#spotify wrapped fic ask

[littledreamling]

For your ask thing (if you're still doing it): 30, 38, 50

Hello! Thanks for the ask! I wasn't sure which ask game you wanted me to answer so I'm answering this with my spotify wrapped fic ask game!

30. For Tonight by Giveon: For this song, I would probably write a modern human AU; Hob and Dream are both college students (maybe even roommates) who absolutely hate each other. Hob is far too upbeat and optimistic for Dream and Dream is too surly and prideful for Hob. They're constantly complaining about each other to their friends (in Hob's case) and family (in Dream's case). Finally, the tension snaps and they fall into bed with each other for a fantastic round of hate sex. They both hate themselves for it after and vow never to speak of it again, but neither of them can stop thinking about it, especially because they live in the same room (though Dream tries his best to avoid Hob at all costs, even going so far as to sleep on Death's couch for a week until she kicks him out to face his own problems). Hob eventually corners Dream to try to talk about it, but they end up having sex again without resolving anything and it becomes something of a habit. They hate each other, they'll complain loudly and at length to anyone who asks, but they're also hooking up regularly and it's a very complicated situation. Dream has had his heart broken too many times to be able to commit to anything while Hob pours his whole heart into everything and feels very rejected by Dream's inability to even talk about it. It all comes to a head when Hob, pushed past his limits, brings another guy back to the room to hook up and Dream is finally forced to confront just how deep his feelings for Hob are.

38. Monsters by Hazlett: This song is very difficult, mostly because the lyrics (for me personally) don't really resonate; I just love the vibes, but it gives off the energy of loving life without having any real direction and finding out who you are through experimentation. For this song, I would probably write a fic about Hob living his best life even without Dream. It would be set in the late sixties and early seventies, right at the height of Woodstock, drug culture, and the hippie movement of free love and opposing war. I feel like Hob would've experimented a lot with sex and drugs at the time, especially because he couldn't get STDs or overdose, so he could quite literally go as wild as he wanted. It would probably be a collection of vignettes of Hob trying various things out; getting high, going to an orgy, protesting against war in the US against Vietnam, participating in the Civil Rights Movement, attending music festivals, and just fully immersing himself in the hippie (and yippie) culture. But I'm still on the fence about this answer, so if I come up with a better one, I'll put it in the notes!

50. Wherever I Fall - Pt. 1 by Bryce and Aaron Dessner from the Cyrano Soundtrack: I actually have a fic planned out for this song because I cry every time I listen to it. The general premise is that, the first time Hob went to war, before he met Dream, his regiment was given a suicide mission; they knew that the chances of survival were slim to none. The night before marching out, the only literate man among them went around to each soldier, asking who they would be leaving behind and if they wanted to send a letter home for their loved ones in order to say goodbye. One by one, each soldier tells their story: their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, fiancees, best friends, etc.

Years later, after Hob gets his immortality, he remembers how much that gesture meant to him and the rest of his regiment to have someone write down their words and promise to deliver them. He takes it upon himself to learn how to read and write, if only so he can ensure that his fellow soldiers' last words make it to their loved ones. He can't die, so he might as well use that to make sure that the people who do get to say goodbye

Anyway, that got sad, but thank you so much for the ask!!

[tunastime]

hehe hi myke, thanks for sending this in my dms <3 here's your song! it's quelle suprise, which I originally read the lyrics wrong in because I don't speak french, but I think now after reading it. rarrrg. anyway! this is just such a bop, so not a lot of replays! I found it late in the year (and I know I sent it to you already lol)

(536 words)

There is something very wrong with Etho.

Or maybe there isn’t. Who’s Bdubs to know every thought inside his head, apparently? Who’s Bdubs to think he understands him? Bdubs is a red life now. The sludge of trigger fingers and loose cannons and live-wires all mingles with blood, hot and red, in his veins. It was always red, always hot, heightened now, to a dizzying sting. He can hear it thump around his head when he listens closely, hear it chanting for more. 

He’s starting to piece things together that he thinks maybe he shouldn’t. It’s hard. Bdubs sits on his hands, screwing up his face as he squeezes himself into a small space of his upside-down base. It’s hard trying to figure this out. What Etho's thinking. His heart feels like a creature begging to flee from his chest, slamming against the front half of his ribcage like it might break apart and let it out into the world. At the same time, that thumping hurts, because there’s an awful squeeze in his chest. He’s not been able to breathe right for a while. Probably since the moment Etho laughed at him before he went to kill that dragon.

That’s funny though, isn’t it? Etho promises things so easily, but when it comes time to deliver he’s always finding shortcuts. Like how he didn’t agree when Bdubs asked how much he would give for him? There was no equal half, was there?

Bdubs was making a mistake, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that the worst part?

Well maybe he wasn’t! Maybe Etho was more afraid of Cleo than he was Bdubs—of course he would side with someone who could help him the most. Certainly not dead weight. Which Bdubs assumed he was again. Though Joel and Martyn, and Mumbo when he was there, and Pearl even, were more than willing to help out with whatever needed to be done. And that was easy for them. So why couldn’t Etho say anything? Why couldn’t he just lie to him? What kind of game was Bdubs playing at, that Etho felt so confident that he would never have a task that asked him to twist the knife already in Bdubs’ chest? He’s sorry. He’s sorry. Etho didn’t ask him to put the knife there. He took it from Etho’s hands and put it in his chest and he thought maybe that would make things better, rather than worse.

It isn’t Etho’s fault. Etho’s playing his game. Bdubs knows that. So he’s not mad at him—well, he won’t be mad at him when he leaves the game and Etho crawls his way into his lap and presses his face to the juncture of his neck and says he’s sorry. Because he’s always sorry. Bdubs wonders if—no. No. Bdubs swallows down the taste in the back of his throat. He’s done wondering. And he’s done letting Etho’s excuses sit heavy in his chest like they might be armor instead of eating him alive.

He stands up, fishing the pocket watch from his pocket.

It’s still early. The cracked surface reflects back only a portion of his face.

For now, the clock stays intact. But Bdubs can imagine the satisfying crunch it might make when his heel grinds against it.

(spotify wrapped ask meme)

[swamp-chicken]

clethubs 44 or 67!!

OMG- NewJeans

The song’s about someone being there when you need them, so…

Cleo languorously stretched across the couch, swinging their legs over Bdubs’ lap. His hand wrapped around their ankle, but he didn’t look up from the book he was reading. He was squinting, holding the pages only a few inches from his face.

“You need glasses,” Cleo remarked.

“I—huh?” Bdubs asked, tearing his attention away from the book. His brow furrowed as his brain caught up. “Excuse me! Do I look like a nerd to you?”

“Hmm,” Cleo said, sinking further into the couch. A warm sea breeze blew in through the open window and tousled their hair. Living in Atlantis sure has some perks. 

Bdubs sniffed, returning back to his book. It was something he had found in Cleo’s library, something about color theory. They couldn’t fault him for reading it but it was awfully… boring.

They wished Etho were here, if only to have someone join them in making fun of Bdubs. But he had left early in the morning to go caving of all things. Like it was some sort of hobby. 

As if summoned, Cleo’s communicator beeped. They dug through their pockets until they found the device and flipped it open. The message that greeted them made them burst out laughing. 

“What?” Bdubs asked. “Let me see!”

Still laughing, Cleo handed the communicator to him. 

Etho was blown up by creeper. 

“Oh, geez,” Bdubs snickered. “What’s he doing down there?”

“Not using his shield, apparently.”

“Does he ever?” 

Grinning, Cleo snatched the communicator out of Bdubs’ hands and began typing.

ZombieCleo: try using that thing on your left arm to block any explosions! 

Etho: thanks, cleo. I never would have known

Cleo snorted. 

“What? What’s he saying?” Bdubs abandoned his book so he could read over Cleo’s shoulder. 

“He must have set spawn over there,” Cleo mused. There were no cries of despair echoing through the castle to indicate that Etho had spawned here. 

“See? He’s still an amazing wonderful genius.”

“Despite all signs to the contrary.”

“Cleo!” Bdubs admonished. But he still stretched out alongside them on the couch, pillowing his head on their chest.  “Naptime?” he asked hopefully.

It was midday, the warm breeze soporific. Despite themselves, Cleo yawned. It wasn’t such a bad idea, taking a nap… it wasn’t like there was much else to do, with the castle almost all decorated and the end of the season drawing near…

Cleo’s communicator dinged. 

Etho was blown up by creeper.

“Again?!” Bdubs squawked. 

Cleo shrieked with laughter. “Oh my god! What’s he doing? Should we go down and rescue him?”

“Oh, no, no, Cleo, this is the Etho we’re talking about. He doesn’t need our help.” 

“Right, of course. And this doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that we’re very, very comfy right now.”

Bdubs’ eyes were already falling closed. “Exactly, Cleo, we’re better friends if we don’t help him.”

Cleo’s communicator dinged.

“Don’t tell me…” Bdubs whined.

Etho was blown up by creeper.

Cleo couldn’t breathe through their laughter.

Etho: guys :( 

ZombieCleo: Alright, alright.  Send me your coords

Cleo wiggled out from under Bdubs’ clinging arms. “C’mon, we need to go save our boy.” 

Bdubs grumbled but agreeably sat up. “He’s washed. Let’s go.” 

[firstelevens]

song 25 + sambucky if you're still taking spotify wrapped prompts ☺️

25. Accidentally In Love by Counting Crows

When Sam’s phone goes off, he’s half asleep on his couch, buried under a small mountain of blankets and too congested to even really hear it that well. He only notices because it’s face-up on the coffee table and the screen catches his eye when it lights up.

He extends a hand out from his blanket nest and picks up the phone, wincing at the bright light of the display. 

It takes a second of squinting at the screen, but he finally manages to see that the notification is a text from Foggy: ‘any tips on how to handle your honors lit class? no subs available this morning so Hill has me covering’

‘Try not to show any weakness. They smell fear,’ Sam texts back. Then he adds, ‘There’s a Princess Bride DVD in the cupboard, you can get a key from Bucky.’

Foggy’s reply is predictably annoying: ‘does loverboy still think that you and me are dating? do I need to worry about him sabotaging my teaching in a fit of jealousy?’

Sam glares at the screen of his phone but it doesn’t do much, given that Foggy can’t see him. ‘Just for that you I’m not telling you where I put the Luhrmann Romeo + Juliet. You’ll just have to teach the ninth graders about iambic meter yourself next period.’

Foggy doesn’t get back to him for a while, which isn’t all that surprising. The beginning of the school day is hectic enough for a guidance counselor without having to unexpectedly cover another teacher’s class.

He stumbles to the kitchen to make himself tea, a blanket around his shoulders and his phone in his hand, but Foggy doesn’t reply for another twenty minutes. Sam’s head hurts too much for him to remember how neat the supply cupboard was, but he’s hoping it’s not so bad that Foggy’s just elbows deep in useless stuff.

After giving it another few minutes while he takes his next dose of cold medicine, he sends a text to check whether Foggy found what he was looking for.

The reply is immediate: ‘didn’t end up needing the dvd! I asked Bucky for the key and when he heard you were sick he said he’d handle it.’

‘Doesn’t he teach first period journalism?’

‘You’re sick so I won’t make fun of you for memorizing his schedule,’ Foggy writes, magnanimous as ever. Then: ‘there’s like five journalism students so he said he’d just combine them. said he could take your kids for the rest of the day too.’

Sam feels his jaw drop. Covering just one class is more than enough, but the entire day? When Bucky has almost a full slate of classes to teach, too? His face is suddenly all warm, and he’s at least fifty percent sure it’s not the fever.

His head is getting heavy again, and the screen is starting to hurt his eyes, but he manages to get a text out thanking Bucky for covering for him and assuring him that he can just put on movies for every single class.

He doesn’t have to wait long at all for the reply. ‘You’re welcome, Wilson. Now get some rest and stop worrying about your classes; they’ll be fine.’

Yawning widely, Sam types out a quick reply and takes Bucky’s advice, pulling the covers over his head and quickly falling back asleep.

Not having to field questions for subs or keep an eye on his email for questions from concerned students means that Sam isn’t repeatedly getting up when he’s supposed to be resting, and when he emerges from his blanket cocoon that afternoon, he can stand without getting dizzy for the first time in two days.

He celebrates by dragging himself into the shower, where the steam and the decongestant make it so that he regains his sense of smell, however briefly, and he feels more like a person than he has since Friday.

There’s probably an argument to be made for going back to bed, but Sam has never been great at being still, so he throws in a load of laundry and cleans up a bit while he’s on his feet. He’s about to make dinner, too, but then Sarah gives him a talking-to and makes him promise to order food instead, and Sam understands that she will instinctively know if he crosses her.

Sam already has the app open, scrolling through his options when his doorbell rings. For a second, he thinks that Sarah figured she couldn’t trust him to follow through and just ordered the food herself. Normally, he wouldn’t put it past her, but she’s getting the boat ready for a charter tomorrow, so he can’t imagine that she had the time or the cell service.

A peek through the curtains answers the question, though: there’s a familiar sedan parked in Sam’s driveway, a peeling Rutgers decal on the rear windshield.

“If you’re bringing me work to grade, I’m going to sneeze on you,” he declares, as he opens his front door to find Bucky waiting outside.

“I’m not a monster,” says Bucky, looking mildly offended at the thought. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” says Sam. “I can probably be back in tomorrow.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Or you could take a second sick day and actually get better instead of running yourself down again.”

“We’re supposed to be working on that stupid archival project tomorrow,” says Sam. “If I get another sanctimonious email from John about prioritizing my tasks, I’m gonna have an operatic meltdown in the middle of his classroom.”

“Entertaining as that would be, there’s probably another way,” Bucky says. “I’ll handle Walker for now. You just worry about getting better.”

Sam could probably push back if he really wanted to, but he can’t bring himself to be mad about Bucky looking out for him. “Okay,” he says, and Bucky’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

“Really? It’s that easy?”

“I blame the cold medicine,” says Sam. “I’ll be a pain in the ass again on Wednesday, I promise.”

Bucky smiles. “I look forward to it.”

“Well,” says Sam, after they’ve both been silent for a moment. “Thanks for coming to check on me; I really–”

“Wait!” says Bucky, and Sam stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised in question. “I didn’t just come to ask how you were doing. I, um– I wanted to bring you this, too.”

He holds out what Sam now realizes is a bag from the Thai place near the school.

“I would’ve made you soup myself, but I had to stay late with the yearbook kids, and my Ma would kill me if I half-assed her chicken soup recipe, but I know you like this place, so…”

Sam looks from Bucky to the bag of food and back, his eyes wide. “Thank you,” he says, and he can feel how soft his voice has gone around the edges. He probably should make some kind of joke to restore the natural order of things, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “You didn’t have to, Bucky, seriously.”

“I know,” he says, with a little shrug. “I wanted to.”

“Oh,” is all that Sam can manage to get out. “Okay.”

“It’s cold,” says Bucky, once Sam takes the bag of food out of his hands. “I should let you get back inside.”

He starts down the steps and Sam only belatedly remembers to call out, “I’ll see you on Wednesday!”

“See you then,” says Bucky, turning to face Sam and taking the last few steps to his car backwards. “Oh, and thanks for calling me cute!”

Sam feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. He wracks his brain to go over the last five minutes of conversation, but he comes up empty. “Wait, what?”

But all that Bucky does is hold up his cell phone before opening the door to his car. “Night, Sam!”

Suddenly, Sam remembers sending a text earlier today, clouded by the haze of exhaustion and cold medicine. His eyes go wide.

He didn’t, did he?

It’s only Sam’s dignity that keeps him from sprinting for his phone, staying in the doorway until Bucky’s car pulls away.

The second his headlights disappear, Sam throws the door shut and hurries to where his phone is charging on the kitchen counter. It takes two tries for him to unlock it with his face, and then he’s swiping over to his texts, opening up his conversation with Bucky and reading back the last few messages.

His eyes go wide as he reads his own words back.

‘It’s so cute that you use semicolons in your texts,’ he’d said to Bucky. ‘You know I’m not grading these for punctuation right?’

‘Maybe I just want to impress you,’ Bucky had replied.

And then, because that wasn’t enough, apparently Sam had replied, ‘Maybe you already do.’

He’s pretty sure that he’s never recovering from this, but just to make sure he learns his lesson, he texts a screenshot to Foggy with the message, ‘COLD MEDICINE SAM CANNOT BE TRUSTED!!!’

Foggy just sends him back a bunch of cry laughing emojis in response.

[landwriter]

8! ♥

my beloved Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede! It's gotta be - like no question, it's gotta be a romcom-energy Dream POV.

Hob cuddles Dream for the first time and Dream just falls in LOVE. It's totally platonic. He fell in a lake or something. And he's no longer near-hypothermic, he's ass over tea kettle in love. On the outside: stony and stoic. On the inside: writing poems about Hob. Jacking off about Hob. Looking at everything from a particularly friendly yellow tea towel to trees in a park and being reminded of Hob. (Hob said he liked forests, once.)

There's mutual pining and they both think it's unrequited, for an appropriately light-hearted and brief amount of time. Hob expresses his feelings by doing little flirting things that send Dream absolutely around the bend. Buys him potted plants. Gets him books. Bakes for him. Touches his arm. Dream presumes Hob is this friendly with everyone, because Hob is a Very Good Person, and Very Good With People, unlike him. Hob literally cannot help himself. His love shines out of him. Dream thinks Hob just looks that way all the time.

At some point, someone - anyone, literally anyone with eyes - mentions 'your boyfriend' to Dream, and Dream is like, "What boyfriend? Who?" and Hob, who is also there, in earshot, is like, "Yeah, who?", baffled because surely he'd have noticed Dream having a boyfriend, they spend so much time together these days, but also 100% ready to fight the man for his crime of existing.

And someone - Matthew, Lucienne, literally even the deli guy, just shakes their head and offers a silent prayer to the God Of Himbos that the two idiots figure it out within the next decade.

(They do.)

[sesamestreep]

Matt/Foggy, 36

From this Spotify Wrapped Prompt Game: #36. Made You Look - Meghan Trainor (🫣 I am not immune to a viral tiktok audio earworm…)

“Are you capable of exercising any self-control at all?” Foggy asks, voice dripping with annoyance as it carries across the room.

“I—” Matt pauses, as he tries to figure out the right response to that question. “I’m literally just sitting here,” he finally offers, weakly, because it definitely sounds like he’s in trouble, he’s just not sure why.

“I know that,” Foggy says, coming back to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about what happened last night.”

“I was under the impression that you enjoyed what happened last night.”

“Matt…”

“In fact, I distinctly remember asking if you were enjoying yourself and you said—”

“You don’t need to quote me,” Foggy says, evidently excited or embarrassed by the memory—or both. “I remember.”

“Well, then, I’m confused by your sudden change of heart.”

“Not a change of heart,” Foggy clarifies and Matt is very often thankful that Foggy can’t hear his heartbeat and now is one such moment, because the way it immediately calms down from relief is genuinely a little embarrassing and he’s glad no one else has to know about it. “Just confronting the very frustrating reality that I’m going to have to do the walk of shame in a shirt open to my navel because someone tore half the buttons off of it in his haste to get me undressed. Again.”

Matt shrugs, very deliberately casual now that he knows this isn’t a real argument. “It felt like an urgent matter at the time.”

“Matt, I don’t even know where any of the buttons ended up!”

“Thank God. It’d be really embarrassing if you’d had the presence of mind to keep track of that while I was…well, you know.”

“I don’t know why you can’t just unbutton my shirt patiently like a grownup,” Foggy complains, which is the exact opposite of what he was doing last night, but Matt doesn’t bring that up.

“I don’t know why you insist on wearing those fancy suits with like eighteen layers I have to go through,” Matt says, instead. “Getting you naked is like breaking into a Swiss bank.”

“They’re three piece suits, you infant,” Foggy retorts, laughing. “And I’ve been told by everyone on Earth except you that I look great in them.”

“I’m sure you do. But for my purposes, they’re a nuisance.”

“You’re a philistine, Matthew. And I’m going to tell Luke that you don’t appreciate well made clothing and get you on his bad side for all eternity.”

“Please don’t,” Matt says, grabbing Foggy’s wrist like he might go for his phone right away. The downside of meeting Luke through Foggy is that he always has this extremely viable threat in his back pocket. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a good tailor these days.”

“Oh, I’m intimately aware,” Foggy cries, and there’s a shuffling noise as he (Matt’s guessing) shakes his injured shirt at him. “And speaking of Luke, you can’t claim my clothes are a nuisance to get out of when you run around in your leather daddy body armor all the time. There’s just no comparison!”

Matt doesn’t point out that he rarely shows up to see Foggy in the suit because it usually ends in them arguing rather than fucking—or, at least, arguing for a while before they get around to fucking. That’s not going to win him any points at the moment, he imagines.

“Leather daddy?” he asks, incredulously, instead.

“God, shut up,” Foggy says, still embarrassed and excited about it.

Matt takes the shirt out of Foggy’s hands, gently, and then, not so gently, shucks it to the other side of the room. “Maybe I just like who you are under your clothes more,” he says, carefully. “Did you ever think of that?”

“You’re so full of shit,” Foggy says, and, Matt’s not really sure how, but his voice fully gives away that he’s blushing.

“You could borrow something of mine…”

Foggy snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think you have anything in my size here, sweetheart.”

Matt lets his hand trail up Foggy’s side. “Oh, well. Hot guy in a tight t-shirt. What a sad fate for all of us to endure.”

“That gimmick only works when it’s guys like you. On me, it’ll just look delusional.”

Matt frowns, not liking the sound of that one bit. He slips his hand around the back of Foggy’s neck and pulls him close until their foreheads are pressed together, relieved by how easily Foggy complies despite his purported annoyance.

“Then it looks like your only option is to stay here forever,” Matt says, solemnly. “Completely naked, of course.”

“Of course,” Foggy says, laughing softly. “It’s the only plan that makes sense.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Matt replies, leaning in to kiss him. He conveniently doesn’t mention that he has one sweater, three sweatshirts, and no less than five t-shirts that he’s stolen from Foggy that he could just as easily return to him and solve his current predicament. He likes his solution better.

[wizardofgoodfortune]

i have been lurking in your asks for this moment: for the spotify wrapped fic prompt, #10!!

i'm going to ignore the very obvious and very painful daniel/hob implications of this song because i want to finish the comics first before writing anything outside of the show's canon. so have this instead!!

--

Dream had been visiting Hob more frequently than he'd like to admit. It all started with Dream wanting to carve out a small place of solace in his life, and what place was more perfect than The New Inn? Built for him like an altar for an absent god.

Though these days, he'd been more present than ever. He wished he had the privilege to say he'd been drunk the first night it happened, or the next night, and the next. But Dream, Lord of Dreams and Ruler of Nightmares, always knew what was going on, and what desires he'd recklessly indulged in again and again.

Tonight was no different. By now, Hob was a veteran in making Dream feel more than welcome. It was all too easy to fall into Hob's arms and into his bed above The New Inn. Somewhere down the line, Dream had made himself vulnerable to Desire's machinations.

But he had somehow convinced himself that it was alright, as long as Hob wasn't vulnerable.

Some nights they talked afterwards, and Dream wasn't quite sure whether it amplified or quieted his regrets. This was one of those nights.

"Tell me about the Dreaming," Hob said, his head propped up on his arm as he looked down at Dream.

"What do you wish to know?"

"I don't know. Everything. You don't work alone, do you?"

"...No, I suppose I don't, anymore. I have Lucienne. And Matthew."

"Ah, Matthew, yeah, we've met. Why does he talk by the way? Nearly gave me a heart attack the first time he spoke to me."

"He was human, before. He died in his sleep and became a raven of the Dreaming."

"Oh," Hob said. He paused. Dream observed the shadows cast on his face by the moonlight. "So if I die in my sleep, I get to stay at your place? As a raven?"

Dream felt the corners of his mouth lift up. A silly notion. "You do not have to die. You will always be welcome in the Dreaming, Hob."

Hob smiled down at him, and Dream felt a warm fire in his chest. "Thank you, love. But what I meant is I never had the chance to visit your, y'know. Your place. Is it a castle?"

"Yes, I suppose you could call it a castle," Dream said.

Hob hummed, and tapped Dream's chest with his free hand. "A wild thing," he said after a few seconds.

"What is?" Dream asked.

"I was just some peasant when we first met," Hob said, his eyes lost in memory. "Thought you were some ignorant lord. In the back of my mind, I thought were you just making fun of me, asking to meet you after a hundred years. Never thought this," he gestured to their bodies, naked under the covers, "would ever happen. Y'know? A wild thing."

Dream hummed in agreement.

"Guess I'm lucky, huh?" Hob chuckled, his fingers still tapping on Dream's chest. "Hey. Would you bring me to your castle some day, show me around?"

"Perhaps," Dream replied.

"Tease," Hob chastised. Then he pressed a kiss on Dream's forehead, then on his nose, and finally on his lips. "I adore you. You know that? I love you, Dream."

Dream froze. He looked into Hob's eyes, saw the fondness in them, and knew that he meant it.

This was just supposed to be a brief respite, some semblance of comfort that he did not have in his day-to-day life. He thought it was the same for Hob, that Dream was just someone immortal to hold onto once in a while. But it wasn't. Not anymore.

I should not have come here, he thought, tearing his gaze away from Hob's. He did not have the heart to say it out loud.

Dream stood up from the bed, already clothed.

This will be the last time, he thought. It was what he thought every time. And maybe tonight it will finally come true. No, it should come true. Lest he destroy even Hob Gadling, like he has many times to his other lovers before. It always ended in tragedy, whether Desire was involved or not, and Dream didn't want that for him.

A hand shot up from the covers to grip his wrist.

"Stay. Stay, darling," Hob said, sitting up. "Won't you stay?"

Dream turned.

Hob's eyes shone, watery in the moonlight.

It should not be fair, Dream thought, for Desire to easily toy with me like this.

"I cannot stay any longer," Dream said.

"Why not?" Hob said, with all the petulance of a child. "Come back. Just for a while."

Dream resisted the urge to climb back in the covers with him. That was his sibling speaking.

"I apologize. I will make sure your dreams are pleasant tonight, and on every other night."

"Will you be coming back?" Hob asked. "You sound like you're never coming back."

Dream said nothing.

"I can wait. I will."

"I know," Dream said. He didn't add, "beloved."

"I'm not sorry," Hob said, gripping Dream's wrist even tighter. "But I won't say it again, if it means you'll stay."

Something cold and heavy sat in Dream's chest.

"So don't go," Hob said, "please."

Dream dissipated into thin air, but not quickly enough that he did not see a tear roll down Hob's cheek. He can still feel his grip on his wrist.

[richmonds-disaster-bi]

Omega Roy with Jamie and song number 23

Ooooo I love this song and this au ❤️

Take my hand - Picture This

It was a random Tuesday morning at 6am when Jamie had realised that he wanted Roy as more than a friend.

He didn't remember why or how the thought had crossed his mind. All he had known was that one moment he looked up and Roy was smiling. A tiny, fleeting thing that was so quick that he almost missed it but it made his heart race with the thought "I want to make him smile every day".

He had thought it'd freak him out more than it did because this was Roy. One of the most defensive and closed off omegas that Jamie had ever met, and one of the first ones to look at Jamie's cocky, overblown macho alpha act and growl at him because he wasn't impressed.

Back then, Jamie had been a prick. He'd viewed himself as the alpha of the team, and Roy's refusal to engage with him had tormented him until Jamie had realised he didn't want to be this person.

He'd worked on himself. Worked with Dr Sharon to untangle all the stereotypes that had been ingrained in him by his father's fists and words until Jamie felt safe enough to be himself, to be soft and playful and sweet. All the things he was told alphas couldn't be, and it was then that Roy had started to finally let him in a little.

And if anyone heard Jamie's thoughts, they'd probably joke that Jamie was the omega out of the two of them because as they lay together, legs tangled on the sofa with half empty glasses of rosé and Jamie's head on Roy's chest, all Jamie could think was he wanted this forever.

He wanted to wrap Roy in his arms and kiss him stupid. He wanted to be the little spoon in bed, and wear Roy's shirts that made him feel small and loved. Jamie wanted to take Roy on romantic dates, woo him until the other blushed and kiss him in front of twinkling lights.

Jamie wanted to show Roy that he would love him so wholly and truly that everyone around them would look at them and think "I want that".

"What's got you vibrating like a lap cat?", Roy's voice pulled him from his thoughts as fingers tugged at his hair softly. He hadn't even realised that he was rumbling until Roy had distracted him.

Jamie, normally, would give a little growl and bat the others hand away from his hair, but today he felt soft and in love.

"Just love ya so much", Jamie admitted as he tilted his head up to look at Roy, "Gonna show ya everyday, yeah? Be all romantic and shit"

Roy's dark eyes seemed to sparkle at little at Jamie's words, and he got a little rare Roy smile in return.

"Oh yeah?", Roy questioned, a barely audible purr started in his chest, "Going to hold my hand and shit?"

" 'Course I am", Jamie grinned, "I'm gonna make us a love they sing songs about"

He could see a little flush rising on Roy's cheeks at the sincerity of his words and it made Jamie want to kiss him so he did. All sweet and soft and slow and romantic until he was bracketing Roy in against the couch, lying chest against chest.

"There's only you for me, yeah?", Jamie whispered against his lips as the omega closed his eyes under the weight of Jamie's love.

The kiss he got in return was all he needed as an answer to know just how much Roy agreed with that idea.

Give me a number between 1-100 and a pairing, and I'll write a drabble based on that song

[littledreamling]

For the wrapped ask: let’s go with 99

My 99th song is Flames by Tedy which is the ultimate Dreamling song because it perfectly encapsulates Dream’s perspective on love and why he would be so hesitant to admit any feelings for Hob.

The fic I would write would essentially be a character study of Dream and his struggle with the intense feelings he has but his unwillingness to show them or do anything about them out of fear (“I see me wrecking you to pieces / I suck out all the good in you”) as well as pride (“Don’t need anybody / Cause’ all you bring is sadness”).

It could also explore an unhealthy relationship between the two of them because they both love so intensely and there’s a lot of stubbornness that might go head-to-head (“So tell me can you take the pain / Cause this a warning I won’t change / But then again it’s not like you’re perfect / You bring the bad right out of me”) which would be an interesting angle to explore!

[tunastime]

80 for spotify wrapped writing game!

hi midna!! long time no see!! so I know it's not target audience per se, but you got 24 by flor, and that's such a xisuma SEN (space au!) song that I had to make something for that, it overcame me. I don't know what happened. slight tw for injury!

(421 words)

Xisuma stands up.

The mirror beside him is still shattered down the side, large chunks of square plasti-glass scattered over the floor. Each of them is cracked in such a way that Xisuma’s marred face makes fractals when he looks through them—bits of eye, bits of bandage, bits of cheek and chin, bits of dull hair. He sweeps, collecting the shards into a small pile. The sink is still cracked, too, from the force. He sweeps to the edge of the bathroom, a long stretch of glass and dark red-brown blood, dried to a tack on the floor. It stretches from the point of impact (sink) to where Xisuma managed to pool the blood in his own hands, desperate for gauze (cabinet) and to where it dripped through his fingers (door).

He catches a second glimpse of himself in the shattered mirror—his face looks tired, eyes underlined with grey half-moons and his suit more rumpled than usual. It takes him a moment to look away. It’s like he’s not even looking at himself. Every picture he owns with his face in it, he’s a young captain—the youngest, they always said, not even 20 by the time he’d had his own ship—unmarred and bright-eyed and so different than what he is now. He supposes he expected to be the same, at least a bit, somehow. 

He scrapes dried blood from the floor. There’s movement in the hallway, around the corner, people passing in and out of rooms as they clean the ship. They’ve long since started their trip back at this point—tidying and fixing up broken parts for the ship to be reused, both by Xisuma himself and by any seconds in command at his stead when they return. Seconds. Right. Yeah. He’s not spoken to Doc since they lost Tango, has he?

Xisuma puts the broom down. He’d forgotten that, actually. Shame that is. That they’d not talked in a minute. It’s neither of their faults, really, just, with cleaning, and with the paperwork Doc had to fill out, for the arm, and the calibration, and telling Xisuma he’d talk to the Chief about everything, so that X didn't have to. Yeah. He’d just gotten so distracted trying to fix everything before their arrival next week, so it had just happened that way.

The shards get swept into the dust pan, and the contents dust pan disposed of in the trash chute. The bathroom looks dull, now, along with himself, sleek and grey and cold. Xisuma squares his shoulders.

It’s fine. At least the blood didn’t go into his eyes, right?

He takes up the broom and leaves the room, leaving the shattered mirror behind him. His visage disappears in chunks—shoulders, legs, neck, head.

(spotify wrapped ask meme)

[aringofsalt]

56!

(+ steddie, mentioned in another ask)

thank you!!! this one was fun haha i hope you enjoy 💕

56 | FALL OUT BOY - THE PINK SEASHELL

So I take pleasure in the detail, you know

It starts small.

It may even start before he notices it.

The first one he notices is a tiny wooden baseball bat on a keychain. It’s not something he would’ve bought for himself; it’s definitely not something his parents would’ve bought for him, or themselves. It’s sitting on his dresser, behind a crumpled-up shirt that had been there for longer than he cared to admit, and under it is a little post-it note that just says YOURS IS COOLER in scratchy block letters.

The handwriting isn’t Robin’s, or Dustin’s, or Nancy’s; and that’s pretty much the end of the list of people whose handwriting Steve knows by heart, so he shrugs, sticks the note to his mirror, and pockets the keychain.

He puts it on his keys the next morning, and it makes him smile every time he sees it.

The little gifts continue, and they don’t always have notes. There’s a little silver thimble one day the following week, with a single yellow flower bud in it; the following morning there’s a chocolate bar left on his windshield with a note that just says EAT UP. He finds a little pink seashell sitting on his windowsill one evening, practically glowing in the sunset. Another week passes and he’s cleaning up a few hours after a D&D session to find one of their little painted minis. This in itself isn’t weird, but this one has SIR STEVE scrawled on the bottom, and it’s a clearly heroic figure wielding a mace—thanks, Dustin, for the vocabulary—and posed like he’s rushing into danger. It has a more than passing resemblance to him, too, the hair and the eyes, and the armour painted in Hawkins green and gold. This trinket, more than any of the previous ones, gives him a hint to who may be leaving the little gifts, and he hopes he’s right as he jumps in the car, figurine still clutched in his hand.

He drives straight to Eddie’s.

It’s getting dark by the time he gets there, Eddie’s porch light a beacon in the night. The door swings open as he’s setting foot on the stairs, Eddie stepping out to lean casually on the doorframe.

“Sir Steve! To what do I owe the honour of your presence?”

“Well, funny you should mention Sir Steve,” he said, holding up the mini. Eddie stared at it, then snapped his eyes back to Steve’s.

“Um, look, I’m sorry, that’s probably weird, I can get rid of it—”

“Dude, no, if you think I’m giving this up you’re crazy,” Steve laughs. “I love it. But. It was you, leaving the other stuff too, wasn’t it?”

“Yeee-eees?” Eddie drawls out, clearly unsure what reaction he should be having. Steve can practically see the mental battle he’s having over whether to apologise again or turn it into a big joke.

“I liked the seashell,” he blurts out, before Eddie’s expression can fall any further. “I mean, I liked all of them, drove me nuts trying to recognise the handwriting, but. They were all pretty cool. I just… I just don’t get why.” He takes a step forward, emboldened when Eddie doesn’t step back. Why did you do something so nice for me is what’s flying through his head, unsaid, but he can tell Eddie sees the question anyway.

“Because you deserve it,” Eddie tells him quietly. “It’s something stupid my dad used to do for my mom when I was a kid. He always said that life is meaningless anyway, you know, you should take pleasure in little things. He’d find the most random things that made him think of her and leave them around the house for her to find. And you always do stuff for other people so,” he shrugs, “I wanted to do something for you.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes. Eddie grins back, then holds up a finger.

“Hold on, I had the next thing already, may as well give it to you in person now.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving Steve to his own devices for a minute, the sounds of clattering and shuffling papers and muttered curses flying as he searches. It only takes him a moment and then he’s back, holding a fist out, dropping the object into Steve’s waiting palm.

It’s a guitar pick, the twin of the one Eddie always wears around his neck, but instead of red and black, the one in Steve’s hand is swirled in yellow and white. Eddie’s fingers linger, tracing the contours of the pick and brushing Steve’s skin.

Steve closes his own fingers, trapping Eddie’s hand in his, smiling when the other man blinks owlishly in surprise.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “It’s perfect.”

—

send me a number 1-100 and a character/ship and i’ll write you a mini fic 💕 original post

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

28

Fine Line – Kesha for this Ask Game

I've been hiding my anger, but bitch look at me now

I'm at the top of the mountain, with a gun to my head

Am I bigger than Jesus, or better off dead?

There's a fine line between genius and crazy

There's a fine line between broken and breaking

Spent my whole life tryna to change what they're saying about me

Sick of walking that fine line

Ficlet:

Just like the water balloon Will had overfilled last summer, El feels like she’s ready to pop. It’s like, she’s a balloon. She’s always been a balloon. In the lab, it’d been easy. Papa told her what to fill herself with, told her when to persevere, and when to pop.

Now? Everyone tells her everything all the time. In California, Jonathan had been disappointed when she’d smacked that bully in the face. But when Hopper had found out, he’d clapped her on the back and laughed, liked he was proud.

Who is right?

She hopes it’ll be easier, back in Hawkins. And it is. Max whacks ankles with her cane if anyone so much as scoffs at her, and she has Mike, and all her other friends. But math still turns to mush in her brain, and she still spends long days trying to sit still in quiet classrooms that remind her far too much of locked playrooms.

Now that the Upside-Down is gone, it’s like something in her has atrophied. Will’s flourishing without the Mind Flayer tethering him down. Like, every gate closing has awoken something in him where the shadows used to be – something talkative and confident and happy. El is happy, too. For him.

But where does that leave her? The unwilling weapon. The one to save their lives when all the chips are down. What’s the point of sitting quietly in a droll classroom compared to saving her own little corner of the world?

Hopper tells her that it will settle down within her. He rubs her shorn head roughly and tells her that thing inside her that’s always waiting to fight will grow dormant. El doesn’t believe him.

Everyone is surprised when all the windows shatter, seemingly without provocation, one day in Mrs. Click’s class while El is being reprimanded for her poor performance on a test. El’s not surprised. She’s an overfilled balloon, of course she’d burst.

Dustin gives her a look, wide eyed and panicked as everyone else begins shrieking. She pointedly doesn’t meet his gaze. There’s nothing really to say.

But word travels fast around the party. It’s not Joyce who picks her up after school – it’s Steve.

She hasn’t spent much time with Steve, but she’s heard stories. Dustin especially admires the boy, but even Mike has a little bit of admiration tucked away for him. It’s Max’s opinion that makes her get in the car, though.

Max, who’s sullen and euphoric in waves now that she’s at half-sight and half-mobility. Friends and parents have dropped out of her life in the strain, but Steve’s name falls out of Max’s mouth every other sentence. Steve, who lets her stay at his house sometimes. Steve, who goes grocery shopping with her, who helped her clean her house. Who roughhouses with Max the way no one else will anymore.

El gets in the car.

There’s upbeat music playing quietly from the speakers. He bops his head to it as he pulls away from the school.

“What’s up, Supergirl?” he asks, hands on the wheel, eyeing her from his sideways vantage point.

No one calls her Supergirl anymore. There’s nothing left to save.

“You picked me up,” El says, sullen and euphoric in waves.

Steve laughs, barking and ugly. It makes El smile down at her shoes. “Dustin called me, you know,” he says. El’s smile curls down as something pit-like sinks into her stomach.

She watches the fractals of evening light bounce around on her legs, waiting to be reprimanded. It doesn’t come. The song changes, something more droning and somber as El looks up from her feet.

Steve’s staring out the windshield, still smiling. “I still sleep with my bat under my bed, you know.” She nods, doesn’t know what to say. “And I drive around sometimes, making sure all you kids are safe.”

El feels her brow furrow as she looks at Steve. She doesn’t know him well enough to read his expression. “The Upside-Down is gone,” she says, echoing Hoper and Joyce, and Mike, and almost all her friends.

Steve laughs again, but El doesn’t think he actually finds it funny. “I know!” Steve says, still smiling. “Robin’s been saying that same thing to me, but you know what?”

Lucas had taught her about rhetorical questions, so she waits a while before realizing she should answer. “No, I don’t know what.”

He glances over at her. “I don’t feel like it’s over,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret between the two of them, before bursting out a drawn-out sigh. “Everyone’s acting like it’s all over so we should move on, but how do I do that?”

El analyzes his profile. His eyebrows are pinched but he’s still smiling. She thinks he looks sad. “I miss it,” El whispers.

Steve pulls over and turns the key in the ignition. He turns his whole body to look over at her. “The Upside-Down?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Being Supergirl.”

His lip quirks back up, small and just on one side as he looks up at her growing-out hair before looking back down to meet her gaze. “You’ll always be Supergirl,” he says, talking through her scoff. “But it’s gotta be tough going from saving the world to flunking algebra.”

El scoffs. “I am not flunking!” she says, indignant. “I have a C!”

“Hell yeah, Supergirl!” he says, beaming as he reaches over the console to slap his hand against hers.

“Max has helped.”

Steve hums, sits, and waits to see if she has anything else to say, but she’s a water balloon, recently emptied, so she stays quiet.

He starts the car and drives.

It isn’t until he’s pulling up to her house, Hopper standing on the porch with crossed arms and a glare on his face that she speaks. “It is hard,” she says.

Steve nods, staring out into the dark woods like he’s expecting something to come barreling out of it. “I know,” he says. “Walkie me if you want me to kidnap you to go beat the shit out of the trees with me or something.”

El smiles, feels the way it stretches her cheeks almost painfully with the force of it. “Thank you, Steve,” she says, hopping out of his car with a wave.

She walks up to her house, ready now, to meet her destiny; even if her destiny is being yelled at by an overprotective Father and grounded for three weeks.

It’s still hard, but it’s a little easier when it’s shared with a friend.

[il-predestinato]

Let’s test your speed writing shall we? 😛

Hmm… my favourite number maybe? 38 🥺🧡

38. "Small Talk" by Katy Perry; pairing - lestappen (what a surprise!)

I just can't believe We went from strangers to lovers to strangers in a lifetime

So... Al, this one completely got away from me: it’s um... slightly longer than 5 sentences (2093 words apparently).

send me an ask with a number between 1 and 100 and I'll write a 5ish sentence fic inspired by that song on my 2022 wrapped playlist!

Title: One Day

Summary: The Monaco Grand Prix is cursed.

Day 37

Max always remembers. Charles always forgets.

Max remembers the address of Charles' apartment in Monte Carlo. (Charles told him on Day 5. Not too shabby, thought Max, for two people who were never friends and closer to enemies.) This time, he goes there first. The speech is well-rehearsed by now. It was a blabbering mess on Day 9, and Charles nearly tossed him off the balcony. (Day 10 was worse; Charles actually called Christian, fuck his life, and nearly called a sports psychologist before Max yeeted his phone off the balcony in desperation.) By Day 13, Max had a polished version of 'the speech'. By now, he could probably rhyme it off in his sleep. Not that it ever yielded any better results, so he abandoned this approach on Days 30 to 36. And that got him nowhere either. So back to square one.

He waits patiently for the five stages of grief to cycle past on speedrun; to give Charles some credit, despite the lack of memory retention, he did seem to get over it quicker and quicker each time. Perhaps something of each Day lingered, even if it wasn't remembrance per se.

"So it's always at Nouvelle Chicane or Le Portier?" questions Charles, hands rubbing at his temples.

Max nods, and then shakes his head. "At the Swimming Pool once," he amends. "On Day 12, I think... a crane fell on my head."

"Why was there even a crane?!" Charles groans, scandalized.

Max shrugs. He hasn't even told Charles about Day 31; a jewel thief literally ran across the race track and smashed a briefcase full of diamonds straight into Charles' helmet at 285 kph.

"So sometimes you die, and sometimes I die?" mumbles Charles with a frown.

"It doesn't matter who," confirms Max. "Then the Day restarts with my alarm going off at 7 am."

-

Day 38

"You've got to be kidding!"

Max is trying not to smile, but Charles looks absolutely petulant.

Charles glares at him. "I died at La Rascasse?" He throws both hands up in the air. "Like... how?! La Rascasse! At the hairpin?! I drive faster to the supermarket, mon dieu!"

"This time I think you took Lando with you -"

Panicked green eyes met his. "Oh, putain!" screeches Charles. "Did I kill Lando? Oh my God, oh my God. Max, please tell me I didn't -"

"Relax, mate." Max rubs both temples. Why is he always cursed to remember? "Everything resets. Lando will be fine."

"But are you sure?" insists Charles anxiously.

Max squeezes him gently on the shoulder. A little shiver runs up his arm, and he's not sure why. This wasn't exactly their first physical contact off the track. (Some Days he can remember more vividly than others; he's not quite ready to admit that the hug from Charles is the reason he remembers Day 9 more clearly than the 29 days that followed.)

"I promise," he says softly. "I got both George and Lance on Day 24, and they both came back just fine the next day."

-

Day 40

“Okay, what if we kill someone else first?”

Max is both impressed and mildly alarmed. It really didn’t take Charles all that long to make the leap from ‘wallow in despair about the unbreakable curse’ to ‘let’s move on to murder.’

“It won’t work.” He shakes his head. “Day 17. Toto and Helmut sort of decapitated each other mid-race, but the Day didn’t end until Carlos put me into the barrier.”

“Toto and Helmut did what?”

-

Day 43

"Tell me what happened yesterday."

Max freezes. The ache in his chest hasn't dulled at all.

Yesterday.

“It’s easier if I show you,” he murmurs, as he tries to ignore the sting in the corners of his eyes.

He steps closer to Charles. He hesitates.

The problem is that he has spent 42 Days with Charles, while Charles has spent none of those Days with him.

He laughs inwardly. But then again, Charles won’t remember this Day either, so what does he have to lose?

Boldness, grief, desire - seizes his chest all at once - and he gathers Charles’ face between his hands; for a fraction of a second, he realizes that Charles isn’t flinching, isn’t moving away. He kisses the soft lips, the very same ones he kissed for the first time yesterday.

Charles kisses him back. And it’s like it was yesterday again.

-

Day 61

It’s worse when he is the cause of death.

-

Day 87

No, it’s worse when Charles dies in his arms.

-

Day 90

He’s wrong again. Nothing is worse than seeing the grief in those green eyes as Max dies in his arms.

Max wants to rip at the gaping wound in his chest. Let him bleed out faster. Let it be tomorrow already.

-

Day 91

“Tell me what happened yesterday.”

Max laughs and sobs. (He sobs in joy.)

He thanks all the stars that Charles didn’t remember. That Charles never remembers.

-

Day 113

“I wish I could remember,” confesses Charles. “It doesn’t seem fair that you know so much about me, and I know almost nothing about you.” He traces his hand along Max’s exposed chest, nestling his face deeper into the crook of Max’s neck.

Max lets him explore. He selfishly loves it. There’s a certain awe in Charles’ expression that he adores, the way he “learns” (relearns) Max’s body each time.

“It’s better that you don’t,” he teases, going for levity this time. “It’s the only way I can guarantee you mind-blowing sex every time, like you’ve never experienced.”

Charles punches him lightly on the sternum. (Max smiles; it’s kinder than the mean little pinch Charles gave him on Day 99.)

“Let’s stay in bed today,” he suggests. “No racing today.”

Charles nods, pressing a feathery kiss to his collarbone. “Maybe that’s the trick.”

Max doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they already tried: Day 7, Day 21, Day 78, Days 103-109. If anything, they always died faster.

-

Day 188

“I love you,” Charles tells him.

Butterflies dance in his chest, and Max fights to maintain composure, just like he did all the previous times when Charles said those words. “You’ve only been with me for a few hours.”

“More than half a year,” corrects Charles.

Has it been that long? Max doesn’t say out loud.

He squeezes Max’s hand on their way out the door, on the way to the race track (on the way to their doom).

“Even if I don’t say it tomorrow, or the Day after that, or for a few Days,” insists Charles. “Just remember that I love you. Always. Even if I don’t remember it.”

-

Day 213

Charles dies for the fifteenth Day in a row.

Max prays to a deity that he doesn’t believe in.

-

Day 219

Charles dies for the twenty-first Day in a row.

Max curses the deity he doesn’t believe in. He vows to let the world break its fucking neck if it means he can keep Charles.

-

Day 220

He tries a different approach. He reaches for all the ugly parts of him that he once swore he would never become.

“- and that is why you will never win the Monaco Grand Prix,” he snarls at Charles, even as he feels his chest - his whole body - fracturing. He wants to bite until he bleeds and swallow his own tongue, but he ploughs on for Charles’ sake. “You will never live up to what you promised your father or Jules -”

Charles punches him. Hard.

It hurts.

He’s glad it hurts. Maybe if Charles hates him, like the universe did, maybe then - just maybe - he might live.

-

Day 224

“I didn’t mean it,” he swallows thickly. “I didn’t mean any of it -”

Charles kisses away whatever apology he was trying to form in his throat.

He can’t help but think: If Charles could remember, truly remember, he would never forgive me.

-

Day 330

Today, he doesn’t go to Charles at all.

Maybe he is the problem.

The poison that feeds this curse. He is the constant variable after all, the part of the equation that dooms them to this eternal purgatory.

-

Day 359

Charles tries to go to him.

He never accounted for that.

Max wants to open that door. Just one twist of the door knob, and Charles will be on the other side. Beautiful, kind, brave Charles. He wants -

It takes every might of his willpower to pull his hand away from the door.

-

Day 362

It’s raining. It never rains. This Day is always, unfailingly sunny.

Charles is in his arms once again, bleeding out on the pavement. The rain tries to wash the blood away. Tries to wash Charles away.

He’s crying, but Charles can’t see that, because the rain washes his tears away too.

“I should have been with you.”

All that wasted time. And for what?

He hasn’t seen Charles for twenty-two Days, but the green eyes that stare back at him are calm, even as the life behind them fades with every passing second.

“You’re with me now,” whispers Charles weakly.

“I love you,” he sobs. He doesn’t care if he’s practically a stranger to this Charles, the one dying in his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

When Charles’ eyes close at last, his face is peaceful, almost the hint of a smile tugging on his lips. A little bit of pain departs with the last breath that Max releases before his world fades to black.

-

Day 363

Charles launches a baguette at his head, and Max cannot believe the man still insists that he doesn’t possess a single iota of French ancestry.

“You abandoned me for how many days?” Charles’ accusation makes him flinch harder than the impact of the baguette on his forehead.

“Schat, I -”

Charles growls at him. “Don’t ‘schat’ me! First of all, I have no idea what that means -”

Max makes an offended noise. Charles loves his pet name, if only he could remember.

“Second of all,” continues Charles relentlessly, “I may not remember, but I felt it.”

That causes Max to fall silent.

“Oh.”

Charles sniffs, picking up the discarded baguette off the floor. “I don’t know how to explain it, but even when I don’t remember, I feel all of it. I can feel everything we went through.”

-

Day 365

Some Days are easier than others. He’s not sure which Day this one is yet. A quick, painless death after a long, beautiful day of laughter? They even made it past the actual race twice. (The first time, Charles drowned in the Monte Carlo harbour during the after party; it remains the one and only time he’s ever won the Monaco Grand Prix, which Max continues to tease him about. The second time, Daniel accidentally cracked Max’s skull with the podium champagne.) Or will it be a painful, drawn out death after a gloomy, joyless day? (Max is still embarrassed about that time he slipped on a bar of soap in the shower on Day 81, ending the Day about 15 minutes after it had started.)

Charles lays a bowl of tomato soup in front of him.

(Max once told him that he loved tomato soup. Maybe 150 Days ago. Maybe earlier than that. He mentioned it only once. Not that Charles ever remembers.)

Somehow Charles always remembers.

“So what’s the plan today?” asks Charles lightly.

The morning sun is streaming through the pearly white curtains, and a crown of light dances around Charles’ soft brown curls. A soft breeze through the open window wafts the tangy aroma of tomato soup towards him.

He takes Charles’ hand in his own and pulls him down so he can taste him on his lips.

“Just being with you,” he whispers, and his heart lightens when Charles rewards him with a dimpled smile. “If I have to live one Day over and over again, then I’m going to spend that Day with you.”

He understands now.

He thought the universe had cursed him. Had cursed them. But even a single Day with Charles was a gift. And he got to relive it over and over again. He won’t waste it again.

-

Day 366 Tomorrow

The alarm doesn’t go off at 7 am.

He only wakes up when the warm duvet is rudely snatched away from him, leaving him shivering in the crisp morning air. A pair of ice cold feet burrows their way into the warm space between his thighs, and a whiplash of messy brown hair makes his eyes sting after settling on his pillow.

-

Hope you enjoyed, @alestire

That kind of... spiralled.

[landwriter]

Absolutely begging you to write the Hob/Dream cheeseburgers and vengeance story

Back when I was doing Spotify Wrapped Prompts (remember those???) I made a list of what I would do for each of them before answering the actual asks (ie following the assignment before proceeding to not follow it at all). I am banned (by myself) from continuing them until Seventies San Francisco AU is done, since it was a Spotify Wrapped prompt before it was a 20K+ WIP, from an anon who has brought a curse upon my house (affectionate). BUT one of them, to finally arrive at the point, was Romance Dawn by Radkey:

canon verse between meetings, hob is a union organizer, hob is in the punk scene, hob is setting fires or putting them out, hob is at shows, hob is getting in fights, and the fierceness of it all transmits to his feelings for his stranger, and then one day he sees him, thinks it’s a dream (is it a dream?), he kisses him, tastes blood, something is wrong, wakes with vague memories, goes running back and back again, until he gets it out of him, where are you, fawney rig. and it’s maybe a fishbowl destruction fic. and like. london punk/hardcore scene & thatcherism & trade union strikes. burning down fawney rig. sort of green room energy but holy war against the burgesses. smashing it. saving dream. not even i. we. we will salt the fucking earth here.

Anyways, I think the cheeseburgers and vengeance would fit in great with that and Hob and his punk family deserve that experience.

cc: @fancy-rock-dove <3

[firstelevens]

for Spotify wrapped prompts: Bake-Off AU (duh!!!) + 🎵#19, maybe??

19. Dearly Departed - Shakey Graves ft. Esmé Patterson

In spite of the fact that she's the one calling him, Daisy looks absolutely baffled when Sam answers her video call.

"Why are you sitting in a truck in the dark?"

"Did I hallucinate the texts I sent you a minute ago? Didn't I just explain this to you?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think you were serious," Daisy says, frowning at her phone. "Shouldn't you be at home with Bucky? Don't you guys literally count down the seconds until you get to be in the same city again?"

"That was one time, Daisy, and it was a very specific-" Sam trails off at the look that she gives him. "We had a fight."

"You're always fighting."

"I don't mean we had a silly argument over something; I mean we had a fight."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Was it serious?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

For a long time, Daisy is quiet, looking in the direction of what Sam can only assume is Daniel, doing something in the kitchen that carries the sound of clinking plates and cutlery across the room to where Daisy sits.

"I don't mean to be pushy," she finally says, "or to repeat myself, but Sam...why are you sitting in a truck in the dark?"

"We literally just-"

"No, I'm asking why you're sitting in a truck in the dark instead of going home to talk to Bucky."

Sam sighs. "I'm pulled up in front of the house."

"Sam."

"I've been here for a while; I just can't make myself go in. I keep thinking, what if we had all these almosts and then we spent a year scrambling for time together and this is how it ends because that wasn't enough? Daisy, what if this is it?"

"Don't let it be," says Daisy. "And don't tell me you don't have that power, because I know you do."

"But how do-"

"I don't know how, but I know it's not happening in the truck. Go inside, Sam," she says, and hangs up before he can argue.

Daisy isn't above texting Bucky to inform him that Sam is sitting in his own driveway in the dark like a creep, so it's pure concern for his own dignity that sends Sam towards the front door.

Bucky's back is to him when he comes in, but Sam doesn't think for a second that Bucky doesn't know he's there: his whole body goes still, like he's braced for catastrophe and doesn't want to set anything off by flinching at the wrong moment.

Sam gently presses the door shut and tosses his keys in the dish by the door, toeing off his shoes and making his way to the kitchen. Bucky still hasn't turned around.

Now that he's closer, Sam can see that he's pressing focaccia into a pan, the sleeve of his borrowed sweatshirt sliding down his arm and getting perilously close to dipping into the herb-flecked dough. Wordlessly, Sam reaches over and pushes up Bucky's right sleeve, folding the cuff over a couple times so it stays up and out of his way.

Bucky relaxes into Sam's touch, canting a little bit in his direction without even lifting his eyes from the pan.

On a hunch, Sam takes a risk and rests his chin on Bucky's shoulder, peering down at the two square pans of dough in front of them. "If these are apology focaccias," he says, "you have to let me go first, because there's no way I can follow freshly baked bread."

For a moment, Bucky is still stiff as a board, but when he finally lets himself lean into Sam's warmth, Sam feels something slot back into place in the center of his chest.

"It's not apology focaccia," Bucky says quietly.

"Oh," says Sam, trying to take it into stride. He'd just been so certain that--

"The bread is for dinner," Bucky continues. "But there's an apology pie in the fridge right now that's definitely gonna be a tough act to follow, so I'll let you go first anyway."

Put a number 1-100 in my inbox along with a ship/character (or an AU) and I will write you a microfic.

[eurydicees]

55!

55 for the spotify wrapped prompts!! apologies for the delay, please take my humble iwaoi offering. i DID in fact, out loud, to an empty kitchen, say, "fuck they're so cute" when i finished editing this. literally so fluffy it's sickening. enjoy!!

if i tell you i want you forever

summary: a car ride. a song. and a proposal, of sorts. prompt: spotify wrapped #55, paper rings by taylor swift pairings: hajime iwaizumi/tooru oikawa words: 1436 warnings: none 

They’re driving, Oikawa behind the wheel and Iwaizumi in the passenger seat. Iwaizumi is fussing with the music, tapping at Spotify playlists on Oikawa’s phone as if it were his own. He finally finds a song that he likes, and he lets it play; and the thing is that he doesn’t even like this song that much, it’s not really his taste in music, but Oikawa is singing along, tapping his hands on the wheel, and that’s enough for Iwaizumi. 

And the other thing is that Oikawa is not a good singer. He doesn’t know how to sing, is always just slightly off key, is always a beat behind the track, always fumbles with the words when the singer goes a little too fast for his tongue to keep up with. He’s not good at singing at all. 

Iwaizumi sits in the passenger seat, though, and he stares at Oikawa in the driver’s seat and he listens to him sing the words all wrong, and he thinks, I want to be here for the rest of my life. 

The thought that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Oikawa is not a groundbreaking epiphany. It’s something that he’s always kind of, sort of known—something that’s always lived on the periphery of his plans for the future. When he was a kid and imagining his future, Oikawa was always there: sometimes in the apartment or house next door, sometimes just in the same city meeting up for coffee every week. But always there.

So this revelation about wanting to spend the rest of his life in the passenger seat of Oikawa’s car, listening to him sing off key, is not a revelation that comes out of nowhere. He’s always known that he wants to forever keep Oikawa in his life whether it be in one form or another. 

But, at the same time, it’s different now. It’s different because they’ve been dating for three years and how soon is too soon to tell someone that you want to listen to their rendition of a bad pop song for the rest of your life? How soon is too soon to tell someone that having these moments—driving down the highway into the sunset, the windows rolled down and wind fussing with their hair, the music blasting and their voices louder—means everything to you? How soon is too soon to tell someone that they’re kind of everything, kind of it for you? 

Iwaizumi doesn’t know, but he’s also never successfully kept a secret from Oikawa and he thinks that probably this realization isn’t something he’s going to be able to keep to himself for very long. He doesn’t want to scare Oikawa off, but if Oikawa hasn’t been scared off by now, he might never be. That may be impossible to do. 

He stares at Oikawa: watching his mouth move around the wrong lyrics to the song; watching those long, slender fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel at the wrong tempo; watching the wind tangle its hands in his hair and mess with the styling he had spent an hour on earlier that day; watching his gaze, soft on the road, and those beautiful eyes; watching him smile a little as an instrumental break hits. 

He loves him. He loves him. 

This is something that has always been true and always will be true. He’s sure of it. He wants to spend the rest of his life watching this boy’s happiness openly written over his face. He wants to spend the rest of his life at this boy’s side. He’s watched Oikawa grow up, he’s grown up with Oikawa, together at every step of their lives, and he sees no reason that he shouldn’t be at every future step. 

“You’re staring at me,” Oikawa says. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by it, but there’s a pink flush at his cheeks and Iwaizumi isn’t sure if its the bleed of the sunset lingering on his skin or its the weight of Iwaizumi’s staring making him blush. “What’re you thinking in that head of yours?” 

The empty stretch of highway seems impossibly long. There’s much too long between here, at mile marker 328, and the motel they’re headed to for their anniversary celebration’s week away. There’s much too much time between now and then for Iwaizumi to keep this to himself. 

“I love you,” Iwaizumi blurts out. The words feel too big for his mouth, and he feels clumsy in his confession, like it’s his first time saying it all over again. 

The pink at Oikawa’s cheeks deepens, and Oikawa smiles a little. “I love you too.” 

Iwaizumi continues, blunt as ever, stumbling over the words a little, “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. We—can we get married?” 

Oikawa’s eyes go wide. He glances over at Iwaizumi, a sharp turn of his head, and then swears and turns back to the road. Iwaizumi’s heart drops into his stomach, fuck—he said it too soon, said what he shouldn’t have, he’s ruined everything, but he can’t stop talking. 

“You deserve a real proposal,” he manages to choke out, “with gold rings and diamonds and shit. But I—I want to be with you forever. I want this forever. And I want you to know that. I want you to know—” 

Oikawa puts his blinker on, signaling the move to the empty road, and swerves to the side of the road. He parks the car on the shoulder of the highway, his breathing heavy—Iwaizumi’s heart is in his throat now, pouring out a confession that Oikawa clearly isn’t ready to hear—and then Oikawa says, “Are you—are you serious?” 

He’s crying. There are tears gathering at his eyelashes and Iwaizumi is terrified. He knows Oikawa loves him, of course he does, they’ve been dating for three years and pining for years before that, but maybe marriage isn’t something that Oikawa wants, maybe Oikawa isn’t ready for that— 

But he says, anyway, “Yeah. I’m serious. It’s—we could. Right now. We’re in Las Vegas for the week. Plenty of people—” 

“Shit, Hajime,” Oikawa whispers. He’s looking at Iwaizumi with wonder in his eyes, like he’s a miracle or a prayer come true or something that’s both. “Yeah, fuck, yes, let’s do it—let’s, like, right now, let’s—Hajime.” 

“We don’t have rings,” Iwaizumi stutters out, “but we can stop somewhere and—” 

Oikawa shakes his head and the tears are falling now for real, slipping down his cheeks and past his chin. His hands scramble around the car seats until he finds what he’s looking for stuffed in the cupholder: the paper wrapper for the straw they had gotten with their milkshakes some miles back. 

“Here, here,” he says, laughing, bright and joyful and that stupid song is still playing and it’s suddenly so warm in the car and Iwaizumi thinks his heart is going to burst out of his body and grow wings. 

Yes—this is what he wants for the rest of his life. Drives to shitty motels in expensive cities for anniversaries and cheap milkshakes along the way and singing the wrong words to bad music and paper straw wrapper rings. 

Oikawa grabs for Iwaizumi’s hand and Iwaizumi splays out his fingers for Oikawa to wrap the paper straw wrapper around his left ring finger, once, twice, then tucking in the end to the loop. He’s crying and laughing and still holding Iwaizumi’s hand and Iwaizumi feels golden. 

“I’ll get you a real ring when we go into the city tomorrow,” Iwaizumi promises. 

“Three months' paycheck,” Oikawa says, laughing. 

Iwaizumi grins at him. “You fucking wish.” 

Oikawa lets go of Iwaizumi’s hand to cup his cheeks in both of his own hands and pull him into a kiss. It’s tender and sweet and Oikawa tastes like chocolate milkshake and Iwaizumi probably tastes like vanilla and Iwaizumi is struck, all over again, with wonder that they’re in love with each other. How lucky is he? 

“I’ll marry you with just a paper ring,” Oikawa promises, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes flutter shut and Iwaizumi takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll even elope with you in one of those cheap chapels run by Elvis impersonators.” 

Iwaizumi laughs. “I love you so fucking much.” 

“I love you too, Iwa.” Oikawa exhales and Iwaizumi can feel his hot breath on his own lips. He wants to drink Oikawa in, wants to hold him forever, wants to be with him forever. “Gonna spend the rest of my life with you.” 

“That’s a long time.” 

“Yeah,” Oikawa whispers. He’s grinning. “Aren’t I lucky?”