#people's lovely ficlets

[steddieme]

eddie: would you rather be a ghost or a zombie?

steve: neither

eddie: that's not an option

steve: why not?

eddie: because i said so

steve: oh, so now you're suddenly on board with conformity?

eddie: what are you talking about

steve: you're trying to push me into these boxes, denying my freedom to be who i want to be

eddie: why are you like this

steve: this is literally what bie-erasure is like, eddie

eddie: how is it that everytime we talk about this shit with robin you're dead silent, but you're suddenly an activist when it's time to annoy me?

—

steve, at night, right as eddie is about to fall asleep: i'd choose ghost, by the way

eddie: *springs up and tickles him until he's literally in tears*

[plistommy]

Steve’s known to be very good at charming girls.

He’s used to making them blush and giggle at his sweet words. Used to them giving him the bedroom eyes as their delicate hands slowly moved up his arm, squeezing the muscle there while begging for him to take them to his room and fuck them.

He never left them unsatisfied.

So, it wasn’t any different when he used the same technique on Eddie.

They had been sitting on his couch, a movie playing in the background when Steve had finally made the first move after months of them tiptoeing around each other and their feelings.

He’d made the older boy laugh at his dumb jokes before he had scooted closer, slowly moving his arm to rest on the back of the couch, very close to the Eddie’s shoulder and then… he had leaned in.

And Eddie had responded so well.

He kissed Steve back with the same type of desperation, arms finding their way around Steve’s waist and Steve felt like he was buzzing with excitement as he deepened the kiss, softly caressing the back of Eddie’s neck.

”Let’s go upstairs,” He had said, voice deep and low and it had made Eddie moan.

When they got to his room, Steve was all but ready to push Eddie to his bed and make him stay there looking all pretty while Steve did all the work.

But instead, he felt Eddie pushing him towards the bed and soon he was the one laying there, big brown eyes looking up as Eddie came to lay between his spread legs with a wide grin. He grinded down on him, making their clothed dicks brush against each other and Steve let out a soft moan out of surprise.

It was a total switch up from the nervous Eddie from earlier and it had made Steve feel many, many things as the older boy started to kiss his neck.

Steve had to bite back a moan when he had licked his pulse, but Eddie wasn’t having any of that, apparently.

”C’mon, let me hear the real you, sweetheart.”

Steve hadn’t known what he had meant by that. Wasn’t this the real him?

When he has had sex before, he’d always focus on his partner and their pleasure over his as he’d try to make them as loud as possible when they cum. That’s what he does and what he loves.

But once Eddie was cock deep inside Steve’s tight heat, holding onto him and praising him of being such a good boy and the most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid his eyes on, Steve couldn’t help the way he whined.

Couldn’t help how he moaned with every thrust his lover was giving him. How he begged for more as he held onto Eddie’s shoulders and cried when Eddie answered to his pleas and fucked him harder.

How he came untouched for the very first time.

After that, when they were laying in his bed, both sweaty and panting from the sex, Steve realized he’d been so so wrong about himself and the sex he loved.

It made him a little irritated how much he had held back his own pleasure.

So, it hadn’t taken long until he was already up for a second round, riding Eddie with earnestness as he took control of the pace this time, listening to his own body and the things it liked. The things it needed.

Which was the way Eddie’s dick felt inside him. How full it made him feel and how it always hit that spot inside him that made his whole body tingle.

Yeah.

Steve was never coming back from this.

[morganbritton132]

I’m thinking about Steve’s mom in the context of this AU I’m (apparently) creating where Steve is the affair baby that broke up his much older half-siblings’ family.

Put yourself in the shoes that his mother would’ve been in. You’re nineteen. You have no education and you’re working your first real job. You start an affair with your boss - who is the father of the friend that got you the job - because you’re young and you think you’re in love, and you don’t think of the consequences.

Suddenly, you’re pregnant and he’s leaving his wife for you, and you still think you’re in love so you follow his lead. You’re nasty to his first wife because he is and you’re insecure because she nothing but nice to you. Her children hate you but Richard says that they’ll get over it so you believe him. They never do.

Then you’re married and you have access to more money than you’ve ever had in your life, and you’re in love. And you’re a mother. He sleeps through your delivery but everything is okay when you hold your little boy.

You know that things have changed now. That you’ll do everything in your power to make sure this little boy makes it in the big scary world. You promise yourself that you’ll do anything for him.

The baby cries, and you cry, and you thought things would be different and that you’d know what to do, but you really don’t. You don’t feel a connection with your baby beyond wanting to protect him, and you hate this. You hate being a mother. You hate this constant failing.

Richard is never home. He still works long hours but you’re no longer at the office with him. He seems completely disinterested in being a father and less interested in you playing mother, and you’re not stupid.

You know he left his wife for a younger, more attractive woman. You know he fell in love with you because you’re passionate, you’re fun, and you haven’t been that in a while.

You stood smug and happy by his side while he tried to take everything in the divorce, and you know his first wife has more money and influence than you. You know she has lawyers and you don’t. You don’t know what happens to you if he wants a newer model. You don’t know what happens to your son but you think he’ll try to take him from you.

Richard doesn’t want to be married to a mother, so you stop being one. You have to for the marriage to survive and it feels like guilt to be relieved by that. You’re not his secretary anymore, but his assistant. You travel with him and you join the right committees. You join the walking club and you shed the last of the baby weight, and he loves more than he ever has.

And you’re happy but you’re not in love.

It was too easy to pass motherhood onto Richard’s daughter, onto the nanny. It was easy to sidestep into the role of ‘friend,’ so you befriend your son.

Not a close friend. Not in any way that would make Richard feel like he wasn’t your world, but you’re there. You know the drama currently happening on the basketball team but not that your baby is failing English. You go on spa dates and make a whole day out of getting your hair cut together, but you don’t discipline him. Richard does that.

Then one day, you come home from the Poconos and your son has bruises on his face and bandages on his fingers, and a haunted vacant look in his eyes. He job was a pile of burning rubble when you drove into town. You asks what happened and if he’s alright, and he’s gives you the same smile you’ve been wearing for years, “Everything’s great, ma.”

[natalievoncatte]

“Open your eyes and look at what you did.”

Lena was tired. Fixing the world was heavy work, especially when it involved cracking the secrets of the ultimate weapon of a dead empire. Myriad was tucked away safely in her lab behind shielding and laser grids and the most advanced security systems in the world, but was most of all protected by Kara’s reputation. Supergirl couldn’t just smash her way into a building and steal something, especially not now, with so much public scrutiny against her.

Lena was expecting a night at home. Not to relax -she hasn’t relaxed until her brother’s wormy lips, turning blue in death, spilled those four little words and cracked her heart in half, broke it into so many pieces that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and not even Supergirl could put it together again. What was left of her capacity for that kind of love was gone now. Lex had started the process of ripping it out.

Lena has finished it, casting the bloody shreds on the icy floor of a mausoleum in the arctic, not turning back even once to see.

She knew the DEO was watching her every move, waiting for her to make a mistake that she could seize on. She knew they were itching to take her out. Kara would probably lead the charge herself. She’d crow about how she didn’t want to do this and didn’t want to hurt Lena and then she’d perp walk her like a villain of the week.

It wasn’t remorse that swirled in her stomach. It wasn’t regret that iced her veins. It wasn’t sorrow that made her eyes burn, and it wasn’t doubt that made the clicks of her heels echo in her empty lifeless penthouse.

She did not feel any of those things. Soon, no one ever would again. A world without lies, without strife, without pain. Those twisting, burning emotions would be gone. For everyone.

For her.

Lena froze when she heard the soft click of a hammer being thumbed back on a pistol.

“Turn around.”

Lena tensed. Alex. She should have expected this- Alex didn’t care about the rules when it came to her sister.

Slowly, Lena turned. Alex was right behind her, gun in one hand, phone in the other. She started to play a video on the screen. Lena recognized it at once as the Fortress of Solitude.

“Why?” Alex choked out. “Why did it have to be you?”

Lena pressed her eyes shut, scrambling for something to say. There was a real chance that this confrontation ended with her in a pool of blood on the floor.

“Open your eyes, you bitch! Open your eyes and look at what you did!”

Lena opened them and was confronted with what she had refused to see before, what she had turned from before portalling out. Like a biblical prophet she knew that if she but turned back for a last look she’d have been undone.

Alex recorded Kara locked in the cage as she approached, calling her sister’s name. Kara didn’t respond. She simply lay curled on the floor, faint green scratches scored in her exposed skin. As Alex drew nearer, Lena could hear Kara making a peculiar sound- a rhythmic, trilling thrum, a deep basso rumble as if she were… purring.

And sobbing.

Lena tried to look away but Alex’s expression tightened. Lena forced herself to stare into the screen- the picture blurred as Alex must have been fumbling with the Kryptonian controls. Finally, the crystal cage retracted.

“Kara,” Alex was saying. “Kara, oh my god, where’s Lena? Is she alright?”

Lena flinched. Alex’s jaw tightened as their eye briefly met.

Kara’s face was a mask of pain and grief, clouded with an agony deeper than any physical hurt.

“It was Lena.”

“What?”

“It was Lena. She took Myriad from the armory and she… she was so mad, Alex. It was like she h-hated me. She was lying the whole time after I told her who I was, she already knew and she was so mad. Alex I think she hates me now.”

Kara began to sob and make that damned purring sound at the same time.

“Don’t hurt her,” Kara whimpered, “don’t hurt her, Alex. She’s good, I promise she’s good she just needs our help.”

Alex turned off the video and pressed the muzzle of her gun to Lena’s forehead.

Lena closed her eyes.

“I have every reason to,” Alex began.

“Do it,” Lena hissed. “It’s what we both want, just fucking do it. She’ll get over it.”

“No,” Alex choked out, her voice drowning in emotion. “No she won’t, ever. She has an eidetic memory. If I blow your fucking head off like I should, her last memory of you will be that, what you did to her in her most sacred place, forever.”

“Good,” Lena snapped, opening her eyes. “Good. Then she’ll know how I feel.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Like she tore my heart out. I believed in her. I gave myself to her in a way I never have for anyone else. I let her in after I swore on my mother’s grave I’d never let anyone else hurt me like… like someone else did. She hammered her way into my life with her kindness and her concern and her comfort and it was all a FUCKING LIE, Alex!”

Lena sucked in a hitching breath and went on, forcing herself to go on as she blinked to force the tears from her eyes.

“It was all a lie. I’m just a Luthor to her, to you, to all of you. I sat in that apartment on game nights and movie nights and you all knew. You all knew, and you mocked me. So many cryptic comments and weird little jokes and now I know why. I let myself believe it. I let myself believe she wanted me. She kept trying to tell me something over and over and she kept backing away from it and…”

Lena froze.

The gun fell away, and Alex just stared at her.

“Oh my God. Oh my fucking God,” Alex gasped.

“No,” Lena protested, “no it’s not that!”

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Holy fuck, how did I not see this before? You bought a billion dollar publishing company on a whim for her. The flowers, the way you looked at me before she told you I’m her sister. Jesus. Jesus Christ, Lena. You God damn drama queen.”

“I’m a drama queen? You pointed a gun at my head!”

Alex racked the slide back, and turned the weapon so Lena could see the follower of the empty magazine had locked it open. It was unloaded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Lena screeched.

“I came here to tell you to give me Myriad back and stay the hell away from my sister,” said Alex.

“You pointed a real gun at my head! I don’t care if it was unloaded, the first rule of gun safety is…”

“You thought it was something else,” said Alex.

“God damn it,” Lena began, but Alex cut her off.

“You thought she was working up to tell you something else. You thought she was going to confess her love, didn’t you?”

Lena went completely still.

She had know it, of course. She had known it the way that she knew the sun would rise in the east and set in the west, the way way she knew the stars would shine and the tide would beat against the shore. She had known it in the hollows of her bones, in places she forgot she could feel.

She had not known she knew it.

Lex’s words buffeted her from memory and she felt a knew shattering, even deeper this time.

“I fucked up,” someone said, only it was Lena, her own voice echoing from somewhere far distant. She was only dimly aware of the painful jolt in her tailbone as she slid down the cabinet behind her and her ass landed on the hardwood floor.

“When Lex told me, he proved it. He proved it. I didn’t want to see it but he proved it to me. I’m not what she wants. She’ll never want me like I want her.”

Alex looked down at her and Lena watched her expression shift, dancing through a dozen different emotions.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You have anything to drink here? Something good, I don’t want to pussy around with box wine. This is a whiskey occasion.”

Perplexed, Lena simply said, “Side cupboard, there’s a bottle of single malt and some tumblers.”

Alex didn’t bother with the glasses. She took out the bottle and uncapped it, whistling softly before she took a long pull straight from the bottle.

“Smooth,” she said, not even wincing. “Shit, this bottle probably costs a month of my rent.”

“It was my dad’s favorite,” Lena muttered. “My first drink was that scotch. He gave me a little sip when I was twelve. Lillian screeched at him for it.”

“She would, she’s a thundering bitch,” said Alex.

Alex sat down and passed Lena the bottle. She took a drink and passed it back, and they sat there in silence for a while, passing drinks back and forth.

“See I’m not a shrink or anything,” said Alex, “but if I had to analyze this situation I think what I see is you hurting Kara hoping that she’ll hurt you back and validate your feelings so you can stop feeling sad about her.”

“Fuck you,” Lena muttered.

“Not my type. Besides, bro code. My sister has dibs.”

Lena almost spat out a mouthful of scotch. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know when she’s doing the zoom zoom thing, she has a comms piece in her ear. I listen in on what she’s doing,” Alex began to imitate Kara in a grating falsetto. “Lena you have to jump!”

“What?”

“Remember that time she was going to let the entire city’s water supply be poisoned to save you?”

Lena took another pull before passing the bottle back.

“Yeah,” said Lena, not caring that her Irish accent was slipping out.

“Or that time she flew you to the DEO after Edge poisoned you?”

“She saves people all the time,” Lena protested.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t bridal carry them to safety and moon over them like a lovesick teenager and do the whole brushing their hair back thing. She says something corny and flies off. Unless it’s you. The whole world goes on pause when it’s you.”

“It can’t be.”

Alex took a way too long drink and looked at her.

“Did it never occur to you that she might have two secrets? That the one might compel her to keep the other?”

Lena rubbed at her eyes. The whisky was weighing heavily on her, and before she knew it, she was sobbing.

To her utter shock, Alex rubbed her back.

“Here’s what we do. You and me go get Myriad,”

“I’m too drunk to drive.”

“Then call your chauffeur, you spoiled rich brat,” Alex snapped, “and we go get Myriad and we go back to the DEO. You apologize and you and Kara talk this out, and you remember that if you ever physically harm my sister again I actually will shoot you.”

“Also,” said Lena. “You and I. You and I will go get Myriad, not you and me.”

Lena yanked the bottle back and finished it.

“Okay. Okay fine, let’s-“

There was a double thud as boot heels hit the balcony, a sound Lena had long grown used to. She and Alex both watched as Kara slid the balcony door open and swept into the penthouse, cape flaring majestically behind her.

God she was so pretty, and so handsome. She was like a brave knight in some fairytale, head bowed and jaw set like she was marching to a battle she wasn’t sure she could win.

Lena’s chest ached.

“We need to talk,” Kara intoned. “I’m not going to hurt you anymore, but I can’t let you do something you’ll regret forever. I…”

She trailed off as she saw a very drunk Alex sitting next to a very drunk Lena Luthor, the pair sitting against Lena’s kitchen cabinets and dishwasher, respectively, having clearly finished off the empty bottle of scotch that sat between them.

“What the hell?” said Kara.

“Did she just cuss?” said Alex.

“She did,” said Lena.

“What is this? What are you two doing? Alex, is that your gun?”

“Yeah,” said Alex. “I’m gonna get an Uber so you two can talk this out.”

“What?” Kara said, utterly baffled.

As she stood, Lena drew her legs up and hugged her knees. She looked away at first, then looked up and made herself meet Kara’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

With a tenderness that belied her strength, Kara gently raised Lena to her feet. She’d kicked off her heels and Kara loomed over her, soft hands that could crush steel resting gently on her arms. Lena couldn’t bear the weight of her concern. Seeing the worry in Kara’s eyes, the unconditional compassion, hurt her as much as staring into the sun.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” said Kara. “I’m the one who should apologize. You were right, Lena. I forced myself into your life and pushed past all your barriers but I never lowered mine. I tried to live in your heart but made you live like a guest in mine. You deserve better.”

“I don’t want better,” Lena whispered. “I want you.”

Kara went very still.

“You want me?”

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Kara.”

Kara took a half step forward and pulled Lena into an embrace, guiding her into a hug. As those arms like stone walls curled around her and the cape sheltered her against Kara’s unnatural, fever-hot warmth, Lena choked back a hitching sob. It almost felt like it would be okay.

“It’s alright,” Kara whispered. “It’ll be okay. We can come back from this.”

“How? I hurt you, Kara.”

“I forgive you.”

“You can’t just-“

“Shhh,” Kara nuzzled against the crown of Lena’s head. “I’m Supergirl. I can do anything.”

[skribbledarker]

Back on my bs with another Zosan brainworm…. post Skypiea feels

—

Sanji, after having his “I needed a light” moment and getting shocked head-on by Enel, gains big lichtenberg scars that never fade. They’re darker than his usual skin tone, spiraling down the back of his neck, the entire expanse of his back, then curling around his shoulders and hips.

he hates them. Sanji thinks they make him look diseased, or like Frankenstein, sort of.. He doesn’t think scars are bad or ugly, no. It’s just the way they look on him.

He goes to so many lengths to hide them from the rest of the crew; he takes showers after everyone else is asleep, and his short-sleeved shirts get pushed to the back of the closet.

Chopper’s the only one who’s seen them. well, until Zoro. Somewhere in between when they didn’t like each other and when they suddenly did, the swordsman catches Sanji late at night in the bathroom, shirtless and twisting around himself to look at his back in the mirror.

Somehow, they end up on the floor, Sanji sitting cross-legged on the tile, hunched over with red tipped ears as Zoro sits behind him, taking his time tracing the patterns over Sanj’s skin.

“Do they hurt?” Zoro asks, grazing a calloused thumb over the back of Sanji’s neck.

“Sometimes. they sting when it gets cold.”

Zoro doesn’t say anything for a long time. Sanji feels like a bug under a microscope, just sitting there, being inspected like this. He finds himself zoning out— he doesn’t want to be here right now. This is embarassing.

“I like them.”

“Huh?”

And then Zoro’s hands are smoothing over Sanji’s shoulders, warm and careful like he’s handling a blade. “What, you don’t? It looks badass.”

no, they really don’t. “No. It looks…stupid.” Ugly, is what Sanji wants to say, but he doesn’t. The word suddenly seems a little too crass for whatever’s going on right now.

“Do mine, then?” Zoro counters, and that’s different. Zoro wears his like a collection, each mark a record of battles he’s won and lost and a testament to the shit he’s survived. Sanji hasn’t ever been blemished like that, barring the faint lines on the bridge of his nose still barely visible after eleven years. The scars just look out of place on him. Like they aren’t supposed to be there.

“No, no.” Sanji shakes his head. “Yours are— are badass.”

Zoro pauses again. “They look like vines.”

“Oh, so i’m sprouting greenery like you, now?”

That gets an exasperated huff out of Zoro, and Sanji can feel breath fanning over the back of his neck. “Stop, ‘m serious.”

It’s frightening, kind of, being laid bare under the watchful eye of someone else like this. Sanji can’t even see Zoro (well, besides his hands), but it’s almost like he can— the weight of his gaze falls heavy on Sanji’s back.

“Of course you are.”

A chill slides up Sanji’s spine when Zoro’s hands slide down to his waist, thumbing at the spots where the scars encroach onto his stomach. “ ‘s Pretty.”

Sanji’s throat suddenly feels dry, because the admission of pretty feels less like a descriptor of the lightning bolts spiraling down his back and more about him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought I’d hear you call something ‘pretty,’ you brute.”

“Maybe you needed to.”

Maybe you needed to. Fuck, Maybe Sanji did.

—

gughhhh this was supposed to be a little drabble but got out of hand so fucking quickly??1!1?1?

anyways i want to shoot both of them dead lololololol

i also love projecting my self-image issues onto Sanji…. my blorbo AHHH

[rosyhoneydew]

It happens often enough that it starts to get under his skin.

He and Tommy try to make it out to a date night at least once a week; as frequently as they can, with their schedules, but Buck doesn’t really notice it until the night they go to the Dodgers game. It was a Monday night so the crowd wasn’t too big, and the two of them had the night off. They’d Ubered over to the stadium, grabbed some foil wrapped hotdogs and made their way to their seats. He’s a tactile guy, so they hold hands as much as possible on the way in, and when they sit Buck slings an arm around Tommy, relishes the way Tommy leans into him.

There’d been a woman in the seat next to Tommy. She was pretty, and Buck kept noticing the way her eyes flicked to them, no to Tommy, throughout the game, a blush dusting her cheeks. She likes him, he realized. She wants to make a move on him.

It didn’t really make him jealous surprisingly, but it did make something else burn in his chest. Irritation, maybe. Because he’s not sure how much more obviously together they could’ve been, short of sticking his tongue down his boyfriend’s throat. But when she turned to Tommy and started up a conversation - are you a local? Oh maybe you could show me around sometime! - she looked genuinely shocked, almost admonished, when Tommy had replied, well my boyfriend here is usually the better tour guide.

“Oh I’m so sorry I didn’t realize you were together!”

Then he thought about the last time they went to Nobu, and the aquarium, and grocery shopping at Sprouts.

Will anyone else be joining you gentlemen?

Do you want us to take your photo? Are your girlfriends around?

Here’s my number, a flirtatious hand on Buck’s arm.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a big deal. But it grates on Buck’s nerves, the way they have to keep correcting people. When they started dating, he’d readied himself for whatever kind of reaction the public could have to the two of them (they’re in LA, but he knew Tommy had had not so pleasant interactions even here). He hadn’t anticipated that others might not perceive them as a couple at all.

He pouted about it that night, and Tommy smiled sweetly at Buck and reassured him it’s okay. And it is. There are so many other problems they could be worried about. It’s just that Tommy is sweet and hot and Buck wants everyone to know he’s his.

It’s what makes their next trip so perfect. They get a room at a B&B in Provincetown and spend a long weekend on the coast.

It’s like being in another world.

You two are such a lovely couple!

How long have you been together?

Would you two like to see our spa offerings? We have couples massages!

Buck cheerfully jumps in, overeager and so thrilled to gush about their relationship to anyone who asks. He must tell the story of how they met 50 different times throughout the weekend.

Tommy, for his part, smiles while Buck chats away, a light blush on the tops of his cheeks, and a hand on Buck’s thigh.

They leave on a Monday, but the floaty, fluttery feeling the weekend leaves them with lasts much longer than the trip.

[cuubism]

I REALLLLLLLLLLLLLYYYY LOVE YOUR BELOVED PROFESSOR DREAM FIC!!!!!!!! PEOPLE TEND TO FORGET THAT!!! EVEN IN CANON!!!! HES FULL OF LOVE!!!! AND PASSION!!! AND HE CARES SO MUCH IT LITERALLY DOOMS HIM!!!!! AND IF ONLY HES BEING GIVEN A MUCH MORE KINDER CIRCUMSTANCES!! HE WOULD BEHAVES EXACTLY LIKE YOUR FIC!!! I FEEL SO CRAZT!!!! PLEASE NEVER DIE I LOVE YPUR WORKS SO MUCH!!!

I've grown quite fond of him myself 🥺 @five-and-dimes and I discussed him at length and created more lore for him. It was determined that Dream's earnest whimsy probably got him bullied a lot when he was younger. Not since he met Hob though.... it's probably a coincidence 🤷‍♀️ surely everyone just realized the error of their ways and decided to grow up and be kinder! Dream knew it would happen some day :)

-

Dream is still reeling as he reaches the cafe where he's meant to get afternoon coffee with Hob. He feels a bit shaky, but happy. Joyful. In disbelief.

When Cori had cornered him after class, Dream had been sure he was going to shove him up against a wall, or throw his books on the ground, or any of the other number of things he seemed to get satisfaction out of doing. He'd clutched his books tight, bracing himself.

Instead, Cori had, with halting, uncomfortable words, apologized to him. Actually apologized! Dream had been wary at first, sure it was just another way to hurt his feelings--he's been called gullible many times and he knows there's truth to it--but Cori hadn't taken it back, or suddenly turned on him again like he had every other time Dream had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed genuine.

It was what Dream had always wanted, what he had always hoped for, so decided to take it and just pray that Cori wouldn't change his mind again in the future. Or trip him as he walked away.

He didn't, though. And as Dream left to walk to his next class, he couldn't help but feel victorious. He knew he would get through to him eventually! He'd always known that eventually people would grow out of their juvenile pranks and learn to treat others better. And finally it was starting to happen.

None of the other usual suspects bothered him that day, either. Nobody tried to trip him, or snickered when he said something overly sentimental in class. It was like overnight the world had woken up and decided to better itself. It was magical.

So he's still shaking a bit when he sits down across from Hob, who's already gotten him his mocha latte. When he doesn't say anything at first, just takes several long sips of his drink, Hob nudges his leg under the table.

"Everything alright?"

"Cori," Dream says, "apologized to me."

He must have milk foam on his lip, for Hob reaches across the table to wipe it away with his thumb, lingering on the corner of Dream's mouth. "Did he?"

Dream nods. "It- it did not seem to be a joke. Hob, I think he actually learned."

Hob smiles sweetly. "That's great, honey."

"Nobody tripped me today," Dream muses. "Or made fun of what I said in class. I cannot believe it. I knew that eventually people would grow up and learn how to treat others kindly, but it's startling to see it happen in real time."

"They must have learned from your example," Hob says. He takes Dream's hand on the table and starts playing idly with his fingers. Hob is very touchy-feely with him, always holding his hand, or playing with his fingers like they're a fidget toy, or petting his hair while they're lying in bed together. Dream found it strange at first. He was used to others he had attempted to date wanting to rough him up a little. When he questioned it, they would say, with a laugh, you're just too sheltered. Dream didn't think he was, particularly, he just didn't understand wanting to push someone around. At least not without finding out if they even liked it.

When Dream mentioned it, Hob had said, with a grimace, that Dream's kindness could be misinterpreted as innocence, and it made people want to 'corrupt him.' Dream didn't get it, but there were a lot of things he 'didn't get', at least according to other people. In any case, Hob didn't do that, because he knew Dream didn't like it, so Dream is content now. And he has Hob to at least attempt to interpret other people's odd behavior for him.

"I hope it sticks," he says, worriedly. "I would hate for Cori and the others to backslide now that they're finally making progress."

"Oh, don't worry," Hob says, bringing Dream's hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles. He looks at Dream over their joined hands, gaze absolutely sure, a look that never fails to make Dream shiver pleasantly when it's directed at him. "I think it'll stick."

[caramelpenguin]

i was RIGHT FKCN THERE when it happened so i had to...

The roar of the crowd swells suddenly, voices rising in a chaotic crescendo. Jaws drop, hands shoot up, and a sea of phones fills the air, screens capturing the moment unfolding onstage. But Simon remains lost in the song he wrote twelve years ago, a melody laced with the heartache of a boy longing for something just out of reach.

He doesn’t hear the quiet footsteps approaching. What he does feel is warmth—arms wrapping around his waist, strong and certain, a familiar chest pressing against his back. And for a moment, it's like stepping into a memory. Like home. Like the nights they curled into each other before sleep, seeking comfort in the silence. Like the time Wilhelm had asked if his fish had names, in the golden glow of his childhood room.

Simon exhales sharply, his grip on the microphone tightening. He had told himself he was fine. That the sleepless nights, the endless rehearsals, the way he reached for someone in the dark only to find empty space—none of it hurt as much as it did the first time. But Wille is here, solid and real, and every moment apart crashes into him all at once. The missed calls, the whispered goodnights through a screen, needing someone who always felt just a little too far away.

He melts into the touch. His head tilts back, resting against Wille’s shoulder, and he feels the curve of a smile against his cheek. The urge to press a kiss somewhere—anywhere—burns through him, fierce and overwhelming. It’s been weeks since he’s seen him, held him, breathed him in. And now, with the weight of Wille’s presence anchoring him, it's as if no time has passed at all.

The venue has erupted into deafening screeches—Simon thinks he spots people crying—and he knows, without a doubt, that this moment will flood his social media from every possible angle. Amid the chaos, Simon barely registers the world beyond the warmth against his back.

"Sing, älskling," Wille whispers into his ear. A breathless laugh escapes Simon, his heart pounding so hard it might burst, and he nuzzles their cheeks together.

[the-broken-pen]

Hi! I love love LOVE your writing so much!!!❤️❤️(it’s the only thing sometimes that can help me reorient myself when life sucks)-

Idk if you’ve already written a work like this- but could you write about a villain who fakes being in a relationship with hero to get information. Hero absolutely loves them and thinks that they can finally be happy….but then Villain breaks their heart- while saying they never loved them and that it was all a lie.

and then later on Villain regrets it and realizes they are actually obsessed with hero and go full psycho?

The hero had spent their childhood watching as their parents fought viciously with one another. Slamming doors and breaking plates, and then sullen, withdrawn and nearly silent conversations illuminated only by the dying lamp in the corner of the living room. Whatever the hero’s parents had, it wasn’t love, and never would be. The hero had no way of knowing if it ever had been. 

And then the hero had watched as time after time, their sister loved someone with her whole heart and was left shattered on the hero’s doorstep at the end of it. Fairytales that ended with no happy ending, ripped up love notes and a hundred playlists made for people their sister could no longer bear to name out loud.

The hero had watched their entire family reach for love and fall flat every time, and had resigned themself to a fate of the kind of heartbreak you cannot escape. The kind that hangs over heads like a cloud and fogs mirrors.

And then–

The villain. The hero had met the villain, and the villain had smiled, and they thought maybe, just maybe, they had beaten the curse. That they were meant for the soft kind of love they had only imagined when they were young, before the pain of it got too great.

The hero had let the villain intertwine themself into the hero’s life, and they had thought they were okay. They had thought they had made it. 

Which was why, now, they couldn’t seem to make themself think anything sensical at all.

The villain settled the file in front of the hero gently, on the table they had picked out together with as much care as one was capable of. They almost, almost, looked like they regretted it, face soft and breakable.

The villain cleared their throat in the silence. “If you just read it–”

“What, can’t say it yourself?”

The villain stopped, swallowing. This was the first time in a very long time the hero had seen them look unsure.

The hero scoffed at them. “I know about Project Pegasus.”

The villain went very, very still. They looked down towards the folder.

“So then–”

“This?” the hero picked up the folder, waving it once. They tossed it onto the floor without looking. “I’ve already read it. Two weeks ago.” They stared at the villain, and did their best not to blink. “I just hoped it was fake.”

The hero wondered if maybe, this was what had happened to their parents. If they had spent all of that time fighting and hating one another and crying in darkened rooms just so they could spend the rest of it constantly reaching back towards one another. Pretending that the file wasn’t real. That the fights were nothing more than a blip in existence and not the roots of a rot so deep it would never be fully cut out of them. 

They had wondered about a lot of things, curled on the bathroom floor around that wretched file, but mostly they had wondered if they had always been meant to end up here. If this was what being doomed felt like. 

The villain blinked.

“You hoped it was fake.”

The hero felt a little like they couldn’t breathe. They sucked a shallow breath in through their nose anyways. 

“If you–” their voice broke. “If you were me, would you want to believe it?”

The villain’s shoulders, almost imperceptibly, slumped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yes,” the villain said, but in the space where they should have explained themself, where they should have said it was fake, and that they loved the hero more than anything, and that this little apartment meant everything to them–they said nothing.

“So, what,” the hero snapped, voice wet with barely held back tears. “You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean for me to fall in love with you? That this was an accident? That you’re sorry again? That you never meant to hurt me–”

“No,” the villain corrected gently. “You were always meant to fall in love with me.”

A tiny sob wormed its way out of the hero’s throat before they could stop themself, and they pressed their shaking fist to their mouth before anything else could follow, turning away.

“It was just about the information,” the villain said, and the hero shoved themself back from the table, just to get further away from the love of their life.

“You knew what you were doing,” the hero said bitterly. “You know me. You knew. You knew I would never be able to get over this, and you did it anyways–”

“It’s my job,” the villain protested, and it took the hero everything in them to remain standing. “It wasn’t personal.”

“You made yourself my world, you made yourself into my everything, you made me fall in love with you–”

“I never made you do anything.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that. This was your goal, wasn’t it? Own up to your accomplishments. Go on. Tell me how proud you are. Do it.”

“Hero.”

“I loved you,” the hero was screaming, maybe.

And there it was. Past tense.

Loved.

The villain stepped back like the hero had slapped them.

“Hero,” their voice was barely a whisper.

The hero picked up the file. Rifled through it once more.

“Hero–”

The hero held out the file. The villain didn’t take it, hands remaining limp at their side.

“Take it.” They gestured with the file. “Take it, and get out.”

The villain sucked in a breath.

“Hero,” the villain said again, uselessly. 

“Tell me you love me, then. Tell me you meant it.” They gestured to the file once more. “Tell me that this is the lie.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

The villain opened their mouth, and for a second, the hero hoped–

“I don’t love you.” 

The hero wished the villain had just killed them. 

“I never loved you. It was all a lie. A really, really pretty lie.”

The hero wanted to say something elegant to that. Something biting and vicious and jagged in the same way the inside of them felt right now. They wanted to say everything they had felt earlier, every thought that had cut them so that it could cut the villain too.

Instead, all they managed was a choked, “Get out.”

They threw the file at the villain.

The villain didn’t bother to catch it, letting it slam into their chest. It thudded against the floor, papers spilling out in a halo around the villain’s feet.

A part of them wanted the villain to argue further.

A part of them just wanted the villain dead.

“I’m sorry,” the villain said once more, and then they were gone.

The villain had known as soon as the hero had thrown that file that they wanted the villain dead. 

That they were more likely to claw their own bones apart than willingly reach for the villain’s hand again, and the logical part of their brain was viciously pleased about it.

It made this whole thing easier. No lingering attachments to further butcher. Just a field, burned so badly nothing would ever grow in it again, and god, wasn’t that convenient for their mission. 

A tiny, smothered part of their brain, however, wouldn’t stop screaming.

They drowned it.

But then the villain would catch themself glancing to their side in search of a smile. They would wait a beat too long after they said something, would wait for laughter, and then there would be none, and they would curse themself for it, and that little part of them would come gasping back to life and start screaming again.

Possibly it was that little part of them that had made them send a message to the hero, offering the apartment. It was the least they could do, right? Fuck up their life and then get the fuck out of it. 

But the texts had said delivered, but never read, and three days later when the villain used their key to open the lock, they found themself stepping into a mausoleum and not a home. 

They weren’t sure what they were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Dust hanging in the air. Blank squares left on the walls where pictures had once hung. Empty cabinets, empty floors, empty rooms; no, whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

For a reason they couldn’t name, they went from room to room, searching for something without quite understanding what. It wasn’t until they had come full circle back into the living room, fingers coated in dust and an aching chest, that the villain had realized. Ghosts. They were looking for ghosts. 

Because there was nothing better to describe the way they felt right now other than haunted. And if there was something, anything, of the hero left in here to burn, to destroy, to exorcise, they could use it as an excuse–

There was nothing left of the hero. There were no ghosts. This place was just dead.

The villain made a shuddering little sound, and slammed the front door closed behind them when they managed to stumble into the hallway. 

This was an easy mission, it was–

–two years and dates over ramen and houseplants–

–something even a new recruit could do–

–i love you’s in the dark and the scent of the hero on all of their clothes and–

–something the villain was trained for, countless hours spent–

–laughing and crying and rainy days and sunny ones–

–learning how to fake love, and somehow–

–the villain had forgotten it was fake.

The villain couldn’t breathe.

The villain had forgotten they weren’t supposed to fall in love, too.

The villain had forgotten they weren’t supposed to fall in love too, and they had just set their entire world ablaze around themself.

Fuck.

It really only made sense, then, that they found themself standing on the roof of their old apartment building as it burned. And when that didn’t work, they moved onto the next, until a third building went up in flames beneath their feet. They knew the kind of message it would send, and they knew exactly who that message would get sent to–

The hero landed on the other end of the rooftop, as far away from the villain as they could possibly get. 

“Stop,” the hero hissed, teeth clenched. “Stop lighting things on fire to get my attention, just stop–”

“I’m in love with you,” the villain said, voice wrecked, and the hero reacted like the villain had shot them. They stepped away, feet bumping against the edge like the fall was a better option than the villain.

“No,” the hero said. They shook as they said it. “Stop it. You don’t get to do this to me.”

“I love you,” the villain said again, and the hero pressed a hand over their own heart.

“Stay away from me,” the hero managed after a moment. Another deep breath, and their hand dropped back down to their side. “Go do whatever it is you need to do, go ruin anyone else’s life, and stay out of the wreckage of mine.”

“We have a life together,” the villain tried. If the hero could just see, could see that they could fix it– “I’m sorry. I was stupid, I was so, so stupid. But you can’t just leave, please, just let me fix it–”

“I told you to get out,” the hero said, and there was nothing soft in their eyes as they looked at the villain. “What about the way I said it made you think it was temporary?”

“Hero, please, let me fix–”

“Villain,” the hero said calmly, voice sharp. “Some things aren’t meant to be rebuilt.”

All of the air left the villain’s lungs in a pathetic sort of wheeze.

“You’re my everything,” the villain choked out. “My whole world, and I’m so sorry. I was–I made a mistake, but you can’t just throw us away–”

“No,” the hero spat, and the villain flinched. “You burned that world to the ground. You’re standing in the ashes of it. You don’t get to come to me begging for it back.”

The villain felt unmoored. Like the world had shifted one step to the left and they had no idea what to do with their limbs anymore, no idea how to keep existing.

“But I love you.”

“The only person who feels anything when you say that is you.”

This time, it was the villain who stepped back.

“Please,” the villain whispered, and the hero closed their eyes.

“What were you expecting to happen. That I would forgive you? Would fall back into your arms? You could tell me that you’re sorry in every language for the rest of your life and that wouldn’t make what you did hurt me any less. So why would you think you could light a building on fire, tell me you love me, and then make everything go back to the way it was?”

“I–I don’t–”

“There is no back,” the hero said firmly. “There is no undo.”

“I don’t know what to do,” the villain said. A tear dripped off the edge of their chin.

The hero appraised them.

“Learn to live with it.”

The villain sucked in a shuddering breath.

“I can’t live without you, okay, I can’t–”

“Then die.”

The villain froze. They waited for the hero to take it back, but the hero just stared at them, face stony and cold. An avenging angel on the edge of the rooftop, firelight flickering at their back and smoke rising into the air, not an ounce of sympathy left in their bones for the villain.

And before the villain could say anything, say that the hero couldn’t possibly mean that, the hero spoke again.

“I mean it. You are not my problem.”

The villain was choking. They were drowning on air and the hole they had left inside of themself when they ripped the hero out of their life and the hero was just watching them–

“Please,” they said pathetically, and even as they said it they knew it was futile.

The hero didn’t bother to give them another response.

They watched the hero leave without saying anything, smoke beginning to sting their eyes and nose as their hands shook. 

It felt terminal. It felt world-ending. It felt deserved.

They wished the hero had just killed them.

[setmeatopthepyre]

Enlist

[ @118dailydrabble day 26] [part of antarct-fic | bucktommy | 118 words]

Every year since he enlisted, Tommy has spent New Year's Eve the same way: in the desert, looking up at the stars.

The first time, he'd been a city boy half a world away, stumbling half-drunk into the desert night towards the barracks. He'd never seen the Milky Way before, and staring up at all those stars had overwhelmed him with vertigo as well as a sudden sense that he... didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. It had been strangely comforting. Freeing. So he'd done it again, and again, and again.

There is no night in the Antarctic Summer, no starry sky.

But there, across the galley, is Evan. The light twinkles in his eyes.

[medusagorgongirl1]

Lowkey been working on an identity porn timkon fic from, I hope to have the first few chapters out by the end of the year, here's a little snip bit written from Kon's pov

"Despite Rob being so very unique and himself, any of these bushy mustachioed grimacing under the weight of their wealth, old men in the framed pictures lining the halls could be related to him. A man labeled as a particularly large donor to the hospital has the same sharp cheekbones as Rob. A man with a hilariously curley goatee had the same pale as snow skin as Rob. This one lady with the largest jowls Kon had ever seen had the exact same color and type of hair Rob’s. Anyone of these people could be related to Rob and Kon would have no clue."

[a-most-beloved-fool]

For the writing prompts;

19. For luck - Rom and Leeta

"And then," Bashir was saying - though in truth, Rom was paying only half attention, far too busy thinking about Leeta - "she came right up to me, and kissed me on the lips!"

"Oh, she did, did she?" Chief O'Brien said, scoffing good-naturedly.

"It's true!" Bashir insisted, though he didn't look insulted by the Chief's doubt. He was smiling into his glass, seeming quite delighted by the disbelieving frown on O'Brien's face.

Rom didn't quite understand what was supposed to be so 'unbelievable' about the story. In fact - "It seems pretty believable to me," he said. "Doctor Bashir's always kissing beautiful women." (Including, at one point, Leeta - though not anymore, Rom thought with some pleasure.)

"Yes, but this one was out of his league," the Chief said, batting his hand playfully across the table.

Bashir just smiled bashfully, ignoring the swipe. "Ah, well. You're right about that. She wasn't really interested in me after all. Turns out, she'd just misconstrued the human concept of a 'good luck kiss'".

"Ohh! A 'good luck kiss'!" Rom said eagerly. Then, after a pause, "Uh, what's a 'good luck kiss'?"

The Chief sat back, idly crossing his arms. "Well, it's pretty much exactly what it sounds like. It's a kiss that you give someone to wish them luck."

"Oh," Rom said, considering that. Luck was always a good thing to have. Perhaps... "Oh! Leeta!" He stood, sending his chair clattering backwards. "I'll be back!" he shouted, then raced from Quark's bar, ignoring his brother's parting shout out dismay.

He needed to find Leeta.

--

"Leeta! Waaaait!" Rom hollered, shuffling through the crowded promenade as quickly as he could manage, chasing after her familiar voice. "Leeta! I need to give you something!"

This would be easier, he thought, if Bajorans could hear as well as Ferengi could.

But, at last, Leeta stopped, turning to find him. "Rom? Rom, what's the matt-"

The rest of her sentence trailed off into a hum as Rom reached up, pulling her down to plant a kiss square on her lips. One of her hands cupped Rom's cheek, soft. Rom didn't really know how long a 'good luck kiss' was supposed to last for - he really should have gotten more details before running off (for example, does it need tongue? Bashir never specified.) - but he thought that this should satisfy it.

He pulled away, grinning toothily up at his wife. "Hi, Leeta," he said.

She smiled down at him, cheeks flushed and lovely as always. "Hi, Rom. What was that for?" she asked, looking bemused and delighted.

"It's a kiss," Rom said, perhaps unnecessarily. "For luck," he added. "It's a hoo-man tradition!"

"For luck? Rom," she asked, laughing, "what are you wishing me luck for?"

Rom blinked. "Uhhh... For your day?"

Leeta beamed at him, and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, I think it worked. I do feel pretty lucky now."

Rom grinned. "Me, too."

--

(also if anyone else wants to make a request, the ask game is here. i can't promise they'll get done as quick or be as long as this one is, though!)

[acowardinmordor]

Eddie mumbles something about how he's always wanted to try it and kisses Steve in the Upside Down because he figures he's gonna be dead in a minute, so its whatever. Tragically rolls a 1 on that plan. Crit fails his plan so hard that he ends up surviving what the doctors kept insisting should have been fatal blood loss.

Eventually, despite his requests to the nurses and to Wayne that he not have to see Steve, the guy manages to get through, late at night when the others were at home in bed.

Steve looks serious, forehead creasing, and awkward as hell. Uncomfortable. Eddie isn't an idiot, so he spotted Robin years ago. As close as those two are, Eddie knows that Steve must know about her, and must be cool with it. But its different when its not a lack of attraction, but an unwanted one.

Steve asks, tensely, with careful words, why Eddie kissed him, and what he meant when he said he always wanted to try it.

Eddie doesn't lie.

'I didn't want to die without ever kissing someone.'

'And... I was the only one around who wasn't 14.'

Steve exhales and his shoulders relax, and the only thing Eddie can label that as is relief. He doesn't ask any more questions, and he leaves Eddie alone for the most part, even after Eddie leaves the hospital. Whenever they're in the same place though - parties, hangouts, the kids - Eddie can feel him looking. He never catches him. Steve reacts too fast, but Eddie knows he's watching him. He tries, he forces himself to keep his comments fiercely platonic. Perfectly heterosexual. He's successful.

So is Steve. Eddie doesn't catch him staring, so Eddie never sees how Steve looks at him.

[sgt-tombstone]

If You Ever Forget That You Love Me

Ghost x Soap || Gen

tags: major character injury, amnesia, amnesiac Soap, canon typical violence, emotional hurt/comfort, they’re in love your honor

————

Soap gets shot, but he survives. it’s a close call, but he makes it out of the tunnel and to the nearest hospital, leaking too much blood for Ghost’s comfort, and the front desk nurse gets the fright of her life when three frantic soldiers march in with a breathing corpse held up between them, blood coating them all from head to toe. thankfully, scaring the shit out of other patients is a sure fire way to get treated quickly, so Soap is immediately swept away. Price and Gaz have to hold Ghost back, to keep him from following, his heart in his throat as Soap disappears from sight.

when he gets stabilized in the hospital, two brain surgeries and multiple cardiac arrests later, the doctors warn the 141 that he could have severe brain damage when he wakes up. that he might not be able to continue serving. that he might not even know who they are, or who he is. it’s a possibility that they all prepare themselves for, during the long weeks waiting for Soap to shake off his coma, to come back home.

Ghost worries the most out of all of them. Gaz and Price beat themselves up, even though they couldn’t have done anything differently and they all know it. they both throw themselves into work, spending well over twelve hours every day holed up in Price’s office, poring over every piece of intelligence on Makarov that Laswell manages to scrounge up, and they visit Soap whenever they can in between, but Ghost doesn’t move. he planted himself next to Soap’s bed the moment his sergeant got out of surgery and he hasn’t moved since, to the nurses’ clear displeasure. he doesn’t care.

he never got the chance, never plucked up the courage, to tell Soap how he felt, and he almost lost him entirely. he’s not going to make the same mistake again. he just needs Johnny to wake up, to remember him.

when Soap finally blinks his hazy blue eyes open, squinting in the harsh fluorescent light, head falling to the side and face splitting in a grin when he spots Ghost staring back, Ghost knows that worrying was pointless. Johnny’s the strongest man he’s ever met; if anyone could pull themselves back from a bullet to the brain, it’s him. and he did.

Ghost wants to confess right then and there. the air is thick with anticipation, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t. he needs to get the doctors, needs to tell Price, needs to let Johnny heal in peace without the burden of Ghost’s feelings heavy on his mind. he presses the call button and slips out of the room in the resulting chaos, resolving to stay as far away from the medical building as possible. a return to normal.

he makes it all of three days before Gaz nearly drags his ass back, complaining loudly and at length about Soap’s incessant whining at the absence of his favorite lieutenant at his side, and the way Johnny perks up, his eyes glowing with excitement and something like relief, breaks his resolve in an instant. he could he deny his sergeant anything, after everything?

he confesses that night, and if the ensuing make out session sends Johnny’s heart monitor into a tailspin and the nurses into a frenzy, well… Price doesn’t have to know that part. (evidently, he does anyway, if the half-exasperated, half-fond look he gives Ghost the next day is anything to go by.)

Johnny recovers quickly, all things considered. bullet to the brain and all that. within weeks, he’s up and walking around, all but begging to be released. he’s passed every milestone and test they’ve thrown at him with flying colors. he’s alert and aware. he’s mobile and quickly regaining his dexterity. he’s restless, more restless than Ghost has ever seen him, but he can’t exactly blame him, either. none of them are made to be cooped up.

which is why, six months later, when Soap’s memory starts to fail, they do their best to hide it.

it scared the shit out of Soap the first time. it was something simple, a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t quite reach, and Ghost had watched in quiet horror as Soap floundered for several long seconds in the middle of the rec room, eyes welling with panicked tears. he’d quickly pulled them both back to Ghost’s room, unwilling to let his sergeant fall apart in public, and they spent hours curled around each other, assuaging their fears. one instance of a faulty memory was to be expected, right?

but it kept happening. nothing major, just enough to be concerning. words he couldn’t find, objects misplaced, details about the rookies under his command. Ghost took to trailing him like a lost puppy, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice should Soap’s mind betray him. he earned some odd looks for it, and Price was obviously itching to ask, but he refrained, and Ghost was infinitely grateful. if they were anyone else, doing anything else, he might’ve told him, but they were soldiers, and they needed to find Makarov. everything else could wait. men like Soap aren’t made to be cooped up.

they find Makarov, and that’s all that any of them are legally allowed to say. what happens to him afterwards is a story that even Laswell never gets to hear. the first (and only) time she asked, Price muttered, “revenge,” and she decides that some things are really none of her business; some things are better off staying unknown.

after Makarov’s death, though, Johnny gets worse. noticeably worse. it’s not just the occasional small detail that slips through his fingers like sand; the day he blanks on Gaz’s name when trying to get his attention is the beginning of the end, and the day he glances towards Ghost across an active firefight, wide-eyed and panicked, unsure of where he is or what they’re doing, is the end of it all.

the honorable discharge is nice, but none of them are in the mood to celebrate it, especially not when Soap clings to Ghost like a child while the 141 mingles. the circumstances of his discharge are strictly confidential, and most people assume it has something to do with his leg, considering the slight limp he walks with, and he lets them think it. he can’t exactly reveal the truth; the upper brass never like to hear exactly how their cannon fodder fare outside of the gilded halls of ceremony and awards. he’s the talk of the party and everyone wants to shake his hand and reminisce about the god old days. Soap doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t remember their names, much less any good old days they might’ve shared together. he relies on Ghost muttering almost silently behind his mask to get through the conversations with even a shred of dignity, and they last less than an hour before Ghost decides to call it a night. he can’t stand the anguished look in Soap’s eyes when he racks his brain for someone’s call sign or the name of their spouse.

it only gets worse outside, though; Soap turns to Ghost with tear-brightened eyes, and Ghost has never seen him so scared. they manage to make it back to the flat they co-signed for, back home, before Johnny falls apart, and Ghost retires the next day.

civilian life is… hard. for both of them. some days are better than others; some days, Johnny wakes up completely cognizant, and he spends those days curled in on himself, plagued by a fear of his own mind. other days, he wakes up lost and confused, his military training kicking in to defend himself against a stranger in a strange place, convinced that he’s been kidnapped.

Simon isn’t sure which days are worse. the former are spent trying to get Johnny to eat and get out of the house before his own mind paralyzes him and the latter are spent trying to convince Johnny that he’s not going to kill him in his own home.

there are good days, too, and those outweigh the bad in both number and quality. those are the days when Johnny wakes up and remembers Simon’s name, remembers his sister’s birthday, remembers that life is worth living. Simon hoards those days like treasure.

over the years, Johnny declines, slowly but surely. they both knew it would happen; it was only a matter of time, but it’s scary watching it happen in real time. Simon has lost count of the number of times that he’s been attacked standing in his own kitchen, making his morning cuppa, because Johnny woke up alone and terrified. he’s lost count of the number of times that he’s held Johnny in his arms, fingers threading through the overgrown strands of Johnny’s hair, reminding Johnny of their shared history. he’s lost count of the number of times that he’s had to remind Johnny what his name is.

the upside—because there are always upsides, Johnny was the one to teach him that—is that Johnny gets to experience a lot of things for the first time again. their Lord of the Rings marathon was a particular delight, especially when Simon got to wow his boyfriend with the Viggo Mortensen broken toe fact for the second (and third) time. his favorite, though, is when Johnny looks at his face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it, all wide eyes and parted lips, like he’s caught a glimpse at the face of god. Simon always tells him that he’s seen it before, and Johnny never believes him, or at least pretends not to. it’s odd, having a running joke with an amnesiac, but neither of them have ever been normal, so Simon supposes it makes sense.

together, they come up with systems that help. it takes a lot of trial and error, and one too many awkward hospital trips where Simon has to convince the nurses not to call the authorities because his boyfriend stabbed him in the middle of the night, but they develop some routines.

Simon never gets out of bed before Johnny; he’ll wait hours for his partner to wake up, because he always wakes up better in Simon’s arms than in an empty bed. he leaves notes all over the house, little sayings and doodles that Johnny always gets excited to find, but the most important ones get put on the bathroom mirror, because he knows Johnny will reliably see it, vain creature that he is. their kitchen table is covered in a giant sheet of paper, which doubles as a drawing space and a living history; every detail of their lives, past and present, gets recorded on paper for Johnny to read whenever he gets lost.

it’s not perfect, but Simon wouldn’t give it up for anything. he adores Johnny, adores that he got a second chance to love Johnny the way he deserves, and it’s the one detail he’ll never let Johnny forget: that he is loved, unconditionally.

[natalievoncatte]

4. Garden

Kara waited as long as she could. Taking to the air, she lifted herself to cloud-height, ignoring the bite of the upper-atmospheric chill as the high winds snapped at her cape. Hovering in the air, she took a moment to unbind her senses, expanding her awareness to let in the cacophony of sounds she usually suppressed through years of focused willpower and concentration.

She rocked in the air, shocked by the sensitivity of her own ears. Jeremiah and then Eliza had taught her this, made the world in its vastness small enough that she could live in it.

Clark had taught her to reach out, to hear, as well as see and smell and taste and feel, beyond. Sol’s gentle kiss did more than expand her awareness and multiply her strength, it activated pathways in her brain itself, giving her a control over her senses that she could never match under a red star.

It took only moments to sift out the quiet sounds of Lena’s pulse and her gentle, hissing breaths as she fought back sobs.

Air folded around her as she shatters the sound barrier, flying high enough that the boom that followed her would be a mere puff to the ground. Another trick she picked up from Clark, using the earth’s rotation to speed her flight.

Kara touched down at a familiar but foreboding place: the Luthor estate.

All that had been the property of her family was hers now, a gift and a curse. Lena had talked about making it an orphanage or a long-term care hospital or a new children’s medical campus, but the building itself had held her back. What malevolent secrets had Lex left behind? Booby traps? Sentinel robots hiding in the walls? Caches of weapons or Lexosuits?

A Kryptonite bomb, to spit death at her for hate’s sake?

Kara hesitated, but Lena was here and upset. She went inside.

It was immediately obvious where Lex had reinforced walls and lined rooms with lead. Kara listened for Lena, finding that the trail of sound led her outside.

She had to use her x-ray vision.

Lena was kneeling in an hidden place, a walled off section of the formal gardens. Kara found the entrance cleverly disguised, a section of wall where one slipped through a gap and turned left then right and came out in a tiny, overgrown courtyard.

Kneeling, Lena was surrounded by pruning shears and garden implements, dressed to work outside. She looked so out of place it was almost a little silly to see, but there she was.

Kara could see that Lena had already been working on cleaning and clearing. She knelt before a small plumeria plant, resting in a well kept pot.

“Lex let it all die,” said Lena. “He knew it was here. He could have kept it for me, but he didn’t. I suppose I’m lucky that Lillian didn’t rip it up and install a septic tank.”

Kara walked over, standing next to her.

“My father built this. It’s a replica of my mother’s garden. We had a little walled garden next to the cottage where I lived with her before I came to live with the Luthors.”

Kara said nothing, instead brushing a lock of Lena’s now-curly hair back from her shoulder.

“He never showed it to me.”

“Why?”

“My parentage was his dirtiest secret. Lillian didn’t even tell me until she thought she could use it.”

“Do you think he loved her?”

“I have no idea. He loved me, I think. He loved Lex but in a different way. I don’t think he even liked Lillian.”

“You’ve never told me about him.”

“It wasn’t easy being his child. He drank too much, neglected the company, and drank more when things went badly for us. The family was actually in trouble until Lex turned it around. He started managing things when I was in grade school. By the end, he’d spend all day in his study and I’d spend half the night sitting with him while he talked and told me stories. Lillian hated him for it.”

“You miss him.”

“I miss them both. I miss Lex. I miss him so much. I mourn him every day.”

“I know,” said Kara.

“My mom died, my father died, my brother went insane.”

“Lena…”

“Is it me?”

“It’s not, you know it’s not.”

“Is it my witch blood? Am I cursed?”

Kara knelt beside her, pulling her cape across Lena’s shoulders to fight the autumn chill. Lena leaned into her.

“What if it is a curse? What if it gets our little one too?”

Kara put her hand on Lena’s belly, spreading her fingers. There was no bump yet. Kara listened intently, eagerly awaiting a moment she would never forget, when a second heartbeat joined Lena’s. It hadn’t come yet but it would.

“Nothing is going to get our baby,” said Kara. “Their moms are Supergirl and Lena Luthor. We can do anything.”

“It’s going to be a children’s hospital,” said Lena. “The house. A lot of the grounds are going to be torn out, but I’m keeping this garden. I’m going to give my mom a memorial. I think I might put one in for my dad, too.”

“I love you,” Kara murmured. “I love you so much.”

Lena leaned into her and Kara sat down to pull her in.

They sat for a long time, and listened to the wind that shook the leaves.

[disasterbuck]

buddie ficlet set after s7

"What about uh, Tommy?" Eddie asked, keeping his eyes down so he wouldn't see Buck's smile. "You could go with him." "Oh." Something in Buck's voice changed. "We broke up." Eddie's head snapped up so fast he almost got whiplash. He was reminded vividly of standing in this very room and finding out that Buck and Natalia had broken up – he felt a familiar thrill of excitement. "How come?" he asked. Buck pulled a face and it was his turn to look away. "He uh, wanted me to call him 'daddy'." A grunt of disgust spilled from Eddie's mouth before he could stop it. "I know," Buck said with a wry smile. "Anyway. Saturday? You and me?" Feeling much lighter than he had when he'd arrived, Eddie smiled and nodded. "You and me."