung over. Suddenly the nights events flooded your mind as you tried to remember as much as possible. Frankly, you couldn’t remember very much. You wanted to cry. What if you lost your job because of this before you even got started. You searched the room, taken aback by how big it was.  
Does Hizashi live in a mansion?
You looked at the floor, your clothes no wear to be found. You bit your lip trying to hold back a fearful whimper. A gold wrapper on the floor caught your eye. You slowly crawled out of the bed, trying your best not to wake Hizashi. Your eyes widened at the sight. You stared down at the Magnum condom wrapper in size XL. You stared at the wrapper in horror.  
Oh my god. We fucked. I fucked Present Mic. AND PRESENT MIC WEARS AN EXTRA LARGE CONDOM!!  
You put your hand on your heart and took deep breaths trying to calm yourself down. You turned to see Hizashi, still sleeping soundly. You snuck into his closet, which seemed like an entirely separate room. You swear you had never seen so many leather jackets in your life. You quietly opened a door, having luck and finding a pair of boxers.  
“These should do,” you muttered under your breath. You eventually found a drawer full of t-shirts and pulled out a “PRESENT MIC: CLUB WORLD TOUR” shirt.  
“Cocky bastard,” you mumbled to yourself while slipping it on. After walking out of the enormous closet, you snuck out of his room. Your shirt and clothes were no wear to be found, so the only option you had was to hunt through what appeared to be a mansion. You stepped out of the room and into a long hallway. You walked down the hallway, expensive art pieces of musicians lining the walls. Your jaw fell when you entered what you believed to be a living room. The walls were ceiling to floor windows overlooking the city of Tokyo. The room was furnished with expensive leaver seating and a grand piano. You looked around at the awards and photographs that sat on the shelves. You stepped and felt your feet on the softest rug you’ve ever felt. You looked down at the authentic fur. Hizashi was filthy rich, and it wasn’t hard to tell. You covered your arms shyly, looking out at the city below.  
“Like the view?”  
You whipped your head around to see Hizashi standing in just boxers, his blonde hair completely down, glasses sitting on the brim of his nose. He looked so calm; it made your blood boil.  
“Mic, we are in deep shit-”  
“Mic? I thought I told you to call me Hizashi.”  
You rolled your eyes at his nonchalant attitude.  
“Hizashi, I could lose my job because of this!” You walked towards him, anger in every footstep.  
He gave a puzzled look.  
“Why would you lose your job-?”  
You grabbed his wrist angrily, dragging him back to his room. You grabbed the condom wrapper off the floor and waved it in his face.  
“This! This is why I could lose my job!” You took a deep breath before whisper shouting at him, “We-we had sex Hiashi! I just met you!”  
A sly smile came across his face as he gently pulled your hand out of his face, which was still waving the condom around like it was evidence of a crime.  
“Damn I wished I remembered it.”  
Your eyes widened, “Hizashi this isn’t funny! I don’t want to lose my job the day after I started it!”  
He looked down at you calmly.  
“I won’t let that happen.”  
You sighed.  
“Promise?”  
“Promise.”  
You shook your head and looked down at your feet, your stomach churning from the events that had folded in front of you.  
“Whatever happened last night, we are never doing again. Got it?” You glared up at him.  
He raised his hands as if to plead his innocence.  
“Got it.”  
“I’m going home.” You huffed as you began to walk out of his room. You were yanked back by Hizashi’s hand around your wrist.  
“Those are my clothes.”  
You looked down at yourself, wearing a pair of his boxers and his t-shirt. You gestured to his closet.  
“I’m sure you won’t miss them. You’ll get them back once you find my clothes.” 
You yanked your arm out of his hold and stomped off.  
⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇  
You sat in the Uber, anxiously waiting to arrive at your apartment. As soon as the car pulled up to the building, you gave the driver a rushed thank you and ran out and up to your apartment.  
You ripped the clothes off, anger lingering with every toss of fabric. You stepped into the shower, practically burning yourself with the water. It seemed be an attempt to wash off all whatever Hizashi and you had done together. You let the hot water beat against your head, shutting your eyes tight in thought.  
How was he so nonchalant? How was he not freaking out like I was?  
You sighed and tilted your head up so the water hit your neck. You know Present Mic was known for being the bachelor hero. A new girl every night, and he fully took advantage of any damsel in distress who wanted to repay him. More thoughts crept into your head as you rubbed your eyes.  
Was he always like this? It was like he didn’t give a single care that we had gotten blackout drunk and fucked.  
You stepped out of the shower, wrapped yourself in a towel and wiped the steam off of the mirror. Your eyes widened in horror. Your chest, collar bone and neck looked like multiple vampires had attacked. The hickeys and bite marks were bright purple, raw from the hot water.  
If there are this many on my neck, there might be some elsewhere.  
You fearfully took your towel off, closing your eyes in anticipation. You opened them, just to be flooded with another wave of shock. Your breasts, underboob, stomach, hips, thighs (both inner and outer) where decorated with what seemed like millions of hickeys. You turned to see a massive purple one on your butt.  
Really?! I look like a fucking leper!!  
You were furious. More than furious, you were fuming. It seemed as if steam was coming out of both your nostrils and ears. You wrapped yourself back up in the towel and stomped to your bedroom, grabbing your phone and sitting on your bed, dialing Hizashi’s number. Your leg bobbed in angry anticipation for him to pick up.  
“Miss me already-?”  
“HIZASHI YAMADA I LOOK LIKE A GODDAMN LEPER! WHO COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!?”
Hizashi pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing at the curses and rage spilling through the phone. He was impressed at how loud you were, only to cringe once again at you calling him a man whore.  
“Hey hey hey, I am not a man whore.”  
He heard you scoff.  
“Yeah right. Hizashi, I’m covered in hickeys. I look like I got the pulp beat out of me!”  
You heard him chuckle.  
“THIS ISN’T FUNNY-” “Y/n relax, go put a spoon in the freezer.”  
You paused.  
“What?”  
“I said go put a spoon in the freezer. Once it looks all frosty, you can put it on the bruises, and it’ll help them fade. Then you can put green concealer on it. If you don’t have any I can buy some for you-”  
“I can buy it myself, thank you very much. I’m not a fucking charity case.”  
The line got quiet.  
“I didn’t mean it like that-”  
“It’s fine y/n, I get it. I’m sorry.”  
Beep.
You looked down at your phone, seeing that he had hung up. You sighed, guilt creeping in from all the foul things you called him. You stood up and walked to your kitchen, grabbing a large spoon and shoving it in the freezer. You went back to your room, plopping down at your vanity. You went through your makeup bags until you found your old green concealer. You looked down at the little tube of makeup, remembering the countless times you had to use it thanks to your ex.  
You set it down and bit your lip.  
I probably shouldn’t have called Hizashi a man whore.  
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onewfantaesy · 4 years ago
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Monsters in the Dark
(tw: ed) (I wanted to put this under a read more but mobile sucks)
It started small at first. Skipping a meal here. Spending longer hours in the practice room there. He was on a diet for a comeback anyway, he needed to lose the weight. It was a good thing. Taemin was just doing his job.
But then the stress of comebacks was getting to him, and limiting himself to a single meal a day became a form of control. It was something he had absolute power over - how much food he put in his body. When so much of his life was controlled by seemingly everyone but him, to have this small sliver of power over himself was comforting. Besides, it wouldn’t really harm him. He needed to lose the weight for the comeback anyway. He could stop whenever he wanted.
Then as time went on, it was like he became obsessed with his reflection. Anytime he saw a mirror, anytime he saw a reflective surface, he had to stare at himself, even if just for a moment. To check the way his legs look. To check if his collarbones are poking out just the way he likes. To check how his fingers look.
His cheeks, goddamn his cheeks. It seemed no matter how much weight he lost, no matter what the number on the scale said, his cheeks wouldn’t get smaller, wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t stop being so chubby. And it wasn’t like people couldn’t seem to go a goddamn day without telling him about his chubby fucking cheeks. Some nights, after long days spent practicing and counting calories and practicing some more, he sits in front of the mirror in a dimly lit dance room, squeezing his cheeks between his fingers, pinching, pulling until the skin is bright red and hot and numb. He wants to pull them off. He wants to be rid of them. He hates them.
He’s not quite sure how many months it’s been since this all started, but he can’t find it in him to really care. No one has said anything, no one seems to notice, so it must not really be a problem. Besides, his mind is too foggy to give a damn. He can hardly focus on a single thing lately, he can’t even remember what he was concerned about. He shakes his head and lets out a shuddering breath and pushes his way into his favorite practice room. It’s a free day, he has nothing going on, so he plans on spending the entire day dancing and singing until he physically can’t move anymore.
Six hours later, his head is swimming and his whole body is slick with sweat and he can’t seem to catch his breath. It was fine though. Taemin would be fine. He grabbed his seventh water bottle with shaking hands and chugged it until it was half-empty. He would be fine. He would just take a nap on the dance room floor and then go home to shower and sleep. It was fine.
He was woken up by Exo coming in to practice for their comeback. They’d booked the room a few days ago. Taemin has a throbbing headache and Jongin is laughing and poking him awake and telling him to go home.
“Do you want me to call a manager?” Suho asks, his gaze looking vaguely concerned.
“I’m fine, thank you,” is all Taemin says, and he ducks his head and shuffles out into the hallway. He has to sit in the hallway for fifteen more minutes before his head stops swirling and he can drag himself home.
Another few months, and the fainting starts. The first one was during rehearsal. Easy to hide, because he’d stayed late and everyone had already left when it had happened. He woke up on the floor with a banged up elbow and knee, and his vision was blurry, but he sat up and drank a zero-calorie Propel and tried to regulate his breathing.
He gets a cab home and falls into bed. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off. His bedding was soaked in sweat. He felt disgusting when he woke up. Everything felt disgusting.
When he passes by a mirror the next day, he looks at his fingers and almost has a panic attack. They look like sausage links sewed to his hands. He almost starts crying, but the fear gets lodged in his throat instead, and he suppresses the panic just in time to walk into the concept meeting for the next comeback, a smile plastered on his face. Kibum looks confused at the apparent excitement on Taemin’s face, but he doesn’t say anything.
He never passes out on stage. Not during promotions. He somehow manages to hold out just long enough to get backstage before he falls against Jinki’s chest or Minho’s back. That’s if someone catches him. Otherwise, it’s straight to the floor, but it always ends with people crowded around him.
“I’m just stressed,” he says. “Not sleeping well.”
It appease everyone. They don’t question him further. Instead, he’s given sleeping pills and told to try and get more sleep. Taemin takes them without question or complaint. Besides, the pills make it easier to sleep off the hunger that gnaws at him endlessly.
He’s with Jongin a while later, visiting his sister with him. Playing with his niece and nephew. It’s when Jongin’s nephew comes up to him and shows him a toy that the three day fast he’s on the tail end of suddenly hits him.
Eat the child, the voice in his head tells him.
No, he tells the voice. That’s too many calories.
It’s not until later, until they’re leaving to go get coffee and go back home, that he becomes concerned with his rationale to not just consume Jongin’s toddler nephew. The calorie count in a toddler should not be the first response Taemin has when his mind contemplates cannibalism, no matter how fleeting of a thought it was.
It’s at an award show during a live broadcast performance that he faints on stage. He’d been doing a spin in the choreography - something of a signature move now, really - when he couldn’t stop the spinning in his head and he stumbled and his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth went slack just as the camera was on him and he fell to the floor of the stage with a heavy thump.
He woke up with a throbbing headache in a room that was too bright and too many people crowding around him. He’s told he needs to go to the hospital. He needs to see a doctor.
“I’m fine,” he insists. He can’t catch his breath. His heart feels heavy in his chest, but it’s not beating very fast.
“Your blood pressure is too low,” someone tells him.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t go to the doctor. He insists he just wasn’t feeling well, that he thought he was catching a cold.
Months after that, maybe half a year or so, they’re all arguing. They can’t agree on a comeback concept. Can’t agree on a title song. Taemin hates it, he hates the yelling, the slamming of coffee cups, the clatter of pens on the conference table as concept after concept is scratched off of lists.
Taemin had eaten half a croissant that was provided for the meeting, but his stomach was twisting and turning now, and he sudddnly felt sick. The others were in the middle of bickering when Taemin’s chair scrapes against the floor and he rushes out of the room, stumbling to the bathroom down the hall and barely locking the stall door before he’s falling on the tiled floor, bruising his knees, and emptying his stomach of every single bite of croissant and gulp of coffee that he’d had that day. Tears are burning his eyes and he’s gasping for breath and his nose burns with vomit stuck in his nostrils. He flushed the toilet before anyone comes in to see what was wrong with him, but he’s still gagging and heaving when Jinki comes in.
“Are you alright?” Jinki asks, his voice laced with concern. “Are you sick?”
“Stomach bug,” Taemin says in a strained voice. “Almost shit my pants yesterday, too.”
That last part wasn’t even a lie, but it definitely wasn’t because of a stomach bug. Jinki just snorts.
“TMI, dude,” he jokes. “Do you want me to get you anything? Some water?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I’ll wait for you, then,” Jink is says softly. He’s too sweet, but Taemin wishes he would leave right now.
“Thanks,” is all he can manage to say.
But Taemin hates the bickering. Hates the tense energy that’s in the room even under the concern that everyone sends him. Hates that he realizes he liked the way puking felt, but more so hates the way he liked he way his face looked in the bathroom mirror afterwards. Flushed with bright red lips and wet eyes and pretty. It’s frightening, the way he likes it.
It opens a door Taemin wish had stayed closed. Now he can’t help but be tempted to purge every meal he eats. It’s so satisfying, the way everything comes back up. The way he can now eat and eat and eat and just stick his fingers down his throat and expel it all before he can digest it.
But it’s a terrible cycle of binging and purging, binging and purging, binging and purging. Then, he feels so sick and disgusting from the days, weeks, months of eating anything and everything that he restricts worse than he ever had before. His stomach is killing him and he’s in so much pain but he’ll be damned if he eats anything other than a single rice cake and slice of cheese for the next two days. He cannot binge again. He can’t.
He eventually gets so used to making himself puke that he has to stick his entire fist down his throat to make it work. It leads to too many close encounters with actually suffocating and choking himself. But he can’t stop.
“What’s the matter?” Minho asks one day, looking at how Taemin won’t stop staring at the mirror.
Taemin moves hisneyws slowly towards him, then looks back at his reflection.
“I look-” he stammers, like his tongue can’t form the words, “I look like a fucking Jigglypuff.”
Minho snorts loudly, to the point that the others all glance over at them.
“You’re joking, right?” Minho laughs.
He brushes it off as a joke, and everyone goes back to stretching.
Except Taemin wasn’t laughing.
Eat the cereal, the voice in his head tells him that night.
No, don’t, the other voice tells him. Or you’ll get fat and die.
Just eat the cereal.
Don’t eat it.
Eat it.
Don’t eat it.
EAT IT.
DON’T EAT IT.
“SHUT UP!” Taemin screams at the mirror, his fists clutching the vanity in the bathroom. His breathing is uneven and his reflection in the mirror stares back at him like a starved animal. He stares hard at his reflection and tells himself, “We’re not eating.”
He gets into the shower after the bathroom has already filled with steam and fogged up the mirror. He doesn’t remember getting in, but his eyes snap open and he’s laying on the shower floor and the water spilling over him is ice cold and he’s shivering and he wants to die.
His whole body hurts. He’s hungry. He’s cold. He just wants to go to bed and not wake up in the morning. He’s exhausted. He can’t handle being awake right now.
He turns off the water and it’s already pitch black outside when he steps out of the shower. He puts three layers of pajamas on and crawls under four blankets on his bed and passes out the moment his head hits the pillow.
Then he wakes up in the morning and repeats it all over again, the voices in his head arguing about what he can and cannot eat and he tries to drown it all out by chugging coffee instead. He gets shakey and jittery and just wants to go back to bed. He just wants to go to bed.
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aarongoldenwrites · 5 years ago
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So, I watched Prince of Egypt on Wednesday night to celebrate Passover. Then, I noticed some people watching it to celebrate Easter, which, okay, fine. It's not like you're holding a seder and it is an excellent movie.
But along the way, it occurred to me that part of our responsibility to God and one another is to share the Passover story with others.
So I'm going to do that now.
My way. With a certain degree of fidelity and a certain degree of irreverence.
You have been warned.
Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat happens. Jacob went to Egypt, blah, blah, blah, the children of Israel settle in Egypt. Problem is, the land of Egypt is currently under the conquering foot of the Hyskos, so when the Jews helped the ruling class they helped the conquerors because those were the people in charge. The Hyskos were predominantly a sea-people who had also invented chariots and they terrorized the Mediterranean. We think they might have been Mycenean or a proto-Mycenean culture. A couple hundred years go by. Some Jews leave Egypt and matriculate to the Sinai or further north, to Canaan. We'll come back to them later.
The Egyptians have learned all about chariots and are now better at them than the Hyskos. They politely ask the Hyskos to leave, wait five minutes, and then use chariots to kill as many of them as they can run over. The rest show themselves out. “Eh, not our problem,” says the Jews. They were wrong.
And so four hundred years of slavery begins. The Egyptians use the Jews to build their homes and their temples and their statues and other structures, but not the goddamn pyramids (which had been there since the first dynastic age and this is about the middle of the second). The pyramids at this point were covered in limestone, which meant you could see them from freaking anywhere during the day and made navigating the desert a little easier.
What were the pyramids for? Well, other than being a shining beacon for land navigation, they also had some cool uses for astronomy and astrology. The Egyptians were big believes in astrology, with thirteen astrological houses (the Greeks would later condense it to twelve, because they had a thing about the number thirteen). So, with all this astrology going on, some Egyptian priests start warning the Pharaoh that the Jews might revolt. “Well, they're already revolting,” the Pharaoh says, and everyone laughs because the Pharaoh just told a joke and he is considered to be a literal god.
Anyways, they come up with a theory that someone will be born on such-and-such a day, under this astrological house or maybe that one, and will probably be a firstborn child, and that person will lead the Jews to freedom. “Screw that,” Pharaoh says, “Who will do the laundry or weave our fine linen? Do... do people expect us to change the nappies of our young?” A simple solution is reached: every firstborn male child (because a female leader? Hah!) of a given sign will be taken from their parents and relocated to the Nile, where they will be eaten or drown or probably both. Any parents that resist will be beaten and probably killed, which is okay because we're only slaves. This happens every few years. For four hundred years.
A woman named Yocheved (pronounced “Yocheved”) is born. She will later be voiced by Ofra Haza, and if you don't know you Ofra Haza is you should youtube her and listen to her sing; you're in for a treat. If you don't know who Yocheved is, she's Moses' mom. Moses' mom already has two kids: Miriam and Aaron (I'm named for him). Miriam gets out of danger of death by Nile by being a girl, and Aaron gets away from it because no one cares about Aaron (there's some thought that he's the second son of a previous marriage, and that Miriam was born of that marriage, too. Moses is the first son of the most recent marriage or the result of a not-wedded sexing, which might have been an Egyptian lover or the result of her being a sex slave, because we know that happens when slavery is a thing). Yocheved has been around a bit, and she takes her baby in a basket to the Nile because the Egyptians sometimes let parents do this – it was easier than killing a slave that someone important might like. Yocheved has sneakily made the basket buoyant, so it floats down the Nile and into the Pharoah's palace. Pharoah's wife finds the basket with the baby inside and decides that she's going to keep it because it's clearly a gift from the gods. They name the kid not-Moses (Yocheved gave him that name).
Miriam had a job working in the palace doing menial jobs like doing the laundry, weaving linen, and changing her secret brother's nappies. And if a slave is calling the young prince “Moses”, well, what does that mean, anyway? Silly slave.
Moses grows up with his brother, Ramses. There's no expectations for Moses, as he is an adopted child and cannot inherit anything, but Father-Ramses has big expectations for Son-Ramses and we're going to get some inter-generational trauma here based in vicarious living, good intentions, and cultural bias. Shall we do the thing? Moses is put in charge of some military efforts up north and to the east. He organizes some raids against people living in the Sinai and brings back slaves. Father-Ramses is pleased, but his big plan was to separate the brothers and give Son-Ramses a chance to mature. Son-Ramses is put in charge of some temple shit and does pretty okay.
The two brothers reconnect. Son-Ramses is named Pharaoh-to-be and no one is shocked. He awards Moses with one of the slaves that was taken by Moses, a woman named Tzipporah (pronounced “Tzipporah”). Tzipporah is an actual badass and escapes. Moses helps through inaction and, along the way, discovers he might be Jewish. Miriam is able to show him his basket, tell him what happened to his mother, and otherwise prove that this particular prince of Egypt is actually a Jew. Moses' reaction is so bad you'd think he was listening to Alex Jones. Father-Ramses finds Moses and negs him. “You're not like those other Jews,” says he. “They're only slaves. We feed their kids to the Nile. We did it just last week, you can still see some of the pieces floating in the water. See the red bits?”
Moses is not doing so well and wanders around a bit. He sees an Egyptian taskmaster having fun whipping some Jew to death. Moses grabs the whip and kills the taskmaster. The other taskmasters are ready to respond but Moses is a prince and they know they have to respect his authority so they do nothing. Moses freaks out and it becomes public knowledge that Moses is a Jew, so they banish him and Father-Ramses has Moses' name expunged from the records, and sets a law that not-Moses' name shall not be uttered on pain of death. Father Ramses says his adopted son's name again on his death bed.
Moses flees across the desert with almost nothing. He makes it to Sinai and comes across three lost Hyskos harassing three children. He uses “I'm a Prince of Egypt, bitch!” and it's super effective. The Hyskos run away. Moses pulls a Wesley from the Princess Bridge – he has no strength and falls down. There's a well right beside him, so why not fall into that?
Moses is pulled out of the well by Tzipporah and the kids. Tzipporah recognizes him and kicks him back in, because this is SINAI~! The kids explain that he chased off the Hyskos, though, and then she helps Moses out of the well and takes him home. Her father, Jethro, is one of those Jews that wandered away from Egypt back when and settled in Sinai. Moses is invited into the tribe because why not? It's just the sort of getaway he needs to find himself. He finds he enjoys being a shepherd and finds himself working for Jethro and the tribe, tending sheep. He tries to put his past behind him. Moses falls in love with Tzipporah. She also falls in love with him. Jethro is delighted by this. “What's not to love,” says Jethro. “He's a prince!” He presides over the wedding.
A sheep Moses is tending gets lost. He follows it to a bush that happens to not be burning despite being on fire. “Moses,” the bush says. “I am here,” Moses says. The proper nomenclature is “he nae ani”, for those wondering how to respond if God ever speaks to you. They have a chat where God tells Moses to go back to Egypt and Moses says that's not going to happen. Moses is arguing with God, though, so there's a good chance he's going to lose and go to Egypt.Edit or delete this
He loses and goes to Egypt. Moses brings his wife with him, and part of his deal with God is that he gets a security blanket. In this instance, that means his brother, Aaron, who he barely knows. Miriam ends up playing matchmaker and also gives Moses a place to stay while he's vacationing in Egypt, which is nice of her. You can always count on family.
So, remember Father-Ramses? He's dead now. Son-Ramses has taken over. Henceforth, he shall be referred to as “Ramses.”
Moses, Aaron, and Tzipporah go to the palace. Ramses recognizes Moses and welcomes him home because they do love one another. The priests point out that Father Ramses has Moses' name erased from history and he exiled. Ramses goes “No worries, this is my bro, bro. We'll call him by his slave name, and slave name bro cannot be tried for any reason. Word of Pharaoh, y'all, this is, like, a law now.”
And it was.
Moses needs security blanket Aaron to be there before he presents his case: “Um, God spoke to me and said to let His people go.” “Did he?” “Yes.” God turns Moses' staff into a snake because that's impressive. The Egyptian priests respond by doing the same thing, so Moses' snake eats their snakes and then becomes a staff again. Moses looks at Aaron and repeats the let my people go thing. Ramses is not impressed and decides to make the Jews' lives harder.
God turns all the water in Egypt to blood. The Jews get water, but if the Egyptians try to drink it, it becomes blood. The Egyptian linens are all bloodstained and also they are suffering from dehydration, so now the slaves are lacking off like they're the working class during a coronavirus outbreak and the Egyptians are the 1%. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, drinks some blood, and says 'no.'
God calls frogs. Everywhere there are frogs. Everywhere there are frogs. They are in your bed. Your bathroom. Your linen drawer. Your clothing. Your hair. Frogs. Frogs everywhere. The Jews do not have this problem. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, eats a frog, and says 'no.'
God calls lice. You'd think they frogs would get them, but the frogs leave them and the Jews alone and the lice are also not bothering the Jews. The Egyptians are shaving themselves everywhere to try and deal with the lice. It is not working well. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, scratching his bald spots, and says 'get out of here.' The Jews get super excited when they hear. The blood becomes water. The frogs go away. The lice vanish. The Jews pack up what little they have and get ready to leave, but before the bread they're baking can rise Ramses changes his mind. “Who will do the laundry?” Ramses demands. The Jews are forced back to work.
God summons flies. Flies clouds so thick they block out the sun. Flies in such numbers that you can't tell day from night. You open your mouth and choke on flies. They cannot be escaped. They do not bother the Jews. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, chokes on some flies, and says 'no.'
God inflicts disease on the domesticated animals of Egypt. They begin to wither and die, providing more breeding grounds for more flies. The stink is unbelievable. Livestock used and cared for by Jews are fine or recover, but those owned by Egyptians pus and scab and blister and peel. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, cradling a crocodile that used to eat Jewish babies, and says 'no.'
God uses boils on the Egyptians. It is super effective. Egyptian flesh begins to blister and burn and peel. It hurts. It itches. You scratch and you bleed. The Jews are not affected. The blood soaking your linens is now your own. Your skin is rotting if you are Egyptian and there is nothing you can do. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, his fingers sinking into his flesh, and says 'get the hell out of here.' The Jews get super excited when they hear. The flies go away. The livestock recovers. The Egyptians heal without scars. The Jews pack up what little they have and get ready to leave, but before the bread they're baking can rise Ramses changes his mind. “Who will weave our fine linen?” Ramses demands. The Jews are forced back to work.
Okay, so up until this point, the Egyptian priesthood has been waging magical war on Moses, and Moses has been responding in kind and kicking all kinds of ass. This is a forty-day magical duel, with a bunch of smaller plagues, hexes, and curses. The priesthood has done their best to match Moses plague for plague, and this is where they fucking fail. Why? GOD CALLS GIANT BALLS OF FLAMING ICE FROM THE SKY. We're talking treasure chest-sized chunks of ice that are also on fire. They slam into buildings and people, freezing what they touch, while the fire spreads and consumes everything that isn't frozen or Jewish. The Jews are fine. A little panicky, maybe, because it's clear God is done fucking around. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, standing in the Nile where he will not be on fire, and says 'no.'
God calls locusts. Demon locusts. Cicadas. They make THAT sound and also eat all the stores of food that the Egyptians have, and all their fine linen, and bite the Egyptians, and they're everywhere, and the priesthood has failed, and maybe Ramses should listen this time and do the thing. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, then asks Moses to repeat the question over THAT sound, and whimpers 'no.'
SO GOD PUTS THE SUN AWAY. The Jews still have light, but the Egyptians cannot see it, cannot feel it. There is no light or warmth, and the torches they steal or protect begin to gutter, their light seething down to nothing. Moses approaches Ramses and promises this will end if Ramses will let the Jews go. Ramses thinks about it, alone in the dark, and says 'get the fuck out of here.' The Jews get super excited when they hear. The fires go out and ice thaws. THAT sound stops. The sun comes back. The Jews pack up what little they have and get ready to leave, but before the bread they're baking can rise Ramses changes his mind. “Who will change the nappies of our babies” Ramses demands. The Jews are forced back to work.
See, Ramses remembers he has a child. Moses has a nephew. And that nephew questions Ramses' commitment to sparkle motion, and by sparkle motion I mean Egypt. They need to make Egypt great again, and maybe the best way to do that is to take the Jewish firstborn children and adults regardless of sign and put them in a camp called the Nile, where they will drown or be eaten. And he tells this to Moses and Moses understands and begs – he begs his brother not to do this. Ramses promises a wail will rise out of Egypt in the morning that is like nothing anyone will have ever heard before or ever hear again. Ramses decides to kill every firstborn Jew in his kingdom. They're only slaves.
Moses tells the Jews to cover their doorframes in lamb's blood. He does not tell them why. The burden of foreknowledge is his alone.
God visits every Egyptian household and claims every firstborn male, a mockery of Pharaoh's threat. God takes the adults. God takes the children. The only firstborn he leaves is Ramses. Every other firstborn male dies. All of them.
Moses approaches Ramses. There are no words. What could he say? What comfort could he give his brother? How should he mourn his nephew? There are no words. Ramses whispers “Go.”
The Jews are not super excited when they hear. They are terrified and heart-broken, but they also possess enough pattern recognition to not bother with waiting for the bread to rise. They leave with unleavened bread (matzah), gather what they can carry, and go. Some of the Egyptians want to go with them, and they are welcomed. Moses leads the Jews to the Red Sea. The Jews are not sure where they want to go, but God tells Moses that he intends to return them to Canaan – they just need to make a stop in the desert first. God has told Moses what he has to do but Moses is reluctant after that whole mass murder thing. He cannot help but feel that he is responsible.
Ramses is torn by grief and anger. There are others that are likewise torn. He tries using the power of his gods and the priests to call back his son from death. His son is still dead. His son is still dead. He is Pharaoh. He cannot let this stand. The chariots are gathered. All the Jews will die. They ride.
The Jews are wondering what to do next when the Egyptian army starts racing towards them. A HURRICANE OF FIRE comes out of the Red Sea and creates a wall of flame between the Egyptians and the Jews. God tells Moses to do the thing. Moses does the thing.
The Red Sea parts, allowing the Jews to pass from Egypt to Sinai. As the Jews approach Sinai, God lets the wall of fire dissipate and presents Ramses with a choice: stay here and let the Jews go or die. Ramses believes he is a God, so he decides to charge with his whole army. As the Jews are pulling out of the water, they notice the army coming for them. The waters begin to close. Moses calls to God: “My brother spared me from his wrath, please do the same for him.” The Egyptians are crushed by the Red Sea – every single chariot is destroyed and all their riders are killed. Only Ramses survives unscathed, tossed by the waters back to Egypt.
In heaven, the angels sing God's praises. “Who is like you, oh God, to have freed a nation in bondage? Who is like you, oh God, to have stood against one nation to free another? Who is like you, oh God, to have fought evil directly-” But God silences the host. “The Egyptians were My children, too,” God says, and weeps.
Gods leads Moses, and Moses leads the Jews into Sinai. They hook up with the other Jews and begin making their way up to Canaan. Moses tells everyone they need to stop for a bit – there's a thing he's gotta go pick up. “My father-in-law can teach you how to stay alive in the desert,” Moses says, and Jethro smiles because he can. Moses leaves Aaron in charge and heads up a mountain.
God gives Moses the Ten Commandments. “Why ten?” Moses asks. “I'm trying to keep this simple,” God replies. “What happens if people disobey?” Moses asks. “From Me? Nothing,” God answers. “And what happens if we do obey?” Moses asks. “The world will be a better place,” God says.
“I AM THE LORD THY GOD.” Simple. Straightforward. The creator of everything and the person and place and thing who can worship or not as you choose. “THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME, NOR SHALL YOU MAKE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE OF ME.” This one's a little more complex. It's not “thou shalt have no other gods.” It recognizes other gods, but claims that those gods are part of the creation that God is. God is everything. There is nothing that God is not. By making a graven image, you would be trying to simplify an understanding of God and lying to yourself about what God is. Do not do that. “THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD IN VAIN.” Don't talk with God's authority. You're a mortal, I'm a mortal, the best we have are guesses. Is God there? Does it matter? Don't claim authority that isn't yours. “REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY, KEEP IT HOLY.” Take a day off. One day out of every sevem, just relax. “HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER.” Be good to your parents. They're trying their best. Keep your promises to them and try not to stress them out too much. “THOU SHALL NOT MURDER.” Don't just go out killing people. You can defend yourself and your family, sure, but wholesale slaughter just leads to more killing. Chill out. “THOU SHALL NOT COMMIT ADULTERY.” So, bigamy was a thing back then, but we don't often talk about how that worked all ways. The real thing being talked about here is going behind people's back to have sex with someone; it's effectively don't lie about sleeping with people, be open and honest about intimacy and the needs of all involved. Honestly, it makes things simpler and would have saved Isaac and Jacob a world of misery. “THOU SHALL NOT STEAL.” Don't take stuff that's not yours. Try and get it back to who owns it if you can. “THOU SHALL NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST THY NEIGHBOR.” Don't start shit. Don't spread rumors and gossip. Just be up front with people. It's not hard. “THOU SHALL NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR'S SHIT.” It's basically spouse, house, and stuff. Don't compare yourself to other people, because you're not other people. Your metric of success is going to be unique to you, so try to live to that. Living to other people's expectations of what success looks like is only going to make you miserable.
“Simple, right?” God says. “Yeah,” Moses says. “What else you got?” And God has Moses provides a long scroll, some ink, and a silver pen. Then Moses writes the first Torah.
“This is tricky,” Moses says. “First, I die in the second book, and there's five of them. That's a little weird.” “Sorry about that,” God says. “Are you?” “No.” “What about all these other rules?” Moses asks, pointing at books three, four, and five. “A bunch of people are going to sit around getting drunk and formalize them,” God says. “But you're dictating them to me now,” Moses says. “Doesn't that make them the Word of God?” “No,” God says, “It just means I know what they're going to say in the future, because I am them in the future and I am you now and I am here now. All of these things are true at once.” “These books feel like a contract,” Moses says. “They are,” God confirms. “You set the terms of what our relationship is. I've given you the Commandments. The rest is up to you.” “No punishment for breaking them?” Moses asks again. “The only punishment is the world that comes from breaking them,” God says.
“What about the afterlife?” Moses asks. “What about it?” God asks. “What happens there?” Moses asks. “Don't worry about it,” God says. “I do worry about it,” Moses says. “The Egyptians had a whole book of the dead thing going on, and all the other religions have something to say about it.” “I'd rather you focus on what you do while you're alive,” God says. “That's what matters.” “Will we be rewarded in the afterlife for things we do here?” Moses asks. “No,” God says. “Then why be good?” Moses asks. “Why indeed?” Gods says. “Our Covenant is one you have to choose. It will not be easy. The point is to live well and try to make the world better than you found it. There's no special punishment or reward for either doing so or failing to do so.” “So, we're just trying to make the world better for everyone?” “Choosing to, or not. And you'll be surprised how many people won't get that.”
So, Moses finishes the Torah and grabs that and the Commandments and heads down to find the Jews have created a Golden Calf and are worshiping that. Moses loses his shit and thrown down the Torah and Commandments, destroying the calf. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Moses roars. “God literally just went into a nation and fought that nation for you and you decide to worship a fucking statue? Fucking Abraham sorted that one and... and... do you know nothing?” And Jethro says “They don't. They barely remember who they are, and we tried to tell them, but...” “Okay, listen,” Moses says, glaring. “I'm going back up the mountain. Jethro, Aaron, Tzipporah, Miriam, you guys start teaching everyone how to read. I'm going to go get our history and then I'll be back. Try not to worship anything else until I get back.” “Right, right, but we're thirsty,” some people say, so a very angry Moses hits a rock with his stick and causes water to spill forth from it. They start praising Moses, who does not correct them as he stomps back up the mountain.
“You should have told them I did the thing with the stick and the rock and the water,” God tells Moses as Moses gets back to writing. “They're going to think you did it with magic or something.” “They already think I do all the things,” Moses says. “You know how that ends,” God says, and Moses weeps because he does.
Moses comes down from the mountain. He presents the Commandments and the Torah. There's plenty of time to talk about the contents of both as they walk to Canaan. The Jews learn their history – the learn about Abraham's rebellion, Isaac's betrayal, and Jacob's children. They learn to read and to understand that they have to choose to be God's people and that it is an ongoing relationship, a promise to be good to show the world what it could be. They discuss and they argue and they learn how to kvetch and by the time they reach Canaan's borders they have chosen to be Jewish, have chosen to be Israelites. And then Moses says “I can't go with you.” “What?” asks the Jews. “I can't go with you,” Moses says. “You know this. You read the story. I can't be your parent or your shepherd – you all need to figure this stuff out, and you can't do that if you're expecting me to fix all your problems.” And the people that still thought that Moses had created water with a magic stick shuffled their feet nervously. “This isn't your fault,” Moses said, looking at them. “It's time to move forward, if that is your choice.”
And it was.
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cuthian · 5 years ago
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Starting Over Chapter Two
Chapter Two
MALALA YOUSAFZAI WINS NOBEL PEACE PRIZE 2014
MALALA YOUSAFZAI, THE PAKISTANI TEENAGER WHO SURVIVED AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT BY THE TALIBAN, HAS WON THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE JOINTLY WITH KAILIASH SATYARTHI OF INDIA.
[…]prize was awarded jointly to Malala Yousafzai and Kailash Satyarthi from India, “for their struggle against the suppression of children and young people and for the right of all children to education”.
“[…]Nobel Committee regards it as an important point for a Hindu and a Muslim—an Indian and a Pakistani—to join in a common struggle for education and against extremism,” the committee members said in a statement issued after the official announcement. The awarding of the prize to the two campaigners was celebrated widely on social media, with congratulations from several celebrities, including former Nobel Peace Prize nominee Alexander Pierce, who turned down the nomination earlier this year.
Pierce, 78, has been Secretary for the World Security Council for a number of years, and turned down the nomination with the now famed words, “Peace is not an achievement that needs to be celebrated, it is a responsibility that is shared by all of us.”
[…]Malala, now 17, was living in Pakistan’s Swat Valley when she was shot in the head by militants in October 2012 as punishment for her high profile campaign to encourage girls to go to school. A year later, she was living in Britain, having staged a remarkable recovery thanks to surgeons in Birmingham, and has become an international role model for young people.
Pakistan's president, Nawaz Sharif, said last year that she was "the pride of the nation".
[…]“We cannot express the level of our happiness in words. I just spoke to Ziauddin [Malala’s father], and her mother. I also spoke to Malala, and they are all very excited and happy about this," he said. "Malala told me that Allah has blessed her with this award and she hopes this peace prize will help her cause [of educating girls], which is what she is focused on."
One of Malala’s teachers, Shumaila Khan, said she was very proud of her former pupil. "I have never seen a girl as brave as her. She challenged the Taliban at a time when all men didn’t have the courage to oppose them," she said.
—Harriet Alexander and Jessica Winch, The Telegraph, “Malala Yousafzai Wins Nobel Peace Prize”, October 10th 2014
————————
Residence of Steve Rogers and Rebecca Barnes, Washington D.C., U.S.A.
7:08 PM
Steve
Steve’s hands were still trembling slightly when he unlocked the front door.
The house was quiet, and despite the relatively early hour, the lights were off. Becca and Thor were either not in, or they’d decided to retire to their room early.
Knowing them, both options were equally likely, Steve mused.
As the mission leader, he had been stuck at the Triskelion and in debrief a good few hours longer than the rest of the team, and between sessions with Maria Hill and Nick Fury, he’d caught a glimpse of an upset in the lobby. He’d recognized Thor’s distinctive figure easily, and he’d spotted him just in time to see Becca—out of her mission gear, hair tied in a ponytail and clad in sweatpants—collapse in his waiting arms.
He’d been a little startled then, to feel something quite like jealousy curling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of them. It wasn’t like he’d never felt envious of them before—but the intensity and the suddenness of it had scared him.
He didn’t like to think he was really jealous of either of them. And he wasn’t. Not really.
He’d spoken to Karen-the-therapist about it, once, and she’d helped him see that he envied what they had. Steve envied the easy intimacy Becca had managed to build with Thor over the course of their unconventional relationship. It didn’t mean that Steve didn’t love them or that he didn’t want them to be happy together—he just missed having someone to come home to after difficult missions, missed having the opportunity to fall into someone’s arms and letting go.
He did have Becca and Thor, of course, as his friends, but… it just wasn’t the same thing.
His thoughts drifted to Sam, and he smiled a little despite himself. It was still difficult to think of someone other than Bucky in a potential romantic fashion, but Steve wanted… he wanted to be hopeful about it. He wanted to be happy, to have someone to come home to, but it was so incredibly difficult to… imagine.
To imagine anyone but Bucky being the one that caught Steve when he needed to be caught, even after four years—or seventy, depending on one’s point of view.
Steve sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair as he stepped inside.
He’d been able to shower and change in the locker rooms, thankfully, so he wasn’t covered in sweat, blood and dried ocean water anymore, but his heart was still racing and his mind was still spinning.
He made a valiant effort of kicking his shoes in the general direction of the shoe rack, but he was tired, and he was still shaken about his argument with Becca and Nat’s secretive secondary mission within Steve’s mission—again, he might add—so he honestly couldn’t be bothered with Becca’s insistence on “cleaning our shit, like actual goddamned adults, Steve”.
He spotted Becca’s worn black Converses, tipped over one another half-underneath the shoe rack, next to her S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued boots and Thor’s leather boots—the only kind of Midgardian shoe, beside flip-flops, that he wore voluntarily when he was on Earth for prolonged periods of time.
Definitely still here then.
Steve rubbed his hand over his forehead and sighed.
Becca had been on duty all night before the mission had called them in too, so while Steve was exhausted and still more than a little upset, he imagined Becca had been feeling worse.
Steve winced.
He and Becca didn’t argue often—not beyond Becca calling Steve a dumbass and Steve reciprocating with whatever sassy reply came to mind in the moment—but when they did…
Steve really did need to talk to Becca.  
The argument they’d gotten into after his admittedly slightly ill-advised actions on the Lemurian Star had rattled him more than he wanted to admit, and he knew Becca felt similarly, because she hated public displays of affection and showing any kind of emotion that could be construed as weakness while they were at the Triskelion, but she had very readily fallen into Thor’s arms regardless.
He’d been too far away to be sure, but he was fairly certain Thor had been as surprised as Steve had been by the way Becca had responded to seeing him.
Not, of course, that Thor would have minded the way she greeted him.
Thor loved public displays of affection.
Slightly too much.
Steve had been there to see the very first signs of interest between them, and he’d seen them messily work their way from friends with benefits to casually dating to actually voicing their feelings for each other out loud. He was happy for them, thrilled to see them both happy after they’d been so incredibly heartbroken before they’d gotten together…
But he’d seen too much of them.
He had learned, over the course of Becca’s three-year relationship with Thor, to knock on every door in their shared house when Thor was on Earth. From the moment their friendship had progressed into something more, Becca and Thor seemed to have an impossibly hard time keeping their hands off each other—and much as Steve was happy for his friends, he’d seen far more of the both of them than he’d ever really wanted to.
He’d also come to suspect that Thor might have a bit of an exhibitionist kink.
He’d somehow managed to look both smug and chastened every time Steve walked in on them, regardless of their state of undress.
Asshole.
Steve’s stomach growled at that precise moment, making its thoughts on Steve’s train of thought quite clear. He chuckled a little at himself and shook his head to clear his thoughts as he made his way to the kitchen, stomach growling furiously all the while.
He spent way too much time thinking about everyone else’s love lives, and probably not nearly enough about his own. That was, admittedly, because he didn’t have one and never really wanted to have one before this morning either.
He was, in all honesty, still not sure if he wanted one.
He hadn’t had much of a chance to think about it.
Meeting Sam had thrown him for a loop, and Steve still couldn’t imagine walking away and never seeing the other man’s smile again. They’d really only talked shallowly before he’d been called away, and Steve knew his poor attempt at flirting probably hadn’t been all that successful, but he’d still gotten Sam’s phone number and the promise of a date, so… He’d done something right.
He’d just... he’d not even really considered what it meant.
When Sam had looked at him with that adorable, gap-toothed smile and had nodded, something in Steve’s chest had simultaneously cracked and healed and he’d very nearly had a panic attack.
Steve sighed and leaned his head against the fridge door with a quiet thunk.
He had no fucking clue what he was doing.
His stomach growled again, plaintively this time, and he hung his head. He should probably scrounge up something simple to eat before his stomach decided to eat him.
He settled on tossing some leftover vegetables in a pan, cracking some eggs and adding in a packet of protein powder Tony had assured him would soothe even Steve’s ravenous metabolism, stirring everything together lazily. He could cook up something more substantial when he’d taken the edge off his hunger.
It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes to fry his eggs and toast a couple of slices of bread, and he took his plate into the living room with only a minor twinge of guilt—he’d vacuum if he spilled all over the armchair again.
He so would.
He sighed and turned to his food, summarily letting his own thoughts stray back to the man he had sort-of not-so-accidentally asked out that morning.
Steve wasn’t sure what would come out of it.
He’d spent just a few minutes casually chatting with the man, but he’d actually been pretty surprised by how easy it had been. He’d never been very good at making friends—with the noted exception of Bucky, Becca, and the Howlies, who had basically seen him and decided they were friends, without much input on his side—and he thought that if he decided he didn’t really want to date Sam after all, he’d still make a pretty awesome friend.
Either way… he thought it would make Bucky proud to see him making things work.
He’d been working hard, since his breakdown three years ago, to learn to love the second chance at life he’d been given, to appreciate it for the miracle it was, because he very nearly hadn’t had this chance, and it would be like completely disregarding the sacrifice Bucky had made to refuse to live now.
Peggy had told him something similar once, Steve knew, shortly after Bucky had fallen, but he hadn’t been willing to listen to it then.
He hadn’t been ready to hear it for a good long while in this century either.
He had heard it, though, when Becca said it, when his therapist said it, when Becky did and mostly when Peggy said it, when she had come to visit him. She had, eventually, come to see him because she was, to paraphrase her, “tired of waiting for him to get off his bloody arse”. Steve had done nothing but cry on her perfectly pressed blouse as she patted his head.
It had taken time, but he’d heard what they were saying, and more importantly, he remembered what Bucky had always told him, and what he had always told Bucky.
I want you to live. I want you happy, because if I have to come back from the dead to kick your sorry ass, I will. Make me proud, will you?
Steve had been on Death’s threshold more times than he cared to count, and he remembered all he’d wanted in those moments was for Bucky to find a way to become happy. During the war, they’d discussed the same, and Steve knew Bucky wanted him to move on.
He still didn’t know if that was even possible, but he had to try.
Steve Rogers would always have done almost anything Bucky Barnes asked of him—and he could try to do so now too. He was working, he was making friends, building himself a family; and he’d even asked someone out, even if he hadn’t really decided what he was going to do about it.
Karen-the-therapist would be proud of him when he told her.
If he told her.
He was drawn from his thoughts by a door opening on the second floor, and he recognised Thor’s lumbering gait even from a floor away.
He smiled despite himself.
Thor was a good friend, and Steve enjoyed having someone around that he couldn’t accidentally punch so hard they’d die. Thor was more than a match for Steve physically, and that made sparring sessions—whether in the gym at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, or in the Tower when they visited New York—infinitely more interesting.
Thor appeared in the doorway seconds later, lips curled up into a beaming smile as he took in the scene before him. “Ah, Steve, you have returned to us!” He bounded inside and clasped Steve’s shoulder jovially before he snatched a piece of broccoli off of Steve’s plate and plopped down on the couch, angling himself towards Steve.
“Hey,” Steve smiled, swiping at Thor’s head playfully. “Get your own food.”
“It tastes much better from your plate, my friend,” Thor chuckled and stuck out his tongue at Steve, looking for all the world like a twenty-something college student rather than a thousand-year-old God.
Steve just rolled his eyes and finished his omelette. “Becca asleep?” He asked when he’d finished, setting his plate on the table, aiming to sound casual—although even he could hear that he was anything but casual.
Thor, kind and good friend that he was, did not laugh at his shoddy attempt to start a conversation and shook his head. “She insisted on a bath first.”
Steve tried not to wince. Becca only took baths when she needed the time to calm herself down.
Thor, it appeared, knew that as well.
“She is not angry,” he informed Steve kindly. “Not truly. You merely… frightened her. You must be more careful, Steven. Strong as you are, you are not invulnerable.”
Steve did wince at that, because he knew that, and he hated that he had, but he did not know how to make it better. He didn’t regret jumping from the plane without a parachute because… well, honestly, there were very few things that gave him a thrill anymore, that were actually dangerous, and…
Steve might be a bit of an adrenaline junkie.
Just a little.
Taking off his helmet in front of Batroc though… that was a genuine mistake.
Thor seemed to sense his conflict and patted a large hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Worry not, Steve. She will come around, and you will have your opportunity to apologize. Loki and I suffered many an argument for similar reasons—time apart solves all issues. We were always fine after a century or so. Two, if Loki was feeling particularly irate.”
Steve snorted a little at that. “Well, Becca and I don’t have a few centuries. Also, it’s a little different than you and Loki. I’m not trying to bide my time to get into her pants, pal.”
Thor smirked. “Good. I would hate to have to smite you.”
“Why are we smiting Steve?”
Steve spun around, finding Becca propped up against the doorway, wet hair coiled into a neat braid, dressed in one of his old shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. She raised an eyebrow at him, unsmiling and very clearly still upset.
“Becca,” he breathed, because shit, they’d been living together for four years, and she was his best friend on this side of the ice—she was like the little sister he’d always wanted. Before he realised what having a little sister like her was like, of course.
She was annoying and pissed him off to no end, but Lord, he loved her.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted before anyone else said anything, turning his entire body towards Becca. “I’m sorry I scared you. And that I put away my shield—”
“And your helmet,” Becca interrupted icily, though her expression slowly eased into something less pissed off.
“—and my helmet,” Steve conceded. “I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid. You were right. I’m sorry.”
Becca’s eyes were suspiciously shiny when she spat, “No, you clearly weren’t. They could’ve killed you. He had a gun on you.”
Steve sighed. “I know. I’m sorry, Becs.” He pushed himself up, off the couch, moving until he stood directly in front of her. “Please. Forgiven?”
He pouted prettily, because he knew Becca couldn’t keep a straight face when he did, and grinned triumphantly when Becca snorted at him. “Fine,” she snapped, poking at his shoulder. “But if I catch you jumping out of a plane without a parachute one more goddamned time, Rogers, I swear to God—”
“I won’t,” he chuckled, holding his hands up in submission.
“Ah, but that is simple. Don’t let her catch you,” Thor advised from his spot on the couch, grinning unrepentantly when Becca glared at him.
“What?” Thor said innocently. “You let me do it.”
“Steve can’t fly, you dumbass,” Becca argued, pushing past Steve to swat at her boyfriend’s head before she plopped down beside him.
“Ah,” Thor shrugged. “We all have our failings. I shall teach him.”
Steve snorted and Becca swatted at Thor’s head again, scowling at him playfully. “Boy, you really wanna sleep on the couch, don’t you?”
His easy grin became a groan easily enough when Thor merely smirked at that, waggling his eyebrows at Becca as he replied, “Only if you’ll join me here, Krúttið mitt.” Such sappy declaration was met with Becca groaning in disgust before she gave in and kissed Thor anyway.
Steve rolled his eyes and dropped down in the armchair, throwing a pillow at the couple. “I’m burning that couch if you two defile it again.” He’d caught them doing… stuff he’d rather not think about them doing on that damned thing far too often to still be chill about it. He’d declared the armchair off limits on the pain of death, and never sat on the couch when he could help it. He did secretly kind of revel in it when others—less wise in the ways of living with Thor and Becca—did though. “Get a fucking room.”
“I can’t,” Thor told him cheerfully, detaching himself from Becca long enough to grin at Steve. “I’ve been banished to the couch.”
Becca laughed delightedly and Steve groaned.
He needed new friends.
————————
Residence of Steve Rogers and Rebecca Barnes, Washington D.C., U.S.A.
9:46 PM
Steve
Natasha didn’t show up until well after dinner, appearing suddenly in their living room, still dressed in her mission gear and looking hilariously out of place, considering they’d all long since changed into sweatpants, comfy shirts and—in Becca’s case—a fleece Captain America onesie Tony had gifted each of the Avengers with because he thought he was hilarious.
Becca was half-dozing by the time Nat appeared, lying on her stomach on the couch, head on a pillow on Thor’s lap, her nose nearly pressed against his stomach, and Steve was feeling decidedly sleepy himself, blinking blearily at whatever romantic comedy Thor had turned on after he’d won the battle for the remote control.
He’d been sketching, earlier, but he was drowsy enough that he’d really just been filling in the tight line of Bucky’s jaw and the ragged edge of his torn jacket over and over again.
He blinked at Nat in surprise, before sighing a little. He’d long since given up trying to teach her to respect any sort of boundaries—he knew she did shit like this to provoke him, to see how far she could push him before he pushed back, before he’d get angry and yell—and mostly stuck to insisting she knocked if she came into one of their bedrooms.
She mostly respected that rule too.
And he had told her, sort of, to come over to tell him about what had been going on.
He really did kind of bring it on himself this time.
“Hey Nat,” he said lazily, smiling when Thor and Becca stirred to look at their visitor too. “Have a seat,” he added, gesturing to the other armchair as Thor reached for the remote, turning down the volume on his movie with great reluctance.
She eyed them all with a predatory kind of assessment before she smiled at Steve and tossed a brown manila folder on the coffee table. “Read that,” she ordered as she took a seat in the floral armchair. “It’s every intel-gathering mission within a larger mission that Fury’s assigned me on in the last six months,” she added when Steve reached for the folder and Becca sat up, sleepy and bleary-eyed but clearly paying attention.
“That’s what you were doing today?” Becca questioned when Steve handed her part of the file, skimming through the papers.
Nat nodded silently.
Steve clenched his jaw and looked down at the papers he was holding. The page detailed the info Nat had pulled from a classified server during a raid of an abandoned—or so they’d thought—A.I.M. base, referencing to… to key pieces of evidence going missing, easy missions going horribly awry in a myriad of increasingly unlikely ways, agents—good, dependable agents—going missing or dying in the line of duty—
Nat was right.
There was a pattern.
“Nat,” Becca said, and Steve’s head snapped up, because Becca sounded wrecked. “This is Sharon’s mission. The last—where—whydo you have Sharon’s mission in here?”
Natasha turned her gaze towards Becca, and there was something in her expression that set Steve’s nerves on edge. “Because there’s something very fishy going on.” Steve took the file from Becca, eyes scanning over the information quickly, stomach turning at the picture the report was painting.
“They’re trying to pin murder on her,” he spit, looking up at Nat desperately. “This is insane.”
Natasha nodded sharply. “I know that. Fury knows that. Sharon was recruited in high school. S.H.I.E.L.D. put her through college. We know she’s loyal. That’s why the file is in there; he’s keeping an eye on things, I think. He’s trying to… see patterns, find out if there’s something more going on. There’s been rumors of a mole inside S.H.I.E.L.D. before, but in the light of all of that,” she waved towards the files, “they’re thinking it might be Sharon.”
“What will happen to the young lady Carter while they try to see these patterns?” Thor questioned, rubbing his hand over Becca’s back when she hunched over, looking slightly green around the gills.
“Nothing bad,” Nat insisted. “Fury wouldn’t let them get rid of her or imprison her, unless they can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was her. They’re probably going to put her on desk duty, assign her to the research department, something like that.”
“Do we trust him?”
Steve loathed to be the one to ask, because he didn’t want to distrust Fury, but… the man was the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. and it was very hard to imagine anything going on in the agency without Fury knowing about it.
“Yes,” Nat said vehemently, appearing almost insulted that he’d dared to question it at all.
“Do we trust him to be able to direct the investigation the right way?” Thor questioned. “The lady Carter is a friend to us all, none of us would see her wrongfully imprisoned.”
“I wanna call in the others,” Becca interjected hoarsely, tearing her eyes from the mess of papers on their coffee table. “I want to call in Tony. And Clint. I trust Fury, but Sharon’s family. I’m not taking any risks. We already know S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hidden things from us before. We can’t take a chance with this kind of investigation. If there’s a mole, they’ll do their level best to pin it all on Sharon.”
Natasha nodded. “I agree. I already contacted Stark and sent him everything I have.”
Steve nodded. “Who else knows about this so far?”
“Just us,” Nat replied tightly. “Fury knows something is off, I’m sure, that’s why he’s been sending me on side missions for months. I haven’t told him what I found yet.”
“Are you going to?”
Becca’s voice was quiet, but Steve could hear the steely resolve in in her tone.
He looked from his roommate to Natasha, who had perched on the second armchair carefully, and considered the advantages and the disadvantages of bringing Fury into the fold.
On the one hand, having the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. on their side would definitely ensure that they had a semi-reliable source of information and someone who could get into places they couldn’t without arousing too much suspicion.
On the other… they had no idea how far up the mole was, and for all they knew right now, Fury was the mole. Steve honestly did not think that the man was, but stranger things had happened. After he’d seen the Red Skull peel off his own face, and crashed a plane into the Arctic and woke up seventy years later, he’d learned to stop taking things at face value.
Natasha didn’t reply for a long while, but eventually, she nodded. “I’ll tell him that I suspect something. I don’t need to tell him everything else until we know what we have.”
“So we run it like an Avengers Black Op,” Steve mused. “Strictly need-to-know. Only the team and essential personnel.” The idea of the Black ops was that no one but the Avengers themselves and a few trusted others would be in charge of gathering intel, analyzing the data and planning their next steps. Tony had insisted on developing the concept shortly after the mess in Greenwich, rightfully pointing out that they didn’t always have the luxury of letting Natasha run thorough and intense background checks on everyone involved. One day, they might have to handle information so delicate and dangerous they couldn’t afford to trust just anyone.
It was a sound idea, and Steve had been all for its development.  
They had not yet needed to put the concept to use, but if Natasha was right, and there was a mole in S.H.I.E.L.D., Steve didn’t want to risk trusting anyone but his teammates—and possibly Jane, Darcy, Maria and Erik Selvig, if they needed their expertise.
“Sounds like a fine idea,” Thor nodded approvingly, although he returned his attention to Becca swiftly when she exhaled with a shudder, fingers clenched around Sharon’s file.
“We have to tell Sharon,” Becca said, not looking up from the file. “This is her life, her career—we can’t do this without letting her know we’re on her side.” She looked up at Steve pleadingly, and Steve had to actively stop himself from immediately digging out his phone to call Sharon. Becca was right, and he hated it, because they couldn’t risk telling Sharon that the Avengers were on the case.
“We can’t,” Natasha said, and Steve felt a momentary wave of gratitude, because he really hadn’t wanted to be the person to tell Becca she couldn’t comfort her cousin when she needed it.
Becca opened her mouth to protest, but Nat cut her off before she could say anything. “Think, Barnes. Whoever this is, they’re very good at what they do. They have to have access to Sharon, there’s no other way for them to pull this off. Whoever they are, I’ll bet you anything Sharon knows them.”
Becca frowned at Nat, but grudgingly nodded. “Still. She needs to know that we—“” she gestured between herself, Steve and Thor, “—are on her side at least. I understand we can’t tell her we’re investigating things, but she needs to know her family’s got her back, at the very least.”
Natasha nodded begrudgingly. “Just keep her in the dark on the Avengers Op. I know we trust her, but we can’t afford for this to get back to whoever is trying to cover this up.”
Steve looked at the files and swallowed thickly. Natasha was right, however much he would like to pretend that she was not. There was something much bigger than just Sharon’s botched mission going on, and if Nat’s hunch proved right…
“This isn’t just about Sharon,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the files. “There’s something much bigger going on. We gotta—we gotta do this the right way, Becs.”
Becca nodded, leaning back against Thor with a deep sigh. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Do we have eyes on Sharon?” Steve asked, taking the file on her that Becca had discarded on their coffee table, flipping through the information laid out in it carefully.
Nat shook her head. “I haven’t set anything up yet.”
“Tony’ll probably have something untraceable and undetectable for us,” Becca pointed out calmly, shifting to sit crosslegged on the sofa. “We gotta use the fact that we have access to tech that no one else does.” She spread out a couple of files across her own lap and Thor’s as she spoke, and Steve was glad to see she wasn’t caught up on Sharon’s misfortune in all this, because he could really use Becca’s insights on this—he’d come to rely on her keen eye a lot over the past few years, and he knew that she saw things that he didn’t.
Natasha, too, had proved herself invaluable—it’s why they made such a good team.
“You called Tony, right?” Steve checked, looking up from his own file to see Natasha nod.
He looked down at the files again, glanced at the clock, and sighed. “Okay. We’re not going to be able to do anything tonight anyway. Becca, text Tony to call in the others too, we’ll convene at the Tower tomorrow—we’re due forty-eight hours off rotation anyway; we might as well use them. We can discuss the best and most efficient ways to set up surveillance on Sharon then. Thor, you’re not due in Asgard for a few more weeks, right?”
“Correct,” Thor boomed. “I’ll gladly be of assistance to clear young Lady Carter’s name.”
Becca smiled tiredly at him, leaning in to peck him on the cheek before she leaned down, resting her cheek on his shoulder.
Natasha nodded stiffly and stood, clearly making to gather the mess of papers on the table and disappear to wherever she liked to hide when she wasn’t here, trying to set Steve up with every eligible single she knew, and Steve sighed. “Nat,” he said, drawing her attention. “Just sleep in the spare room,” he said firmly. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re here and not getting into fights by yourself.”
Natasha smirked dangerously, raising an eyebrow at him. “I’m not you, Rogers.”
“Humor me then,” he insisted. He really would feel better knowing that his D.C. teammates were all under his roof—with the exception of Sharon, but Steve assumed she had Brock to look out for her, at least, and it wasn’t like he had another guest room to offer up. “You can probably borrow something of Becca’s to sleep in,” he added.
Becca, who looked like she was well on her way to falling back asleep on Thor’s shoulder, waved her hand vaguely, which Steve took to mean she was okay with Natasha raiding her closet.
She should be.
She stole his and Thor’s shirts often enough.
Nat glanced towards Becca for a moment before she turned to Steve again, carefully coiling her body as seductively as she could, jutting her full lower lip out into a pout. “What if I’d rather wear something of yours?” she purred, and Steve would be exasperated, but it really wasn’t the first time Nat tried to flirt with him like this, and he knew she was doing it to get a rise out of him anyway.
“I’m sure there’s plenty of my stuff in Becca’s closet too,” he replied evenly, offering her a mild smile.
Nat held the seductive pose for a moment longer before she let it go, nodding lightly. “Alright then,” she said softly. “We’ll do it your way, Rogers.”
Becca heaved herself up from the couch with a big sigh, gesturing towards the stairs impatiently. “Well then, Romanoff. Let’s go.”
Thor merely smiled when Becca looked back at him, holding her hand out, before he tapped her hip lightly. “Go on, Krúttið mitt. I will join you shortly, after I have helped Steve clean up.” He gestured grandly towards the mess of papers, and Steve watched as Becca shrugged, trudging towards the stairs with all the air of a woman about to fall asleep on her feet.
Nat eyed them both shrewdly for a moment, but remained silent as she followed Becca up the stairs.
“So,” Thor said when they’d heard the women disappear into Thor and Becca’s room. “What do you truly think of all this?” He gestured to the mess of papers he had gathered, messily attempting to shuffle them into a neat stack so he could shove them back into the folder.
Steve sighed and went to help, purposefully not looking at the words written on the pages. “I think we’re getting into something a lot bigger than we’re prepared for,” he admitted wryly. “I’m probably not gonna have time to go on that date after all.”
Thor smiled sympathetically and clasped his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Worry not, my friend. We shall ensure you get the chance to speak to your Sam, and that our mission runs smoothly.”
Steve grinned a little despite his concerns. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Thor nodded decisively. “All will be well. You’ll see.”
———
Start from the beginning:
In Hell We Stand By You:
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)
Never Feel Alone:
(1) (2)
Decisions: (1)
Dancing with a Limp:
(1) (2)
Chances:
(1)
Starting Over: 
(1) 
Or read it HERE on AO3 :D Find the next chapter HERE on Tumblr :)
1 note · View note
mpmwrites · 6 years ago
Note
“stop making empty promises!” or “maybe in another world.” for Hankvin || or || “i love you.” and “well, it’s the thought that counts.” for reed900
Hey I did them all! They’re already up on AO3, but here they are together! Partners, Hurt, Lesson, and Enough
Partners
“Oh, you dick!” Gavin seethed with mock annoyance. “It’s afuckin’ partner game, you just intentionally knocked me out!” He complained,straightening before slumping back into the couch at Hank’s side. Hank chuckedat his frustration and sat back too as the chime of coins being awarded to themblipped on the screen.
“It’s just fucking Mario Party, Gav. We both get coinseither way.” He sported a genuine smile at Gavin, both from the company and therare time they got to just have fun together.
“Yeah, but we’re still losing! I refuse to fucking letDaisy beat me.” Gavin explained as he leaned forward to take his turn.
“Us, beat us. Partner game.” Hank goaded, smilingto himself.
“Fuck off.” Gavin scowled as the mini-game screenappeared.
“Oh I’m good at this one.” Hank smirked, Gavinglared sideways at him.
“You’re only good at it because I’m not.”
“That might be true, but it’s kind of funny how shityou are at the timing games.” Hank said as the game started with arhythmic whistle. A cheerful song played and they began trying to punctuate thenotes with shakes of their controllers. Gavin missed the first, and the second,and didn’t fail to notice how Hank got each of them perfectly. On the thirdone, he elbowed Hank quickly. “Hey, asshole. That’s cheating.”
“Maybe.” He leaned against Hank on the fourthpass, harsher, but grinning. “You the Mario Party Police?”
“Gavin, you can fuck with me all you want, but you’restill gonna lose this one.” Hank chuckled, shrugging the smaller man awayfrom him forcefully. Gavin fell to the cushions in an overly dramatic reaction,laughing with mirth as he stretched his sock-covered feet into Hank’s lap and accidentally made Hank drop thecontroller.
“Doesn’t mean you’re gonna win.” he shrugged when Hankswung an incredulous look on him. The shit-eating grin he held barely abatedhis laughter at Hank’s shock.
“I’m gonna kick your ass next time we playversus.” Hank promised, giving a weak punch to Gavin’s thigh beforepushing his feet back onto the floor. Gavin took the hint and sat back up,their shoulders pressed together comfortably.
“Stop making empty promises.” Gavin teased as Hankstarted his next dice roll and he let his head drop to Hank’s shoulder.
Hurt
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Gavin laughed,rolling his eyes, though he felt like shaking apart from a different emotionentirely. Hank didn’t answer immediately, and Gavin was yelling again,“This whole time, this whole fuckingtime you’ve been planning this, haven’t you?!” Shirtless, he flicked ahand through his hair,  his other fisttensing and digging short nails into the heel of his palm. “Just leadingme on until you thought you didn’t have a goddamn choice!”
“I never fucking lied to you, Gav.” Hank’s voice,though he wasn’t yelling, was obviously straining to keep his tone even andrestrained. “You knew about Nat before we even started this shit.” Heavoided eye contact, knowing that it would only make this whole thing worse. Justlooking at Gavin in just those navy sweatpants that he liked to put on, withnothing underneath, when he knew Hank was coming over was enough to shootanother bolt of guilt through him. He felt too warm, but knew taking off hisjacket would be some kind of concession, one he couldn’t allow himself.
“Yeah I fuckin’ knew! Fuck, I’m so fuckingstupid.” Gavin seethed, beginning to pace on the sealed concrete floors ofhis reclaimed apartment. Hank watched the way his shoulders flexed with pent upanger and had to forcibly ignore the pang of lust that the sight ignited.
“Don’t say that. It’s my damn fault.” Hankadmitted. “I shouldn’t have let this go so fucking far.” Because,that was really the truth of it. He was dating Natalie for only two weeksbefore Gavin had transferred into central, and had been precariously balancingthe two of them for two months before he caved and let Gavin blow him after adinner date with Nat. He knew then, that Nat was maybe who he could settle downwith, but he wasn’t gonna be able to just walk away from Gavin.
He told Gavin a week after he proposed that they should stopall of it. Gavin answered by dragging him to his bedroom and keeping him up allnight. Part of Hank wanted this argument to end the same way. A big part of him.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t have.” Gavin wasn’t yellinganymore, but he breathed spite. “Takes two to fucking tango.”
“Yeah, and when there’s three you start tripping overeach other’s feet.” Hank bit back. “I tried this months ago, Gavin.I’m fucking sorry that you wouldn’tlet me, and that I couldn’t make myself actually do it.” He sighed. Gavinstopped moving, looking at his feet with his arms wrapped around his chest.Hank recognized the same look from that night exactly eight and a half monthsago, because Gavin looked so small and hurt and that was exactly why Hank wasdoing it all over again. Gavin was trying to hide all of it from Hank, and Hankwas pretty sure the worst part of it was the fact the he could see Gavin falling apart from theinside.  "She doesn’t deserve this,Gavin, you have to know that.“
"Yeah, and I fucking do.” The final word came out as a sob and Gavin flinched atthe restraint that failed him. He raised a furious palm to his face to rub hiseyes. “Fuck.” He cursed at himself, turning away from Hank. Hankmoved closer anyway, standing just behind Gavin and feeling like an ass. Which,he knew, he definitely was.
“You don’t.” Was all Hank could think to say.Gavin spun on him, all wet cheeks and fury as he shoved Hank as hard as hecould.
“If you really fucking believed that, this wouldn’t behappening. I don’t know what the fuck you thought was going to happen tonight, Anderson.” That solidified thetruth for Hank, and he knew enough just to keep his mouth shut. “Did youthink that you were gonna show up and tell me this and I was just gonna smileand nod?! Maybe in another world, Hank! I don’t give a fuck about her feelings!I don’t fucking care if this is the right thing to do! I’m selfish and I’msaying that this isn’t fucking okay! You can’t make it be okay! She doesn’t even have a goddamn clue about any ofthis and I’m the one that has to just fucking sit here and be the one leftbehind while you get your shitty white fucking fence!” His voice grewhoarse as he ranted, a deep red flush traveling down his neck.
Hank wanted to yell back. He wanted to tell Gavin that thisdidn’t feel good for him either. He needed Gavin to know that he was right, andthis wasn’t fair. He wanted Gavin to hurtthe way he was; to tell him that Gavin wasn’t capable of committing the waythat she was, and that’s what Hank had been waiting to see in Gavin over thepast two years.
He didn’t say anything as Gavin panted, waiting for aretort.
He stepped closer, and planted a kiss on Gavin’s cheek, andsaid goodbye.
Lesson
Gavin smiled as RK manipulated the fingers on his righthand. Sitting across from the android at Starbucks, they’d taken their lunchbreak as another lesson in communication. Learning sign was easy enough, butGavin struggled with matching his expressions properly to the motion of hishands. True, there were times when he had to ask RK to fingerspell a sign hehadn’t learned yet, or encourage him to slow down, please, but they weregetting there.
Pointer, pinky, and thumb extended, RK released his hand, satisfiedwith its arrangement.
“What’s that mean?” Gavin spoke.
‘I, L, Y’ the successive letters came in quick response. Ifall letters were presented at the same time, it formed the sign that Gavin hadbeen shown. Gavin waited for further explanation.
RK pointed to himself, crossed his arms, and then pointed toGavin.
Gavin started back at his honest expression, not surewhether or not this was all a genuine confession or simply a lesson he waslooking to closely at. After a beat, RK was signing frantically, his eyesshifting way nervously and Gavin caught less than half of what he was saying.
“Slow down, I can't…” Gavin protested, shaking hishead. “RK.” He tried again, his voice louder. The android froze,looking stunned. “You serious?” He implored carefully.
‘Gavin, I love you.’ RK repeated, frowning slightly. 'I’msorry.’
“You don’t have to be sorry.” Gavin sighed,“I love you too.”
Enough
Gavin swung opened his front door as he took off his jacket,tossing it on the recliner nearby and toeing off his shoes quickly.“Hey,” He greeted the android currently seated on his couch,engrossed in something on Gavin’s portable. Rafe didn’t move in the slightest,offing no greeting. Gavin moved over to the couch, leaning over the back of itto look over Rafe’s shoulder “I said Hey.What’re you so interested in?” Before Rafe switched over to the whiteboardapp, Gavin caught a look at a website he’d seen before. The site wasn’tsomething Gavin used personally, but had seen Rafe use to find techs that couldperform repairs or software changes if he needed them. He had told Gavin thatsince Cyberlife had done little for his well being, he had no interest infurther interference form the company, reclaimed or not.
'Nothing of importance. Welcome home.’ Rafe doodled on theblank screen, offering a smile that Gavin had seen him practicing in the mirrorbefore. The whiteboard app wasn’t as efficient as simply offering Gavin aninstant text readout of Rafe’s thoughts, but Rafe preferred the personal aspectof writing them himself.
“Don’t say it’s fuckin’ nothing.” Gavin frowned,reaching for the device. Rafe held it out of his reach and fitted Gavin with anannoyed look.
'You have no concept of privacy.’
“Yeah, you’re using myportable. I don’t know if it counts as invading your privacy.” Gavinsmiled, hopping over the back of the sectional and landing half in Rafe’s lap.“Just fucking tell me.” Gavin frowned, leaning heavily on theandroid.
'I unintentionally insulted you this morning.’
“Shit happens.” Gavin shrugged, though he felt a pangof hurt at the memory of the argument.
'It would not have happened if I was fully functioning.’ Theexplanation was written smaller, the letters formed slowly and withapprehension. Gavin’s eyes twitched over the words and he straightened.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? You never saidyou were hurt.” Again, that same feeling rang through his chest, tintedwith guilt at having not noticed.
'You misunderstand. I am not hurt.’ Rafe offered quickly. Heerased it again almost as quickly as Gavin could read it. 'I am trying to findsomeone who can install an auditory output function.’ The admission came with afrown, his eyes downcast.
“You want to talk.”
'Yes.’
“Why?” Gavin frowned harder, his eyebrows creasingtogether, “I mean, you never said so before and now all of a sudden?Because of this morning? Did I fucking make you feel like you need it?”Gavin stood, tension keeping him from staying still.
'No. I want to communicate with you.’ The writinggrew slightly less precise as Rafe rushed what he wanted to say. Gavin crossedhis arms.
“You don’t get to fucking say that when you won’t evenexplain to me what the fuck is going on.” He watched as Rafe blinkedslowly, his face remaining impassive. He shook his head briefly as his handwent white where it held the portable up in front of him. Words began fillingthe screen, almost faster than Gavin could read them. His lips parted as hiseyes flickered back and forth to take in what Rafe had to say.
'Like this morning and just now, I can only show you text. Icannot give you inflection or emphasis or feelingin what I wish to say to you. It’s become challenging for you and I to enjoyeach other’s company because of this. You misunderstand what I say because Icannot express it properly, and it frustrates me to see you upset. The logicalanswer seemed to repair my faults so that when I tell you I Love You, you canunderstand how I feel.’
He watched as Gavin read, tension bleeding off of him in thesilence and the ease visibly showing in his posture. When the text stoppedscrolling, he watched Gavin’s eyes pass between his face and the screen severaltimes. He watched as Gavin hung his head for a moment, rubbing his eyes andbiting his lip, exactly the way he usually did when he was fighting over whichthoughts were anxiety and unnecessary irritation. He waited as Gavin foughtagainst himself for what he really wanted to say.
“You know, I’m not that great at this either.”There was still a rough, defensive edge to his words “And my voice worksjust fuckin’ fine.” he sighed, dropping back to the couch with one legfolded under him. He ran a hand through his hair briskly.
'I know.’
“Yeah, well, you should know then, that having or nothaving a damn voice isn’t what makes you a shitty communicator.” Hefinally looked up to meet Rafe’s eyes, then looked away again. “I like youjust fine the way you are.” He admitted quietly. “It’s the thoughtthat counts, but I don’t need you to change for me.” he nodded, staringdown the cat, who was listening intently to his every word. He shifted slightlyand looked to Rafe again, holding his gaze. “But it’s important to you,and I’m going to try to be a better listener.” He made an attempt at anapologetic smile, “Can’t that be enough?” He begged.
Rafe lurched toward him, dropping the tablet to the cushionbetween them and enveloping Gavin in a grateful embrace.
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mad-madam-m · 6 years ago
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Okay so first off I love soulmate AUs in GENERAL but what I really love about soulmate AUs is thinking about the types of soulmate AUs that let you know your soulmate when you first meet, and the dawning horror some characters would have at the realization of who their soulmate is.
This particular AU crossed my dash and oh boy do I have thoughts. I have thoughts mostly because one of my OTPs has this, canonically, as the first time they touch:
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I MEAN REALLY.
Barnaby would realize it first. He’d have to change out of his armor and into the red suit he wears at the award ceremony, so he’d see that the black marks on his hands and arms and across his chest are bright with colors now. He’d always wondered how he’d meet his soulmate, how they’d touch in such a way that he had these massive marks across his upper body when most people just have a hand print or the brush of a finger.
It’s confusing for about 1.5 seconds before he realizes what this means, and he has to take a solid 5 minutes in the locker room to compose himself because no. There’s not a way in hell that ridiculous old man is actually his soulmate, even though the marks on his body are telling him otherwise. He finishes changing as quickly as he can and keeps his palms turned so that no one can see them and determines to do his best not to think about it.
Kotetsu doesn’t realize it until the next morning. His marks are on his side and back and across the backs of his legs (except for Tomoe’s; he always wondered what it meant that he still had big black marks on his body even after hers had turned its brilliant colors after they’d touched), so he doesn’t see if they’ve changed unless he’s actively looking. So it’s not until he’s pulling off his tank top to get into the shower that he catches a glimpse of his side in the mirror and sees the black mark along his right side and hip is now a vibrant mix of colors. He checks the ones on his back and thighs; they’re just as colorful.
He’s still waking up, so it takes a little longer than it should for it to click that this new guy, the hotshot with the blond curls and that stupid salute, is the one who’s responsible for these marks.
The realization feels like getting punched in the chest, only less fun. Kotetsu has to sit on the side of the tub and remind himself to breathe, and his hand goes instinctively to the mark on his upper arm in the shape of Tomoe’s hand. The only reason he can make himself move long enough to get ready for work is that he knows, he knows, he can’t be late after a night like last night.
(Then he gets to work and finds out he doesn’t have a job anymore and kind of wishes maybe he’d slept in.)
And I mean. Look at that picture. Those marks are going to be huge and it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can hide if you’re going to be in any state of undress around another person. And once they’re partners, they’re going to be sharing a locker room.
So the first time they have to change together, they know.
Barnaby’s just taken off his bodysuit when he turns around and sees the bright swaths of color across Kotetsu’s back and thighs, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’re the exact size and shape of his arms. He’s spent a lot of time ignoring the color on his arms and palms and chest, but seeing the matching marks on Kotetsu’s body brings it home that this is real.
Then Kotetsu turns before Barnaby can pretend he wasn’t looking, and it’s not like Barnaby can do anything to hide the giant marks on his chest and arms (even if his first instinct is to try to cover them), so they just stand there, staring at each other, for a full five seconds before Barnaby turns around and gets dressed as quickly as possible. He’s hoping he’ll be finished and can leave before Kotetsu, so he doesn’t have to have what will surely be an awkward and unproductive conversation, but as soon as he closes his locker and turns around, Kotetsu is there, tossing his hat in his hands.
(How in the hell did this guy get dressed first, Barnaby wonders, when he’s wearing a buttoned shirt, a vest, and a tie, and all Barnaby had to do was throw on a damn t-shirt.)
“So,” Kotetsu says, “we’re---”
“Nothing,” Barnaby snaps. “We’re working together because our sponsor company is making us. That’s it.”
“But we’re---”
“I don’t care,” Barnaby says. “Just because the marks turned colors doesn’t mean anything.”
The look Kotetsu gives him says pretty clearly that he feels otherwise. “They’re soulmarks.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Barnaby says. “Leave me alone.”
He brushes past Kotetsu and leaves the locker room. He has too many other things to worry about; he doesn’t give a damn about soulmarks and if fate thinks it’s funny to stick him with a foolish old man for a soulmate, then fate can kiss his ass.
(Kotetsu had no idea anybody could be less happy than him about this turn of events, but apparently Barnaby---no, Bunny, he’s definitely going to be Bunny now---is super ticked about it. At least Kotetsu didn’t really expect that conversation to go much differently than it did. He’d hoped it would. But he didn’t expect it to.)
Kotetsu doesn’t bring it up again. But he can’t just make himself turn off the part of him that cares about other people, and he can’t make himself stop caring about Bunny---who might be an asshole but he’s also apparently Kotetsu’s other soulmate---so he continues to care in his own somewhat-overbearing way. He nags Bunny to take care of himself and puts together a surprise birthday party and keeps his damn mouth shut when Nathan tells him about Bunny’s parents, because that is none of his business. Not until Bunny decides to tell him about it, anyway.
And Barnaby has absolutely no idea what to do with this. He doesn’t know what to do with it when Kotetsu won’t leave him behind with a ticking bomb, even though there’s nothing for Kotetsu to do. He doesn’t know what to do with it when Kotetsu just gives him a criminal and says “happy birthday, you take the points.” And he sure as hell doesn’t know what to do with it when Kotetsu jumps in front of a goddamn firebolt to keep Barnaby from being hurt.
(He also doesn’t know why he can’t stop worrying about Kotetsu, when he doesn’t want a soulmate and he’s not supposed to care.)
But then Jake happens, it’s only by some miracle that Kotetsu doesn’t actually die, and when the dust finally settles, Barnaby finds himself sitting on the side of his bed, facing four incontrovertible truths: 
1) He is actually in love with Kotetsu. 2) Kotetsu is his soulmate. 3) Barnaby essentially told him to fuck off. 4) Just because Barnaby is in love with him does not mean that Kotetsu will love him back.
He swears he can hear fate laughing at him.
(Of course Kotetsu is in love with him, but he’s trying really hard not to be because Bunny said no and he’s going to respect that. Just because they get along better now doesn’t mean that “no” is suddenly a “yes.”)
(He is going to celebrate the shit out of Bunny finally calling him by his first name, though.)
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cocoarosalia · 7 years ago
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All He Wants (KatsuDeku)
Katsuki was a simple man of simple needs.
All he wants is to wake up, live out his lifelong dream of being a hero, and come home to his dorky husband, cook dinner and relax. He didn’t think he was asking for the world, honestly.
So why the donkey fuck is Deku making this request so goddamn difficult.
Worst part was that it had been all day. Izuku started irritating him early by whining and complaining for him to stay in bed with him as long as possible. When he finally managed to break free and start making breakfast, Izuku insisted on making it himself, completely forgetting the fact that he was total dog shit at cooking. Three band-aids and a small kitchen fire later they’re out the door and while Katsuki is in the middle of punching a dude into the brick for taking upskirt pics, what does he get? Innocuous, goofy and cutesy selfies of Izuku parading around the city like he ain’t got shit to do! Taking pictures with fans, commenting on random all might merch, VIDEOS OF HIM PETTING DOGS WHEN HE KNOWS THAT’S KATSUKI’S FAVORITE THING TO DO, Katsuki was so irate he couldn’t see straight. After a long shit day, he trudges hisself home, battered, bruised, and completely exhausted.
And all he wanted was to walk into his house, have his husband welcome him home with a kiss and pretty much deflate on the bed until he eventually blacks out.
But Izuku is apparently feeling cuddly tonight….
Because of course he is
Which brings us all the way to now with a clingy Izuku, a pissed off but slightly too tired to really fight katsuki, and an order of take out between them.
‘Well at least he didn’t try to cook this time’ he thought, more bitter than a black coffee laced with vodka.
“Kaaacchan” Izuku cooed sweetly in his ear. He lifted up a bite of his food to katsuki’s mouth and in return he took it graciously. He was starting to think how nice the situation was until his shoulder began to ache from the strain he put on it pummeling loser villains all day.
“Deku, as disgustingly cute as you are, I’m fucking beat. I’ll play with you tomorrow, i’m going to bed”
He could feel Izuku jolt slightly in his lap “Uhhh you can’t yet!”
Katsuki quirked an eyebrow at him suspiciously “And why not?”
It was funny, if Izuku had rabbit’s ears he could clearly see them hanging low on his head “Well I mean, this is a once in blue moon occasion you know? The both of us somehow being here together, it’s nice.”
As if he had finally heard what he had said, Izuku’s ears started to flush red “A-also becaaaaauuse I wanna watch that new spy movie with you and it comes on in a few minutes!”
At first he wanted to push more on his statement from before but without missing a beat Katsuki plucked the remote off the coffee table, turned to the TV guide and hit record on the upcoming program. Izuku cursed, damn this new technology!
“Now that that’s taken care of,” Izuku was suddenly and unceremoniously dumped on the seat next to him with a chaste kiss to ease his worries “Goodnight Deku”
He made his way for the stairs but Izuku was insistent on spending time together. Or, at the very least, keep him from going upstairs.
“You can’t go into the bedroom!” He protested. Izuku was clingy sometimes, downright insufferable on occasion but this was way too pushy for a bit of attention. Something fishy was going on in his house but he couldn’t truly be too bothered to care.
“Whatever it is you broke, burned, or trashed I will be sure to yell at you in the morning”
Katsuki shoved his way past Izuku and had just made it to his weirdly closed bedroom door when he was tackled to the floor by his husband’s rock solid body.
“Kacchan!” He said a little too loudly to be natural “Let’s take a bath together!”
That completely threw him for a loop “You want to what?”
“W-well I mean you just got home from a long day of sweating out in the sun and you hadn’t taken a bath yet so I figured why wait for the invitation!”
“Ok deku this is ridiculous, what are you-”
Katsuki really hated Izuku’s quirk sometimes, especially when it allowed him to toss Katsuki over his shoulder like a limp bag of rice (even though he was pretty sure the nerd didn’t need it given how stacked he was)
So now he’s somehow managed to find himself sitting on the bathroom stool staring confusedly at the tile in front of him while Izuku diligently washed the day’s work from his body.
He just wants to sleep. WHY was that so goddamn hard!?
As he moved around to Katsuki’s front to wash his chest and his arms, Izuku’s fingers slowed to grip softly to his palms. He ran his thumbs over the burn scars that littered his skin and muttered softly to himself “It’s, not too long ago I feared these hands more than death itself.”
Katsuki’s breath hitched unconsciously. He knew of his...past transgressions but he’d hoped that they had moved beyond that to a place of trust.
Without thinking he had to ask.
“What do you think of them now?”
Izuku blinked up at him in unexpected confusion then cast his eyes down in thought. Katsuki didn’t know if he was making him sweat on purpose or not but the long stretch of silence felt like it couldn’t be anything but deliberate.
Eventually a small smile cracked along Izuku’s face as he brought his husband’s hand to his cheek. He nuzzled into it softly and spoke with joy and resolve.
“I love them more than anything in the world!”
Katsuki released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
“The most jacked hero in the world is a fuckin sap. The tabloids would have a field day”
Izuku laughs wholeheartedly and Katsuki quietly smiles to himself. Fuckin’ Nerd.
And that should be it right? They wash off the grime of the day, they soak and play in the tub for a while, dry each other’s hair like when they were little, a textbook example of a lovey-dovey way to end the day.
“Kaaaachaaaan, don’t go to beeeeed!!!”
But clearly Izuku wants him to be an insomniac
Katsuki lugged his feet forward as Izuku clung desperately to his ankle. He was just about to turn the knob when Izuku wailed even louder.
“Jesus Christ,” Katsuki turned to his sobbing mate and groaned in exhaustion “Deku, I’m tired, i’ve been out all day and all I ask is to lay in my bed until consciousness finally escapes me”
He bent down to take Izuku’s soft face into his hands “I have indulged you, entertained you and have given up precious sweet moments of sleep just to make you happy. So for once I am actually begging you...let me go to bed”
Katsuki left him a stuttering mess and it wasn’t until he heard the door finally begin to creak open that Izuku made one final lunge to stop him in his tracks.
But it was too late. Katsuki could finally drown himself in the sweet embrace of sleep with the help of his bed! Which is littered with sakura petals….and lit with scented candles….and has soft jazz music playing in the background….
D-did he fall asleep already, what’s happening here?
He felt a soft thud on his back as Izuku’s voice came out muffled through his shirt.
“You ruined the surprise” he said with a pouty huff
A grim thought blanketed his mind. “Deku” he said, straining to keep his building anxiety in check “What’s today?”
Izuku wrapped his arms around Katski’s waist “It’s not our wedding anniversary, don’t worry”
He puffed out a small laugh when he felt all of Katsuki’s muscles relax at once
“Although it’s not…..NOT one of our anniversaries.”
“Deku...” He was losing his patience; what little there was anyway.
“Today’s still a kind of anniversary, just not the one you’re thinking of”
Izuku fished his phone out his pocket and brought it around to Katsuki’s chest. With tired filled, bleary eyes he looked down to see a screenshot of text messages between them staring back.
Deku @ 11:30PM: Uh, Thanks again for the All Might Plush Kacchan. I never knew you were such a sharp shooter!
Kacchan @ 11:32: You better believe it nerd! All those shooting range lessons with my mom had to paid off somehow
Deku @ 11:33: Yea but to get each one on your first shot! no misses or anything! You’re really amazing!
Katsuki @ 11:34: Of course! My name isn’t fuckin Bakugou for nothin!
Deku @ 11:36: And it’s not just for the plush either...you’re amazing for other reasons too
Katsuki @ 11:37: What do you mean?
Deku @ 11:40: Kacchan you didn’t have to take me out tonight...I know how much your image means to you….and I know i’m not the toughest guy you know so just the fact that you were willing to even be seen with me is amazing you know?
Katsuki @ 11:41: No I don’t and that’s the stupidest fucking thing your pathetic ass has ever said
Deku @ 11:41: …i know I should be used to that by now but it doesn’t get any easier
Katsuki @ 11:43: Look Deku, UNLIKE you I couldn’t give less of a shit what others think of me. I’m a motherfucking badass and that means I can date whoever the hell I want. And if that means I’m dating a weakling like you then so be it, GOT IT?
Deku @ 11:44: G-GOT IT!
Katsuki @ 11:44: Good, and one more thing.
Katsuki @ 11:45: you are as soft as a melted marshmallow, you cry at the sad scene of every movie, and you let little kids climb you like a fucking monkey gym. Put simply you’re a total fucking pushover.
Katsuki @ 11:46: But I guess those things can also be like, amazing too or whatever. And it’s why I, like, love you and shit so at least be grateful for that nerd.
Deku @ 11:46:.......
Katsuki @ 11:46: Nerd?
Deku @ 11:50: you said you love me
Katsuki @ 11:55: yea what about it?
Deku @ 12:00: you SAID that you LOVE ME! LIKE ACTUALLY SAID IT! Well except that it was over text and not by voice so I don’t if this counts or if you genuinely meant it--
“I had to actually get outta bed and go to your house to verbally say it to your face 10 times in a row before you actually shut the hell up about it.”
“I didn’t sleep a wink that whole night”
Deku squeezed him a little tighter and shuffled his feet in thought “We’ve become international heroes, received countless medals and awards, have our own joint merchandise line and i’m pretty sure our fanclub is so big that it can be labeled as a religion now.” Katsuki snorted at the thought “But there is no award on this earth that can compare to hearing you say that you love weak, pushover, crybaby me”
Katsuki felt the hands that folded across his stomach, ran the tips of his fingers over the scars and ridges that littered the same palms that fed him dinner and washed his back. All he had ever wanted in life was to be recognized, to have it be known to the whole world that he was amazing and should be seen as such. But then here was Deku, the man who could rip the city to ruin but chose instead to spend his days saving cats out of trees, singing his praises since they were four. He thought he wanted the world’s attention. Turns out he really just wanted Izuku’s.
Katsuki was starting to get the itching suspicion that maybe HE was starting to turn into the pushover
“Wait a minute” Katsuki said after a moment “So you mean to tell me that after you knew that I had a shit day at work you dragged me to all corners of this house, purposefully keeping me from our bedroom and sleep, deliberately pissing me off more and more to then surprise me…..WITH OUR BEDROOM?”
“But I had to!” Izuku whined “You were just gonna ruin the surprise and go to bed anyway! Plus your present wasn’t finished drying yet so I had to stall for time!”
“Present?”
Suddenly Izuku became very acquainted with a knick in the wall from when they finally got their first bed that wasn’t a pair of oversized futons.
A wickedly evil grin cracked along Katsuki’s usual prickly cowl. He stalked himself just behind Izuku’s back and put his lips just behind his ear, his favorite weak spot to torture.
“How exactly did my present get so dirty Izuku?” As tired as he was nothing could top the visible shiver that ran down his husband’s spine.
“I may or may not have uhhh tried it on before you got home. I liked the way it looked and um...couldn’t help myself.”
Katsuki was a simple man of simple needs; and tonight, all he wants is to watch his favorite present squirm.
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phaltu · 7 years ago
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Hi zan, if you are still up for the writing prompts, I was thinking about the sheith wedding and I feel like they're not the kind of people who would throw a big one since they're both too practical and private, but tough luck, Lance wants good photos and he won't stop annoying them unless they have a wedding themed cheesy photoshoot, so 2 weeks before their wedding they're in a park for the shooting, [/1]
the photographer is loosing their shit Keith looks like he’s severely constipated(he thinks he’s smiling but he’s not)and Shiro is trying his best with his coverboy smile but even that’s not enough, they’re both standing too awkward and the photographer jokes about trying a bridal carry pose because what is left to lose the goddamn sun is setting in 30 minutes, there’s no time left, and Keith doesn’t understand it’s a joke and he just hauls Shiro off the ground, the photographer goes “fcuk” [/2]
Sorry I took forever to get to it, but this prompt’s so cute it’s been sitting close in my heart. You’ve already written out all the good parts but I hope you enjoy this!!!!
Shiro adjusts his collar for the tenth time.
“Hands off!” Yells the photographer for the ninth time, and Shiro’s hands automatically dive back into his pant pockets. “Hands out of your pockets!”
Lance is standing behind the soft box, looking like he wants to die. Shiro takes some sort of pleasure that he and Keith aren’t the only ones wasting time here.
Keith and Shiro are going to have a city hall wedding. Shiro’s going to give a small speech to Keith, and Keith will probably return it with something that will both not exceed three lines and not fail to make Shiro cry. Lance and Pidge will meet them there and act as witnesses, then they’ll meet Coran, Hunk and Allura at Sal’s so they can get trashed and celebrate being married. Shiro’s family are going to fly in a month later, and Keith’s dad is going to make the drive from the other side of the country so that they can have a reception but other than that, they’re keeping the event low-key. Everyone is fine with this.
Everyone but Lance.
Keith and Shiro are the first out of their little tight-knit group to get married, and Lance is taking great offence to the fact that they aren’t going all out. Shiro tells Lance that if he’s so insistent on having a glitzy wedding, maybe Lance should be the one getting married. Lance gets a pinched expression when Shiro suggests that, and switches tracks. Sort of.
Earlier in the week, Lance had called Keith and left a voicemail on his cell, detailing the wedding photoshoot he had booked for Keith and Shiro in the upcoming weekend. Keith had deleted it, had gone home, and had completely forgotten about it until he had Shiro under his hands later that night.
“I gave Lance the deposit by the way,” Shiro had said, a little breathless. Keith looked up from where he was busy pulling off Shiro’s flannel pyjamas with his teeth, and dropped the cloth from his mouth.
“Don’t say that name when we’re in bed,” He had said. “Also, deposit for what?”
The deposit for the shoot, which Lance had told Shiro would be a great surprise for Keith. Shiro, to his credit, hadn’t actually believed Lance. But they have a 5-image picture stand in their living room, and only two frames are filled.
They arrived to the shoot in the main city park, in matching charcoal suits and cream shirts. Lance called them both ugly but passable upon arrival, and Shiro begs to differ. They had originally intended to arrive to the shoot half an hour early, as per Lance’s strict instructions, but Shiro had gotten distracted by the way Keith’s suit fit snug around his form. He had told Keith to pull over in the backlot of a school, and pushed him into the back seat.
It led to them arriving rumpled and five minutes late to the shoot, and from the long-suffering look Lance had given them, he knew exactly what the hold up had been and would eviscerate them if they offered to explain.
So here they stand, two fools in suits, trying their best to smile to a photographer that looks like they’re ready to burst into tears at any given moment.
The sun is slowly setting on the horizon, and it’s casting a beautiful light on the two of them. It’s a shame that apparently both of them look like they’re constipated each time they smile for the camera. They’ve cycled through all the typical happy-couple poses, including a memorably bad attempt of wrapping their arms around each other and trying to look lovingly into each other’s eyes.
They’ve been told they look at each other like the universe ends and begins with them, but somehow that doesn’t transpose well onto the camera. Keith gets told a million times to stop baring his teeth, and when Shiro tries to give an award-winning smile, Lance likens him to a serial killer.
“How about a kiss?” The photographer calls out wearily, and Keith and Shiro shrug.
They lean in for a kiss and hold it. Shiro cracks an eye open and side-eyes the photographer to see where they’re at. There’s an audible groan from the direction of the camera, and they faintly hear something from Lance about Shiro looking like a fish. Shiro feels mildly offended, and deepens the kiss, humming as Keith opens up to him. They’re not a big fan of PDA, so it’s stilted and reserved, made worse by the fact that the two of them are acutely aware of the camera.
“They’re hot individually,” Lance tells the photographer. “Well, Shiro is. Keith can be if you only give a passing look.”
Keith breaks the kiss to give the finger to Lance, and the click of the camera echoes through the park.
“That’s not what your girlfriend said,” Keith retorts and Shiro struggles to not roll his eyes. Keith’s great at sounding threatening and intimidating. But when he and Lance decide to trash talk each other, Shiro has violent flashbacks to the hours he spent playing COD in middle school.
“The light’s going,” the photographer sighs, like any of this means anything to Keith and Shiro. They’re horrible at taking just casual pictures; the best picture they’ve taken together has Keith’s thumb peeking in the corner. The intricacies of professional photography are lost on them. “Maybe you should carry each other bridal style.”
Shiro is sure it’s a joke, because the photographer had already vetoed it when Lance had suggested it earlier. It doesn’t matter, because feels one arm snake around his lower back, and the other around the back of his knees, before Shiro finds himself getting hauled up into Keith’s arms.
“Uh,” both Lance and the photographer stare. “OK. Cool.”
Shiro looks up at Keith, who’s got an impossibly determined look on his face. The sun illuminates his profile like a halo, and Shiro forgets for a second that they’re getting pictures taken. He’s never going to get used to how absolutely gorgeous Keith is, and it makes his heart swell.
It’s after the third shutter click that he remembers they’re in the middle of something, and he turns to smile at the camera.
“He ruined it,” Lance moans, and the photographer pinches the bridge of their nose.
“We’re out of sunlight,” They announce, and Keith drops Shiro onto his feet. Shiro looks an arm around Keith’s neck and kisses him in the temple of his forehead.
“I love you,” he says, low enough for the others to not hear, and Keith turns to him with a smile that Shiro’s proud to call his.
Click.
“Okay, now we’re out of sunlight,” the photographer says and Keith and Shiro let out a simultaneous sigh of relief.
“Hey!” Lance barks out, and their heads snap up. “We aren’t done yet.”
Lance kicks out a cardboard box from underneath the small folding table the photographer had set up, and bends down to open it. From it, he drags out a string of fairy lights. Shiro and Keith both die a little on the inside.
It’s going to be a long night.
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official-portugal · 7 years ago
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A (long ass) guide to become a Friendly Tourist ™ in Lisbon
You know, I complain a lot about tourists and all and last night it got me thinking that there might be people out there reading these and wanting to visit Lisbon but feel self-conscious so I want to make one thing clear: we don’t hate tourists, we hate tourism as a phenomenon and the way it’s being dealt with. We also don’t hate tourists, we hate assholes. So I decided to put together a guide on how to become a friendly tourist in Lisbon.
- If you can, avoid AirBnB, although I understand for you guys it might be cheaper that way. But if you pick an Air BnB, chances are the home you’re staying in belonged to someone who got kicked out so you could stay there. So be fucking respectful. Don’t come home drunk at 3AM, don’t make any fucking noise at night. There might be children right upstairs and old people downstairs, so don’t do anything you wouldn’t want others to do to you. There are neighbors in that fucking building, people who have to go to work, so be fucking respectful. 
- Be fucking nice to every worker you come across. In Portugal, whether you’re at the checkout or having your order being taken by the waitress, when these workers approach you, you’re supposed to greet them. Say “good morning”, “good evening”, or just plain “hello”. Also, finish with please, always. If you don’t, I guarantee you, you won’t be treated differently because these people can’t risk their jobs, but you’ll be labeled a cunt. Like, it costs zero. You don’t just come up to someone and say “TWO COFFEES PLEASE”. AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT SAY GRACIAS.
- Don’t fucking expect people to speak your language, but they will fucking try, so don’t be a cunt about it. Here’s the thing: in the public schooling system, the average portuguese learns two languages. We are taught french and english and the majority of kids even takes a third language in high school. We understand spanish and italian enough to communicate. So we understand what you’re saying, but it doesn’t mean we can speak it. But are you really demanding that we, who already speak 3 languages, speak yours as well you fucking dildo? Also, by “we” I mean naturally the youngest generation. Older people? Not so much. People working in tourism offices are making an effort, they know way more than you and they’re not there to cater to your needs. If you see them struggling with your language, help them. Also, if you disrespect them while you’re asking for directions, I can assure you they’ll give you the wrong advice out of spite, and you deserved it.
- We’re not a tipping kind of country but: we appreciate tips. What I am saying is, any tip is extra money, so it’s welcomed, but we are not culturally taught to monetarily award someone for their good services, instead we praise them. If you do come from a country that tips a lot, you should know we don’t have a “tipping rule”. Even if you leave just a couple of coins, it’s appreciated. But if you don’t come from a tipping kind of country, don’t feel obligated to do it. What you can do is praise their work. Thank them for their kind service. Tell them they’ve made your experience better. That means a fucking lot when you work in tourism because usually yall just see us as punching bags.
- There’s a difference between Pastel de Natal and Pastel de Belém. Both are custard tarts, both have different recipes. The first one, the Nata, can be found in literally any café. The second, the Pastel de Belém, can only be found in their official factory in Belém, across the street from Jerónimos. When you get there, you will see that the queue is super fucking long but don’t worry, they’re used to it and they have an efficient system. I promise you won’t be there for longer then like, 7 minutes.
- Canned sardines are not traditional. I don’t know who came up with this bullshit but I can guarantee you it’s just marketing. Sardines ARE traditional, just NOT canned. Canned sardines were the cheap, canned food the poorest of the poor ate back during the dictatorship. Usually, a whole can was shared by a family. So it kinda makes me offended that a symbol of poverty is trending, but aigh. The sardines we do eat traditionally are roasted outside on a cooker, sort of like a barbecue. THOSE are traditional. (By the way, you want to eat THE ABSOLUTE BEST, take the ferry across the river and pick a restaurant in Cacilhas, I guarantee you that’s the best place to eat sardines).
- Just because you can see the fucking Christ right across the river, it doesn’t mean it’s right there and that you can just get there. I can’t believe I had to explain this several times to tourists, but that Christ is standing on a fucking cliff. You can take the ferry, sure, but it won’t take you there, like, this is basic knowledge, I’d assume. There’s a service that cost 20€ and lasts for 2h and it stops there for a long time, if you’re one to complain about it a lot, take that. If you don’t mind grabbing your own ass and going there yourself, take the ferry and then take the 101 Bus, last stop. 
- There are three ways to get to Belém: tram, train and bus. And yes, by foot is too fucking far. Like, 1h walk far. All of them will be super fucking crowded. You might get luckier with the buses, since for some reason tourists seem to avoid them. The queue in Cais do Sodré is going to be too fucking long, and I honestly do not care one fucking second that it’s an inconvenience for your vacation because we, who depend on it to go to work, take 2h for it as well. The tram is going to be crowded and it's going to take you some 45 minutes to get there on a very bad day. Live with it. That’s the reality of the city, and this is a reality YOU created by coming here en masse, not us. So don’t fucking complain that we don’t cater to your needs because, remember, your inconvenienced holiday means hundreds of portuguese people are getting late for work and taking 4h a day in public transportation. So again, I do not give one flying fuck.
- Tram 28 is a public transportation not meant for you. You, as a tourist, fucked it up, keep that in mind. If you want to ride the traditional trams, there’s a touristic service made specifically for you that works as a hop on hop off and it does a wider route than 28. My advice is take that one, it has no thieves and you can sit down, and it’s two different routes (green tram and red tram). But if you do want to take the public one, then my advice is: take the 12 instead. If you want to get on 28, begin the route from the starting point at Estrela. It will be calmer there. If you want to go to the castle, then no, the tram isn’t the only way. Bus number 727 stops right at its door and it’s usually super empty. Take that one.
- Saint Geroge’s Castle is completely fake. Not a fucking stone in there is real. There are real ruins there, of course, but they aren’t even of a castle, they’re of an “Alcazaba”, an administrative center back when the moors were in portugal. That’s why the neighborhood next to it is called “mouraria” - the moorish neighborhood. Yes, there was a castle there from the 14th century onwards, but very little was left of that. The whole thing you’re seeing? Completely rebuilt in the 20th century. It’s even fascist propaganda in a way.
- Tuk Tuk drivers don’t know shit of what they’re talking about. The chances of them making shit up for you are like, way higher than you can imagine. You can’t comprehend the bullshit I’ve caught them telling tourists, like the Lisbon Cathedral is from the 19th century. They’re not tour guides, they’re fucking drivers. The info they’re giving you is generic and easily obtained. they’re speaking to you as a portuguese person who knows their traditions, but they don’t usually know shit about history and art because they’re not required to. So if you get on a Tuk Tuk, keep that in mind and don’t demand too much from the driver. And also, chances are they’re bullshitting you. I know one Tuk Tuk driver who is an Art History graduate and masters degree and is a great tour guide, since he’s someone I trust a lot with the history of the city, so if you really want to get on one and be real about it, hit me up and I’ll hook you up with him.
- Don’t make a fuss about the supposed “drug dealers” selling weed in broad daylight in Baixa. First of all, literally everyone in the city except you, tourists, know that what they’re selling is not drugs, it’s bay leaf squished into a powder, and I have to give it to them, their scheme is pretty fucking brilliant because it’s prompted tourists to go to the police and complain that “the drugs this guy sold me aren’t real” lmao. But this is a situation that again partly resulted out of mass tourism. So shut the fuck up because I know damn well it would take me one day to find out where I could get high in your country. And also, me as a citizen can’t do shit about it (BECAUSE THOSE AREN’T DRUGS LOL).
- Don’t be fucking unpleasant about the homeless and the beggars. Fucking really? There’s a high level of poverty in here. We’ve been saying for years but if you choose to believe your Time Out articles, then that’s not my fault. But be fucking respectful. Life isn’t cheap here, and we’re having it hard. 
- Please understand, once and for all, that Fado is pretty normalized. Like, it’s fucking everywhere. Every goddamn souvenir shop you’ll walk into, it’s gonna be playing fado. Restaurants, cafés, a fucking cab, same thing. I know it’s been sold as the traditional song of the people, poor and desolate living in the streets of Alfama, but that’s not it anymore. It’s been classified as World Intangible Heritage which means an incredible effort is being made to preserve it, WHICH MEANS the amount of Fado singers has increased incredibly. So there is no “real fado experience” anymore. The real fado experience is either a) a concert, or b) a dimly lit restaurant with a guitar player and a lesser known singer. 
- Be careful how much you’re being charged by the taxi drivers. If possible, don’t take a cab at the airport. If you’re moving from point A to point B WITHIN the city, you shouldn’t be paying over 10€. The starting fee is NOT 20€, it’s 3,90€. There’s a little extra added if you call a cab (instead of finding one on the streets) or take it at night. If you can, install the app My TaxiApp, the drivers there are pretty honest. Or use Uber.
- Don’t get on the Hop On Hop Off buses. Personally, I can’t see what’s so appealing about these, but there are a lot of reasons why in Lisbon they don’t particularly work: 1) traffic. You’re gonna be stuck in traffic, it doesn’t matter what time of the day you got on. 2) The waiting period. It shouldn’t take more than 30 minutes for a new bus to come by, but with traffic, we don’t know, and I certainly can’t predict it, since I don’t have a fucking GPS in me. 3) The bus that goes to the Castle is much, much smaller and it fills up way quicker because double-decker buses don’t fucking fit those narrow streets. So chances are you’re gonna be there for a while waiting because they’ll keep coming full. Not my fucking problem. Take a walk instead. There’s a touristic bus called Caravel on Wheels which would be my advice for you. I worked for them, it’s a 1h45 long video tour. The audio is very well put together and explains the history of Lisbon incredibly well, and it has a shit ton of languages, and you can just ignore the goddamn video, trust me. The assistants are super nice and sweet and the driver is amazing. We made a huge effort to make sure you wouldn’t forget that experience, trust me. Also, it allows you to see the most important parts of the city and then decide what you want to see by yourself.
- Don’t disrespect the monuments. Don’t paint on walls. Don’t spit on fountains. Don’t lean on statues, don’t get close to statues, don’t even breathe on statues. Don’t fucking touch the paintings, the artworks, any fucking thing you find inside a museum. It sounds ludicrous that I have to point this out but you wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen.
- Mouraria, Alfama and Martim Moniz aren’t just the most traditional parts of Lisbon, they’re some of the most multicultural and poorest too. So don’t be a fucking racist asshole. There are indian, chinese, and sikh, among others, communities in there, including “illegal” mosques and chinese restaurants. Don’t be unpleasant to the locals. Don’t be disrespectful to the people who live there. The thing about the portuguese is we love tourists, we’re welcoming like that, IF you are nice. These people are happy to welcome you to their neighborhood, trust me, they are, but you gotta be respectful. 
- Avoid eating at Rua dos Correeiros. If you don’t know what street that is, it’s the only one in the entire fucking Lisbon where every fucking restaurant will have a guy holding a menu approaching you and BEGGING you to eat there, and I mean every single one. Most of those restaurants are most likely schemes and one in particular, Made in Correeiros, has made the news for convincing tourists to come in while holding a menu where they show prices ranging from 10 to 20€ and then inside suggest something that is at the end of the menu (but they will make sure you won’t see it) and it turns out a dish of salmon costs 500€. That whole street is made of shit like that and not a single one of them is traditional in the least, don’t let them convince you they are because they have a bitoque and bacalhau à brás, those are dishes that any portuguese with half a brain can cook, so walk away.
- Don’t be fucking rude to the bus drivers, and I mean every bus driver, whether it’s touristic bus or city bus, cause they are not required to speak your fucking language. There are a million different tourist offices where you can ask for help. Have your money ready when you enter the bus or recharge your Viva card at the subway. A bus fare is 1,80€ within any point in the city.
- And don’t be fucking rude to the vendors. They don’t control traffic. Especially resellers who don’t represent one company but rather sell several companies, don’t yell at them. They don’t control traffic and they don’t control the bus routes. Explain to them you are disappointed by the service and they will take a note and I can guarantee you they will inform the company about the delay/problem and will exchange your money. They don’t think any less of you and they understand you, as long as you’re nice about it.
- And don’t complain to them the city is disappointing! I don’t give a rat’s ass that Barcelona was more beautiful, go to fucking Barcelona and shut up.
- Don’t walk around with 100€ bills. Use 50€ bills for large purchases only. Most vendors aren’t even allowed to accept 100€ due to couterfit problems. Exchange your money at the appropriate place. Don’t fucking buy 3€ worth of fridge magnets with a 100€ bill like I’ve witnissed, come on. That’s common sense. 
- Things that ARE good, traditional souvenirs: porcelain magnets with sardines, tiles, bits of history and the black swallows you see everywhere. Bottles of wine, especially Port, too. Tawny being the best brand. Make sure it’s from Porto/Douro. The bags of salt if they come from Aveiro, otherwise I wouldn’t trust it. The famous red, green, blue or black scarves you see with floral motifs and fringes I guess can be considered traditional too, but be aware that 1) they’re mostly cheap imitations (the realest ones are really expensive) and 2) they’re traditional from way up north like, above Porto even. That’s a part of a very traditional outfit of a very specific region, linked to very specific traditions. Small portuguese guitars are pretty cute. Avoid the cork shit. Cork used to be our main export, now it isn’t and most of that crap I don’t even think it’s made here, it’s just a brand, but someone correct me if I’m wrong. Although the cork postcards are cute. Little stuff like notebooks, postcards and bookmarkers with Fado on it is cute too. A Vida Portuguesa is a store you’ll come across in Baixa that sells shit that looks cute and Art Neauveu-sy that recreates old stuff from the 40s and 50s.
- Things that aren’t traditional at all: canned sardines. Anything being sold on the streets. Certainly not the peruvian CDs on Terreiro do Passo.
- No, you won’t find random postmarks on the streets where you can slip in your postcards. There are a few, but are very scarce. There’s a post office in Restauradores, use that. You can usually buy stamps at any souvenir-looking shop or anything store that says “Casa da Sorte”.
- The green card you use for transportation is good for everything but you need to charge it either with money for all or in the appropriate machines that will give you the specific ticket you’re looking for. 
- If you walk inside ANY restaurant or whatever and ask for a cup of coffee, this is what you’ll get. If you want a larger coffee a bit watered down, ask for an abatanado. Or go to Starbucks. A garoto is a strong espresso with a bit of milk, served in an espresso cup. A galão is basically the same, but in a taller glass that will, for 99% of the time, look like this, and the milk is stirred until it forms foam, like a cappuccino without the chocolate. So be specific about what you want. Our coffee is very strong. Ask the waiters, they’re used to the confusion, don’t worry.
- Here’s an important thing to you if you’re stopping by during a cruise: no, you can’t fucking visit the whole city in one day. The city is way bigger than you’re thinking it is. You can’t see it all in 5h. So pick wisely. Here’s how to pick it: Oriente is the modern part of the city, the main attraction is the Aquarium (Oceanário). Belém is the historical part, where most of the main monuments are. Downtown Lisbon is the place you can walk to and discover by foot. If you’re strict on mobility, a Tuk Tuk is the perfect choice.
- Maybe this is kind of asking too much out of a tourist, but it would be great if you had any fucking clue what Lisbon even has. Don’t just stand in Rossio looking puzzled and ask me where the famous tiles are. You should at least know you’re thinking of fucking Porto, which is some 300km away. The worst question you can ask touristic vendors is “so what can you do in this city?” bitch I don’t know. Make your goddamn research. You like art? Here’s a list: Berardo Museum (contemporary). Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga (from 14th to the 18th century and colonial art). Azulejo museum (those famous blue tiles). MAAT (contemporary art, also a nice overview of the city). Gulbenkian (antiquity to the 19th century and also a modern art center, a beautiful museum with amazing gardens). The Fado Museum. You want history? Here’s another list: anything in Belém, you don’t have to pay for the tickets even, the tower is not that interesting anyway and you can visit the church of Jerónimos for free, it’s the whole monastery complex you have to pay for. Church of São Roque for the prime example of baroque. The Lisbon cathedral. The Church of Saint Vincent. Estrela Basilica. Ajuda Palace. I don’t know what else, at the top of my head, these are probably the most important.
- The train to Sintra is in Rossio train station, which is NOT physically connected to the subway station. Stop asking me.
- Sintra, Cabo da Roca and Queluz are outside of Lisbon. Yes, you have to get on a train. I don’t care if it’s an inconvenience, I didn’t fucking build it.
- No, the beaches are not exactly in Lisbon. The ones that kinda are, you go to Cais do Sodré, you get on a train and get off at Oeiras or something. Ask someone there. The other ones are around Sintra or across the river. If you want to go across the river to Caparica, there’s a service that costs 10€, picks you up in the morning, takes you back in the afternoon. If you think that’s expensive and decide to go there on your own, then be prepared to pay a lot more and have the worst bus ride of your life. I’ve been riding TST buses my whole life, you have no idea the shit hole they are. Pay for quality, it’s worth it.
- No, you can’t get to Freeport by bus. It will take you too long and cost you a fortune. Pay 10€ for the shuttle. It’s way less than any other means.
- No, you can’t take a cab to Fátima. It’s 127km. Also, don’t take the train there. The train station is 30km away from the city. Take a bus. Rede Expresso is your friend. You can charge your fucking phone in that bus! Also you have wifi.
- Yes, you can walk around holding a cup or a bottle of beer on the streets, nobody cares. Just don’t litter. Throw that fucking thing in the garbage, don’t be a pig.
- No, the guys wearing a black outfit with a cape are not celebrating Hogwarts. That’s a joke someone started that caught on. I never actually thought people would believe it, yet here we are. They’re just university students getting drunk lmao. If you want cheap booze, follow them.
- Just overall be kind, don’t bump into people on the streets, don’t stall, smile and say thank you and good morning/evening/whatever. Remember: say obrigado if you’re a man, obrigada if you’re a woman. We don’t care that your portuguese is shit, we love that you tried and that you ask how we say things. We also don’t care that you’re actually speaking brasilian portuguese. We love that you went through the effort. 
- Portuguese people greet with a kiss on each cheek. A handshake is something more business-like. If you don’t like being touched, stay away and wave, we’ll get the message. But if you happen to meet an old lady, then you’re on your own, your cheeks are getting pinched, I can’t save you.
- We’re also incredibly loud. No, we’re not constantly fighting, we’re brutes towards each other. That’s how we show love. Don’t make a point of it.
- But remember: this city isn’t the hip, cheap, hot-spot you’ve been sold. It will look like that if you just wander around Baixa and Alfama and Mouraria, where mostly students and foreigners are. But that is not the reality. The “tradition” you’ve been sold, that supposedly lives in Alfama, practically doesn’t exist anymore. Any story that says “traditional” in it, I can guarantee you is not. The best restaurants are the corner tascas that smell of cooked potatoes and grilled beef. If the owner of a restaurant is fat, the restaurant is good, trust me this is a mnemonic that works. ‘
- Don’t act superior, don’t act like you know this city better because you’ve been here before or because you have portuguese friends. Or because you read this post lmao. Certainly, don’t walk up to tourist vendors and try to convince them YOU know more about traditions in their country than they do, like I’ve had people do with me. Cause you don’t lmao.
Add anything you might think is necessary and sorry for the long ass post
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thewriterscreed · 7 years ago
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Halloween (Modern AU, Edward Kenway)
Edward loves Halloween. Absolutely adores it. It’s an excuse to get drunk, have a party, stuff himself with candy, and act absolutely crazy with his friends. What’s not to like?
To this end however, he has an innate need to be the most festive person on the block. It’s not enough to just throw on a dime-store mask and fall asleep in front of the television watching Friday the 13th. No. Competitive bastard that he is, Edward has to have the best costume, the best candy, and the best decorations. Otherwise what’s the point?
Last year that competitiveness meant Edward having to win the ‘Best Costume’ contest at Ade’s annual party. Deciding to dress as Batman, Edward had walked around perfecting the lowest, gravelliest voice he could manage until you could barely understand a word he said as well as having to put up with him crying over an imaginary ‘Rachel’ and only referring to you as ‘Robin’ for a solid month. The year before that had been the Halloween of the Great Spiked Cider Incident, where Edward had entered a drinking contest with a random party attendee and ended up getting so drunk you only found him the next morning, slumped in a corner with an empty glass still held in one hand.
This year the challenge came in the form of jack-o-lanterns.
The two of you had been out on a lovely evening stroll when you spotted a sign outside one of your favorite pubs describing a pumpkin carving contest taking place in a few days. Whomever could carve the best design during the three hours you were given would win free drinks for the rest of the year.
Edward was ecstatic. Halloween, competition, and free drinks all rolled up into one evening? It was his perfect night.
Immediately he dragged you to the grocery store where he picked out a few pumpkins to take home so he could practice his carving skills. Only problem was, Edward had no pumpkin carving skills. It seemed to be the one Halloween related thing that he had no talent at. Sure, he’d carved pumpkins before, but they had only been the traditional jack-o-lantern smile with two triangle eyes and a crooked nose. He didn’t seem to have the finesse necessary for small, intricate details and also seemed more adept at accidentally slicing his fingers than cutting the correct shapes out of the pumpkin itself.
But goddamn it he was determined, and you’d never known Edward to give up on anything before. So that night, after butchering the two pumpkins he’d already picked out from the grocery, he went back and got two more and after that two more, working on his designs well into the night.
You’d woken up that morning to find a row of ten pumpkin faces leering at you from the kitchen counter and three bins piled high with seeds pushed into the corner. You’d found a note from Edward plastered on the fridge as well, saying he’d taken an early run to the pumpkin patch and would be back later. You’d just laughed and gone to work, managing to put the pumpkins out of you mind. At least until you got home that night and walked into your living room to find more than twenty pumpkins scattered all over your furniture with Edward bent over his current project, his eyebrows bunched in concentration and about a million band-aids plastered onto one hand.
And it only got worse from there. A few days later you woke up to a pumpkin sitting on the pillow where Edward’s head should have been and you’d screamed so loud you were sure someone would call the police. You’d jumped out of bed to go confront Edward only to find you couldn’t even open your bedroom door because of a huge jack-o-lantern taking over the hallway.
His carvings were getting better though…objectively. After fifty pumpkins he could at least carve a face with some symmetry to it, though he still struggled with any detail that had to be completed with a blade smaller than a butcher’s knife. He was so excited though, that you couldn’t do much more than smile at him when he showed off his progress. You even offered to drive him to the pumpkin patch for one last haul.
The night of the competition then saw the two of you sitting on opposite sides of a table, a pumpkin each and a handful of tools between you. With the enthusiasm of a small puppy, Edward went about carving this final pumpkin, mumbling and cursing all the while as he worked. He was chopping away until the very last minute, and when it finally came time to judge, Edward proudly turned his pumpkin around to reveal…a standard jack-o-lantern: toothy grin, big eyes, and a few crescent shaped strands of hair up by the stem. It wasn’t terribly by any means–especially considering how he’d started out–but it wasn’t an award winner either.
He was disappointed to say the least. Edward hated losing and you watched his face turn to a spectacular pout as the judge passed him over without much of any consideration.
You on the other hand, had crafted a masterpiece. On the face of your one pumpkin you had managed to carve a picture of what awaited you back at home: a plethora of jack-o-lanterns pouring over your living room furniture, each with their own unique face. They piled high over each other, some even turned upside down, and the effect of it all congested in one design stretching nearly all the way round the pumpkin itself, was quite hilarious.
You beamed as you were handed a first prize ribbon as well as a voucher for free drinks till December 1st, winking at Edward whose frown had vanished. (He couldn’t stay mad now that he’d gotten free rum for two whole months. The pub had no idea how much in profits they were about to lose).
Your pumpkin ended up getting a place of honor amidst the harvest you had at home, and the rest of Edward’s practice runs were slowly baked into dozens of pies that you and all your friends were eating until springtime.
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fraiseblond · 8 years ago
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Walking Through A Storm
This is for the anon that made me excited for writing once again!
Tags: Fluff, Angst
Summary: Dan keeps his fears in the shadows, guarded always. But his parents have always managed to bring out the ugly side in him. It’s time to stop running away and brave the inevitable.
Warnings: Homophobia, Anxiety
Word Count: 1.8 k
read on ao3
“I don’t wanna be here and I know you don’t too.” Dan’s pout can be heard in his voice.
“Be nice, c’mon.” Phil is unsurprisingly, ever the optimistic.
They are standing in front of Dan’s parents’ house, bags packed for a day’s visit. The BONCAS win had made Dan’s parents, albeit reluctantly, assent to the career path Dan had chosen. It was a pity that an award had made them give in, but it was better than the strained phone conversations.
“It’s going to be fine, Dan, they’re your parents, they love you and will look out for you.”  Phil pecks his cheek and gives him a small smile.
“Hey! None of this here,” but he can’t help but be more cheery than before.
“Got it, your Highness, my affection has no place in this city for I am a mere plebeian-”
Dan’s laugh is cut off when the door swings open. With the theme of change that has been going, both of his parents are there to welcome him. Dan immediately straightens and sends a nervous stare in Phil’s direction. Some habits do die hard. He is suddenly reminded of the first time he had introduced Phil and the nervous current passes through his body once again.
“Hello Mr and Mrs Howell! It’s so good to see you!” Phil sounds so genuine; it pulls at Dan’s heart strings. He finds himself falling in love with the man he is with over and over between smiles and candid words.
“Hello, mum and dad! Looking good!”
“Oh look at you Daniel, you look so grown up, you too Phil; come on in, can’t let stars standing outside the door for too long.”
‘She manages to sound even more sincere than me, the BONCAS really did something,’ Dan thinks, faking a smile. They step in the house, pulling their individual suitcases that Dan was ridiculously particular about.
Dan’s mum is talking to Phil, probably guiding him to Adrian’s room now that he is off to university. Phil’s face is honest and open as he listens to Dan’s mum. He doesn’t fight the faint smile that creeps up on his face.
“I’m glad that you have gotten past the bad parts of your life.” Dan’s dad stresses on the words bad parts in a way that makes his skin crawl. He begrudgingly swallows the bile and the disgust that threatens to tumble and flashes his teeth to his dad.
“I’m proud of you son!” Words that Dan waited his childhood to hear now sting him as his dad pats him on his back. He hears the words that are not spoken. ‘I’m glad that you are not with a man now, you are no longer an embarrassment’
His chest closes up walking through familiar halls that repressed him, walls that loomed over him trying to snatch away his identity. The house manages to make him feel small again; fear that he grew acquainted with and fought with, returning.
*
He unpacks in his room. Phil is in Adrian’s.  Living in separate rooms is not foreign to them, but existing together should be natural in a homely environment. He thinks about the Lesters’ and their chattering and warm grins, a stark contrast to the coldness of his house.
The mechanical motion of putting his clothes in place is a respite from the negative thoughts. It should be comical really, if it wasn’t so sad; that he now 25 years old, sneaks in his boyfriend to his parents’ house.
“Dan, your mum and I are going out for a while; we’ll be in time for dinner!”
“Okay dad, enjoy!” he shouts.
His parents aren’t even bothering to pretend to entertain them. Classic.
*
“Hey,” Phil’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“Hi” Dan turns to face him. Phil looks tired. He has dark circles under his eye and his old hoodie fits a little too tight on him. He settles on Dan’s bed with his knees bent up trying to look as small as possible. He has his glasses on, a sign of weariness. He has never looked so beautiful, curled up on Dan’s old bed. He doesn’t deserve this.
A wave of anger washes over him.
“I can’t believe them. It’s 2016 and they still behave like this! Is it really so bad that I have a boyfriend. I thought they could change. I thought that accepting me being a youtuber was a sign that they would come around. But boy was I wrong,” he says bitterly.
“All I wanted was approval, ever since I was young. I am proud of you is not difficult to utter. He says those words now, when he thinks I am a straight lad, being just bros with you. Why is it so difficult to just accept goddamn! I’m not even close with Adrian because of avoiding their shit. When will they let me be who I am, when can I stop pretending Phil, when can I stop pretending?” He breaks down on the last sentences.
Phil walks up to him. “You’re too pretty to be crying.”
“Do you like me only for my looks,” Dan jokes.
“Uhmm yes-” Phil smiles and kisses him near his mouth. Dan laughs.
“Now that is what I wanted to see, my… animal cracker”
“Philll-”
Phil kisses him on the mouth, firm and insistent. Phil’s hand is in his hair, tugging lightly. He keeps his hand on Phil’s steady shoulders as Phil licks into his mouth. It’s intoxicating really, Phil’s aftershave is all he can smell, his little noises all he can hear. There is a thrill in kissing someone familiar; he knows the curve of Phil’s lips, his tongue that is licking into his mouth, his teeth that bite his lower lip just the way that makes him mad. He moans, opening his mouth a little more, his hand now inching towards Phil’s thighs. Phil sighs-
“Dan, do you need- Oh my!” Dan’s mum barges in his room.
They rush away from each other.
“Honey, what’s the matter,”
Dan’s dad walks into the room. His face hardens as he analyses the situation.
“Come on, we were leaving, they clearly don’t need anything.” He leaves the room, not bothering to meet Dan’s eyes.
The sound of the door locking matches the crack in Dan’s heart. He hugs Phil, who looks as disconsolate as he feels. “It’s not your fault” he murmurs between the crook of Phil’s neck. “I’ll just be back in a minute.”
*
Phil realises Dan needs to be alone. He takes these sentiments particularly hard. Dan is sensitive, way too loving. His entire being is filled with affection that he tried to hide under his ‘danisnotonfire’ persona. It is his honour to see him bloom into himself, a pure, tender man with fondness bleeding through him.
But Dan is not just this man he has come to love he is also an exposed child, craving for his parents’ praise. Phil can never relate to that, he is what he is because of his parents’ support. He can never understand what Dan goes through; can never recognize the tension that flashes underneath tight lipped words.
He will definitely understand if Dan breaks up with him. The warmth of parental love is irreplaceable.
Phil is pacing the room now, a habit he picked up from Dan. He keeps running his hands through his hair, messing it up and trying to smooth it again.
He keeps imagining situations where Dan breaks up with, his parents materialising behind him. It’s torture, really, mulling over various circumstances.
Dan’s voice breaks his train of thoughts. “Hey, sit with me in the living room for a while?”
“Yeah sure,” Phil nods. It’s all he can manage.
*
The living room smells musty, like it has not had fresh air in for a long time. It looks exactly how it looked when Dan left home 7 years ago; it’s an eerie reflection of his parents’ beliefs, he snickers bitterly. Phil and he are sitting on a lonely sofa pushed to the back of the room.
There is a clock ticking in the background, consistent. Its regular thud sends a wave of anxiety down his spine. The noise of the fan does not help to soothe his growing anxiety. Phil is holding his hand, his one connection to the world.
Dan’s mind is a whirlwind, his thoughts pitch black and cyclonic. Phil senses this and is quiet. Moments like these, with Phil’s hand in his and murky thoughts choking him take him to a place years ago, in Manchester with his parents’ voices in his head and a raging war in his chest. A lot has changed since then, but sharp words still reduce him to this.
Dan hates this, hates how deep cuts run when spilled with anger.
He has learnt to be strong all these years, learnt that can you build yourself up with love and understanding. He can stand up for himself and for his love, the cuts aren’t deep when sweet words fill them up.
*
His parents arrive home late at night. His thoughts have taken a steep turn from when they walked on them.
“I’m done, come with me,” Dan’s words send a shiver down his spine. Dan’s eyes are determined, his expression stoic and not giving away anything. It sends Phil down a pit of desolation. He lets himself be pulled by Dan towards his parents. He suddenly feels detached, feels all hope leave his body.
Nausea overtakes him.
Dan is no longer looking at him, his eyes ablaze and staring at his unsuspecting parents, but he tightens his hold on Phil’s hand. He tries to make that into a good thing, but it is difficult when he feels like he is staring into imminent despondency.
Dan clears his throat.
“I’m tired mum and dad. You both have tried to control and micro manage my life, you made me scare to be myself, something that I always have propagated. Congratulations on making me think and overthink all my actions so that I’m just a pool of anxiety and nothing else.”
Dan’s parents shift around uncomfortably. Their gaze settles on where their hands are linked, a single sign of intimacy.
“But I have learnt that it is okay to express myself, to not just exist but live like who I am. It has been a journey but there always has been a person I can rely on.”
He looks at Phil now, a small smile reserved for him.
“And I am not going to leave that person for the sake of your discomfort or the ‘humiliation’ you will face. You are homophobic, accept the fact. You don’t care about me. No amount of sugar you coat on your ugly words will change the fact that you are not concerned about my well-being.”
Phil can sense the change in the environment. He feel proud of the man he calls his partner. He flashes him a smile to see that Dan is already looking at him, his face open and fulfilled. Dan kisses him gently, hands still linked.
 Phil doesn’t know what this means to Dan’s family, but what he knows as his heart fills with overwhelming fondness that Dan is his family and nothing will ever change that.
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inwritemind-blog · 8 years ago
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Love & Anachronism
“Darling, I’m home!” Guy’s voice rings out from down the front hall of our apartment, “You have your dancing shoes on? Louis won’t wait, you know.”
We’re headed out for a night on the town; dinner, dancing, drinks… Oh. Not drinks. I’ve been here a year now, but prohibition is the one thing I can’t seem to get used to. I would have thought it would be the lack of internet, but not knowing what college classmates are eating for dinner or how many times a co-worker’s toddler managed to use the big girl potty on any given day is actually quite refreshing. And, somehow, I feel much healthier without WebMD constantly suggesting that I'm dying of cancer every time I have a sniffle. Who would’ve thought, right?
“El, I’m not getting any younger here…” Guy is growing impatient, but he sounds more amused than annoyed.
“I’m just putting on a smidge of lipstick—one moment!” That sounds right, right? A smidge? I studied plenty, but getting used to period-appropriate language might be even more difficult than adjusting to life without alcohol.
“I’m sure you’re beautiful, doll. Let’s go! Louis Armstrong is a hot ticket and we don’t want to be late!”
Louis Armstrong. I, Elizabeth Shea Sutton, am going to see Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five. Previously, this level of excitement was reserved only for an *NSYNC reunion tour (just wait, it’s going to happen). But it’s a new time… Well, it’s new to me anyway.
I grab my fringed shawl and scurry into the foyer where Guy is waiting with his coat on. He’s a vision of classic Hollywood—tall with broad shoulders, a strong chin, and soft eyes. His thatch of dirty blonde hair is combed back tonight, neatly coiffed atop his head. He lowers his chin, peers up at me from under his brow, and smiles before cocking his head on an angle, spilling his grin in the direction of its tilt.
“Worth the wait.”
Swoon. I flutter my eyelashes dramatically a la Lana Turner or some equally dazzling vintage, silver screen starlet Guy couldn’t possibly get the reference to (considering most of them are currently in diapers).
“Shall we?” He takes my hand and holds the door. Such a gentleman.
It’s only once we get outside that I realize Guy has a car waiting. A nice car. A really nice car. He has plenty of money—made it all in the stock market; I’m pretty sure he’s an economic genius, but he chalks it all up to luck. So humble. I really need to find a way to subtly suggest he move his money before the big crash (without mentioning the crash, of course).… What day was it again? I should have paid closer attention in history class. It was definitely sometime in 1929. Er, it will be.
We pull up to the venue and there’s a line out the door that serpentines around the block.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get in no problem.” Guy turns to me and smirks, “I know a guy…”
“Yeah, me too.” I flirtatiously rejoin. He doesn’t get it.
He pays the driver, who walks around the car to open the door for us and as Guy steps out onto the sidewalk, something falls out of his coat pocket. I reach down to retrieve it for him, but the moment it’s in my hand I freeze. Impossible.
“Guy…” I hear my own voice trailing off, echoing into oblivion.
He turns around, his charming grin quickly morphing to a panicked grimace. 
I hear myself speak again, but don't feel my lips moving.
“Guy... What is this?”
But I know what it is. It’s an iPhone.
___________________________________________ He begins to regain his composure. "Oh, that?! I don't know... I found it on the sidewalk earlier-- off Broadway. Someone must have dropped it; I guess I forgot it was in my coat.  Never seen anything like it. You either, huh?" My bewildered expression must be working for me. Of course, it also must match the level of bewilderment that a girl actually from this time would have possessed upon seeing an iPhone. How convenient. "No...I, I haven't." Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe he did just find it. Maybe it fell out of some other time traveler's pocket-- someone careless enough to go back in time with their goddamn smart phone. Maybe. ...Maybe? He eagerly reaches out to snatch the device. Maybe not. I pull my hand away, just out of his reach and inspect the phone as though it's something new and foreign. Somehow it feels that way. It's protected by a leather case the color of roasted coffee, with a magnetic flap that finds its place comfortably over the glassy screen. Unless you saw it up close, you might assume it was simply a nice wallet. Clever. I turn it over and notice the letters A.G.W. embossed on the back side of its case. Considering Weston is my new last name-- the one I acquired three months ago when I married Guy-- this is looking less and less like a coincidence. "Elizabeth" His voice is stern, but softens when I look up at him, "Can I have that ...thing... back now? We're gonna miss the show." I look back down at the phone. This isn't the place. Or the time. Plus, he was right earlier, Louis won't wait. We make our way from the back of the concert hall, through the crowd, and over to coat-check. He thinks I don't notice, but I see Guy furtively slip the phone into the deep, front right pocket of his slacks before handing our coats over to a girl with short, brown curls . He turns back around without making eye contact and grabs my hand, and we weave our way through the throng of people all the way up to the stage. There he is: Louis Armstrong, as I live and breathe. He was also living and breathing, something that I, for most of my life, wouldn't have expected to see. Hearing him play and thinking back on all the times I had listened to "Closer" by the Chainsmokers, I'm suddenly embarrassed for myself. Here is this brilliant musician, eons ahead of his time, a product of it, and absolutely perfect for it all at once; this man would change the face of jazz forever. And I spent my time in the future listening to frat boys sing about tattoos and stolen mattresses over and over again. Louis once said "If you have to ask what Jazz is, you'll never know." That, ladies and gentlemen, is the epitome of cool. The Chainsmokers list the combined length of their penises on their website. I'm not making that up.
The reverence and wonder of seeing a living legend perform should have lasted a little longer than it did, especially considering it was a living legend who had died nearly twenty years before I was born. But I was preoccupied and the show was mostly a blur. I had too many questions.  Leaving the venue, Guy hails us a cab. I wish I could say that I was still buzzing over the once-in-a-past-lifetime experience I was privileged enough to have just received, but my thoughts were wandering back to the iPhone and the infinite number of things I could have-- should have-- done. I should have asked more questions. I should have taken it out of that leather case. I should have turned it on. How would he explain that? ... How would I? "So, what'd you think of the show?" He breaks the silence and my train of thought.
"It was amazing." I flatly reply. Not exactly convincing.
He lets out a muted grunt of agreement and shifts awkwardly in the seat of the cab. This might be the first uncomfortable moment of our marriage. Hell, of our entire relationship. Not that it's been very long... I met him about nine months ago, right after I made the plunge into this decade. We dated for six months before eloping in Maine; it was a whirlwind romance, as they say. But it just felt right. It felt right from the very first moment. And I knew this was home. We both did. Because we knew each other. Well... I thought we did. 
"Penny?" He turns to me with a halfhearted smile. I couldn't really tell if it was a statement or a question. Penny is short for penny for your thoughts, but it also doubles as I love you.  I caught him drifting in and out a daydream one morning over breakfast and coyly asked him for a penny for his thoughts; he blurted out that he loved me. That was the first time he said it.  It was ours from then on; something we'd say to each other time and again-- too obvious to be our own little code, but at the same time being hole-and-corner enough to feel like it was.
"Still thinking about Louis." He knows it's a lie. "His cheeks must get really tired; have you ever played a trumpet? Because I have. It's not easy." I shake my head. My mouth is moving faster than my thoughts can keep up, and I'm starting to just sound silly. He gives me a good effort at a genuine smile, but it wouldn't have won him any Academy Awards. Luckily, the cab is just pulling up to our building, allowing me to escape the tension but, unfortunately, not my thoughts. We get inside, hang our coats, and head to the kitchen for our night cap: a glass of warm milk. It's a nightly routine. Guy puts his hands on my shoulders, pulling me in close and kissing me on the forehead. I furrow my brow. "Can I see the ph-- uhm, the thing? That thing that fell out of your pocket earlier..." I'm going for it. "Oh, yeah! Of course! Maybe you'll be better than I am at determining what it is." That was easier than I thought. Maybe he really did find it on the street. Guy walks back out of the room and I hear him call me name. Walking into the foyer, I find him frantically searching through his coat pockets... Of course. Brilliant. "It's not here!" I catch a sigh before it escapes my lips, and channel my exasperation into faux concern. "The girl in coach-check must have taken it. People these days, huh? Rummaging through pockets that aren't theirs. The nerve." He glances out the corner of his eyes to catch my expression. I've got a pretty solid poker face, but couldn't hide my disappointment-- disappointment in him that he misinterpreted as disappointment in the situation (and the coat-check girl). He let out a long sigh. "Ah, well... Who cares?" He looks relieved and gives me a crooked smile while re-hanging his coat. "It's probably just junk anyway." I look down, my eyes locked on the unmistakeable rectangular shape of a phone protruding from the pocket of his slacks. I have to get my hands on that phone again.
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