The whole goal of this night was fun. They just scored some fake IDs, practice for tomorrow was
cancelled, and one of the clubs on campus is having $10 bottomless cup night.
Whiskey’s plan was to get drunk, maybe dance a little, stop by that greasy
pizza place on the walk back to the dorm, then crash until noon. Fun.He did not expect this night to be a hazard to his goddamn
health. And yet here he is, watching Tango dance like he’s trying to end
Whiskey’s life.
Tag: fic
gospel around his fingers
Dex slams the door shut and presses against the wood, leaning his head back and sucking in a deep breath. He stares blindly up at the ceiling and–
“Nurse, I dare you to kiss the prettiest person in the room. Not counting me.” Lardo pretends to flip a lock of hair over her shoulder. “We all know I’d smoke you bitches,” she adds, grinning. Her teeth flash in the low lighting, and she knocks back the last of her drink as the gather group lets out joking boos.
They all “ooh” at Nursey as he raises a challenging eyebrow and smirks at Lardo. He makes a show of looking around the room, leering slightly at the other players of spin the bottle – Holster, Dex, Tango, Ollie, Wicks, and a few members of the volleyball and soccer teams. Bitty is grinning from his spot on the floor next to Lardo and Dex, watching as Nursey catches the eye of each person.
“Dex!” The memory is abruptly interrupted as Chowder’s voice comes from beyond the door. “Come on, man!” Dex tries to straighten up, but his legs refuse to work. He sinks down to the floor, back still pressed against the door, trying to suck in deep breaths of air. He drops his head between his knees, squeezing his eyes shut and–
How do you think Nursey finds out that Dex isn’t straight, and just how unchill is he about this discovery?
OK I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS ABOUT HOW THIS HAPPENED SO I’M JUST
GONNA PICK MY FAVE AT THE MOMENT
“villain attempts to go back in time to kill superman as a small child, gets shot in the face by ma kent, who buries him behind the barn with the others” would probably have niche appeal as a comic but i don’t care, i want it
The first time a man from the future showed up at Martha Kent’s house, Clark Kent was two years old.
According to his birth certificate, anyway. She just kind of accepted that the details were a little fudged. Relativity, and all.
Maybe the stranger would have succeeded in whatever it was he wanted to do, except that he really did just show up. Appeared, like a ghost made flesh, right in the backyard. Clark, thank goodness, was out in the fields with Jonathan. He couldn’t bear to be alone, that boy, and they could never bear to leave him.
Which left Martha free to shoot the ghostly intruder in the face.
Martha had not always considered herself a shoot first, ask questions later sort of a person. But that was before she found a baby in a spaceship where her corn was supposed to be.
They’d switch off, Jonathan and her, who got Clark and who got the shotgun. Martha got the shotgun more often than not. Guns made her husband uncomfortable. She was hardly a fan, but she’d always been a terrible pacifist. Too determined to defend herself.
The sight of all that blood and brain and bone was still nauseating. She compartmentalized, told herself it was no different from slaughtering a cow; didn’t think about riot gear or tear gas or the friends she’d lost or all the things she’d moved away from when her heart couldn’t take it any longer. This was different. This was her son.
She prodded the corpse with her foot. It remained a corpse. A real nasty looking corpse, all big and burly and holding a gun much too large. She didn’t like making assumptions based on appearances, but she didn’t imagine he’d been coming for anything nice. She bent down to search his pockets, found a metal wallet and flipped it open.
Born 2018.
Well, hell. Wasn’t that just a kick in the pants?
Probably she ought to have been a bit more unsettled than she was. But she’d been waiting two years for someone to show up on her doorstep, men in black or UFOs or something. Hell, she’d half expected her sweet little boy to hatch into something worse.
Just because she brought home space babies didn’t mean she was a damn fool.
Jonathan had rejoined her in long strides, was holding Clark in such a way that he couldn’t see the corpse on the ground. “Well, shit,” he said.
“Eyup,” Martha agreed.
“Don’t look government.”
“Nope.”
“We burying him?”
“I’ll bury him,” Martha said, standing up. “You get Clark inside and read him a book or something. I don’t want him seeing any of this, getting him messed up in the head.”
“You sure? Looks heavy.”
“That’s why we have a wheelbarrow. I’ll stick him out behind the barn, might as well keep all our secrets in one place.”
Martha had a long time to think as she dug a time traveler’s grave. There were a lot of reasons someone might travel back in time trying to kill her kid. The first was her instinct as a mother, which was: he was a fucking asshole. Who killed a kid? Fucking assholes, that was who.
Now, it was also possible that her sweet little boy grew up to be some kind of space Hitler. She didn’t think she’d raise that kind of a kid, but she didn’t suppose there was any parent who set out to raise a Hitler.
Still didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t much like the idea of killing baby Hitler, either.
it was a close thing
note: this honestly all started because i was stuck in a TERRIBLE meeting and i
started thinking about bitty being sad about jack and i wrote this meta post and then i had to write 5k words to accompany it.i’m fine.–
Bitty had
never meant for it to go this far. It had been a crush and he’d had plenty
before. He’d had plenty of experience getting over them, too. The thing was…he’d
never figured on Jack liking him back.
He had no experience whatsoever with this strange brand of casual flirtation,
invisible to everyone except for himself.Bitty
blamed Kent Parson, perhaps a little pettily. The thing was – it hadn’t been a
problem before Kent Parson crashed Epikegster, because Bitty had been cocooned
in the safety of the knowledge that his crush was straight as an arrow and
therefore, would never be interested. The fact that Jack had definitely been
making out with Kent Parson in his room before angrily kicking him out not because of the kissing but because Kent
was being an asshole was a problem for Bitty.It was a
problem because it sparked a traitorous little flame of hope in Bitty every
time he looked at Jack. It was a problem because it caused Bitty to rewind
every moment they’d ever shared and sort through them for signs. It was a
problem because it meant Bitty’s crush didn’t have to be unrequited. Bitty was going to burn alive with the
knowledge.
Keep It Organized
Sequel to Keep It Small (you don’t have to read that one but it would probably help!); 12k; RansomxHolster
Keep It Organized
Ransom knows that, to most people, his Excel sheets are a joke.
Well, maybe not a joke, but they aren’t meant to be taken seriously. They are just a thing that Ransom does to help plan events (mostly kegsters) or if someone has a particularly big life decision and most people assume that about half the time he informs them “Excel says,” he is making it up.
He’s not though.
Not ever.
Because he knows that people think he is bad at managing stress and, to be fair to them, he does tend to miscalculate and break down at least twice a year (finals) but, really, for how anxious he is all the time, he thinks he does a pretty good job.
The lists help. He keeps track of things. He might have too much to do, but at least he keeps it organized.
In middle school, before he has his own computer, his room is a mess of post-its and lists and his family is happy chaos, always has been, but for Ransom that means his parents aren’t the type to keep track of things, are content to go with the flow and Ransom…
Ransom needs structure. So the lists become a whiteboard calendar and when he gets a laptop for high school, Ransom goes digital.
He picks Excel for many reasons. Primarily because Microsoft Word is too unpredictable (especially with bullet points) and, once he gets more advanced (figuring out his average in each class before his report cards come out, keeping track of his summer workouts so he is in shape for fall, etc), he needs the math that Excel offers him.
But also because no one in his family uses Excel. So when one of his sisters borrows his laptop (Excel says Kels borrows it the most), there is no chance they will look in the “Recent” files and see just how much Ransom relies on Excel sheets. For everything.
Keep It Small
I blame the fact that it has rained here for like 3 weeks straight for this one. Ransom/Holster ~3K; TW: Panic attack, canon-level alcohol use, unrequited love
Keep It Small
People don’t know as much as they think they do.
Throughout this whole thing, that’s the primary fact that Holster has learned for himself: People don’t know. And they aren’t good at guessing much either.
Freshmen year, everyone “knows” that Ransom and Holster have been friends for years (not true, they’d met first day of hockey pre-season, same as the rest of the team) and everyone “knows” by sophomore year that they are always down for a threesome (they’d only done it twice actually; twice before it got to be too much) and, when Junior year comes around, everyone “knows” that Ransom and Holster are “best friends for life.”
“The closest bros,” people say. “On the same wavelength.” “Downright freaky.” “Always thinking the exact same thing.”
Also not true. Well, partly true. Most of it could be true.
If it weren’t for the other thing.
Of course, that’s where people are the most incorrect. Not even just the other guys on the team. Everyone, from what Holster can tell. The entire human race.
Because people think being in love is this huge, all-encompassing thing. They think it takes over and colors all it touches and it’s a constant stabbing, shooting pain that makes the friendship not worth it.
That’s not how it is, though. Not for Holster.
Whatever you do, don’t imagine Dex in foster care getting bullied by the other kids as they pull at his red hair and call him Orphan Annie.
hello i am here to supply angst under the cut
Prompt: Dex gets hit. Hard. As in he goes unconscious for a few minutes. Nursey is not ok
It happens in slow motion, and every single fucking detail
is burned into Nursey’s mind. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the
sound Dex made as he crashed into the boards, or the lurching in his stomach
when the ref blew the whistle and Dex wasn’t
getting up, why isn’t he getting up, Jesus Christ Dex please get up.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg was born in Brooklyn in 1933. She meets Steve Rogers pre- or post-freezing.
OR BOTH!
1942:
It was nice to be back in New York, Steve thought, after touring the whole country with the Star Spangled Show. Even better, once the show was done here, they were going overseas – not into combat, but at least it was a start. It made him cheer up just to think about it, and he maybe threw a little extra flair into the show every night, took a little extra time at the stage door.
“What’s your name?” he asked, crouching to get on eye-level with the little girl who had been patiently waiting behind several taller, pushier people.
“Ruth,” she said shyly, offering him her autograph book.
“Lovely name,” he replied. “Did you like the show?”
She nodded. “I liked the dancing.”
“You gonna be a dancer when you grow up?”
“Nuh uh,” she said.
“What’re you gonna be?”
“A judge,” she said.
“Yeah? You gonna make sure justice is done?”
She nodded soberly.
“Well, Ruth, you gotta study hard, you know that, right?” he asked, as he signed her book. “I expect to see you on the bench someday.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, stepping back, and another handful of kids surged around her. Cute kid.
2012:
Steve had always liked Civics in school, but when you had to catch up on seventy years between your last history class and the present, it could get a little overwhelming. On the other hand, celebrity was good for something; when he’d been working on memorizing the names and major cases of the Supreme Court justices, Tony had said, “Well, do you want to meet them?”
A couple of long phone calls and a few weeks later, Steve passed through a LOT of security, down a hallway, and into a courtroom; it was early in the morning, ahead of the open public hours, and the room smelled like coffee. A tiny bird of a woman in a black gown was standing in front of the seating box.
“Captain,” she said, as he shook her hand.
“Justice Ginsburg, right?” he asked. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
“I feel the same,” she said, and there was something very familiar about her smile. “I wanted to get here a little earlier than everyone else, to speak to you in private.”
He was opening his mouth, about to ask why, when she reached into a pocket of the robe and took out a battered leather book, the kind kids used to collect autographs in.
“I don’t suppose you remember, you must have signed a lot of autographs,” she said. “But back in the war, just before you left for overseas, I went to see your bond show.”
Steve looked down. Scrawled on the page was his clumsy signature and, in slightly better lettering, To Judge Ruth. Study Hard!
He looked up at her, eyes wide. “No, I remember – I asked if you wanted to be a dancer and you said no, you were going to be a judge.”
“You were the first adult outside of my family who didn’t sneer at a girl wanting to be a judge,” she said.
“Well,” Steve said faintly. “Guess you must have studied.”
“Captain America said he wanted to see me on the bench. Couldn’t very well let him down,” she replied, and Steve laughed.
just moving along like everyone else 