You left him for two minutes. All of two minutes.
On the rare days off that you and Shoto get to spend together, it’s almost always spent curled together on the couch or in the bed, watching him work out for fun before making him cheat on his diet, anything that lets the day drip by slower than any other day of the week.
You left him to pee. That’s it. Placing the bowl of sour candy down, you slip out from his lap, give him a kiss before moving down the hall like any standard, subconscious person would.
Two. Minutes.
“Shoto, what’re you doing?”
“You like the strawberry flavor the best.”
By the time you come out, he’s got a pile of pink candy, separated by the other colors except for purple, which is in its own little pile. “You don’t like the grape flavor.”
You quirk a brow and walk back over to him, watching as he continues to segregate the candies, “baby, I would’ve been more than happy to just pick around them, you didn’t have to do all of this.”
“But you don’t like them,” he repeats, looking up at you with those doe eyes that you love to get lost in. “You look down every time you reach for one. I thought I might help ease the burden slightly.”
Burden. Your first world problem of not liking sour grape skittles should be the farthest thing from a burden to him.
But to shoto, it’s not one, and it’ll never be one; little acts of services like these aren’t new, small details just to make hour by hour tasks and privilegies just that much easier.
It’s something he’s always done. Something he’s always going to do. Because he loves you.
With a smile, you slink back into his lap, your head nuzzling against his stomach while the tv drones on about whatever he put on while you were gone. You kiss the warmth of his tummy to feel the muscles constrict under the affection, and you bury your hand into the bowl of candy right after.
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum. A hand rests on your head, thumb gently rubbing over the warmth of your crown as silence fills the room once again.
Popping a skittle into your mouth, your face quickly grimaces, and he hums in acknowledgement.“Eugh,” you grumble, and he looks down at you, silently asking you what happened.
And you want to lie. Truly! It’s better for everyone if you do, just tell him you bit your tongue and let him think nothing more.
But apparently, you don’t.
“Missed a grape one,” you tease.
“….”
“Sho?”
“Spit it into my hand.”
“Sho, no-“
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oooooo white people in my replies really saying ‘I can excuse racism but I draw the line at homophobia’
Not surprised since this is the site that only talks about racism and thinks it’s a big deal when they see it demonstrated in the cartoons and comics they like *coughs* dungeonmeshi *coughs* (for example at least. I haven’t seen THIS many white ppl talk as in depth about racism on here as much as these fandom nerds, man. I stg. Like “Ohhhh, so you all DO acknowledge that racism is real? Just not in real life even if you could feel it slapping you in the face at high speed. Gotcha.” It’s crazy.
Tumblr is like, 90% white and is extremely centered around them. That’s why you barely see stuff that’s important to black and brown people ever trending here or being talked about. It has to be something incredibly huge to the point where even white people can’t ignore it like they usually do, to talk about it here.
They only talked about George Floyd here because the topic of his death became world news. Even people in other countries were talking about it. Before him, it was probably Ferguson and Trayvon Martin… most of them are still trying their best to ignore the genocides because it’s a “touchy subject.” What do you expect from white people who live in their own bubbles of comfort and refuse to pop it with a needle??? They find comfort in their privilege and faux ignorance (they love playing stupid to avoid conversations about important things outside of fandoms like, are these mfs born with half a brain dedicated to fandom or what.) That’s literally all these mfs make a big deal out of, especially on this annoying ass platform. The ao3 mfs will go to war for the site that allows racist ff and cp like it’s no big deal. I wonder how many people here even donated to the site while actively scrolling past dono posts from folks who really do need help. They act like they’re doing a civil service by defending this site that makes over the amount of it’s intended dono goal in minutes.
Then you already know as soon as you even bring up racism in the stuff they like, they start ganging up and harassing black bloggers especially, calling them TERFs and the whole nine. Anything to make that person look bad for being concerned about the racism that they have such an intense aversion to. God, it’s absolutely exhausting knowing that these people would have no problem choosing a cartoon character over your entire existence if they COULD. Isn’t that fucking sad, man?
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One of my earlier jobs in life was at a little pizza place. I worked there when it was first starting up. It’s the only job I’ve ever been fired from and it was because a new manager came in and cleaned house. Because my state requires a reason to be fired he said I used too much pepperoni. So now on job applications I get to write that I was fired for “excessive use of pepperoni.” Never fails to get a laugh.
Anyway! For this story to make sense I’ve first got to set the stage. This pizza place started out as the Wild West of management but one of the original investors was super committed to work programs through the prison. We hired a ton of ex convicts and they were all, to a one, super hyped on Christianity. Like born again for the sole purpose of lauding Christ with their every breath.
I hadn’t been working there long but I’d definitely noticed the Jesus bug had gone around, and as I’ve never been religious at all I tried to steer clear of the topic for my own safety.
The day our story takes place, I was folding boxes. Anyone whose ever worked pizza can attest, there’s so much box folding. It’s something that happens at every lull, the pizza machine demands box folding on a grand and epic scale.
On my right folding his stack of boxes was a guy wider than he was tall, made of pure muscle, Corey. He was newer on staff, and due to a stutter he didn’t talk much. All I knew about him was that he got hired through the rehabilitation program and had done time.
On my left folding was a tall middle-aged woman who loved to yell at me, Cindy. She and I rubbed each other the wrong way and had nothing in common, leading to a tense working relationship.
We folded boxes in silence. This was really my best case scenario as a quiet Cindy was a Cindy not riding my ass, and Corey intimidated me.
But the weight of the silence grew too much for Cindy, who finally said, “I really want to go to bible school.”
I folded a box. I had less than no idea what bible school even was and I didn’t want to get sucked into a religious topic.
On my right Corey said, “W-why, Cindy?”
“Well, cause I believe what’s in the Bible, but I just don’t know it all.”
He nodded sagely to this.
Cindy continued, “And every time I sit down to read the Bible I get real sleepy. And I know it’s the devil.”
It’s so hard to convey her tone in written format. It was delivered with the emphasis and exasperation of an inevitable inconvenience. Like, I just know it’s the squirrels eating the bird seed.
I froze in place at this pronouncement. My only exposure to Lucifer was Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comics and I was trying to mentally twist into a frame of mind where The Morningstar cared enough about this one middle aged lady expanding her knowledge of the Bible that he followed her around cursing her with sleepiness when she picked it up.
I think I expected Corey to say, “Well that’s silly,” or something to acknowledge what a bizarre thing Cindy had just said.
Instead he said, “Yeah!” In a tone of complete agreement.
I didn’t look up. I tried to keep my face neutral at this development.
But something must have shown. Corey said, “You don’t believe in God?”
I shrugged casually and said, “If I did I wouldn’t talk about it at work.”
“C-cause it’s t-true. If y-you t-ry to r-read the B-bible on unsanctif-fied gr-round the d-devil m-makes you s-sleepy!”
I made a noncommittal sound and fled into the back room.
Over the next week it drove me crazy though. The logic of it wouldn’t leave me alone so finally one day when it was just Corey and I in front, and the restaurant was empty, I said, “Hey man, I have a question.”
He shrugged and listened.
“I really don’t mean this with any disrespect, I just genuinely want to know about the logistics-“
“J-ust ask.”
“Okay, so if Cindy gets tired when she reads any book, is it only the devil making her tired when it’s the Bible?”
His face went purple with fury and he yelled, “F-fuck you!” at my retreating back as I fled once more into the back room.
It will forever remain a mystery.
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