#YEAH ANYWAY

[ashoss]

happy halloween from the batjust league

[lefttoesucker]

If you could coddle the infection

They can amputate at once

You should've been

I COULD HAVE BEEN A BETTER SON

[restlesskeychains]

the judgment of paris :3

[phatcatphergus]

Does anyone else think about how ctommy would have let the world burn for ctubbo but tubbo would sacrifice tommy for the world because Tommy is his world and even if his world ends at least others still have theirs

[mmso-notlikethat]

everyone kept saying I'm mean so I had to write a part 2, you all won :(

part1, both parts also on ao3

Buck woke up to a pounding headache and the bitter taste of regret on his tongue. He groaned, shifting against his pillows, only to realize he was practically undressed. His shirt was missing, his jeans were gone, and he was left in just his boxers.

“Ugh, what the—” he mumbled, forcing himself upright.

The room spun briefly, and he grabbed his bedside table for balance. That’s when he noticed the water bottle and pills sitting there, placed neatly like a quiet afterthought.

For a moment, he just stared at them, his foggy brain trying to piece together how they’d gotten there. He didn’t remember setting them out. Hell, he didn’t even remember getting to bed. The last thing he could recall clearly was...

He frowned, rubbing his temples as flashes of the night before began to surface: leaning heavily on someone, their arm steady around his waist; tripping on the stairs and being caught with ease. A voice—low, familiar, and maddeningly calm—had murmured something to him. What was it?

He glanced down at himself again, his bare chest and boxers making his face flush hot with embarrassment. His jeans. Someone had taken off his jeans.

“Jake,” he muttered, the name foreign and strange on his tongue.

He rubbed his face, squeezing his eyes shut, as more disjointed images floated to the surface. He could see himself sitting at the bar, laughing at his own stupid jokes, talking too much, sharing too much. There was something about pancakes—no, syrup. He had been slurring about syrup. And then there were hands, steady hands, pulling a blanket over him.

And then: "I don’t even look like a Jake, Evan."

The words came back to him in a sharp, gut-punching jolt, as clear as if someone had just whispered them into his ear.

Buck sat bolt upright, the headache momentarily forgotten. His heart thudded painfully as the weight of that one sentence crashed over him.

“No,” he said aloud, shaking his head as though it would physically dislodge the thought. “No way. That’s insane.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress as if the ground might give way. His gaze flicked back to the water bottle and pills on the bedside table, and a sick sort of certainty began to creep in.

The pieces were starting to fit now, sliding into place with an agonizing clarity.

He’d recognized the voice, hadn’t he? Not in the moment, but now that he was sober, it felt impossible to mistake. The calm demeanor, the way "Jake" had held him, carried him, the way he’d spoken with quiet humor and careful distance.

And then there was the way he’d said his name.

Not "Buck." Not "buddy" or "man" like a stranger might. He’d said Evan.

“No,” Buck whispered again, his voice trembling. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small room like it might burn off the sickening realization building in his chest. “No way. It can’t—he wouldn’t—”

But the more he tried to shove it down, the clearer it became. It wasn’t just the voice or the name. It was the water and the pills, the fact that someone had taken off his jeans and tucked him in. The way "Jake" had been there, steady and unshakable, even when Buck had been at his absolute worst.

Only one person would have done all that.

Only one person would have cared enough.

“That bastard,” Buck said, his voice breaking on a shaky laugh. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, like it might stop the sting that was creeping into them.

It had to be him. Tommy.

And if it was... if it really had been Tommy... then what the hell had he been doing there?

Buck shuffled to his kitchen, shirtless and still groggy, to make coffee. The loft was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made it impossible to ignore his own thoughts. Every creak of the floorboards and hum of the coffee pot seemed louder, sharper, pressing on him like the silence was mocking him.

He stared at the coffee pot as it brewed, drumming his fingers on the counter. “No way,” he muttered again, though this time it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

But the more he replayed the night in his mind, the harder it was to deny. It wasn’t just the familiarity of the voice—it was the details. The way "Jake" had carried him up the stairs, tucked him in, and left water and pills by the bed, all without a single complaint. Even the way he’d spoken, low and calm, with that quiet humor in his tone—it wasn’t the way a stranger would treat him. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t indifferent.

“That bastard,” Buck muttered again, his head throbbing and his chest tightening. He ran a hand through his hair, his pacing growing more erratic in the small space. “Why wouldn’t he just—” His voice caught, the question hanging in the air, unfinished.

And then it hit him, sharp and sudden, like a gut punch.

Because Tommy left.

Eddie had gone to Texas, chasing a fresh start for himself and Christopher. Maddie had her own family now, her own life to focus on. And Tommy... Tommy had looked him in the eyes and told him he wasn’t the last.

Buck let out a bitter laugh, his hand clutching the edge of the counter for balance. “Not the last, huh? Guess you were right.”

The words came out shakier than he wanted them to, his throat tightening with the weight of it all. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memories to stop, but they kept coming—Tommy’s steady hands catching him as he stumbled on the stairs, his calm voice murmuring reassurances Buck couldn’t quite make out, the way he’d tugged off his jeans with quiet care, like Buck was something fragile.

And then, the words that lingered in his mind like a bruise: “I don’t even look like a Jake, Evan.”

Buck opened his eyes, staring down at his empty hands like they might somehow hold the answers he couldn’t find.

Tommy had left to protect himself. That much was clear now. But why had he come back? Why show up, take care of him, and leave all over again? What kind of person did that?

Buck’s jaw clenched, anger flaring briefly before it was swallowed by something heavier, something that felt a lot like grief.

“Damn it, Tommy,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Why do you keep doing this?”

The coffee pot beeped, startling him out of his spiral. He grabbed the mug with trembling hands, taking a sip that burned his tongue but didn’t dull the ache in his chest.

The loft was still quiet, but now the silence felt unbearable.

---

"He’s the worst best person I’ve ever met.”

Tommy huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, you’re not so easy yourself, Evan.” He said it aloud, as though Buck was standing right there, the sarcasm softening into something raw and defeated. “But you’re... God, you’re everything.”

He’d thought helping Buck home would be enough—a small act of care to make sure he was okay. But it hadn’t been enough. Not even close.

“Tell him... I miss him.”

Tommy sighed, wiping his hands on a rag. He wasn’t good at walking away—not really. It wasn’t something he’d practiced or perfected. In truth, Tommy had always been the one left behind. The one who’d watched people walk out of his life, one after another, leaving him to pick up the pieces of himself they’d shattered on their way out.

Maybe that was why he’d left Buck first.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care—God, he cared too much. That was the problem. He’d looked at Buck, at all the messy, beautiful hope in him, and thought: This is going to break me. He’d seen the writing on the wall and decided that this time, for once, he’d be the one to leave.

It hadn’t made it any easier. Leaving Buck had felt like cutting off a part of himself, like walking away from something he wasn’t sure he’d ever find again. But at the time, it had felt like survival.

But with Buck, it was different.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since the moment he walked away. Every memory of Buck—the way he laughed too loud, the way he threw himself into everything with reckless abandon, the way he looked at Tommy like he was worth something—kept creeping back in, no matter how hard Tommy tried to shut them out.

And then, last night.

Tommy hadn’t planned on seeing Buck again. He’d been out running an errand, a late-night excuse to get out of his empty house and clear his head, when he spotted him through the hazy glass of the bar. At first, he thought he’d imagined it—just another trick his mind was playing on him.

But then he saw Buck stumble, his head lolling forward as he waved a nearly empty glass around. Even from outside, Tommy could hear the slur in Buck’s voice, the faint, muffled sound of his laughter as he leaned too heavily against the bar.

Tommy’s instinct had been to walk away. To pretend he hadn’t seen him, to let someone else deal with it. It wasn’t his problem anymore.

Except that it was.

Because it wasn’t just someone in there; it was Evan. And no matter how much distance Tommy tried to put between them, that had never stopped mattering.

So he’d gone inside, telling himself he’d just make sure Buck got home safe and then leave again. No lingering, no conversations. No giving himself room to feel the pull he knew he’d never be able to resist.

But Buck had made that impossible.

Tommy could still hear him in his head, the drunken, rambling way he talked about him—not knowing who he was talking to, not knowing Tommy was right there. “He’s the worst best person I’ve ever met.” The words had been funny at the time, but now they just felt like a punch to the gut.

And then Buck had said it—those five small words that Tommy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since. “Tell him... I miss him.”

Tommy rubbed a hand over his face, staring blankly at the engine in front of him. He’d thought hearing Buck’s voice again would help. That it would give him some kind of closure, make him feel like he’d done the right thing by leaving.

Instead, it had unraveled him completely.

He stood there for a moment, the rag dangling uselessly in his hand, his mind spinning in circles.

Tommy had always thought he’d be good at leaving. But now, for the first time, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it again

---

It didn’t take Buck long to find Tommy. He wasn’t even sure why he’d gone looking—anger, maybe, or closure. Probably both.

The garage door was open, the faint sound of an old rock song playing. Tommy was leaning over the engine, his broad shoulders taut, his hands steady as they adjusted something Buck didn’t care to figure out.

“You don’t even look like a Jake.”

Tommy froze. His shoulders stiffened, his grip tightening on the wrench. Slowly, he set it down, straightening and turning to face Buck. His expression was calm—too calm—but his eyes betrayed him.

“Evan.”

Hearing his name made Buck’s chest ache. It wasn’t the anger he’d expected to feel—it was something messier. He crossed his arms, but it did nothing to steady him. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Tommy sighed, running a hand over his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Buck snapped, stepping closer. “Maybe why you couldn’t just tell me it was you? Why you came back at all? Why you think you get to show up, play the hero, and then disappear all over again?”

Tommy’s gaze dropped to the concrete floor for a moment before he looked back up. “You were drunk. You didn’t need me making it more complicated.”

“Complicated?” Buck’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “That’s what you’re calling this? You didn’t do it because I was drunk. You did it because you’re a goddamn coward.”

Tommy flinched, and for a second, Buck thought he might argue. But instead, he just nodded.

“You’re right,” Tommy said softly.

The admission threw Buck off balance, his anger faltering. He blinked at him, unsure what to do with the raw honesty in Tommy’s voice. “That’s it?” he demanded. “You’re just gonna admit it and think that makes it okay?”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “No, Ev-Buck. I don’t think it’s okay. I know it’s not okay.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “But I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t think I could stay, and I didn’t know how to leave without breaking both of us.”

“Well, congrats, Tommy. You managed to do both,” Buck shot back, his voice cracking under the weight of his words. “You broke me when you left, and now you’re breaking me all over again.”

Tommy’s face twisted, his carefully constructed calm cracking under the force of Buck’s pain. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry I left, and I’m sorry I came back. I just—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought I could handle seeing you again. I thought maybe... maybe I could fix something.”

“Fix what?” Buck demanded, stepping closer. “You can’t just patch this up like one of your damn engines, Tommy. You can’t just...” His voice broke, and he shook his head, looking away. “You can’t just leave and then show up like this. It’s not fair.”

“I know it’s not,” Tommy said quietly. “But I couldn’t stay away. Not after seeing you like that.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Buck muttered, wiping at his face.

“No, it’s not,” Tommy admitted. He hesitated, his voice softening. “But it’s the truth.”

Buck stared at him, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself together. “You don’t get to do this to me, Tommy. You don’t get to show up and remind me that you cared—because you did care, right?”

“I never stopped,” Tommy said, his voice steady but full of regret.

“Then why wasn’t I enough?” Buck’s voice cracked, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Tommy stepped back, the question hitting him like a blow. “You were,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “You are. But I didn’t think I could be enough for you. And I didn’t want to hurt myself—and you by staying and proving myself right.”

“You hurt me... us, anyway,” Buck said, his tone flat but laced with exhaustion.

They stood there in the heavy silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Buck’s chest felt hollow, like he’d poured out every piece of himself and there was nothing left. Finally, he let out a shaky breath and shook his head.

“I don’t know if this can be fixed,” Buck said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “But I think... I think I need you to figure out what you want before you come back again.”

Tommy’s shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” he said quietly.

Buck hesitated, the ache in his chest screaming at him to leave before he broke down completely. He turned toward the door but stopped just before stepping out.

“If you ever figure yourself out...” His voice was steady this time, but there was something fragile underneath it. “Maybe call me. Maybe I’ll pick up.”

Tommy didn’t respond, but his eyes were on Buck as he left, filled with everything he couldn’t say.

---

Back in his loft, Buck stared at the bottle of water on his bedside table. He didn’t throw it out. Instead, he placed it back carefully, like it was something worth keeping.

Across town, Tommy sat with his phone in his hand, a message typed but unsent. It read simply: "Hey."

He didn’t send it. But he didn’t delete it either.

Part3

[nikooo-whathehell]

FUCK star-crossed lovers trope. It's time for double stars lovers trope NOW.

The "only you can show me this",

the "you are my partner",

the "you were never broken",

the "we finish this together",

the "because I promised you".

[dryya-doesnt]

Will you be here for me?

Always.

My obligatory aarmau fanart is never without tragedy, unfortunately.

It looked really cool on twt btw 😞😞😞

[cowardlybean]

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@jegulus-microfic june 1st — pride — 1804words — nsfw! aka regulus purchases something and james is fortunate enough to unpack for @itmeanssungod & @veryinnovative

It’s been a while since Regulus started toying with the idea of trying out packing for himself. 

He doesn’t have too much dysphoria during sex anymore—which he is grateful for—since he’s completely healed from top surgery and especially with partners he knows. 

But lately Regulus has found out it feels really fucking good to just- keep the strap on afterwards. Just haphazardly yank on his boxer briefs once they’re done, purple tip peeking out over the top of the hem, and sex drunkenly stumble into the kitchen to get himself a gatorade from the fridge. Evan prefers water, which they keep in the room, and Barty prefers to crank open a window and smoke one.

It’s empowering in a way, he guesses. He’s still living with his brother and James is over more times than he is not. Just liking the company of a busy house full of people he reasons with a shrug every time the topic comes up. Missing the old days in a dorm.

Regulus is pretty sure there’s truth in that statement but he’s also not stupid and convincing himself he’s only imagining the looks James is sending his way has only worked for so long. It’s near ridiculous to think he’s been oblivious to it for so long.

But Regulus isn’t anymore because when he’d gone to get his gatorade James had, to spell it out politely, nearly died from choking on his pasta salad when he’d looked up from his phone and at Regulus.

So with the arrival of pride Regulus had saved up and treated himself with the purchase of a flaccid strap on. It matches his skin colour nearly perfectly, the head showing from under the foreskin. It’s got a nice feel to it, it’s proportionate to his body when Regulus looks at himself in the mirror and it’s comfortable where it’s hanging between his legs and resting in his underwear when he puts his clothes back on. It’s a little ridiculous but he knows it’s important so Regulus allows himself to tear up about it a little. About how bone deep good it makes him feel about himself.

He’s in grey joggers and a form fitting black T-shirt. Regulus turns to the side in front of the mirror, cups himself through the soft material of his pants. Barely audible he can hear James humming to himself in the kitchen. Regulus smirks.

“James,” Regulus greets as he enters the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Reg,” James says, lifting from over the stove and taking out his airpods from where he was bobbing his head to the music playing on them. 

Regulus plops himself on a free spot on the counter and picks up a bottle of sauce he doesn’t recognise to busy himself with reading the label. “What are you cooking?”

James hums and proceeds to explain to him where he found the recipe on social media and what health benefits it has and how good it’s going to taste.

Regulus half listens and half plots internally how he’s going to subtly make James aware of his newest possession.

“Can I do something to help?”

“Err,” James blinks for a moment, then he lets out a chuckle, “The Regulus Black offering to help in the kitchen on his own volition? How much money do you need?”

Regulus rolls his eyes and swats him in the chest. “I was very much being sincere, for your information. But I can go of course, if my presence is not needed,” he says and makes to stand up.

“No no,” James replies quickly, raising his palms in a pacifying manner. They’re closer now and Regulus can see where James’ brain has momentarily paused its task of persuading Regulus to stay in favour of simply staring at him. His curls, his eyes, his lips. 

Regulus raises his eyebrows.

“You– ehm,” James starts, swallowing, “You caaaan– set the table?”

“Are you asking or telling?” Regulus inquires, taking another half step closer and delighting in the small intake of breath from James.

“Telling,” James answers. “Please.”

Regulus nods, biting back a smirk, and steps around James to get cutlers.

After he’s set those out he waits for James to go back to stirring the pasta that’s cooking on one of the back burners, right underneath the shelf with the plates. 

Regulus comes up from behind and sets a hand on James’ hip. “Pardon,” he murmurs and then stretches up on his toes, pressing his crotch right into James’ backside.

It has its desired effect immediately.

James’ breath hitches and in the next second he’s making an aborted noise deep in his throat.

Regulus’ lips twitch upwards at the corners, “Something wrong?”

James shakes his head, his voice cracking on the m-mh he makes, not opening his mouth. His hand is completely still where he’s got the wooden spoon gripped.

Regulus hums, leans in impossibly closer, really rubbing himself into James’ ass. James lets out a wheeze. Regulus tilts his head, mouth right next to the other’s ear, “How many do we need?”

“Hm?” James’ voice is thin.

“How many do we need, James?” Regulus repeats, fingers over his hip tightening marginally.

“Ah- um, what? Sorry, I’m—”

“Plates, James,” Regulus tuts, grinding his hips forward slightly, “How many plates?”

“O-oh,” James seems to take a deep, steadying breath, “Five?”

Regulus hums and then with one last little thrust grabs the plates before lifting back down and extracting himself.

He can feel James’ eyes glued to him the whole while Regulus is setting them on the table, neatly next to the cutlery. It fills Regulus’ entire body with a warm feeling. Eventually he saunters back over, coming to a stop right next to James, who is currently indecently staring at Regulus’ crotch. If it was anyone else in any other situation Regulus would have already punched them in the nose but this is different. This is Regulus purposely instigating and James stepping right into the trap Regulus has carefully placed between the foliage.

“Something you wanna ask?” Regulus ducks his head, catching James’ gaze where it’s evidently trained on his lap. 

He doesn’t quite manage to suppress his grin this time. James seems to notice that, sputtering at first before realisation dawns on his face.

“You– oh, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” James replies, eyes narrowed slightly, flush high on his cheekbones regardless.

“Doing what?” Regulus asks innocently. He sets his elbows on the counter behind him, jutting out his hips teasingly.

James groans obscenely and then proceeds to cage Regulus right in, settling two palms on either side of Regulus’ elbows. 

“Regulus.” There’s a warning quality to the way James presses out his name.

“James,” Regulus purrs, angling his face to look up at the older man through his lashes.

James breathes out roughly through his nose, pupils dilating. “You’re packing, aren’t you?”

“I might be.”

“And you wanted me to know.”

Regulus makes a non-committal sound.

“God,” James curses, “You’re so infuriating. Do you know how hard it is to not—” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. James’ eyes are roving over his face for clues and Regulus guesses if James is taking the inch, Regulus might as well give him the mile. Or, rather, the rest of the inches.

“You wanna see it?”

James’ mouth opens soundlessly. It takes a moment before he answers. “It?”

“My cock,” Regulus explains, licking his lips. “It’s new.”

James moans quietly, “Yeah, Reg, I wanna see your cock, fuck.”

Regulus sets his hands against the muscle connecting James’ neck and shoulder, “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Is the sky blue?” James retorts, eyes glazing over as he sinks down in front of Regulus without further prompting. When he looks back up at Regulus with big, Bambi brown eyes from behind his glasses he looks so sweet Regulus considers briefly if he might be in over his head. “Can I?” James asks, gently hiking his fingertips into the band of Regulus’ sweats. 

Regulus nods and with that James pulls the clothing down.

There’s a little bit of nervous yet excited sweat breaking out on Regulus’ palms but before he has the opportunity to overthink, he already hears the groan punching out of James. 

“Fuck, Reg,” James whispers. “Oh, Christ, you’re so gorgeous. Look at him.”

Regulus sucks in an unsteady inhale and twists his fingers into the unruly mess that is James’ hair, having to hold onto something suddenly.

“You like it?” Regulus rasps.

James answers with a slightly delirious laugh tumbling out of him. He shakes his head in awe, fingers digging into the soft muscle of Regulus’ thighs. “Reg, don’t slap me, I’m just being sincere when I say I wanna take you into my mouth so badly.”

Regulus dampens a moan into a sigh, “You can.”

James rips his gaze away from his cock, a starstruck look in his pretty, dark eyes when he gapes up at him. Regulus nods his reassurance.

“Oh fuck.” 

Then James is sucking Regulus’ flaccid strap into his mouth. Working his tongue around it, hallowing his cheeks and really giving it his all. Like his goal is to get Regulus as hard as fast as humanly possible.

And Regulus knows it’s logically impossible but he swears he can feel James tonguing at him, getting terribly aroused by the image and feel of James giving him a fucking blowjob right there in the kitchen. A small noise slips out of Regulus and he accidentally tightens his grip in James’ hair. James responds beautifully, moaning around Regulus in his mouth and eyes fluttering like he’s getting off just as much on all of this as Regulus is. His lips stretch prettily around the silicone and Regulus thumbs softly at the stubble on James’ jaw.

There’s a moment where their eyes meet when James takes him all the way into the back of his throat, making the end of the strap push back against Regulus’ centre, where Regulus has the sudden realisation that he’s going to come if James keeps this up.

And that is decidedly the moment the front door opens, the laughter of their friends echoeing through the hallway.

James keens when Regulus pulls him off and quickly tugs the waistband of his sweatpants back up and pulls on James’ shirt until he stands as well. He looks like a kicked puppy as Regulus ushers him back to the stove, shoving the wooden spoon against his chest to stir the probably totally overcooked pasta. His mouth is twisted into a pout or maybe that’s just them being swollen from having Regulus in his mouth. 

Fuck it.

He takes James’ jaw in a loose grip to get his attention again. “Finish this after dinner?”

James’ answer is a bright smile and a quick kiss he steals himself against Regulus’ wrist.

[mildarka]

wip :]

[casualavocados]

"我們是兄弟..."

Chiang Tien as AI DI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 9

[collectingavenuesmwue]

fictional characters are crazy because I could say “he’s my babygirl” and it’s a literal triangle

[syrinq]

[pearlynia]

"James would never like Regulus, you're delusional"

Yes, and?

[frozenfrogz]

Me explaining that if I don’t get my flashback of miwi on the swing set and I don’t get winter byler I will actually shrivel up and die.

[theninth09]

theo saying "its okay. you dont have to stop", him screaming "come on!" while getting electrocuted, him suggesting "it only responds to pain" when they were holding the ghostrider captive. mhm. just thinking about theos relationship with pain.

"sooner or later physical pain becomes manageable. real pain is emotional pain." you speaking from experience, theo? yknow. all those years spent with the dread doctors? who basically torture their test subjects? who consider their test subjects a failure and kill them without giving a second chance? how many times did he fear for his life, how many times did he worry that they were gonna consider him a failure?

and just. he goes from being with the dread doctors to being stuck in his personal hell. not only being stuck in this endless, eternal time loop of physical torture, but emotional as well. and if liam hadnt thought of him and considered him useful, the pack wouldve left him there forever.

(i know that its more or less for tv logic reasons and as a viewer who enjoys seeing my sillies in pain, im definitely not complaining but this still pisses me off. bunch of fucking hypocrites like "oh we dont kill" BUT SENDING SOMEONE TO BE ETERNALLY TORTURED IS OKAY WITH YOU?)