#some shiny plastic in a bowl

[respocked]

Star Trek conspiracy theory: the reason that the Tellarites from The Journey To Babel look different to later shows Tellarites is because the ambassadors in Journey... are not actually Tellarites at all. They are impostors, wearing dead Tellarite faces on their own. Sarek knows but doesn't say anything because they are honestly less annoying than the orginal ones

[luveline]

if your still taking requests I would like to request reader scraping their knees and tasm!peter patching her up and it’s a lot of lovely tension:))) maybe r not being used to people touching them without bad intentions.

I hope you are having a lovely time right now and are taking care of yourself<3

thank you lovely! ♡ fem, 1k

Peter's droopy eyed when you knock, less so when he gets a good look at you. Blood leading like twin snakes from the grazed ache of your knees and staining your socks, tears lining your eyes and shiny in the sun, you're embarrassingly sad. He doesn't give you shit for it, the opposite. 

"Fuck," he says, his eyes widening with a familiar concern. "Shit, what did you do?" 

"Uhm," you say, though you know, but you bit your tongue on the way down and everything hurts, "I fell. Someone bumped into me coming out of the subway." 

Peter holds his hands out, thinks better of it and steps down over the door jam to take your hands and pull you forward for a hug. He smells like apple jack cereal and his hair is still wet from an early morning shower, a walking poster boy for brown-haired, brown-eyed sweethearts everywhere, but you still seize at his tight hold. 

He murmurs a sorry and leans back, assessing your gaze, so close that you can see the trifecta of his pinprick beauty marks, one in the shadow of his brow, one under his eye, and one closer to his nose. 

"Come on. We'll clean you up." 

Peter ushers you inside, his fingertips brushing the small of your back. You walk into the kitchen, every surface clean, the wooden dining table decorated by one empty coffee cup and one half full. His cereal bowl has been washed and left to dry on the rack, next to what must've been his Aunt May's plate. 

"May's in work already?" you ask him.

He hums, turned away from you, a slip of his long, shapely back exposed as he reaches for the first aid kit sitting on top of one of the cabinets. "She said to tell you thank you for the flowers last week." 

You panicked so much beforehand. What do you bring for your not quite new friend's mom when you meet her for the first time? You've known Peter for a few months but never had the good fortune to meet May until she demanded it, your bouquet a weak offering. You'd wanted her to like you, because despite your fight or flight whenever he gives you a quick shoulder rub, any ounce of affection, you really like Peter. 

Said flowers draw your attention as Peter helps you up onto the counter. You turn away from him, trembling hands forced under your thighs, and count the petals of a wilting carnation one by one as he washes his hands quickly in the sink beside you before laying out the sterile bandages atop their plastic coverings. "I'm gonna wipe the blood off," he says. 

You're past saying no, I can do it myself. You already let him help you up. The time to protest is passed. 

"Okay." 

He takes your wobbly voice for nervousness, and you are nervous, but not the way he thinks. "I'll be careful," he says. "You don't have anything to worry about." 

Strange but not unheard of for Peter to be so serious. You nod jerkily, waiting for his touch. It doesn't come for a while, and you brave meeting his gaze to find out why. 

His eyebrows are sewn together in concern. His hands land on your thighs, and, to your surprise, you aren't apprehensive. You relax as deft hands draw mirrored lines up and down the outer sides of your legs, leaving a generous distance from the beginnings of your shorts. "Maybe you can take some advil first, if you're worried." He eases your legs apart as he steps into the space between them, his eyes unfailing where they meet yours. "It'll hurt less. I bet I could get some topical numbing cream–" 

"It's not–" You peek down at his chest. "I'm not worried about my knees." 

"Oh. Good," he says, hand coming up to your elbow. He holds it so tenderly you wonder how you ever thought he might have a propensity for anything but tenderness. "You look really nice, under all the blood. Is that weird? That's probably why you fell, you couldn't just walk around looking that nice. Throws off the balance of the universe." 

You laugh softly. "These are my best socks." 

"I can see that!" He squeezes down from your elbow to your hand. You've never been touched like that, half massage, half reassurance, just squeezing you to squeeze you. Laughter livens his tone, "I'll get you new socks." 

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to." 

You struggle to breathe as he cleans your knees. Between his murmuring, It's okay and Almost done, you've no time to feel worried. 

You've time for other things, like this. He turns between your legs and slides a hand under the other, fingertips pressing into the soft underside of your knee as he works a thin layer of disinfecting ointment into your scratches. He continues his murmuring, apologies and lamentation alike. "Sorry. Don't want you catching rabies from the pristine streets of Queens. I mean, fuck, sweetheart, you made a real mess. How hard did you fall?" 

You swallow a lump that feels fit to choke you, worse when he tilts his head ever so slightly your way, face an inch from yours, less. 

"Hard," you say weakly. 

He misses the implication (your first stroke of luck all day), smoothing a large square of gauze over your knee and securing it with medical tape. "It's nothing a day on the couch can't fix. I'll make you breakfast too, free of charge." 

"Thanks, Peter." 

He rubs the skin above your knee. "You're welcome. One horrendous injury down, one to go." 

His touch feels even softer the second time around. 

[spicycinnabun]

stuff, things, and meatball

@steddiemicrofic ⋆ for prompt ‘stuff’ ⋆ wc: 483 ⋆ rated: g (this is a mild italian meatball, folks) ⋆ cw: none

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

The Munsons were having a yard sale. Almost everyone in the group had come by to help (Dustin was a particularly ruthless salesman).

Steve was doing the heavy lifting, bringing boxes out, while Wayne relaxed in his lawn chair outside, sipping a beer. Eddie had been ogling Steve shamelessly until he noticed something missing.

Steve caught him in his bedroom, frantically searching around. “What’re you doing?”

“Stuff, Steve.” Eddie cast him an irritable glance. “Things!”

Steve quirked a brow. “Care to elaborate further?”

“I can’t find my—did you happen to see a brown bear with red ears and paws?“

“Oh.” Steve frowned, scratching his jaw. “Yeah. With the white buttons? Mrs. Grisham bought it about an hour ago. Caught her daughter’s eye.”

At Eddie’s crestfallen face he failed to hide, Steve stepped closer. “Shit, I’m sorry, Eds.” His mouth downturned. “It was in your closet with some other old toys. I thought…”

“No, it’s fine,” Eddie interrupted, schooling his expression quickly. “It’s cool. Stupid of me to hang onto a dumb bear for so long, anyway, right? It should be with an actual child.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I’ve got sentimental things I hold onto, too.” Steve touched his arm, thumb caressing Eddie’s inner elbow and making Eddie’s brain screech to a halt. “You know what? I’ll go get it. I know where the Grishams live. I’ll be back soon.”

He left the trailer before Eddie could compute what had happened.

Eddie flailed. “Wha—wait, Steve—!“

He ran outside, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, but Harrington was already in the Beemer, lifting a hand from the wheel to wave at Eddie.

ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ

“Please don’t tell me you stole Meatball from some poor kid’s sticky little claws,” was what Eddie said when Steve returned. Steve handed him the bear, and Eddie’s fingers squished soft, artificial fur. He resisted the urge to clutch it to his chest. “You should give him back.”

Steve smiled at him. “I didn’t steal Meatball. I sorta… made a trade.”

“A trade?” Eddie repeated, perplexed. “What did you trade?“

“I, uh, went to the mall and bought a new stuffed animal?” Steve shrugged. His cheeks were pink. “No biggie.”

Eddie made an incredulous noise. No biggie? That… had to be one of the nicest goddamn things anyone had ever done for him.

He threw his arms around Steve, nearly bowling him over. Eddie hid his face in Steve’s neck as his traitorous eyes threatened to burn. Meatball’s shiny plastic nose dug in between Steve’s shoulder blades. “I can’t believe you fucking did that, you motherfucking sweetheart,” Eddie muttered. “Why did you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” It was Steve’s turn to sound confused. He returned the hug, arms settling comfortingly around Eddie. “It’s important to you, and you’re important to me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eddie said. He sniffled. “Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve squeezed him. “You’re welcome, Eddie bear.”

ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ❤︎‬

[earl-grey-teacake]

Can you please release some baby loscar snipits! I am a drowning college student who needs serotonin.

Of course! It's been a while since I have written Baby!Loscar.

Kitty-Logan (5 years old)

"Gently." Max held Logan's hand and guided it in brushing Sassy's head. He leveled a stern glare at the cat and Sassy knew well enough to put her claws away.

Jimmy sniffed around Logan before deciding to take a look in his baby bag, hoping there were treats like that delicious homemade applesauce he had snagged last time. While Leo, ever the rambunctious puppy, was wiggling in Charles's arms in his attempt to greet the new guest.

"Kitty!" Logan yelled and Sassy pushed her head against Logan's chest. Bending his head down, he bopped his head with Sassy.

Pleased with the display, she curled and settled on Logan's lap as Uncle Max taught him how to properly pet Sassy. "You brush with the hair not against it."

"Leo!" The dog broke free of Charles's grasp and ran towards Logan, throwing his body weight onto Logan's side and causing the toddler to fall backwards.

"Oof," Max quickly caught Logan before he could hit his head and sat him back up. "Are you okay?"

With the shock settling in, Logan's lips wobbled and tears started to fill his eyes and a soft cry start to emerge. "Wahhhhhh. Ahhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhh."

Sassy, not pleased with her moment being disrupted, turned and hit Leo on the head with her paw before jumping off to chase him.

"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"

"MEOWWWWW! MEOWWWW!"

Charles had run off to stop the two, leaving Max with a crying baby that he had no idea how to comfort. "Are-Are you hurt?"

"Wahhhhhh. Ahhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhh."

“Shhhhhh, it’s okay” Max gently patted his back and examine him for injuries

Jimmy, clearly taking pity on his owner, meandered over and settled on Logan's lap, snuggling his head against Logan's chest and purring.

Logan's tears settled as he looked down and gently pet Jimmy’s soft fur. The cat giving him a small lick on the nose, eliciting a giggle from Logan. "Kitty".

Fancy Grapes-Logan (3 years old)

Lance had always had a sweet tooth but with his diet plan, they found it best for him to mitigate his desire for cakes and candies with grapes. Particularly expensive sweet grapes imported from Japan and would run $300-700 for a bunch. They were sweet, juicy, and absolutely worth the money.

“What’s that?” A soft voice whispered next to Lance as large green eyes stared at the bowl of shiny muscats and Ruby Romans.

Fernando had brought Logan into Aston Martin, something about letting him learn about other teams, and then was pulled away leaving Logan alone in the hospitality.

“Grapes,” Lance held a muscat up. “Want one?”

“Yes, please” Logan nodded.

‘He’s so cute and polite’ Lance thought as the child clambered onto the chair next to him.

Before Lance could hand over the giant green grape, his trainer quickly stopped him. “You have to cut those up. Children can choke on them.”

“Huh?” Lance looked alarmed. It was a grape but again Logan was very small.

“Here.” A plate and a plastic knife was placed by the bowl and Lance spent the next 10 minutes fervently cutting the grapes in half. Logan was too tiny and cute and he could not have the child be harmed in any way.

Logan on the other hand, ate the grapes at an inhuman speed, and beaming smile on his face.

“Do you like it mijo?” Fernando arrived, ruffling Logan’s hair and smiling at Lance.

“Mhm!” Logan nodded, his cheeks full of grapes, making him look like a hamster.

Thunderstorm-Oscar (6 years old)

*BOOM*

Oscar pulled his duvet over his head and hugged his koala tightly. He was a big boy and big boys aren’t scared of angry clouds.

*BOOM*

Logan wasn’t scared of thunderstorms. The only one scared was Kimi and Ollie and they were babies and Oscar isn’t a baby.

*BOOM*

*BOOM*

*BOOM*

Oscar pulled the blanket tighter around him.

*BOOM*

*BOOM*

*BOOM*

With a squeal, he threw his blanket off and rushed out his room and towards the room down the hall. Opening the door, he felt around in the dark until he came into contacts with the smooth wood of the nightstand. Following the edge of the nightstand, he came to side of the bed. His papa was sleeping soundly on his side and he could see his dad’s curly hair poking out from the blanket.

“Papa,” Oscar whispered. “Papa.”

Oscar gently shook his Papa’s shoulder. “Papa?” Oscar whimpered as the weight of the darkness became to settled in.

“Hmmm?” His Papa opened his eyes. “Oscar?”

“Can I sleep here?” Oscar whispered.

Without saying a word, he picked Oscar up and pulled him into the middle of the bed. With a shuffle of pillows and duvets, Oscar found himself settled quite warmly in between his parents. Another hand landed on top of head, slowly scratching his scalp softly.

“Go to sleep, Oscar.”

Sim Racing-Oscar (2 years old)

“Do you want to try Osc?” Lando turned to the toddler who was clinging to the chair and trying to look at the screen.

“Max!” Oscar pointed at Max Fewtrell.

“Hi Oscar!”

“Hiiiiii!” Oscar waved.

“Want to race?” Lando pointed to the wheel.

“Yes!” Holding his arms out, Lando picked him up and sat him on his lap.

Oscar immediately put his hands on the large steering wheel. “Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!”

Which elicited some laughter from the others on the stream and a flurry of heart emojis on the chat. Lando set the track to Silverstone and put his hands on the steering wheel as well.

“No! No!” Oscar shoved Lando’s hand off the wheel. “Vroom! Vroom!”

“Osc, I need to have my hand on the wheel. You’re too little to drive on your own.” Lando explained.

“No!!!!” Oscar kicked his legs.

Lando sighed as he could hear the others laugh. “How about I let you drive and I help?”

“Ok.”

Lando kept his hand on the wheel to stabilize it as Oscar decided the direction of the car. The downside was that Oscar kept crashing the car into the wall.

*CRASH*

“Alright let’s restarts.”

*CRASH*

“You hit me!” Max yelled.

*CRASH*

*CRASH*

*CRASH*

“Mate, what are you doing?” Max yelled as he drove past the wreck of Lando’s car.

“Ask Oscar!”

“Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!”

*******

I hope you enjoyed this!!! ❤️

[mrhyde-mrseek]

Updated altar tour!!!

Hades & Persephone

They share an altar! Not much has changed since i last posted a picture of it except that i added a bracelet, but to recap, they’ve got:

A raven and skull Halloween decoration

A bracelet i made with Hades in mind and hung around the raven’s neck

Red Crowley-ish sunglasses

A candle holder from the thrift store

A stone snake figurine thing

A geode(?)/sparkly rock

A bat plushie (named Marcel the Mycelium Bat by my friend)

A bracelet i made for Persephone and put on the bat

Persephone’s offering bowl, a flowerpot with a crow(?) feather and a (now dead) flower

Vials of fake herbs (another Halloween decoration)

A poison apple spellbook Halloween decoration

A Hadestown magnet

A little red candle

Hades’ offering bowl, a thrifted metal bowl apparently made in 1978 (that’s the date carved on it at least) with crystals, coins, rocks, a key, a silver Beetlejuice bracelet, a button shaped like a cat eye, and a letter in it

Dionysus

Not much has changed since i last showed y’all Dionysus’s altar, but they’ve got:

A satyr statue i made in an art class

A painting with colors i associate with them

A nonbinary flag-colored heart charm

Two pinecones

A big bead with eerily similar colors to the lesbian flag

A bracelet

A gold paper heart a member of my high school a cappella group made me

Two amethyst crystals

My pronoun pin

A purple candle

Athena

Athena’s hasn’t changed much either, but it’s got:

My kindle

My vintage-looking desk light

Its offering bowl, a flower pot shaped like a statue head, with a crow feather, a little turkey feather, a massive turkey tail feather, and a Good Omens pen

A fall-scented candle

A Kamala Harris magnet from The Female Power Project

Two little plastic trophies

A few blue stones

A puzzle

An offering of iced tea & lemonade that Athena didn’t really like but didn’t want me to take it off its altar and still doesn’t (i tried it and it’s really sweet but like in a bad way so i can see why it doesn’t like it lol)

Hermes

Hermes’s altar has some new additions! I mainly got then because i wanna bring something from each altar with me to college that i won’t lose, and since candles aren’t allowed i got him something else, so now he has:

His candle (which I’m still obsessed with)

A wax doll my dad got me from a Voodoo practitioner’s shop on a business trip to New Orleans

A feather

A Newsies keychain

A marble

A tiny rubber duck figurine

Dice

What i think is Dalmatian Jasper but I could be wrong??

A couple more shiny rocks

A bracelet

A couple coins

A brand new statue (which is what I’m bringing to college)!!! It came with what I’m guessing is a little baby Hermes but I don’t really know, and a caduceus that I just realized he can hold

Artemis

Artemis’s hasn’t changed much either, except for a few added trinkets, so right now she has:

A candle

An animal skull-shaped fish tank decoration i got from my friend’s yard sale (coincidentally the same friend who named Marcel the Mycelium Bat)

A silver ring from prom

A few rocks

A little crystal, i think it’s amethyst??

A Totoro figurine

A crescent moon selenite offering bowl

An acorn

A mug inspired by her I made junior year of high school with a crow feather in it

A gold crescent moon charm

Apollo

I haven’t shown Apollo’s altar yet because he’s relatively new to the group of deities i work with/worship! He’s got:

A tall ass candle

A wolf plushie

A rainbow… thing, it’s too big to be a bracelet but too small to be a necklace so it’s his now

A gold plastic coin thing

A fake lavender-looking flower

A glass bauble charm filled with yellow glitter

My tarot cards

An award i got senior year from the music program (I scribbled out my name on the photo)

An HRC water bottle that’s kinda hidden behind the award

A couple rocks

A yellow plastic gummy bear

A squishy yellow unicorn fidget toy

A plastic toy milkshake (he thought it was funny)

Aphrodite

Aphrodite has a couple additions to her altar, too! We’ve got:

A drawing I made for her

A pretty little teal rock

Two shells

A tiny pink candle

A piece of a plastic crown from my high school’s production of Mean Girls last year, I have no idea how i ended up with it but here we are

A thing of blush (rarely used, i thought she might appreciate it more)

Coconut and pear-scented chapstick

A shell kinda shaped like a bowl with a pearly charm, two pink paper stars, and a tiny rose charm in it

Her offering bowl, a teacup, saucer, and spoon shaped like a flower, leaf, and ladybug respectively that was a graduation present from a friend!! While they’re not quite Aphrodite’s style, she still likes them on her altar because they were a symbol of platonic love!!

A bracelet in her offering bowl

[wooahaes]

team effort

pairing: non-idol!performance unit & gn!reader

genre: fluff + roommates au <3

word count: 0.8k~

warnings: food/candy mentions!

daisy's notes: themst :( <3

“I’m home—” Minghao had called out, only to stop in his tracks at the sound of plastic bags rustling. All four of you were sitting on the floor now, working diligently at… some task you’d decided to amuse yourselves with. “What the hell are you doing…?”

Normally, he could depend on things being relatively normal when he came home to you four together. Usually if anything weird was going on, it was the direct result of Soonyoung and Jun (and sometimes you) drinking while Chan sat by and watched with amusement and a phone to record the antics. Yet today seemed weird on a different level. Last Halloween, things had been far more normal: the five of you had gone to a Halloween party together. This year… Someone had moved the coffee table aside, the sofa and chairs back, giving all of you ample room to sit on the floor. Empty bags of different brands of Halloween candy were neatly stacked aside, and all four of you had a Halloween-themed bowl in your lap or between your legs, dutifully sorting the candy into five piles. 

He made his way in. “Hi?”

Chan looked up. “Oh. You’re home.” He looked back down to his bowl, fishing through it again. He said nothing else: no warm greeting, no questions of how work went… He was just focused on his candy again, picking up a piece and reaching out to drop it in one of the piles. 

“What are you guys doing?” Minghao furrowed his brow. 

“We bought Halloween candy and we’re sorting it so we can all get what we want,” you said with this ‘isn’t it obvious?’ tone to your voice. He caught the way you and Soonyoung rolled your eyes, although the subtle smile on the latter’s face gave away that it was purely to poke fun at you for how serious you were taking this. It made Minghao wonder who’s idea this was to begin with now—he could easily see you coming up with it and either Soonyoung or Jun getting excited and dragging the rest of the group in on it. 

“Okay… But what about me?” 

One of Jun’s hands shot out, pointing at one of the piles. “I know which ones you like.” 

Minghao nodded slowly, and turned to continue to his shared room with Jun. He returned to the group, still dutifully sorting away, now changed out of his work outfit. He lowered himself onto the couch, watching as the four of you kept sorting in silence. He found himself smiling a little, too: sometimes living with the four of you could be… a lot, to put it simply, but other times it would be like this. There was something so wholeheartedly endearing about watching his four roommates sort out the candy they liked best, all while taking Minghao into account as well. 

Chan called your name after a moment, looking up. “Did you want the Hersheys, or was that Soonyoung?”

“... Lee Chan, please tell me you haven’t been giving Soonyoung my candy.” 

Chan barely managed to apologize before the three of you started to voice your complaints. He’d been giving you the Crunch bars that were supposed to go to Soonyoung, and that meant he needed to sit down and sort through your pile and Soonyoung’s to fix the mistake. Rude ass! How dare you! Hershey bars and Crunch bars were different!

Minghao rose, making his way over to the empty space. “Which one is which?” He said, sitting down. “I’ll sort through them.”

Immediately, Chan was thanking him for saving him from further scorn. Minghao merely chuckled, putting himself to work as he listened to Soonyoung bring up if the five of you were going to pull together matching costumes again this year. 

“I dunno,” you shrugged, toying with a small piece of candy wrapped in shiny orange foil. “It was a lot of work last year…”

“But it was cute,” Jun said. “I still have pictures I haven’t posted.” (Purely because Jun changed his phone background to one of them once October began.)

Chan shrugged. “We’re cutting it kind-of close.” 

“Oh my god,”  you immediately looked up. “Guys. We can be the Scooby Doo characters. Soonyoung is Scooby.”

Chan immediately pointed, “Yes! I don’t want to be a dog again. Soonyoung can do it.” 

Soonyoung rolled eyes, but he was smiling again. “Everyone knows Scooby Doo, though. Are you sure?” 

Minghao said nothing as he continued to work, listening to the rest of the group as they planned things out. He definitely didn’t object to being designated as Daphne (he’d figure out something fun to do with the outfit… and maybe he’d dye his hair, too—he hasn’t gone ginger in a while), listening as Chan and you bickered over who would get to be Fred… only for you to turn the title over to Chan when you realized you could dress up as Shaggy and hang out with Soonyoung. It left Jun with being Velma, but he didn’t mind: he just said something about liking her smarts. Minghao placed another mini Hershey bar into your pile of candy, and pocketed one for himself.

Just as a little treat for later. He’d just owe you one if you noticed.

taglist: @twancingyunhao @wonuziex @staranghae @synthetickitsune @weird-bookworm

[angelbaby-fics]

Hello Chloe! Its my first time requesting for a fic so I’m gonna try my best… can I please request a stucky x little!reader with a reader that has sinus arrhythmia? Because I have it and it says that I have Irregular heartbeat and I palpitate sometimes too so maybe a scenario where reader accidentally ate chocolate that is pure choco like Belgian chocolate and after a while she was palpitating and stucky helped her through it? Maybe even taking her to the hospital because my doctor said that if I palpitate I need to go to the emergency room immediately. And ends with fluff and comfort from stucky (even letting her hold on to their tags)? Thank you.. i’m sorry if this is so much for you though…🫶🏻❤️

Chocolate Trouble

Word Count: 1.5k!

A/N: Is the gif too on the nose? hehehe... Anyways, I hope this is alright! I tried to do some research on the condition as well as my own experience with tachycardia so I hope this is accurate!! Please let me know if there's anything you need changed or rewritten 💕💕

You knew you shouldn’t, you couldn’t help it, the spread of treats was far too enticing to resist. Tony had gone all out for Peter’s birthday party, as always, and this particular party included a massive buffet of catered goods of every sort of flavor profile. What caught your eyes most, of course, was the dessert table. Without Steve and Bucky around to tell you otherwise, you completely ignored the trays of sandwiches and bowls of fresh fruit in favor of as many cakes and cookies as you could get your hands on. You made a concentrated effort to pick treats that didn’t contain any caffeine, so you wouldn’t aggravate your heart condition, but without your daddies there to tell you which foods were safe & which were no-no’s, you were having trouble. But a little treat couldn’t hurt, right?

As you stuffed a sixth chocolate brownie into your overalls pocket, Peter tapped you on the shoulder, holding out a shiny plastic bag.

“We have goodie bags, by the way,” he said, as you took the bag.

“Thank you,” you replied.

“My daddy says you can take home as many as you want! Wanna try my favorites?” He asked, and your face lit up. The rest of the party was spent by you and Peter sampling each other’s favorite treats and filling up your bag with all the ones you loved, which, of course, was all of them. You were so preoccupied with sweets, you didn’t even notice that Steve and Bucky had come to pick you up until Bucky was kneeling down next to you.

“That's a lot of sugar, sugar,” he smirked.

“Baba!” You squealed, all at once abandoning the dessert table as you threw yourself into Bucky’s arms. He spun you around before catching the bag in your hand.

“What’s all this, huh? We leave you for a couple hours and you get possessed by Cookie Monster?” Bucky joked as he rifled through the bag, removing the snacks that would aggravate your condition, much to your disappointment.

“It's a special holiday!” You rebuffed, and Peter came to your defense.

“Yeah! My birthday means that me and all my friends can eat all the treats we want and nobody can tell us no! ‘Cause I’m the birthday king!” He said proudly.

“Oh, forgive me, your highness!” Bucky replied, now satisfied with your newly accommodated bag of heart-safe treats. “Does the birthday king ever make his subjects eat their veggies?”

“NO!” You and Peter both replied, before dissolving into giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asked, finishing up his chat with Tony, and joining the three of you.

“I think someone’s got a sugar high,” Bucky answered, before calming the nervous look that instantly crossed Steve’s face, “And don’t worry, I checked all the treats. We’re safe.”

Steve knew what it was like to have a condition that affected his everyday life, and he was fiercely protective of you for it. Growing up with heart conditions of his own, he knew the struggles of having to choose sometimes between having fun and staying healthy, and he was so proud of you every time you made the right choice. Bucky let Steve look through the goodie bag as well, and when he was satisfied with it, he picked you up into his arms and gave you a kiss on the cheek.

You said your goodbyes to Peter and the rest of your friends, while Steve said goodbye to all the grownups, and Bucky smiled and awkwardly waved hoping you and Steve wouldn’t take too long. Thankfully, many of the guests had been picked up before you, so you were out of the party and strapped into your car seat in no time at all. Your daddies kept the goodie bag of treats with them in the front seat, promising you could eat them to your heart’s content as soon as you finished at least of the healthy dinner Steve would prepare that night. You pouted in the back seat, having lost your bargain for a snack on the way home. How could they expect you to just sit in a car full of treats and NOT be given one? The back seat was so boring, all your toys were out of reach, the air conditioner made your nose cold, and the smell of sugar and chocolate from the front seat made your mouth water.

Wait a minute… Bucky had taken all the chocolates out of the goodie bag, hadn’t he? So what was that smell?

You remembered.

The brownies you’d stuffed in your front pocket were still there, and your daddies had no idea. Feeling very pleased with yourself, even though this little heist had been a complete accident, you popped bite after bite of rich, chewy chocolate into your mouth. The car had just pulled into the driveway when you finished the last one. Bucky went to unlock the house while Steve came around to the backseat to unstrap you, both of them none the wiser about your little chocolate escapades on the drive home. You were so excited to have gotten away with it all, until Steve was hoisting you up onto his hip, and you felt it.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, making your breath catch and shake. You hoped it was nothing serious, just post-party excitement and the joy of being in Steve’s capable arms, but then it happened again. It was like a butterfly had gotten into your ribcage and was fighting to get out. You furrowed your brows in discomfort, and Steve immediately noticed that something was wrong. His enhanced hearing and intuition, fine tuned just to you, could instantly sense the irregular beat of your heart, and he sprung into action.

“Bucky, back in the car, we gotta go,” He said, quickly reversing all his actions, strapping you back into your car seat and starting up the car. Bucky could tell the urgency, running back to the car without a question. As soon as Bucky was in, Steve sped off in the direction of Dr. Bruce’s practice, Banner being your family’s preferred physician due to his familiarity with all the littles of the Avengers crew.

“I checked, I swear I checked,” Bucky stressed, and it turned your stomach to think that he believed this was his fault.

“I know you did, honey,” Steve comforted him, but his focus was more split between keeping his eyes on the road, and nervously glancing back at you in the rearview mirror.

“What caused this, then? If she didn’t eat anything we didn’t approve of, then what the hell is going on?” Bucky whispered, not wanting to stress you out and make your heart worse. As far as they were aware, you were suddenly having a mysterious flare up of your condition, and you didn’t know what was worse, letting them believe this, or telling the truth about the treats you had snuck. You sat miserably in your car seat, heart still occasionally palpitating while you stewed in the regret of disobeying your daddies and sneaking the chocolate brownies.

When you got to Bruce’s office, you were immediately carried into a private room and hooked up to a heart monitor to keep a watch on your heart rate. You watched from your bed as the adults discussed how to fix this and what might have caused it, the guilt eating away at you. You finally decided to speak up.

“Um… doc’or Bruce?” You whispered, and all three adults turned their heads to face you. “I eated chocolate brownies. My daddies didn’t know and it’s not their fault, okay?”

Like a held breath being released, the tension in the room dissipated. Bruce smiled and came over to put a reassuring hand on your shoulder. He explained to your still slightly nervous caretakers how the small amounts of caffeine in the chocolate were fine in moderation, but the quality of the chocolate you’d eaten combined with the quantity of treats you’d had throughout the day had been just a little too much for your heart, causing the previously mysterious palpitations. You’d need to be kept overnight just to monitor your condition, but your heart rate would most likely regulate soon with some rest. After his explanation, Bruce left the room so that you, Steve, and Bucky could have a moment to yourselves.

“I’m sorry,” you sighed, too ashamed to look them in the eyes.

“Babydoll, it's okay,” Steve said, joining you on the hospital bed while Bucky pulled up a chair next to it. “We’re not mad, we were just so scared.”

“Daddies get scared, too?” You asked.

“Oh yeah baby, all the time!” Buck answered.

“That's crazy. You’re so tough!” you giggled, finally looking up at each of them.

Steve’s dog tags hung from his neck in front of you, and you reached out to hold them for comfort. Seeing this, Bucky took his off and handed them to you as well, and there you stayed, gripping the dogtags in your left hand and Bucky’s hand in your right, until eventually you dozed off and Bucky wiggled himself free to get your blankie and paci from the car. Steve stayed behind, not even his super soldier strength could pry your little hands off his tags when you were like this, but he didn’t care.They were both just so thankful you were okay.

[belle--ofthebrawl]

HELLO I AM BACK WITH A PROMPT AS WELL!

Perhaps some sunrora pumpkin carving? I just think they'd have so much fun! 🎃

"Aurora..." Sunny says solemnly from behind her and Aurora stifles her giggle. "I need to tell you something."

"Alright." Aurora says softly. "But only if I can tell you something too."

She turns to face Sunny, holding her stomach. Sunny is also holding her stomach.

"I'm pregnant and it's yours!" They both yell at the same time, pointing to the round bulge of their respective pumpkins under their sweaters. Sunshine gasps.

"Oh my god it's a miracle." She breathes. "A little unholy miracle right from Satan."

"Belly bump, belly bump." Aurora chants, shuffling awkwardly so she and sunshine can bump the pumpkins together. "Is it weird yet. I might be getting weirded out."

"I think it's hilarious." Sunshine tells her with a wave of her hand. The pumpkins come out, healthy and glowing from the soaking up the summer sunshine. "Now let's stab our children in sacrifice to Satan."

The setup is already waiting for them on the patio. Newspaper spread across the table, bowls to collect seeds in and sharp shiny knives just waiting to be plunged into (pumpkin) flesh.

"First you gotta lobotomize it." Sunny says formally. Aurora nods, watching and copying as Sunny cuts a beat circle around the stem. "This little cap comes off and we can disembowel the bitch. Save a few seeds for Mountain, he'll plant them but they're really good roasted with sea salt."

"Squishy." Aurora remarks as she sticks her hand into the innards of the gourd and brings it out coated in stringy goop. "Can I eat it?"

"Well, yeah but it won't taste very good." Sunshine explains. "There are pumpkins grown specifically for baking but they don't get as big as these Jack o lantern ones. So if you want, just chuck the guts into the bushes. Something will eat them."

"Neat." Aurora says and when she wipes her hands off on her jeans after thoroughly eviscerating her pumpkin, Sunny hands her a sharpie.

"Now think of a face!" She says cheerfully. "I'm going with a classic; crescent eyes, triangle nose and square tooth grin but you can do whatever you want."

"Some light plastic surgery." Aurora remarks.

"Exactly!" Sunny beams. With a smaller knife in hand, she starts to saw off chunks of the rind in perfect little geometric shapes. Aurora thinks for a moment, tapping her sharpie against her nose before she comes up with an idea. A diagonal line there, a curve to connect the edges, sharp triangles in the mouth...

"Oh-Em-Gee." Sunny says when Aurora picks up her own carving knife. "A Dracula pumpkin!"

"For the movie tonight!" Aurora hums and starts to carve out the narrowed eyes, the slits of the nose and the fanged smile. "I can't wait to see everyone else's."

The finishing touch is a sprinkle of cinnamon into the empty pumpkin before Sunny hands her a little tea light, flicking her thumb to start a flame. She lights Aurora's candle and her own and they place it gently into it's new home. The Jack o lanterns smile at them, one with mischief and the other radiating sheer joy. The wind is cold but Aurora feels warm, especially as Sunny leans over to give her a peck on the cheek.

"Perfection." She praises. "Now we just have to find the ideal spots to put them."

"I think I know a spot." Aurora says as they take their pumpkins, tails intertwining, and set off of the common room decorated for the holiday with snacks at the ready and packmates to snuggle up next to as they begin their scary movie marathon.

"What a perfect Halloween." Sunshine sighs and Aurora is inclined to agree.

[eris-snow]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠

✨Hero gala

Tags: fem!reader x bakugou, angst, bakugou's birthday series 2023

This gala was stupid.

Bakugou hates doing this shit. He glares at himself in the mirror, trying to find comfort in these restrictive garments meant for formal wear.

Gone are his slacks and repetitive tank top and in are shiny, polished shoes and a tigh dress shirt. Irritated, Bakugou releases a couple of the top buttons of the shirt to relieve at least some of the confinement the suit brought him.

It’s better, but he still feels like a caged animal.

The blond finally tears his eyes away from the mirror and slips his phone into his pocket, before stomping to the lift to meet everyone downstairs.

Stupid gala…he’s gonna feel like a sleep-deprived panda tomorrow with how little sleep he’s going to get. He doesn’t mind giving up a few hours of his precious slumber, but he’d appreciate it if it wasn’t right smack in the middle of the examination period.

If he all he meets are heroes dolled up in dresses and suits wearing fake smiles and sugary voices, then he wants a refund, because there’s no way in the ever-loving hell that he’s gonna sit there and—

The elevator dings, and his eyes shoot up from the ground to meet whoever decided to join his lonely trip down to the ground floor. A dress swishes into the lift, the colours of Sakura blossoms.

You.

Instantly, he locks eyes with you, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He takes back everything he was thinking and tosses it out of the imaginary window.

Fuck, you look hot as hell.

Bakugou has only ever seen you with that semi-neat hairstyle you wear to school. Most of the time, he sees you with a messy bun, one of the only ways to keep your hair out of your face. But now, your hair's tied in a beautiful French braid, face adorned with whispy pink eyeshadow and raspberry red lipstick.

God dammit.

"Hey," You greet, eyes twinkling as he stares at you, starstruck.

"Hey yourself," Bakugou says dumbly, finally dragging his eyes away from you to glare hotly at the metal doors of the lift. "Dress looks good on you, Sunshine."

"Suit looks good on you too, Bakugou," You smile, radiant and genuine.

He's gonna fucking die.

--

"A few years ago, I actually stopped a villain from robbing a jewellery store while I was on patrol. It really taught me how to be-" Bakugou had to restrain rolling his eyes at the hero's blabbering. What did he think it was? Father and son bonding time?

The blond knew the drill with these kinds of conversations. I used to think yadda yadda, then yadda yadda happened to me, I learnt yadda yadda from this incident, yadda yadda yadda yadda.

Yep. Bakugou wants a blood refund, an exit ticket and his warm, comfortable bed.

He excuses himself as politely as possible and ducks over to the buffet table, yanking a plastic cup to fill it with fruit punch. He needs a fucking drink.

"You too?" A voice interrupts his angry downward spiral.

Bakugou gives you a lazy side eye midway through his drink. You're there too, leaning against the wall in that pretty little dress he picked out for you. "If you mean these heroes tryna preach about their entire life history, then yes, Sunshine. I'm having the time of my life over here."

"I can see the excitement practically oozing out of your face, Bakugou. Could've fooled me." You sip your drink with a straight face, humouring him.

He smirks at you, mood already lifting. "I'm guessing I'm not the only one who wants to ditch."

You shrug bringing the punch away from your mouth. "Just trying to be as patient as I can. These heroes have been out in the field for a while now, there's much we can learn from them."

There you go again, being all optimistic and cheery. Bakugou almost can't stand it.

Almost.

" I can't deal with these sparkly people anymore." He announces to you, stalking over to the fruit punch bowl to refill his drink. "I'm taking a fucking break." It makes you crack a smile (one that makes Bakugou's heart do summersaults), as you push yourselves of the wall. "I'm gonna go back." You say, punch in hand. "See you around."

You only make it a few more steps before he's calling you all over again. "Sunshine."

You stop and turn.

Bakugou's eyes meet yours. "Tell me if you ever manage to learn something from them, yeah?"

That beautiful smile adorns your lips again as you nod. "Right."

Bakugou watches you with piercing eyes as Midoriya stops you halfway, smiling broadly as he converses with you excitedly about what Bakugou presumes is the Heroes here.

Right, this is probably paradise for the hero-obsessed nerd.

He takes a sip of his drink, about to tear his eyes away from you...

And then a window shatters. One window turns into two, and then three and soon there are hordes of people threatening to enter the entire building.

Alarm bells blare loudly in Bakugou's head as he drops his drink onto the ground.

This is a god damn villain attack.

--

Well, at least something interesting happened at that goddamn ball.

With Shigaraki defeated, there's been a major decline in villains on the loose. However, some strays from the LOV that have yet to be captured are still stirring up havoc and plotting to kill All Might, along with some other dangerous villains, to disrupt the peace that all the heroes fought for.

That was how they got here. With the teenagers split up from the adults because the oh-so-powerful villains wanted to terrorise those of Class A to join their cause.

What a fucking joke.

But who was Bakugou to complain? He was getting bored of the washed-out heroes talking about their experiences he already read up about over the news. He'd rather them talk about anything else than their achievements of successful endorsements and how much their family gave up to get them this far.

He knows what that feels like already.

"Who the fuck are you?" Bakugou spits out, allowing tiny sparks to fly out of his hands as Kirishima hardens his arms. "And what the hell do you want?"

One of the 4 villains giggles, eyes glowing red. "Oh, I like you! I can't wait until you join our cause! I'm sure Boss would be so happy to have someone as dashing as you!"

"Toga 2.0" Bakugou grits out, clenching his fist, pausing. "Got it."

It was surprisingly difficult to take down all 4 of them. Kirishima was a good backup, so Bakugou didn't have to worry for him because he knew he could take care of himself.

The fight lasted longer than Bakugou could keep track, and by the end of it, his friend could barely stand. Bakugou had to admit his arms were aching like crazy as well.

His dress shirt was also completely seared off due to the over usage of his Quirk. Shame. He was just growing fond of it.

"Fucking losers," He jeers, giving the fallen villains a thumbs down to emphasise his point. "We'll never join your despicable league, assholes."

"Bakugou," Kirishima's voice rings through the empty hall, causing him to turn to his red-haired friend. "We should go check on the others. They-" He winces, flesh breaking and bleeding out after his Unbreakable. "They might have had it worse than us. I have a feeling Midoriya would break his bones again."

Bakugou straightens his back at the mention of his childhood friend, nodding his head. "Yeah. I hear sirens outside. Think the police finally showed up."

Come to think of it, where are you? When they got separated, the person he saw you talking to was

...Deku.

His blood pressure spikes. No way.

The ache in his muscles vanishes, and suddenly adrenaline is surging back as Kirishima and him bolt to a broken door frame. You have to be here somewhere, he doesn't believe that you'd get blasted out of the building like a human swatting a fly.

You have to be here.

And he's right, for the most part.

Because when he races downstairs and is finally reunited with his friends who are thankfully safe, he sees you, lying unconscious on a stretcher, with blood pooling from your limbs.

[ficyorick]

bad ending bonus material - ch 3.5

good morning bad enders!!!!!!! as i mentioned an ao3, i have to skip this weeks update bc im on a work trip BUT in preparation for this break i wrote a little bit of bonus material :) it's canon within the world of BE, takes place after chapter 3. specifically it's the morning after the, erm, drink sesh. it's from homelander's POV and it is also his first time interacting with kessler :^) except he doesnt know. that its kessler. hoho. 3k words, trigger warnings would be emetophobia + extensive suicide discussion. and everything else attached to bad ending already

Waking up basically clinging to a toilet had to be a new low for him, even in this new life of lows he was currently living. Homelander blinked sluggishly, his eyes rolling from one side to the other before his eyelids drooped again. His legs felt numb after having supported his slumped, half-sitting pose for God knows how long. A deep ache had settled in his knees, a dull burn that already felt like one of those lingering pains he would have to deal with for a while.

His mouth tasted vile, like a combination of every unpleasant flavor he could think of, mashed together and spread all over his tongue in a thick film.

He didn't want to move, but he had to. With a soft grunt, Homelander finally pushed himself away from the bowl, slumped lower on his thighs, and opened his eyes again. The visual onslaught of things and objects merely existing around him made him regret that decision immediately. He pressed both palms to his face with another exhausted noise—an unfamiliar sensation of a dull, pounding pain bloomed behind his eyes. 

For a brief second, he wondered if Butcher had finally done it. Poisoned him and left him to die on a bathroom floor. In a way, that would have been more dignified than having to live with the fact that he was having the first hangover of his life.

Jesus, why would anyone put themselves through that willingly? He'd heard stories about the concept and always just smiled politely at the silly limits others had to live with. Madelyn always got insanely irritable if she had too much wine at a party—but at least she was fun and bubbly the night before. Homelander didn’t feel particularly fun and bubbly last night. He swallowed; his sore throat protested sharply. Shifting a little, he made an attempt to fix his uncomfortable position, and for some reason, his entire body let out a rustling noise.

Right. He removed his hands, feeling the stale bathroom air sting his already wet eyes. The bootleg Homelander costume was still clinging to him, still so embarrassingly cheap and—disgusting. There was no other way to describe it. It was just disgusting to him. He hated it. The only thought he could formulate on the topic was the need to rip it off—maybe alongside his skin.

He was going to take it off. He had to take it off. While Butcher wasn't here. He'd rather be naked than continue to wear this insult. Homelander tugged at the collar, expecting to be able to rip it like tissue paper, but the plastic only stretched under his pull.

"Fuck…" he wheezed, a little pathetic note in his voice. Climbing to his knees, he tried to tug at it with both hands—but just like he couldn't manage to cause even a little bit of pain to Butcher the night before, he couldn't even tear this thing apart. Something lurched violently inside him again, and he swayed on his knees, shocked by the sudden twist in his guts. Then he launched himself at the toilet in front of him, another wave of bile forcing its way up his throat.

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Every part of his body—from the shiny plastic wrap on his skin to the foam on his thighs and now his insides—another wave of vomit shoved itself up, fighting him. But he couldn't bear down and stop it, just like he couldn't rip cheap fabric apart, just like he couldn't even choke anyone to death anymore. Just like he couldn't stop Butcher from picking him up like he weighed nothing at all. He was just cheap foam, all over, inside too. Cheap foam soaked in vomit, sweat, and tears.

And he used to be marble.

Another strained noise, hot liquid squeezing itself out of his stomach and up his throat. He tried to relax, tried to just stop thinking about it like Butcher had instructed him yesterday—but it felt wrong. He was supposed to be calling the shots here, but now he was out of control, at the mercy of this body that was never going to feel like his body again.

He glared up, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. Butcher did this to him. And now he wasn't even fucking here. He took whatever he wanted last night and left him here.

Homelander shuddered violently as he finally managed to catch his breath between the waves of nausea. He gripped the toilet seat, managing to furrow his brows despite the utter exhaustion he felt. Picked him up, touched him wherever he wanted, and now he wasn't even here. Wanted a spectacle, but then he wasn't even fucking watching. What was the point? One final spit down the toilet, and Homelander pushed himself away, wiping his face on the rustling costume.

His mouth tasted even worse now. He sniffed again, doing his best to ignore another twisting sensation in his stomach. His shaking hand reached out to press the little handle, flushing the toilet. Fuck. He still had to free himself from the costume, and he just had to hope this attempt wouldn't trigger another fit of nausea.

The door to the bathroom creaked open. Homelander froze, his hands pausing an inch away from the plastic collar of the sick joke he was wearing.

Butcher was standing in the doorframe, watching him with mild interest. Like he didn't expect to still see him down there, or maybe see him at all. Like it was overall kind of silly that Homelander was here.

His dark eyes swept around the bathroom. Then he let out an unsurprised grunt.

"There it is." He approached the bathroom sink, picking something up. Homelander squinted his eyes just a tiny bit, too surprised by his sudden arrival to react properly—not that he knew what that reaction should have been. Butcher helpfully held up the object in his hand, letting him see it better. "Left you in here with a knife. Can you believe that? Untied, too."

He laughed, a weird sort of laugh.

Homelander felt his lips part, a question he wanted to ask but couldn’t even think how to begin formulating. Butcher didn’t give him time to think about it; he just stepped closer, and embarrassingly, Homelander found himself tensing up.

"You didn’t even notice, huh?" Butcher waved the knife in his hand, giving it a tiny, playful wiggle. "Didn’t notice a little gift?"

Homelander debated saying he was too busy puking his guts out after Butcher pumped him full of booze against his will—but he could save that remark for the time when there wasn't a sharp blade in Butcher's hand, right above him. Sure, all of that made him angry. But not angry enough to deal with any new cuts on his body. His already exhausted stomach protested weakly at the mere possibility of seeing his own blood.

"I wonder what you would have done with it if you knew," Butcher mused, now toying with the blade, slowly moving it from one hand to the other. It looked like he was clapping with it—just without a noise. Lazily applauding the crumpled-up man before him. "Slice your wrists?"

Homelander just blinked up at him. Wetly.

"In case you get another chance to do that—" Butcher was suddenly squatting down right in front of him, moving fast. Too fast for his usual worn-out, exhausted pace. Homelander twitched, leaving his dignity behind in the toilet bowl, and pushed himself away until his back hit the bathtub.

"Don't touch me." He tried to snarl, but all he managed was a hoarse croak.

"Am I fucking touching you? C'mon, I have a lesson for you." Butcher laughed again, the same kind of laughter he couldn't categorize. He knew the safe laughs; he knew the dangerous ones—but he didn't know what this one meant. It just felt—mean, as childish as it sounded in Homelander's head. "Pay attention."

Butcher rolled up a sleeve of his dark coat. Homelander only now noticed he seemed ready to leave—his combat boots on, the car keys jingling somewhere in his pocket. No, he couldn't afford to get distracted by little details like that. Not with a knife so close in his personal space. He forced himself to focus on Butcher's actions. The other man seemed invigorated, a complete opposite of his usual sluggish pace. Or maybe he was still giddy about what he'd done to him the night before. Butcher finished rolling up the sleeve, revealing the pale underside of his arm.

He grinned at Homelander.

Then he pressed the tip of the knife to the little dip of skin underneath his palm. Homelander blinked slowly at the bead of black ink that bubbled up to the surface. It swelled, then lazily rolled down to one side. Butcher's grin only got wider, black gums and white teeth.

And then he dug deep and pulled the knife toward himself.

Homelander felt his eyes open wide, not sure why. Maybe surprise, maybe longing. He hadn't seen blood that belonged to anyone else but him in a while.

The knife went up to the inner side of his elbow, a thick line of black opening underneath the slicing motion. The sweet-sick rotting scent made Homelander's stomach twist yet again. He stared up at Butcher, attempting to find his eyes—and maybe an explanation behind the self-mauling. 

The explanation came immediately in the form of another low chuckle: "It's down the road, not across the street. You ever heard of that saying?" 

Homelander just wordlessly shook his head. 

"Ahhh, 'course you haven't. Never had to pay attention to that sort of stuff before, right?" Butcher laughed again, an easy sound, making his shoulders shake a little and making the blood ooze out of his opened wound like thick icing drops. "But you talk a big game about wanting to die and you don't even know the basics."

The cut in Butcher's forearm was sealing itself already, brimming with movement underneath his skin. It looked like there were worms nestling in it, disturbed by the light that just reached them and quickly sealing the wound closed. In just a few seconds, there was no trace of it left, save for the few black streaks of blood following gravity down.

"But hey, now you know." Butcher rolled down his sleeve, not bothering to wipe off the ink on his skin. He found Homelander's gaze, the dark and amused eyes meeting his cautious stare. "So next time you find a knife—" He held it up in front of his face. Homelander leaned back, but the wet blade followed, stopping just an inch away from the tip of his nose. His eyes had to strain to focus on the sharp, fine end of it. "—you'll know what to do, right?"

Again, his stomach lurched, but this time no hot bile flooded his mouth. It was just a cold, numbing sensation; his heart sank to follow it down.

"You're—" Homelander finally managed to find his words again. 

"—sick, deranged," Butcher finished for him. He sounded—off. Like there was a mismatch between his voice and his words, two puzzle pieces being smashed together despite not fitting. He sounded so weird that it was setting off an instinct in Homelander's brain he didn't even know he possessed. Butcher continued, clearly unaware of his own discordance: "I know. You're like a broken fucking record."

He was standing up now, cleaning the knife on the side of his coat and tucking it into his back pocket. Homelander didn't relax, remaining pressed against the bathtub.

A few days into his captivity, he told himself that all of this was just a matter of getting used to it. He was going to adjust, and then he could start thinking about how to get out (in any way possible). But day after day, Butcher created a brand-new version of the Bad Room, leaving no space for adaptation. All he could do was endure, endure, endure.

He was getting sick of it. If there was a breaking point to all of this, he felt like it was on the horizon. Maybe then Butcher would move on, at the very least. 

Move on to Ryan, he reminded himself. And curled his fingers into tight fists pressed against the floor. Jesus, the kid didn't even know what his own dad was going through—and he probably wouldn't even care. Homelander could easily imagine Ryan getting jealous of the fact that his dad got to hang out with Butcher in a cool cabin and bemoaning the fact that he didn't get invited. Butcher could do no wrong—and Homelander was the bad guy in any scenario, no matter what.

The breaking point on the horizon seemed so much closer all of a sudden. The breaking point next door, maybe. 

The bathroom was quiet while Homelander busied himself with torturing himself with his thoughts, no outside help necessary. Butcher was clearly thinking something through as well as he stared at him in silence, one eyebrow raised. And then he just asked: "What could possibly be so interesting about you? Especially now?"

Homelander scoffed. He glared up: "I don't know, you tell me. You seemed plenty interested last night."

Butcher smiled, a hint of respect in his eyes now that he finally bit back. And an absolute lack of shame, despite the previous events, despite the brief panic in his eyes before he abandoned him in this bathroom. He acted as if nothing happened, as if this morning came to someone else than the two of them. Butcher just casually nodded at him, pointing at the door behind him:

"Get up. Take that clown shit off. Put on some normal clothes.” 

Homelander felt his entire face burn. He wanted to rip off Butcher's hand, specifically the one that was on his back last night. And feed it to him. Just shove it down his throat until he swallowed or choked on it, no real preference. Anything that ended with him twitching and gurgling on the bathroom floor, legs kicking uselessly as he stood over him, watching him die.

"C'mon man." Butcher gestured at him again, urging him to get moving like he was livestock. "You look like a fucking bachelorette party attraction. A cheap one too, they should put you on a Vegas party bus."

Homelander stared at him and let out a little desperate laugh. If all of this was just a joke to Butcher, he might as well join in on it. Then he got up, ready to do whatever was going to make Butcher leave the cabin faster. His captor smiled pleasantly, another expression he'd never seen him make, and then he ushered Homelander into the main room of the cabin. He followed (like livestock).

"Where are your normal clothes?" Butcher glanced back at him.

Homelander just shrugged. He wouldn't call them normal; he found them insulting as well. But he would take the fucking Jimmy Buffet shirt over wearing this fucking parody of who he used to be.

"So helpful. Heel." Butcher pointed at him, the gesture nonchalant and casual. Homelander balked. Then decided he was too tired to react. He just waited for Butcher to look through a bunch of drawers and boxes until he returned with the t-shirt and everything else. And zip-ties, of course. 

"Get dressed. I gotta get your carrier ready." Butcher pushed the cotton bundle into his arms and then sighed, as if he was being made to do this unimaginably boring and awkward chore of giving him clothes and pushing a few bottles of water between the bars of the cage while Homelander stripped without a word.

It turned out it was much easier to get out of the costume by the intended way of using the zipper instead of ripping it apart. He had to abandon the idea of destroying it—because that was something he didn't get to do anymore. He didn't get to kill, he didn't get to hurt, he didn't get to rip. He didn't get to stop, he didn't get to defend himself. There was nothing left for him, except getting through it.

Butcher thankfully didn't treat him to another sarcastic comment as he changed into his usual prisoner clothes. Didn't move any closer, either. He approached only when Homelander was fully clothed, zip-ties ready to go. Homelander just sighed through his nose and formed the usual X with his wrists. Butcher rewarded him with another languid smile, securing the loop around them.

He kicked the door to the cage open. "In you go. Daddy will be back in a few days."

Homelander went in, just like he would go into the oven, into the Bad Room, onto that Vought debut stage. Butcher continued to smile as he watched him settle on the floor in the usual sleeping spot. He followed right after, a new set of zip-ties to go around his ankles. Homelander couldn't withhold a scowl; he was hoping he would've forgotten about the bottom pair as well.

Butcher read his face perfectly and mocked him with a little pout: "Wouldn't want to spoil you. I know how it is—I give you a finger, you take a hand." 

God forbid he got to piss standing up instead of kneeling in front of the bucket. But Homelander didn't say that—yet another strategic decision on his part. Butcher secured the last loop of plastic around his limbs but didn't get up just yet, squatting in front of him—a repeat of the mere moments ago in the bathroom. Homelander stilled, protectively.

Butcher pulled out the familiar back pocket knife, staring at it like he was seeing it for the first time all over again.

"I should leave this with you," he mused, suddenly completely fascinated by his new idea. Butcher glanced at him, then at the knife, then at him again—considering.

Homelander looked at the blade as well. For some reason, he didn't even want to imagine its weight in his hand.

"It would be kinda funny, right?" Butcher asked him. "If I did that."

"Hilarious." Homelander muttered, dropping his gaze to a random spot on the floor. 

"Yeah." Butcher agreed by laughing his new, annoying laugh. But then he hid the knife in his pocket yet again and gave him a little sarcastic salute before locking the cage door and hanging the keys back on the wall. "You know where the bucket is. In case you need to throw up again."

Homelander didn't bother acknowledging him.

"See ya, Vought boy." Butcher threw one last goodbye over his shoulder. 

Homelander just sighed as the door to the cabin opened and closed, at least two pairs of locks clicking behind Butcher. 

"Fuck." He murmured, his palms covering his face, lips brushing against the fresh new zip-ties. Another few more empty, mind-numbing days.

At least this time, he was relieved to be left alone.

[evesaintyves]

989 words, for @remadoramicrofics prompt "haunted."

Read it below or on AO3 🎸

Tonks's old bedroom floor is a mess of rumpled t-shirts and her rattiest underpants. Five days since Remus took off his ring, knotted the strings on his traveling case, and told her he'd made a terrible error. All she's done is sleep. She dozed off on the macrame throw pillow and it left a crisscross red rash on her cheek, went downstairs before she noticed, and her Dad gasped, "Dora?" 

She just fled back upstairs without breakfast.

It's not even her throw pillow. Mum has snuck them in her old room sometime since she's been gone. Other things, too, an elegant white bowl to hold all the knuts and plastic hair clips and ticket stubs that were scattered across her chest of drawers. Mum's things, minimal and clean, make Tonks's stuff, the fairy lights and the thrashing band posters, seem like they're trying too hard. It's just like her last year at school, the stress-cracking of all the faultlines between who she is and who she is supposed to be. She was constantly reinventing herself back then—a new chin, a chelsea cut, a ring in her eyebrow. But she's not the only one in charge of her body anymore. It's making decisions without her.

And it's so shit to want Remus here to settle behind her on her squeaky old bed, tuck his bony knees into the parenthesis of her legs, stroke his skinny fingers up her arm and say, like he does, that he's sorry—but at the same time to want to scream at him so hard he vapourizes into a fine red mist.

In the afternoon, her mother does her two-tap no-time-to-pull-your-knickers-up knock and comes in with cups of tea.

"Your father tells me you've been looking ill."

"I'm not."

Andromeda sits on the side of the bed.

"You were a terrible pregnancy," she says. "I'd have sworn you were trying to fight me from the inside."

Tonks pulls her knees to her chest. "This one's a scrapper. I can tell already."

Andromeda smiles into her cup.

Tender moments have a way of making Tonks show her belly. Her mother doesn't say much, just sits and keeps her company, and before long Tonks is compelled to overshare. That she isn't even sure Remus ever really loved her, but maybe loved an idea of her that she led him on into believing while they were still just awkwardly clicking teeth in stolen moments at headquarters; an idea worn smooth and shiny by those months they were apart.

Almost as soon as she married him she was up the duff and puking, breaking out in spots faster than she could morph them away. Still having dreams that Sirius was just tilting on his heels—suspended in the moment he might have been saved—waking up choking. Remus seemed perturbed that she could spend hours staring at the telly, not watching, just trying to shush the noise in her head. It seems so stupid now, but she'd really thought that he, of all people, would understand.

"My mother used to tell me," Andromeda says, "that I'd better stop all my moping about, that men don't care for girls who brood. And that I'd never get married and out of her hair, acting that way."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything. I made a plan and then I climbed out my window in the middle of the night. Your father picked me up in his old car and took me to his parents' flat—you know the story. Let me tell you, Nymphadora—" She pins Tonks with a look. "—how much brooding I did in his old bedroom. I was a wreck. The room smelt of some horrible potion he used on his model railway. The carpet crunched underfoot. And I was worried about what was going to happen to—to some of the people I left. I was crying every night. Waiting until your grandparents left for work in the morning to creep into the kitchen like a ghoul. I had..." She pulls her posture up straight. "Difficulty adjusting, at first."

Tonks's throat is getting tight, and tears are needling the rims of her eyes. It's not just that she's grabbed for that kind of love story and missed; it's also that her mother never talks to her like this—spilling the way Tonks sometimes does, talking fast, saying things she probably shouldn't. It makes the world feel all the more unfixably cracked.

"Dad—Was Dad...?" Tonks can't even finish, her voice is cracking and squeaking. She curls forward and hides her face in her mother's sleeve.

"He'd lie with me—and touch my hair. He used to tell me if I didn't eat I'd disappear and it was going to be very difficult to explain to the officiant why he had an invisible bride."

She says it gently, sadly, as if she knows what it'll do to Tonks, and she's right. It's full waterworks now, the type Tonks has always sworn she wasn't going to do over a bloke. It's coming out her eyes and nose, it's thick and salty in her mouth, it's getting all over her mum's silk blouse. She's going to hate that. Tonks flops back against her pillows, sniffling, wiping her face with her palms, automatically morphing the puffiness out of her eyelids.

Her mother turns to inspect the shiny web of snot Tonks has left on her sleeve. Her face gets that pinched, long-suffering look for just an instant. Then she takes Tonks's empty cup of tea and stacks it in her own, and tucks Tonks's feral bedhead back behind each ear with her cool fingers.

"Supper's at seven," she says. "Your father's trying out a lasagna."

She shuts the door behind her when she goes, and it's just Tonks and the frenzy of the rock bands on her walls: forever joyfully flailing, forever faithful to their own silent beat.

image: egon schiele, woman lying on her back

[stimperfect]

komodo dragon stimboard for anonymous!

sources: one ★ two ★ three ★ four ★ five ★ six ★ seven ★ eight ★ nine ★

Image IDs:

Top left: One of two GIFs from an Indonesian waterfall in Lombok. Three medium pieces of water falling in slow motion pour out of some trees and other greenery.

Top middle: A GIF showing someone wearing a device that gives them fake, decorative claws. A piece of plastic at the back of the hand is held on with a strap on the wrist, connecting strings to the fingers. This lets them wear and show off black claw tips.

Top right: A GIF showing two strips of dark, rocky sections in very blue, almost azure water. This is in Lombok, Indonesia. We can see foamy white currents slowly hit up against the rocks from an angle above.

Middle left: A GIF where a pile of chocolate chips gets stirred evenly throughout a bowl of cookie dough. A scoop is taken out at the end.

Middle: A still picture showing three or four komodo dragons gathered together. They’re very dark brown for the most part, almost black or gray, and a lighter tan in other spots.

Middle right: A GIF where a piece of gold-bronze sequined fabric is turned this way and that, then a piece brought up closer to the camera. It’s very shiny and almost reflective.

Bottom left: A GIF slowly panning over a section of the Borobudur Temple in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. It is a warm gray/brown-ish series of brick structures and ruins piling up wide on bottom and rising narrower towards the top, almost in a pyramid-esque fashion.

Bottom middle: A GIF of somone wearing two glove pieces that make it look as though they’ve got dragon or reptile arms. They cover from the hands all up the forearms just below the elbow with fake, white claws. They brush back and forth on both arms to show how the bronze “scales” push back, showing that they’re black underneath.

Bottom right: The second of two GIFs from an Indonesian waterfall in Lombok. Several smaller strips of water fall in slow motion from a different section of greenery into a blue almost circle of water. End IDs.

[edupunkn00b]

House Call

Photo by Insung Yoon via Unsplash

Rated: T - WC: 1553 - CW: swearing, medication, vomiting and nausea, terminal illness

Wilson's been away and House goes to investigate.

(For my Sanders Sides friends, there are some familiar archetypes in this material. You might find it worth the read.) -

Thunk-thunk-thwack. Thunk-thunk-thwack. House had swiped this squash ball from Wilson a year, maybe a year and a half ago by now. It had been so long since Jimminy Cricket had been to his office, he still hadn't noticed his theft. Bouncing the ball against against the floor, then the wall, House tilted his chair further. The steady thwacking and the faint creak of his chair nearly drowned out the sound of the latest batch of interns’ greetings. Maybe farewells. He looked out the window and watched the parking lot lights click on. Farewells, then.

Desiccated leaves had collected in Wilson’s parking spot, the cement tire stop now edged in enough moss he could see it from three floors up. Were the maintenance guys even bothering anymore? House stared as a fresh eddy of fall's detritus danced over the vacant spot, one last thwack of rubber against his palm deciding for him.

He put down the ball and picked up the small amber bottle on his desk, then pushed up from his chair.

He had a house call to make.

It took an embarrassingly short time to pick Wilson’s lock. As soon as he opened the door, he was struck with the scent of sickness. Not just the sour-sweet odor of vomit, but plastic and rubbing alcohol, stuffy air and sweat. Pain.

“Working from home, my ass,” he muttered, kicking aside a blue recycling bin overflowing with empty electrolyte bottles. He closed the door with his elbow and the hall was plunged into darkness. After a moment, House’s eyes adjusted, a blueish glow spilling in from the kitchen and a dim splash of yellow from the opposite hall.

He followed the light and was greeted by the unmistakable sound of retching.

“Really tied one on last night, I see,” he said before he stepped into the bathroom. Dressed in a faded Princeton Rowing Crew hoodie and flannel pants, Wilson curled over the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl. “You know you need protein more than electrolytes for a hangov—”

Wilson straightened and looked back at him, eyes bloodshot under a thick woolen beanie. He was jaundiced, skin stretched over the sharp, too, too sharp bones of his face. The flesh around his lymph nodes was red and puffy.

His eyebrows had fallen out.

In the corner next to the trash bin was a small red sharps collector and red plastic bag half-filled with drained IV bags in various sizes. Oh.

“So the cancer doctor gets cancer,” House muttered, eyes narrowed and grip tight on his cane. “‘Medice, cura te ipsum,” he said with a little flurried jazz hand. [Physician, heal thyself.]

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Wilson snapped—no, panted— back at him before falling silent again. House could count the veins in his eyelids, the shadows underneath a dark bruised purple. Cheeks sunken beneath his high cheekbones, his lips trembled, chapped, thin, and pale. He didn’t need a meter to tell him Wilson was hypoxic, most likely from his vomiting and whatever damned cocktail he’d dosed himself with.

Wilson's eyes cracked open and House caught a glimpse of shiny brown before he turned away from him and addressed the collection of bottles laid out on the counter. “Opening up a pharmacy?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to get a side gig.” If it weren’t for Wilson sounding so fucking broken, they could’ve been bickering in his office about Cuddy’s latest HR memo. “Metastatic cancer treatment’s expensive.”

“You’d get a better margin turning tricks. Though you’d have to keep from puking on your johns.” House scowled down at the empty glass vial in his hand before tossing it in the sink. He picked up a large amber bottle and turned to glare at Wilson. “You’re combining talquetamab and nilutamide?”

He barely shrugged.

House stared. Wilson’s eyes had fallen closed again, head lolling against the side of the shower. He looked so…

“Get up.” House snapped and hobbled across the room. He leaned hard on his cane, the tip wedged into the corner of the tub and the wall. Keeping his weight on his good, well, his better leg, he reached for Wilson’s upper arm.

Wilson’s eyes shot open, darting and wild, softening only once he focused on House’s face. He’d fallen asleep. Or, given the mix of chemicals he was marinating in, more likely lost consciousness. “Still me,” House muttered and grabbed his arm. His whole hand wrapped around Wilson’s bicep. “You should be in bed.”

Eyes closing, he shook his head and fumbled blindly at the tank before his arm dropped back in his lap. The meaning was clear. 

“Nope.” House didn’t let go of his arm. “I’ll bring you a bucket. Now come on, Dr. Wilson—” The catch in his throat was nothing more than the jolt of pain that shot through his hip as he helped him to his feet. Wilson had always been trim, annoyingly light on his feet. Now, though? Now he was like a bird, hollow-boned and just as fragile.

Wilson’s bedroom didn’t have much furniture. A bed and a nightstand. A tiny desk littered with marked up and flagged medical journals and thick, ominous envelopes from the hospital staff’s insurance company. There was an IV stand next to the bed and a cooler emblazoned with Property of Princeton-Plainsboro in big, red letters. The bedding was twisted, the comforter half-draped over the floor. Between the late hour and the pajamas, House guessed Wilson had been hoping to sleep off the meds. When did that ever work?

House waited to speak again until he’d gotten Wilson settled under his covers, a plastic-lined pail next to his bed, and a fresh bag of saline drip, drip, dripping its way into his arm. “You mind?” he said after sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. Besides the desk chair across the room, there was some fluffy Edwardian number that looked like he’d managed to free from the grip of his ex-wife’s claws. It also looked like it weighed more than Wilson did and House wasn’t delusional enough to try to drag it over just for the sake of propriety.

Wilson didn’t answer, but he let his hand rest in the space between them. House drummed his fingers against his cane grip before blurting out, “How long?”

Deep chocolate eyes searched his. He’d broken capillaries in his sclera, maybe even a little opportunistic conjunctivitis for flavor. Wilson tried to hold his gaze. “‘Til I’m dead?”

“I don’t need an oncologist to tell me that.” House cleared his throat and refocused. It was easier to watch the pulsepoint between his eyebrows. “How long were you planning on keeping this a secret? It’s been, what…” He lifted Wilson’s hand, forefinger and thumb meeting around his bony wrist. “Eighteen months?” Wilson looked away, a huff of laughter turning into a rattling cough. 

House waited until he'd stopped and wiped his mouth with the cloth on the nightstand. But he didn’t let up. “Your last annual was six months ago and you’re too far along for that to have been when you caught this.”

“Twenty-three,” Wilson muttered, head heavy on the pillow. “Found a mass in the shower.”

“Two years?” He stabbed his cane against the floor. “Two years!?” Wilson still wouldn’t look at him. Two fucking years. That was… that just after Amber and… “God dammit, Wilson, you idiot! You’ve been hiding this from me for two years? Who else knows?” Who was keeping this from him? Who was helping Wilson hide his sickness?

Wilson didn’t speak.

Anger came easy. “Who. Else. Knows?” House’s voice was low and dangerous and Wilson’s continued silence confirmed it. “Oh…” He looked away, slowly nodding. “Everyone.” His… friend had told everyone he was dying but him.

“No-one,” Wilson whispered, fingers grazing the edge of House’s sleeve. “If I couldn’t tell you…” House watched Wilson’s hand as it fell against his own, words not making any sense. “There was no-one to tell.”

“Bullshit. If you’re not going to be straight with me—” House pushed on his cane but he couldn’t make himself stand. 

Wilson’s fingers curled against his hand. “Why would I lie now, House?”

“Everyone lies,” He spat back but he didn’t move away. Wilson’s hand was so damn cold. “You’re telling me you didn’t tell Cuddy?”

He sighed, breathe wet and rattling in his lungs. “Would I be here with stolen meds if she knew?” 

“You moron!" He pounded the floor with his cane, punctuating each word. "Why didn’t you…” House's throat seized, choking out the rest of his question. Why didn’t you tell me?

Wordless, Wilson turned his head and closed his eyes. House didn’t need him to actually say it, did he? The rest of his words sat in the air between them, each of them quiet enough he kept time off some clock ticking out in the living room. Wilson was still enough that House thought he might have fallen asleep. He was considering moving over to the chair when Wilson’s eyes cracked open and he turned his hand next to House’s, palm up. An invitation. A request.

“You know now,” Wilson whispered.

The rubbing alcohol he’d used to prepare Wilson’s IV hung in the air, stinging his eyes and drawing out hot, heavy tears. He nodded and took Wilson’s hand. “I know now.”

[lohstandfound]

royal pains week royal pains week royal pains week royal pains week

Day 1: Party

Jake & Chloe: Party Planner Extraordinaires

In which Jake and Chloe set up for a party at Jake's house, a time when things were good (even if it was just for a short moment).

“Jake! Your playlist sucks, I’m changing it!”

Jake rolled his eyes, dragging a table into place. He stood up and looked over his shoulder to see Chloe leaning against the wall with his phone.

Jake: “It’s, like, the exact same playlist from last time. The one you already changed.”

Chloe: “And I’m changing it again because there are better songs.”

Jake: “Whatever you say, babe.”

It led to an odd soundtrack when Chloe meddled with his party playlists, but nobody seemed to care. Chloe was in the firm belief that someone needed to show Jake what good music was, and she was going to be that person.

Despite the fact very few songs seemed to migrate to his own playlists.

Jake let Chloe meddle with the music and set up the speakers while he began to arrange the food and drinks on the table.

What kind of hosts would they be if the food and beverages weren’t appropriately displayed?

Perhaps they had spent too much time at their parents’ stuffy gatherings. Fancy top-shelf bottles of wine or scotch or champagne or whisky or rum. The finest crystal glasses and chutes that looked like they had never been used before. Crisp and white napkins folded in elegant shapes. White tablecloth with a coloured table runner of whatever colour was ‘in’ at the time. Platters almost overflowing with the smallest portions of fancy foods Jake had never bothered to remember the names of. Shiny silver cutlery wrapped tightly with serviettes. Quiet jazz and people in fancy dresses and suits standing and mingling. Two twelve-year-olds sneaking away to avoid the judgemental gazes of their parents’ acquaintances.

Their parties never looked like that.

Chloe was the one to suggest it when they attended their first-ever party. It was very different to what they were used to, but Chloe was enamoured with the idea after seeing parties in all those movies about high school.

It was Chloe’s idea to plan their first-ever party, hosting it at Jake’s since his parents were always out late nowadays, or sometimes away for a couple of days.

(Leaving their son with no idea when his parents would walk back through the door. They always did. Or they used to. This had been their longest absence yet. They left no indication that they were ever coming back. But one would still hope they would).

Now, their drinks and snack table was full of beer and vodka and sodas and spirits and juice and whatever alcohol they could get their hands on ass they slowly worked through Jake’s father’s liquor cabinet. Red solo cups and a few Sharpies to label. A stack or two of serviettes in whatever colour was available at the store. If they were lucky, there was some plastic tablecloth. Bowls of chips and dip and chocolate and sweets and garlic bread and pizza and whatever they decided to splurge on. Pop and rock and indie and dance-pop and whatever amalgamation their playlists became. People show up in whatever they want and talking and dancing and making out and drinking and smoking and having fun.

That was certainly more their pace. It was fast, exciting, ever-changing, unpredictable.

And it was a very well-known fact that Jake Dillinger and Chloe Valentine threw the best parties in all of Middleborough and beyond.

Jake smiled when he felt Chloe’s arms snaking around his waist. “Done with the music?”

Chloe hummed and pressed a kiss to Jake’s shoulder. “Mm… Maybe. I think you should test it out with me.”

Jake turned around and wrapped his arms around Chloe. “Test it how?”

Chloe leaned up to press a sweet kiss to Jake’s lips, smiling into the kiss as she felt Jake kiss her back. She moved a hand up, running her fingers through Jake’s hair to mess it up. Jake had spent what felt like hours trying to style his hair perfectly. But Chloe thought it looked nice when it was a little messy.

She pulled away. “I want to get in at least one dance with you tonight. No interruptions.”

Jake let out a breathy laugh. “Well, if you insist. We have time before people will arrive.”

“Mm… You always forget Brooke and Rich show up early.” “Then we better get a dance in, doll.”

[that-one-weird-kid-from-school]

Welcome, come along with me and I will share with you a humble recipe that I will simply call "nice cream".

We will be starting with our ingredients:

Our main dish will be refiling and fixing hand cream and our extra side dish will be refiling hand sanitizer.

Let's start with the hand cream, how we will refill it and why and how we will fix it?

My cherry hand cream is about halfway empty, but the problem is that the smell is a bit too sour and the cherry scent kinda gets lost, so we are e going to improve the scent by pairing the cherry scent with something really sweet, so we will be refiling it by adding the homey hand cream as seen in the picture above.

We add them in a separate bowl and mix them well.

That is the basics of what we need to do, but I want to exaggerate the cherry and honey flavour, so I will be adding extra ingredients.

I will be adding for myself cherry perfume and honey soap, what you add entirely depends on what our skin reacts well to, I personally love the feeling of soap that has not been rinsed off with water, but others might find that displeasing, I am not here to tell you what you should or should not like.

If you want to be extra like me, you can add in glitter to make your hands as shiny as they are soft, you can also put tiny beads for texture, but I don't have any.

If you are satisfied with the dish that you made, now it's finally time to put it back in its original container, you do that by putting it inside a plastic bag, putting off a small piece off the corner, and carefully squeezing it inside, don't be too forceful or you'll end up making a mess.

Now with the side dish, my cherry hand sanitiser has run out, so we will be replacing it, since this is a complimentary piece, we won't be combining different flavours or anything extra, this will just be cherry.

This won't have many ingredients, we will just put hand sanitiser and mix in cherry perfume for flavour, so we won't add many more extras.

As with the hand cream, we add it in a bowl and mix it, because I want some sparkle in my life, I put glitter in that as well.

I personally really like how the glitter looks in the container, smiley emoji.

And now it's ready, the "nice cream" is here and it feels very nice on my hands, thank you for being here with me, you might have not been cooing as well, but it felt nice having some company with me, someone of whom I can share my family recipes.

And for the final shot, I found a random balloon of the number 7, so here is our work posing with the number 7, but I accidentally didn't put the 7 the correct way.

Masterpiece!

[ladylooch]

Letters in Your Last Name - Chapter 30

A/N: Oof. This one has all the feels 🥺 Our lil babies are going through it.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Infertility struggles, angsty

Negative

I purse my lips in frustration at the word I see on the pregnancy test in my hands. Beyond the bathroom door of our master suite, I can hear Luca squealing at CoComelon as Kevin, presumably, tries to drown out the madness of the toddler TV show for a few more moments of shut eye. It’s an off day, but his return flight from Arizona was late taking off after last night’s win. I glance at the white door, then focus back on the test.

Shit. I really thought this was it.

Kevin and I have been actively trying to conceive for the last three months. We decided to start trying on his birthday. His celebration in Switzerland included way too much wine, sweetness, and wandering hands from my husband to resist. But so far, we haven’t been successful. It all seemed like it would be so easy. Luca was conceived in one cycle. It never crossed my mind that it wouldn’t be the same with the second. After the first negative test, I shook it off- no big deal. The second negative made me angry. And now this third one just feels like the beginning of a black hole opening up beneath my feet. I don’t know how I’m going to go out there and tell Kevin it’s a no… again.

I gently rest the test back onto the counter and sit on the closed toilet lid. Maybe the test is faulty? I grab the directions, looking for what I should see if the test was inconclusive or defective. After a quick re-read, I know it's not. I grip my hands together and lean forward to stretch out my lower back. While I hang in the stretch, I think about all the things we have been trying. We have been having sex every other day. I’ve lightened my work outs. I’ve tracked ovulation down to the hour with every app and test I can find. This last month, I stopped drinking completely, even while my toddler has descended deeply into the terrible twos.

What gives?

As I sit back up, I feel the frustrated tears building in my eyes. This sucks. I stand, grabbing the test and chucking it into the garbage under the sink. It lands face up so that damn word mocks me and my empty womb. So I reach in and flip it over, then wash my hands. I look at myself in the mirror while I dry off. I look and feel perfectly healthy- glowing skin, bright eyes, and shiny hair from the extra vitamins. Why isn’t any of this working?

I open the bathroom door, causing both my boys to look at me. Luca because he is looking for the snack I promised him before I went in there and Kevin because he wants to know the results. My husband’s eyes are hopeful and expectant on me. I just shake my head in the negative at him and focus on our son.

“Are you ready for some yogurt!?” I ask Luca as I swoop him up into my arms and onto my hip.

“Yuh!” He squeals, bouncing excitedly and reaching towards the door that leads out of our bedroom.

“Sam.” Kevin calls to me from the bed as he sits up. His chest is bare as he scratches at the dark hairs there. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft as he picks up on my obvious mood change.

“Yep!” I exclaim, smooching our son’s soft cheek loudly. I turn and head out of the bedroom without another word to my husband. I don’t have to see Kevin to know his face is dripping with concern.

Luca and I enter the kitchen, feet quietly padding across the wood floor. I place him in his high chair then go to the fridge to grab his yogurt.

“Mmm!” He says, bringing his fingers to his lips to indicate his hunger.

“Yes, I know you’re hungry.” I say to him, watching as he fidgets in the chair. His impatience is growing by the second. So I go to the pantry and grab a few Gerber puffs, shaking them onto his tray to occupy him while I get the rest of his snack ready.

I carefully spoon out the vanilla yogurt into his green, plastic bowl. As I do so, I make a mental note to add yogurt to the list of groceries I am going to order for today. I didn’t get to the store yesterday because Luca was having a rough day. I didn’t trust that he wouldn’t reach a stage 5 freak out having to sit in the cart while I shopped. As I reach for the small spoon for our son, Kevin’s hands come to my hips. I resist the urge to pull away, recognizing he’s trying to help.

“Can you talk to me?” He holds me in place against the counter, hips pressing into my butt in a gentle pin.

“No.” I respond immediately.

“Babe, I know you’re disappointed-" He begins. I whirl around, tugging myself out of his grip.

“What did I just say?” I snap. My eyes are filled with fire as I stare back at him. His shoulders deflate in defeat as he grabs Luca’s bowl to bring him the snack. I watch with my fierce gaze fixed on his broad shoulders.

“Mama hat Joghurt für dich gemacht.” Kevin says to Luca in German. “Fressen.” He sets the bowl in front of him, then turns back to look at me across the kitchen. Our eyes meet but I look away, trying to mask my shame with anger.

“When it’s the right time for us… it will happen.” He finally says to me.

I chomp down on my bottom lip. My tears betray me, falling over my lashes and down my cheeks. Kevin hesitantly walks over to me. Our son watches our exchange curiously as he smears white yogurt across his lips. I stare at Luca as Kevin wraps me into his arms, holding me to his bare chest. My tears fall against his warm skin as he runs his fingers though my pony tail.

“I’m not disappointed.” I finally whisper, voice wavering with my tears. “I’m devastated.” The last word comes out as a squeak.

“We haven’t been trying that long, bubba.”

“Compared to Luca we have.”

“Well.. maybe that’s the first lesson here. Our kids won’t be the same and now neither are their creations.”

“Damn, that’s insightful.” I murmur with a slight laugh. Between the tears and speaking my feelings out loud to him, I already feel a bit lighter.

“Please look at me.” I shyly tilt my face up to his. His hands come to my cheeks, wiping at my tears in the way only he is good at. Each swipe of his thumbs soothes the ache in my chest.

“I just want to do this for us.”

“Baby, you already have. And you will again. I feel it. But you gotta relax.” His eyes widen a bit at the way his words come out. He knows that’s risky but he continues. “You being this stressed and having it all down to a science… it’s not working. You need to be loose.”

I know he is right. The last few times we have had sex, it’s been difficult for me to enjoy it. I’ve been so focused on flipping to my back immediately and holding all of him in me that I can’t let go enough to be in the moment. Last time, Kevin actually asked me if I came. I did, but it wasn’t anything earth shattering. I’m not sure that he believed me in the end. When I tried to initiate sex with him the next night, he gripped my wrist to stop my stroking and pushed me away, claiming he was exhausted from practice.

“Mama.” Luca calls to me as he lifts his bowl and begins to tilt it over his head.

“Ah, Luca!” Kevin and I sputter out at the same time to try and stop him. It’s way too late. The goopy, white yogurt drips down from his dark hair as he giggles. “Oops!” I close my eyes, chest shaking with quiet laughter.

“You sure you want more of this?” Kevin jokes as we go closer to our son. Both of us stare at him, not sure how to proceed with cleaning up this mess. Luca reaches his hands up, scraping some of the yogurt from his hair and eating it. “Ew.” Kevin grimaces, picking him up and bringing him to the kitchen sink.

We work together to rinse the yogurt from his hair with the sprayer. Luca hates every second of it, fighting Kevin’s grip with all the strength he can muster. It’s not a match for his professional athlete father.

“Tatínek.” He moans at Kevin in Czech. I know that means dad.

“Yaya. Jen trochu déle. máma je skoro hotová. Buď dobrý, prosím.” I watch as Luca completely comprehends the Czech and relaxes.

“What did you say?” I ask Kevin.

“Just a little longer. Mama is almost done and please be good.” He translates as I turn the faucet off and place the sprayer back in the holder. I shake my head.

“One day he’s going to speak to me in Czech or German and I’m going to just stare at him slack jawed while he’s telling me to F off.” I grab a fresh, fluffy towel from the kitchen drawer and work it over our son’s wet hair. Luca closes his eyes and waits patiently.

“No.” Kevin shakes his head at me. “He knows only to speak English with you.”

“He’s not even two. What do you mean he knows?”

“He just does.” Kevin insists. “Plus I won’t teach him any bad words.” Kevin smirks at the end, completely full of shit. He works our baby’s now wet t-shirt over his head. “I’ll go get a new one.” I grab Luca from his hands as he walks to the stairs.

“Who am I?” I wonder to our son.

“Mama!” He grins at me.

“Who is that?” I ask, pointing to where Kevin is walking back into the room.

“Tatínek.” He looks at Kevin, who nods in encouragement.

“Dobrá práce kamaráde.” Good job, buddy.

“What even is my life..” I laugh, handing our baby to Kevin.

“It’s just normal to me. I’ve always spoken multiple languages at home. It’s great. More ways to say I love you.” My husband reminds me. He easily slips Luca’s new shirt on. It’s a Minnesota Wild shirt we got early on in my pregnancy. Seeing it fit now makes my heart ache a bit more in my chest.

“Tell me in all of them.” I murmur, winding my hands around his hips, remembering his vows, wanting to hear it all from his lips again. Kevin smiles, squeezing me tighter as he settles Luca to the other side of his chest. Luca pats at my face as Kevin begins to speak. “Miluji tě. Ich liebe dich. Je’taime. Jag älskar dig. I love you.”

Luca, who recognizes several of those words, squeals in delight and leans down for a wet smooch on my lips.

I close my eyes as Kevin sways the three of us together.

He is right. This is enough. For now. Until it’s our time again.

_ _ _

The consistent pattering of the water against the shower glass is a soothing noise as I swipe the finishing touches of mascara onto my lashes. I lean back from the mirror, taking in the full look of my dark, event make up. I look like a star player’s wife, which is good as tonight is the annual Wild About Children gala. It’s important for me to look the part that is expected of me. But more so than that, I’m looking to tease my husband all night. It’s rare for us to have a night this fancy and I’m ready to take full advantage of it.

My make up is almost there. I just need to fix a smudge of eyeliner then I’m ready for setting spray. I open the closet in the bathroom, rummaging around for a Q-tip. I reach around the pregnancy tests, a slight smile tilting at my lips.

I’ll be using one of those tomorrow. My tracking app has been warning me of my lateness the last couple of days. But, truthfully, fear has been holding me back. I’ve already been playing the part of a pregnant woman the last few months. I’ve forgone drinking, been taking vitamins, and avoiding foods known to be hazardous. Yet, I’ve been struggling to get the courage to take the test. The devastation has been choking each time I haven’t seen the answer we want. Plus, with Kevin being on the road earlier this week, it felt too daunting to do alone.

The shower stops as I shut the door. I wet the Q- tip and carefully swipe off the excess black. My eyes drift beyond my face in the mirror to my husband. Water runs down the sculpted ridges of his body. The view is goosebump inducing. If my parents weren’t already here for Luca, I’d be bending over this counter, ass in the air, begging for him to fill me. Kevin’s eyes meet mine in the mirror where he gives me a knowing grin. We’ve been here before after all. He doesn’t provoke me, awareness of our guests and the time holding his thoughts in.

“Later.” He promises instead. I nod my head in agreement.

“Sure, but just so you know…” I tell him as he towels off his hair. “I’m late.”

“Yeah?” He grins at me in the mirror.

“Yeah.” I reciprocate his grin.

“You gonna take a test?”

“I will, but not tonight. It can wait until tomorrow.” Kevin nods because he understands the disappointment from the previous times. This is our first night out together in awhile and with it being a team and fan event, we both need to be on.

“I love you.” He says to me as he puts the used towel back on his hook. He leans forward and kisses the side of my head, careful of the make up I have been diligently working on for a half hour.

“Love you.” I murmur back to him, eyes trailing generously over his body as he walks to the closet. His firm ass bounces with each of his steps. “Is this what you’re wearing?” He asks, holding up my long, emerald dress.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods. “I have to wear black.” He murmurs mostly to himself, beginning to grab the pieces of his outfit together.

I fluff my hair briefly then join him in the closet. I undress before working the zipper of the dress down. My arms glide into the long sleeves then I pull the fabric up my body. I turn my back towards Kevin and he pauses from buckling his belt to zip me up. The dress exposes my skin with a V that goes to my mid-back. Kevin places his lips along that bare skin before allowing my hair to fall back down my shoulders.

I move from the closet and re-enter the bathroom to fasten my earrings and necklace on. I re-adjust my wedding rings to be centered on my finger, then give an approving nod at my reflection.

“Are you almost ready?” Kevin asks as he tightens his tie. I walk back into the closet, searching for my black, strappy heals. I grab them in my hands, tossing them into our bedroom by my clutch.

“Yes, I just need to use the bathroom then we are out the door.” I press my lips to his in a quick peck before starting to dash out of the closet.

“Hey.” He murmurs to me, grabbing my hand to stop me for a moment.

“Hm?” My green eyes find his. My lips break into a huge grin at the look he’s giving me.

“You look so damn sexy.” His eyes trail along all his favorite places, perfectly accented by the velvet fabric. He lingers at the slit going up my left thigh. I can already imagine the sinister thoughts he has involving that slice of my skin. “I can’t wait to walk in tonight with your hand in mine… everyone knowing who you belong to.” The possessiveness in his voice and touch has a shiver of pleasure rolling through my body.

“If you don’t let me go, we might not make it.” I tease him, dropping his fingers and returning to my quest for the bathroom.

“Not sure that would be a bad thing.” He calls to me. My light laughter echos in the bathroom as I shut the door.

I carefully move my dress around and sit. Once I’m finished, I stand, then go to push down on the lever. I pause when I look down at the surprise that awaits me. I have my period. I place my hand over my lower stomach, recognizing the dull cramping beneath. I was so rushed getting ready that I didn’t notice anything until now.

An overwhelming sadness descends on my body. I grab a tampon, putting it in place. I press my palms flat against the cool counter of the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. I look beautiful, perfectly put together, dark make up accenting my winter skin and chocolate brown hair. But the pain in my green eyes radiates obviously over the rest of my figure. My lips begin to crumple into a sob, but I press them hard together to stop the impending tears.

I don’t have time to do this right now. We need to leave.

I reach into the drawer, grabbing a handful of tampons and heading back into the bedroom. Kevin is sitting on our bed, finishing sliding into dress shoes. My small clutch is next to his thigh, heels next to his feet. He greets me with a smile briefly before it slides off when he sees what’s in my hand. His eyes go to my face, but I can’t return his gaze. I stuff the tampons in my clutch and snap it shut decidedly.

“I guess we don’t need a test. It’s a no.” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “I want to be done trying.” I blurt, tears evident in my voice with each word dropping from my lips. The words are surprising to me when they hit the air but after they are out, I’m glad. I know this is the right decision. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Okay.” He answers, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. He looks like he wants to say more, but the misery on my face stops him.

“Let’s go say goodnight to our baby.”

Kevin and I walk silently downstairs to where my parents are sitting with Luca in the kitchen. He is happily snacking on a piece of pizza and a cheese stick. My eyes blur for a brief moment when I look at him. I love this kid so damn much. I love being a mom. I love having Kevin as my co-parent. I want to add to our family so badly. Why isn’t it in our cards right now?

“Bye sweet boy.” I gently press my nose into Luca’s hair, not kissing him to avoid transferring my dark lipstick to his face. “Thank you for taking care of him tonight.” I say to my parents as Kevin says goodbye next.

“Of course.” My mom murmurs. Her eyes are inquisitive as she studies me. “That green is the perfect color for you, honey.” I smile politely at her, not able to respond. Kevin’s hand on the small of my back saves me from further scrutiny.

“We should be back by 10:30.” Kevin says to them.

“No worries. Take your time.” She waves us off. “We will have plenty of fun here.”

Kevin and I wave goodbye then head out to the garage to get into the car. The Porsche roars to life under Kevin’s foot as we pull out of the driveway and head west to the city. It’s a quick ten miles down Interstate 94 before Kevin is pulling off and beginning the twists and turns to the venue. He rubs at the skin of his jaw as he drives, eyes focused on the road but mind obviously elsewhere.

“Maybe it’s me?” Kevin breaks the silence as we wait for a red light. “Maybe something is wrong with my part?” I shrug my shoulders, shaking my head.

“At this point, it doesn’t really matter, Kev. I just can’t keep feeling this way every month.”

“Babe, we have options. We can go to a specialist and see what might be the issue.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Are you sure?” His hand releases from the wheel and he laces our fingers together. “We might get answers or suggestions.”

“I’m sure.” My tone is final as Kevin drives forward, continuing to bring us deeper into St. Paul.

The silence descends on us again. Once we reach the venue, we pull into the valet line. The attendant tells us we need to wait for a minute as the next valet is dashing back from the parking ramp. Kevin’s hand is still in mine as the music from my Spotify wraps around us. I fidget with the clip on my YSL clutch. I can feel his gaze on me as we wait. I have nothing left to say or do or convey about this decision. Only the knowing that I can’t keep subjecting myself to this heartbreak month after month.

“I love you, baby.” His tender tone is instantly soothing to me. It wraps around my heart, easing into the cracks and chips there from this entire experience. In this moment, where I struggle to love me, my husband shows up unconditionally. Kevin’s voice is holding me up while the hurtful thoughts want to consume me until I don’t resurface. My green eyes meet his in a glance that speaks a million words all at once. All I can speak to him is four:

“I love you too.”

Yet, in the end it’s enough because what else is there to say but that?