#feeling so soupy today

[vermincritter]

My mind is so full of rage and soup

[piplupod]

would really love to share some of the photos we've been taking on the hikes the centre has taken us on, but ever since we've heard about how people can figure out your location based on the angle of the sunlight and the plants in the photo and shit like that we've just been terrified of posting any photos ever lmao. but damn these are some really incredible places (maybe not actually, but in our eyes they are bc most of us love nature lol) and we just really would love to share them with y'all RIP :(

[the-trans-dragon]

Kipo happy rambling

Ooooooo I never noticed before that Scarlemange’s Palace is a run down mall!!! :0!!!! That’s SO GOOD TO ANALYZE!!

Some of the mutants have towns they took over, like the Umlaut snakes. The Newton wolves have an entire observatory they use as a house. The Timbercats made their home in trees. But Scarlemange! The guy obsessed with humans (and killing them all) chose a MALL.

What a human place! A gilded palace!! The gold and jewels are fake, because it’s a mall. All the luxury is simply imitation, a snare set by capitalism to gather any extra money people had. The unseen product being sold to everyone: the brand name, the illusion of wealth, of the upper class, sold to you—and its on sale, buy two get one half off!

The piano was there as a illusion of luxury. The glass ceiling, colorful and remnant of church windows. A silly little capitalism machine dressed up like a palace or a cathedral. What a fascinating place for Scarlemagne to live!

A mall is a perfect building to represent the society that existed before. Gilded. A comforting lie. All the glory of capitalism, in all its imitation and flimsiness. What a perfect place, a perfect palace, for the king who wants to finally end humanity!

I don’t really like Scarlemagne because I’m soft and he is Trying To Kill Everyone, and I’m in a very silly overanalytical mood and probably reading way too much into it. But :3 I’m havin fun lol

[katsukistofu]

PLEASE (if you feel like it) WRITE FOR AIZAWA! A SICK READER TROPE MAYBE?

Btw ur fics are so good and are part of the reason why I’ve gotten back into mha <333 I love ur writing style sm and ur hawks fics??? That was amazing

hi my love! thank you so much omg that’s so sweet, i’m happy i helped you rekindle your love for mha again lol! <3

sick (but never of you)

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ s. aizawa x fem reader. fluff. cursing. 997 words ★ your husband insists on taking care of you when you fall ill, despite your protests.

Not this shit again. 

You groan as your eyes flutter open for the second time after you said you were fine, then proceeded to dramatically faint in Shota’s arms in the middle of your patrol and sit up, hurriedly tossing the pile of soft blankets off your body.

You shiver despite the warmth radiating from the heater nearby. Shota must have brought it out for you after getting you home.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

The disapproving voice of your husband floats over, and there he is, leaning on the doorway with a steaming bowl of something in his hands. You perk up despite yourself. Miso soup? 

“I don’t have time to sleep off a little cold, Shota!” Your arms tremble as you try to force yourself off of the plush king-sized bed. “It’s already past nine, I have to head to the agency.”

“Don’t care, didn’t ask.” Shota wraps his arms around you to trap you in place, ignoring your insistent budging. “You’re staying home today with the cat.”

“But—But they need me…” You weakly mumble in his firm grip. It was no use trying to break free, and you’re not sure if you even want to anymore with how nice he feels against you.

“And I need you here.” His stern gaze doesn’t waver, and his hand guides your head from the back of your hair, which you’re certain looks like a disaster zone right now, to rest on his chest. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe, happy and healthy.”

Shota brushes a hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The little beads of sweat on your skin don’t bother him in the slightest.

“So let me do my job.”

“Are you using your teacher voice on me?” You grumble into the dark fabric of his sleeveless shirt. He smells warm and like all things good, as if he just came out of the shower. 

“I vaguely recall someone commenting that it was ‘hot.” Shota’s gravelly voice teases your ear and his stubble tickles your cheek as he smirks, knowing he’s won the battle when he finally feels you melt in defeat against him. 

He brushes a soft kiss to your forehead. “Stay in bed, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” You say in a tiny voice, weakly slumping back into the sheets. 

Shota comes back with a spoon and a folded piece of paper. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips as he holds it out to you.

“Looks like I’m not the only one that wants you to stay home.”

Your eyes widen as you look at the get-well card in your hands.

feel beter soon!! lots of loove, eri it said, with millions of tiny hearts doodled around your name. You choke back a sob as your eyes fall onto the little stick figure drawings of you pushing the little gray-haired girl on a swing set. 

It looked just like the one from the playground nearby that you would often take her to on your days off.

us when youre not sick anymor! :D

“Shota, give me that damn soup.”

He chuckles deeply and scoots closer on the bed to feed you. You squeeze your eyes shut as a sharp throb suddenly pierces through your head.

“The room’s spinning again, that’s not normal is it?”

“No. No, it’s not.” Shota’s forehead creases in concern, bringing the spoon of warm soupy goodness up to your lips while his other hand holds yours.

You part your lips to drink it, letting the rich, comforting flavor of miso spread across your tongue.

Letting out a little sigh of relief, you’re about to lean back before Shota sets the bowl down on the nightstand to prop up the pillows behind you, making sure you’re comfortable before he picks it back up again and holds up another spoonful to your mouth.

“Come on, one more for me sweetheart.” 

“Not hungry anymore,” you huff, turning your head away from his outstretched hand.

He lifts an eyebrow. 

“We can cuddle after you take your medicine.”

“...Can you rub my tummy too?”

“You know I will.”

You sniffle and reluctantly open your mouth to sip a spoonful of the soup once again.

“Atta girl.” Shota smooths a kiss on your forehead, rubbing circles against the back of your hand. 

He reaches over to the nightstand to grab your medicine he picked up from the local pharmacy earlier, and hands a small cup of what he pours to you. 

You grimace at its cherry-colored contents and tilt your head back to drink it in one go like a shot.

“Good job. Now come lay on me.” He didn’t need to ask you twice, but Shota’s hands are already on your waist to gently flip you over him as he takes your previous position on the bed, setting you down to rest your head on your usual spot on his chest.

He strokes your hair gently, arm snug against your back while he presses you to him. “How are you feeling?”

“A little bit better,” you mumble, absentmindedly tracing the outline of his abs under his shirt. It's always been soothing to you.

Shota’s chest rumbles as he lets out a husky laugh. “Are you just saying that so you can keep tracing my abs?”

“Maybe.” You giggle against him, which turns into a cough and he firmly pats your back. His hand slides under your pajamas to rub gentle circles on your tummy like he promised. You softly squeal at the ticklish feeling of his hard-earned callouses against your skin, and Shota tenderly kisses your cheek once, twice.

All your senses are numb, but you can still feel the overflowing love behind them.

“Go to sleep, sweet girl. I got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Okay.” You comply easily this time, nuzzling deeper into his chest. “Goodnight, Shota.”

“Goodnight, angel. Love you.”

“Love you too,” you mumble before drifting off to sleep in the safety of his warm arms.

Maybe being sick wasn’t all bad.

[visceravalentines]

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin. 

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck. 

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes. 

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg. 

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking. 

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs. 

.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line. 

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly. 

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose. 

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards. 

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin:  sunburn, bug bites, bite marks. 

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes. 

“What’s for supper?” 

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.” 

He licks his lips. 

Supper gets cold. 

.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry. 

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else. 

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them. 

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale.  “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

.

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor. 

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.” 

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?” 

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get. 

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass. 

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?” 

“Almost.” 

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do. 

You snip them one by one, bittersweet. 

“Done.” 

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.” 

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side. 

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing. 

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones. 

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.” 

Have you always been such a good listener? 

.

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face. 

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands. 

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world. 

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break. 

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry. 

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept. 

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too. 

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in. 

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds. 

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe. 

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit. 

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.” 

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish. 

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have. 

“Get the light,” he says. 

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck. 

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat. 

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him. 

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall. 

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night. 

“Please,” you moan. 

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.” 

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties. 

“Good.” 

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life. 

.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory. 

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here. 

Neither is he. 

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt. 

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap. 

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget. 

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle. 

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles:  a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake. 

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children. 

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet. 

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that. 

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either. 

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk. 

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs. 

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails. 

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak. 

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. 

.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood:  the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.” 

You frown. 

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair. 

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

.

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You. 

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach. 

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning. 

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?” 

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth. 

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him. 

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television. 

“I killed my mama, y’know.” 

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed. 

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red. 

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling. 

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday. 

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

[i520u]

invisible string ʚĭɞೃ⟡

HIII i’m so sorry this took me so long i just didn’t wanna be unemployed after i’m done with my series so i decided to keep this in the drafts for a while 😞 i hope you’ll like this!

PAIRING sung hanbin x gn!reader

GENRE fluff, sfw

MASTERLIST

hanbin is a responsible bf, so you can definitely let loose when you’re around him!

he will always makes you feel safe

when you go out on dates with him, he would always silently take your handbag off of your shoulder and carry them himself 😞

his nicknames for you are usually the common ones, baby, my baby, angel, and i think he’d most commonly use 내 사랑 (nae sarang/my love) because it’s so endearing to give your s/o a nickname in your own mother tongue am i right

but he prefers calling you by your name, bc he thinks your name is already pretty

constantly complimenting you

you get your work done and he’s like “good job baby” and then he’d kiss your cheek

you finish mopping the floors and he’s like “you worked so hard today my love, thank you”

the type of boyfriend that will give you legitimate answers to your “would you still love me if i was a worm?” questions

one time you asked him what he would do if you turned into a snail one day

and he told you he’d have to build you nice house where you would be comfortable living in

drives your around ALL the time

he would freak out if you offered him gas money because he really doesn’t mind spending his time, energy, and money with you :(

if you gave him a $10 cash he would applepay you $15

i think hanbin is a great cook, so eating out is very rare for you both because he’s always cooking up a meal for the both of you

if you don’t like a certain taste (sour, salty, sweet, etc) he’d make sure to alter the recipe a little so you’d both be able to enjoy the meal together

hanbin would be cutting up some vegetables, and then you’d come up to him and ask for a kiss, and he would gladly give you a quick kiss before resuming with the meal prep

conflicts with him rarely ever happens

he’s so good at communicating, and he’s just so gentle there’s really nothing to be mad about with him

he trusts you, and he feels secure in the relationship so he never really asks you about your whereabouts. you’re free to hangout with anyone!

all of your friends loves hanbin. he treats you so well, and he’s so polite and can mix around with them, so he’s practically in your friend group too

when you DO get into fights with hanbin, the fight never lasts longer than 2 days. he either apologises first if he realised that he’s in the wrong, or he’ll talk to you and explain why he felt like he was wronged

plus, even when the two of you are fighting, he’d still cook you a good dinner, and you’d still help him clean up all the things he used to make the meal 😭

also on nights where you both had heated arguments, if the situation was okay, he would still wrap his arms around you while you sleep

hanbin never go all out for anniversaries though

rather than fancy dinner date or a big gesture to show his love, it’s more domestic and meaningful

hanbin prefers celebrating your anniversaries together with things like giving you a photobook of all the moments that you’ve spent together

of course he’d buy you a gift too, but his main idea of anniversaries are more domestic

one time he rearranged your house and made a candlelight dinner all by himself for your anniversary, candles, silk tablecloth, fancy steak, he did that all by himself

whenever you get sick, he’d feel bad leaving you alone while he goes to work but duty calls!!!

he would make you text him and update him every 3 hours so that he knows you’re eating well and taking your medicines on time

when HE’S sick he tells you not to worry about him and then he would get flustered when he finds out that you cooked him some healthy soupy foods for him to eat

he thinks you’re so cute when you’re worried over him getting a stupid little cold

when he gets better he would give you so many kisses and cooing at how cute you were when you were taking care of him

honestly he’s always kissing you somewhere, or you’re always kissing him somewhere, it doesn’t matter. he loves kisses

when you say something funny he would laugh and then bring your hand to his lips for no reason?? when you ask him why he’s just like “you’re so funny i just had to kiss you”

when you’re showing him the new top you just bought and then he would just pull you in to kiss the top of your head bc why not

when you kiss him first his ears will go red

he would even be like “why’d you do that”

when you say you just wanted to kiss him he’d giggle and would call you adorable

“my partner is so adorable today, i wonder what’s got into them?”

[thatonebirdwrites]

I feel like this chapter isn't up to my usual caliber. I usually use more immersive details, but I just have been so ill that editing and cleaning this up for posting has taken up more energy than expected.

One more chapter to end Act 2, and then we're in Act 3.

EXCERPT:

Lena wakes to the scent of coffee brewing. She stretches in bed, not wanting to leave its warmth and the smell of Kara on the pillow she hugged. Humming echoes in harmony with the taps of a spatula and an almost purring noise that undercut it all. Intrigued, Lena slips out of bed, grabs her robe, and walks into Kara’s kitchen. 

Kara stands at the stove making pancakes again, and the purring is definitely from her. It’s not the first time she’s heard the deeper tones in Kara’s humming, but it’s almost like throat singing and yet not at the same time. 

She’s not entirely sure how to ask Kara about it or if it is rude, but she’s curious about their anatomical differences, not just from a scientific standpoint but also because she wants to map those differences with her hands and tongue. Which is a bit too heated a thought for a soon to be busy day.

After a cold shower, she walks into the kitchen, kisses Kara's cheek, and takes Kara’s offered plate. “So what is your plans for today?”

Kara sighs and pours the syrup until her plate is basically pancake soup with syrup as the broth. “Nia and I are checking on our contacts in San Jose Barrio, and we’re trying to get a more accurate number of afflicted. Nia says her roommate isn’t feeling well, and most of her drag friends are also ill. So it’s hitting humans now too.” 

Lena frowns. “It’s spreading faster than we thought. Do you know how many in total affected? I will check the clinics today with Sam, and I'll see if I can drum up a solution with Florence in our lesson.” She uses her portal watch for the hour lesson, timed for eight am so it's two pm for Florence. Just in time to help tend the garden before the magic drills. 

Kara shakes her head. “They don’t trust me yet, so I can't get accurate numbers. Supergirl hasn’t earned back the trust of the alien community, and as Kara Danvers, I’m too close to Supergirl.” She grumbles and takes a large bite of her soupy concoction. Syrup drips off her fork to splatter over the top of the second pancake.

“What if you go as your alien self?” Lena takes a small bite.

“That could expose me?” Kara tilts her head.

“No, I mean.” Lena cuts another piece of her pancake and arranges her thoughts in a more coherent manner. “Kara Danvers is human to them. But a reporter than is an alien? Nia’s half-alien, and they trust her.” 

“But I can’t say I’m alien as Danvers—”

“Hey,” Lena reaches over to gently lay her hand over Kara’s restless fingers, “I understand, okay? That needs to stay a secret. Be strategic on who you talk to, don’t name where exactly you’re from, maybe avoid your last name. I can do a glamour charm to make your face harder to remember.” 

Kara raises her eyebrows. “Huh. Well, that's an idea. Glamour?”

“What Florence calls illusions. She’s having me read an old tome about various magical styles, so I can derive their origins.” She slices into her second pancake with the edge of her fork. “Since, as she put it, ‘Yuh too curious for yer own good. So here, be safe about it.’” Lena mimics the accent with a roll of her eyes. “I’m simply trying to be accurate. There must be rules governing all this.”

“It’s magic, Lena. And can you really do a spell like that?” Kara’s eyes shine with wonder. 

“It can’t be that hard.” Lena wipes her hands on her napkin, stands, and picks up the book from the coffee table. It’s a thick tome with a brown cover with leave etchings on it. She flips through the yellow-stained pages, until she finds the right one. She taps the page. “Ingredients rather simple. Will need to enchant an item near your face. Scarf and hat best. I don’t recommend glasses since you use that for your human self. This needs to be an item you don’t associate with Kara Danvers.” She reads through the incantation, which is a mixture of Irish with the last line in Latin. 

[please-put-arasha-in-marvel]

Reddit Stories

Ok so I've been dying to ask this question but do ya'll have a Reddit story that made you feel the following:

a) insane anger

b) a story that made you sad and you just wanted to give op a hug

c) shitting pants funny

Here are my answers:

a)

Husband obsessed with my boss [The Most Unpredictable Reddit Stories]

I overheard my bf saying he chose the wrong girl [Parties gone wrong]

My wife has no friends [Did they go too far]

b)

Bf wants to establish traditional gender roles [Not getting married today]

Am I too harsh [Once a cheater always a cheater]

Accidentally dating my bff [High school drama]

c)

My sister had a terrible bachelorette party [Party Nightmares]

Tripping on shrooms in a house full of cats [4/20]

I paid my wife for sex [I'm sorry WHAT?] (mainly because of Shayne]

Honorable mention: My fiance found my sexy AI chats [Are these relationships doomed?] - This story was very jarring.

Tagging some people: @soupy-girl @sttevn @chunkysoda @haasmaxxing @whiskeythefishski @detectivewheresmycoffee @toomuchsmoshbrainrot @cosmicsmosh @unknownteapot @punk-gremlin @sage-lights

and of anyone who'd like to answer 💗

[believesthings]

Not Just A Girl - Chapter 4 // Jason Sudeikis x Reader

Summary: You're a new up and coming actress. At your first awards show, you run into your celebrity crush, Jason Sudeikis. Trying to navigate the bond you form with him while both juggling your respective careers proves to be quite the task with some unexpected twists along the way.

Tag List: @my-soupy-brain @tegan8314 @tortilla-maria1

Once again you wake up entirely too early of your own accord. To work out some of your nervous energy you wander down to the weight room to move for a bit. Your realize once you've made it down there that you've left your phone in your room but you don't need your phone for the a half hour, right? That's the new thing these days, Isn't it? Technology detox? Sure, why not give it go.

Your callback isn't scheduled until 10:00 which gives you plenty of time to obsess over every little detail you can imagine into being before having to slip into the persona of Mia and hopefully finally get conformation regarding the part.

Comfortably tired from your workout, you head to the elevator to go back up to your room and happen to spot your new friend - the security guard from last night - leaving as he gets off his shift. He looks even younger outside of his uniform. Quite the shift, you marvel, for someone so young - but then you often held off jobs while you were working in theater, just son you could afford the rent.

You give him a friendly wave which he returns with an exhausted by happy smile. On the elevator, you remind yourself to relay your promise to Jason when you call him later in the day. You've decided on calling him around lunchtime so as to hopefully not interrupt his day. He made you promise that you would call after your callback, but he never specified when.

A glance at your phone tells you that 30 minutes with it, while freeing, is actually quite impractical. You've not got numerous messages to shift through.

Knock them dead, Honey.

From your mother.

The award looks great. Go get us another to match!

From your Father, with an attached photo of him, making a goofy face next to your award in a newly built cabinet.

Todd had sent a series of messages - first regarding the fan mail that he wanted to pass on to you at your earliest convenience, a.k.a. come clear some of this clutter from my workplace - followed by directions to the building where you needed to go today, a brief pep talk... remember your training, so on, so forth - and then an oddly phrased text requesting that you call him after lunch because by that time he thought he would know something you would like to hear.

You had sent him the list of places that you had been interested in renting while you stayed in town, perhaps he would have news regarding that? You can't live in the hotel forever, despite how tempting it would be to do so.

Will also opted for a series of texts:

If they don't choose you for Mia, they're mad. - x

Followed by:

Can't wait to see you and discuss your new boyfriend.

Then another one:

Jo said the pair of you went house hunting without me. You owe me drinks!

You try to remember where he is and what he could be doing at the moment, judging if you can call and chat. Is he doing interviews? Maybe a photo shoot?

The next text doesn't help clear up where he could be.

The makeup trailer seems empty without you. When will we be able to coerce someone into making All Your Monsters 2?

You save the texts from Jason for last.

Good Morning, Darling. Don't forget your promise to call.

You can't help but grin. "Or what?" You think to yourself.

Before protesting again, my phone is on silent and I'll be checking my messages at every available moment until I hear from you.

You shake your head and laugh, imaging Jason sneaking glances at his phone every time the director calls cut. Though it makes you smile you'd feel incredibly guilty if you got him into trouble on set.

Also, we had food provided during our breaks from a wonderful little breakfast spot downtown. I'd love the chance to take you.

This makes you blush. Breakfast with Jason. Breakfast following...

Before your mind can stray too far down that distracting line of thought another text arrives from Todd:

Did you get the directions I sent?

Really, he worries far too much about your sense of direction.

Yes, I'll let you know when I get there.

You pack up a few things into a satchel in the hopes that you can window shop at some point during the day. To pass the time and distract yourself from the butterflies in your stomach you use your phone to scroll through the media links that Todd has sent you. There are so many articles speculating on your connection with Jason - curiosity makes you scan through the titles.

The new woman in Jason's life, Battle of the Co-stars over before it began? Goldstein out on day one as Sudeikis cuddles up with new woman.

After reading through a few of the articles you get distracted by the copious photos linked to the sites: publicity photos of each of you at the awards show with candid shots from the night sprinkled in, more from the after party, walking along the street, even a few from your date the previous night. Scrolling through the pictures you are reminded of the long days during filming All Your Monsters when you would pas the time by searching our various funny pictures and sending them to Will. You spent an entire week sending him the same photo of a squirrel with his cheeks overstuffed - it had driven him crazy.

Rather than sit around in your hotel you decide to go ahead over to the location for your callback and maybe find a quiet spot to sit and center yourself before having to disappear into the character of Mia.

You arrive far earlier than just a few minutes, which all works out according to plan -- finding a place to sit and collect yourself proves a bit challenging. As far as options go, sitting in the lobby isn't much help because of all the foot traffic... there is a row of chairs near the door that you were directed to go to, but that puts you in the awkward position of having to see who walking of the room just before you have to go in. Everything has been kept incredibly quiet regarding the project.

You can hear voices coming from within the room through the door, which was left slightly ajar. You know better than to try to knock on the door to announce your arrival, for all you know they could still be with the previous pairing and interrupting that would be awkward beyond even your standards. You realize the voices have grown a bit more insistent and you can actually make out the words of the person who is currently speaking and it is n=certainly not dialogue from the pages you've been given.

"I just don't see the wisdom in it..."

Part of the response is lower than you can make out... "-thought we had agreed it would be best for production."

"Well things changed, maybe we don't want that anymore."

"Do we scrap all the other choices we've made so far then too?" Someone was very unhappy about something regarding this James & Mia movie. "You said - you said that casting unknowns was the most beneficial!"

Oh - your stomach flips. Oh, you really shouldn't be listening to this, any of this. You should get up and walk back out to the lobby and wait there until it is closer to your appointment time. What if they open the door to find you sitting here? You want to flee but now that your ears have picked up on the conversation your body seems to refuse to let you escape.

"Look - you can be on board with this or not but that doesn't change the fact that we are going to be telling all of them today and.."

The irate voice was even louder, loud enough to make you wince and unglue from your position. "You still want us to see all of them? You don't consider that - I don't know - a waste of everyone's time? Now that you've unilaterally made the biggest decision we..."

You don't stay to hear the rest of the tirade. You're already walking down the hall as quietly as you can. You don't pause in the lobby but burst out the door onto the sidewalk, the sun shining ahead help as you as your best to take steady breaths.

Pull it together. Breathe in, out.

In. Out.

Ok. So they're going a different way, at least they're going to tell you rather than leave you waiting for a phone call.

Breathe in. Out.

Why wait around to hear they don't want you? You're feeling petulant but quickly find a reply to the question: you never know what other projects these individuals might have lined up that they might recommend for you.

Everything is an opportunity.

You've been turned down for parts you've gotten attached to before. You close your eyes and concentrate on breathing until the urge to dry heave subsides. Opening your eyes, you sigh up at the building. There's one voice you want to hear before you go back inside to face their decision..

Your finger are still slightly shaking as you dial Jason's number. It goes to voicemail, thankfully he did as he said he would and turned his phone to silent.

"Hey-" You scowl when you hear your voice waver and force a smile, trying to change the pitch of your voice. "So, I'm currently standing outside enjoying the beautiful sunshine and thinking of you. Havn;t gone in yet but I overheard something I probably shouldn't have... and well, I think they're going with someone else. Whoever it is, I'm sure it'll do the project wonders. I just... well,,,"

You look down at your watch. "Damn." It took you longer to gather yourself than you thought. You've got to run back inside or you'll be late. To top it off, you notice that in your frazzled state to check your watch, your thumb ended the call. You heave a sigh before turning the phone ring tone down and stuffing it into your bag.

Back in the building you walk with as much confidence as you can muster back towards the proper room. The door is open now, the silence reminding you of the quiet just before all hell breaks loose.

Ok. you are going to go in there and wow them, even if they've already made up their minds. You'll explain everything to Jason later - hopefully over many drinks.

Upon entering the room you are warmly greeted by the casting director, a man who reminds you of your theater teacher from college. He introduces you in turn to the individuals sitting alongside him - almost in order of the chain of command, working from himself all the way up to the man you recognize moments before the casting director says his name - the director of the project. After introductions you drop your bag to the floor beside the chair they've set out in front of them. Was your phone buzzing? It was hard to place to source of the sound over the shifting of all the people in front of you and the added movement of the script and other odd things in you bag. You didn't really need to bring the script with you, but you would thought you have a moment to go over your notes to yourself... of course, that was before you eavesdropped on the conversation that was taking up your brain space. You start to lean over to adjust the way your bag is sitting and maybe pull the pages out but you stop your actions when the casting director addresses you:

"Well, before we get started, Welcome back! You were absolutely lovely in your audition and I wanted you to know that. We loved the interpretation of Mia that you brought to the table."

Were absolutely lovely. Loved. Past tense. As in we don't love your interpretation anymore because someone did something better, but thanks for playing anyway. You keep your breathing calm and level by dropping yourself out of the moment as much as you can.

"We think we've found--" he glances askance before correcting his words. "We have cast our James and are hoping that we might have the right fit for you playing against him."

That - was not what you were expecting him to say. You blink to let the words sink in for a moment before smiling. "I- thank you! I'd love to give it a go."

"Excellent" He beams down the line at the other members of the team, most of whom are smiling - but you notice the production manager, (or were they introduced as the production coordinator?) doesn't seem to be very interested in the conversation. "We're actually going to have to wait a few minutes for his arrival so let's just run through a few lines and then we'll see where we're at." You nod before squaring yourself in your chair and letting your careful construct of Mia take control.

Half an hour later you're up and pacing, you've just finished a particularly tense bit of dialogue with all.. but again, just the one... seeming to enjoy themselves as they are again liking what you are showing them. You've amended small bits of your reactions as a result of your discussions with Jason regarding certain moments. Thankfully a break is called so you can scoop up one of the bottles of water they've kindly provided. You chose not to reseat yourself right away. The energy you've called upon for the scene making you a bit restless now that you don't have a way to expel it. Pacing doesn't seem to be doing to the trick so you let the character of Mia slip back into the corner where you've nestled her away in your mind.

With a glance down at the far end of the table, the casting director then checks his watch, "We;ll just call down to the lobby and see if he's made it yet... we did agree to the 10:30 - 10:45 time frame."

While he makes his phone call, you perch on the edge of your chair to scoop up the script from your bag and flip through the pages to review some of your notes. Remember how tenuous the relationship is by this time. Or Would she allow James to see how horribly he's injured her here or would she strive for impassiveness? In searching our a particular phrase you wanted to highlight you notice writing on pages you don't remember commenting on. A closer look brings you a smile. Jason has written you notes as to his feelings on the scenes. Most seeming to be in agreement with your assessment. Bless him. Your trace your fingertip over is handwriting, figuring he had written it while waiting for you to finish getting ready for your night out.

"Oh - excellent! And you already sent him up? Good!" The casting director clasps his hands together with such explosive force it jolts you out of your thoughts. "Alright, we are delighted to tell you that -"

Well. That makes twice is less than an hour that you've been surprised ( and then delighted) by the turn of events - Brett nods his acknowledgement to you.

You realize the casting director is still talking, "...And Brett's schedule being as busy as it is we weren't sure if we would be able to land him for the role, but by the time we get production underway things shouldn't be problematic. We'll try to get through this quickly..."

Your casting director is talking more to the people alongside him than you right now but you still nod in reply. You take note of the expression of those in charge - the director looks particularly pleased with himself, but again the production manager/coordinator - really, you were going to have to clarify that eventually - doesn't appear all that interested in the events unfolding. Actually, as you analyze her expression, you realize that is she seemed merely disinterested in you before, she seems to be seething now that Brett Is in the room. Wow, not doing a very good job of hiding her opinions at the moment... Obviously, it was her protestations that you overheard earlier.

Brett has finished shaking hands with those in charge and scoops you now into a gentle hug. "Surprise..." He murmurs into your ear just before releasing you.

How long had Brett been interested in the role? You think back through the odd few texts the pair of you have exchanged since meeting the night of the award show and you realize that you never mentioned this particular project while talking with him. Apparently, this is just one of those wild coincidences.

How long will your luck hold our concerning your career? You are reminded of your audition for All Your Monsters when you walked into the room and saw Will Poulter sitting there waiting for you. How did you overcome your nerves then? Right, push your own feelings aside and concentrate on the the character... Your drop the script back into the chair and take a quick sip of water while listening as the casting director gives brief directions as to what he'd like to see from the pair of you.

By 11:00 all involved seem to be on the same page regarding the casting of Brett as James and you in the role of Mia - even, to your pleasure, the production manager. You don't envy them the task of seeing the remaining people today... that exchange must be a tough one. Brett nods great fully when they acknowledge that he need to get back to filming for the current project he's working on. He waits for you to grab your bag and walks with you back towards the outside world.

"I'd be happy to drop you somewhere on my way back to the studio."

You shake your head while thanking him. "That's ok. I think I need to walk around a bit." You feel your phone vibrating into your side through the fabric of your bag. " Ah - and I have a few phone calls to make. Long story..."

The pair of your pause in the lobby to say goodbye. Brett gives your arm a brief squeeze. "Which there will be plenty of time to hear now that we're working together. I'll see you again soon."

In the hour that you've been in the callback your phone has gone nuts. You send off a quick text to Todd letting him know of the developments, omitting your little panic attack before the audition though he's surely likely to hear about it somehow. There are both texts and voicemails from Jason You read through the messages first:

Your message cut off, is everything ok?"

Everything is now.

The next:

Todd said he wasn't even aware you'd gotten there. You did go in didn't you?

Oh Damn, you forgot to tell Todd you had arrived since you were so distracted. Well, he knows now.

Forget whatever you heard. You show them how passionate you are about this character and they will have no choice but to be swayed.

Oh God, you've apparently really distracted him from his work.

Darling, answer your phone. Please. You're killing me here. Smoke Signal, carrier pigeon. I'll take anything to know you're okay.

You stop scrolling through the messages. You imagine his voicemails will be more of the same. You quickly dial his number and to your surprise, he answers on the first ring. Before he can say a word you rush out as much information as you can.

"Jason, I'm fine. Everything is fine. I did go - I'm so sorry to have worried you. I got the part, Jason!" You can hear him breathe out in reaction to your news. "I can't believe you called Todd, I'm in trouble aren't I?"

This results in a chuckle. "No you're not in trouble though I wouldn't mind putting eyes on you right now, just for good measure."

You close your eyes to fight back the emotions rising to surface. You want nothing more than to be standing with him having this conversation in person. "Hmm I probably owe everyone on your set apology cakes or something for how much I seem to have stressed you out." Another laugh comes over the line. How you love making him do that. "I very much doubt they would just let me waltz in there with a plate of cookies though... Who all did you call anyway?"

Jason considers for a moment and you can hear him being summonsed in the background which is apparently ignoring because they repeat themselves louder. He responds to them with a bit of hesitation. "Yeah, I'm on my way!"

"Jason, I know this is going to be a long day for you but... could you -" You plan on asking him to call you or at least express your desire to see him.

"Yes."

You laugh. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Doesn't matter. Yes. You had me at could you."

You try to think of something outrageous to demand of him surely because he agreed but you settle for the delight you feel knowing that you'll be able to wrap your arms around him in a matter of hours. "Okay, then." You can hear him being called more insistently and smile. "I'm really going to have to send over dozens of apology baskets. I'll call Todd to get right on that. You said tentatively you thought you'd be done by 8 tonight, right?" Jason confirms the timeframe and you add, "Ok - I'll be there when you're done. Call me if that changes. Now go before they irrevocably hate me for taking you away from work."

You take a taxi over to Todd's office after calling to both apologize for any undue stress - ok, all the undue stress. - and the request that he send over a massive basket of delicious treats to the studio where Jason is working. He laughs, "You want the note to say what?"

"Trust me, it is justified. Please Todd?" You note the taxi driver is doing his best not to laugh.

[hockeynoses]

fix me up along the line (Ste/ddie snz fic)

Summary: Another Ste/ddie snz fic! (Will I ever stop? Only time will tell.) Inspired by @sneezeshame's post here. Steve is traveling for work and is super sick. He calls Eddie from his hotel room. Future fic.

Rating: Other than snz stuff, this could be rated PG. I thought about making Eddie have the kink here, but I didn't. 1k.

Warnings: Mess. Implied future contagion.

Notes: The title is a line from the full version of the ancient song Hello My Baby. I've loved that song ever since I saw that frog singing it. 💖

-

Eddie fiddles with the strings on his guitar, killing time while he waits to hear from Steve. He’d promised he’d call Eddie once he got settled at the hotel up in Seattle; some conference his fancy job was making him travel for. Eddie had just gotten back to their house in LA from a gig that kept him away for the weekend. Their schedules caused them to just miss each other, Eddie arriving home the afternoon Steve left.

The shrill ring of the phone pulls him from his thoughts. Finally!

“Hey!”

“Hey babe.”

“You made it! Wait, you did make it, right?”

“Yep, checked idn a bidt ago,” Steve says. Eddie hears what he thinks is a squeaky, congested sniffle. “I’b godda have a shower soon and thedn head down for dinner.”

“Nice. How was the flight?” Eddie asks.

“Idt was… haah… hold odn… ihhh … hih’YEEHIISSHHH’oo!”

Eddie hears a wet, spraying sneeze explode on the other end of the line and blinks in shock. It sounds like Steve had time to twist away from the phone and has now set it down in an attempt to find some tissues.

“Shiiihh- ugh. SNF. Shidt.” An ill-sounding noseblow gurgles down the line, and concern pierces through Eddie.

“You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?”

“I’ve just beed sneezing all day,” Steve groans. “And I thigk the plane gave mbe a headache.” He follows that up with a few desperate, soupy sniffles, trying to stop his nose from running freely. “The cabidn pressure was bmessing with bmy sinuses and I couldn’t stob sneeziiii-hih… Hiiiih-ZZSSHHESSH’iue!”

“It sounds like you’re sick, babe.” He knows how stubborn Steve can be on the rare times he does get sick. Steve was already stressed about this trip, and Eddie doesn’t want him to overexert himself if he really is feeling that poorly.

“I dod’t… huh… I dod’t have tibe to be …haah… het’GGKSSHHH’uh! Hep’TIISHHH! Ughh. To be sigg.” Judging from the sound of those, Steve was just letting them fly, sneezing openly and spraying his hotel room with everything he had. The scrape of several tissues being pulled from a box fills the air, followed by a long, crackling blow.

“I hate to break it to you, but I think you might be. You sound awful already.” Eddie cups the receiver to his face with both hands. There’s a tug in his heart and he wants nothing more than for Steve to be back home so he can take care of him. He’d force him to stay in bed and would wait on him hand and foot, bringing him anything he asked for. “Did this just start today?”

“Dno…” Another sickly sniffle. “I’ve felt rudn down for a couble of days. Then last night I started sdeezing and I-iiihhh huh’KKSSSHH’IUE!” An exhausted sigh. “I didn’t gedt mbuch sleep.” He pulls a handful of tissues out, one after the other, and buries his face in them. “I thigk the pressure on the plane mbade it worse and then ihhh- HEH’TSSCHUH! Idt’s jusdt so damp here.” He clears his throat, his voice starting to go a little ragged. “I got caught ind the rain tryigg to hail a cab, which pro-ahh-bably didn’t h-he-hih’AEEISSHHah! SNF. Helb.”

“Poor thing. I wish I was there with you.”

“Probably best thadt… thadt you-ooo… huh’NGGSSHHiggh! Guh. Thadt you aren’t.” Eddie doesn’t think he’s imagining things when he hears the sheer mess of that one, thick and telling. “I thigk I’b pretty condagious. Huh… hih’YEIISHH’IUE!”

The line crackles as Steve sneezes uncovered, directly onto the receiver; the wet, viscous mess of it contaminating everything. Eddie flinches back on instinct. Steve sounds so cold-ridden and contagious that Eddie almost believes he could catch it over the phone, halfway across the country.

Steve moans, “SNF. Oh god. I’b so sorry. I cadn’t stob.”

“Steve… you sound really, really sick. Are you sure you should be going out like that?” Steve’s too busy abusing another tissue with a drenching noseblow to respond, so Eddie adds hopefully, “You should just come home.”

“Cadn’t. The bmanagement team specifically chose bme to represent the compady at the conference, and if I – if I – hih’kgxshht! Ugh. ‘Scuse bme. If I wandt the promotion I have to keeb bmy shit together. Ha-k’ISH’IGSHH’uh!”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to appreciate you getting them sick.” Eddie says, appealing to Steve’s vanity in a last-ditch effort. Everyone who comes within ten feet of him is going to be at risk of catching this thing. He’s going to be shaking so many hands, sharing so many meals, sitting in so many crowded conference rooms…

“I dod’t really have mbuch of aahh…Ha’AEESHHH’IUE! SNF. Mbuch of a choice.” Another miserable blow travels down the line, straight into Eddie’s ear.

There’s a beat of silence where Steve must be dazed after such a heavy noseblow, trying to catch his breath. Eddie can hear his open-mouthed, congested panting crackle over the phone receiver. If they don’t sanitize every inch of that place after he leaves, whoever stays there next is going to be in for a world of misery.

“I still wish there was something I could do,” Eddie says. “You sure you don’t need some food delivered? Or a care package? I can check if a delivery service would go to the pharmacy-”

“Eddie,” Steve says, and Eddie hears the smile in his voice despite everything. “You’re sweedt, but I’b good.”

“Okay…” Eddie’s still going to see about that pharmacy, just try and stop him. “You’ll let me know if it gets any worse? I could always fly up there and come rescue you.”

Steve chuckles, which turns into the beginnings of a cough. “I’ll be finde, really. Jusdt have to power through a few…heh…days…heh’RRIISHHH’IUE!” Another careless, wet sneeze bursts from him, dousing the phone in droplets, making Eddie wince again.

“May God bless your soul,” Eddie says, with exaggerated sincerity. Steve is too distracted to thank him.

“Ugh, whadt a bmess,” he says, pulling more tissues from his dwindling supply. “I’ve godda get these under condtrol.” His words are muffled into the bundle of tissues before he releases a long, squelching blow.

“Good luck with that.”

“Thaggs,” Steve responds, matching his sarcastic tone. He swallows around his burning throat. “Well, I’ve godda gedt in the shower and gedt cleaned up before dinner.”

“Alright, I’ll let you go.” Eddie has to stop himself from pouting. “But call me before you go to bed, yeah?”

“Assumbing I don’t gedt back and immediately pass oudt. Hih-kxxngt!” Steve says, smothering another sneeze in his full, slimy tissues.

Eddie huffs a laugh. “Okay. Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The last thing Eddie hears is Steve’s breath hitching before the clunk of the contaminated phone being placed back into its holder cuts off the call. Eddie immediately starts looking into getting a care package from the pharmacy delivered…maybe some soup, too. Steve’s gonna need it.

[risustravelogue]

With You, From Now On

Summary:

It's Alhaitham's birthday, and his wish is to spend it with you.

Featuring:

Boyfriend!Alhaitham, the birthday guy himself! 🎉

Tone:

Fluff!!!

Note:

Something I wrote in a few hours for Alhaitham's birthday. I love this man so much 🥲 I kind of feel guilty I couldn't come up with any ideas before his birthday comes. But hey, I guess this impromptu thing works too! Enjoy! 💚

🔗 AO3 | masterlist 🔗

It’s Alhaitham’s birthday.

How did you know this? The Akasha, of course. The notification was the first thing you saw when you woke up. You stopped over at the Grand Bazaar to buy some groceries before going to the Akademiya, thinking to gift your crush something nice. When you arrived at the House of Daena, you skipped over to a familiar gray head’s spot and plopped onto the chair beside him.

“Happy birthday!” you whispered.

He glanced at you, then back to his book. “Thanks, I guess.”

You pouted and crossed your arms. “That’s it? Not even a smile?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really celebrate my birthday anymore. Not since my grandmother died.”

You carefully pushed his book away. “Well,” you smiled, “I’ll celebrate it with you from now on. How does that sound?”

He sighed. The resigned look in his sharp turquoise-red eyes and the small smile growing on his lips made you blush. “It’d be nice,” he said, his gaze meeting yours. “But nothing grand, please. Also, can we do this at my house? I don’t want everyone to start approaching me to give me their congratulations.”

You smiled. “I knew you’d say that, so I took the liberty to go grocery shopping for a bit of domestic celebration.” You gestured at the grocery bag on the desk. “Let me make some stew for you,” you said with a proud grin. “My friends say my stew’s really good.”

“Stew? Ah, sorry. I don’t really like soupy food,” he said with an apologetic look in his eyes.

“Oh, okay, I’ll think of something.” You mulled over your options, racking your brain for a similar recipe.

“Well,” you said after a while, “I know of another recipe using these that’s mess-free. We just need to buy some eggs on the way back.”

He nodded in approval, the small smile on his lips growing slightly wider. “That would be ideal.”

He ended up liking your cooking so much, he asked you to teach him how to make it himself.

—

It’s early in the morning. You bring an especially large baklava from Alhaitham’s favorite bakery to his house. You walk with hurried steps to catch your boyfriend before he goes to the office. The homeowner answers the door.

You hand the box of baklava over to him. “Happy birthday!”

He smiles. “Thank you.”

A blond head pops from the guest bedroom. “Today is your birthday?”

You stare at the architect over your boyfriend’s shoulder in shock. “Wait. Kaveh, you didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t,” he says with a shrug.

Your brain works overtime as you wonder why Kaveh is surprised that today is Alhaitham’s birthday. Then, a sudden wave of realization hits you.

“Haitham,” you say, trying to articulate your thoughts. “Did you… intentionally let me see your birthday on the Akasha back then?”

Alhaitham freezes. His eyes flit away from you. Kaveh blinks cluelessly.

“Oh, I hit the bullseye,” you smirk. “Let me guess, you did it because you already had a crush on me at the time.”

He coughs. A blush creeps onto his cheeks. “I—I hadn’t realized my feelings then. It was—it was just an impulsive moment.”

“I see,” you say with a proud huff. “Impulsive when it comes to me, hmm? I’m honored.”

He walks away from you, leaving the door open behind him. You can see Kaveh’s teasing grin, gesturing at you that your boyfriend’s blushing. You follow Alhaitham into the house and join him in the kitchen. Kaveh follows not long after to hover over the baklava. You sit together in the living room to eat your portion while chatting the morning away. Kaveh finishes his slice first, and when he goes to the kitchen to wash his plate, Alhaitham pulls you against him. He dips in to kiss you with his arms circling around your waist.

“I’m glad I can spend this year’s birthday with you again,” he says quietly, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I hope you’ll be beside me until my last one.”

You turn to kiss his ear, your chest warm with affection. “Of course. That’s a promise.”

—

“Oh, get a room!”

© @risustravelogue 2023 • no to reposting, yes to reblogging. feel free to send an ask to suggest, chat, etc. :)

[magicandpizza]

For the ask game, 7 <3

Hello, thank you for playing! Sorry this took so long!

7. “Spread your legs baby, that’s it… Wider.”

“Roll over for me.”

Wylan whines but does as he’s told, turning onto his stomach and resting his head on his arms. 

It’s not always like this, one of them taking full control and the other readily submitting. Normally there’s more of a push and pull, but Wylan is strung out and Jesper is nothing if not attentive, easily taking charge and quickly making Wylan’s brain turn soupy.

Jesper’s fingers trail feather-light down his spine as he settles beside him. 

“Spread your legs, baby.”

Again, Wylan does as commanded, resisting the urge to roll his hips against the covers. He hears Jesper shift behind him, feels the press of his lips against his shoulder. 

“Wider.”

Wylan turns to look over his shoulder. He has an idea where this might be going. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, darling. But I want to,” Jesper says with a grin. He kisses a path down Wylan’s back, over each rib and down to the dimples at the base of his spine. 

Wylan can’t help it, he shivers at the first hint of Jesper’s tongue against him. It sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock, and he groans into the pillows. Usually, Jesper takes his sweet time whenever they do this, likes to drag it out until Wylan is breathless and begging, but he wastes no time today. He takes Wylan apart with practiced ease, each swipe of his tongue making Wylan grip harder at the sheets. 

When Jesper moves to pull away, Wylan whines, one hand darting backwards to sink into Jesper’s hair. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he says as sharply as he can manage. It comes out more pleadingly but has the same result. Jesper just grins and ducks his head again.

[kisuminight]

c!George and c!Dream have a bond that lets them feel each other's emotions. It is not a fix-it solution.

~

There is a bitter ember is George’s resonance with Dream. There has been for a while. It started as a small thing, back when Tommy first joined the server. But it grew and grew, until it was a bonfire that George could feel in the center of his chest, winding out from his lungs and strangling his throat like the thorns of a creeping rose.

Dream never named it, but George could guess. It was obvious, from the way it might flicker and wane but always, always flared up again whenever George tried to rely on him these days. First when Tommy burned down his house. And again, when the Badlands attempted their assassination. It’s been an acrid coating on his tongue, worse than brewing potions with spider eyes, since Technoblade… well, since Technoblade.

(George isn’t jealous about him. Isn’t jealous of the way Dream had been excited when Technoblade first arrived on the server, and admiration clicked and fizzed like redstone, even as the bitterness swallowed his appetite and choked at his breath).

The ember has grown into a proper inferno now, like the constant hissing of lava roaring in his ears. It’s hard to hear what Quackity is saying, but the resonance is winding tighter about him because Dream is coming. Dream is coming, and today George is going to demand answers.

-

“Just say you hate me.”

-

Sapnap is dragging George away, away to Mexican L’Manberg. There’s enough lava to drown the whole Nether, a conflagration that could swallow the whole server is burning him from the inside out and he is gasping around the feeling of thorns tearing him apart from the inside. Is this what it feels to swallow a wither rose?

“I don’t—how could he do that? George, let’s go. George—shit, George!”

Sapnap is there. His hands are on George’s arms. George can’t feel it through the armor. Just a bit of pressure as his whole world shakes apart around him. It’s painful, and George can’t breathe. The world is in and out and he can barely make out that they are out of the castle. There are grass blocks underfoot and no walls to lean on.

“C’mon, breathe with me. In one, two, three, four—” Sapnap’s voice curled about his ears, rhythmic and worried. It helped, a little. Gave George enough stability to sooth his own reactions until he could manage something more than panting sobs.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Shut up, George. Keep breathing.”

“I’m fine. What is this?”

Sapnap’s hands squeezed, keeping George from pulling away. He looked worried, the corners of his eyes crinkled and uncharacteristically soft. “It’s a panic attack, George.” The corners of his mouth dragged down. “Of course the first one you’ve had was caused by Dream.”

“No? It’s not my panic attack?” The pain ebbed as the heat did. It didn’t quite die back down to an ember, but the bitterness receded into something more sour, as the roses in George’s throat wilting into something easier to breathe around.

“Really?” Ugh. Sapnap made a face, and George made a face right back. “Okay, sure. Let’s just get to Mexican L’Manberg.” He turned away, but kept one hand tight around George’s wrist to pull him along.

“You are ridiculous,” George told his back, pretending that the sun wasn’t drying his cheeks into a sticky mess. He used his free hand to rub at his goggles. He tugged at the tangle of emotions in the resonance, feeling it spool out as they got farther away from Dream.

Whatever. It didn’t matter that the wilting had turned into the same soupy-bog in his lungs as when Sapnap killed Spirit. George didn’t care about the return of the almost-pneumonia of grief that settled like a fever and made Dream uninterested in the world for days or even taking care of himself. Maybe Dream would feel George’s fury like a fire in turn, and come apologize to bank it.

Tomorrow, probably, because he was so busy with Eret today. Tomorrow, George could get his answers. Demand what Dream was even thinking, and why he was even being this dumb when it made all this wrongness curl about him like a miasma and twist the emotional bleed into something dark.

Dream didn’t come home that night. Or the next. Tomorrow stretched on into the taught, painful pull of a distant resonance, like barbed wire strung between their hearts.

[superfluffychickens]

Sorry about the lack of posts again, we’re in a humid heatwave that’s unusual for this area, so my brain and body feel like molasses even inside - where my little air conditioner is struggling. One or even a couple days of 90+ weather is normal, but it’s been nearly two weeks of it and I’m struggling.

So I can’t bear to be outside for longer than necessary, although I keep a close eye on the chickens with my baby monitor. They’re all hanging in there, although they’re not particularly enthused about it. I made them frozen “cakes” made from chicken feed and treats mixed with enough water to make it soupy, I’ll give them to the birds later today and I hope it’ll help keep them cool and entertained. And once it cools down I’ve saved up enough money for an expansion for their run, to give them all some more room to be outside.

I haven’t been able to let them out of their run for a long while, since I’ve been so busy with the chicks and then with the doggo, but I hope to start doing that again once I can be outside to watch them for more than a couple minutes at a time. I feel bad about that, especially for the little ones who have never even touched grass before, but they will eventually. It’s such a hassle getting them all back inside the run, and I just can’t stay up late enough to wait for them to go in on their own in the summertime. I’m just venting now, I’m crabby from the heat and stressed out about other stuff.

I have a hearing for my SSI claim which was denied, and I’m in the process of trying to find a lawyer. I’ve never had to do anything like that before and it’s extremely stressful, I’m terrified of talking on the phone and I’ve already been rejected by lawyers several times, the one I’m talking to now hasn’t agreed to take my case yet because he says it’ll be a difficult one and he needs more medical info from the doctor I’m seeing next week. So I’m also terrified that the doctor, who I’ve never met before, won’t be willing or able to give enough evidence, doctors are so fickle. I needed to get that off my chest but I can’t keep thinking about it anymore or I’ll get too worked up about it.

So yeah. That’s the life update, sorry for lack of chick pics.

[callmebliss]

I need to learn how to be slow.

My brain is full of gofastspeedyfast and so I make my body do the same. I think multiple thoughts at the same time and I do at least two things at once.

I operate my Being unsustainably and then I am cruel to myself when I fall, in my body or in my brain.

I am trying to learn kindness to Self, patience with Self. I am trying to learn grace.

But still I wake up today, a holiday, after sleeping for 11 hours because I did not set an alarm because holiday, because I had such a dearth of rest for the last idk how many days. I stay up late, even though I wake up early, telling myself it is so I have a little time to do things for me.

If you ask me what I did for me in that time, I cannot answer. Scrolled websites, mostly.

I wake up and I wake my Youngest who needs to be driven to Other Parent’s house and I am full of Wake Up and of Let’s Get Moving and of Did You Pack Let’s Pack I’ll Help You Pack and of Let’s Go Go Gooooo

“Mom, how would you like your eggs? I’m going to make us eggs.”

I am sitting on a tiny padded stool by the table while the child moves at a measured pace through the process of making spiced eggs, singing along to Soupy Garbage Juice songs playing out of the switch. There is an unhurried calm to this human’s movements and task that I envy. I yearn for it.

I know I’m still failing at Slow Being. But I can feel the sweet pull of it. Maybe I can get there.

I mustn’t rush it.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Ocean View

Fandom: Superfam, Batfam, DC Comics

Summary: A pair of shoes, a fragmented memory, and a collection of newspaper clippings.

An empty box of cigarettes, a second phone, and a beach house with locked rooms.

Chapters: 7/?

Characters: Laney Kent, Jason Todd, Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Chris Kent, Tim Drake

Relationship(s): JayLaney, Clois

Additional Tags: No Powers AU, No Capes AU, Secret Identity, Social Media, Romance, Angst

Chapter Seven: First Shoot

Mom never slept through the night, so I wasn't surprised to see her in the kitchen when I got up to get a drink of water. She sat at her computer with a glass of wine. "Pinot?" I asked. She shook her head and invited me to sit down.

"Reisling," Mom whispered, "Get a glass." I nodded and got a wine glass, and she poured me a little.

I took a sip and ate a few crackers. "It's good," I whispered.

Mom pinched my cheek. "Why aren't you sleeping?" she asked. I twirled the glass.

"I usually wake up around this time. Wander for a little while, and then I go back to sleep... Mom, remember when I was little, and you would count the hairs on my head until I fell asleep?" I asked. She finished her glass of wine and nodded. I took a few more sips of wine and ate another handful of crackers.

After I finished my drink, she sat with me in my old bedroom, and I lay my head on her lap. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five," Mom counted in a gentle whisper. She usually didn't have to count any higher than one-twenty before I fell asleep.

I woke up to Kit shaking me awake. "Hm? What's the matter?" I asked as I rolled onto my side. He had this look on his face as if he'd made a huge mistake of some sort. "We can fix it." He didn't say anything. Kit just stood over me, hyperventilating in the dark. "Christopher?"

"I had a dream that you—." His voice broke, and he started to cry. "And I couldn't—. I didn't get to say goodbye."

I rolled out of bed and embraced him. "It's okay. I'm right here," I reassured him, "What time is it?"

"Huh?" Kit mumbled as he wiped his tears away. I checked my phone.

"I'll make you some eggs and peanut butter toast," I offered, "Come on. Let's go." I took him to the kitchen and made him some scrambled eggs. He was silent until I made his plate. We sat across from each other, sharing a plate of eggs.

"I'm sorry. It just—. It felt—."

"It felt real. I understand," I interrupted. Mom came to the kitchen, and I gestured for her to stay out of sight with my eyes. "Don't ever feel like you have to worry about me. I'm alright. I may mess up sometimes, but I'm gonna be just fine, Kit."

He didn't say anything. "Dad's the only one in this family who gets any sleep," I whispered, "Betcha, he still snores. Good old bear snores." I imitated Dad's snores, and Kit smiled.

I smiled and nodded, and Mom made herself known. She started some coffee and kissed the tops of our heads. "I gotta go follow up on a lead. Eggs, please," Mom whispered. I gave her a spoonful of eggs from my spoon. "Thanks, sweetheart. I love you, boys."

"Love you, Mom," we both replied in unison.

Dad woke up a little while after that, and we sat with him watching old home movies. I fell asleep with my head tilted back, only waking up to the sound of my phone ringing. I went back to my old room and answered it. "Hi, handsome," I whispered.

"Hi, I was wondering if you still wanted to hang out today?" Jason asked. I smiled and tapped one finger to my lip. I wanted him to think that I had to consider it. "We can reschedule, but I just-. I wanted to see you."

"Meet me at my place in an hour. Wear something romantic, okay?" I whispered.

"Hey, Lane, will you—? We haven't talked about—."

"I'd love to talk about the other night... Just not here, because I stayed the night at my parents'. But I'd like to do more than just talk about it later," I whispered. I closed my eyes and thought about how he made me feel. "I'll buy lunch."

"Can we get a soupy something?" Jason asked. I flopped back down on my bed. "Lane?"

"I'll see you very soon... And you can have whatever you want," I whispered, "One hour." We hung up, and I hopped in the shower.

I gelled my hair back, and I buttoned up my shirt. Kit knocked on my door, and I let him in. "Are you leaving?" Kit asked. I nodded.

"I wasn't gonna leave without saying goodbye. Come here," I whispered. Kit hugged me. "Are you staying here, or do you want a ride to the skate park?"

I could see on his face that he wanted to say yes, but he was hesitant. "It's okay. Maybe some other time," Chris whispered. I nodded.

"Yeah, that's fine. I'll see you soon," I replied. I said goodbye to Dad on my way out, and I drove back to my apartment. I tidied up and made a sandwich before setting up the living room for our third date.

My phone rang. "Are you at the door?" I asked.

"I am," Jason answered.

I hung up the phone and let him in. He looked so handsome. He wore a peasant blouse and jeans, and he looked more like a soft watercolor painting than a person. His cheeks were still rosy from being outside. I kissed him. I ran to get my camera. "I didn't know that you were serious about wanting to take my picture... It looks like a real studio in here," Jason stated. I grabbed my camera from my bedroom, and I grabbed his hand and led him to where I needed him. "You look so serious."

"You look beautiful," I replied as I positioned him the way I wanted. I wanted it to be flawless. He was a perfect model. It was like Jason knew what faces to make and how to find the light. "Jason, you wanted to talk about the other night, right?"

Jason furrowed his brows and grabbed my wrist. "Not while you're hiding behind your camera," Jason whispered. I set my camera aside and sat across from him. "I like having sex with you. I think we're a good match for each other."

It sounded as if he were about to make a business proposal. My face warmed up. "And what do you propose? More sex?" I joked. Jason chuckled.

"I'd like that, yeah... But I mean, is that all there is or are we eventually gonna—?"

"We're dating, but I wouldn't use the word boyfriend for another two weeks tops... But you're the first person I've even considered in that capacity," I explained, "For now, can we see how things go?"

"Okay," Jason whispered, "Do you want me to take my clothes off now?" We both laughed. It was a cute joke.

"Fourth date, maybe," I whispered. He played with my fingers and kissed each one. He kept eye contact with me while he did it. I took his hand and did the same before sucking on his fingers.

"Lane, no. Not now, okay? I don't want to have sex. I just-. I want you," Jason whispered, "I want to enjoy you."

That was it. That was all he had to say to get me. At that moment, I fell head over heels for Jason Todd-Wayne.