#should look like and how it should function

[chickadeeee]

The crazy thing is… it’s not hard to design accessible interfaces.

As you point out, the information is out there. Nielsen Norman group posts free articles. You can google recommendations for just about anything. How long should a disappearing element stay on the screen? How large should a clickable element be? (24-32px on laptop and 44px on mobile!) How many characters should fit on one line of text before it wraps? (55-75 characters!) There are free Figma plugins (I like Stark) which assess your contrast according to WCAG standards, can simulate vision differences to make sure your colors are distinguishable, like it is really very straightforward to find this information. There is no excuse.

Except that it is *harder* to make an accessible interface that looks sleek and modern. It takes aesthetic, visual skills that not everybody has. I myself have struggled to make accessible interfaces that don’t look like they’re wearing kiddie gloves. But you have to fucking get good and figure it out, or realize that it’s way more important to have a UI people can actually use than one that fits the latest trends.

You’re not going to see accessible interfaces on Dribbble. Those crypto dashboards everyone seems to post are filled with demo data, pretty squiggly lines, genericized squircles instead of text, which shows you how little effort has been put into asking, how can someone actually find the information they need in this data?

And if you’re a company who doesn’t understand that UX is a different discipline from graphic design, you may ask graphic designers to make your UI, and end up with the same kind of thing: very pretty but nearly impossible to use. Yes, small text looks clean. Yes, hiding away unnecessary functions looks sleek. Yes, a middling gray feels easier on the eyes than black. But your goal is supposed to be helping users complete specific tasks. Just because someone’s got “designer” in your title doesn’t mean they have the training or experience or support to think in this framework. But looking pretty is a side benefit of a good UI. Looking pretty does not help someone complete a task!

One small but extremely annoying effect of Tech Modernization or w/e is how UI contrast is garbage anymore, especially just, like, application windows in general.

"Ooh our scrollbar expands when you mouse over it! Or does it? Only you can know by sitting there like an idiot for 3 seconds waiting for it to expand, only to move your cursor away just as it does so!" or Discord's even more excellent "scrollbar is 2 shades off of the background color and is one (1) pixel wide" fuck OFF

I tried to move a system window around yesterday and had to click 3 times before I got the half of the upper bar that let me drag it. Why are there two separate bars with absolutely nothing to visually differentiate them on that.

"Well if you look closely-" I should not!! have to squint!!! at the screen for a minute straight to detect basic UI elements!! Not mention how ableist this shit is, and for what? ~✨Aesthetic✨~?

and then every website and app imitates this but in different ways so everything is consistently dogshit to try to use but not always in ways you can immediately grok it's!!!! terrible!!!! just put lines on things again I'm begging you!!!!

[lazy-ahh]

YOU CAN STAY

pairing mark grayson x gender neutral reader

the weight of the world is crushing you—vigilante work, university, the endless noise of expectations. you’re so tired of holding it all together. but when mark finds you breaking apart, he doesn’t flinch. he just holds you, whispering the words you’re too afraid to believe: "you don’t have to do this alone."

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the weight of the world feels like it’s crushing you—like every responsibility, every expectation, is another brick stacked on your ribs until you can barely fucking breathe. assessments pile up, deadlines looming like vultures, and your phone won’t stop buzzing with unread messages you don’t have the energy to answer. the bruises from last night’s patrol still ache under your clothes, a constant reminder that no matter how many assholes you take down, there’s always another one waiting. what’s the fucking point? you’re exhausted, your chest is too tight, your breaths too shallow, and no matter how hard you push yourself, you’re always two steps behind.

vigilante work isn’t just throwing punches and looking cool—it’s blood on your knuckles, sleepless nights, and the gnawing fear that one wrong move could get someone killed. and for what? the city’s still a shithole, the bad guys keep coming back, and you? you’re just another idiot in a mask, pretending you can actually fix things. the worst part? you can’t even quit. because if you stop, who the hell else is gonna do it? the thought makes you want to scream, but you don’t. instead, you grit your teeth and swallow it down, like always.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, head in your hands, fingers tugging at your hair like maybe the pain will ground you—like if you pull hard enough, you’ll remember how to be a person and not just a live wire of frayed nerves and half-healed wounds. that’s when the window creaks open. you don’t even flinch. you know it’s mark. of course it is. the guy has a perfectly functional door, but no, he’s gotta make a dramatic entrance every damn time, like some golden-retriever superhero who’s never heard of subtlety. you’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so goddamn tired.

except—his presence does something to you, something stupid and soft. the second he’s near, your shoulders loosen just a fraction, your lungs remembering how to expand again. it’s infuriating. he’s sunlight breaking through storm clouds, all easy grins and effortless warmth, and you? you’re the thunder that follows the lightning, all sharp edges and aftermath. you want to reach for him, to press your face into the curve of his neck and let his stupid cologne drown out the noise in your head. but you don’t. you never do. because mark grayson deserves something bright, something unbroken, and you’re just a collection of scars and bad decisions wrapped in armour. so you swallow it down, like always. love is for people who aren’t held together by spite and caffeine, and you—you’re not fool enough to think you could keep it.

"hey," he says softly, voice warm and rough around the edges like he’s been running—or maybe like he’s been worrying. when you drag your gaze up, his eyes are all crinkled at the corners, brows pinched together in that stupidly sincere way of his. it’s worse than pity. it’s care. and god, you hate how your traitorous chest clenches at the sound of it.

you don’t answer. you can’t. if you open your mouth, you’re scared of what might come out—anger, because why does he get to be so good when you’re barely holding it together? frustration, because you should be stronger than this. tears, because you’re so fucking tired, and his voice is the only thing that’s felt safe in weeks.

mark sits beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours, solid and steady. he doesn’t push, doesn’t demand an explanation like everyone else does. he just waits, like he’s got all the time in the world to sit in the wreckage of your bad mood. and somehow, that makes it worse—because he shouldn’t. he shouldn’t waste his patience on you.

"i can’t do this," you finally choke out, your voice cracking like brittle bone. the admission tastes like failure. "i can’t keep up with everything. it’s too much."

mark’s hand finds yours, his fingers slotting between yours like they were made to fit there—warm, calloused from fighting, but so fucking gentle it makes your stomach twist. for a second, you forget how to breathe. his thumb brushes over your knuckles, and it’s stupid how such a small thing unravels you. but then the darkness creeps back in, whispering that you don’t deserve this, that he’s gonna realize you’re not worth the effort, that you’re just another broken thing he’ll eventually walk away from. so you tense, just slightly, like your body’s bracing for the moment he lets go.

"you don’t have to do it all alone, you know," he murmurs, and it’s not fair how easy he makes it sound.

"that’s the thing," you laugh, but it’s hollow, cracking open into something raw and wet like a sob. your fingers twitch in his grip, torn between clinging and pulling away. "i am alone." your voice is rough, scraped raw from the weight of everything unsaid. professors with their deadlines, friends who don’t get why you keep flaking, the whole fucking city breathing down your neck like you owe them something—it’s too much. your jaw clenches, nails digging into your palm where mark isn’t holding you. from the corner of your blurred vision, you catch the way his expression fractures—lips parted, eyes too bright, like he’s hurting for you, and that just makes it worse.

"i just want them all to go away," you choke out, your breath hitching. the words taste like surrender.

you squeeze your eyes shut, but the tears spill anyway, hot and shameful. "why won’t everyone just go away?" your voice is small, shattered. then, quieter, like a secret: "except for you though. you can stay."

mark doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t have to. he just pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, and you hate how perfectly you fit there. his hand rubs slow circles on your back, steady, like he’s mapping the places you’re coming apart so he can hold you together. his heartbeat thrums against your ear, a relentless, living thing, and for once, the noise in your head goes quiet.

"i’m not going anywhere," he murmurs, voice low and steady like a promise carved into stone. his breath ghosts against your temple, warm and alive, and when you dare to glance up, his eyes are soft at the edges—not pitying, just there, like you’re something worth holding onto. his thumb keeps tracing slow circles on your back, each one a silent i’m here, i’m here, i’m here, and it’s so fucking gentle it makes your ribs ache.

you bury your face in his chest, letting his warmth seep into your bones, chasing away the cold dread that’s been coiled around your lungs for days. the scent of his stupid cologne—something citrus and stupidly expensive—fills your nose, and for the first time in what feels like years, you breathe.

but the darkness doesn’t leave so easily. it claws at the edges of your mind, hissing that you’re a fraud for leaning into this, that mark’s gonna wake up one day and realize you’re just a hollow thing held together by duct tape and guilt. you don’t deserve this, it whispers. you don’t deserve him, his patience, his stupid dorky smile. you don’t get to unravel like this and still expect someone to stay.

mark’s hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair like an anchor. "breathe," he murmurs against your forehead, lips brushing your skin. "just breathe. i’ve got you." and god help you, you believe him. just for this moment, the voices fade—drowned out by the steady rhythm of his heart, the way his arms tighten around you like he’s willing to carry every broken piece if you’ll let him.

maybe you do deserve this. maybe, just this once, you can let yourself have it.

maybe the world won’t stop demanding things from you. maybe the weight won’t disappear overnight. but right now, with mark’s chin resting on top of your head and his stupidly perfect hands holding you together, it feels a little lighter.

and that’s enough.

holy cow, has it really been that long since i posted a one-shot? whoops. listen, this was 100% self-indulgent comfort food for my soul—you know how sometimes you just need to write about mark grayson holding someone (you) together at 3 AM while you're emotionally compromised? yeah. that. but then i figured, hey, if my brain worms are craving this, maybe someone else out there needs it too. so here we are. this 1.3k word mess is basically a love letter to exhausted individuals, overthinkers, and anyone who’s ever wanted to scream into a pillow while their emotionally competent (and imaginary) superhero boyfriend rubs their back. no beta, just vibes (and maybe a few tears). hope it gives you even half the serotonin it gave me.

[lrgcarter]

I have designed a new Pride Flag.

I believe it fills a gap in the span of flag coverage. I might be wrong, feel free to ignore if so.

This is the What Are You, A Cop? flag.

Do you want to know more?

Who is it for?

This flag represents any aspect of identity that you contain but don't want to actively broadcast, be it sexuality, gender, absence of either, disability, ethnicity, race, or anything else that I'll inevitably remember I wanted to mention the moment I hit post.

When I say you don't want to actively broadcast it, I don't mean you're keeping it secret. I mean you're just not bringing it up in conversation. And if people want to ask, it's up to you whether you tell them.

The flag encompasses people who have always been who they are, and have therefore never had a "coming out" moment and don't want to have one now.

The flag encompasses people who are happy talking about themselves to those they trust, but think everyone else should mind their own business.

The flag encompasses people who are questioning their identity and don't feel the need to show their workings so far.

The flag encompasses people who think surveys and the state don't need to know these aspects of you identity and should just regard you simply as human.

The flag encompasses people regardless of their reasons for identity privacy.

The flag does NOT encompass secret bigotries, but I imagine if they heard about it bigots would try to co-opt it. Meh, I don't believe this post will gain any traction so I don't need to worry about that.

What Does It Represent?

The design is inspired by this image from the Information Security Wikipedia page.

Central Circle - Existence of Self

The central circle represents yourself and your own identity information.

It stands as a statement that you exist.

Triangle Points - Who has Knowledge of Self

The three points of the triangle represent who has/has not got access to knowledge of your self.

One triangle for those allowed access.

One triangle for those forbidden access.

One triangle for yourself, representing your own journey of self discovery.

Rings - Controlling Access to Self

The rings represent your right to control who knows about your self.

The inner yellow ring represents your right to control knowledge of your physical being.

The black ring represents your right to control knowledge of your mental/psychological being.

The outer yellow ring represents your control knowledge of how your collected physical and mental self interacts with external systems/environments. (eg, whether an environment casts you as disabled.)

Black Field

The square of black in the background represents how designs need to sit on an appropriately shaped 'base' if they are to function as a flag.

Style Guide

The flag uses just two colours because that makes them easier to get hold of.

The colours of yellow and black were chosen because if you can get hold of any fabric or paint, these will commonly be among your options.

Also, these colours mean Back Off in nature.

The design is shoddily constructed. The edges of the circles are messy. The width of the rings is uneven. The black circle fits awkwardly on the yellow triangle.

This is because not everyone has the time, energy, skill, or other resources to make a flag that looks good. Make it all neat and smart if you like, but you don't have to.

You could even just draw it in lines; circle, triangle, two more circles.

Draw it how you like, I'm not a cop.

Though, the symbol as depicted was intentionally drawn so as to suggest a cop had shot a bullet through a triangle. You know what sort of triangle. Fuck the police.

Licensing Information

What Are You, A Cop? Pride Flag by lrgcarter is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License

[kharmii]

There's nothing wrong with being choosy about one's partner. I'd advise women to be more choosy -as they historically have back when pregnancy carried more risk- so they can form long-lasting functional bonds. They should look at a guy and instinctively ask themselves....is this guy going to abandon me with a child someday? Will he make enough to support a family?

Pairing up is supposed to lead to reproduction, and people at the subconscious level have their red flags based on social norms. The reason we have social norms in the first place is because they lead to better outcomes, based on generations of experience. A guy might look at that pink haired anorexic broad with the septum ring and wonder if she's going to end up a hypochondriac who whines about her geriatric medical problems as if she isn't in her early twenties. She might end up being more interested in naked mole rats than babies.

It's like the right-wing pundits are always saying when that case of Jeff Younger comes up every so often. Quick breakdown:

Here's a summary based on the provided information:

The situation: Jeff Younger's ex-wife moved with their twin sons (born in 2012), including James, to California, where she is pursuing "gender-affirming care" for James.

Younger's stance: Younger opposes this, believing his son is not transgender and that this care is harmful and irreversible. He alleges his ex-wife has influenced their son and sought to transition him since he was young.

California's role: California has passed "trans sanctuary" laws (like SB 107) that aim to protect access to gender-affirming care for minors, including those from out-of-state. Younger believes his ex-wife moved to California specifically to take advantage of these laws.

Legal battles: The case has involved custody disputes in both Texas and California courts. Younger has faced legal setbacks, including losing custody and visitation rights. He is currently appealing a California court decision that granted his ex-wife authority to proceed with gender-affirming care for James.

Younger's advocacy: Younger has been vocal about his case, advocating for parental rights and warning of broader cultural and institutional shifts related to gender transition. He has also used his story to raise awareness and support for proposed legislation like the "Save James Act" in Texas. 

Wikipedia that shows the whacko ex-wife trying to get her son on puberty blockers in 2019 when he was seven years old.

Anyway, the right wing pundits are always pointing out that guys need to pick 'em better. Maybe the cat ears and the nose ring are valid red flags. Sometimes a gut instict early on can save some trouble later. The worst of them shouldn't be that difficult to spot. Ever notice how conservative leaning women are most likely to be a normal weight, whereas radical leftists are often either gigantically obese or brittle and anorexic looking?

The longer I exist as a loudly proudly gay man the more I think that cishet men aren't actually attracted to women.

[firingstars]

in this life | ch. 5

bucky barnes x female reader

summary: "There's only one God, doll, and He's gonna bring me back to you." "I don't need God," you told him, fresh tears brimming over your eyes. "I just need you."

warnings: 18+, mdni, brief descriptions on an injury/blood, reader momentarily gets depressed, reincarnation trope, language, mentions of financial instability/being hungry, memories are written with italicizes, no use of y/n, angst, yearning, longing, everyone's alive no one is dead because i said so, alternating pov's

word count: 5.7k

a/n: idk why this chapter was kinda difficult for me to write... i know how i want the story to end and its already written out and ready but idk whats going on the middle of this story is irking me

previous chapter | next chapter

Unknown [10:14am]: What does Traumatic Memory Rehabilitation Science actually entail? I tried Googling it, but I didn't find anything on the subject.

You stared at your phone for a few moments, hiding the device behind your laptop screen. You were in the middle of a lecture, and your professor would definitely call you out if he saw you right now. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that he was going on and on about how his wife was somehow related to this neuroscience class and there must be something wrong with her pathways in her mind for her to leave him. Sometimes you think this class was just an easy way for your professor to be able to rant to people that had no choice but to listen.

You put your phone face down, and pulled up the messages on your laptop. At the very least, you could look like you were taking notes. 

Me [10:17am]: science that focuses on how trauma affects the structure and function of memory, and how the patient’s memories could be stabilized, restored, or rewritten in ethical ways. could be natural trauma or artificial trauma given by outside means

Unknown [10:19am]: Artificial trauma?

Me [10:21am]: wasn’t a huge part of why america didn’t want to give you that pardon bc of what that organization did to you? and your lawyers argued that it wasn’t your mind there?

Unknown [10:22am]: Ah. I see.

Unknown [10:23am]: I didn’t know you kept up with the case.

Me [10:26am]: my grandpa was still around when you were going through it. he would talk my ear off on the phone about how you were being treated awfully by the country and was part of the support groups outside the courtroom demanding a fairer sentence for you.

Me [10:27am]: and it was pretty big news, sergeant. 

Bucky doesn’t respond, and you think you may have scared him off. After saving his phone number officially in your contacts as Sergeant Barnes, you close the messaging app. You go through the rest of your class, finishing off with another surprise quiz that you thankfully knew all the answers to, and head off to grab something to eat before going to the library to study. 

You should apologize to him, you think. It may have been a lot to say all of that, all of a sudden. It could still be a sensitive topic for him, and you may have brought up a bunch of memories for him that you didn’t mean to. You want to hit yourself over the head. Your field of study is meant to help people like him, and yet you just caused issues for him. 

You really could use a shot. Tequila. Vodka. Something strong. But it’s barely noon, and you still have the rest of your day ahead of you. 

You push open the door to the Campus Grounds, and stop in your tracks. 

You didn’t scare him off. 

Your eyes fall on his figure almost instantly. Buckty’s wearing that same leather jacket that he always seems to wear. He looks a little cleaner today, beard a little shorter than the last time you saw him. The dark circles under his eyes are lighter, an indication of more sleep. His shoulders aren’t wound up too tight either.

And he turns to you, as if he’s been waiting for you this entire time. Your heart flutters as caterpillars hatch from their cocoons and turn into butterflies in your stomach.

“Doll,” he greeted. The nickname still makes your mind run circles, but you force yourself back into reality as you focus on his next words. “Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t know you came here, too.”

“At my university’s cafe?” you asked, tilting your head. “The university where I attend school? Spend a majority of my day at?”

Bucky cleared his throat, obviously caught. “Stark told me that the food here was good. I’m expanding my palate…” The man before you pauses, eyebrows furrowing at the menu. “What the hell is a matcha?”

“Depends. Do you want it iced or hot?” you chuckled, stepping into the line.

“How do you take it?”

“Iced, with oat milk, and a pump of vanilla,” you answered. 

Bucky looked a bit helpless at your words, so you repeated the order back at the barista, including two ham and cheese croissant sandwiches to be warmed up as well before giving her your phone number to use your meal points. 

When the drinks come out, you watch as Bucky takes an experimental sip before looking a little confused at the flavors on his tongue before seemingly accepting whatever was going on. You let out a small laugh.

“Not bad?” you guess.

“Not bad,” he agreed, following you as you make your way out towards the door. You hand him his croissant. “What’s your plans today?”

“Studying. We’re towards the end of the semester, and I have finals coming up in a few weeks. I’ll graduate in the winter once I’m done with the upcoming term.”

“Impressive,” Bucky hummed beside you, taking a bite of his croissant. 

“Any Avengers need a therapist?” you asked, glancing at him. Thankfully, he doesn’t look too bothered by your text conversation from earlier this morning. If he was, you were sure that he wouldn’t even be here, still walking beside you right now.

The man chuckled beside you, smiling. “None of them wants to admit that right now.”

“Pity,” you said sarcastically. After a beat, you added, “Sorry. If my message to you earlier was a bit heavy.”

“Not at all,” he shook his head, “I just started driving, so I couldn’t reply.”

“Ah.” So you were overthinking it. Makes sense. 

“It would’ve been nice,” he cleared his throat before continuing, “If your field of study was finalized and completed when I was first put back out in the world. I think it would’ve been helpful for me to be regulated back into society.”

You give him a small smile. “Sorry about that. Took me a bit to decide what I wanted to study. Took a few years of a gap year before I went back to school.”

Bucky chuckled, and took another sip of his matcha latte. It looked like it was growing on him. Either that, or he just wasn’t picky about food. 

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to help people other than me,” he told you. 

“I hope so. Otherwise all this student debt will be for fucking nothing,” you grunt. Another smaller laugh escapes his lips, and you find that the noise awakens a small flutter in your chest that will keep you feeling warm and fuzzy. 

Your feet come to a slow as you stop at the library commons, and you turn to look at Bucky. He looks back at the building briefly before turning to you, giving you a small smile and nod.

“Well. Happy studying,” he said, albeit a little awkwardly.

“Is that all? You just came here to get some matcha and walk me to my university’s library?”

“I just wanted to see your face today,” he admitted. 

You really didn’t expect him to be so upfront with his words. You couldn’t help the smile that came to your face. You bit the inside of your cheek to prevent your lips from curling even wider than they already were.

“I would say I would FaceTime you later so you can see my face again, but I noticed that the message bubbles I sent you weren’t blue. What do you have? Android?”

“Uh. Flip phone.”

You stared at him for a brief second, searching his face for the joke. 

There was none.

“I’ll call you later,” you settled on.

“I’ll wait for it,” he replied, letting out a breath of relief.

Adding calling Bucky to the list of things to do every night was as easy as adding something to your nighttime skincare routine. First step: remove makeup with micellar water. Follow up with a makeup balm. Wash your face with a cleanser. Pat dry with a towel. Use a toner. Moisturize. Call Bucky.

The first night had your heart racing on whether or not you should even call him, too. You were pacing around in your apartment. You stared at your phone on your bed as if it was a bomb that you had to defuse within the next few moments. You told him that you would call, but it was past midnight and you just got off your shift. You had no idea what the bedtime schedule was like for an Avenger, but you told him that you would call. Eventually, you decided that you would at least try to call. If he didn’t answer, then you would send a follow up text for an apology.

Bucky answered right away.

“Thought you weren’t gonna call,” is what he said as soon as the line connected.

“Wasn’t sure if you were still going to be awake,” you replied softly.

“You said you were gonna call. I waited.”

You aren’t sure why your chest squeezed at those words. You swallowed thickly, and took in a shaky breath as you clutched the phone tighter in your hands, trying to formulate another sentence to force out past your lips.

“You know I only work night shifts at the diner, right? I always close,” you told him.

“I know.”

“Then you don’t have to stay awake because I say stuff like that. What if I didn’t call you? Would you stay awake all night next to your phone until I called?” you asked. You weren’t scolding him, you weren’t badgering him– you were just a little stressed. A little worried. 

“I knew you would,” he replied. There was so much certainty in his voice. The steadiness. 

“How are you so sure?”

“I just knew you would.” Again, there was nothing in his words that wavered. 

You paused, letting it sink in for a few moments as your heart thumped in your chest. You dug your nails into your palm, allowing the bite against your skin remind you that this was reality, and you were alive at this very moment.

“Do you want me to keep calling you?” you asked in a whisper.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” he said. A pause. “I like hearing your voice, too.”

From that point forth, Bucky continued to answer every single call without fail. Most of the time, each call was answered within the first ring. Sometimes the call went to the second, but never the third. Your calls had never gone to voicemail once. It was almost as if he anticipated your calls every single night.

You began to look forward to every single one of your calls. It became the highlight of your day, the thing that you looked forward to most after the long and stressful day.

By the second week of your nightly calls, you were really appreciating it. He helped you study. You would have your phone on speaker, on your desk beside your textbooks as you pulled out concepts and verbiage from your brain as if you were teaching a lesson to him, and ask him if he understood a single thing that you just told him. Sometimes you would text him your study guides and he would test you, then let you know what you needed to improve on. You were certain that he heard you slam your forehead on your desk several times over the past fourteen days.

Moreover, Bucky was not much of a talker, which meant that he was a great listener. When you were done studying, your phone would be resting beside your pillow as you laid down. The lights would be turned off and you would close your eyes as you talked to him.

It was as if he knew you were drifting off to sleep. His voice would be softer during these moments. Lower, slightly gravely. Sometimes, both of you would get a little bit more vulnerable in your sleepier states. 

“You should really sleep earlier,” he would tell you. “Your health might take a hit if you keep this habit up.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy sleeping,” you confessed to him.

“It’s good for you. Especially with the amount of studying that you do.”

You sigh deeply, pulling your blankets higher up your body. “I know, I know. I just… I don’t sleep well. I wake up and I’m sad. I wake up and I wish I never woke up. And I don’t mean that in a… sad, depressed way– even though it sounds like it. I just want to stay in my dreams.”

Bucky was quiet for a few moments. “You mean the dreams about the soldier?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Does that sound pathetic?”

“No,” he answered without skipping a beat. “It means you’re happy there.”

“Then doesn’t that mean I’m sad out here?” you ask with a soft laugh.

“You tell me. Are you?”

It’s your turn to fall silent. You don’t know how much or how little time has passed in your sleepy state before you finally answer, “I think I’m not as sad since I met you.”

“That’s good. I think I enjoy life a little more, too.”

“Even though all I talk to you about is the ethics and neuroscience of trauma?” you joke.

“I have a lot of trauma myself, so it’s interesting to know how the trauma affects the neural pathways of my brain and the rest of my body,” he responds with a soft chuckle.

“Mm… Just wait until I get to the section on how your muscles hold all that trauma. It’s not just your brain, Sergeant,” you murmur, shifting deeper into your pillow. 

“I have seventy years of muscular and mental trauma. How long do you think that will take to undo?” 

“You can’t undo trauma, Bucky,” you hum. “I can teach you how to live with it, to learn how to regain yourself from the experiences that you’ve been through– but you can’t undo what ultimately has brought you here. Your trauma isn’t you. But what you do with the trauma is what’s important. Do you carry it and let it weigh you down? Do you let it fuel you and all your rage? Or do you let it be the reason to be a better person?”

“I wish you were my therapist when I had to have one,” he tells you after a few moments, his voice soft. 

Bucky doesn’t choose to elaborate on the topic of trauma any further, or tell you more about his past. You already have a decent understanding of what the Winter Soldier is and what he did based on what was leaked to the public years ago. You don’t push him when he decides to brush it off.

You let out a small laugh, smiling into your sheets. “Don’t forget to tell your Avenger friends about me.”

“I think I might keep you all to myself, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think I mind that, either.”

Sometimes, Peter disappears without a trace and MJ gets irritable. However, she knows what she signed up for when she became Spider-Man’s girlfriend. She knows that she can’t be too upset with him, though Peter really does try to let her know whenever he leaves. Peter just has a one track mind. He hyper focuses on one thing and forgets everything else. 

Bucky doesn’t do that with you. You got a message from him a few days ago letting you know that he will be busy. You expected it to come sooner or later. You were surprised that it wasn’t sooner. Bucky has a job– a very demanding job. One that you can’t ever imagine yourself being in that world or in that kind of life. However, he still communicates with you, which is more than you can say Peter does with MJ. 

Sergeant Barnes [7:27am]: I will not be able to make our meetings for the next few days. I will let you know when I am back in the city. Will be in Malaysia. My phone will be off. 

Me [7:30am]: stay safe bucky

Sergeant Barnes [7:31am]: Always.

The fact that he calls your nightly calls a meeting makes you smile at your phone. You think he’s cute. His age is also showing from the way that he texts you, but you decide to let it slide. If you think about it realistically, the man is only in his early to mid thirties if you’re doing the math right. You’re well aware he was born in 1917, but with the amount of time that he had lost in between with everything that went on with his life— that is an age gap that you can get behind.

“What are you smiling so wide about right now?” MJ grunted, hitting your hip with hers as she walked by. “Table seven needs refills.”

“I was already on my way,” you shoot back, picking up the water pitcher as you fix your grin. 

You’re overthinking, you’re pretty certain. He’s a friend. There’s nothing more to the calls that have been going on every night since you said you would call him. You don’t hang on to every single word he says like it’s a prayer, and you certainly don’t find yourself lulling yourself to bed to his soft whispers every single night like it’s a lullaby. Your mood hasn’t improved the past few weeks, and you’re not smiling more often. You’re definitely not more energized even though you’re losing more sleep by staying up an extra hour later to talk to him longer on the phone, and lying to him by saying that you truly do sleep that late anyways.

You’re a goner and you know it– and you’ve only seen the man in person a handful of times. You were more than certain that he was haunting your mind more than you were haunting his. 

“You look like shit,” you told MJ once the night was over. “Tonight wasn’t even all that bad.”

MJ glared at you as she clocked out on the computer, and waited for you to do the same so you two could walk out together. Your routes home were the same part of the way until they diverged. 

“Peter’s still gone. Still have no idea where he is or when he’s coming back,” she muttered, shoving her arms through the sleeves of her jacket haphazardly. You think she’s crazy for even wearing a jacket in the middle of summer, but you don’t mention it with her current mood. “So yes, I am a little pissed off.”

“Did he leave in the middle of the night again?” you asked, closing down the computer.

“No, he woke me up this time,” she sighed. You two walked out the back, locking the door behind you. “Still, it was really early in the morning and he didn’t explain much before he left. Though, he really can’t ever explain much.”

“I’m sorry, MJ,” you said, a small cringe running through your body. You really can’t imagine what she’s going through.

Though, then again, you’re not even sure why Bucky felt the need to tell you that he was going off the grid for a few days. Or even why he told you where he was going for the mission, either. You were certain that was some kind of classified information if even MJ couldn’t know– if Peter wouldn’t tell her before he left. 

Was it a mistake? Did he mean to tell you all of that information? Or was something going on through his mind that made him accidentally send that to you when he didn’t mean to. Either way, you had more information than MJ, and you weren’t even sure if you were allowed to tell her. You weren’t totally sure what telling her would even do. There would be no purpose in giving her the location. Malaysia was a large place– the Avengers could be everywhere and anywhere. Besides that, maybe Bucky and Peter weren’t even in the same area doing the same mission.

You decided to keep your mouth shut, even though you didn’t feel particularly good about it. Then again, you’ve held enough secrets of your own from your friends over the years. You have a lot of your own issues that they don’t know, and you’re more than certain they will never find out.

Maybe that’s why you feel a certain attachment to Bucky. He knows about your dream soldier boy, and never judged you for it. He brought him up once or twice, too. Bucky knows more about you in the past few weeks that you’ve known him versus the past few years that you have known your friends.

It makes you feel guilty, in a way. Peter has shared his own secrets with you– something that he had no obligation to share with you. It was something that was originally held between the three of them, but he felt that you were important enough to know about it. MJ has some familial issues and has problems letting people close to her, but she still finds herself opening up to you and starting conversations with you more than you start them with her. You’re not super close with Ned, but you know the guy is more than happy to talk to you about any kind of project that he’s working on at the moment. Both him and Peter enjoy spilling whatever information they can spare on whatever work they’re doing.

And yet, you’ve never told them the real reason why you’re studying what you study.

You wish MJ a good night, and tell her to get some rest as your paths split and she heads down her road to her place that she shares with Peter. You make your way down to your own.

New York’s summer nights are muggy. Slightly humid, but better than when the sun is out and beating down on your skin like it’s trying to wear you down. It’s not bad at all, seeing as you’ve lived here for the majority of your life, but you can still see yourself moving out of this busy city and somewhere quieter. 

Away from this nonsense and drama. Maybe you’d be able to run away from your own head if you tried hard enough.

You push the thought away as you push your apartment door open. It’s creaky, and you know you need to spray drown the hinges with WD-40 again.

You toe your sneakers off and hang your purse on the hooks that you nailed to the wall when you first moved in— holes that you would have to fill later on when you eventually move out if you want your security deposit back. Your feet ache against the creaking floorboards that are only slightly dampened by the carpet runner that you put in the entranceway of your apartment. 

You hate this place, as much as you try to deny it. 

You despise the overhead lighting that you never flicker on because it’s too bright, but you also never turn on the various amounts of mood lighting that you thrifted from corner stores because you simply can’t be bothered. You can’t stand the way your landlord sometimes forgets to pay the building’s AC bill, even though you slave away every single day to pay your rent and utilities. You shouldn’t have to suffer for some fucking comfort in your own home. 

You hate the cheap mattress that you barely could afford, that you cried when you bought— not out of happiness, but because you knew you wouldn’t be able to eat real meals for the next week until your next paycheck hit. 

This entire place was a death sentence in your mind. It wasn’t home. It was simply a place to rest when you weren’t running around outside, trying to pretend that your mind was right and your life was stable, and the diagnoses the doctors gave you years ago weren’t looming over your head. 

Your stomach growls, and you know you don’t have substantial ingredients in your kitchen to satiate you. You should’ve eaten more on campus earlier today, and you want to kick yourself for your lack of insight. 

You still drag your tired body to the kitchen to find what you can, ripping open the old fridge. What stares back at you is empty shelves and a half drunk water bottle along with some celery.

You settle for the celery, grumbling to yourself. 

“Maybe I’ll use the ten thousand for groceries,” you mutter, leaning against the counter. 

“Gave it to you so you could use it, not save it.”

Your heart leaps out of your body, and you drop the celery in your hand as you shriek. You turn quickly, looking over the kitchen peninsula towards your living room— in the darkness of your apartment, lit only by the streetlights pouring from your windoes, you see a figure. 

He’s sitting on the couch, draped over the armrest. His head is resting against the wall— his chest falling and rising in uneven motions. He looks to be wearing gear. He looks like a shadow. 

“Bucky?” you breathe, your heart still stuttering in your chest wildly. “What the fuck?”

“Hey,” he greets with a grunt, but he doesn’t move from his place on the couch. “Sorry. Needed a place to just.. Lay low.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, moving slowly. 

You go to the windows, closing the blinds and drawing the curtains shut before turning on the lamp. Lay low— you assume no one knows he’s here. You want to interrogate him on why and how he’s in your apartment, but with proper light illuminating him, you find the question long gone and missing from your lips.

He’s injured. Badly.

His vest is ripped at his side, and he’s pressing his flesh hand to it, though you can still see his skin stained with his own blood. His forehead also seems to be gashed, and there’s a deep bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, and his lip is split. You’re not sure of what other injuries he could be hiding under the layers of gear he’s wearing, too. 

“What…” you whispered.

“The drawings are nice,” he said, clearing his throat. You follow his eyes to your coffee table, where your sketches of the soldier man from your dream are haphazardly strewn about. You were going to scan them and post them in the morning. “You’re talented.”

“Wait— no,” you denied. You’re not letting him breeze past the clear issue at hand here. “I need— Fucking. Washcloth?” 

Your mind is short circuiting as you quickly rush through your apartment, turning lights on as you go. You bring your CVS bought first aid kit along with a small bowl filled with water and several other washcloths to the living room, pushing your sketches and other art supplies to the floor to make space. 

You’re on your knees in front of him, gently peeling his hand away from his side to inspect the gash on his side. You’re glad you’re not squeamish from the years you’ve spent in the city, but the wound is deep and angry and red— and you are not qualified for such an injury.

“I am not medically trained. At all,” you tell him, panic flashing through your face. Then you demand, “Why did you come here?”

“You’re safe.”

Your breath stops, just for a moment. Bucky isn’t saying that your apartment is safe. That this area in New York is safe— you are someone safe. In just two words, he’s telling you everything. 

You clench your jaw and dip your washcloth into the bowl of water and bring it to the gash on his side. Your eyes flicker to his face. He never flinches. His muscles don’t ripple in pain. His body doesn’t betray him in a way that yours does when you poke at a bruise that you know you shouldn’t be touching. 

It breaks your heart and soul all the same. 

It’s quiet between you two as you go through three more washcloths to remove the dried blood from his body. Then you open up the first aid kit. You’ve never had to use it before other than for some bandaids. 

You don’t even realize your hands are trembling until his metal hand rests on yours. You lift your head to lock eyes with his. His face is gentle, despite the amount of pain that you’re sure is racing through his body at this moment.

“There should be a pair of gloves,” he said, his voice even. You blink for a moment before realizing that he’s directing you on what needs to be done. You quickly move. 

You slide the gloves, eyes darting all over the first aid kit you bought. You were paranoid when you bought it– this expensive thing. You weren’t even sure why you got it, when all you used it for was a few bandaids here and there every once in a while. You praised your past self for this very moment now.

“Saline, antiseptic, and ointment,” he continued, and you pull out each corresponding item from the kit. “Help me clean the wound. Use the gauze. After that, try to find something called a butterfly bandage, if you know what that is.”

You don’t fucking know what that is, but you’re not going to voice that out to him right now. 

Instead, you force your muscles to move past the fear in your body. Bucky is still directing you through the entire thing like you are the one that’s injured here– like you’re the one that’s a few seconds from passing out from pain. You want to scream at your own uselessness, but you know that it isn’t true. Bucky wouldn’t have come here if he thought you were useless.

As the bandage goes on, and you tighten his wound shut, he finally lets out a breath and relaxes against your couch cushions.

“Is that it?” you whispered, eyes flitting across his face.

“That’s the worst of it, yes,” he nodded, closing his eyes.

“There’s more?” you demanded, horrified. 

Bucky lets out a chuckle, as if this situation is funny to him. Maybe it is. To him, probably it is. This is just another regular Thursday to him. For you– this is the first time that you’re ever coming close to a situation like this. 

“I heal faster than the average human. I’ll be okay. This one is just pretty bad, I promise.”

You don’t believe him, not fully. You clench your jaw as you clean up the bloodied gauze and washcloths– tossing them into your garbage bin before going into your freezer to grab a few ice cubes to throw into a ziplock bag for the bruise on his face. He takes it without complaint.

Questions are spinning through your head, nagging at you deeply. The words are threatening to spill out of your mouth, and you’re not sure that you can stop it. 

“Is… Is Steve okay? Peter?” you asked. 

Bucky’s eyes flicker to you, eyebrows furrowing at you briefly. “I understand you asking about Steve. But Peter?”

“Spider-Man,” you whispered in correction, swallowing thickly. Recognition dawns on his face as you reveal that you know. Bucky lets out a small breath, a silence settling over the two of you. He doesn’t press for any other details.

“Mine was a solo mission. Everyone’s out doing their own thing right now. Most of them are in teams. Haven’t heard any of the others being injured or hurt.”

Relief fills your body. Your shoulders sag briefly as you move to sit on the opposite end of the couch from him.

“New York is pretty far from Malaysia, Buck… How the hell did you drag your battered body all the way to my apartment?” The question came from your lips before you could think that he may not even be able to answer you. 

“Tracked down the target from Malaysia to the outskirts of New York,” he answered without hesitation. “Didn’t wanna head back into the base looking like this.”

“So you thought that waiting in my apartment like this for me to come home was any better?” you asked, eyes wide.

“Well, I had a feeling that you would just take care of me rather than demand to know the details of the mission first,” he replied, shaking his head. There was the faintest of smiles on his face that you could see in the dim lighting of your apartment.

“Is it okay for me… to know all of this?” you asked wearily.

“You won’t become a target, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he quickly answered you, his voice serious. 

You shook your head immediately. “No– no. That’s not what I meant. Won’t you get in trouble? With… whoever your bosses are?”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em,” Bucky said with a shrug. Then, he looked at you, eyes catching yours. You couldn’t look away, caught in the stormy blue of his face. “You’re not scared?”

“I don’t think you would do anything that could ever get me hurt,” you murmured honestly. You pause. “You’re not afraid that I won’t leak your location to the world?”

The smile came back on his face. “Like I said, doll– you’re safe. I don’t worry about much when you’re around.”

You don’t know how long you spend staring at him, your heart thumping erratically in your chest again. It’s not from the fear of being shocked by a man in your apartment, or the panic that the man is Bucky injured in your apartment. It’s that stupid nickname that your soldier calls you, it’s the way the word falls from Bucky’s lips so casually and easily. It’s as if this was right, for him to always call you this. 

Your apartment suddenly feels whole. Warm. The space that felt empty a few moments ago is taken over with enough joy that you’re certain that you could spend the rest of your days here as long as Bucky continues to look at you the way that he’s looking at you right now.

With trust. You don’t even know why he trusts you. Why he’s so unwavering in his faith in you.

It’s terrifying all the same. You don't think you deserve it.

“There’s this Chinese place that’s 24/7,” you whispered, breaking the silence. “Do you want take out?”

Bucky’s smile grows a bit wider and he nods at you. “That sounds great.”

next chapter | masterlist

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[loveunt0ld]

all my affection — lee minho

distance makes the heart grow fonder… right? except, for minho, it also made him extremely homesick. oh how he craves to be with you again. he wants to love you, and be loved by you.

a/n: i wrote this while listening to calum’s new album! this song is what inspired this minho piece. divider is from @uzmacchiato! i hope you enjoy ♡

another long day you thought. you trudged your way up the stairs of your shared apartment with minho. the house you two shared was everything you could hope for. it only lacked one thing, him.

minho had been overseas on tour for about a month now, with only a couple more days before you could see him again. time always seemed so cruel during his long periods of absence.

it was moments like this when the presence of your boyfriend was missed. his scent clung to just about everything you could think of. it was on the clothes he’d left behind, on his side of the bed, on the couch… it even lingered in the kitchen (maybe you just really missed his cooking too.)

the nights dragged on longer than they should have and your days were spent looking at the clock, hoping minho would come back faster as the time ticked. home didn’t feel like home when either of you was gone.

perhaps you were just being dramatic. you were more than capable of functioning without minho, but it wasn’t that you needed him for a particular reason. you missed him. you craved his warmth, his voice, his laughter, his mannerisms. you missed the things that made minho, him.

you felt soonie rub against your leg, a simple action to break you out of your trance. not realizing you were spacing out, you looked down to find soonie staring at you. he lets out a cry for help. in his case, a meow which alerts you that they’re hungry.

“what would i do without you soonie?” you ask while picking him up from the ground. now if soonie could talk, he’d probably have some witty response. something that would make him sound a lot like minho.

you finish feeding soonie, doongie and dori when you feel your phone start to vibrate in your back pocket. you look to down to see the words “cat lover ♡” staring right at you. your minho. you answered the phone with an urgency, too scared that the call would end before you could hear him.

you bring the phone to your ear. all you hear is a commotion over on his end, thinking he maybe butt dialed you. however, you hear your name before you pull away. “y/n-ah? baby? can you hear me? i know it’s sort of loud.” minho asks, while trying to keep his loving tone despite the fact that he’s almost shouting.

“yes min, i can hear you. it sounds like you’re super busy right now though. why didn’t you call later?” you question him back, hoping that calling you wasn’t a chore for him.

he sighs before answering, clearly exasperated with the chaotic background but not with you. never with you. “we go on soon and i just needed to hear your voice is all.” minho says, voice sounding a bit defeated, a little distant even.

you still. “is everything ok baby?” you ask, voice feigning concern for the way he sounds. your heart felt heavy for the boy who’s usually never too nervous before shows. despite how loud the background is, minho’s silence is even louder. what’s gotten into him.. you wonder.

“i miss you. and the kids obviously. but i miss you the most. you know that i love what i do,” you nod while listening to him, as if you are physically in front of him, “it’s just.. i can’t help but count down the hours, minutes, even seconds until i can see you again.” minho confesses, whispering as if he was telling you a secret.

his vulnerability with you has always been so beautiful. he interacts with so many people on a day to day basis but not many can truly see him like this. you let him be weak, you let him be who he was meant to be. life was familiar for him with you by his side.

you stayed silent for a second—you just wanted to bask in minho’s words. his feelings. then your thoughts started running, faster than you could catch them. “minho, you’ll be back home before you know it,” you whispered while swallowing the lump in your throat, “no matter how much i want you to come back.. your tour will be over before you know it.” you explained while sounding defeated.

on the other end, minho closed his eyes. the tears he tried so hard to hold back had slipped before he could stop them. distance was your biggest enemy when it came to him touring. he knew that, you knew that. but being away from you for so long took more of a toll on him than he’d like to admit.

minho had something that made him so weak in the knees and he didn’t know how to be without it—without you. when he first started to harbor feelings for you, it scared him bad. until then, he didn’t know that caring for someone could be this beautiful.

the silence carried on from both ends. you continued, “the second you come back home, ill be right there. waiting for you with my arms wide open. you don’t have to say anything, you can just run to me.” you said, wanting nothing more than to comfort his aching heart.

minho found himself feeling grounded from your words. his entire being knew peace because of you. “i’ll run to you, just like i always do.” he responds with a slight smile forming on his lips. oh how he wishes he could kiss you. “my heart fluttered just now by the way. how do you make loving me sound so easy y/n…” minho adds on, clearly fighting back the urge to giggle through his ongoing tears.

“you make it easy minho. there’s no maybes with you because i know what it is with you. i feel the most alive when i get to love you, just like this.” you comment, your smile growing as you think of him.

“all that i am belongs to you. i love you y/n.. more than words can describe.” minho declares, signing an unspoken contract that states he is yours until the end of time, if you’ll have him. and you? you’d find him in every lifetime, just so you can fall in love with him over and over again.

“i love you for each eternity i get to spend with you, minho.” you state, voice filled with a joy that can only be felt between the two of you. “hurry up and finish your tour so i can kiss you again min.” you added on after your confession.

“i’d drop everything and take the next flight to you. maybe i should…” minho contemplates aloud, hoping you’ll try to convince him to do so. your laugh on the other end of the lines causes him to also laugh.

“i don’t think chan would like that idea very much min. but you’re cute for trying. we’ll wait it out like we always do—soon enough we’ll be together again.” you state. it was always going to be you two. nothing could ever change that.

“yeah.. soon, my love.” minho says, finalizing the promise of seeing each other soon. you never needed much, but minho always gave you everything. he gave you the barest parts of his soul and for that you couldn’t thank him enough.

lifetimes won’t ever be enough time with you the two of you think to yourselves, not wanting to fill the comfortable silence. the two of you had nothing to lose except all the love and affection you two had for each other. loving each other was just so easy.

distance was always hard, but you two always found your way around it. even if some times were harder than others. it was just minho and yourself against the world.

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

L Lawliet x Reader pt. 22: the Billionaire and the Prostitute

Wowza, another chapter! This one is a little fluffier, I think, so I hope you enjoy!

you spent three hours getting ready. Three hours to put on your classiest dress, do your hair, do your makeup, accessorize, put on your perfume, and become all-around show-stopping. You were going to show everyone just how vain and self-centered you are, as a final "fuck you" to your mom. Her image as the perfect woman and mother would finally collapse. The perfect plan. All you had to do was show up, and make a daring announcement.

"Look at me everyone! I'm a prostitute!"

Or something to that effect.

The doorbell rang, and you hurried down the stairs. That must be L, ready to watch thing 1 and thing 2.

Said cats followed you to the door, Romeo hopping to the windowsill to look outside. His nemesis.

You nudge juliet away with your foot as you open the door. "Hey," you sigh, "I hope it's not too much troub- woah, you look like shit."

His skin was somehow paler, tinted green and sunken around his eyes and cheeks.

"It's a...light cold," he excuses, stepping into the house. His voice was nasal, stuffed up from phlegm and snot.

"A light cold? Do I look stupid?" You lead him to the couch, cats in tow.

"Not particularly."

"Sit. You look like you're dying."

He sits down, a wobble to his knees, and Jules jumps into his lap.

"I'm surprised Watari let you leave the penthouse like this." You stare down at him, hands on hips. He stares up at you, as if your concern is somehow an overreaction.

"I'm not so ill that I cannot function. I'm already here."

You frown. He was right, having him travel again when he was so...bleh, was probably worse than having him stay here.

"Do you have a fever?"

"...no."

"Liar," you scoff. His eyes narrow. Your hand slides beneath his bangs, pressing to his forehead. "Tsk, you're burning up! You should have just called and stayed home."

"This is important to you."

"Not as-" not as important as you. That...wouldn't come out right. It wasn't in that sense, not exactly what you meant. "It's not that important. Can you eat? Have you slept?"

"I assure you, I'm fine."

You sigh, and shake your head.

"You're running late."

You check your watch. You were running late. You look at him. His big, watery eyes, and his irritated pout. Then, to the watch again. If you left now, you'd be fashionably late. To him again. He'd have to stay awake and alert to properly watch the cats the whole time. He couldn't make himself anything, you doubted he could cook. He'd just have to sit here and...suffer, all afternoon.

You groan, and bury your face in your hands. This wasn't fair at all. "Fine. Fine fine fine fine," you grumble.

He tilts his head.

"Gimme a second."

You run upstairs, Romeo following closely, Juliet happy in L's lap. You return moments later, purse discarded in your room, with a medicine bottle. You sit down next to him, pour the medicine in a measuring spoon, and hold it out to him. "Here."

"What's this?"

"Candy."

He gives you a side-long glance, not appreciating your sarcasm.

"Take it."

He sighs, and takes the spoon from you. He already knows the flavor would be terrible. His nose crinkles in disgust, but he gulps down the liquid anyway. He erupts in a coughing fit, from both the viscosity and his own disdain.

"There there. You need a nap."

"I'm not a child."

"Come on, you're going in the guest bedroom."

You stand, and push him to his feet. As soon as he's up, you guide him up the stairs by his shoulders.

"What about your cats?"

"I'll watch them." You open the spare room door.

"What about-"

"I'm taking care of you, you idiot. Lay down."

He sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at you. He didn't...believe you. Not quite. There must be an alternative reason.

You cross your arms. "You don't get sick often, do you?"

"I haven't been sick since my childhood."

"Yeah. This is what people do when they ca-....when they..."

His brows raise. Oh. This was a new development. He lays on his side, crashing to the bed with a pillowy woosh. "I see."

You tap your foot. On one hand, he's listening now. On the other...you didn't like the kind of conclusions he might be drawing. "whatever, just...try to get some sleep."

You practically stomp out of the room. He rolls onto his back. He was tired. He could close his eyes for a few minutes, to appease you. Then, he would get out of your hair, and go home to be properly gross by expelling various fluids until he was half-dead.

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Then, a smell wafts in. Salty, and warm. He didn't like salty things, he didn't make a point to eat them...but this smelled particularly appealing.

The door cracks open, and an eye peers at him from the space.

"Hello."

"...hello," you say slowly, pushing the door open the rest of the way. Your clothes changed, what used to be a flashy black dress was now a hot pink tank top and some sweatpants. You had a bowl in your hand, and a silver spoon. "How'd you sleep?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been sleeping for..." you check your watch, you never bothered to take it off. "4 hours."

"...I see. What is that?"

"Soup. Family recipe."

You walk over...and hesitate. He sits upright, supported by one arm. Finally, you sit yourself on the bed, between his arm and his legs, and offer him the bowl. He takes it with his free hand, and examines the liquid. It was thin and clear, with bits of onion and other herbs shining through. L breathes in the scent, and rests his chin on your shoulder. "Thank you."

This was one of the few times he's touched you without some sort of consent. You've cuddled plenty, had sex of course, but that was all expected hours beforehand. This was unexpected touch. Intimate, and a little needy. You allowed it, but only because he was sick.

"Just eat your soup."

He smiles, and pulls away to support himself on the headboard. You turn around, and watch as he brings shakey spoonfuls of soup to his lips. Eventually, he gives up, and sets the spoon aside to sip from the bowl itself.

"How is it?"

"...Nourishing," he decides.

"I know you don't eat this kind of stuff, but-"

"I appreciate your care."

"...you sound like you're drowning in mucus, you need to blow your nose."

He looks to the bedside table, and plucks a tissue from the small, designated box.

You watch as he de-gunks his face, to little avail. You grab a mini-trashcan from the floor, and hold it out. He tosses the tissue.

"You said this was a family recipe?"

"My- my mom's, yep," you murmur.

He nods slowly. "It's good."

"...yeah, well. Bad people do good things sometimes."

"Was she?"

"Hm?"

"Was she a bad person?"

You keep your eyes to the floor. "Maybe. Yes- well, not-" you sigh- "I don't know. She loved me, I think. And my dad. But she wasn't very good at it."

He sets his bowl aside. "Did she do things like this for you?"

"Sometimes. When I was really little, yeah. When I was older, I didn't get sick days."

"But you'd do this for me? Despite having other plans?"

You smile, and roll your eyes a little. "I believe in sick days. Today was supposed to be like...a big middle finger to her. But I guess now I'm as close to being a nurse as I've ever been, so really I'm just doing what she wants...or, wanted."

"...you're doing something she wouldn't have."

You shrug. "I guess. Did the cold medicine work earlier?"

"I'm...not taking any more of it."

"Really?"

"No."

"Aw." You stand, and pat his head. "It was in the soup. Sweet dreams, idiot."

He watches as you walk away, leaving him to conk out at any given moment. Evil.

This time, he felt like he had been resting. He felt much better when he woke up. The cold chills left, the twisting of his stomach, the endless fever. Everything has improved. He stirs, and finds a weight on his chest shift.

Juliet, purring on top of him. He pats the cat's head, and decides he would lay here for a while longer.

His plans are foiled when you walk in, and distract the creature enough to make her jump off and skitter out. "Oh, good, you're awake."

"How long have I been sleeping?"

"Mm, like 8 hours. It's 9 PM." Romeo weaved between your feet, settling in front of you like a gargoyle protecting his fortress. A very tiny gargoyle. "Jules has been here for a while, I let her in a few hours ago and she's been sleeping with you since."

"I've been here for far too long," L murmurs, sitting upright.

"Watari called earlier to ask about you, but he seemed understanding when I told him."

"Ah." He could already imagine that knowing, pleased expression he would pull when L would next see him. It was extremely annoying.

"Thank you again, for your care."

"...no problem. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, much better."

"Do you want me to call Watari?"

"There's no need." L takes out his own phone, and calls him. He has him on speed dial, why bother making you call?

You step out, and sigh. Romeo follows closely behind. You pick him up, and press a kiss to his forehead. "You're the sweetest thing," you croon, carrying him off to the living room.

L emerges from the guest room soon after, padding down the stairs. Romeo immediately sits at attention in your lap, watching L with intense focus from the couch.

"Watari will be here in an hour."

"Still feeling better?"

"Yes."

"Want to watch TV with me?"

"...sure."

You spent the rest of the hour watching a different jdrama (the last one wasn't on at this time), and enjoying each other's presence. Yet again, you were getting too comfortable.

When L's phone dinged, you knew he had to go. "See you around," you shrug.

"I'll call on you before my trip, no matter your decision," he assures.

You nod, and watch as Juliet spills from L's lap, already following as if she could go with him. He makes sure to keep her from escape.

The second he's out, you sigh, and lay back on the couch. Jules, dejected, settles between your legs, while Romeo takes your stomach. "Do you think I should go," you mutter, scratching behind the obtrusive ears of your boy-cat. He lets out a purr at the contact. "Not helpful."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh- excuse me, sir, is there where (Y/n) (L/n) lives?"

L examines the older woman. She was wearing the gaudiest makeup and jewelry, accompanied by a floral dress and an...attention-grabbing hat. She was also holding a thick envelope, labeled with your name. She didn't seem like a threat...but many threats disguise themselves as less-than so.

"Do you have business with her?" He sounded shorter with her than he intended, but he was still a little sick, and she was currently in the way of Watari's limo.

"I'm her aunt, I was just dropping off her inheritance and such, from the death you know."

This woman was not very cautious with your information.

"She does live here. I can take any items to her."

"If you don't mind, I'll do it myself." She eyes him like he's some criminal, and brushes past him for your door.

Alright then.

He heads for the limo, but the moment he gets in he orders Watari to wait. He wants to be sure you're alright, just in case this is some elaborate ploy.

The woman rings your doorbell, and you answer in seconds.

"L- oh. Hi, um-"

"Your mama left this for you, thought I'd bring it by," she says, her words so sugary you almost feel as sick as L.

"...thanks, aunt-"

"This is a nice place you got here. Do you know that man in your driveway?"

You laugh, just a little. Typical of her, never letting you get a word in. "Thank you, and yes, I know him."

"Is that your neighbor?"

You glance around. You were the only house here, you obviously didn't have neighbors. "No ma'am..."

"Your accountant then?"

Since when do accountants come to you? "Not that either."

"So then...is he your..." she leans in, whispering conspiratorially. "Boyfriend?"

"Umm..." so badly did you want to shout out "nope! Just a guy I fuck for cash!" Before you can even attempt to ruin your mom's lasting reputation once more, your aunt speaks over you.

"I just hope he's got better genes somewhere in there. Between you and me, you can do so much better than that, sweetheart. You're not with him for money, are you? You know eventually, he'll want a baby, and there's no telling how that'll go-"

"I'm doing just fine," you interrupt, matching her saccharin tone. "Between you and me-" you pluck the letter from her hand- "he's hung like a horse, so I've got nothing to worry about."

You gently push the door shut, right in her gaping face, and grin. Finally, shock value!

L watches, unable to see anything other than your expressions. If he could see your mouth past that hat, he'd be able to read your lips...but the woman doesn't move until the door closes. He decides all is well once she begins to waddle back to her car, and signals for watari to leave.

You look down at the letter in your hand, flip it over a couple times....

And decide to deal with it in the morning. Something about it gave you a sinking feeling, and you wanted to preserve your peace, for now.

[martybaker]

Helping hand

So the ideas behind this were:

1. jayvik would be soo bad at a fwb relationship literally from the get go (especially Jayce)

2. in this au Jayce has some holdbacks about using his strength in bed and Viktor would have to teach him that sometimes pain can be good (I don’t go there yet in this ficlet but the groundwork is laid).

I guess I should also say, dom viktor sub jayce dynamics.

Enjoy ~

————————————————————————

Jayce pushes himself away from the table, running his hands through his hair. “It doesn’t make any sense. I am nearly there, I can feel it, but I cannot seem to grasp the solution. I’ve been stuck on this damn thing for two stupid weeks now.”

Viktor, who’s busy calibrating their new prototype, hums pensievely. “Are you sure the problem is the problem, or are you the problem?”

Jayce looks at him with hurt puppy eyes. “You think I can’t crack it?”

Viktor snorts. “Of course you can. You’re the smartest man I know, with the humble exception of myself of course.”

“Of course,” Jayce says, smiling, relaxing his shoulders.

“What I meant,” Viktor says in his slow cadence, still focused on tightening the screws on the prototype, “is that you might be running on fumes. Even the brilliant device that is the human mind needs rest from time to time. How many hours did you sleep last night?”

Jayce snorts. “Oh please. Pot-kettle. How many hours did you sleep?”

Viktor doesn’t rise to the challenge. “Just enough to function properly. Case in point, I’m not the one in danger of becoming bald.”

Jayce reaches for his hair self-consciously. He really has been tugging at it too often lately.

“What would our sponsors say if you showed up to a meeting with not a hair left on that smart head of yours?” Viktor quips without looking away from his task.

Jayce laughs, blushing a little. “Maybe I’d set a new trend.”

It’s…nice. When Viktor calls him smart. He knows he’s not an idiot, that they’re working on something brilliant together, something most of their peers wouldn’t even be able to imagine. They’re pretty much inventing a new branch of science which bends magic to their intentions.

But Jayce has spent years trying to convince people that this research has merit, that he’s not a lunatic.

Even his own mother lost faith in him.

So, yes, it’s nice, to hear the reaffirmation from someone else. From Viktor, who isn’t just doing it to get into his good graces or to secure an investment.

It’s exhilaritang, really, to have a partner who appreciates Jayce even with all his shortcomings. Someone who believes in him and in what they’re creating together.

And even if it would turn out to be lunacy after all, he’s not alone in it. Not anymore.

He doesn’t feel like a smart man now though. Not when he’s looking at those impossible equations.

Jayce sighs and wipes at his face. “I don’t know, I’ve been all, stuck in my head,” he admits. “It’s like I’m in a trance, my thoughts bounce around in my mind, but it’s all hazy, I cannot manage to arrange them in coherent order.”

Viktor hums again. “Maybe you need to go out, blow off some steam. That might clear your head.”

Jayce frowns. “Do you mean, like…”

“Sex, yes. Or do you have a different preferred term for it?” Viktor says, teasing.

Jayce makes a face.

“Ah, of course,” Viktor snaps his fingers as if he just figured out the problem, “Let me put it this way. If the forge doesn’t do it for you anymore, maybe you need to do a different kind of hammering,” he grins, throwing Jayce a look over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. “There, am I speaking your language now?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jayce mutters, ears red.

But Viktor has found his weakness, he has sensed blood and he is coming for another taste of Jayce’s flash.

He shrugs his shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t be the one doing the hammering,” he says, twirling a wrench in his hand, “but the one getting hammered, ever considered that?” He frowns. “No, wait, is that the one with alcohol? Eh, whatever, either one might work.”

Jayce splutters. He doesn’t know what his face is doing but it surely isn’t helping with the sensible prude impression he’s giving off.

“Don’t-don’t just say stuff like that,” he mutters.

His composure is taking hit after hit with Viktor talking so flippantly about sex. Jayce is not a prude, nor a blushing virgin, but truth be told he has been taught the traditional gentlemanly ways, drilled into him by his mother.

He vividly remembers the confusion of his fifteen year old self, when he had recently been through a growth spurt, and suddenly schoolmates were intentionally dropping books in his vicinity, reserving seats for him and inviting him to parties. It was all very baffling to be elevated from the sheltered quirky child into a class heartthrob. (Of course, the attentions of his admires waned with each inane theory that came out of his mouth.)

What he also very vividly remembers is sitting in mortified silence through a very thorough lecture about birds and the bees from his mum, a lecture brought on by this recent development, and wishing he’d been anywhere else.

But this was all that was ever said in the Talis household on the topic of sexual intimacy. The lecture about courting etiquette that followed was much easier to swallow.

Jayce thinks this might be the reason why he is rattled by Viktor discussing the topic so plainly now, in broad daylight.

Viktor blinks at him innocently. “Why, does it offend you? I don’t care about your preferences, Jayce, I am just offering suggestions. Trying to be supportive, yes?” He smirks at Jayce, the smirk that always tells Jayce he’s up to no good and whatever is coming next, whatever idea struck his partner, it will be entirely preposterous.

He loves that look. He loves all of Viktor’s mad genius moments. Now with that thrilling look zeroed in on Jayce, it’s sending shivers up his spine, stirring both his excitement and fear.

And he’s right to be afraid.

Because what comes out of Viktor’s mouth next is: “I’d suggest a brothel but perhaps you have finer establishments for that kind of activities up here.”

Jayce balks. “I don’t- I never- I wouldn’t-”

Viktor blinks, feigning nonchalance as he says “What, too crude for your taste? Offends your sensibilities?” But Jayce knows all his tells by now, he catches the minuscule twitch of his eyebrows and the downturned corner of his lip.

“It’s an occupation like any other,” Viktor says, turning away from Jayce. “There are people who enjoy doing it. And some people don’t have a choice. We do what we must.”

Now it’s not the topic but Viktor’s choice of we that shocks Jayce. Does he mean…Did he ever…

He shakes his head. That’s none of his business. And he wouldn’t care anyways.

There is nothing that would make him lose respect for Viktor. Not that he considers prostitution disrespectful. On the opposite, he finds people that make it their living to be gorgeous and confident. And frankly, a little intimidating.

Like Viktor, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

No! Stop! Stop that. That is your friend. Who you respect and admire. He doesn’t deserve to be objectified like that.

Jayce stumbles over his words. “No, I didn’t mean- I mean, I’ve never been. I wouldn’t even know what to do, how to behave, it would be awkward and strange. For me, that is.”

Viktor looks back at him, gaze softer. “Ah. Lacking in the experience department? That is nothing to be ashamed of either,” he adds upon seeing Jayce’s cheeks color in fifty shades of red.

Jayce groans and buries his head in his hands, curling on himself. This conversation couldn’t possibly get more mortifying. Why ever did he brought this up in the first place?

He hears Viktor hum and swivel on his chair.

“Well, since that is not a viable route for you, I guess all we can rely on is your imagination,” he says slowly.

Jayce snorts. “Right. And my own hand. That’s not pathetic at all,” he sighs.

“That’s not what I had in mind,” Viktor mutters.

He’s thinking. He mutters to himself when he’s thinking.

Jayce hears Viktor’s chair creak, then the clack of a cane as he comes closer.

“Sit up, Jayce,” he says, and Jayce obeys with a sigh. When he comes face to face with Viktor he finds his partner is piercing him with his gaze, scrutinizing him like a very intriguing piece of machinery.

Jayce squirms. “Thanks, Viktor, but you don’t have to try to fix my pathetic lack of love life, I am afraid I am a lost cause.”

Viktor’s nose scrunches.

Cute, says Jayce’s brain. Shut up, Jayce commands it.

“We’re not talking about love,” Viktor says dismmisively, “but basic bodily needs that should be met like any other in order to achieve optimal functioning of your mind.”

“Right,” Jayce nods. But to be honest, he isn’t really paying attention anymore because Viktor is standing close, his focus honed in on Jayce instead of the hex gem or the blackboard or their notes, and it’s exhilarating.

It’s been months since Jayce got laid and, the needy man that he is, any attention he gets is thrilling. Especially from a gorgeous person like Viktor.

Viktor scrutinizes him and Jayce feels like he can almost see the theories forming in his partner’s brilliant mind.

Oh but Janna, his eyes are so beautiful up close.

Viktor frowns, pulling back a little, and Jayce’s heart sinks.

“Close your eyes, Jayce,” Viktor says.

Fuck, was he too obvious?

“Uhh, okay.” Jayce does as he’s told. It’s easy to do what Viktor tells him to, he just hopes he did not overstep.

Then there are fingers taking hold of his chin, tipping his head back, and Jayce gasps. “Lean back,” Viktor says.

Jayce does as he’s told. How could he not.

Viktor doesn’t say anything for a moment after that.

“What, uuuh, what are you doing?” Jayce asks, his nerves spiking up.

“Helping,” Viktor says. There is a scraping sound of a chair being pulled close, and next when Viktor speaks, it is right by Jayce’s ear.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he whispers.

Jayce swallows. “Okay.”

There’s a hand. Viktor’s hand. On his chest. Running up, and then down. Then slowly moving to Jayce’s right leg, caressing. This is definitely not how Jayce imagined this day would go.

“Breathe,” Viktor whispers next to his ear, amused, and only then does Jayce realize he’s holding his breath.

He inhales, trying to find a normal breathing rhythm. What is a normal breathing rhythm when your science partner is running his hands over your high strung horny body??

But he must succeed at least a little because Viktor says “Good.”

Jayce whimpers. The praise is heady, flooding his body with hormones and want and desperation.

“Use your imagination, Jayce,” Viktor says. “You can imagine whoever you want. Next to you. Touching you.”

Jayce would laugh if he didn’t fear that what would actually come out of his mouth would be moans. Whoever he wants. When all his mind is capable of thinking about right now is Viktor, Viktor, Viktor.

“Imagine their hand on your thigh,” Viktor says, squeezing Jayce’s thigh, making his breath hitch. “On your neck,” Viktor’s cold hand wraps around Jayce’s neck, thumb under his Adam’s apple. Jayce swallows.

“Admiring you. Desiring you.”

Heavens, that voice is doing things to him.

To be honest, being this desperate, Viktor could be reading a manual and it would get Jayce hard, but this is so, so much better.

“Wanting you,” Viktor whispers, and then his wandering hand caresses over Jayce’s clothed length.

Jayce seizes up, gasping, eyes flying open.

Viktor clucks his tongue in dissapointment and immediately pulls back, leaning away and moving out of Jayce’s orbit, leaving him cold and vulnerable. “I said, eyes closed.”

“No, wait,” Jayce says desperately. “Come back, don’t stop.”

He reaches for Viktor but Viktor catches his hand before it reaches his shoulder, holding it in a vice. “Can you follow instructions or not?” He asks, face stern.

“I can, yes I can, please,” Jayce doesn’t even have it in himself to feel ashamed about the pleading. He needs Viktor’s hands back on his body or he’s going to combust.

“Eyes. Closed,” Viktor says.

Jayce whines but leans back against the chair, closing his eyes.

“Yes, like that.” Viktor leans back in. He places Jayce’s hands on the edges of the chair. “Keep your hands there.”

Jayce nods. Of course. Anything. Anything for Viktor.

Viktor’s hands land back on his thighs, this time both of them. Caressing. Teasing.

“Describe them to me,” Viktor says.

Jayce has no idea what Viktor’s asking. He hums uncertainly.

“Your imaginery paramour. What are they like, Jayce?”

Oh, Janna.

Jayce tries to gather his thoughts into coherenency. “Hair. Messy.”

“Yes?” Viktor prompts, his hands moving higher.

“Lovely. Lovely hands. Eyes…eyes like melted honey.”

Viktor hums, his hand running lightly over Jayce’s clothed erection. This time Jayce keeps his eyes closed but he cannot stop the shiver that runs through his body.

There’s a decision to make here, Jayce vaguely thinks in the depths of his hazy mind. There’s no coming back if they cross this threshold. Viktor’s playing it off as a bodily need, an anonymous encounter that Jayce can color in his mind. But it’s not that. It never could be. It’s Viktor. His Viktor. The most important person in Jayce’s life. He cannot fuck this up.

But then again, perhaps there never was a decision, not really. From the moment Viktor looked at him tonight, from the moment he put his hands on his body, Jayce could never say no to him. He wouldn’t stop him. He doesn’t want to.

“A mole,” Jayce whispers, and he isn’t sure if its his imagination or if Viktor’s hand really spasms.

“Oh?” Viktor says in a carefully neutral tone. “Where?”

“Under his right eye,” Jayce whispers. “On his left earlobe. And-“ he hesitates, then reaches out blindly, finding Viktor’s face, his lips. “Here,” he whispers, placing his thumb on the mole next to them.

Viktor pulls back. Upon losing the contact Jayce immediately opens his eyes again, bereft.

“The instructions were-“ Viktor starts saying but Jayce doesn’t let him finish. Fuck the instructions. This is important, Jayce has to make him understand, Jayce has to make him see.

He clasps Viktor’s upper arms, squeezing, leaning in.

“Don’t. You’re, Viktor you - you’re so hot. You’re so sexy, please, please touch me. I-I want you.”

Janna, how pathetic. How desperate. That couldn’t have been farther from a love confession. It sounded like a bad porn dialogue line. Jayce half wishes the ground would open and swallow him whole.

Viktor blinks at him, taken off guard. Then his lips twitch, slowly lifting into a smile. His cheeks seem a little rosier. “Is that so?” He asks, but the tone doesn’t reach his usual level of cockiness. He sounds pleased. Flattered.

Jayce sighs. “Yes, yes of course. You’re amazing. Viktor, please.” So much for any poetic declarations, it seems this is all Jayce’s brain is capable of tonight.

Viktor pushes Jayce back, who wines at first, thinking for a split second that he’s been rejected, but then Viktor is shushing him and caressing his cheek and Jayce settles. Viktor carefully lifts his right leg up and over Jayce’s knees, grabbing onto his shoulders to pull himself into Jayce’s lap.

As he settles, Jayce’s hands come up to hold his hips, caress his back.

He looks up at Viktor with reverence, with adoration, and this time, Viktor lets him savour the vision in his arms, basking in the attention. At least for a moment, then he smirks again, and covers Jayce’s eyes with his hand.

Jayce groans. “V, come on,” he complains.

Viktor chuckles. He honest to Janna chuckles, and Jayce can feel it under his hands which cover Viktor’s ribs.

Viktor’s other hand comes up to Jayce’s face, thumb swiping over his lips, and Jayce is overwhelmed with the sensation.

Then the thumb gets replaced with tongue, licking at Jayce’s lips before parting them and slipping inside.

Viktor’s hands move to cup Jayce’s face properly and they kiss, exploring each other’s mouths, teasing gasps and moans from each other. It’s marvelous. It’s unlike any kiss Jayce’s ever experienced. Charged, heated, addictive.

Viktor’s weight against Jayce’s erection is delicious, when he moves his hips Jayce forgets any doubts that would hold him back, moaning, latching onto Viktor’s neck. Viktor’s hand buries in Jayce’s hair, tugging impatiently and Jayce’s hands wound around Viktor, tugging him closer, when Viktor gasps, not in pleasure but in pain.

Shit. Fuck. His back.

Viktor himself doesn’t draw attention to it, but with him so close, Jayce can read him more easily, feel the muscles tense.

Jayce releases his hold immediately. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he stares at Viktor, eyes wide with worry.

Viktor’s mouth curls in distaste, not over being hurt but over the apologies. Jayce knows he finds them trite. Viktor does not like being handled like he’s made of porcelain. He retaliates by shoving his hand into Jayce’s pants without ceremony, and squeezing.

Jayce squeeks.

“Ahh, gentle,” he begs.

“No,” Viktor says. “Not gentle. Rough, or not at all.” His gaze pierces through Jayce, no room for debate.

Jayce sighs. “Fine. Okay.”

They go back to kissing, rough and hungry as Viktor wishes, but it only takes a couple minutes before Jayce forgets himself and he reverently runs his hands up Viktor’s sides, gentle and barely touching.

Viktor clucks his tongue at him. “Jayce,” he says it like a warning.

Jayce whines and rests his head against Viktor’s chest. “I’m not doing it consciously, I swear. I just, I’m not like that. I’m not rough, I am not the big, strong confident guy that people see in me, not in bed. Not like that.”

It isn’t the first time someone would be disappointed with him for this. There was a girl, second year, who asked him to pull her hair. A guy at a party, who dragged Jayce into a dark room and put Jayce’s hands around his own neck. Jayce froze, then backed away, scared. The guy laughed at him and left him standing there.

Yes, Jayce had the build of a blacksmith but with a partner, sexual or romantic, he wanted to be gentle, not to use force. Not to cause pain. Never to cause pain, intentionally or accidentaly.

And now, he was holding the most important person in his hands, his partner, his soulmate.

Who wanted it rough.

And still, Jayce could not do it, not even when Viktor asked.

There’s a sigh above him. Then there’s a hand in his hair, petting, and Jayce sighs and envelops Viktor in a hug, carefully, minding his back. The relief upon not being pushed away spreads warm in his body.

“I see,” Viktor says. His hand still in Jayce’s hair. “Well then. Since this is supposed to be for your benefit I see no reason in asking you to act against your nature. We’ll do it your away.”

His way?

“But we should set some rules first.”

Viktor pulls Jayce back by his hair to make him look into his eyes. Clearly not having any issues with the concept of rough himself. Predictibly, Jayce whimpers.

“Focus, Jayce. We need to have a conversation first.”

Viktor waits, holding Jayce in place until his breathing slows down. Only then does he let go.

“This is a mutually beneficial endeavour,” he says. “An easy way to unwind that does not require the hassle of going out and searching for a sexual partner. We’re both willing adults and when we feel the need, we can reach out to each other, without consequences, without any strings attached. Yes?”

Jayce nods.

Viktor frowns at him. “Use your words, Jayce.”

Jayce swallows, then breathes out a “yes.”

“Good. When you feel,” Viktor waves his hand, searching for words, “in need of a helping hand, in need of a release, a way to decompress, you can come to me. I might indulge you. When I feel like it,” he smirks.

“But, remember this. I am not your boyfriend. There will be no romance. There will be no dates, no gifts, no introductions to friends or parents.”

A smile tugs at Jayce’s lips. “My mom’s aready met you,” he reminds.

Viktor rolls his eyes, unamused. “As your work partner, sure. But I am not your beau, your sweetheart. I don’t want any messy feelings involved. This is all a matter of convenience, a mutually beneficial sexual relationship. Nothing more. Are we clear?”

Jayce swallows. He should say it’s not possible. He should say there are already feelings involved. He should say he is not capable of separating intimacy and affection, sex from feelings. He knows that much about himself.

He says “Yes.”

Viktor smiles. “Good.” And Jayce knows he is a weak man. He would promise anything to earn that smile, to earn that praise.

“I will also need you to tell me if there’s something you don’t like. Like you did now,” Viktor says.

“Okay.” There are some things Jayce doesn’t like to do, but there’s not much he wouldn’t let Viktor do to him.

“Now,” Viktor says, reaching behind Jayce for a notebook abandoned on the table.

He shows Jayce the page with the equations Jayce was struggling with just moments ago.

“Can you figure out where the issue is?”

Jayce laughs, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?”

Viktor smirks. “Very.”

Jayce pulls the notebook from Viktor’s hand and throws it to the floor. “Actually, my mind is still a little foggy, do you think you could give me a helping hand here, partner?” He smiles, pulling Viktor closer.

Then his eyes light up. “Wait, now we’re not only hex partners…”

Viktor’s face sours. “No. Don’t say it.”

“…but also…”

“Jayce.”

“…sex partners.”

Jayce grins stupidly.

Viktor glares at him, unimpressed. He makes to stand up. “Forget I said anything. I take it all back,” but Jayce doesn’t miss the twitch of his lips.

He pulls him right back. “Nope. No take backs. You suggested a new avenue of scientific discovery that I am very eager to explore, right now,” Jayce says. He stands up with Viktor still tight in his arms, only wobbling a little.

Viktor’s breath hitches, but he plays at nonchalance, lifting his eyebrows. “Scientific avenue?”

Jayce smirks. “Yeah, biology is a science too, no? I think we should give it some attention, explore the possibilities.”

Jayce puts Viktor on the workbench, swiping away the rest of the research he’s been working on to make space.

“If you’re gonna make terrible jokes I am walking out,” Viktor threatens.

“Shut me up, then,” Jayce says, going for a kiss, delving into Viktor’s mouth, testing what sounds he can coax out.

————————————————————————

[abuwritessometimes]

Only 10 of us were subjected to this cure. I look around our small lounge area, 10 small bedrooms down the hall to my left, a communal bathroom to the right, and the most pathetic excuse for a kitchen seperating us from the rest of the facility.

Or so we've been told.

Not that the kitchen would have much use anyway, even if it was more than an ancient microwave and a bar fridge. The first of us came too a little over two weeks ago, the last of us, myself, came too five days ago. But none of us are yet to crave sustinance.

Everyday, we get given an IV of 'required nutrients' supposdly important to keep us going, but we don't yearn for food. Our bodies don't ask for energy.

We aren't gaining any weight, our bodies only slightly less frail than they had been before we got the cure. Our flesh may no longer be rotted, but it's pale. Our bones aren't so dry, or brittle. Our muscles actually function.

But we don't want food.

The scientists who observe us each day wont tell us anything. Is this a point of concern, or did they expect these results? What are they waiting for? Surely keeping us locked up with only other former zombies wont help us reintergrate with soceity. If thats even their plan for us.

At night, I dream of being as i am now, hunting down humans for a bite. My subconcsious either struggling to accept we are once again living, or asking to go back to how we had been.

Life as a zombie is easy. Your only objective is to eat. Nothing else is of concern.

But if we get let back into soceity, we'd have to work and prove ourselves, have hobbies and relationships.

Who are we now? Do they even know who we were? Our names as they stand seem to be little more than numbers. I'm twenty-five.

---

A full week after I opened my eyes, I notice the first… side effect. I walk past a pot plant, and it seems to reach for me. I walk backwards, sure my eyes are tricking me. But there, this little maidenhair fern, shifts around in reacition to my body near by. I wave a hand over the plant, and it follows my hand.

"Twenty-five, what are you doing?"

The clinical tone of the namless scientist standing a few meters away, by the door in the kitchen, turns to me, their shielded eyes no doubt locked on me. I feel my heart rate spike- a new sign of life.

Something tells me not to tell them what I've noticed.

"Nothing in particular. I was just admiring the maidenhair fern."

I hope my voice doesn't give me away. The scientist tilts their head, probably assessing me. I walk back down the hall, but they follow me. Their steps are loud in the quite of the space, the smell of bleach strong.

"You recall the name of the plant?"

The question makes me pause, and i turn back around to look at them.

"Yeah, I do. I must have liked plants in the past."

The scientist writes something down in their notepad, and without another word, turns around and leaves me be.

That night, the eight of us gather- twelve and fifteen no longer here. We talk quietly, sitting still.

"You got a power, didn't you twenty-five?"

I nod sligthly, trying to avoid looking at eighteen.

"Yeah, have you?"

Everyone else hums in confirmation.

"Twelve had one first. She was able to extend her her nails as if they were claws. Fifteen could suddenly see colours we shouldn't. You?"

My stomach churns- the first sign it still exists- and I suddenly feel glad that I didn't mention anything eariler.

"Plants. I know their names and they interact with me."

Seventeen can hear more than they should. Eighteen can see clearly without light. Twenty can smell more, twenty-one has a tail and thicker body hair. Twenty-two has developed scales and can smell with their tongue. Twenty-three and twenty-four both seem to be able to comunicate with sounds in a different frequency.

When I try to sleep, my brain keeps running over all the possibly meanings of this, but my brain draws blanks.

But over the next week, we formulate a plan.

We bust out. we work togehter with our stengths, the scientists not expecting an uprising.

We make it out of the facility, utilising our new found abilities. The first moment I step out into the sun, I feel energiesed- strong.

As we hunker down in an abanonded house we found, we realise the world isn't what we were told. No signs of life anywhere, but the occasional mutter of a zombie nearby.

But it's fine. We get to live how we want.

Scientists have finally discovered the cure for the zombie virus, and you’re one of the first zombies to have recovered. The trouble is, scientists are now discovering some unexpected side effects to the cure…

[dontleavemygarden]

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Coming! Hang on a second. Hello? - Barry? - Adam? - Can you believe this is happening? - I can't. I'll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I'm excited. Here's the graduate. We're very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B's. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. - You got lint on your fuzz. - Ow! That's me! - Wave to us! We'll be in row 118,000. - Bye! Barry, I told you, stop flying in the house! - Hey, Adam. - Hey, Barry. - Is that fuzz gel? - A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I'd make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I'm glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. - Hi, Barry. - Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good. - Hear about Frankie? - Yeah. - You going to the funeral? - No, I'm not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don't waste it on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess he could have just gotten out of the way. I love this incorporating an amusement park into our day. That's why we don't need vacations. Boy, quite a bit of pomp... under the circumstances. - Well, Adam, today we are men. - We are! - Bee-men. - Amen! Hallelujah! Students, faculty, distinguished bees, please welcome Dean Buzzwell. Welcome, New Hive City graduating class of... ...9:15. That concludes our ceremonies. And begins your career at Honex Industries! Will we pick our job today? I heard it's just orientation. Heads up! Here we go. Keep your hands and antennas inside the tram at all times. - Wonder what it'll be like? - A little scary. Welcome to Honex, a division of Honesco and a part of the Hexagon Group. This is it! Wow. Wow. We know that you, as a bee, have worked your whole life to get to the point where you can work for your whole life. Honey begins when our valiant Pollen Jocks bring the nectar to the hive. Our top-secret formula is automatically color-corrected, scent-adjusted and bubble-contoured into this soothing sweet syrup with its distinctive golden glow you know as... Honey! - That girl was hot. - She's my cousin! - She is? - Yes, we're all cousins. - Right. You're right. - At Honex, we constantly strive to improve every aspect of bee existence. These bees are stress-testing a new helmet technology. - What do you think he makes? - Not enough. Here we have our latest advancement, the Krelman. - What does that do? - Catches that little strand of honey that hangs after you pour it. Saves us millions. Can anyone work on the Krelman? Of course. Most bee jobs are small ones. But bees know that every small job, if it's done well, means a lot. But choose carefully because you'll stay in the job you pick for the rest of your life. The same job the rest of your life? I didn't know that. What's the difference? You'll be happy to know that bees, as a species, haven't had one day off in 27 million years. So you'll just work us to death? We'll sure try. Wow! That blew my mind! "What's the difference?" How can you say that? One job forever? That's an insane choice to have to make. I'm relieved. Now we only have to make one decision in life. But, Adam, how could they never have told us that? Why would you question anything? We're bees. We're the most perfectly functioning society on Earth. You ever think maybe things work a little too well here? Like what? Give me one example. I don't know. But you know what I'm talking about. Please clear the gate. Royal Nectar Force on approach. Wait a second. Check it out. - Hey, those are Pollen Jocks! - Wow. I've never seen them this close. They know what it's like outside the hive. Yeah, but some don't come back. - Hey, Jocks! - Hi, Jocks! You g

( A soft breeze passes through the garden. Eternal Sugar Cookie stands perfectly still. Unblinking. Processing. )

“ ... My dearest. ”

( A beat. A long one. Too long. )

“ What... in the frosted name of Sugar Swan was that. ”

ooc: I'M GENUINELY CACKLING ISTG 🥹🥹

[eldritch-spouse]

I understand that this has probably been asked already, and if it has please feel free to ignore this (or maybe you simply don’t want to answer, which I’d also completely understand), but;

I like rolling your OCs and their world around in my head, and making OCs of my own to plug in. Normally they revolve around the TCE boys because they’re my favorites, but that’s brought up a new issue as of late: Admin. If you’re in TCE, you’re probably gonna interact with or at least see Admin to some extent. But Admin is a reader insert character- By design, of course- So she’s had many, MANY different personalities and physical appearances in the past.

My question is: If Admin weren’t an insert of the reader, who would she be? Like, in stories like Gifted, where she is a character in her own right. Are there any physical traits you more commonly associate with her? Any backstories that are more closely associated with YOUR core idea of who she is? There have been crueler Admins, kinder Admins, Admins perfectly happy with their current situation and Admins who, somehow, rebel against Krulu (in, admittedly, feeble ways)- Which do you believe captures her essence as you see it the best?

I mainly want to know so I can adjust the interactions in my head to fit your “canon”, you are the highest authority on your characters after all! Thanks

[Thenk you! I hope this helps.]

This post includes not only a possible ""canonical"" view of Admin for different-role readers, but also a slight look into her demeanor. (Admittedly, it is old.)

Admin doesn't have a clear backstory, once again, to facilitate insertion. The two major elements of Admin's backstory set in stone are as follows:

At some point, she forms a friendship with the triplets, especially Ludwig, who had begun to get a crush on her. Naturally, this went sour the moment he passed Krulu onto her;

She does not remember her family or much of anything regarding her life before Krulu's presence. The only one who has an inkling of this is Ludwig, and he won't tell her. Not anymore;

More below.

Admin can best be described by the way she acts in Gifted. Personally, I believe that's the most accurate depiction of her.

In general though, she's an obsessive, worshipping and determined woman, whose most defining trait is her unending adoration towards Krulu. Everything she does spins around the possible wants of her Lord, the rules he instilled in her. Would Lord Krulu want this? How can she facilitate Lord Krulu's work? What would Krulu wish of her?

Admin knows that her image is important because, as a vessel, her actions and words represent Krulu. This means she must dress only as he allows her to, she mustn't fumble and tumble through interactions and her expression should be guarded around most. If Krulu is an imposing, collected and calculating being, then she must mirror this outwardly. This is why most interactions characters have with her tend to be intense, no matter how short. To lose her composure is to fail her Lord, and Admin will punish herself for such.

Admin is, in the end, amoral.

Acts of sadism are ordered from her, and later on enacted autonomously based on established patterns. Acts of generosity are also not entirely born of her own volition. Whether Admin is pubishing or rewarding, she enjoys doing it, because it's carrying out the will of her Higher.

Around the staff, she can exhibit a somewhat less imposing posture. These are allies of Krulu, and while she is still in charge of keeping them functional, Admin considers them the closest thing to friends that she might have, urging a slight playful tone to her actions. Sex with them is a part of the punishment-reward system, as she doesn't truly desire these monsters, merely uses them to pleasure her Master.

[If you choose to follow the story line where Adrul and Adelo are born, then Belo becomes her partner- Both become chosen of Krulu.]

When one or more of your ocs show up to catch a staff member's attention, Admin immediately ceases what little sexual contact there is with said staff member, as that is now their responsibility in her eyes. She treats the partners of staff members with some grace, as being useful to her means being useful to Krulu. Of course, disrespect is still not tolerated, which is why staff won't let your ocs openly insult Krulu, for example.

If an oc happens to be human, Admin may express a subtle desire to get to know them better. It's unclear if such is yet another directive from Krulu, or a part of her social needs flaring up.

Observant, calculating, hard to read yet somewhat predictable- Admin will be an occasionally present part of your ocs' time spent within the Clergy.

Perhaps they fear the strange woman who seems to hold a large amount of power here. Perhaps the respect her demeanor and enjoy speaking to her. Perhaps they think they can use her somehow- She always seems as if she knows just a little too much.

[realist-fortheloveofwomen]

Attempting to distance yourself from a label is a completely normal reaction to not liking the label. Why would a straight man “transition” to lesbian, if he wasn’t secretly a lesbian? Firstly, it’s a fetish for a lot of them, or a mental illness. A straight man who jerks off to lesbian porn then wants to wear a dress and enact those porn scenes isn’t a lesbian, hes still a straight man, he just want to date lesbians and live out his fantasy.

We recognize that lesbians can be in the closet and feel discomfort with the word “lesbian” due to its association with porn, that doesn’t make them not lesbian for disliking the label. A white person can dislike the term “white person”- they’re still white. Not liking a label doesn’t mean you don’t fit that label, it just means you don’t like it.

Here’s another thing you forget. You can “look” like a male, but unless you ARE a male, there is no way to “live as a male”

Imagine if I said “I live like I have type AB blood” or “I live like I have white skin”. What the fuck do either of these mean. If we take the second phrase at face value, it implies that there is a way to live as a white person that is inherently different than a black person. Sounds a bit racist, doesn’t it? But what I assume you meant was “I get treated like a male by society”, in the same way that “society treats me like I have white skin, therefore, I am living like I am white”. But the problem wasn’t the skin color- it was the treatment. White people and black people shouldn’t get treated differently.

If you meant “society treats me like a male”, then the problem is that society treats the sexes differently. The places were sexes should be treated differently- hospitals, prisons, changing rooms, etc, would also apply to you. Even though you don’t “identify” as a female, you still are one.

And if you truly believe that there are things men do that women don’t do, or if they do “function” like that they’re not a woman, you have internalized misogyny. There is no way to “function” or “live like a male”. You simply are a male that lives, or you’re not.

Looking like a male doesnt make you a male anymore than dressing up as a character for cosplay makes you that character. Having “phallic genitals” doesn’t make it a penis. You’re a woman with an enlarged clitoris from taking hormones opposite of your sex- a uniquely female experience. And additionally, it is still something heterosexual women and gay men would be incapable of having attraction for, since it is a vagina. Even if you looked like a male PERFECTLY, they wouldn’t want to sleep with you once they saw your genitals. That’s SEXuality.

You are a bisexual woman, and yeah that won’t stop you from taking cross sex hormones and removing your breasts, but transitioning doesn’t magically make you a man, just like how me painting my skin doesn’t make me a different race. Except, in that scenario, painting my skin won’t turn me into a life long medical patient. Many trans youth are disabled because of the hormones they have taken, and it’s not a coincidence. Phantom pain in the breasts, vaginal atrophy and drying, muscle atrophy, early balding, unhealthy weight gain, mood swings, and more are some of the side effects to “looking like a male”. If you want to severely risk your health for the illusion of being the opposite sex, don’t expect everyone else to play along with your fantasy.

My favorite brand of TRA idiocy is saying “sexuality is so complicated-“ then describing bisexuality. You are bisexual if you are attracted to both sets of genitals. You are heterosexual if you are attracted to the pair of genitals that do not belong to you. You are homosexual if you are attracted to the same set of genitals you have.

“Gay” trans men = heterosexual woman

“Lesbian” trans woman = heterosexual man

[kharla-k]

How did Anastasio become a properly equipped and existing member of the inquisition? A group defined by a near-obsession to stamp out every possible inkling of abnormal behaviors or patterns. You're telling me this man looks hinged and functional?

(A detail I really like is that his boss sprite shakes constantly, he can't even really hold his weapons straight)

I think about, what would happen if a high inquisitor, someone stable and profoundly dangerous like Carmen or Dario had run into him. Surely they spend five minutes in the room with him and realize that something has profoundly gone wrong, and that's probably before he besmirched his weapons with bone. Had Irene run into him she'd report back to the Inquisition, if Silver had known Anastasio lived through the boat explosion he would have likely also requested assistance.

Granted the only proper examples we've been given of Inquisitors have been righteous and mentally stable (bar one), and the more xenophobic and corrupt ones could likely have helped pave the way for Anastasio, but it still seems off to me. Even if he gets that far, earns his inquisitorial handcannon, he has a reputation that far precedes him (EP-1 Before):

Wouldn't someone come for him? Maybe investigate his situation? Is there a warrant for his arrest somewhere?

My best guess might be that the Inquisition is spread so thinly, pulled apart from so many sides and desperate for manpower to survive, to save their failing nation, that he doesn't even rank high enough on the list to be a problem worth solving.

That paints a very bleak picture, if it's the case. Who cares about a single loose cannon with illegal weapons, when the events of (for example, dunno about the timeline) Stultifera Navis is taking place. Nethersea brand swarming the coast, demanding the attention of not just the inquisition, but people like Kal'tsit and Carmen. One guy who could end up killing a hundred people unjustly, or thousands of people who WILL die to a seaborn incursion.

Alternatively the Inquisition could just be keeping people like him around to serve their reputation? "Don't steal from us, or crazy johnny will chase you for miles." Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Iberia has had it bad for a while now. It's undeniably practical to take advantage of a guy who has training and some capability if he's solving more problems than causing.

After the events of Exodus From the Pale Sea I'm sure a line would be crossed, murdering another ranking Inquisitor, but in ideal circumstances it should never have been the case that Anastasio got backing and authority, nevermind been near Aarón. As most of it's relevant events have shown, however; Iberia is far from ideal circumstances.

[dotpyenji]

Dragalia Lost Period Tracker

[sidewalk-cracks]

literally please give Battison a Dick Grayson in the Batman Part II.

The first movie was about Bruce's journey from not wanting to be Bruce Wayne, to realizing that he does in fact need to be Bruce Wayne, and that Bruce Wayne can be a force used for good just like Batman. Logically then, the second movie should explore the next immediate question on the table: okay, he needs to be Bruce Wayne. So who is Bruce Wayne? What kind of man is Bruce Wayne going to be? Bruce still feels defined by his trauma of his parent's death. Bruce Wayne still feels defined by his parents' shadows, by his father's legacy. He still feels defined by his grief. How does he make Bruce Wayne be something different?

Dick Grayson would serve as the PERFECT device for Bruce to discover who he can be. Because Dick Grayson is literally just a young Bruce, and Bruce sees that instantly (it's why he takes him in in the first place). So throughout the movie, as Bruce tries to help Dick process his grief, he's inadvertently processing his OWN grief. Dick Grayson unknowingly helps Bruce process his own trauma, and through their developing relationship shows him that Bruce Wayne can be more than a recluse, a failure, a man drowning in his own head- he can be a protector, a friend, a parent.

When Dick points a gun at Tony Zucco's head, Bruce talks him down, and all the words that he gives him are words he had wanted when he was a kid and his grief was fresh. Even though they're gone, you're not alone. I understand.

BATTISON NEEDS DICK GRAYSON TO BE ABLE TO TAKE THE NEXT STEP OF HIS CHARACTER GROWTH.

[aroaceleovaldez]

i think a lot about how early-series, demigods are referred to pretty equally as "demigods," "half-bloods," and "godlings," - the last used particularly by gods at demigods - but after that "godlings" is almost exclusively used to refer to minor gods.

something something i am literally always chewing on the concept of the line between immortals/demigods/monsters/etc being thinner than it appears