#it is time to begin giving a fuck about my diet so my iron is Ready for that day 😤😤😤😤

[poptartmochi]

going to donate plasma for the first time ever on new year's eve.. wish me luck lol!

[liquidorcard]

Lily can't keep her own "Sympathetic" Villains rules Straight: Anthony Gramuglia edition

See Crim's edition for the rules and outlines. Here we go.

Lily's Response to Ant:

Lily's probably going to get a significantly worse score on this one because me and Ant I think have similar media diets. We begin:

1. In the book, 100% he is THE villain. The movie not as much. Still though, I think movie Hammond more than fit's Lily's criteria. -1 life found a way

2. We already went over this (yes I am still writing p.3 of my Magneto post.) -1 Anthro cow delivering your children

3. Kyubey's keeping the universe from ending Lily. How could you get closer to having a point than that? -1 timeline

4. See Crim's post. He does fail #2. Again though, by Lily's original parameters this was a valid entry. But I have to give her the point. +1 spider gets it's legs ripped off

5. I bet she thought this was clever. -1 gate keeper.

6.N/A

7. I don't even know what she's talking about here. -1

8. Del Toro sends his regards. -1 Nerdy fish man.

9. LILY HASN'T SEEN THE BROADWAY SMASH HIT PLANET OF THE APES THE MUSICAL, STARRING TROY MCCLURE!? For shame! -1 (has anyone else watched that movie recently? I'm not saying it's aged poorly, but like, it is profoundly unintentionally hilarious, watching it in the modern day. I know this was like, the whole thing back then-- leading men who were too cool for school, but Taylor is such a fucking asshole. Cornelius is the real hero of the film, and everyone bullies him for not matching their lunatic energy. #justiceforCornelius #GeorgeTaylorisoverparty)

10. N/A (Trekkies don't try me.)

11. N/a

12. N/A (I mean I feel like I've probably seen the whole Mummy franchise just through memes at this point but. Lily's reasoning here is fucking asinine though-- as per usually Ant us uniquely getting her goat.)

13. This is actually the first example that breaks rule #3. Sorry fam I love Elfen Lied too, but it's a bit of a hot mess. +1 dead puppy

14. Scar is a dead ringer to Lily's criteria. She straight up just didn't have a pot to piss in, so she just wrote "no." -1 Dwarf in a flask

15. For the record, my boomer mom has seen Ghost in the Shell. The movie anyway. -1 body on loan

16. I watched this as a kid but can't really remember anything about it, so, I gotta put it as N/A.

17. This might actually be the first time I've seen anyone else memtion this movie . . . But still. -1 burnt wheelchair

18. Not plus ultra. -1 for all

19. Oh fuck off Lily. Glass houses. -1 jutsu

20. Sai, Crim and Ant spoke pretty extensively about this one. -1 angry hair raise

21. This one too. -1 demon pig

22. Yes she is. -1 dad

23. See Crim's list. -1 Prisoner 24601

24. N/A

25. Read ANY book, Lily. -1 absent godly parent.

26. I've only read the first one. N/A

27. Lily's reason here is bullshit but I haven't seen Columbo either. N/A

28. Why not Lily? -1 Jimbo

29. YES SHE FUCKING IS LILY. Just because in a modern context her story is a lot more tragic doesn't mean she isn't intended to be a villain. Lily made up the rule "has a point," but if they have an iron clad one she just declares them not a villain. -1 head

30. OBJECTION! NOW YOU REMEMBER VILLAIN AND ANTAGONIST ARENT TRUE SYNONYMS FOR EACH OTHER!? -1 Lily if you could just ONCE try to engage with a media discussion honestly.

31. N/A. I'll get around to watching it.

32. Not in Dracula Untold. -1 Damn Luke Evans looks like he was cloned from Orlando Bloom. I can't tell those two apart.

33. DIFFERENT DRACULAS. HOLY SHIT. -1 Lily this rational is so piss poor it's embarrassing. Even for you.

34. N/A

35. Isn't he in Kingdom Hearts? -1 Ah Ha Ha Ha

36. Another non-surprise. -1 traveler on his way home.

37. I haven't played enough Kurby to know why Meta Knight is a sympathetic villain. N/A

38. I've played enough to know Lily's right on this one. +1 Deddeddeedeeededededeeedede

39. A) several characters on both Crim and Ants' lists have been protagonists. B) IT'S FUCKING COMMON POPCULTURE KNOWLEDGE DONKEY KONG WAS THE ANTAGONIST IN THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF BOTH MARIO AND DK. -1 Lily I'm fucking shocked you don't know this. Genuinely. That's saying something, considering it's you.

40. Solid Lily continues to be the worst one. -1 LIQUIDDDDDDDD

41. Yes she is. Her point is the magic is what keeps her fucking family safe. -1 gift

42. You'd probably like this movie actually, Lily. Not the book, but. Or maybe not, there's no incest lesbians I guess. -1 sexy tree

43. I'm going to give Lily the point to maintain consistency that mind-manipulation doesn't count as "a point." Before he put on the crown he's not really even an antagonist, so. He IS an example of a sympathetic villain, however. +1

44. THERE ARE OTHER ANIMALS ON THIS LIST. Another one who's spot on, so she can't figure out how to even pretend to argue against it. -1 Beauty who killed the beast

45. GODZILLA ISN'T LITERALLY A NUKE. -1 pop culture jokes don't substitute proper media analysis

46. The Kaiju Lily. Her name is the title of the film. It's not Ant's fault You're too lazy to Google shit. -1 Viking Relic

(Biollante would have been my personal pick for sympathetic Kaiju. And her dad. She would have broken Lily's first rule since she's probably not aware of exactly what's happened to her, but. Her father at least fits Lily's criteria. A lot of the Kaiju are sympathetic though.)

47. This is a perfect example as to why Lily's rules are ridiculous. John Kramer is, in my opinion, outrageously unjustified in what he does. He follows her rules though. Having a bad point is still having a point. How "well written" he is wildly different depending on the movie, but because he's at least well written sometimes I'm counting him. -1 foot

48. You haven't read Paradise Lost Lily. I know you haven't. -1 Satan crying for everything he's lost

49. God Lily I wish you'd actually read something for once because this is an even better example as to why your rules are a joke. -1 Facist Worm King

50. This is a specific example. -1 tears, it's a waist of good suffering.

LILY'S FINAL SCORE: 19/50

38% - F

Got wrong: 24

Got right: 2

Removing the ones I haven't seen:

19/39

48% - F

Removing the ones Lily hasn't seen:

15/37

40% - F

Removing the ones we both haven't seen:

2/26

7% - F

[marvel-ousnesss]

There for you (Valerio Montesinos x reader)

@nervousbailiffpicklecookie's request: 15, 16, 17 w/ Valerio from elite. from this promptlist. 

Warning: abusive parent, alcohol, angst

A/N: Thanks so much for reading. Love you all so, so much 

Wordcount: 3140

masterlist

You stirred the last sip of your drink in circles, blinking a few times before looking at it with a newfound interest. You were normally a gleeful drunk but at the moment you could only think of what awaited at home. All you wanted to do was enjoying the night but things had been going south ever since you had arrived. 

Samuel had shown up at the club, making Guzman more bitter than usual; hence, Lu was practically joint by his hip. Carla, her head had been spinning around Christian for a few months now and, even if you repetitively tried to drag her away from him and to the dance floor, she gravitated toward him every time. And Ander, well, you hadn’t seen him for like an hour… which left you out of options. 

“What the hell”, you mumbled while you emptied your drink and gracelessly made your way to Nadia and the new girl. They weren’t your usual crowd but you had worked with Nadia for a few projects and she had always been nice to you, so you went for it. 

"Nadia, hey! I can’t believe you're here, you look great." You plastered a smile on your face, determined to give having a good time one last try. You waved a barman and, with a gesture of your hand, ordered shots for the three of you. 

"Thanks, Y/N, you too". She smiled back at you. "Oh, this is Rebeka."

"Hey, nice to meet you."

She gave you a nod. "Won’t Guzmán kick you out of his little clique if he sees you with us?"

"I’ll take my chances", you shrugged. "But he's all bark, no bite."

At that moment, your drinks arrived. 

Rebeka took hold of one of the glasses and so did you. 

She raised one. "In that case, listen up.” She looked between the two of you, prompting you to pay attention. "I'd screw that guy after, maybe, four beers. That one, after two" your eyes followed her finger around the room. "And that one, she laughed, oh my god I would do him after a non-alcoholic beer, she pointed at a last one. Shit, I’d fuck him after drinking diet coke, what bout you." 

You scanned the club and, with a frown, pretended to consider all the different choices. After a few seconds, you drank your shot and smiled at them. 

"Okay, ladies, keep up." Your index finger jumped around the room while you chanted,  "Three, five, three, four, and," you paused, then pointed at a guy in the middle of the room. "Maybe seven," you giggled. "All of those being counted in tequila shots." 

Nadia rolled her eyes with a smile and Rebeka laughed. "What about you?" she asked Nadia. 

"Oh no, I don't drink so I wouldn't really know how to play."

"Your loss," you teased in a sing-song voice. 

"Yeah, you're really missing out," Rebeka lifted her glass.

Nadia's eyes drifted between the two of you and she gave in and took hold of Rebeka's drink. However, Valerio bumped into her when she was about to take a sip as he and Guzmán reentered the club animatedly chatting. 

"Sorry." He turned towards Nadia with a look of concern. "I'm so sorry about that."

She brushed him off and just laughed, "Now that's definitely a sign from above."

Rebeka snorted, "Well if you ask me, he doesn't really look like an envoy from heaven."

"I can be anything you want," his voice was smoky as he stalked behind her.  "A demon, an angel just-" he lifted his gaze and caught yours- "say the word."

He stepped past her and closer to you, then took a small leap and sat on the stool next to you. 

"That's a lie," you scoffed. "You're anything but an angel."

"True," his hand traveled to your waist. “But that has never bored you.”

Nadia gave you and Rebeka an awkward smile, "see you guys in a bit."

At least she knew how to read the mood. Rebeka, on the other hand, showed no intention of leaving. Just your luck, Lu appeared behind her with the plastic smile she had perfected over the years. 

"Hi, good evening, I believe we haven't been properly introduced." she beamed, "I'm Valerio's sister."

Rebeka forced a smile. 

"Half-sister," Valerio taunted, his hand stroking your side softly. 

You leaned into his touch, your body began to remind you how much you had missed him. 

"Anyway," Lu rolled her eyes, pretending not to notice. " Mind if I steal you off for a second? Later guys", she winked, leaving with Rebeka. 

Valerio mouthed a 'thank you' and hopped off the stool, bringing you closer to him. "You avoided me the whole day," he stated. "Why?"

You gulped, trying to find a proper answer. 

"My dad's in Valencia, and, well, my mom's been kind of in a mood lately,” you admitted. "But let's not talk about it now,” Your voice was velvety as you leaned toward him slowly.

Before he could argue, you pulled his golden chain for your lips to meet his in a tender kiss and your hands traveled around his neck. However, he saw right through you. Instead of urging to go deeper, like he usually would, he moved away from you and, when your gaze fell, used one of his hands to lift your chin. 

"I know it's technically not mine, but if you wanna crash at my place, just say the word." 

"Thanks," you smiled and took a deep breath. "But let’s not think about that now, we have some catching up to do.” 

Valerio knew exactly what you meant and, to say the least, was happy to oblige. He guided you to the dance floor, this time stepping behind you. Again, his hands found their way to your waist and began toying with the hem of your shirt, later moving to the sides of the waistline of your pants. Your arm snaked around his collar and tucked on his raven curls, prompting him to bury his face in the delicate spot where your shoulder met your neck. 

You had missed this deeply, even sometimes it troubled you to think of him. Most people didn’t get to see past the drug loving party boy facade, but he had been there for you in your darkest moments and had proven himself one of the most caring and loyal people anyone could ask for. 

That was exactly why you were afraid of losing him. It was one thing to have fun among friends, pretty much what you were doing right now; and a complete other to let any feelings into the mix. Feelings that, you knew, had been haunting you for a long time now. 

Although now was not the moment to think of that, so you let yourself enjoy the rest of the party. Having Valerio by your side gave you a significant boost of endorphins; you laughed, danced, and drank your ass off, momentarily forgetting what expected you once you arrived home. 

Huge mistake. 

A headache woke you up next morning, according to your phone, you still had half an hour before your alarm went off. But there was no use on trying to fall back asleep, your throat was too dry and, for some reason, your room had been invaded by some awfully fruity and cloying smell.

 With a groan, you stumbled to the kitchen and dove into the refrigerator. After grabbing a glass of cold water, you closed the door, coming face to face with your mother. 

She was in gym clothes, ready to head out for a run, so you prayed for your encounter to be as short-lived as possible. You weren’t in the mood to deal with her right now, and you had to get ready for school if you wanted to head to Ander’s before class. 

“Morning,” you greeted. 

“Glad you’re awake honey, I wanted to talk to you before you left.” 

She asked you to sit with her on the couch for a moment, giving you what she thought was a kind smile. 

You forced out a matching one, “what’s up, is everything okay, mom? 

She sighed. “Y/N, dear, you know I love you. But you can’t let loose like you did last night.” She grabbed one of your hands and you involuntary stiffened. “Our family has a carefully built name, and we all have to do our part to take care of it.” 

There was no point in arguing with her. “It was a mistake, mom, I’m sorry I went a bit over the top.” 

“A bit over the top?” She scoffed, “you arrived home at four in the morning, stumbling through the door. God knows where you even drank that much.”  

“I just went out with a few friends from school. Ander was there, and so was Nadia. Remember her?” 

 She let go of your hand and pinched her temples, exasperated. “It’s not about them. You are our daughter and need to begin acting like such.” 

“I'm sorry, it won't happen again.” 

"you better make sure of it," she foretold. 

Grateful it was over, you let yourself relax. Your hands tangled themselves in your hair and you put it into a messy bun. 

“Honey, I’m only gonna ask this once,” this time, she took hold of both of your hands and turned around to completely face you. “Where did you get those bruises?”

She sounded disgusted and defeated, but tried to evoke interest and concern. You looked at her, perplexed, and checked your hands and arms. "What bruises?" 

her cynical laugh made you gulp. 

Without warning, your mother's hand landed on your cheek, leaving a burning sensation behind. “I told you, I'm not gonna ask again.” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, not knowing what was she talking about.

Grumbling something under her breath, she grabbed your arm and stood up, guiding you to the guest restroom. Once there, she pushed you toward the mirror. "These bruises, you little slag."

You mentally cursed, flashbacks of the party coming back to you at speed of light. Then you faced her once again, her arms were crossed over her chest as she looked at you with disgust. 

You released a breath, thinking of a plausible excuse. “I burnt myself with my flat iron.” Your tone showed no emotion, but your nose wrinkled, giving you away. 

“Like hell you did.” She breathed deeply, then looked at you in a much sympathetic way. "Please, don't lie to me."

“I’m not,” you insisted, "I burnt myself getting ready".

“Oh dear, why do you do this to us?” She sighed, pacing back to the living room. “Your father and I are just trying to do what's best for you, honey.” She sat back down burying her head in her hands. 

A lake of tears spouted in your eyes. "Do you even think of what's best for me, mom?

Sometimes I feel like you just see me as a vessel for all the label 'Y/L/N' is to you."

As soon as the words left your lips, you realized the mistake you had made. Again, your mother's eyes shot daggers at you. 

“You ungrateful brat, after all that your father and I have done, after what we've sacrificed to give you the life you have.” She stood up. “Of course, we see you as a Y/L/N 'cause that's you are. Without us, you're worthless.” 

As she advanced toward you, you stepped back.

"Please, don't hit me," your blurted, eyes invaded by fear. 

She closed her eyes and huffed, running a hand through her hair. "Just, go get dressed, you're gonna be late."

You quietly got ready for school and exited the house without saying goodbye. As you rode your bike to Ander’s house, which was a few blocks away, you found yourself stopping a minute to call your father, but didn’t say anything aside from the usual, awfully brief ‘good morning’ that was routine. 

You opened your front camera and relaxed a bit when you saw the slap hadn’t left any visible marks - yet. What you were going through was still a bit new to you, your mother had hit you for the first time a month after your uncle’s death, two years ago. No one at school knew about it, aside from Ander, and you intended to keep it that way.

You put your phone away and continued pedaling through the familiar streets. Once you arrived at your friend's house, you left your bike on the sidewalk and knocked on the front door. Azucena was the one to answer, making you unconsciously guide your hand to the spot on your arm where your mother's had been. 

She greeted you with a sense of warmth that put you at ease and invited you in while Ander finished getting ready. You almost spit your coffee when she nonchalantly asked about the red spots on your cheek but assured it was just an allergic reaction to a new powder. 

“Took you long enough,” you sneered. 

He rolled his eyes but greeted you with a hug. After kissing Azucena goodbye, the two of you left his house. You arrived at school with a few minutes to spare, even after the small detour to Nadia and Omar's shop. You fixed the folds of your skirt and stepped inside, parting ways with Ander and heading to your locker so you could fetch some books for the day. Staring at yourself through the small mirror hung on the small door, you sighed and used a small green stick concealer to get rid of the redness.

As if on cue, Valerio's frame appeared behind your shoulder as soon as you were done. You smiled at him through the mirror and closed your locker, turning around to face him. 

"Just who I wanted to see," he hummed, stretching a hand out for you. 

Once you took it he twirled you around, bringing you closer and landing his arm on your shoulder. Looking up at him, you quirked a brow

"Anything, in particular, that's got you this happy?"

"Nope."  He popped the 'p' sound. ''Guess it's your doing."

You dismissed him with a hum and a quick peck, then began walking to class. The rest of the day went by uneventful, until the classes ended. You headed straight to the locker room, changed into a tank top and a pair of gym shorts, and made your way to the school gym. That was one of the safest places you could think of, as none of your friends used it. 

Popping your earbuds in, you jumped on the treadmill and began warming up. The sweat ran down your forehead as you ran, panting and mouthing the lyrics to the song playing. Right after slowing the pace so you could cool off, you saw someone entering out the corner of your eye but gave it no mind. To get your attention, Valerio stepped onto the treadmill next to yours and began jogging. 

You took an earbud off.

"Hello, Jell-O,"

"Hey V," you snorted, patting your face dry. Once done, you placed the towel on your shoulder, covering the plum subtle marks that had began to appear on your arm.

"Wanna bother my sister? Guzman and I are headed to Cayetana's and-."

Your brows frowned as you took a sip of water. "Not really, no."

Any trace of excitement left his face as he turned the treadmill off and stepped behind yours, waiting for you to finish. "Come on, Y/N/N,"he whined. "Just gonna be like- two hours, and I'll personally escort you to the mass."

"I can't." You stepped down, facing him. "Besides, I have to shower and stuff. It's better if I head home."

"Why don't you shower here?" He strode next to you as you exited the gym. "That way, we can make a pits stop at your place and the three of us head over to Cayetana's."

"Sorry V, I can't, I-" 

You let your words die when you caught him staring at your face. The blush you got after running was already beginning to wear off, and the concealer you'd been wearing had worn off with all the sweat. Valerio's fingers caressed the crimson bruise that had appeared on your right cheek. 

"How long have you been hiding this?" His voice was barely above a whisper. 

"It's nothing, really," you tried to disregard the topic, "just an allergy I got from this new powder I'm using."

"Please don't lie to me."

Those words sent a chill down your spine, your eyes tried to widen but you forced yourself to kept a straight face, although it didn't last. Defeated, you looked at him with glassy eyes. You couldn't bring yourself to lie to him anymore, not when he was looking at you with concern and shock radiating from every feature of his face. 

"Two years," you disclosed, swallowing hard. 

It hurt him to know that you hadn't confided in him when you were at your worst, you could see it. But he knew that, now that he knew, he needed to place those feelings aside and be there for you, like he should have been from the beginning. 

"And, you've been dealing with this on your own?"

He moved closer to you and moved to bring you closer, knocking the towel off your shoulder. When he saw the rest of the bruises, he stepped back so he could properly study them. Your head fell to the side in shame. His hand trailed up your arm delicately and traced a feathery touch over the sore skin. When you gathered the courage to look at him, his eyes revealed a glimmer that match your own.  

He couldn't stop the question from rolling off his tongue. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I- I," "I'm sorry." Your throat tightened and, after a sharp intake of breath, you pleaded, "I- please, don't be mad."

Tears began to fall down your cheeks and Valerio's heart broke. As a harrowing whimper abandoned you he wrapped his body around yours and rested his head on top of yours, letting you bury yourself in the comforting scent of his Versace cologne and the warmth of his embrace. 

"Never," he mumbled against your hair. 

You immediately hugged him tighter. Hearing that soothed you, but your crying didn't stop, it had been a long time since you last let yourself go and, right now, this was just what you needed. You focused on the strong heartbeat pounding against your ear and relaxed, allowing yourself some much needed catharsis. 

"I love you," you breathed, tilting your head to look at him.

"I love you too." The smile he gave you took your breath away.

Requests open!

[bi-dazai]

okay while we're on the subject of eating healthy and exercising, I want to vent/talk about weight loss. This is gonna be a rly controversial, very personal and extremely long post but I do want to make a point. I'm not going to discuss every fucking nuance of haes or my EDs. But for clarity, know that my eds are complicated and were mostly osfeds - minor anorexia osfed in high school and bed osfed when I was 18-19. after i realised how fat i was the minor anorexia came back and over the pandemic it became full scale anorexia nervosa.

I'm 5'3. The healthy weight range I should be in is in the high 40s-low 50s. I went up to TWICE that by the time I was just nineteen years old. It wasn't fun being fat. I consumed as much fat acceptance, fat activism content as I could, I pretended I was confident and happy even when I was fat. But I wasn't. Because people don't just get obese accidentally. A little overweight, yes. But obese? No. You get obese from depression, from giving up. You don't want to move so you don't. You're sad all the time, and the body positivity circles say eat comfort food, whatever and as much as it makes you feel better!! Do you know what that is? That's encouragement of BED. Do not say that. Because I did that. I ate sugar and junk food, I was still depressed.

I was reading these posts that were claiming fat people shouldn't be weighed at the doctor, that your weight shouldn't count, that BMI is incorrect and doesn't matter, etc etc. There were posts saying that they got "perfect bloodwork" (what even is that? I knew that was wrong, I've had chronic iron deficiency for a decade!) even though they were fat, so they had to be healthy, right? I got shown pictures of obese ballerinas and obese weightlifters blah blah blah. And I grew and grew, and I got to almost 85kg on the fast track to 100kg before reality smacked me in the face and I realised I was shortening my lifespan by decades.

Here's what it was like being obese!

- joint pain, constantly

- could barely walk anywhere without feeling out of breath

- couldn't find any fashionable, good quality clothes (plus size stores either carry unfashionable clothing, or fashionable but cheap quality clothing. I don't like to waste money on cheap clothes)

- more acne than I'd had in years

- oily skin

- more difficulty feeling "full"

- JOINT FUCKING PAIN

- rashes from skin rubbing against skin!

- even larger chest, making me MORE dysphoric

- back pain!!

- snoring - this is not just embarrassing. This is potentially deadly.

- DYSPHORIA

- KNEES. JOINT PAIN.

- DYSPHORIA

this was just things I felt physically, noticeably! The things that my fat was doing on the inside was even worse. Fat isn't just this layer of packing peanuts that appears on top of you. It coats your organs. It gets everywhere. It makes your entire body run worse.

Fat also makes it much more likely for you to not just GET cancer, but it it also makes it harder to FIGHT cancer. Being obese makes almost every single goddamn sickness on the planet worse because when you have THAT MUCH fat tissue the hormones and shit it secretes fucks EVERYTHING up.

Yes there are obese bodybuilders. Yes there are obese ballerinas. Let's talk about those two.

There are plenty of drs and dieticians who have pointed out the obvious - if an obese person was really, actually eating healthily and exercising every day, they would not stay obese forever. Its not magic, it's thermodynamics. CICO done right works for everyone. If you are eating healthy, appropriate portions for weight loss at your TDEE and exercising it would literally be IMPOSSIBLE for you not to lose weight!! Even more the heavier you are because when you exercise you carry around a lot more weight.

Obese weightlifters are still obese. They are not proof you can be obese and healthy. They are still going to die younger if they do not lose weight.

Let's talk about fat ballerinas. The only ones I've seen are trainee ballerinas, not professional ones. And their performance looks impressive at first, until you look closer. You notice their balance is never quite perfect, their control can be amazing and the best ever but they'll still be off. Why? Because fat moves around with your movement, and it displaces your balance and your line of movement. It's simply not possible to do something like ballet dancing as a fat person without risking major injury as well. En pointe is already stupid dangerous for the skinniest ballerina. Going en pointe at anything above 60kg is going to get progressively suckier the heavier you go. And god help your ankles because falling down will always end in a major injury.

I'm so fucking done with "fat acceptance". I'm tired of "body positivity" being a movement about obese middle-upper class white women and not about scars and disabilities etc like it was focused on in the start. I have no problems with Health at Every Size - every person should feel happy to workout, to eat healthy. I have no problem raising issue with people bullying others for their weight as well. That's wrong. But pretending that it's Healthy at Every Size is a fucking lie, and it's one that could've sentenced me to an early death. Healthy at Every Size said I was condemned to joint pain and oily skin and depression and exhaustion for the rest of my life based on cherrypicked sentences from studies that didn't agree with them. That "95% of diets fail" sentence in particular drives me up the wall. You don't need a diet to lose weight, you need healthy CICO, you need to eat below your TDEE, you need to eat healthy, and you need to exercise. All you have to do at first is go on a 10-20 minute walk, whatever pace you like, a few times a week.

You can BE fit, you CAN lose weight! You are not sentenced to having joint pain and an increased risk for cancer and a less effective COVID vaccine for life. You can change your body in incredibly ways. You have no idea what you are capable of.

There's this myth that weight loss takes keto and shakes and diet pills and crash diets etc. It doesn't. All it is is making sure you eat less than your TDEE, eating HEALTHY calories, and getting your heartrate up by exercising at least 175 minutes a week.

The human body is not meant to be obese. There's no such thing as a set point weight. There's CICO, there's nutrition, there's making sure your muscles dont atrophy. Weight loss and fitness isn't some magic thing that youre just born able to do. I was lazy throughout my entire teens. I thought fitness was something the popular girls did. It's not. It's for everyone. and everyone, especially in places with an obesity epidemic such as the US, UK, and Australia, should make use of it. It's a good thing. Walking is one of the best things you can do for your body, and it's incredibly rewarding in every way. Eating healthy and not eating until you feel like you're going to burst is rewarding in every way. And it's not like you can't ever have junk food again, you just have to limit it to a treat, a once or twice per week thing. And honestly, it makes it much more enjoyable that way.

Now I want to talk a little about my anorexia. My weight loss journey came to anorexia. This is because it was an eating disorder I'd had for a long time. I did not see a trainer or dietician, and I consciously decided to push myself too far. I consciously decide to eat less and exercise more when I am starving. This is not something that just happens because someone is eating at 1200cals. It happens because you have an eating disorder which you are born with. Saying people who eat 1200cals of healthy food a day and exercise right are "anorexic" is so fucking insulting to everyone involved. It's ableist and ignorant. 1200cals is also a pretty generous amount for anorexic ppl to eat. That's close to a binge in ED standards, so that should give you a reference for how offbase saying 1200cals is "anorexic" is.

My anorexia is healthy habits pushed into eating disorder territory. I eat healthy, yes, but I don't eat enough. I exercise, yes, but I often push myself too far when I'm already lacking energy. The advice I give people for health is correct, and I'm never going to go around saying "eat less than 1200cals" as weightloss advice. Eat less, sure, but there's a limit. Calorie counting is a good thing to do, tracking your macros and nutrients is good. But I do it too much.

I know what's healthy, a lot of ppl with restrictive and purgative EDs do. People with EDs can give some awesome health advice, we just can't follow it because we have a mental disorder. Believe it or not people with EDs discussing their EDs are not "pro-ana", pointing out that anorexia and people with anorexia are real and not some boogeyman you use to justify not losing weight and eating healthy is not pro-ana. Anorexia existing is not pro-ana and anorexics being anorexic has nothing to do with fatphobia.

this post is a rambling mess but i rly had to get some stuff clear on how I feel abt this stuff because it's getting concerning how much unhealthy shit, and then straight up ableist shit, that the fat acceptance crowd spews out.

A little exercise won't kill you, eating healthy won't kill you. You are not sentenced to ugly plus size fashion and joint pain and being out of breath for the rest of your life. Leave the Healthy at Every Size death cult and join the Health at Every Size movement. Let the doctor take your weight (it IS medically necessary). acknowledge that you are obese and it is affecting your health. It's scary but it can be the start of a new, healthy beginning. It was for me.

Losing 15kg has been the best thing in my life. Sure, the anorexia is there enjoying it for one reason. But the reason I truly enjoy it is because I've discovered what a healthier body feels like. I've discovered the joys of exercise, I've discovered the joys of eating healthy. I can fit nice clothes now. And I'm still overweight! I'm 66kg, that's 4kg away from the barest minimum acceptable healthy bmi. But I feel so so much better. I look better. I have a jawline! Good skin! Energy! It didn't fix me but it sure made me a hell of a lot better.

Please please try and eat healthy, eat an appropriate amount, go for walks. It's so so good, and if you do it right you WILL lose weight. You'll live past 50. You'll get to explore the world in a way you couldn't when going up stairs had you out of breath. You'll fit into that nice skirt you've been looking at. Your skin will clear up. You'll have energy and your mental health will improve.

It's so so fucking worth it to put effort into your health, like I cannot emphasise this enough. Please do it, I wish I could tell myself this when I was binging on junk because the FA crowd told me it was valid to comfort eat until I hurt.

[bamfdaddio]

X-Men Abridged: 1981 - Bonus: Avengers Annual 10/What If? 27

The X-Men, those Claremontian mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. Want to unravel this tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men! [more here]

(Avengers Annual 10 & What If? 27) - by Chris Claremont and Mary Jo Duffy, Michael Golden and Jerry Bingham

Avengers? You’re not here for Avengers! Let me make the following counterpoint:

Holy eye shadow, Rogue!

See, Avengers Annual 10 is less about the Avengers and more about three other things:

The rehabilitation of Carol Danvers who, after this, has had her fill of the Avengers and becomes an honorary member of the X-Men;

Spider-Woman and the X-Men trying to figure out what has happened to Ms. Marvel;

Mystique trying to spring her Brotherhood from prison, using a secret weapon: Rogue.

Depending on my mood that day, I might name Rogue as my favourite-ever X-Man, so I really could not skip her debut issue. Instantly iconic, all of this:

Her streak;

Her signature green outfit with hoodie;

Her accent.

Queen.

I love how Claremont once again almost effortlessly introduces a strong female character, one that single-handedly takes down three of the strongest Avengers. Also note how free Rogue still is with her powers: fun, flirty, without the tragic can’t-touch-anyone-angle that will define her for the next three decades.

I’m sorry, am I getting ahead of myself?

This story begins as a whodunit: who pushed an amnesiac Carol Danvers off the Golden Gate Bridge and stole her mind? For that matter, where did she came from? Wasn’t she happily married and pregnant in some alternative dimension last time the readers saw her? Spider-Woman rescues her from the choppy water and calls Professor Xavier to help out. He manages to retrieve the Jane Doe’s identity and knows who attacked her: a woman named Rogue.

Rogue, meanwhile, skulks about the Avengers Mansion, first taking out Captain America and then attacking Thor.

Considering what this comic is about, I don’t believe Hawkeye’s throwaway mysognism is accidental here.

Rogue’s powers work as follows: through touch, she can steal other people’s powers and memories. The longer she touches someone, the longer she’ll have them - with the looming threat of the theft becoming permanent.

After absorbing Thor, Rogue is faced with three Avengers who’s powers she can’t absorb - Spider-Woman (covered in a suit); Vision (robot) and Wonder Man (being of pure energy? Idk, I’m not really familiar with him other than his bromance with Beast). Hoping the three powers she has in her arsenal - Ms. Marvel’s, Thor’s and Cap’s - will be enough, Rogue flees.

Mystique, meanwhile, has duped Iron Man by pretending to be the Wasp and has paralysed Tony Stark in his suit with some sort of device. She picks up the powered-up Rogue and their plan becomes clear:

Rogue immediately earns her place in my heart by using billionaire Tony Stark the way the Coyote uses anvils. (Also note the odd way of spelling ‘sugah’.)

I love how both the Brotherhood and the X-Men continually pull focus from the Avengers: for an Avengers-comic, it's surprising how much they're pushed to the background. Again, this makes sense if you know what this issue really is about, but that won’t become clear until the epilogue. I don’t mind, it means we get a ton of great moments, like the Blob calling Mystique ‘Misty’:

My God, this era’s Destiny/Mystique is even more obvious than 90’s Rictor/Shatterstar.

A battle erupts. One funny moment is actually seeing Destiny fight. I’ve never really read comics about this incarnation of the Brotherhood and my collection mostly takes off after Legion Quest, so I mostly know Destiny posthumously. I always figured that, as a villain, she stood somewhere off on the side, delivering cryptic messages. I never realized she was the one to almost shoot Senator Kelly, nor that her powers are this practical.

X-Men drinking game rule 11: Drink anytime someone fatshames the Blob.

The fight is pretty evenly matched until Spider-Woman releases Iron Man from Mystique’s little trap. Soon, the Avengers overwhelm the Brotherhood. While Mystique and Rogue manage to flee, Destiny, Avalanche, Pyro and the Blob are detained again.

With the main antagonists sorted, we return to the actual storyline: the rehabilitation of Ms. Marvel. Professor X has managed to tease her out of her catatonic state and offers her therapy to restore her missing memories and powers. (The ones stolen by Rogue.) The Avengers, not fully understanding why Carol won’t ask them for help, eventually come by for a house call.

Carol asks the X-Men to leave while the Avengers gingerly confront her. It’s very awkward.

“Fuck the Avengers. Taking my beer.” - Wolverine, probably.

See, what all this refers to is the rape of Ms. Marvel. I haven’t read the particular comic in which this happens (Avengers 200), so if you want all the details, I’ll refer you to this article. Before I get into the details, it’s important to note that Claremont was the writer for Carol Danvers in her solo-series, giving her agency and turning Ms. Marvel into a three-dimensional character. The title was then cancelled and Carol was shuffled off to the Avengers. (Rogue was, in fact, planned to make her debut in that the solo-Ms. Marvel series, as one of Ms. Marvel’s new antagonists. Presumably, Rogue would steal her powers there, too. We all know Claremont loves to strip his heroes and heroines of their powers to show they’re even more badass without them.)

As an Avenger, Carol was wooed by some other-dimensional dude/entity named Marcus. He courted her by giving her flowers, worshipping the ground she stepped on and, oh yeah, ‘subtly’ influencing her mind to make her fall in love with him and consequently impregnating her.

Yes.

Now, Claremont is no stranger to putting his characters through their paces and he gleefully makes use of the whole mental manipulation-trope. In fact, telepathically coercing someone to fall in love with you is absolutely what Mastermind did to Jean Grey: he probably violated her just as much as Marcus did Carol. The difference is how it’s treated in the narrative: Mastermind’s actions are never laughed away or apologized for and are the direct cause for his downfall. They help trigger Jean’s transformation to the Dark Phoenix, whose first deed is taking out her fury on ‘Jason Wyngarde’.

That’s… not what happened with Ms. Marvel. There, the narrative condones Marcus’ actions by framing it as ‘her happy ending’ (married and pregnant, yay!), something which is celebrated by the Avengers.

This is where Carol calls them out for their bullshit.

We call this ‘The Reason You Suck’-Speech. It’s a thing of beauty.

The Avengers depart, tail between their legs, and Carol hangs out with the cool X-kids from now on. For now, at least.

So, this issue is not only a landmark because it’s where Rogue debuts, but you can also see Chris Claremont going to bat for one of characters: he (presumably reluctantly) gave back the character of Carol Danvers when her solo was cancelled, proceeded to see how terribly they massacred his girl and then claimed that ownership right back.

Good for you, Claremont.

***

The “What If… the Phoenix Had Not Died”-issue is kind of boring, because it’s basically a rehash of the Phoenix Saga. Why am I paying attention to it? Because of the (mild) gore (and because the Avengers Annual wouldn’t fill a whole post). Anyway, it’s like watching a Final Destination-movie: it’s silly, light on plot and never a particularly thought-provoking movie, but it’s still fun to see all those people inventively but haplessly die.

Plot! Instead of committing suicide on the moon, the Shi’ar strip Jean of her powers after her trial. Jean is trapped in a barren mental state, almost feeling like she's a veggie. But Jean's powers refuse to remain dormant: slowly, her telepathy returns.

When Galactus threatens the Shi’ar homestead, Lilandra summons the X-Men as her champions. Jean embraces her Phoenix-side and defeats Galactus. Everyone is grateful and super-convinced Jean can handle the Phoenix this time! Yay!

And, because that battle with Galactus took a lot out of her, Jean decides she can have a little asteroid. As a treat. She keeps slipping up on her diet, supping on the occasional meteor and lonely planet to keep her power levels up. It turns out to be a slippery slope: finally, she consumes another star (in an uninhabited system! And a small one! How dare you judge her!), but when she returns to the mansion…

The absolute worst moment to forget you have powers, Kitty.

Xavier attempts to bind the Phoenix, but last time, Jean helped him fight from within. This time, there's not much Jean left. Without breaking a sweat, the Phoenix wipes his brain. But she doesn’t stop there. Maybe the Phoenix remembers that, last time, she was undone by the principles of “friendship is magic”. This time, she’s determined to not let it get so far.

It’s absolutely bone-chilling.

And the stars blinked As they watched her carefully Jealous of the way she shone - Atticus

I wonder if there’s a rhyme or reason to the way Jean murders her friends: is it random? Does she go for the ones she loves the most first? Does she save Cyclops for last, knowing killing him might trigger Jean to respond?

The narration mentions that the three remaining X-Men are the most powerful ones: Polaris, Havok and Cyclops. (I would’ve swapped in Storm for Cyclops, but whatever.) They have formulated a quick plan: Polaris pulls focus while Havok and Cyclops shift into position. Phoenix disintegrates Polaris while Havok and Scott try and blast Phoenix to smithereens.

But at the last moment, Scott can’t. Havok’s blast alone is not enough. Phoenix shoots him through the heart and then, finally, kills Cyclops. That’s when Jean resurfaces, realizing what she’s done. She can’t take it - she’s in the mood to dissolve in the sky, as per Virginia Woolf - and she lets the Phoenix take over.

Phoenix finally lives up to her potential: The End of All That Is.

It's a mediocre plot with a lame ramp-up to a terrifying conclusion. In the regular universe, the thing that triggers the Phoenix is the utter violation of Jean’s body and mind; here, it’s being confronted by Kitty. One is the proverbial red cloth in front of the bull, the other is being assaulted by an ineffective wet cloth. The Phoenix Saga is iconic because all the pieces were carefully put in place; this just feels rushed an unearned.

Also, the Watcher is full of shit. You can’t say you don’t pass judgment whilst simultaneously comparing the merits of one tragedy to the other. Shut up, Uatu.

Check back next week for your regularly scheduled X-Men Abridged! It’s time for 1982 and the brood saga!

[samingtonwilson]

Apartment 8C - Chapter 2

Finding Your Independence

SERIES MASTERLIST // PREVIOUS PART

Summary: college au. you and bucky are the closest of friends, the most functional of roommates, and… exes. but just because it didn’t work out romantically doesn’t mean he has to move out! it’s not like he’s so deeply in love that he can barely breathe. totally not in love. at all. not even a little. maybe.

Pairing: bucky x reader

Warnings: language

A/N: the chapter title is ironic because this chapter is about how dependent these two are on each other. 

A scream startles you from accidental sleep. Deep, broken, and utterly terrified. 

It’s half-past six. Your room is bathed in gold. Fading sunlight and emerging city lights leak through the thin drapes over your windows. You set your chin onto an open textbook. 

Your eyes open narrowly. You need to listen carefully. You could have dreamt the scream.

A slow second passes, your eyes nearly shut, and then— 

Another scream. This time of your name. Your eyes snap back open.

You flip the pen you fell asleep holding, gripping it as a weapon while groggily— but with great haste, of course— climbing out of bed. 

Heartbeat in your ears, you sigh and kick away the thick purple blanket your feet are tangled in, throwing your door open to an empty living room. 

The front door is shut, your television hasn’t been ripped from the wall, everything is in its place. Even Bucky’s laptop sits undisturbed on the coffee table next to an almost totally flat bag of Doritos. 

You tilt your head. 

From behind the bathroom door, your name is screamed again. And a whimper punctuates it. 

In all your time of knowing Bucky, you’ve never once heard him so terrified. 

You swallow over the tension tightening your throat and pick up the first semi-threatening object you see: the penis-shaped vase Bucky had “unintentionally” made in ceramics during the semester he’d devoted to discovering his artistic side. 

You toss the pink peonies it houses aside and grip the vase tightly, pen poised in your other hand. You use your elbow to open the door, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted in an attempt to look tough. Objects held above your head, you’re about to strike when— 

When you see Bucky standing on top of the toilet. Towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, chestnut hair dripping, his blue eyes wild. He’s also pale as a ghost, but his fearful expression takes only seconds to shift into one of confusion. 

One which matches yours. “You’re not being murdered?” 

“No!” he shouts back to meet your volume. He points at the glass wall enclosing the shower, finger shaking. “There’s a fucking spider in there!” 

Your teeth grit again. But this time in anger. “You shrieked like someone was beheading you over a spider?” 

Seconds later, you gasp dramatically as you ask, “You woke me up from a nap over a spider?” 

He at least has the decency to be sheepish. “S’a big spider.”

“You’re six-feet tall and have, like, 185 pounds on that spider.” 

“Size doesn’t matter. I raise you the poisonous spiders of Australia.” 

Nodding, you hold out your forearm to help Bucky off the toilet seat. You grunt at the weight of him. 

Maybe 185 is a stingy estimation. 

“Okay, I see your poisonous spiders of Australia and raise you ‘we’re in New fucking York, Bucky.’” 

Standing on the floor now, he winces when you use the back of your hand to slap his bicep. “There are poisonous spiders in New York, too, okay? We’re all afraid of something.” 

Silence as you regard him, a sigh as you concede. “Okay.” You ignore his victorious smile. “I’ll take care of it. Can you just turn the water off, please?” 

“And get close to that thing again?” he demands, outrage clear in his voice. He tries to keep his towel in place with one hand as he gesticulates with the other. “No! You do it.” 

“My clothes will get wet and I’m not in the mood to strip for you right now.” 

He smiles at that. “S’not like I haven’t seen it all before.”

“Yeah? You wanna make ‘we’ve fucked before’ jokes right now? When the fate of you ever using this bathroom again is in my hands?” 

An almost pathetic whimper and he relents with hands held up in surrender. He approaches the shower slowly and, with a scowl, reaches for the knob once, twice, three times before finally gripping it and turning it to the left. 

Once the steady stream of water is reduced to mere drops, Bucky stands back and sends you a glare. “Happy?” 

“Elated.” You set your weapons on the counter and rip off two sheets of paper towel. 

“Kill it quickly.” 

“I’m not gonna kill it.” 

He snorts as he stands leant against the doorframe. “What, are you gonna adopt it as the apartment pet?” 

“No, funny guy. I’m gonna let it go on the balcony.” 

“What if it comes back in?” 

“Then we’ll get the Five Families together and let the Mafia handle it.” 

When you finally spot the thick, quarter-sized spider, you inhale through your nose and step into the shower stall slowly. You brace yourself with one hand wrapped around the edge of the glass wall. Your features are pinched.

Bucky grins at the sight. “You scared, baby?” 

A sarcastic bark of laughter, and you crack one eye open. You almost convince him. “Please.” 

It takes little coaxing for the brown spider to crawl onto the paper towel and you immediately fold each side of it closed. There’s a soft scratch of the spider’s legs against the paper walls, more felt than heard, and you forcefully choke back vomit. 

You bump into Bucky as you race out of the bathroom, his towel very nearly slipping from his fingers, and don’t slow your steps until you’re across the living room and have pushed the balcony doors open. 

Carefully, you unfold one side of the makeshift cocoon and squeal quietly to yourself as the spider stumbles into a flower box attached to the metal rail. It quickly scurries behind a wilting tulip and you make a mental note to water the plants more.

“You were coming to protect me with this?” 

Bucky, now dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants, is holding the penis vase when you turn. He stands at a safe distance, shielded by the door, and has the nerve to wear a shit-eating grin. “You know there’s a baseball bat behind the couch, right?” 

“Now I do.”

“I also gave you pepper spray when you enrolled in that nine PM lecture,” he adds as you walk through the door and right past him. He places the vase back on its shelf and nods his head toward the kitchen. “There are knives right there, too.” 

You pick up the bag of Doritos, confirm that it is indeed empty, and frown. “Disgusting. I’d never stab someone.” 

“Even if they were murdering me like you thought?” He takes the bag from you and balls it up to throw in the trash. He wants to open the refrigerator but knows the groceries he forgot to buy won’t magically appear on the shelves. 

“Knives are such a cliché, everyone uses knives. He’d see it coming.” You grin at Bucky through the explanation from your favorite corner of the couch and he stills behind the kitchen counter. “The key is throwing him off his rhythm. Penis vase serves that purpose.” 

He laughs, albeit a bit oddly, rolling his eyes as he opens the Notes app on his phone. And he draws a blank. “What, uh— What foods do you like?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Do you have any favorite foods?”

He’s met with silence. 

He decides to explain. Sort of. “Like, what do you want to eat most of the time? What is it that you crave? Food-wise,” he adds with a cocked eyebrow. “What is it you know how to make that you enjoy eating? Are you acting out of lunacy again and dieting for no fuckin’ reason?” 

Seconds go by and you have yet to answer. He looks up from his phone and answers the question over your features with, “Just out of curiosity.” 

“Not because you have zero idea what to buy from the store?”

“Can’t a guy wonder what his friend, ex-girlfriend, and roommate is eating these days? Just for fun? To bond?” 

Your eyes narrow into a glare. “Not when that guy is you and it’s your turn to go grocery shopping. I thought I gave you a list a few days ago.” 

“You yell random items at me on your way out the door for class and I’m expected to remember it all?” 

“You yelled your feelings at me constantly and I was expected to remember it all,” you return as you rise from the couch and draw closer to him only to sit in one of the barstools at the counter. You watch as he opens his Notes application again and stare as he struggles to come up with anything. “Green apples, white peaches, red bell peppers, yellow onions. Don’t look at me like that. The colors are important.”

“Yeah, yeah. What are you doing for dinner? Might take me some time to decipher colors at the store.” 

Chin propped up on your palm, you slide his phone over and ignore his expression of protest to add eggs, sourdough bread, avocados, pre-cut mushrooms, celery, hummus, whatever pasta is shaped like a spiral, tortilla chips, oat milk, any flavor of microwave popcorn Wanda won’t finish, and for God’s sake, you fucking wreck, buy your own gum for once to the grocery list.

“S’okay. I’m not really hungry anyway.”

“You’re always hungry.”

You gasp in offense with a small, contradictory smile. “How dare you? That’s not something you say to a lady.”

He smiles sarcastically before rolling his eyes. “If you need me to rush so you can make something, I will.” 

“Too tired to make anything. Also just too untalented to.” 

“Come with me, then. We can stop somewhere on the way back.” He sees you begin to refuse and cuts you off with a quick, “I’ll pay.” 

“If you think you paying for my food is incentive enough for me to put on human pants and walk out that door,” you begin, pointing at the door, “then you’re absolutely correct. Give me a second to put jeans on.” 

You hear Bucky’s chuckle as you walk into your room, tossing away that pair of fleece pants your mother had begged you to burn to ash the last time you’d seen her and replacing them with a pair of jeans your mother had also begged you to burn to ash. “How do you feel about Sam and Nat?” 

“About Sam, negatively. About Tasha, positively.” He’s patting the pockets of his sweats and tossing couch cushions every which way to look under them, hair in disarray, when you hop into the room with only your right boot on. In a mumbled, barely present voice, he adds, “So I guess that balances out to feeling neutral about them together.”

Slipping on and zipping up your left boot, you cock an eyebrow at the elephant throw pillow which is sent smacking against your ankles. “Have you lost something?” 

He doesn’t look up from the sofa as he replies, “Keys. Where the shit are my fucking keys?” 

“D’you check the cabinet closest to the fridge?” 

“Why the fuck—” 

You sigh and begin to set the cushions back where they belong, placing the elephant gingerly at the center of the couch. “Just check.” 

Bucky’s grumbles as he passes by, his scoffs of disbelief, and sighs of annoyance are ignored until you hear his every noise abruptly end as he stares at the cabinet he is now standing before. 

“Find ‘em?” 

There are equal parts shock, fear, and exasperation over his features. He slams the cabinet shut. “You’re a witch, aren’t you? Some kind of freaky, all knowing witch?” 

“Yes. Do you have your wallet?” 

A pat on each of his pockets, then one against his ass— despite not having a pocket there. He bares his teeth for a moment. “You wanna tell me where that is, too?” 

“Can I get three guesses this time?” 

“Two,” he states, leaning against the counter. “Impress me.” 

“First of all, I couldn’t give half a shit about impressing you.” Bucky snorts at that. “It’s either in the freezer—” 

He opens the freezer and the next thing you hear is a loud, “Ha! Whoo! You’re wrong!” 

“I have another guess.” 

He visibly deflates, smug smile wiped clean. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.” 

“Counter of your bathroom, in the pocket of whatever jeans you wore to class.” 

You run a few steps behind his long strides to the bathroom and stand in the doorway as he fishes through the pile of dirty clothes beside the sink. 

He thinks he might hate the smile you’re wearing when he pulls his wallet from the depths of denim, but he can’t bring himself to hate it— he feels quite the opposite about it, actually. It’s worth the inevitable gloating and the crazy accurate interpretation of a celebratory dance you saw a football player you can’t remember the name of do after a touchdown. 

You’re laughing when he brushes past you to walk to the door and grin as you pass him so he can lock it behind you. “What would you do without me, Buck?” 

He honestly doesn’t know. 

— 

Your laughter captures Bucky’s attention. Delighted, excited, and entirely too loud. 

He’s been nursing a red Solo cup of lukewarm supermarket-brand cola for about two hours now. 

It’s disgusting. Watered-down now that the ice has melted, but still too sweet and a little flat. He would’ve liked to cut it with the bitterness of anything alcoholic, but he can’t. 

He’s designated driver tonight, after all. The miserable result of a miserable coin toss. 

He’d suggested thumb wrestling— but you weren’t having it. Something about his thumb being far larger than yours, giving him an unfair advantage. Almost as if you’d known he’d chosen thumb wrestling for that precise reason. 

So he’s spent the night pouting. 

Complaining. 

Glowering at anyone that dares to make conversation with him. 

Because he hates the cheap soda Steve buys. He hates the sticky counters Sam waits hours to wipe down. And he hates hearing underclassmen talk about how hot you are when your ping pong ball skates over the rim of one of Natasha’s cups. 

But he smiles at the sound of your laughter. At the way you grin, all smug and victorious. It lights up otherwise glossy eyes, drunken giggles growing clumsy as Natasha frowns down at a cup matching his. 

“You gotta drink it down, babe!” You lean your hip against the plastic table set up in the kitchen and purse your lips when Natasha fishes the beer-soaked ball from her cup to toss at your shoulder. “Poor sportsmanship is unbecoming on you.” 

Natasha rolls green eyes over the top of the cup, chugging its contents easily. “Just like cockiness is on you.” 

“Let’s not lie to ourselves, Nat.” Natasha is already struggling against a smile. “We all know cockiness is dead sexy on me.” 

Beside Bucky, Sam laughs. He raises his hands in innocence and surrender when Natasha shoots him a glare. “Not pickin’ sides, that was just funny.” 

“You’re not picking your girlfriend’s side automatically?” is Bucky’s question asked in a voice exaggeratedly naïve. He grins lopsidedly as he takes a sip of soda only to retch as it goes down. “That’s brave.”

You watch as Natasha pitches her next shot over the rim of one of four remaining cups. You send Bucky a smile as you retrieve it. “Bucky was always on my side when we were together.”

His devious smile is like a secret between the two of you. He hums in agreement. “Blindly.” 

“Loyally.” You hold the cup at your lips, stomach and cheeks warm from three hours of generous beer and mixed drink helpings. Your next swallow goes down with a shudder.

“I’d root against myself for her.” 

“S’more pathetic than loyal,” Sam snorts only to earn a squeak of indignation and an empty cup to the chest in response. Despite purported offense, he chuckles at your delighted laughter and quickly sobers to point a stern finger. “Makin’ a mess of my kitchen like this. Rogers’ll kill you.”

In challenge, you cock an eyebrow. “He’ll kill you first when he sees all the candy missing from his secret stash.” 

“Barnes ate all that.” 

Bucky’s stomach flips at the way you tilt your head and narrow your eyes, at the soft flutter of your eyelashes, the promise in your voice when you say, “Blind loyalty, Sammy. That isn’t the story I’ll tell Steve.” 

“You aren’t even dating anymore.” 

You wave a dismissive hand. “I’ll always be on Bucky’s side. Plus if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

Pointedly at a glowering Sam, Bucky tears the wrapper of a fun-size Twix bar and takes as big a bite as the small bar will allow. 

There’s caramel in his teeth and smug satisfaction in his eyes as he stuffs the gold foil into the pocket of Sam’s bomber jacket, laughing when the latter slaps his hand away. 

What feels like a lifetime passes and Bucky waits until you’ve completed a second game— this time defeated by a furious and candy-less Steve— to Irish goodbye. 

It’s his signature. 

He hasn’t said a proper goodbye to anyone in years.

Your drunkenness, however, foils his plan. You insist on pressing kisses to the forehead of each of your friends— lingering a bit longer for Sam just to earn a snort from Natasha— and you tap the fishbowl housing a temperamental turquoise Betta fish named Marcel twice as you couldn’t just exclude Marcel and hurt his feelings. You even leave them with an ominous, “I hope we will all meet again.”  

He lets you climb onto his back when you stumble out of his car to your building, tripping over the four-inch block heel of your boots, and soon the elevator stall is filled with your humming. Unintelligible, entirely out of tune. And you swing your legs. Dysrhythmic, offbeat. 

He smiles when you set your chin upon the crown of his head, his hold on you tightening as the metallic doors slide open on the eighth floor. He feels the deep breath you take against his back, his attention drawn away from the short walk down the hall when your feather-like fingertips trace his jaw. 

Nails skimming over the bristly hairs of his stubbly beard to the hidden divot in his chin, you— already flush against him— attempt to push yourself even closer. And huff in disappointment when you’re unable to. 

You feel him come to a stop. “Sweetheart?” 

A short hum, this time in question. 

“I gotta unlock the door.” 

You open your eyes slowly, blink away some of the drowsiness. You think offhandedly that the pale yellow door could use a fresh coat of paint. “I’ll do it.” You hold out a hand and wiggle your fingers. “Keys?” 

“In my left pocket.” He chuckles when your right hand slides down the incorrect side. “Other left.” 

You heave a deep sigh, your other hand slipping into his left pocket to feel around. The jingle of keys is muted by your triumphant shout, fingers sorting through the bundle of steel to find the one semi-coated in bright pink nail polish. You decide that should be repainted first lest the two of you mix up your keys again.

Bucky watches as you attempt to stretch enough to reach the doorknob, jolting each time you urge yourself forward. He grins when you whimper pathetically. “You can ask me to move closer.” 

The arm still wrapped around his neck tightens a bit and you press your cheek to the roughness of his. You strain toward the door once more in stubborn perseverance, then knock your heels against the side of his thighs. He laughs at the growl in his ear.

“Ask me verbally. I’m not a horse.” 

“Got the name of one,” you mumble, crossing your ankles at his waist as he grips you harder. “Longer you stand there refusing to move, the longer you have-ta hold me up.” 

“Been lifting with Steve. I’m content to stand here all night.”

“What, trying to get that post-breakup revenge body?” 

“Gotta do something to fill all my new free time.” 

A hiccup punctuates your giggles and Bucky feels you straighten before leaning back ever so slightly. 

Suddenly, you jerk forward with all of your might, sending Bucky lurching to the door. He has to remove a hand from your legs to steady himself against the wall, breath shallow and heart in his ears when he notices he’s only centimeters from smashing into the wood. “Hey!” 

You, still holding on, shush him as you slip the key into the brass latch, whispering, “Our neighbors are sleeping.”

Once you’re able to throw the door open and Bucky walks inside, you detangle your ankles and leap to the floor as the lights flicker on. You laugh when your knees very nearly buckle, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter under a wave of lightheadedness. Your stomach flips and every trace of humor fades. “Yikes.” 

Bucky, halfway through removing the leather jacket he’d worn over a black hoodie, watches as you lay your torso across the counter. He smiles when you press your cheek to the cool marble, his laughter mingling with the groans that leave your lips. 

Your muffled grumble sounds vaguely like, “Oh, shut up.”

His steps are slow and quiet. He offers you an apologetic smile when you startle at his touch, brushing stray strands of hair from your shut eyes. He wrinkles his nose at your answering scowl, watching as glassy eyes still filled with such potent brightness narrow in an attempt at intimidation. “Need a lift to your bathroom?” 

You shake your head. Propping yourself up onto your forearms, you nod toward your room. “It’ll be too shaky. Maybe just guide me there?” 

His fingers lace through yours and he tugs you upright. He doesn’t mind supporting the weight of you, doesn’t care that he has to dodge the books and shoes you’ve left littered over your bedroom floor. 

Your bathroom light is switched on and you pull away from Bucky to take quick, stuttering steps to the toilet. He winces to himself when you fall to your knees, your trembling hands clamoring to push the seat cover up. 

As you feel that maybe your stomach has turned itself inside out, Bucky gathers your hair in one hand and holds you close to his chest with the other— just in case you need the support. Until then, though, he rubs comforting circles which warm you even through the satin fabric of your shirt. 

“Twix and beer are a horrible combination coming up,” you remark, voice rough, minutes later. You’re seated against him once you’ve thoroughly emptied your system, head falling back onto his shoulder. “That last game of beer pong was a mistake.”

He feels your breath wash over his skin and, despite how perfectly okay he would be with sitting there for hours, turns his head away. “Sweetheart, I want to be here for you but— but I can’t when your breath smells like that.” 

Stunned pause, and you burst into laughter. Tired hands are used as leverage and you stand, boots long ago removed and thrown aside. You send him a smile over your shoulder and roll your eyes but face the sink as he grins dopily back. “You’re weak, Barnes.” 

He meets your playful gaze in the mirror and, at the sight of pooled dried mascara underlining your eyes and the thin layer of sweat spread over the bridge of your nose, he forces himself to take a steadying breath. “You have no idea. Hungry?” 

Loading your toothbrush with translucent paste, you shrug. “Maybe.” 

“Grilled cheese or pancakes?” 

“If I say both, will you judge me?” 

“I just held your hair back while you threw up a keg’s worth of beer and you’re afraid I’ll start to judge you now?” 

You smile as you scrub your teeth in rapid strokes. “There was some vodka in there, too.”

Shoulder leant against the doorframe, his eyes are alight. “My mistake. Anything else you’d like while I’m at it?” 

“Some ibuprofen?” you ask after spitting the foam from your mouth. “I’m all out here.” 

A frown of consideration, and he nods. “Will that be all?” 

“Yes, I believe it will be.” Before he can walk out, you call his name. “What would I do without you?” 

He honestly hopes you’ll never have to find out.

--

CHAPTER 3: GETTING BACK IN THE GAME 

[ehyeh-joshua]

God of Dragons

@greater-than-the-sword - rather than dragging your post further off-topic, I decided to finally get around to writing this up.

If you honestly want to grapple with the Bible, it becomes essential to consider our ancient scaled friend/enemy the dragon. The Scriptures leave no alternative but to declare that man walked with dinosaurs.

The Hebrew word that we translate as “dragon” is Tannin, and like all ancient Hebrew thought, is not a specific species, but a genera – to us, we categorise things by qualities – we use “pencil” and “pen” and “quill” to describe specific classes of objects; to the mindset of Biblical Hebrew, they are all the same; you write with them.

What Tannin refers to is any large, dangerous reptile, whether on land, at sea or in the air, and while it would include them, it doesn't actually mean our modern understanding of dragon, which having being split from it's roots in historical creatures, is now mythical. (although such creatures are mentioned)

In the Septuagint – the Greek translation of the Old Testament that was considered the Old Testament for the Greek-speaking early church – the word Tannin is translated by “Drakkon” which is the root for our word “dragon”.

The word Tannin is used 23 times in Scripture:(note-all the citations are quoted in full at the end, truncated here for brevity)

Singular form:

Nehemiah 2:13; Psalm 91:13; Isaiah 27:1 and 51:9; Jeremiah 51:34; Ezekiel 29:3,  Exodus 7:9, 7:10 and 7:12,  and Genesis 1:21.

Plural form:

Deuteronomy 32:33,  Job 7:12 and Job 30:29, Psalms 44:19, 74:13; and 148:7, Isaiah 13:22 Jeremiah 9:11, 10:22, 14:6, 49:33 and 51:37 and Ezekiel 32:2.

The second word we need to have in mind is Leviatan – this is the creature we think of when we think of dragon. This word is used five times in four verses:  Job 41:1, Psalm 74:14 and 104:26, and twice in Isaiah 27:1. Like Tannin, Leviatan is translated in the Septuagint by “drakkon”.

Leviatan has the longest description, having nearly a whole chapter devoted to describing it at the end of Job – this is the strongest evidence, as this is God Himself describing this creature as an example of His own power.

One of the reasons I like Dragons so much is that God has set them as a testimony to Himself.

Sadly, this is perhaps the most mistranslated word in modern English Bibles; most English Bibles insert jackals into these verses wherever the Scriptures undeniably mean literal creatures, doing so because of the wrong belief that dragons are mythical.

The thing is, Hebrew has a word that actually means jackal; it is the same as that for “fox”, and for good reason, as they are known to be able to interbreed, and are therefore the same baramin. That word is “sha’ul”.

Nehemiah 4:3 for example; 'Tobiah the Ammonite was beside him, and he said, “Yes, what they are building—if a fox goes up on it he will break down their stone wall!”'

He’s trying to say that despite the fact that the fox/jackal is such a small and weak animal, it could crush the walls the Jews were building; he’s insulting them. By contrast, a dragon smashing down a wall is kind of what you would expect to happen, and throughout the Prophets, the threat of dragons overwhelming a city is used to express judgement.

Compiling all these references gives us a huge amount of information about these creatures, some of it (most of it in fact) directly from God describing what we would understand as a water drake.

Firstly, that the purpose of these creatures is to give glory to God.

Secondly, it tells us that these are huge reptiles that are very dangerous; enough that the mere threat of them is enough to put a city of people to fleeing for safety – a quarter of the times Tannin is used, it is referring to this terror.

If a city got overrun with jackals, a single person could chase them out; a decent thickness stick as a club, and they scatter. A host of people working together could do it easily. They are mildly dangerous, but they have absolutely nothing on levyatan, which the Scriptures equate to Tannin. A Dragon however? An armoured, fire breathing dragon?

That is dangerous; one dragon is enough to be a risk to an entire region, they are apex predators, there is absolutely no shortage of stories of the danger dragons possess.

Now, if you had an entire city overrun by dragons? You’re not going to reclaim that. Not on the Bronze/Iron age technology possessed by Ancient Israel. Roman Ballistae might have a chance, and a Macedonian Phalanx could make a melee fight in the open stick, but I wouldn’t want to try that kind of a battle without at least trebuchet, if not cannon. And this is from a guy who knows how to solo a T-Rex; T-Rex has one primary weapon, the bite. The solution is a fuck-off amount of three feet long spikes covering your whole body, that way it can’t bite you without facing it’s own mortal peril. You could probably win with a spear, but I’d rather have the spikes.

Dragons? Fire. The accounts of dragons possessing fire-breathing capability are nearly universal, and it is far more reasonable than you might think; using the Bombardier Beetle as a baseline, to breath fire a dragon needs the reaction of hydrogen peroxide and hydroquinone, catalysed by catalase and peroxidase; the reactants are ejected from separated storage areas into the front of the open mouth, where the reaction begins in conjunction with the rush of oxygen from heavy breathing out, causing both the reaction and the expellation of the reactants. Range could be comfortably over ten metres and still sufficient to cause burns and scalding on the victim.

Coincidentally, but rather obvious when you think about it, dragon stories generally stop after the invention of cannon, and by the 1800s, almost stop completely outside of Native American tribes.

It is therefore plain that reading the text and allowing the text to explain itself leads to the conclusion that Tannin/Levyatan are a race of immense and dangerous monsters, usually serpent-like but again not always, who’s presence is like the judgement of God, and which God Himself uses to say how awesome He is that He made them and controls their fates. Note also the contrast - the Babylonians had their gods being scared of these monsters, but right from the beginning God takes ownership of them.

The Bible tells us how these creatures lived, where they lived, their diet, their habitat, to an extent their way of life; and it exists as part of material from all over the world that shows that man and dinosaur coexisted. And if humans and dinosaurs coexisted, evolutionary beliefs about ages collapse.

----

Nehemiah 2:13;  “I went out by night by the Valley Gate to the Dragon Spring and to the Dung Gate, and I inspected the walls of Jerusalem that were broken down and its gates that had been destroyed by fire.”- presumably, the Dragon spring was a well or spring that was named for a resident/visitor dragon.

Psalm 91:13; “You will tread on lion and viper; you will trample young lion and dragon.” - the point is to talk about the protection of God; the claim about jackals makes no sense, and using serpent instead has already been covered. Further, the Septuagint uses Drakkon here.

Isaiah 27:1; “In that day GOD will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent with His fierce, great, strong sword, Leviathan the twisted serpent! He will slay the dragon in the sea.” Again, entirely pointless unless it refers to either a real animal, or a mythologised version of a real animal. 

Isaiah 51:9; “Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of GOD, awake, as in days of old, the generations of long ago. Was it not You who cut Rahab in pieces, who pierced the dragon?” Again, a pointless exercise if not referring to an actual event.

Jeremiah 51:34; “Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon has devoured me, crushed me, set me aside like an empty dish, swallowed me up like a dragon, filled his belly with my delicacies, rinsed me away.” Jackals cannot eat even a whole arm, and certainly cannot swallow a whole man as the similie depends on; whereas plenty of large carnivorous dinosaurs could.

Ezekiel 29:3, “Speak and say, thus says the LORD GOD: ‘Behold, I am against you, Pharaoh King of Egypt, the great dragon lying in his rivers, who says: “My Nile is my own—I made it for myself.” The idea is to convey that Egypt believes itself to be extremely powerful, before it is cast down in judgement.

Exodus 7:9, 7:10 and 7:12; “So Moses and Aaron went in to Pharaoh and did as Adonai had commanded. Aaron threw down his staff before Pharaoh and before his servants, and it became a dragon. Then Pharaoh called for the wise men and the sorcerers, and they too, the magicians of Egypt, did the same with their secret arts. For each man threw down his staff, and they became dragons. But Aaron’s staff swallowed up their staffs.” Not much to say here, although the Septuagint again uses drakkon both times, instead of one of the words that means a snake.

Genesis 1:21; “And God created the great dragons and every living soul that moves, which the waters brought forth abundantly after their nature, and every winged fowl after its nature; and God saw that it was good.” This is one of the few times the Septuagint uses keytos (whale) to translate Tannin, however, dragons are traditionally associated with the sea and sky, so it makes sense that they are created on day 5.

Plural form:

Deuteronomy 32:33: “Their wine is the poison of dragons, and the cruel venom of asps.” This also informs us that some dragons were poisonous, a feature noted of certain dinosaurs, and never with jackals.

Job 7:12; “Am I a sea, or a dragon, that you set a watch over me?” Again linking dragons to the sea.

Job 30:29; “I am a brother to the dragons, & a companion to the ostriches.” By this, he is continuing his theme, and he means he is alone, ostracised from the community. Jackals however, operate in packs. 

Psalms 44:19; “Though you have broken us in the place of dragons, and covered us with the shadow of death.” Doesn’t tell us much this one, as it’s relying on the nature of tanninim to convey the situation.

Psalms 74:13; “You split open the sea by your strength; You broke the heads of the dragons in the waters.” Possibly a reference to the Flood.

Psalms 148:7; “Praise the LORD from the earth, you dragons, and all deeps:” An intriguing statement, given extra-Biblical documentation of dragon intelligence, which some sources put as near-Human.

Isaiah 13:21; “But wild animals will lie down there, and their houses will be full of howling creatures; there ostriches will dwell, and there wild goats will dance.” while it doesn’t say dragon, it says howling creatures, Wycliffe was happy to write dragouns as his translation solely from the sound identified, and it has to be inquired why he did so if humans could not have encountered dragons to record the sound.

Isaiah 13:22; " And the wild beasts shall cry in their desolate houses, and dragons in their pleasant palaces: and her time is near to come, and her days shall not be prolonged.” Given the reference is about animals being used as tools for judgement, it’s no surprise that dragons are mentioned.

Jeremiah 9:11; “I will make Jerusalem a heap of ruins, a lair of dragons, and I will make the cities of Judah a desolation, without inhabitant.” Again, a judgement making the city uninhabitable.

Jeremiah 10:22;  “Behold, the noise of the bruit is come, and a great commotion out of the north country, to make the cities of Judah desolate, and a den of dragons.“ again, dragons used as a symbol of judgement.

Jeremiah 14:6; 2and the wild asses stood in the high places, they snuffed up the wind like dragons; their eyes failed because there was no grass.“ This gives us information about how dragons breathed, which is something very difficult to know unless you either witnessed it or heard from someone who had.

Jeremiah 49:33; “And Hazor shall be a dwelling for dragons, and a desolation for ever: there shall no man abide there, nor any son of man dwell in it.“ Again, using dragons as a symbol of judgement.

Jeremiah 51:37; “And Babylon shall become heaps, a dwellingplace for dragons, an astonishment, and a hissing, without an inhabitant.” Jeremiah again uses the presence of dragons as a judgement.

 Ezekiel 32:2 “ “Son of man, raise a lamentation over Pharaoh king of Egypt and say to him: “You consider yourself a lion of the nations, but you are like a dragon in the seas; you burst forth in your rivers, trouble the waters with your feet, and foul their rivers.”Not much to say here.

[debbierhea]

she blames herself

chapter 2 of 2  / wc: 1509 / msr, angst, s10, post-home again

summary: She did not deserve to lose her mother tonight. She didn’t deserve to lose her father or her sister or her children or her dog either. But here she is, a mother without a child and a daughter without a mother, lightly trembling against the headboard of the bed they once shared.

this is the first fic i ever wrote! it got deleted along with my original blog a few years back, so i thought i’d repost for that sweet, sweet validation. check out my fic tag if you’d like! xx

(chapter 1)

Early morning sun began to creep slowly through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom. A cock crowed distantly, causing Mulder to stir. He pulled the covers up and over his head, trying to block out the growing brightness of the sunlight. When the cock crowed again, Mulder sighed deeply, accepted defeat, and began to rub the sleep from his eyes. He absently reached across the bed, searching for her hand, her waist, any part of her he could use to anchor them both to each other. His hand met crisp, cool sheets. Sitting up he turned towards the empty space beside him, brows furrowed in concern and sad realization.

She had left. Last night she was grieving, covered in salty tears, clinging to his thin, cotton t-shirt. That was acceptable Scully behavior, in the night, where she could hide in the cover of darkness and their thick down comforter. But, after all these years, she couldn’t face him in the light of day. She didn’t – couldn’t – trust him enough to allow herself to be seen vulnerable in the harsh sunlight, where everything seems so real. At night, in the inky shadows, life feels less weighty, less impossible. The day is not as kind, bringing to light all the things you try to forget, try to hide.

He sighed again, this time wearier, heavier. What could he say, what could he do for her? As he fell apart after both his mother’s and father’s deaths, Scully had been there, even when he had pushed her away, yelled, showed up at her apartment drunk out of his mind. She had cared for him, she had held him, she had dried his tears. And he would do the same for her.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he grabbed his keys off the bedside table and slipped into a pair of ratty running shoes, almost as an afterthought as he took long strides out the bedroom door and down the hall. As he approached the main room of the house, his pace slowed.

Coffee. He smelled coffee.

Rounding the corner and stepping into the sparsely furnished living room, Mulder saw the front door sitting open and could hear the muffled noises of coffee percolating. A cold wind whipped into the entryway, causing the screen door to lightly swing on its creaky hinges. He took a deep breath of the chilled air, and stepped outside.

There she was, bed head, wrapped in her favorite flannel throw she had left behind in her hurry to leave him. She held a mug of coffee in her hand, steam rolling off in waves. Hair fluttered around her pale, freckled face, catching on the dry skin of her cracked lips. She hasn’t noticed him standing there and he takes a moment to see her in a rare moment of unguardedness; she was simply existing. No power suits donned as armor. No carefully constructed walls to hide her emotions, to keep him out. She looked calm, but pensive; maybe even a bit wistful. Her freckles and mole that she tries so desperately to hide, as if they are chinks in her bulletproof armor, stand out proudly against her porcelain skin in the soft morning sun.

Lifting her right hand, she brushes away a delicate tear off her cheek and tucks her unkempt hair behind her ear in one smooth movement. Mulder catches his breath as the early dawn rays dust her face with gold. Even in her sorrow, she is beautiful. He takes slow steps towards her from behind, and by the way her posture changes, he knows that she has heard him begin to approach.

Mulder stands directly behind her, wraps one arm around her waist, and places a gentle kiss to her cheek, still damp from tears. She closes her eyes and leans into the kiss, letting out a soft sigh.

“Hey,” she breathes, her throat tight and raw, but the smallest curve of her lip reveals she is happy to see him. He takes a step back, but leaves his hand resting on her hip, light as a feather. She passes him the mug of coffee, without looking at him. It is silent except for the gusts of wind blowing through the bare trees.

The mug warms his stiff fingers. He knows before he even tastes the coffee that it contains two sugars and the smallest splash of whole fat cream. It’s one of the only indulgences she allows herself in her strict diet, her regimented life. He sips the coffee slowly, relishing the warmth it trails down his throat and into his empty stomach. He hands the mug bag to her, clears his throat.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.” She stands next to him, staring straight ahead, giving no reaction to his words. “I thought that…,” he trails off, not knowing what he’s trying to say to her, what he so desperately needs her to understand.

She slowly turns towards him and leans in. He can feel the warmth of her body radiating from her, the smooth flannel of the blanket wrapped snugly around her petite frame. She smiles sadly and looks at his chest, avoiding his eyes.

“The house looks spotless. Have you hired a maid?” She attempts a joke, to lighten the mood. It’s a pitiful attempt; her heart isn’t in it, and it falls flat. She frowns. “I’m sorry,” she says simply. “I wanted to let you sleep. And… I needed coffee.” He shifts his hand from her waist to her upper arm, trying to make eye contact and failing. “And…I needed….I needed time to think.”

“Scully, listen, I know…I know that we aren’t really on the best terms and that…well I’ve really fucked up and, I just…,” Mulder’s throat begins to close up, tears sting his eyes. “I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

Scully inhales deeply, but says nothing. Her shoulders begin to tremble, so subtly that if he wasn’t holding onto her, he would never have known. He’s glad he knows. He holds her tighter. “I want to help you through this. I’m going to help you through this.”

Her entire body has started trembling, coffee starting to slosh out of the cup with her efforts to tamp down building sobs. Mulder extracts the mug from her iron grip and places it on the rail of their front porch. He turns back towards her, trying desperately to catch her eyes, but she just clamps them shut, trying to maintain control.

Her hair has begun to fall from its place behind her ear; Mulder takes a step closer to her, reaches out to tuck the errant strands back, and tenderly brushes his knuckles against her cheek. It’s all it takes, skin to chilled skin, for Scully to fall apart. She rushes hard into his arms, burying her face into his chest in a way that reminds him of a green special agent with some nasty mosquito bites he knew years ago.

Her tears begin to wet his grey shirt. He makes large, soothing circles on her flannel covered back, pulling her closer.

“Mulder, I...I...” she quietly whispers between gasps for air.

“Shhhh, Scully. I’m here,” he soothes, “I’m here.”

The coffee cools on the railing as Mulder rocks her back and forth, gently, whispering into her mussed hair. And as her sobbing turns to cries and her cries turn to whimpers, he continues to hold her close, arms wrapped tightly around her. She’s letting him hold her broken pieces together, a rare relinquishing of control, and he will not let her down.

When her cheeks have dried and her breathing has regulated, they continue to stand in silence, Mulder holding on to her as if she may dissolve right in front of him, disappear. Scully has been still and quiet for so long that Mulder wonders if she has fallen asleep standing up. Losing your last living parent, your last relative who truly loves and supports you despite your alien-loving partner and questionable life choices doesn’t lend itself to a good night’s sleep. He’s just about to gather her into his arms, blanket and all, when she withdraws her arms from against his chest and wraps them around his body. The strength of her embrace surprises him.

He feels her chest expand as she inhales deeply. “Mulder?” She breathes, a hint of nervousness, maybe even desperation. He doesn’t know if she wants a response, to assure her that he is listening. As if he could stop himself from hanging on her every single word since they met all those years ago in a musty basement covered in newspaper clippings and an unhealthy amount of dust.

He’s about to answer when he feels the vibrations in his chest as she says, “Mulder, I want to come home.”

Mulder laughs, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He tightens his grip around her, holding her close, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, the beating of her heart.

“You’re already here.”

[jaehyunspeachparty]

daddy jaehyun

ii.xl.

In the morning you wake up with terrible abdominal pain. You knew something was wrong. You suspected that you had an inflammation, so you immediately called your gynecologist. She had an appointment in the morning for you, but you had to find someone who would take care of the children. Jaehyun did not answer his phone, he had spent the night in the dorm as he was recording the songs for the album actually. Johnny was busy with his daughter, you didn't want to give Yuta two more children and for a moment you were really desperate. But then you remembered that the neighbor had said on her welcome visit that her daughter babysits now and then. You quickly search for the number you have saved and called her right away. "Hi Y/N!" Her friendly voice immediately calmed you down. You liked her from the start. "Hi, Yuri. I'm sorry to call you in such circumstances, but I need help." You didn't want to ask Yuri for a favor right away, but you had no choice. "My dear, are you all right?" She seems worried but still calm. "I have to go to the doctor urgently, it's really an emergency. You said that your daughter is also a babysitter and that there are school holidays. If she is there, maybe she could come over quickly? I also pay well." The next moment you got another cramp and you sit back down on the bed. "Yeah, sure, she'll be happy to do that. I'll send her over to you straight away." You were so incredibly grateful to Yuri. 

It was relatively early, Sunoh wakes up slowly, but you could hardly lift him up in pain. Miga tried to help you, but she was still too small to hold her little brother. With difficulty, you can bring the little boy in a cradle and the next moment it rings on the door. "Hello Ms. Jung. My mother said you needed a babysitter." She smiled shyly and you gratefully let her in the house. The girl's name was Soobin, she was 16 years old and looked like the classic Korean schoolgirl. "Thank you very much for coming. I'll show you ..." At that moment another cramp came and you went black. You try to hold on somewhere, but Soobin immediately supported you. "I'll find my way around, Ms. Jung. You need to see a doctor urgently." The girl tried to support you further, but slowly it was okay again. At that moment Miga came towards you and she looked at Soobin curiously. "Miga, you are already a big girl. Soobin will spend the morning with you, will you show her everything?" Your daughter knew the situation was serious and she nodded understandingly. "Ok mummy, get well soon." With her dark eyes, she looks at you seriously and Soobin had to giggle a little. "Well, I think everything is under control with Miga. Sunho has been very affectionate for the past few weeks and don’t like to interact with anyone but me, but he likes to be massaged on the earlobes, which usually makes him calm." The next moment there was another cramp and you didn't know which was worse, the birth or this. "Ms. Jung, don't worry, Miga and I will get it. Or?" She leaned down to the little girl and Miga nodded with a big smile. The two already had a connection and that calmed you down. You gave Soobin your number and then you took the taxi into town. 

Your gynecologist examined you thoroughly. In the beginning, she wasn't quite sure where the pain came from, but she found the cause with the ultrasound. "Ms. Jung, your IUD has slipped and that also caused inflammation." She points to the screen and sees the anchor shape as it was crooked in your womb. "Oh no, did I do something wrong?" You look worriedly at the doctor, but she shook her head. "No, it can happen in the first year. It should have happened a few days ago. I don't see any pregnancy here now, have you had sex the last few days?" She wiped the gel off and put the device aside. "No, I didn't." Jaehyun was hardly at home lately and mostly he was so exhausted from work that when he put Miga to bed, he often fell asleep in her bed. "Okay. I need to take out the IUD and then I will prescribe antibiotics for you. Should I use a new IUD again or do you want to prevent differently?" The doctor prepared the instruments and you sit back in the gynecologist's chair. "For my husband and I the family planning isn’t yet complete and we wanted to try again in late summer / early autumn." You weren’t sure whether it was necessary to have an IUD again for a few months. The gynecologist looks at the screen and looked through your file. "You gave birth to your son in mid-October, which means he is 9 months old. In principle, your body is ready to get pregnant again. I could see on ultrasound that your uterus has completely receded. But I can also give you the pill for a few months too." She came to you and looked at you questioningly. You weren't sure, should you use hormonal contraception again or should you use condoms again? "You don't have to decide now. Discuss it with your husband and if you choose the pill, just give me a call and I will write a prescription that you can pick it up." You nod and thought that was the best solution.

Removing the IUD was as uncomfortable as inserting it. But when you were outside, you felt better. She also gave you medication, which also relieved your pain. When you stepped out of the gynecologist's office, your phone rang. "Hey Jaehyun!" You smile because you were glad to hear his voice. You could hear him far too little and you missed him so much. "Is everything okay? You were at the doctor?" He implied the message you sent him. "Yes, I had to take the IUD out and I have an infection. But everything is fine now." You felt really relieved that the cramps had stopped. Apparently, the IUD had caused it. "What? Are you okay?" Jaehyun looked really worried, but now everything was clear. "Yes, everything is really okay again." You try to calm him down while you are walking down the street. "Are you still in Gangnam?" "Yes, why?" "I'm going to the dorm right now. I have an hour's break here. Are you coming over?" His voice was suddenly very calm and relaxed. "Yes, I just have to ask the babysitter if she can take care of the kids two more hours." "What? Babysitter?" Jaehyun no longer understood the world, but you promised to explain everything to him later.

You quickly call Soobin and ask about the situation. She was very calm, apparently, the children had accepted her. She didn't mind taking care of them longer. That made it easier for you and you go straight to your favorite restaurant and take something with you to eat. It was strange being alone in the old dorm. Somehow that reminded you of the years before. Jaehyun opened the door for you and was overjoyed to see you.

"I have food here." You lift the bag up and grin broadly. "You know that I'm on a diet." Jaehyun sighed and pulled you into his arms. "But you have become much too thin. You work too much anyway. I am your wife, I have to make sure that you are healthy." You wink and then you kiss. You lean your back against the door while Jaehyun pressed his body closer to you. "It's like you were never gone." Haechan came over and rolled his eyes. You broke away from each other and had to laugh. "Oh, Haechan, admit that you missed me." You wink and tease him a little. "Yeah, especially your love screams every night. Almost without it, I couldn't sleep." Haechan sighed ironically and Jaehyun and you had to laugh again but make your way to his room. He currently shared it with Mark, which wasn’t there at the moment. Jaehyun sleeps in Yuta's bed, but he's now moved out with Chichi. Jaehyun had put some photos of you and the children on his bed, and there were also some drawings of Miga on the wall. It was really cute. You sit in bed and you unpack the food. You tell him everything he missed and everything about Soobin who came perfectly in time. "Maybe she can take care of Miga and Sunoh more often. Then we could go on more dates." After you have finished eating, you will continue to sit in bed and cuddle. Jaehyun leaned against the wall and you against his body. "Yes, she seems really nice." You cuddle closer to him, then you suddenly feel his hand under your shirt. "Jaehyun, we can't have sex now. I have an inflammation." You also thought it was stupid because the little time you have with him you would like him to be as close as possible to him. "I know I just need some template for the shower alone tonight." He pulled up your shirt and played with your bra so that your nipples kept looking out. "Jaehyun, we have to keep talking about it anyway. What will we do for the next three months because of the contraception?" You slide your shirt back down and turn over to him. "I told the gynecologist that I'm not going to put the IUD in again. But should I take the pill again?" You sigh and look at him questioningly. Then Jaehyun had to think. But he quickly came to a decision. "What if we just don't use contraception?" At first, you thought it was a joke, but he was determined. "Jaehyun, you know how easily I get pregnant." You smile and instinctively reach for your stomach. "But back then, when I impregnate you with Miga and Sunoh, I fucked you every day and not just once." He whispered in your ear and you blush a little. "And when I was pregnant with our angel? We just had slept without a condom once and I was pregnant right away." At that time you were on holiday in Swiss, where you had a quickie in the laundry room and got caught from Taeyong, so Jaehyun couldn’t pull out of you in time. "Okay, but seriously now. I mean even if you're about to get pregnant really quick. When I'm done with everything, you're in the 3rd month at the latest. And then I can take care of you completely." Jaehyun was really serious and you think for a moment. "Should we dare it?" You smiled and you were kind of excited. "Yes absolutely." Jaehyun kissed you and from now on you would work on baby number three. 

daddy jaehyun masterlist

[kittae]

Bottoms Up

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x reader

Side characters: Min Yoongi, Jey

Summary: A drabble series where Taehyung is a successful artistic erotica actor but has to expand his areas of expertise in the rapidly evolving world of adult film. Lost and inexperienced in everything that doesn’t involve classy settings, flattering lighting and romantic scripts, he basically has to start from scratch to make it in the online porn community. As a highly demanded A-lister in that community, you take him under your wings (or better yet, between your legs).

Genre: Smut, fluff, a bit of comedy here and there. Maybe some angst, who knows.

words: 1368

Disclaimer: Slight alcohol intoxication, dialogue-heavy, foul language, both of them had too much to drink and are being annoying lmao

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“I trusted you! You’ve betrayed my trust!” Taehyung wails, dramatically flinging himself against the wall of Yoongi’s living room.

“Stop acting, you’re going to drain yourself.” Yoongi murmurs as he pours himself another drink. “Besides, why are you being like this in the first place? The shoot went better than expected, you should be celebrating with me instead of fake crying.”

“I’m not fake crying.”

“Yes, you are and you know what else you are?” Yoongi takes a sip of his whiskey, “Killing my buzz.”

Taehyung merely pouts, knowing his crocodile tears aren’t going to coax sympathy out of the slightly tipsy older man. “You should’ve discussed this with me in advance.”

“You know, I totally would’ve if you hadn’t been such a stubborn baby about the whole ordeal from the beginning. I could barely get you to agree to the shoot, heavens know how you would have reacted if I told you about the seminars.”

“You know what?” Taehyung scoffs, heated, “I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you by showing my true feelings towards your off-putting suggestions.”

Yoongi snorts, rolling his eyes and taking a rather large gulp from his glass.

“But I am who I am and I thought you supported me! You’re making plans behind my back instead.” Taehyung presses on, crossing his arms in displeasure. He didn’t come here with the intention of making a fuss considering everything went shockingly well today, yet he needs to make sure that Yoongi knows how he feels about the secretive way he handled things.

“If I don’t make plans behind your back sometimes, we’re not gonna get anywhere,” Yoongi calmly explains, gesturing with the crystal glass in his hand, “You only got to expand your boundaries today because I arranged it like that and that’s what being partners is all about.”

“No,” Taehyung slowly counters, “Being partners is about trust and honesty, which is the opposite of what you did today.”

“Noooo, I really don’t feel like arguing right now,” Yoongi groans as he slouches further into his padded couch, “Can’t we just hold hands and call it a day?”

Taehyung squeezes his eyes to slits, “Don’t try to bribe me into forgiving you, hyung.”

“Why not? You do it all the time.” The manager grumbles, reaching for the bottle to prevent his glass from getting empty.

After fiddling with the buttons of his silk, albeit questionably patterned shirt, Taehyung sighs and collects himself. He then goes over to Yoongi’s liquor cabinet to fetch a glass identical to that of his manager.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asks, an amused look on his face.

Tae shrugs as he flops down next to his friend and plucks the bottle right out of his hand. “Getting a drink.”

“You hate alcohol.”

“Correct,” Taehyung responds matter-of-factly, “I just like the aesthetic of swirling scotch around in a crystal glass while I ponder over what you could do to get my trust back.”

Yoongi scoffs. “How about not kicking you out of my apartment? Sounds good?” He raises his brows, briefly letting the amber liquor tickle his tongue, savoring the slight burn when it hits his throat. “You’re here more than at your own place. You’re lucky I’m not charging you for rent and unwanted sleepovers.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Taehyung gasps.

“You are the only one allowed in my apartment and even you will lose your apartment privileges if you won’t quit it.” Yoongi warns seriously. “And those include storm cuddles and hurricane hangouts.”

Taehyung look absolutely horrified and gulps hard before taking a big swig of the whiskey in pure misery. Needless to say he instantly regrets it, the liquid too sharp and the vile taste of alcohol burning through his throat. He coughs dramatically as if he’d just drank poison, with Yoongi already on his way to the kitchen to get him a diet coke to wash it down –although not without an eyeroll or two.

“I swear you’re worse than a baby sometimes.” He sighs as he opens the can for his teary-eyed younger friend who reaches for the soda as if it’s his only lifeline. “Bet seeing you like this would burst more than a few bubbles of the women who love your films.”

Taehyung says nothing, too busy chugging the coke ad fundum. Only when any trace of the whiskey taste is gone, can he relax. And he does, with a big, content smile on his face.

“Love you, hyung. You know that, right?” He coos, nestling his head on the older man’s shoulder, who responds with a barely suppressed sound of disgust.

“Fuck’s sake Taehyung, did you get drunk from that one sip already?” Yoongi frets, exasperated.

“Sometimes... people w-won’t never adjust to changes.” Tae offers a vague explanation, followed by a hiccup as he makes himself cozy against his manager’s side to take a nap.

Yoongi gives up, sighing, simply patting the younger’s head and accepting his punishment. “Alright buddy.”

“–and then he just flipped a switch or something! Woah, you should’ve seen it, it was really incredible.” You conclude before you wash down the spicy food with some more beer.

“Yeah, it must’ve been...Seeing how it’s the only thing you could talk about for the past hour,” Jey chuckles, reaching for another snack. The dining tent is crowded this evening, lots of noise and ruckus of other drunk customers filling your ears while you talk.

“Ah, sorry… Do I talk about it too much?” You grimace.

“Nah, you’re fine,” she waves away your concern with a laugh, “It sounds like it was a whole experience. I’ve never seen him like that either so it is kind of fascinating to me to hear this.”

You gasp, snapping your fingers when you recall something. “Right! You once told me you sometimes work for him!”

She frowns. “Told you twice… Actually, Yoongi called me today asking for my help but I was booked.”

“Is he usually shy like that? When you fluff him? No, wait, not shy– Uh, you know, super careful?”

Jey full out laughs at your rambling now, “Honestly, I’ve never seen you so invested in one of your projects before.”

You pout at that, “Don’t call him that.”

“Oh my god, ___, are you in love with him or something? You’re creeping me out.” She pulls a face before cupping your hot cheeks with her palms. “Oh, nevermind. You’re just super drunk.”

Shrugging, you shake off her hands like a child, only to replace them with your own when you rest your chin in them, elbows on the wonky, iron table as you lean over to her, smiling wide. “I still haven’t seen his dick,” You whisper-shout and Jey snorts at your drunken obliviousness. “Tell me about it.”

“Alright, sweetie, you’re making it weird,” she flicks your forehead and you whine, “It wouldn’t be very professional of me if I told you, hmm? Besides, didn’t you binge his films last week? I think you have a good enough idea of what his dick looks like.”

“But I’m so frustrated!” Your whining gets louder and more heated as you put up your index finger and practically shove it in Jey’s face, “I just wanted to feel it once, Jey. Just once.”

“Time for some water I think,” Jey raises her eyebrows and calls the owner of the tent for a bottle, “I don’t get what you’re getting worked up about. He’s going to be taking your classes, right? You’ll have plenty of chances to suck his dick later so stop crying about it, jeez.”

You clap your hands and giggle, the alcohol really starting to get in your head, “That’s true! I can still suck his dick then!”

“Shhh!” A hand instantly comes to cover your mouth before you can say more. “You don’t have to shout! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Mmmight be getting a little bit tipsy,” you helpfully suggest as if she hasn’t been trying to sober you up since you started talking about Taehyung’s dick.

“No shit, really? After only six beers?” She jeers sarcastically while forcing the bottle of water against your lips, sighing in relief when you allow it and start swallowing. “Let’s get you home, messy girl.”

Heliotrope masterlist

[chickensarentcheap]

I Found -Chapter 21

Warnings: nothing really. Mentions of blood and gun violence I guess

Tagging: @valkyrie-of-the-light @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @alievans007

She arrives in Dhaka shortly before ten in the morning and takes a taxi to the hustle and bustle of the downtown market area. Her escape from the Mahajan home had gone much easier than she'd anticipated; the challenging part having to somehow slip from underneath the weight of Tyler's arm in an effort to sneak out of the bed. When he did manage to rest, he was a notoriously light sleeper; awakening at the slightest of noises or the smallest hint of trouble. That morning he'd been resting heavier than normal. On his stomach with his arm draped over her, snoring louder than she'd ever heard him. And her heart had nearly leapt clear out of his chest when he stirred, mumbling incoherently but never awakening.

 From there on out, things had been simple. Catching the overnight guards on a joint coffee break out by the pool; laughing and chatting and paying absolutely no attention to what was going on around them. She'd been able to pinch the keys to the rental off the kitchen counter where her husband had left them the night before, along with an extra loaded Glock revolver he kept store in a lock box on a shelf in the master bedroom closet; freshly cleaned and holding a full magazine. 

 She once again considered telling him; shaking him awake and announcing that she was heading to Dhaka. That if he wanted to come along so be it, but she wasn't going to let him stop her. His resistance would have been legendary, especially now that they knew she was indeed pregnant. And she knew his already overwhelming need to protect her would become even more so.  He saw it in the same way as he did the job; she and Amelia were his priorities and responsibility and failure was simply not  an option.

 So she let him sleep.

 The market is just as she remembers; sights, smells, sounds. The dirty streets and derelict  buildings,  the scent of diesel gas and strong coffee hanging in the air, the chatter and laughter of pedestrians and the blaring of horns and humming of engines. She stands across the street from the hotel that they had stayed at a year ago; run down and in disarray, faded paint and cracked mortar, crumbling balconies with missing railings. She can see the patio that had belonged to them; on the third floor, a heavy wool rung over over the wrought iron balcony railing and two simple plastic patio chairs tipped on their sides. Every morning they'd sit out there. Sipping strong coffee and filling their bellies with whatever Tyler had been able to grab that morning. Sometimes they'd simply people watch and make commentary on what was happening on the street below. Other mornings they'd be painstakingly surveying the crowds and sharing notes on anything and anyone that seemed even remotely suspicious. 

 Most of the time however, they would just engage in small talk. Those little yet entirely eye opening conversations that take place between couples when they're just in the 'getting to know you' stage.  Sure, they had quickly come realize what they both liked and enjoyed in bed, but they still very much needed to see if they clicked outside of a tangled mess of sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets.

 Her feelings are mixed.  It is both enlightening and disheartening to be back in Dhaka, where she'd fallen in love with the man she now called her husband.  Where she'd been made to feel alive again; deserving of love and adoration,  respect and worship.  She had long ago forgotten what it had felt like to be in love; the butterflies in your stomach,  the way your heart began to race when they so as much smiled at you, those jolts of electricity that passed between the two of you every time you touched or kissed.

  She had thought she'd never experience those  again;  she had a failed marriage, an abusive narcissistic ex under her belt, a job that she enjoyed and could not see herself walking away from.  She had no more trust left. No faith. 

 And then she'd walked into that shack in the Australian outback.

 It is bittersweet. The good memories and the horribly bad co-mingling. And she forces herself to walk away, not allowing her emotions to get the better of her. She needed to keep her head on straight. She needed clear thinking and her instincts to steer her through those busy and often violent streets. And she needed to hold onto that overwhelming need to revenge.  To see things through  to the end of the line.  Nik hadn't been able to finish things off a year ago. But she was determined to.

 She grabs a herbal tea in hopes of soothing her queasy stomach; nerves and anticipation not mixing well with ferocious morning sickness. She'd had to take three Dramamine tablets just to make it through the short flight.  She promises herself that when this is all over, she'll go back to the things that helped her get through the first pregnancy: proper diet and sleep, a psychologically healthy way of coping with stress. If she could get through the first one despite all of the angst surrounding her, she could get through anything.

 She wanders the market to kill time. Talking to the vendors and browsing their wares, attempting to drive away any suspicion as to why someone like her would be in a place like that. Especially alone.  She hides her eyes under the brim of a baseball cap but they are always watching.  Casually observing the people around her. Some of the locals watch her intently; perhaps recognizing her face yet unable to place where and how they actually know it. And she gets friendly smiles and pleasant hellos, readily welcomed into the area.

 It is so easy. It always has been. Blending in in order to to garner valuable information had been her specialty when she was still on the job. Able to gain peoples' trust, casually asking all the right questions without seeming overly interested. The people in the market had taken to her. Taken to them. A young, attractive newlywed couple who'd forgone a traditional honeymoon in favour of outreach work. The premise had seemed wild and far fetched when Nik had pitched it. But it had worked.

 A little too well.

 Her cell phone vibrates in the front pocket of her shorts. Another frantic and downright furious text message sent on Tyler's behalf. He's been calling and texting non stop since he'd woken up and found out that not only she was missing, but also the keys to the rental and one of his weapons.  He's worried. Pissed off. The texts a and voicemails a mixture of of him worrying about if she's okay and demanding to know where she is, and angry please for her to just call him back.  She feels guilty as she stands there, staring down at the last message he'd sent.  Knowing the rage that he must be in; anger and worry are powerful combination. And her fingers linger on the screen, attempting to come up with a suitable reply. She should at least tell him that she's okay. That she'll be home by night fall and he doesn't need to worry. But when the phone rings in her and his cell number pops up on the screen, she hesitates. Thumb over the green talk icon.

 She opts to send it to voicemail instead.

 ***

 He knew something was wrong the moment he awoke. Torn from an unusually deep and peaceful sleep by the baby's shrill, incessant crying and one of the maids pounding on the door and  asking if everything was okay.  He hadn't had a sound sleep like that in years; his senses and instincts always running on high.

 Esme would never leave the baby to cry; believing that you could never spoil a child, especially an infant, with too much attention and cuddles. So when he'd bolted up in bed and saw that her place beside him was empty, he lost it. A combination of rage and worry driving him through the roof. Attempting to stay calm for his daughter that so desperately needed him and failing miserably; relinquishing all care to the now visibly frazzled nanny. 

 His brain immediately switches to auto pilot; propelling him through the room, searching  for clues as to where she's wandered off to. Her purse is missing. The pyjamas she'd worn to bed discarded in the hamper in the en-suite bathroom. And then he sees it: the closet door ajar.  He knows. He just knows. Storming across the room and throwing the door open and grabbing the lock box on the shelf.

 It's empty. The lock picked.

 His first reaction is absolute rage. At her, at the guards for completely fucking up and being so oblivious to what was going around them that they didn't even her sneak out. How does someone get away that fast? Stealing both a gun and a car without anyone noticing? And he's pissed that she won't return any of his calls or texts. Rage and frustration growing with each passing second.

 Worry comes next. That maybe the first anniversary of his near death experience has pushed her over the edge. And it's then that he begins to slowly piece if all together: the freak out that she'd had back home when she'd seen Farhad's picture. Her incessant, almost obsessive need for revenge. How she'd talked about wanting to go back to the bridge. The one place she felt as if she could finally let go of the past and move on.

 He calls the one person he knows can help.

 “Where the fuck is my wife, Nik?” he doesn't even give her a chance to say hello of give her trademark 'talk to me'.

 “Your wife? What are you talking about? What...?”

 “I woke up  and she was gone. You were worried that I'd be the one taking off? My wife is missing, Nik. She's gone. And she stole my gun and my car and I have no fucking clue where she is.”

 Silence from the other end.

 “Don't even try and bullshit me, Nik. I know that you know. There's no way she thought of this all on her own and the only other person she trusts other than me, is you. Where is she?”

 “I honestly never thought it would come to this,” she admits. “I thought she'd just move on. Let it go.”

 “What are you talking about? What...?”

 “She wanted me to find the kid that shot you. Farhad. She wanted me to track him down and arrange a meeting with him. At first I went along with it...”

 “What the fuck, Nik...” he closes his eyes and releasing a long, shaky sigh.  “Why? Why the hell would you agree to that?”

 “I changed my mind. I started dragging my heels. Making excuses. Hoping she'd just let it go.”

 “Well obviously she hasn't.  And she's obviously got someone else helping her.”

 “I think it's Jason. He asked for some personal time. I became suspicious and had Yaz track his cell . It says he's somewhere in Bangladesh. We have no idea of his exact location.”

 There's the rage again. Accompanied by so much more. Worry. Frustration. The burn of bile in his throat.

 “Tyler?”

 “I need to you to get me a flight to Dhaka. Right now.”

 “Tyler, I don't think...”

 “I don't give a shit what you think. I don't care what strings you have to pull or how many asses you have to kiss. Get me a flight.”

 “I need a little time. I...”

 'Now Nik,” he orders, and disconnects the call.

 ****

 “Hey, I remember you!” a cheerful voice calls from across the street. “The wife!”

 Esme is surprised to see him after all this time, still tucked away on a small side street away from the hustle and bustle of the main market.  The vendor that that sold Tyler the bracelet that she'd wandered away to admire. A simple piece of jewellery becoming the catalyst for so much more.

 “I'm surprised you even remember me,” she says. “What with wearing a hat and all.”

 “I never forget a pretty face. Or such a sweet smile. It's been a long time, friend.”

 “A whole year,” she confirms, returning the hug that he offers.  “You've been well?”

 “I have. Things have been busy, busy. You still have the bracelet?”  he nods down at her left wrist,  a prideful smile spreading from ear to ear. “Looks as good as new!”

 “The clasp broke  and my husband fixed it for me.”

 “Ahhh...the husband...nice guy..very tall...very strong...where is he? He here?”

 “Off doing his own thing,” she lies, and immediately feels guilty for it. “We have a baby now. A little girl. Amelia,” she produces her cell phone from the pocket on her shorts, once again ignoring the dozens of text messages that she's received in the past ten minutes alone. Instead, she brings up a photo on the phone and holds it out to out to him. Their first ever family picture; Amelia a mere ten days old, in her father's arm in a white eyelet sundress,  the three of them sitting in the sand.  Barefoot. Tanned. Smiling.

  It seems like a lifetime ago.

 “She's beautiful!” he gushes. “Like her mother. But definitely looks like her father. How have you been? Good? Everyone is fine? You just disappeared last year. Out of thin air. I just stopped seeing you one day. We had some trouble here. Right after you left. Between those drug people that we talked about last time you were here. And some white fellow.  There was a big shoot out out on the Sultana Kamal Bridge. Did you hear about it?”

 “I heard a few things,” she says. Not feeling the need to tell him that she'd been right in the damn middle of it. “Do you still have your ear to the ground? Is there anything new going on?”

 “Trouble,” he throws up his hands in exasperation. “Always trouble.”

 She browses his various items as she speaks. “What kind?”

 “Some white fellow is in town. Not your white fellow, though. He's been asking a lot of questions. Wanting to know about one of the street kids.”

 Jason.

 “I thought maybe he was here to cause trouble. Or take the kid away. But they already seemed to know each other. Like they weren't strangers when they met.  They were on a first name basis.”

 She arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You don't think this white guy was just playing nice to get something he wanted?”

 “Perhaps. But it didn't seem that way. I'm very good at reading people. And I could read him well. They knew each other. No doubt in my mind. Very casual when they spoke. Not angry. Or in a hurry. Just like old friends.”

 Her stomach clenches. And she has to  force the vomit down.

 “Why you ask?”

 She manages a smile. “Just curious. Is there anything else? Did you see anything? Hear what they were talking about?”

 “Just that they left together. Yesterday. From the hotel up the street. The one you stayed at last year. I never saw them again. You know them?”

 “The white fellow is a colleague of mine. Or at least I thought he was.”

 She selects a child's size bracelet for the baby and produces her wallet from her bag; removing  two twenties and holding them out in offering. Too much money for the jewellery, yet not enough for the information he'd given her.

  That was invaluable. 

 “Thank you,” she says, as she drops the wallet and bracelet into her bag. “I honestly can't thank you enough. I have to go. There's some things I need to do.”

 “It was nice seeing you!” he calls after her. “Tell your husband to stop by. Nice guy he is!”

 Esme gives a small wave in farewell, then disappears into the crowd.

 ****

 The hotel manager gives her an extra key with little more than twenty bucks and a brief description of who she is looking for.  And she waits outside of the door, straining her ears for any kind of life inside.  The creak of footsteps on the rickety, bowed floor,  the sound of the shower running through this ancient pipes.

 Silence.

 She lets herself into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. In case a quick getaway is needed and there's no fumbling with knobs and hinges. The room is tiny; much smaller than the one that she and Tyler had shared a year ago in this very building. Sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the particles of dust that hang and float in the air. Like the rest of the hotel's rooms and the building itself, it is a complete dive:  the hardwood floors scuffed and decaying, various stains marring the walls, water marks on the once white stucco ceiling; crude patches of plaster covering where work had been done to fix a leak. 

 Like the room she'd stayed in, the linens on the bed are fresh and new. A crisp white that makes the damage and filth around it even more noticeable.

 She snoops. Going through cupboards in the tiny kitchenette. Rummaging through silverware drawers, cupboards full of chipped mugs and plates. Not knowing exactly what is she's looking for, but letting her logic and instincts guide her; the old aspects of the job quickly returning and filling her with much needed confidence and courage.  There's a coffee cup in the sink; water and soon to dissolved dish soap filling it to the brim, a sponge floating in the midst.  

 He's been gone a while.

 She moves into the combined bedroom and living area next. Leafing through pamphlets, two days worth of newspapers, and discarded sheets of writing paper. Still nothing.  Placing her hands on her hips she takes a step back to get a look at the room. It is surprisingly tidy considering the actual state of the building. The patio door has been left open a crack; allowing the dirt and debris from the busy street below to trickle into the room.  The air is hot and heavy. Suffocating. And the sweat has already begun to gather at her hairline and across her brow.

 The bed is made, sheets pulled tight, and she moves towards it. Pausing long enough to pull open the drawers on the nightstand. Empty.  Frowning, she moves along. Running her hand along the top of the sheet in hopes of feeling something hidden underneath them. Then drops to her knees and slides her hand in between the mattress and the box spring; blindly feeling her way along the smooth surface until her fingers come in contact with something smooth.

 It's a file folder. Brand new. The colour still fresh and vibrant, the corners unbent and still sharp.  And she perches herself on the edge of the bed, preparing herself for what she may find inside. It could be nothing; just some paperwork that included sensitive information and names that preying eyes weren't privy too. 

 Photographs.  Some black in white.  Others in colour.  The bile rises in her throat once again and the nausea kicks into high gear.  Her heart pounds within her chest; hands shaking, the sweat trickling down now. 

 Tyler. Her. Their baby. Dating as far back to his release from the hospital, when Esme was still pregnant and they'd been struggling to keep things together but were optimistic about the future.  One of the moment they were leaving the medical facility with their three day old infant. There's more. So many more.  Outside of their apartment, on the street, at the beach. Snapshots of private and personal moments. Where they're smiling and laughing and completely oblivious to the fact someone was watching them.

 Her cell phone rings and she nearly jumps clear out of her skin.

 Nik.

 She would have just let it go to voicemail. Ignoring it and the text messages that would start pouring in. But she needs to tell someone. Anyone.

 “Where the hell are you?” Nik hisses, before Esme even has a chance to offer a greeting.

 “I'm in Dhaka.”

 “What is wrong with you? All hell is breaking loose.  Why would you do this? I told you to just drop it. To let it go.”

 “You said you would help me.  Where are you, Nik? Why didn't you follow through? You promised you'd help.”

 “I was hoping you'd change your mind. This is insane. You're insane. What...?”

 “I'm in Jason's room,” she announces.

 “Excuse me? What? What the hell are you doing in there? Are you...?”

 “No. I'm not having an affair. It's not what you think.  I sent Jason to Dhaka. To find out more about that kid Fahrad. Only he already knows him. He's in on it, Nik. All the bullshit that's been happening to Ovi. All the threats, all the letters, all the dead animals. He's involved in it. Somehow.”

 “You're crazy. I'm sending Yaz to come and get you and Tyler.”

 “Tyler? What...?”

 “He left for Dhaka four hours ago. He's freaking out, Esme. He's pissed and he's worried and he's on his way to you. I had to tell him. I had to.  He's your husband. The father of your child. He loves you. And he has a right to know what the hell is going on and if you're okay.”

 “There's pictures,” she says. “A whole folder of them. Of Tyler and I. And of the baby. Taken back in Australia.  As far back as when he was still in the hospital.”

 “What are you talking about? Esme...did you break into his hotel room? What the hell are you doing? You need to get out of there. Before he comes back. Just get the hell out of there and don't look back.”

 “I've gotta go, Nik.”

 “Esme, listen to me. Just get out of there and go somewhere safe. In public. Tell Tyler where you are and he'll find you.  Don't make this any worse than it has to be.”

 “I've got to,” she insists, and disconnecting the call, drops both her cell and the folder into her bag. 

 ****

 She returns the key and gives the manager another ten for his troubles. He's grateful; business has been slow and the owner is two weeks late with his pay.

 “Did you find everything you were looking for?” he curiously inquires, and she smiles and slips her sunglasses onto her face.

 “More than I expected to.”

 Her stomach churns. The sweat comes in rivers. Yet she violently shivers as she steps out onto the busy street. Head down to avoid any unnecessary eye contact. Keeping a casual pace, wanting to avoid drawing any suspicious towards her.

 She's half a block from the main part of the market when it happens. A hand roughly snatching her by the top of the arm and yanking her into the alley. A second hand coming down over her mouth to stifle the startled yelp.  Someone big and strong using their power to pin her up against the brick wall.

 “Don't fucking bite me.”

 The voice is low. Savage almost.  Accompanied by furious blue eyes. And instead of sinking her teeth into the flesh of his palm, she shakes her head vigorously to get him to release his grip.

 “Tyler, what the hell?! You scared the shit out me!”

 “I scared the shit out of you? That's fucking rich. What the hell are you doing here? I wake up and you're gone and I find out you're here? In Dhaka? What the fuck?”

 “I told you I needed to come back here,” she feebly attempts an explanation. He's too livid; nothing will get through to him when he's in this kind of state.  “I told you and you refused to listen.”

 “Because I thought it was fucking insane. But if you'd just asked me to come with you, I would have. You know that. What the fuck, Esme? Why were you in the hotel?”

 “You've been following me?”

 “Since the market. Since you talked to that vendor from last year. He's the one who told me you were looking for some colleague of yours.”

 “I broke into Jason's room,” she admits.

 “What the...”

 “He isn't who he says he is, Tyler. He isn't who anyone thinks he is. He even fooled Nik.”

 He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

 “He's one of them. One of Asif's people. And I know this sounds insane and I would probably think so too if I just hadn't gone through quite possibly the most messed up year in my entire life.”

 “Considering the shit I've seen and done, nothing is crazy any more.”

 “The vendor told me that he saw Jason and that Fahrad kid together. Which would make sense at first because I'm the one who told him to come here and track him down. But he said they acted as if they knew each other. And that they left together. So I decided to go to the hotel and...”

 “Commit break and enter,” he finishes for her.

 “Well technically it wasn't B and E because I had a key. But  I found these...” she reaches into her bag and pulls out the file folder.  “Pictures. Of us. Of Millie. Going back to when you were still in the hospital. This is fucked, Tyler. He's fucked.”

 He takes the folder from her and flips through it. She sees the way his jaw clenches and the way the vein in his throat begins to throb, making that thick, jagged scar even more noticeable. Those blue eyes growing darker with each photo.

 “What are we going to do?” she asks.

 “We're going to the bridge,” he tucks the folder back into her bag. “We're going to give him what he wants.”

 “Tyler...no...we can't...you can't.”

 “Do you trust me? I need you to trust me.”

 She nods. “With my life.”

 He takes hold of her hand, pulling her out onto the sidewalk. “Let's go.”

 ****

 “I've done all that I can,” Nik announces.  “Pulled every string and called in every favour I could. I can have the bridge closed for twenty minutes. That's it.”

 “I won't need that long,” Tyler informs her, cell phone pressed to his ear as he and Esme sit in a stolen car on the west side of the bridge. It's all coming together now: alarmingly vivid recollections of the last time he'd been there.

  The sights and the sounds; boots crunching against pavement as he stepped over the sea of bodies that Saju had already collected on his own.  The rapid pops of gunfire further down the bridge, terrified bystanders fleeing from the area, the moans of those that lay dying in the roadway.  He'd already been injured; shrapnel from bullets, shards of glass embedded in his skin, combining with the wounds that he'd suffered the day before.  Shoulder in agony; every movement causing pain like a white hot poker to shoot from the nape of his neck to the tips of his fingers. He'd been vaguely aware of the fact he was bleeding; remembering the way it softly trickled down the left side of his face and both arms.  He was weary; panting and out of breath.

 But he kept going.  With each bullet he fired and each life he took, he counted down the steps...the seconds...until freedom.  Until he'd see her again. Thinking of the plans they'd made while tangled up in bed, naked and sweaty bodies pressed up against one another. His fingers tangled in her hair and her head resting on his chest, their voices sleepy as they talked about all the things they would do as they got to know each other in all the ways that didn't involve. Not that the sex wasn't going. It was incredible. But there'd been so much more to discover about one another and he'd been looking forward to it. They'd travel; that was their final decision. Taking some of the money they'd be paid and taking nothing more than their passports and a few change of clothes and just seeing where they'd end up.  Colorado was first on the list.  He wanted to see the mountains.  Where she lived. Maybe even meet her family. 

 And that..along with seeing Ovi's safe return home...had been what had kept him going. Despite the blood and the pain and the mounting injuries. The thought that someone was waiting for him on the other side of that bridge.

 “Don't kill him,” Nik implores.

 “I will if I have to.”  He is expecting to have to make the decision. Whether to take the younger man's life or just beating him within inches of his demise and then letting him live. 

 “If you can find cover afterwards, I'll send Yaz to get you. An hour. Two at the most.”

 “We'll manage,” he says.

 “Be careful, Tyler. I know you're angry. I know you want revenge.”

 He's not sure if she means against Jason or the kid who'd nearly taken his life.  He choose the former.  “He put my wife in danger, Nik. Who knows what he was going to do to her once he got a hold of her. It wouldn't have been good. You and I both know that.”

 “You don't know how many other people are involved in this. He can't be working alone.  It's too much work for just one person. Don't let your guard down. Make sure you come back in one piece. Both of you.”

 He disconnects the call and slips his phone into the pocket on the leg of his cargo pants. Reaching for Esme's bag that sits at her feet, he takes out the Glock; removing the magazine and one in the chamber.

 “Are you sure this is going to work?” she nervously inquires.

 “It'll work,” he assures her, and drops the gun back into the satchel before placing it in her lap.

 “I wasn't going to kill him, you know. That kid. Scare him. But not kill him.”

 He wants to believe her. But he knows the power of revenge. How loving something and someone so much can cloud your judgment. There was a time where he wanted what she did:  Farhad lying cold and dead in the street. But with the physical healing came some mental repair as well.  Revenge only dragged you down. Hardened you. Made you just as bad as the person who caused your harm.  You'd never be able to fully go on with your life and enjoy your future with that kind of baggage weighing you down.

 “I'm sorry,”  she's staring out the window as she talks; voice low, eyes glassy. No doubt filled with her own memories of the last time they'd been there. “I know you're pissed.”

He snorts. “You think just a little bit?”

 “I know this isn't where you want to be.  In Dhaka. Back on this bridge.”

 “You really think that that's what I'm upset about? That I had to come back here?” he shakes his head incredulously, and placing his elbow on the window ledge, places the side of his head in his palm and closes his eyes. His head feels as if will explode. So many emotions. All of them too powerful and all consuming. And the memories...come back with the force of a tsunami. “How can you know so well one minute and then know fuck all the next?”

 She shifts uncomfortably beside him, knee brushing up against his,  her hands nervously twisting at the strap on her bag.

 He cracks open an eye and casts a sidelong glance at her. This woman that he was wildly and crazily head over heels for. Who had walked into his life and filled the enormous hole inside of him in the way no amount of drugs, pills, and self loathing could ever do.  Who had so willingly and unselfishly given up her life in order to improve his.  Who'd give him a child. Two now, if you considered the one currently growing inside of her.  He lays a hand on her thigh; stilling the anxious twitches. Then closes his eyes once more.

 “That's not why I'm pissed,” he says. “I'm not pissed I had to come here. I'm pissed that you did what you did. You were the one that was worried about me sneaking off. I never thought you'd be the one doing it. All you had to do was tell me. I would have given you a hard time about it, but I would have come here with you. But you didn't give me that chance, did you.”

 “I thought it would easier just to do it on my own,” she confesses. “I didn't want to put this on you.”

 “You're not putting anything on me. The second we put rings on each other's fingers, we said we'd bear the weight of each other's burdens.  That we wouldn't have to deal with things alone. And the fact you just went ahead and left...”

 “I'm sorry,”  he can hear the tears in her voice. Can see the image in his head: those dark eyes filling to the brim, the way her lower lip always trembles. Even when she's crying she's beautiful.

 “And you just didn't leave me. You left the baby.  My  baby. And she needs her mother. What if you'd never come home? She'd spent the rest of her life wondering about you and I'd spent the rest of my life trying to make sure she never forgets you. And what about the other baby? The one that's inside of right now.  Did you even stop to think about them? What could have happened? Not just to you but that baby too? You didn't make these kids on your own. They're mine too. You're not the only one that loves them and would die for them.”

 “I know...” her voice cracks, and he can feel her hand as it settles on top of his.  And he laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly.  “I know you hate right now.”

 “I could never hate you. Ever. There's times where you piss me off and I don't like you very much. But I could never hate you. I love you too much. With everything I am. With everything I have.”

 She raises their hands to her lips and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I love you. I don't think you'll ever realize how much. And I am sorry. I didn't do this to hurt you. Or make you mad. I did it so that I could finally move on. Because it's been so hard...so fucking hard.”

 She cries in earnest now, and he opens his eyes and reaches across the car; a hand on the back of her head as he pulls her into him. Her face tucking into the hallow of his throat. His face in her hair as he takes in the scent in that lingers on those dark tresses.

 “It's time to go,” he says, and presses a kiss to her temple.

 “Tell me it's going to be okay.”

 “It's going to be okay,” he promises, and places a kiss to her forehead.  “Trust me.”

 “I do,” she assures him and then gives her bravest smile as she pushes his hair off his forehead. “I'd sort of miss you if you weren't around.”

 “I'd sort of miss you too. Even if you do  do stupid shit sometimes.”

 She kisses him. Her lips soft and warm against his.  Then pulls away and opening the car door, slings her bag over her shoulder and steps out.

 All he can do is sit there and watch her walk away.

[awed-frog]

Hope this isn't tmi but you said you were open for questions about cups, so i've used cups for around 3 years now but on my heavy days I still won't go outside without the cup AND a pad because there is just always leakage somehow? It's definitely completely sucked in but yet by moving or however, stuff leaks out? i feel like that's just the opposite of the benefits of a cup. when I go without a pad, i still put toilet paper in because even on light days there are some traces? what do i do wrong

Hey, no problem, there’s no shame in discussing periods! Not sure I can help, but off the top of my head:

1) If you’re out of your teens and still experiencing a very heavy flow on most days, maybe see an obgyn to check it’s just rotten luck and not some medical issue. (The pill can help, of course, but many women will get side effects.)

2) Speaking of heavy flows, it can lead to undetected problems, the main one being iron deficiency. Again, my suggestion is to see a doctor and get tested before you start experiencing symptoms. Be careful with unprescribed supplements because excess of iron will give you nausea! But: some people find it helpful to simply adjust their diet - remember that you need Vit C to absorb iron, so think in terms of ‘beet salad with lemon juice’ or similar.

3) Cups come in two sizes. In theory, the larger one is for older women and/or mothers, but it could be worth checking if you feel more comfortable with a different size (or brand).

4) What concerns me, though, is that you experience spotting on lighter days - which shouldn’t be the case. Are you emptying it every 2 to 6 hours? Are you checking it’s clean and dry on the outside before inserting it again? And if it’s fully ‘popped’? I’m sure you know how to do this if you’ve been using one for 3 years, but in case anyone else needs it: take your time, squat down in your shower or tub, and lightly touch your cup, all around, to check if the silicone’s tight against your skin. In the beginning it’s a bit tricky to make it ‘pop’, and that’s a common cause for leaking.

5) It could also sit at the wrong place inside your body. Maybe recheck the diagrams and instructions: as a rule of the thumb, it should be high enough that it’s a bit difficult to feel it if you insert a finger standing up (that’s why it’s always best to change it when you’re sitting down or squatting).

That said, heavier days can be messy. A cup and a pad still means you don’t have to change a soaking pad every 30 minutes, so to me it’s worthy it, but I get your frustration. If you find the pad uncomfortable and you have the option to, you can also clean your cup every hour or so? Another option is to switch brands - some menstrual cups are conceived for heavy flows, and hold almost double the amount of a standard cup (40 ml instead of 20).

(Here there is more info on how much blood we can expect to lose every month and how much liquid pads, tampons and cup can hold.)

Finally, this is just my opinion, but I don’t think paper + vagina is a good combination. Bits of paper can stick to your skin, which tends to be wetter on your period, and this may cause infection. When it comes to spotting, my obgyn is a ‘Just wear sturdy black underwear and fuck it’ kind of person and I think that’s good advice, but if you don’t want to do that I’d suggest mini pads or cotton pads. Generally speaking the less synthetic stuff comes in contact with your vulva, the better - and that applies to underwear and soaps as well. 

[antivirusprogram2020]

I am an antivirus program (2020)

> CHAPTER 2 The new human type cannot be properly understood without an awareness of what he is continuously exposed to from the world - Theodor Adorno. Minima Moralia, 1951 We can not change the medium as the medium is predicated on the message (use my square space code for a 10% discount)- we are fixed in this web 2.0 and the control of knowledge will be met with the streamlining of UI and UX design. Design tools like the adobe programs will continue to increase their premium and their monopoly hold on the design space - to be a designer is to be implicated with this process, regardless if you pirate software or notThis is where I raise flags against the tepid conglomeration of blog sites and web in general, the astroturfing of the internet has only amplified the feedback of Graphic Design. You’d typically call this commercial design. Commercial design fits the criteria of an evolving media world, “It is important to note that this ultimate stage of pictorialization was a reversal of pattern. The world of body and mind...was not photographical at all, but anonvisual set of relations”1. Commercial Design started to drive an efficiency science behind it’s aesthetic - you make the access mode immediate and your engagement success is far higher, and you do this through the pictogram, and when photography came about, that too was made into a design appendage. “To understand the medium of the photograph is quite impossible, then, without grasping its relations to other media, both old and new. For media, as extensions of our physical and nervous systems, constitute a world of biochemical interactions that must ever seek new equilibrium as new extensions occur.”1 This is potentially a valuable understanding of media, and thus design, presented by media theorist Marshall Mcluhan, commercial design (and all art and design in a sense) are schizophrenic presentations of the world, they accumulate meanings outside the presented scope of an advertisement, or typography - they link the relational experience of the mass media consumer, as Mcluhan states. However, this is not all, he states an ‘equilibrium as new extensions occur’ - in my context now this weighs with a great importance, we know the new extensions already, something that Mcluhan unfortunately didn’t get to experience fully, and that’s the web, the modern computer, the pocket mobile device. These are in their own rights mediums, your OS (operating system) is a computer language medium that dictates other program mediums, the access mode to the rest of the systems of design, websites contain live feeds and streams to distant realities, it’s all so lucid but at the same time it feels like an astral projection. At times this can feel nauseating, that collapsing feeling of ‘space’ and ‘time’. This presents a wider problem with modern design, technology has embedded itself into the core of the practice since the dawn of paper and pen, stone and chisel etc. The problem being that while technology has stopped gapped connectivity, it refuses to go further - refuses to return the creativity of a design practice unless commandeered. This has led to the necessity for the designer to code, and script, to kit bend and utilise AI - once again “fragmenting” the work role. “Under conditions of electric circuitry, all the fragmented job patterns tend to blend once more into involving and demanding roles or forms of work that more and more resemble teaching, learning, and “human” service, in the older sense of dedicated loyalty.” Graphic design namely has done well to adapt and reshape, showing its versatility in the age of digital design. Not only that, it hybridizes aesthetic models much like a fashion season generates new styles, which keeps design itself fresh and alive, while sometimes slipping into the contrived and over-saturated. But is the “human” service really what Graphic Design is becoming? It certainly hints to this with the proactive design studio model. Interaction and Bureaucracy, it’s an efficiency tactic. All design requires hierarchy even if that hierarchy is to not have one. I see the office space, I remember the spider plant, I see the shore line, I see the whitecaps. The workers space is a micro-territorial space of capital politics and a grab for faux socialism in most cases, in some, it is an honest attempt to form comradery - the cafeteria is an effective grounds to reinforce or detourne this thinking. People like artist Olafur Eliasson effectively install a commons space for the studio team to interact and communicate, job roles are made equal in that space. “The studio, as much as we don’t like it, means working in your own little departments, compartmentalised. And there are hierarchies even though everyone’s a part of the democracy. The kitchen is a nice leveller.” It’s a universal ideology that falls into a majority of Eliasson’s work that provides an effective future-proof for how the operations of studio practice should be carried out (see the Auteur myth). My cynicism is only symptomatic of the consumerist prerequisite that allows design to exist in the first place - a degree in the topic definitely is met with a careerist sentiment, to be financially viable within a milieu of art and design subjects. Graphic Design should not try to divorce itself from this grouping, it stands stronger with the complex wovings and multitudes that allow it to bloom as an individual practice that arranges the practice of others. The efforts here are a concern with the design practice no less, and how ethics and politics are sequestered by a shifting responsibility of effects, how and why Graphic design mutated into the corporate virus that it is now. ”All media work us over completely.”8 This is Mcluhan’s sentiment from his writings in the 60’s, and It stands up true to this day, more so than ever. Algoration (the use of data algorithms to curate a web feed) are notorious and globally implemented into most ‘social media’, but outside social media, it’s used as predictive data. This is the “reversal pattern”, Graphic Design puts a face to this slippery coded underbelly. The automation of design media has become an efficient business strategy to overmine its user base data, and subsequently requires illustration. To be concise, the study of the Graphic Designer is in part the study of Media, the study of media is the lens of relational activities and connectivity. And this is the permitted virus. Adversely, the antivirus program is a research protocol invested in studying the autonomy available to a Graphic Designer, and an extended hand to all fragmented sectors that require a similar reclamation. Language dictates media – media manufactures consent, therefore language manufactures consent. A small quibble no less, that the Graphic Designer goes to bed with media every day. And in the morning they arise with vast spawns of editorials, emailing lists, content posts - lots of fucking content posts by content creatures. The homogeneous sprawl of media is a compounded expository of new design conditions. “Today, the mass audience can be used as a creative, participating force. It is, instead, merely given packages of passive entertainment.”8 The passive entertainment is reflexive of its audience, an audience that is content on not being challenged when engaging and consuming media, not being challenged when creating and releasing it - the language logic is a false preposition - things don’t have to occur in the forefront of our percepts, media can be a stealth operation for critical theory or a dog whistle for nazis. Even a glass of milk is steeped in meaning. “The photograph is just as useful for collective, as for individual, postures and gestures, whereas written and printed language is biased toward the private and individual(s) posture.”1 Mcluhan and designer Rapheal Roake seem to fit perfectly in collusion with one another here, “All design is a political act”, this fits Mcluhan’s collective principle for the photograph precisely, as this explicitly gives backing to the relational dynamics of media itself, it sits in the collective sphere - the global village. It all begins to feel like a fever dream, the spectres of Helvetica, Comic sans and Papyrus jumping on your chest as you’re paralysed in a waking dream. Blink and you’ll miss the horses head 144hz refresh rate. The grid settings of your life are closing in tighter and tighter as you cant kern in a moment for peace, please adobe I’m plugged in to your creative cloud let me use my kettle already, yes dear, they’re wacom tablet plates, we threw out the cutlery and replaced them for tote bags and ironic panel hats. The decoherence of the 21st century is here and it’s got anthropocene smeared all over its lips. Everyone wants to fuck their OLED displays, the screen is constantly flirting with me, it bulges and writhes along with it’s circuitry like an obscene Cronenburg slide show, and with a tilt of the hinge, it rips my hands straight off the bone. It’s simultaneously psychosexual and completely meaningless, but there doesn’t seem to be any Big Other alternative, can you see the demons wearing the guise of post-modernity, and where they emit a solar flare? Just tryna game the system can’t you see, if I shake it at just the right moment, at the right angle, I’ll get an additional diet coke. You don’t understand how fucking much I like diet coke. A man who finds himself among others drinking diet coke is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others drinking diet coke. I have graphic design Stockholm syndrome, what do you mean you don’t know who Gerrit Noordzij is? At this point going outside will trigger my flight or fight response, I’m afraid of being swooped by seagulls while I’m bound on a rock, I sleep in a bed with a faraday blanket, I’m absolutely glowing, washed in sunlight. “As for the anticipation of reality by images, the precession of images and media in relation to events, such that the connection between cause and effect becomes scrambled and it becomes impossible to tell which is the effect of the other” These collective postures translate into all modern media and are littered with effects. One is singular and rhizomatic in any given instance of engagement towards media and the invisible hand of the ‘designer’. And on the contrary the medium is an assemblage of arborescence and is later politicised in the factory line assembly - a by-product of ‘essential’ capital labor. The capital fiction is overwritten by the post-market mythos of a company and it’s figureheads, it’s in-house publishing team use individual members to feature in nice magazines. Effects, we are overcome by so many different effects daily, to the extent that we become desensitized to the potential the subsequent causes and effects, modern reality makes sure to compound these consequences of media to a sensory overload of hysteria, the neurotic ones take to pinterest to organise themselves. We like to order things, It gives clarity and comfort within the dysphoria and entropy of our lives, pinterest, tumblr, are.na, instagram are all negentropical solutions in an overstimulated digital environment. “Instant communication insures that all factors of the environment and of experience coexist in a state of active interplay.”8 To understand this I need to clarify that the medium, the message, the photograph and all subsets of visual and nonvisual information are communication - it goes without saying - but this establishes the politicised and astroturfed space of Graphic Design, a designer is expected to make commercially viable work to thrive, and usually this is achieved by co-opting styles to any degree appropriate to a brief. This results is the parody, the hyperstition and hyperobject - an overly ironic and self aware ventilation apparatus that keeps the gimmicks of Graphic Design alive. The overtures of a design piece can appear stark placid and regurgitated. It’s very much easy to default to a ctrl-c, ctrl-v automation process. Reinforced no less by an autodidact push of some educational institutions - more concerned with juggling design briefs than focusing their teachings on a core design system (despite their ever love for the Bauhaus - yes huni the library is open). Of course, with the new emphasis on a technology dominated world we are expected to rely and reinforce the techno-dependent designer (work smart not hard). And we are yet to catch up to this mutation in design, where design was once a phylogeny of different features that collected to assume a physical medium, centrered on type, constrained by fibres and ink and oil - these components have congealed onto the Macbook, the ergonomics of physical/digital unbound the Designer from the difficulties of a physical medium. So why do we remain in the realm of rehashing typefaces and conventional media, why are we tied down to the revolving doors of design trends - surely now than ever we have all the components, all the tools to produce new design movements, this can’t keep up “When the circuit learns your job, what are you going to do?”8

[prettygirlseat]

TW.

Guys for anyone who follows me with disordered eating habits, anyone who’s in recovery, or anyone who may be triggered by this, i want to first put out a warning. i will be talking about eating disorders, binging, food, calories, and other diet-related topics. please read at your own risk.

So. I finally watched Shane Dawson’s “The Return of Eugenia Cooney”, and... wow. First, I had never heard of her before his video; I may have seen pictures here and there on Tumblr or other sites but I never knew who she really was.

At first I was incredibly triggered, and within 3 minutes into the actual video, I had to pause it and catch my breath because I (not expecting to see what I was seeing) was not mentally prepared to watch a video like this. That being said, the video was very good, but that’s not why I’m making this post.

If you’ve been following me since BEFORE I was even in recover and I was a thinspo account, you’d know that, mentally, I was incredibly sick. I remember seeing one of my old posts a few months ago where I documented what I ate that day, and I only had eaten 500calories. At the darkest part of my eating disorder, which has yet to be professionally diagnosed (for reasons I’ll get into in a second), I struggled to eat, my hair would fall out in large clumps, I’d have bruises everywhere from lack of iron, my skin would be dry and flakey, and I would be cold in 80 degree weather.

I suffered from disordered eating habits my whole life. Blame it on partly my problem with certain foods (food aversion & sensory processing, which led me to eat a very little variety of foods), growing up poor and not being able to afford the luxury of some foods, my mom’s lack of knowledge about nutrition, and other mental factors like family life and other mental illnesses. However, things got progressively worse for me when I was in 7th grade (about 10 or 11 years old); that’s when I first noticed I was beginning to purposely eat less and less food OR I’d easily eat an entire tub of cheese balls in the span of 2 or 3 days.

When I got to high school, I started doing cheerleading, and this was a problem because cheerleading is the type of sport (yes sport, stfu) where certain things are dictated by your “size” aka how much you weigh. If you were lighter/smaller, you’d be a flyer, which meant you’d be the girl in the air. If you were heavier/bigger, you’d be the girls holding the flyer in the air, etc. Well, ever since I could remember, I wanted to be a flyer so bad, but I was never small enough. I wanted to be thin so that I could be the girl in the air. Not to mention the small uniforms with the tiny skirt and little top made it harder as well because I wanted to look good, I wanted to feel cute and “small” in my uniform.

When I turned 15, though, that’s when things peaked for me, in terms of my eating disorder’s severity. I had begun losing a lot of weight, I was in love with a boy at the time who didn’t love me back, and my sick brain convinced me that if I was thinner, maybe he’d like me. *spoiler alert: he didnt* So yeah, I was losing weight, going to the gym everyday, binge every few days, and I even created what I called a “thinspo” diary to keep track of what I was doing. AND. I made a thinspo account on Tumblr. hence how this account was originally born.

The more weight I started to lose, the more compliments I received, which motivated me to lose even more weight. However, by the time I was 17, I had met a girl that had just moved to my school and was a “friend of a friend”. She was also suffering from an eating disorder, and she was in the process of getting help. With her encouragement and the encouragement of recovery blogs on Tumblr and my own desire to escape the hell of my ED, I finally went into self-recovery (because, keep in mind, I had never been properly diagnosed by a doctor and since no one in my family knew what was going on).

Self-recovery, first off, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done (and still fight with every single day). If you or someone you know is in self-recovery give yourself/them some love and encouragement because truly I feel like no one understands how hard it is to pull yourself out of the pits of hell all on your own. With that being said, I was struggling for awhile with my recovery at this point. Now, fast forward to February 2018 (I was a senior in high school), I had caught the flu. Left me unable to hold down food or water for 2 days. I was sent to the hospital because I had thrown up 7 times in 10 hours, which doesn’t seem like a lot maybe but let me tell you that was the worst physical illness I had to endure, and I was sick for 2 weeks.

During these 2 weeks, I could eat maybe a sleeve of crackers and a can of coke if I was lucky. I was at a very low place mentally, and overall I was just miserable. I had been attempting recovery for a few months at this point, and I was seriously struggling. So, like any logical person would do, I tried to reach out to people for help. I decided it was finally time I come clean to my mom about my illness. I was laying in bed and I had gotten up to go talk to my mom, who was doing dishes in the kitchen. I walk up to her and, meekly (which is something I’m NOT in the slightest) tell her I might be sick with an eating disorder, and that I thought I needed help. She, who worked as an Emergency Room technician and had treated patients with stabbings and gun shot wounds, told me that 1. I was not thin enough to have an eating disorder (because technically I was at an average weight for my height) and 2. she knows me well enough to know when I’m sick and that I’m not actually sick.

As someone who struggles with any mental illness, but especially an eating disorder, all you want is someone to recognize you, validate you, and give you reassurance. In this moment, I knew I would never get any of those things from my mom about my illness. And this may sound dramatic to some people, but I think a part of myself died that night. Because that wasn’t the first time I had gone to my mother for help, and time and time again she had either outright denied my need for assistance or had said she’d get me help and just never did. And I still remember how devastated I felt in that moment, and I know there will permanently be rift in her and I’s relationship. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive her for; when I was at the absolute worst and practically begging for someone to give a fuck, she turned her back on me and left me to basically fend for myself.

I’m finally happy to report, that as of July 2019, I am the happiest and most at peace I’ve ever been in my whole life. I’m recovering/recovered, I’m physically healthy, I have recently met some of the greatest people that are now in my life, and I finally feel like I got away from the grips of my ED. I’m not sure why I made this post, to be honest, but I’ve been struggling a little bit wit body dismorphia, positivity, self love, and everything else. After watching Shane Dawson’s video on Eugenia Cloony, it really put things into perspective of my own journey and how far I’ve come and how genuinely happy I am. I, like every other person on the planet, have many things I could improve upon, but I am so proud of where I am now. Shane’s video was triggering, but I needed to watch it to remind myself that: 1. I don’t want to die 2. I don’t want to be skeletal 3. I don’t want the people around me to fear for my life 4. I want to enjoy life, enjoy food, and just be happy 5. I am so much more than this body. I have passions, dreams, fears, goals, just like any other person.

If you think you can handle it, I recommend watching Shane’s video because it does shed a little light into the mind of someone with an eating disorder and how they can twist your life and perception. If you read all the way through this, thank you so much. Maybe this helped you, I’m not sure. But I’m glad I have this outlet to share my feelings and personal accounts, if for nothing else, than to just get these feelings off my chest; I don’t even care if no one reads this. But anyway, please know that my messages are always open if you’re struggling or you wanna talk or you need advice or even you just wanna send memes and gifs. I hope you all have a wonderful rest of your day.

[dandyfics]

taste ; lee minho ☆

━━☆

— summary: as many say, even the smallest things can create small clusters of happiness. what if that happiness comes from somewhere familiar? perhaps the local creamery you’ve grown too fond of?

— genre: fluff, a whole lot of fluff, ft. other skz members — pairings: ice-cream boy!minho x office worker!reader — word count: 2.6k — warnings: explicit language, cursing 

— author note: beware of spelling & grammar errors ! this was based on some random sub reddit so uhm– it doesn’t really have a theme ?? but i hope you enjoy my first **published** fic nonetheless bubs ! and of course, gender neutral !

You hate Mondays. The endless demands from your co-workers to grab some coffee, the hideous traffic anywhere you go, your boss shouting like a bewildered orangutan, and of course the ravenous feeling that washes in your stomach. You fear that you’re not going to make it by the time lunch break rolls in.

Obviously, this doesn’t only apply on Mondays. But the fateful day decided to be a special snowflake to you and your work ethic, which makes it ten times shittier than any other day. Not to mention the hefty piles of paperwork that you need to finish at home before August. A year into the work experience in Seo’s Publishing & Co. and you still struggle to get that promotion you’ve been opting since January. At least they pay you well.

But you weren’t alone on that exact Monday. Summer and it’s endless supplies of heat waves decided to enter your life before you even know it. As Han Jisung likes to say, what a great time to be alive. Not.

“It’s so fucking hot.” Felix limps on his desk chair, frantically fanning himself with a big blue binder. You, on the other hand, already prepared long before with two hand fans screeching atop your desk. “Why is the AC off?”

“Because Mr. Seo said ‘fuck global warming’, which is ironic since his office has two air conditioners that are always on,” Kim Seungmin says, plopping on his chair before turning on his brand new industrial fan that he keeps on bragging about since the beginning of July, claiming that he’s got the weather ‘under control’. Felix doesn’t respond at this rate, instead, he oggles weirdly at the fan Seungmin got from God-knows-where.

You groan miserably. “Turn that damn thing off, you’re perpetuating hot air onto my face.”

“I’ll do that. Once Jisung stops wasting all the cold air from the fridge.”

“I swear to God, Han. If you eat my frozen waffle once again.” Typical Felix who will always protect his food. That kid will protect his cream cheese bagel even if WWIII decided to occur.

Jisung frowns childishly. “It’s just too hot. I’m evaporating, literally.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m in the room.” Hwang Hyunjin merrily waltzes into the conversation, earning a few annoyed gazes and grouses from his co-workers.

“Choke on a baguette.” Seungmin grunts, throwing a crumpled printer paper at him. “Your presence isn’t needed here anymore, not after that promotion of yours.” Hyunjin smiles smugly, taking a sip from his ‘Best Uncle’ coffee cup. 

Yearly promotions have gotten a toll on you, ever since Hyunjin got his place as the assistants’ assistant, he’s been moved to the 3rd-floor cubicle; located right next to the main office, which – you’ve guessed it – is completed with a working air conditioner. Big headed Hyunjin has and will never stop mentioning it. ‘We’ll stay together till one of us gets fired’ my ass.

“You’re just jealous because I earned that cool cubicle on the 3rd floor. Unlike y’all peasants who rely on factory industry fans.” Hyunjin scoffs, emphasizing on the last sentence. Seungmin chokes on his coffee mug.

“You got a problem with Becky?”

“It has a name?” Jisung half-whispers at you, earning a shrug.

“Shut up, Hyunjin, just go back to your fancy little office and do your five stacks of paperwork that you haven’t touched since last week.” You quip, earning a high five from Felix. “Oh, and neither your niece nor nephew likes you, Hwang.”

Hyunjin gasps dramatically, hiding his graphic cup from your sight. “How DARE you.” Jisung cackles his ass off as if he’s enjoying some random Netflix show, watching Hyunjin as he takes an indignant sip from his cup whilst trying to explain that his niece just ‘mildly dislike him and nothing more’. You – being the only one with a sane state of mind – take a glance at the clock.

“Oh, shit. It’s already 12.” You murmur. “Anyone down to get out and grab lunch? I’m not talking to you, Hyunjin.” Felix goes in for another cheeky high five as Hyunjin flouts.

Seungmin pushes his glasses from the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Look, Y/N. As hungry as I am, I’m not going to burn into a crisp of bacon outside in this weather.” He retorts, continuing on his Pdf file. “Fun fact, it’s almost 34° Celcius outside. I’d rather starve to death than sweat to death.” Jisung sheepishly agrees, engulfing in the cold fridge air.

You turn to Felix sympathetically, expecting him to join you. “Can’t you see that I’m hyperventilating?” Felix whines like a wet dog, thudding his head repeatedly on his messy desk. You click your tongue at the pathetic sight.

“Okay, so no one’s gonna join me?” You ask for the last time. Rethinking again about getting burned in the midst of the July air. Was it worth it? Should you really drag one of your co-workers in the ungodly weather?

Silence.

You huff, disappointed lacing your features as a genius idea draws onto your mind. “Well, I’m heading to the creamery near the park. Don’t come at me trying to get a lick from my rocky-road cone.”

“Shit, ice cream sounds great right now!” Jisung squeaks from the floor.

“Please, Y/N, can you get me the mint chocolate one? I need something to cool me off.” Felix jolts from his seat seemingly refreshed and youthful again. Seungmin cheers from his desk, presumably also in the mood for something cold and creamy. Hyunjin screeches like a pterodactyl from the corner of your eye, screaming something about chocolate.

Your co-workers haven’t really grown up, have they?

“Suddenly I’m your servant? Nice try.” You reply playfully, raising an eyebrow at your half-melting co-workers. They all groan in unison. “Nothing is free. Everything comes with a pri–”

Jisung surges from his butt. “Tell you what, I’ll buy you dinner. Chinese at that place you always wanted to visit!” He offers, making the others try to think of a better deal than his. “Only if you get me the cheesecake ice cream.”

Seungmin follows up. “Y/N, if you get me a cup of cookies and cream, I’ll finish reviewing that book for you. Oh, and also a stack of your paperwork. What do you say?” Jisung boos at Seungmin’s boring choice of flavor.

“I’ll give you a foot massage!” Felix adds.

“Tempting.” You snicker smugly before turning to Hyunjin. “Aren’t you going to offer me something, Hwang? Anything?”

Hyunjin avoids eye contact with you before crooning. “Fine, I’ll give you a ride in my convertible for the rest of the month.” You mentally tap yourself in the back for getting great deals just for a bucket of cheap ice cream. Drastic time does require drastic measures, they say. You grab your bag and walk towards the elevator with a jolly good feeling.

“You all got yourself a deal. Better be ready for that foot massage, Lix.”

Dori Creamery. The sweet scent of vanilla and cream whiffs onto you as you walk near the entrance. You spent almost all of your college days being a customer in the said creamery. The place is medium sized, petite but fancy. The light neapolitan colors being the aesthetic of the shop brings back all the memories. You recall the seconds when you had your first date, celebrating your graduation with a cup of mango-sorbet, and your heartbreak spent accompanied by a tube of berry delight.

You liked the place. No, you loved the place. Hints of nostalgia always hit you whenever you enter the calming aura of the room, only this time, the creamery is packed with people. And not just any people; sweaty, loud, body-odor inducing people.

You managed to squeeze in the back of the line, avoiding the nasty body-sweat that lingers around. You can also go to another shop, but hey, where’s the fun in that? If you can’t even get some ice cream, what’s even the point?

“Excuse me, coming through.” You mumble as some guy nearly bumps you out of the line. The whiff of wind in the room is prominent, but the body heat everyone seems to be sharing nearly evaporates you apart.

You opted on scrolling through your phone while you wait for the person at the very front to make up their mind about ‘I’m on a low sugar diet but I really want to try the strawberry shortcake, should I?’. After a while, the line started to dry out, until there’s only you and a few others before you.

Everything was fine and dandy until you feel a force coming from beside you, nearly shoving you down to the floor. “Hey, what the hell?” You scold. A woman suddenly stands in front of you, cutting your precious time and line.

“I’m in a hurry.” She claims, whipping her head to decide on her order.

If you’re in a hurry why the fuck did you stop for ice cream?  A rasp of vexation coils in you, leaving you to do nothing but scowl at the woman. The heat isn’t helping either. A part of you wanted to flip everything off – including the woman – but you remind yourself that you’re no cavemen and it’s just some ice cream, it’s no big deal.

You couldn’t do much but sigh and wait for your turn, hoping that no one else would do something as ignorant as she did. Not even a single sorry? Great, just what you needed.

The woman finally decided on a pistachio order and storms off with a receipt in one hand and a double-scoop cone on the other. You irkly glance before walking towards the counter, repeating the order in your head.

“Uh, hi. I would like a cone of–”

“Rocky road with whipped cream?”

“Yeah, that. And– wait, how did you know?” You eyed the cashier, who’s smiling meekly at you. Nearly staring in awe, you almost forget about the whole order after meeting the enthralling smile painted on his face. “Do I… know you?”

He chuckles lightly, handing his co-worker a slip of paper. “No, it’s just that you always order that. Don’t you ever get bored of it?”

“It’s too good to be bored with.” You say, beaming idly. Finally, a nice–decent human being with good manners. “So, you’re not new here?” You mention, raising an eyebrow. The boy beams, reminding you of the Cheshire Cat – mere charisma laced in his smile. 

He shakes his head, denying your question. “Actually, I own this place.”

Your eyes widen. “Really? How come I’ve never seen you before?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” The boy teases. “I mostly work at the kitchen, perfecting my secret recipe. But I always know my customers.” He playfully answers. “Oh, and if you don’t mind, I added your order to that woman’s receipt. Can you imagine cutting a line just for a cone of caramel and pistachio?” Your eyes widen. Not so sweet after all, huh?

“Wh– isn’t that illegal or some shit?” You ask, worrying that your favorite ice cream parlor will shut down because of the FBI finding out about your stupid cone of rocky road. The boy shrugs innocently.

“Not if you don’t get caught.” He winks.

You scoff, an unfamiliar feeling clusters in your stomach, just like the thrill of first crushes but with a different – slightly bizzare taste. “I’m still ordering something else, though. Tell me, is the rocky road free?” You ask, still unsure of what just happened. Free ice cream isn’t something you get every day, come to think of it. He pretends to think for a while before nodding.

“But,” He says. “You have to do me a favor in return.” You raise your eyebrow, preparing yourself for any stupid favor he has in mind. The blossoming feelings doesn’t stop pounding in you, and suddenly it’s middle school all over again. “How about your number? That seems fair, yeah?” He smiles coyly. You snort.

“Sir, am I hearing things wrong or are you flirting with me?”

“Well, do you want your precious rocky road cone or not?” He playfully sniggers at you. You cognitively slap yourself back alive, lured in by his small tricks. You had no choice, do you? Hey, at least the boy’s cute.

You grab a piece of tissue from the counter without answering. “Do you have a pen?” Handing you a pen, he rests his head on top of his palm, watching you write down your number carefully – trying not to rip the tissue or create a hole. He smirks in satisfaction, watching you as your face washes in a flustered demand. “What’s your name?”

“Minho. Lee Minho.”

“As in the actor? Wow, I’ve never thought he’ll be selling ice cream downtown.”

“I wish.” You giggle at his response, handing him the nearly ripped tissue paper. 

“I’m Y/N, by the way.” You say, awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck. Minho slides the paper on his pocket, handing you a cone of rocky road with whipped cream and sliced strawberries on top as an extra dressing. “Thanks, I’m also ordering two medium buckets of cookies and cream with chocolate and mint-choco with blueberry cheesecake. No toppings, please.” You finally excecute the order after countless unsuccessful rehearsals in your head.

Minho writes down the order before sliding the paper towards his co-worker who seems to be wiggling his eyebrows from your view. “Wow, that’s a lot to eat in one sitting. No toppings?” You shake your head again.

“It’s for my co-workers. Oh, and spit on the chocolate one, if you may.”

“Kinky, but it’s not something I’ve never tried before,”

“I’m just kidding, geez.” You huff, trying to hide the bubbling smile as you wonder, trying to imagine what happened to occur that precise course of action.

“You work at the publishing company now, huh?” He asks, pointing at your nametag as he passes your two buckets of ice cream. You nod enthusiastically. “I remember you coming here late at night in your pajamas doing calculus while shoving cookie dough up to your face. Good times.”

A coral blush crept from your cheeks. “Okay, now you just sound creepy.”

“Well,” He says, his face panning closer to you as you flinch back in surprise. “I’d like to stay and chat, Y/N. But you’re holding the line.” Minho reminds you, cocking his head towards the line. “Let’s continue some other day, yeah?”

You glance at the clock and then at the line behind you. “Oh shit, you’re right.” Clicking your tongue, you mention silently. Disappointed that you have to go back to your crusty co-workers, who’s probably whining over the fact that you’re still not back yet. “How much for the two tubes?”

“Twenty five.” He answers watching you run swiftly through your wallet. “But if you’re willing to go to dinner with me next Saturday, it’s free.” Minho says. Your heart does a cartwheel as you stare into the boy, wiggling his eyebrows at you. What more can you ask from a good looking guy like him? Cheeky bastard.

“How can I say no to that?” The coral blush that tinges on your cheeks fades into a deep red. “To be honest, I’m baffled. You sure know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you, Minho.”

He hums. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”

“You got yourself a date, Mister. Now if you’ll excuse me, someone at the office owes me a foot massage.” Minho winks one last time before you leave the ice cream parlor.

With heart in your hand and ice cream in the other, you walk out the creamery with a delighted feeling. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll melt away like ice cream in scorching hot weather if you think about the ice cream boy too much.

[arcticmaggie]

The Art of Deception (pt 1)

Y/N can’t believe the curly haired man is seriously trying to use her own trick against her.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None!

A/N: okay listen this is super short but I wanted this to be a kinda mini series! Like try not to put too much in each chapter, just a bit of humor and cute Halloween fun! ALSO OKAY BOTH Y/N AND HARRY ARE SUPERNATURAL IN THIS. Fun! Feedback is appreciated! Sorry if there’s any errors!

Y/N has never truly enjoyed using her ability to have her way.

She feels icky inside whenever she stares into a boy’s eyes and tells him to buy her dinner. Or whenever she ‘convinces’ her professor to let her turn in her essay a week late. But these are all emergencies; she has to use her powers (or at least, that’s what she tells herself).

And it’s not like anyone is being harmed! She only made Nick pay for her meal that one time she hadn’t eaten all day and her card declined. Besides, she gave him her leftover pumpkin pie a week later during Thanksgiving. And Professor Davis is just plain cruel for making the essay due only two days after they had started taking notes on the Age of Sensibility. So you can’t blame her for needing more time for research.

Y/N’s a good succubus, if there was such a thing. She’s never thought about taking souls, even if it means suffering through the disgusting diet her shaman Kayla puts her on to absorb the nutrients she needs (a whole lot of goat’s blood mixed with crushed pinecones and kale). And she knows she’s going against the rules of a succubus, refusing to sleep with any guy because of her innate wickedness, but there aren’t any of them roaming around near her to take notice or judge her for it. Plus, even without wanting to, she still lures strangers in with her aura to do illogical things for her (like give her their only pencil during class or give up their seat on a bus when she can easily just stand) so the least she can do is not eat their souls.

So Y/N finds herself, once again, in a sort of conundrum on a Thursday morning, pulling on one end of an umbrella while a tall, curly haired bloke pulls on the other end. She’s in a hurry to get to her 9 am class (which starts in 15 minutes) and since she doesn’t have a car and it’s raining, she ran to the drug store a block from her apartment to buy an umbrella. The only problem with this is that everyone else living in the same area as her must have had the same idea, seeing that as soon as Y/N walked in through the door, two other people strolled past her with the umbrellas that they just purchased. Leaving one single red umbrella hanging in the stand at the back of the store.

She feels quite lucky as she speed walks to the stand, mentally thanking the higher being above (quite ironic, being a succubus and all). But that feeling of joy and relief is swept away as she stands there with a frown beginning to form on her face as she tries to grasp it out of the man's hold.

“Um, can you please let go,” she asks, as she keeps her eyes cast down, not wanting to use her last resort just yet.

“Why? If I grabbed it first,” he responds with a very low grumble, which kind of startles Y/N for a quick second.

Her frown deepens (because he most certainly did not, she grabbed the end first before he came out of nowhere and gripped the other end) and glances up to him, locking into green irises.

He’s attractive, is the first thing she thinks. 

Too attractive. There’s something odd about how undeniably handsome he is. His curly hair is elegantly styled on his head, his eyebrows naturally arched, his nose cutely pointing straight down, his ruby lips perfectly adorning a frown. He’s too hot.

Her analysis over his facial features leaves her silently staring at him for an awkward couple of seconds, and she kinda feels sorry for the guy being under such an intense gaze. She can’t imagine what it must feel like to have a sex fiend openly judging your looks.

But as she continues looking at his face, she sees a smile start to tug on his lips (quite the opposite of what she expected his reaction to be) and he opens his mouth once more.

“You’re quite pretty.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. She’s used to the compliments from all the guys that fall victim to her aura, but she’s really not using her supernatural side to ease him up right now and she can usually at least feel her body radiate this aura when it’s happening on its own.

So the quick change in attitude leaves her cautiously responding with, “I- thank you. I still need the umbrella.” She gives a quick tug on the object but he still maintains his firm grip, possibly tightening it even more.

His smirk stays plastered on. Not fazed by how unfazed Y/N is.

“It’s quite funny, cause so do I. This coat,” he shrugs his shoulders up to indicate the heavy black coat warming his upper body, “was quite an expensive buy. So you can imagine how awful it would be if I let it get drench in the rain. That would be terrible, wouldn’t it?”

Y/N’s eyebrows are now furrowing down.

He’s… he’s doing the thing, she thinks to herself. He’s using the succubus voice. There was no denying that the tone in his voice had gone lighter, like how an adult eases their tone when talking to a child. Or in her case, how she talks to the boy she wants to scoot over so she can get a better view of the board in her Astronomy class.

But he’s not a succubus. She would know when one is around. A succubus is pretty territorial over their ‘hunting ground,’ but she’s not really feeling any kind of dominance overtake her. Considering, the last time one came near her campus, she felt her body burn in fury and had a dire need to take the girl walking next to her in her full glory. So she knows that this man in front of her isn’t one of them.

He lifts an eyebrow at Y/N, considering she’s still bluntly staring up at him with curious eyes. She realizes she still hasn’t answered his question. Doesn’t even remember what it was. Just answers with, “I guess.”

He responds with the same stoic expression, except Y/N picks up on his nose flaring up a bit. He’s frustrated. But that’s all he shows, because his smirk turns into a smile and he tugs on his end of the umbrella, making her stumble a bit closer to him.

“Darling, you seemed like you were in a hurry when you entered the store. So how about we make this a lot faster and just let me buy it, yeah? I’m sure any boy will see you in the rain outside and would automatically give you something to cover your cute self up with.”

She’s not even paying attention to anything he’s saying at this point. Just the way he’s saying it. Why is he using the same tactic as her? Y/N can clearly tell that’s what he’s doing. He’s holding very direct eye contact to ensure that she’s feeling the enticement. His voice is becoming softer, trying to leave her vulnerable. It’s absolutely how a succubus seduces their next victim.

So what is he? Is he just a cocky human that thinks any girl will fall to their knees to give him what he wants? Or is he another supernatural being that knows he can get any girl to give him what he wants? With whatever mystical powers he holds.

Y/N begins to rack through her brain for any sort of creature she’s read upon before that she knows has the same manipulating ability as she does. Kayla only let her read her official book of connections to the Otherworld that one time that Y/N was almost completely drained from not drinking her ‘protein shake’ in a month and she needed a distraction to keep her conscious while Kayla was stirring one up. And even with that one sitting, Y/N learned that she wasn’t the only temptress of the night or the only soul eating creature. But she’s coming up blank. They all had different mechanisms in catching their prey (they’re quite aggressive and she really doesn’t like it; why can’t they just do what she’s supposed to do and fuck a man before draining his life away while he sleeps?) She really doesn’t know anything else that can easily look into someone’s eyes and tell them what to do and they’ll do it. Unless…

“How about this: I take the umbrella, I pay for it, I use it, and then when I’m done,” his free hand lifts up and—oh. He grazes his fingers against the top of her right cheek, slowly bringing them down to her jaw, all with a knowing smirk planted back on his lips. “I can look for you and it’s all yours. How does that sound, beautiful?”

He’s—he’s a vampire.

Oh my god, he’s a vampire.

Y/N can not believe that she’s in the presence of a living (well, unliving) vampire. She never even knew they were real.

I mean, of course! The entire Earth knows about these creatures and the folklore enough for it to be absolutely plausible that they exist, but holy fuck! Edward 2.0 is standing right in front of her! No wonder he’s trying to hypnotize her! He thinks she’s a human.

But wait, shouldn’t he know that she isn’t? I mean, from what she’s seen in Twilight, they have an incredible sense of smell. And she knows that a succubus has a sort of distinct spicy cinnamon smell (she thinks it’s because of their whole sexual nature that they smell like a spice), so shouldn’t he know what she is? I mean, she’s looking right at him, completely unfazed by his attempt to manipulate her. Surely he can see how it’s not working on her.

Speaking of which, he’s still staring at her very intensely and Y/N is now struggling to keep her grin from peaking through. She doesn’t want to let him in on her little revelation.

She’s forgotten what he said again, so she just gives in and releases her hold on the umbrella, earning her a prideful smile on the stranger’s face.

“Thank you, my love.”

He lets the eye contact linger for a few more seconds before dropping his hand that was still tracing a small pattern in her face and swiftly shuffles past her, walking up to the cashier. Y/N is still standing at the stand, absolutely flabbergasted.

Her back is to the man so she lets her smile finally peak through, biting her bottom lip intently over this moment. She doesn’t know why she’s so ecstatic about finding out vampires exist; it’s not like she’s never met any other dark creature before (there’s a particular ghoul who lives on the second floor of her apartment complex that gets really rowdy during December and she’s asked it to shut the hell up a few times). But whatever the reason, it’s got her giddy.

Almost giddy enough to forget what time it is. Almost.

Y/N looks down at her hand that takes out her phone and watches the screen light up as it shows she only has 7 minutes left until her Astronomy class starts. Which is about 2 blocks away. Shit.

Her smile quickly leaves her lips and she turns back around to see the man thank the cashier as he drops his change back into his wallet and starts to turn towards the door with the umbrella in his hand, ready to burst open.

Shitshitshithsit, is all that runs through her mind as she thinks about what to do next. She shoves her hand into her pocket and pulls it back out, now grasping the $20 that she was going to use on the umbrella. She quips her head back to see the price bar on the stand, a whopping $13 and feels her heart begin to beat as she decides on what she’s going to do.

She prays to the heavenly Lord above once more (maybe she should, like, be praying to the boss down under instead?) to forgive her for being so rude as she sprints over to the dead immortal being, opening up the Velcro on his new purchase as he’s halfway to the door.

Y/N quickly shoves her hand into his coat’s right pocket, evoking a surprised breath intake from the stranger as she drops the $20 bucks securely inside before yanking her hand out. She lifts her gaze up to lock eyes with him once more, seeing the look of utter shock strike his face. Surely, she thinks to herself, he must know he’s not that special when it comes to deceiving humans.

Her lips form an apologetic smile before letting out, “Sorry, bloodsucker. I hate the rain. Surprised you’re not basking in it since the sun isn’t peaking out all day,” and yanks the umbrella right out of his hand. Quite easily, considering he was still in a state of shock, even more so now that she called him the B-word.

Y/N sprints the rest of the way to the exit and opens the door swiftly while simultaneously opening the umbrella and bringing it over her head. She decides to take one last look at the gentleman, still receiving the same look of how did this not work on her?

Yet again, the apologetic smile creeps back up and she quickly adds in, “Don’t worry, I’m really good at tracking people down. I’ll give it to you when I’m done with it.” And Y/N treads on through the two blocks to today’s class discussion on Andromeda and it’s known solar systems, leaving behind a man that has absolutely no fucking clue what just happened.