#I need to write a 'fic about this...

[fountainpenguin]

Something incredibly funny about A New Wish's timeline is that Peri gets to celebrate his birthday before Dev...

POV, you're Dev and your fairy is living it up and you're like... "Peri, I'm still reeling over the fact that my dad loves his boots more than me, can you not right now?"

[eridan-ampora]

i love it when characters are codependent. i love it when losing someone feels like losing a limb. i love it when two people "complete" each other so wholly and terribly that one can barely function without the other. i love it when the fear of losing the only person who understands them is so all-consuming they'll destroy anything to stay together, including themselves.

[magnusbae]

To illustrate this post by @mayahawkse I would like to visualize to you the difference:

A post in 2023:

A post in 2014:

A zoom out of the same post:

This is what a community looks like.

See how in 2023 almost all of the reblogs come from the OP, from their few hours/days in the tag search. Meanwhile in 2014 the % of reblogs from OP is insignificant, because most of the reblogs come from the reblogs within the fandom, within the micro-communities formed there. You didn't need to rely on tags, or search, or being featured. Because the community took care of you, made sure to pass the work between themselves and onto their blog and exposed their followers to it. It kept works alive for years.

It's not JUST the reblog/like ratio that causing this issue, it's the type of interaction people have. They're content with scrolling and liking the search engine, instead of actually having a reblogging relationship with other blogs in their community.

Anyways, if you want to see more content you like, the only true way to make it happen is to reblog it. Likes do not forward content in no way but making OP feel nice. Reblogs on the other hand make content eternal. They make it relevant, they make it exist outside of a fickle tumblr search that hardly works on the best of days.

If you want more of something, reblog it.

[movedtodykedvonte]

*Spidey and the Sinister Six having their usual fight*

Doc Ock, landing a hit: You’re getting slow Spider-Man! Age finally catching up to you?

Spider-Man: You wish! I haven’t even hit my 30s! From those costumes I can already tell I failed to save you guys from those midlife crises! Sorry by the way.

Vulture: Watch it wallcr- wait… Did you just say your not in your thirties yet?

Spider-Man: Surprised that this spiders so young and spry? Well-

Electro: Dude I’ve been fighting you for at least 5 fucking years! How old even are you?

Shocker, joking cause he’s the only one who picked up no grown adult acts likes Spidey: Don’t swear in-front of the boy you don’t want him to pick it up.

Rhino: Christ! You’re tellin me I almost crushed some 12-year-olds skull all those years ago?

Spider-Man, regretting his quipping: I was not that young! Like just starting freshman year but-

Sandman, horrified as he’s the only one with a kid and dad instincts(as of my iteration): I could’ve killed a kid…

Shocker, genuinely curious: Are you even old enough to drink? Cruel to kill a man who ain’t had his first drink yet.

Electro: Please tell us you’re at least over 25 as of this fight. Hell, I’ll take over 21!

Spider-Man:….

Sandman, realizing just how young he really is: Oh my god.

Spider-Man: My birthday’s coming up soon so I guess it counts?

Doc Ock, exacerbated: It. Does. Not!

Vulture: What would your mother think if she knew her son was out here risking his life telling poorly constructed jokes?

Spider-Man, offended cause it quips slap: 1. My jokes are great 2. She and my dad are dead so-

Sandman, hysterical cause holy shit he almost killed a kid orphan: OH MY GOD!

[saixria]

Somewhere in Apollo’s hospital on Olympus

[iamrizaka]

As much as I love the idea of Will wearing Lee's flannel after his death, I much more prefer a scenario where he was constantly trying to steal it when Lee wasn't looking. Lee got fed up with this gremlin child (affectionate) trying to steal his clothes (he knows that he should toss it out, burn it, but he can't bring himself to do it; it holds way too many memories) so he gets a green flannel and embroiders it with little sun symbols.

He hides it in one of the secret rooms in the infirmary, because he can't have any of his siblings – or worse, a spy – stumble across it in his cabin. He leaves it here and makes a promise to give it to Will on his birthday.

Over a year later, Will tries to find a place to hide – no one should see their head counselor and head medic cry. He finds this room and remembers the talks about it and how it was one of Lee and Luke's secret hideouts. He wants to leave; he doesn't need another memory of what it was and what it could've been. But his gut tells him to enter and he finds a neatly packaged box.

There's a green flannel and a note:

For my little brother, Will

— Lee

P.S. stop stealing my clothes!

He never takes it off.

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[bababaka]

Yall need to interact with fanfiction author's more.

So. After the ddos attack on ao3.

I was encouraged to write more comments and make my love known to fanfic writers.

I dont really like commenting. Because im a bit shy and soooo lazy.

Now though. I am writing more comments. And dude. This is so heartwarming. Ya'll need to treat writers better. They are doing the lord's work.

Take for an example, couple of days prior, i was searching for something interesting to read, and found an oneshot quite compelling.

I read it. At the end of it, i was blown away by how good it was. It promised me something and it went beyond my expectations. But then i saw a crime, zero fucking comments!

At that moment, i wasn't feeling up to writing a comment. Because, normally i like to write huge paragraphs. But because im lazy i decided to be brief.

Next day, the author answered that the comment lift their mood for the whole day.

That warmed my heart.

Duuuuuuuude! Write comments! Suport the writers of the fics you like! No need to be something super elaborate. Just give your thoughts. Freak out. Ramble. Ask something. Make theories. Compliment. Make a joke about how you wished to give kudos every chapter but ao3 sucks(not true bby) and won't let you.

Truly. Just. Comment. It can make someone's day. And that is part of the apeal of writing fics. Interacting with people.

Just give love to fanfic writers yall. They deserve this and so much more.

[cryptid-cave]

Currently thinking about a reader who, while having a full-time job and playing the part of a “real adult” pretty well for the most part, is still kind of lost and pathetic. It feels less like they’re living and more like they’re surviving, getting by on their own with just a cat for company.

Enter John Price, who’s currently on medical leave and just itching for a project. Maybe reader works at a store near his home that he shops at almost every other day, or works at the library where he goes when he needs to get out of the house. Either way, he spots this pretty little thing who clearly needs some love and guidance, preferably from a strong, gentle hand - and who better to do that than him?

Anyways, save me bossy and demanding Price with a savior complex, save me

[thevioletcaptain]

i genuinely don't care how good a piece of ai generated art or writing looks on the surface. i don't care if it emulates brush strokes and metaphor in a way indistinguishable from those created by a person.

it is not the product of thoughtful creation. it offers no insights into the creator's life or viewpoint. it has no connection to a moment in time or a place or an attitude. it has no perspective. it has no value.

it's empty, it's hollow, and it exists only to generate clicks (and by extension, ad revenue.)

it's just another revolting symptom of the disease that is late stage capitalism, and it fucking sucks.

[lovealwayssay]

I would pay an ungodly amount of money for a Supernatural finale where Dean rescues Cas from the Empty and tells him he loves him too, Eileen comes back to be with Sam, and Jack chooses to live with the four of them in the bunker as a happy family.

[vampireposter]

meeting wyll at the grove, as someone who the tieflings trust enough to train their children, says so much about him. it's so sad that he doesn't get explored in acts 2-3 as deeply as the other companions, when his problems are equally intense. the average player probably long rests once before coming across the grove, but even if not, in that time wyll has already proven to the tieflings that they can rely on the Blade of Frontiers.

this is the immediate first thing he chooses to do after being condemned to slow death via ceremorphosis. his priority list in the first conversations with tav is: 1) hunt down a dangerous devil, 2) help zevlor with the goblins, 3) once nothing threatens the tieflings he will gladly search for a tadpole cure. wyll is perpetually his own last priority, and i wonder if it has to do with the lore about souls.

if he believes mind flayers' souls have been destroyed, and fiend warlocks will all have their souls sent to the hells after death, then becoming a mind flayer isn't the worst possible way for him to die. he would never become a mindless monster to save his own soul, but he's not gripped by horror the way that some of the other origin characters are. lae'zel has been made revoltingly impure to her people, astarion is terrified of losing the scrap of bodily autonomy he just regained, gale is guilt-ridden over the orb detonation if he dies, shadowheart has to survive to prove herself to her cult leader, and karlach has also just regained bodily autonomy and is desparate to live.

this is just another quest for the Blade, whose persona guards wyll ravengard against the vice of self-concern when he ought to be concerned for those in need.

[mangostarjam]

guard dog — blue lock, nagi seishiro x gn!reader, "baby" as a pet name, some smut i guess, creampie, established relationship, pro footballer!nagi, 1.5k words

Everyone thinks Nagi Seishiro is lazy.

It's a valid assumption. The professional football player is easy fodder for sports talk show hosts who love to criticize Seishiro for yawning hugely during press conferences and visibly playing games on his phone as his publicist tries to talk some sense into him. Seishiro hardly ever shows up for the charity galas, he has to be bribed to attend celebration parties, and his biggest brand deal is for a memory foam pillow company (which he only accepted because it meant he could nap on set).

To the world, he's a football genius blessed with the talent and skill to coast by and be lazy. Sure, Seishiro works out and goes to practice and plays hard when it counts, but if he's not in football mode, it's a pretty safe bet that he's either asleep or playing video games.

But you know better.

You know the world thinks Nagi Seishiro is lazy, but what they don't see — what they conveniently gloss over and ignore because it doesn't fit their narrative — is that Nagi Seishiro is an egoist.

And he gets what he wants.

So you aren't that surprised to find yourself squirming beneath his long, toned body — your heels digging into the strong muscles of his back, hands tugging harshly at his sweat dampened hair, back bowed as he coaxes another orgasm out of you as you sob his name.

"Mmph, fuck—" Seishiro groans low by your ear, hips stuttering as his cock throbs hard inside you. He manages two more rough thrusts before he's pressing his face into your hair, chest heaving as everything releases in a rush. "Feels so good, baby…"

You blink tears out of your eyes. The couch creaks as your boyfriend squishes you into the cushions, all dense toned muscle and long limbs and warm, heated skin. "Don't fall asleep," you pinch his side in warning but he doesn't even flinch. Your voice is raspy with overuse. "Seriously, Seishiro-kun!"

"But you're comfy…"

"I was in the middle of making dinner, y'know," you scold, but your tone is undeniably fond. "Our food's gonna be cold if you don't get up."

Seishiro grumbles, but ultimately acquiesces and raises his head. Dark white strands are plastered to his forehead. "Eating's such a drag," he sighs and presses a kiss to your cheek. The tip of your nose. Your other cheek. "Your cooking's yummy, though."

He finally lifts himself up and you wince as his softening cock pulls free. Wetness drips along your inner thighs. "Uh oh."

"Ah, wait," he says, reaching for a tissue on the nearby kotatsu. Seishiro's touch is firm as he helps clean you up. It's a simple matter for him to yank his sweatpants and boxers back up his thick thighs, but you end up wobbling to the bedroom to change into something less… sweaty.

Seishiro is still shirtless when you come back out wearing one of his hoodies, soft and worn, cuffs frayed with age. He opens his arms up wordlessly but you stay just out of reach, pressing a kiss to his knuckles instead. "Baby?"

"Dinner," you remind him. Seishiro blinks his big gray eyes up at you but you spin around before he can start pouting. "C'mon, it won't take that long!"

Your boyfriend sighs but follows you into the kitchen a few moments later. He peeks over your shoulder at the stove, radiating warmth as you lean back into him to offer a taste of the curry. "Yum," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head afterward. "You're the best, y'know that?"

"You already got in my pants today, you insatiable monster," you tease, giggling when he huffs into your hair. "So what happened at practice today that got you all amped up?"

Seishiro releases you to scratch absently at his ear. "Ah, that? Nothin'."

"Don't make me text Isagi-kun."

Your boyfriend pouts and goes to set the table, scooping rice somewhat haphazardly but still managing to get everything ready by the time you bring the curry over to serve. "The guys were just talkin' about their partners," Seishiro says. "And it made me miss you."

You pause with your spoon halfway to your mouth. "So you had to fuck me on the couch two minutes after getting home?"

Seishiro's cheeks flush pink and pretty as he sticks his spoon in his mouth. Your gaze skips down to the shift of his bicep and shoulder as he leans his elbow on the table. Heat flickers up your spine at the sight — no matter how much Seishiro acts like a human sloth, there's no denying he's a professional athlete.

"You're very cute."

"Oh." You manage not to drop your spoonful of rice and curry. He's always so… blunt. Not exactly straightforward, but you know better than to underestimate those sleepy gray eyes. "Thanks, baby."

You feel your cheeks warm as he tucks into his meal, asking about your day between bites. This is your favorite version of Nagi Seishiro — the steady, selectively selfish boyfriend who hangs onto your every word and believes you'll rise up to where you want to go with so much faith he doesn't even say it aloud. This is the Nagi Seishiro the cameras never see, the football star whose words are always twisted in interviews to be uncaring and cocky, the words of a genius at his prime.

You're in the middle of recounting the way one of your male coworkers kept speaking over you in a meeting that morning when Seishiro's grip tightens around your ankle.

"Hah?"

You startle and nearly drop your spoon. Dinner is long done and Seishiro's coaxed you to prop your feet on his lap beneath the table, massaging your aching muscles gently as you share your day. "Seishiro-kun?"

"Sorry," he mumbles, but his gaze is hard. "Keep goin'."

"So… he… just kept… repeating the things I was saying, but louder, and — are you alright?"

Seishiro's typical natural pout has been replaced by a thin line as he frowns deeply. He shakes his head, snow white strands floating like cloud wisps above steel.

"That bastard," he says quietly, but the low tone sends shivers up your spine. "Talking over you like that. Does he wanna die?"

You blink. You've seen him get like this a few times before, but it's a rare sight. "It's okay," you climb out of your chair and round the table, sliding into his lap the moment he scoots back to make room for you.

Heavy hands land on your hips. You squeak. "I'll walk you to work tomorrow."

"You don't have to do that," you bring your hands to his bare shoulders and immediately smooth down to loosely grip his biceps. "I know you love sleeping in."

Seishiro tips his head up and you drop a kiss on his pout. He makes a soft sound. "That shithead should know better."

A giggle escapes you and his eyes immediately soften into stormy skies. "Down, boy," you joke. Seishiro hums and presses his face into your neck. You shiver as he kisses carefully along your throat.

"Yes, boss," he murmurs, and — god — you squeeze your eyes shut. "How was the rest of your day? What'd you do to that asshole?"

Your face warms and suddenly you wish you hadn't put on his hoodie. It's huge on you, with the sleeves bunching up around your wrists, but the typical loose air circulation his clothes grant you is lost against the rising heat of your body against his.

"I told him that if he couldn't hold it together for the meeting, he probably wouldn't be able to handle the business trip coming up," you say quietly, "and he stopped talking the rest of the meeting."

Seishiro snorts and presses another lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. "That's hot."

You laugh at that, soft and fond. Seishiro leans back in his seat as you pull away slightly, settling further into his lap and reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. "You're silly."

It's quiet for a moment as the two of you bask in comfort. His thumbs rub circles along your bare hips beneath his hoodie and you watch as he blinks at you slowly, like a cat, his sleepy eyes tracing over your face.

"I wanna marry you someday," he says absently, turning his head to kiss your palm. Almost as if he doesn't expect you to hear him. Your heartbeat makes a sudden loud appearance knocking around in your ribcage. It takes a minute to catch your breath.

"Seishiro-kun?"

"Mm?" He doesn't seem to care that you did hear him, but the arches of his cheeks have bloomed a soft, dawn pink. "I wanna be yours."

You kind of… maybe… want to pinch yourself. It's been unspoken, as the years together started stacking up, but he's never mentioned it before. You feel light. Buoyant.

"You're already mine."

Nagi Seishiro is an egoist, and he gets what he wants. He nuzzles his cheek into your palm. "I wanna be yours forever."

Well, then. "I'd be good with that."

[damian-lil-babybat]

'Dead Poets Society' gang

Headcanon that these four drop poetry and literature quotes on their conversations unprompted.

Jason 'English-major-I-only-visit-the-manor-for-the-library' Todd-Wayne

Damian 'I-master-liberal-arts-unlike-you-plebs-PHD-holder' al Ghul-Wayne

Cassandra 'I-learn-English-thru-Shakespeare-as-god-intended' Cain-Wayne

Duke 'only-title-holder-of-vigilante-poet-and-will-cuss-you-just-as-poetically' Thomas-(future) Wayne

[leonardcohenofficial]

literally nine would have treated martha so right i don’t even wanna TALK ABOUT IT

[buddie-buddie]

Buck drums his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel of his Jeep, his left knee bouncing as he waits out the red light in front of him. His shift ended half an hour ago, but the tension in his shoulders hasn’t budged. He thought the drive across town to Tommy’s would help— windows down, music blaring— but it’s done nothing to quiet the anxiety buzzing beneath his skin.

The light turns green, and Buck presses the gas pedal a little too hard, the Jeep lurching forward. Driving through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Tommy’s neighborhood usually settles him, quiets his mind in the way that only the promise of strong arms and that warm, familiar smile can. But tonight, even the hum of crickets and the soft glow of porch lights can’t soothe the unease twisting in his gut.

He pulls up in front of Tommy’s house and sits for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel. He stares at the front door, watching as a couple of moths flutter around the porch light Tommy always leaves on for him. It’s something so small, yet it hits him right in the chest every time. It makes Buck’s skin flood with warmth, makes those three little words rise in his chest until he can practically taste them on the back of his tongue.

In every other relationship, those words felt like a lifeline— something he had to cling to, something that had to be said and something that had to be heard, just to make sure he wasn’t standing on shaky ground. He found himself constantly waiting for that reassurance, always needing to feel wanted. Even when the words came, they didn’t bring the safe, steady feeling he was so desperate for. Instead, they left him restless, chasing a sense of belonging that slipped through his fingers, no matter how tightly he held on.

It’s different with Tommy.

He doesn’t feel rushed, doesn’t feel pressured. He doesn’t feel like there’s a countdown ticking in the background, waiting for the moment those words will finally fall from his lips or Tommy’s. He’s content to let it be what it is, for as long as it takes.

Because with Tommy, it doesn’t have to be said. He can feel it.

He hears it in the quiet moments that hang between them on slow mornings, when they’re curled up together in bed, limbs tangled beneath the sheets, the world outside forgotten. He feels it when they’re in the car together, when Tommy’s left hand rests on the steering wheel and his right hand settles on Buck’s thigh like it belongs there.

It’s in the small, thoughtful things— like the porch light, glowing softly and guiding him home. It’s in the way Buck’s favorite coffee quietly appeared in Tommy’s cabinets, how his fancy, hard-to-find body wash showed up on the ledge in Tommy’s shower one day.

It’s in the way Tommy leans in close, steadying him when his mind runs too fast, grounding him without a word. How he always remembers the little things— like Buck’s complicated coffee order from the cafe down the street from the loft, or how he always wakes up thirsty in the middle of the night. 

It’s in the glass of water that’s always on the nightstand next to Buck’s side of the bed. It’s in the feel of Tommy’s hand on the small of Buck’s back when they’re out, a touch that says I’m here without needing to say anything at all. How, when Buck has had a hard day, Tommy makes space— quiet, gentle space— for him to just be, without asking for anything in return.

It’s in those little moments, tucked away between heartbeats and breaths, where words aren’t needed. 

Tommy leaves the porch light on. And even if they haven’t said as much yet, it feels like love, all the same. 

Buck leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly through his nose. The knot of unease in his chest hasn’t disappeared, not entirely, but it’s loosened just enough for him to get a deep breath and turn the engine off. 

He finally gets out of the car, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat. He walks up the path to the front door, the sound of his boots quiet against the brick. The porch light casts a warm glow over everything, and Buck finds himself smiling, just a little.

Before he can dig out the key Tommy gave him a few weeks ago, the door swings open, and there’s Tommy— hair mussed, barefoot, wearing one of his old threadbare t-shirts that’s too soft for its own good. Buck’s heart unclenches just a little. 

“Did they let you out early for good behavior?” Tommy says by way of greeting, his mouth curling into that little lopsided smirk Buck loves so much. He steps to the side, his back against the open door to let Buck through.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Buck mutters, pausing as he steps inside to meet Tommy’s lips in a soft kiss. While Gerrard didn’t technically let him out early, it was the first time in the last few weeks that he didn’t approach Buck in the last twenty minutes of the shift to saddle him with a ridiculously tedious task–– the kind that takes at least an hour–– and tell him he wasn’t to leave until it was finished. Which meant that Buck actually left the station on time for the first time in the better part of a month. 

“Hi, baby,” Tommy murmurs against Buck’s lips.

Buck exhales, the tension in his chest loosening just a bit as he leans into Tommy, chasing the kiss for a moment longer. His hands come to rest lightly on Tommy’s hips, grounding himself in the familiar feel of his steady, solid warmth.

“Hi,” he whispers back, his voice low and tired. He lingers there, forehead pressed gently against Tommy’s, letting the moment stretch between them. 

Tommy pulls back slightly, his thumb brushing along Buck’s jaw in a way that feels like both a comfort and a promise. “Rough shift?”

“Uh,” Buck toes his sneakers off, leaving them beside the door next to Tommy’s boots. “Weird one,” he says, trying and failing to suppress the weariness that pulls at the corners of his voice.

He lets his bag drop to the floor beside his shoes as Tommy turns to close the door with a quiet click. Buck watches as he locks up and flips the porch light off, a quiet confirmation of Buck’s suspicions that Tommy turns it on for him, a 60-watt beacon guiding him here, guiding him home.

The realization settles deep in Buck’s chest, spreading warmth through him like a slow-burning fire. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of being cared for like this— so subtly, so consistently, without any sort of fanfare or obligation. It’s not something he had to ask for or fight to get. It’s just here, waiting for him.

Buck swallows hard, the tight knot of exhaustion and frustration from his shift loosening just a little more. Tommy catches the look on Buck’s face, his expression softening as he steps back into Buck’s space.

“C’mon,” Tommy murmurs, his hand finding the small of Buck’s back, the same familiar touch that grounds him every time. 

Buck leans into the touch, letting Tommy steer him toward the couch. He slumps onto it, dropping his head into his hands with a low sigh. Tommy sits beside him, close enough that their knees bump, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s good at that— letting the silence sit until Buck is ready to speak.  

“Gerrard hugged me,” Buck blurts out, his hands tugging at his hair. 

Tommy goes still for a second, and then— “He hugged you?” There’s disbelief in his tone, and when Buck lifts his head to meet Tommy’s eyes, he sees that crooked smirk forming again, fighting to stay serious.

“That’s not even the worst part,” Buck mutters, voice tight with frustration. “He— He told me he’s gonna take me ‘under his wing.’” He tears his hand from his hair long enough to make air quotes around Gerrard’s words.

Tommy blinks. Then snorts.  

“Under his wing?” Tommy echoes. “That’s where all the love and joy of life go to die.”  

Buck huffs out a laugh. He leans back against the couch cushions, his hands falling to his lap. “You’re not helping.”  

“I’m not trying to help yet,” Tommy replies, smirking again. He nudges Buck’s knee with his own. “I’m trying to make you laugh so you don’t spiral. Looks like I’m halfway there.”  

Buck shakes his head, but the small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth anyway.  

“Okay, seriously,” Tommy continues, his voice softening. “What happened?”  

Buck sighs, letting his head fall back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I– I don’t know. He had us line up at the start of shift. Went down the line and was his… usual self to everyone else. And then he got to me and– and…” Buck’s voice trails off, discomfort curling in his gut as he relives the moment. “He– He told me I saved his life and then he hugged me.” He drags his hands down his face. “And now, suddenly, I’m his pet project.”  

Tommy’s brow furrows. “He really hugged you?”

Buck makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Yeah. A hug. Not, like, a friendly slap on the back, but a full-body, completely awkward, get-in-here-son hug. You should’ve seen everyone else’s faces. I thought Eddie was going to keel over.”  

Tommy lets out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “That’s... something.” He leans back, resting an arm along the top of the couch behind Buck. His fingers slip into Buck’s hair, running through his curls as the silence hangs between them. Buck relaxes into the touch, tipping his head toward Tommy, leaning into the warmth and steadiness of his hand.

“Under his wing,” Buck mutters again, almost to himself. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means you’re officially his new favorite. Congratulations, babe. You’ve leveled up.”

“Oh, yeah. Lucky me,” Buck deadpans, dragging his hands down his face. “Just what I’ve always wanted—mentorship from a guy who makes my skin crawl.”

Tommy lets out a soft chuckle, his fingers still threading gently through Buck’s curls. The silence between them stretches, comfortable but charged, like Tommy is waiting, watching, reading Buck the way he always does. The humor fades from his face, replaced by something softer, more careful. “Okay,” Tommy murmurs after a moment, his fingers brushing lightly along the nape of Buck’s neck. “What’s really going on?”

Buck freezes for a second, caught between wanting to say it and wanting to shove it down. Tommy always has this way of coaxing things out of him without even trying. He approaches him with equal parts gentleness and insistence, like peeling back layers until Buck has no choice but to lay it all bare.

“It’s nothing,” Buck tries, voice thin.

“Evan.” Tommy’s voice is low, steady, patient. His thumb sweeps a slow circle against the back of Buck’s neck. “Talk to me.”

Buck blows out a breath, frustrated more with himself than anything. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair as if it might shake the thoughts loose.

“I don’t even know that I meant to save him,” Buck admits, his voice tight. “I can’t... I can’t tell if I pushed him because I heard the blade, or if I just— snapped.”

Tommy stays quiet for a beat, letting the weight of Buck’s words settle between them. His hand doesn’t leave the back of Buck’s neck, fingers still working in soothing circles. “Maybe it’s both.”

“Both?” Buck glances at him, brow furrowed. 

“Yeah.” Tommy shrugs, his expression steady but kind, his gaze warm with quiet understanding. “You’re not exactly known for your patience, Evan. But that doesn’t mean your instincts aren’t solid. Maybe you snapped, and maybe you also saved his miserable life at the same time. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”  

Buck lets the words sink in, his jaw tightening as he rolls them over in his mind. He exhales slowly, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit. “I– I don’t know. I keep thinking, what if– what if it wasn’t instinct? What if it was just... me losing control?”

Tommy’s thumb strokes a slow path along the back of Buck’s neck, and he leans in even closer, their foreheads almost touching. “You’re human,” Tommy says, his voice gentle. “You get angry. You hit your limit. But you wouldn’t have let him die, even if you wanted to knock his teeth out.”

Buck huffs out a wet laugh, shaky but real. “I definitely wanted to knock his teeth out.”

Tommy grins, brushing a kiss against Buck’s temple. “Rightfully so.”

Buck closes his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the warmth of Tommy’s presence, the steadiness of his voice, the way his hand stays firm and reassuring on the back of his neck.

“I just don’t want him anywhere near me,” Buck admits, well aware of how petulant and childish he sounds— and yet, he doesn’t care. Something about Tommy makes it easy for Buck to drop the mask he wears everywhere else, to let the frustration and helplessness spill out without fear of judgment. With Tommy, he doesn’t have to be composed or tough all the time; he can just be— messy, tired, and human. Tommy’s presence is like a safety net, one that will catch him no matter how ridiculous he sounds or how tangled his emotions get.

“I don’t know how I’m going to survive this,” Buck mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You will,” Tommy says without hesitation. “Keep your head down, lean on all of us who’ve got your back, and wait him out. He's going to burn out or screw up sooner or later. You’ve just gotta outlast him.”  

Buck huffs a tired, bitter laugh. “I’m not good at keeping my head down.”

“I know,” Tommy murmurs, his lips brushing the top of Buck’s hair in a soft, steadying touch. “But you’re good at the important stuff— like saving people. Even assholes who don’t deserve it.”

Buck closes his eyes, leaning into Tommy, the familiar weight of his hand still resting on the back of Buck’s neck. The knot in his chest loosens just a little more, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit under the warmth of Tommy’s words. “Yeah, well... maybe I’m getting tired of being good at that.”

Tommy’s arms tighten around him, pulling Buck closer. “That’s okay, too,” Tommy says simply. His voice is barely louder than a whisper, low and steady and full of quiet, unwavering conviction. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

Buck closes his eyes, sinking deeper into Tommy’s embrace. This time, when those three little words rest on the tip of his tongue, he doesn’t swallow them down. Even though he knows they won’t ever be enough, he can’t think of anywhere better to start. 

“I love you,” Buck whispers, the words slipping out like an exhale, simple and unforced.

For a moment, Tommy stays perfectly still, as if letting the words settle between them. Then, slowly, a smile curves against Buck’s temple. 

Tommy presses a kiss to the top of Buck’s birthmark, soft and reverent. “I love you, too.” 

And just like that, everything feels lighter. Not perfect. Not fixed. But it’s enough.

It’s quiet between them, the kind of silence Buck used to hate. The kind he used to scramble to fill with words, desperate to bridge the gaps. But here, in Tommy’s arms, the silence feels different. It feels easy. It feels safe. 

It feels like home.

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