#even Bobby knows poetry

[kiwiplaetzchen]

*offers Bobby a salad*

🍆🥒🥕

🥬🥬🥬

*topped with*

🥜🥜🥜

Bobby never says no to a good nut dressing. Bobby likes it creamy after all. 😏🥜👌

But Bobby is overjoyed with your offering and wrote something for you in return, dear Legume Anon. 💚💕

Roses are red,

your eye will be blue,

unless you allow me

to place Deez nuts nside you.

[leaawrites]

Poetry Confessions

Elijah Hewson x fem!reader

Summary: writing poetry with Eli.

Wordcount: 0.9k

TW: none

A little appreciation post and a (late) happy birthday to one of my favourite irish lads, Elijah Bob Patricius Guggi Q Hewson.

Masterlist

Softly the rain outside played a melody she wanted to capture but just didn’t know how. It was such a sweet, soft sound that couldn’t be described in words. It was a echo but nothing more. Some sensual beating of natures heart. How could you capture a heartbeat?

The door creaked open and was shut close shortly after. Eli carrying in two mugs for the two of them. Both filled with the tea of their preference. The smoke of it was dancing through the air before dissolving into nothing. Cooling off.

He put them on his table before turning around to talk to the girl, who was sitting on his bed, about the song they were just about to write.

He invited her over to his after reading a bit of her poetry by what you could call rather an accident than for the reason of her offering it to him. Rob had given it to him, explaining that it was from a friend and that he should hold the papers for him while he set up his bass. The words memorized him and he could imagine a rhythm behind it. It was as if they were his own, but at the same time they weren’t. They told a story he saw himself in but he wasn’t the main character. They felt like one. Sharing a mind.

After talking to Rob about it and inviting her to a band practice before going to his home, she agreed to work with them. At first, she was mad at Rob for just handing the papers out like they were free advertisement and embarrassed that someone else besides her closest friends read her most conscious thoughts, but the lads were nice and she quickly bonded with them, which made her appreciate it a little more. Plus, she was now actively working together with people that she was convinced had a great future in front of them. For most people, you could tell if they were gonna be stars in their future at the mere age of 17, but with them, you just knew.

“What are you thinking about?” Eli asked, sitting down next to her. His eyes switched between her profile and the world outside his window. He watched the rain but to him it was a rather ordinary thing to admire.

“It’s beautiful. The rain, I mean. It’s so loud but so gentle,” she explained, turning her head to look at him. “I’ve tried writing about it, but I never really got to capture it’s beauty quite like I hoped to. It always seemed off.”

He had never heard anyone talk about nature like that - besides Bobby’s endless speeches about birds. But that - the rain and it’s magic - he understood it - not like the birds. He just sat there and watched her like he couldn’t comprehend she was real. What a mind, he thought.

“I think you can’t capture the most beautiful things in something like words or pictures. Reality is always more fascinating,” he answered, watching her to make her understand what he was referring to. Her.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she argued, pulling her legs up to sit cross legged opposite him.

Eli did the same, turning so he could look at her fully. “Then how do you explain your struggle with writing about rain?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I’m just bad.”

“When you’re bad then I’m horrible. No, even worse than horrible. A total disaster,” he joked, making her laugh. “You wanna test it?”

“How?” She asked, intrigued by his offer.

“We each write one poem about something that we find semi beautiful and one thing that we are fascinated by. Then we see which one is better,” he explained his idea.

“That’s not gonna work,” she said.

“You don’t even wanna try? Party popper,” he said, looking bored at her.

She laughed at his behavior before finally agreeing to his offer. “Which one do we write first?”

“The semi beautiful,” he decided.

Getting paper and two pens, he hands her what she needs before they both think and create.

“I say, we write the other one now and then we compare them together,” she said after they both finished writing their first poem.

They kept on writing, letting their creative stream lead them where they went with their poem. Y/n noticed, how every 2 seconds, Eli would look up at her and watch her for a moment before continuing writing.

“Can you please stop looking at me?” She asked, feeling small under his gaze.

He was still writing, so when he heard her talk he quickly looked up. “Sorry, what?” He asked, still half immersed in his lines and verses. Not expecting her to voice anything while concentrating.

“I don’t like when people look at me when I write, so could you please stop that?” She asked him.

She didn’t want to be rude, but she felt uncomfortable when she knew someone was watching her while she was willing to write about something personal. It was a nagging feeling she couldn’t shake off. Some distaste she imagined reflecting in their eyes, disgust of her mind. Some sort of making fun of her while writing. She felt insecure with the knowing of eyes watching her, afraid she might fail in front of them.

“Can’t do,” he said, deciding to just shoot his shot. Now or never, right?

“Why not?” She asked, putting her pen down on her paper and looking at him.

“I have to focus on my subject while writing.”

[theshippirate22]

hi welcome to my essay

is this based solely in my insane brainrot? yeah probably. i’m doing it anyway

THE TIME TAYLOR SWIFT CONFIRMED ANDERPERRY LORE

This is Josh Charles

If you don’t know who he is, that’s cool. No one does. If you do know who he is, you’re probably gay, depressed, or both. Probably both.

And this is Josh Charles in 1989, in the critically acclaimed, cult classic film Dead Poets Society

Does he look familiar? Well, if you’re big on pop culture and/or a Swiftie, he should

Because THIS is Josh Charles in 2024

in Taylor Swift’s Fortnight music video

But who’s that standing next to him?

It’s Ethan Hawke

Who ALSO starred in Dead Poets Society (1989)

Kind of weird right? But whatever

UNTIL you remember that Fortnight is the first track off the latest Taylor Swift album

called The Tortured Poets Department

Now, the premise of the music video is that Taylor was in love with Post Malone’s character but only for a fortnight and losing him after loving him is what drove her into madness basically, so she’s been imprisoned in this asylum called The Tortured Poets Department where Josh Charles and Ethan Hawke are doctors that are experimenting on her to help her get over her love for Post Malone. Note that Post Malone is also there and is another one of the doctors.

Canonically in Dead Poets Soceity Josh Charles’ character Knox Overstreet is in sort of this awkward situationship with a girl named Chris Noel, who’s “practically engaged” to this idiot called Chet and it's assumed that after everything goes down at the end of the film, Knox stops pursuing her and Chris marries Chet to live out her horrific 1950's housewife prophecy.

Similarly, Ethan Hawke’s character, Todd Anderson, is in this tragic queer-coded homoerotic friendship with main protagonist Neil Perry (played by the lovely Robert Sean “Bobby” Leonard) that never manages to come to fruition because of Neil’s untimely death via suicide.

So back to Taylor. Obviously she's a patient in The Tortured Poets Department being treated for her hopeless love for Post Malone. She says she even took the "magical move-on drug" but "the effects were temporary," which implies that what Josh and Ethan are testing on her is this drug, this cure-all for lost romance, and they haven't quite figured it out.

Which makes perfect sense, when you think about what happened to Knox and Todd. They had these short-lived perfect loves with Chris and Neil respectively that ended before anything could ever happen. Love cut too short, just like Taylor and Post Malone. Which is wild when you realize that means TS basically just confirmed anderperry.

Not only this, but in the movie, the boys are encouraged to write and enjoy poetry thoroughly, and while all the boys take it to heart, Knox and Todd are the ones that are frequently seen actually writing poetry. Knox uses it to try and win Chris over, as well as working through his feelings for her, while Todd uses it as a guilty pleasure sort of thing that he's seemingly embarrassed by (which I could talk about for 25 pages but I'll spare you.)

So basically, just like Taylor, Knox and Todd are also tortured poets. Which means not only are they the doctors trying to come up for a cure for their own maladies, they're also patients in the Tortured Poets Department

THEY'RE JUST AS CRAZY AS TAYLOR.

If that seems too big a stretch, remember that Post Malone is there. From his bridge we see that he's going through the same thing as Taylor except on the opposite side, and he's also seen in the poetry room with Taylor, confirming that he himself is a poet as well, and in the lab he's also a doctor. So Josh and Ethan are patients just as much as Post Malone is, who's just as much as Taylor.

All four of them are locked in together, trying to get over these lost loves they are mourning.

By deliberately choosing not just Ethan Hawke to cameo, but also Josh Charles, and not say Dylan Kussman or Gale Hansen, or even MAIN STAR Bobby Leonard, it draws a direct parallel between Knox and Todd's characters, and therefore between Chris and Neil, and therefore, Taylor Swift has basically confirmed the ongoing implication that anderperry was the metaphor all along.

[h-l-v-kennedy-blog]

Unexpected (how a punch can turn into a meet-cute)

Robert Kennedy x OC

Taglist: @jackiesgirl, @theverystrangegirl27, @fortheloveofjos, @kennediva, @stargiirl27

Trigger Warnings: age gap (around 12 years), no smut (if that's even a warning?), a single punch, harassment, bruised knuckles, swearing.

Extra notes: this is an rpf and not based on any fact, just delusional daydreams from this gal.

Synopsis: It was an unexpected turn for Robert when Ethel chose God over him and left their relationship to join a convent. He understood her to some measurement as a Catholic, yet a part of him thought he had found the one. He decided to dedicate himself not to God but help his older brother on his growing political and government career. 

So, in 1949, even with a broken heart he went on with his studies at the University of Virginia. He made a few good friends and befriended Alec Worthing, whose younger sister he ended up meeting in 1958 at a campaign celebration party for Jack after he was re-elected to the Senate after winning against Republican lawyer Vincent J. Celeste. 

1958 - 4th of November, Boston, MA

“Now, Bobby, my kid sister’s a bit of nuisance. She breathes poetry and reads too much. Ignore her enthusiasm, it’s her first campaign party.” Alec said sipping champagne from a plastic cup as he and Bobby watch the celebrations. Jack was dancing with Jackie. “She’s freshly 21 and wants everyone to know it and...” Alec got distracted when a redheaded campaign aid came to them and asked him for a turn on the dance floor. Flushed, Alec nodded and left Bobby behind.  

Bobby leaned on the back wall smoking a cigar and already thinking of having to soon return to the Senate Rackets Committee where he was chief counsel. He was in deep thought while his eyes wandered around the busy and joyful room. His sight then fixed on a young woman who he had never met before and who seemed to be having some issues with a campaign aid in a corner of the large office space were the campaign office was. The male aid stood close to her; he saw her squirm and so Bobby made his way towards her and the man towering over her.  

As he was nearing, he stopped when the woman decked the men and pushed out into the hallway outside the main room. Bobby made a mental note to have that man taken off the management team. 

Was she alright? 

He decided to find out and saw her in the empty hallway and saw her hold her right hand. She hadn’t noticed him. Music and the warm light crept into the dark hallway where only a single window brought in moonlight. The light bounced back on her blonde hair and light blue dress. She heard his footsteps, and her body went frigid. 

Looking at him standing a few feet away from her. “Are you...his friend?” She asked, her voice steadier than Bobby had expected.  

“No.” he said.  

She nodded her head slowly, “How much did you see?” 

“I saw you punch him.” 

She muttered under her breath a soft “shit!” while clutching her right hand. “Did anyone else notice?” 

Bobby shook his head ‘no’. “I don’t think so. Can I come closer?”  

She took a step back. “Why?” 

“To see if your hand's alright.” 

“You won’t try anything?” 

“I don’t want to take my chances. I saw what you did to the last guy.” He tried to joke but saw her expression not change. “I won’t try anything. I promise.” 

She looked at him skeptically but walked towards him. “It doesn’t hurt that much.” She showed him her hand, her knuckles bruised with blue and purple. 

“How hard did you hit him?” He asked gently touching her hand avoiding the bruise. 

She shrugged, “Harder than I thought.” 

“You should get some ice on it. Sit here, I’ll bring you some.” He gestured for her to sit down on one of the benches in the hallway.  

She looked apprehensive. “What if he finds me? Can’t I come with you?” 

Robert nodded and led her to the staff kitchen where there was ice kept in the freezer. He turned on the light and the young woman jumped onto the counter and looked at him as he found a dish towel and wrapped it around a handful of ice.  

He put it onto her knuckles holding it place. “You should hold it on for a while.”  

She nodded and placed her hand on the cloth as he removed his. He put some distance between them. Several beats of silence later. 

The woman broke it: “What’s your name? I’d like to know who to send a thank you card to.” 

“Robert Kennedy.”  He spoke. A look of recognition passed her face. Her eyes widened in a quite almost cartoonish way. 

“Kennedy? I should’ve known.” She said, and for the first time he saw her smile and laugh, “My friends will lose their minds when I tell them Bobby Kennedy put ice on my hand.” Her expression then changed. “You went to UV with my brother, right?” 

Now it was Robert’s turn to look surprised. “You’re Alec’s kid sister?” 

“That’s me. Ava Worthing.” She said before scoffing, “Though I’m not much of kid anymore, I’m senior at Vassar and much more mature than he can give me credit.” 

And so, they talked without noticing the passage of time. It was simple for both, to move from topic to topic. It was strange how easy it was. They hardly knew anything about each other and somehow, they clicked into place. 

She was curious about politics and about what was happening in the courts with the Teamsters. Robert showed his passionate side and found himself enthralled at how she kept up with him. She told him about her own interests and that she wanted to be a writer and to better the world in any way she could. 

End (for now...)

Dividers: @cafekitsune, https://www.tumblr.com/cafekitsune/761910969259655168/moon-line-dividers-001?source=share

[killersfool]

hiiii i’ve a wee fluff imagine idea for bobby!! : )

bobby and the reader live together in a flat in dublin and the reader goes to trinity uni to study english literature (or smt else that has like a lot of reading and essay writing anol that craic) and she’s falling behind in a lot of her assignments and it’s all piling up and she’s just all overwhelmed and doesn’t know how to cope.

she ends up breaking down into sobs or shutting down at random points in the day due to stress and rob hasn’t got a clue what’s wrong and keeps noticing these random break downs throughout the week.

basically he comforts reader and helps to organise herself and just all fluffy cute comfort fic <333

If I could flip back time, bend the seconds and go back three years ago, I would do it right now.

Pile after pile of flashcards, annotated books with pastel post-it notes shooting out of the sides, folders of Irish poetry I can hardly understand, tattered photocopies of Hozier lyrics, every work of Shakespeare staring at me from my overcrowded booksheld — dusty, messy, probably even dank. Miss Carter has decided to set three more assignments onto my workload for the week. An essay on crime fiction (I haven't even read the first book on the reading list), my creative writing portfolio and then another essay analysing a piece poetry of my choice. Reading and highlighting Hozier's lyrics of 'I, Carrion (Icarian)' is the only thing keeping me going. Phoebe Bridgers blasts through my ears. It's quarter to 11. I need a break. An early night would be nice. Or TV. But do I really want to sit next to Robert whilst he watches his weird YouTube videos?

I kick my table. Not out of anger. Not out of irritation. I just want to see all of my notes topple ontp the floor. They do. Then I'm kicking the table three more times. Or maybe eight. All my flashcards are on the carpeted  floor, next to my discarded, empty packet of pinballs. I'd stolen them from Robert's stash. He'll never find out.

Climbing over my pile of unread books by my doorway, I push open the door. It squeaks. Some oiling would be nice. Trinity college really provides the best for their students! 

I still wish my roommate was also doing English, someone to bond with over shared trauma, to gossip about our nightmarish teachers and fellow students. But no, this guy is doing a degree in bloody mathematics. The complete dichotomy of English. No similarities. No way of comparing the courses to eachother. Him and his terrifying videos that he watches with his shoes up on the armrest, cheek in his open palm, drinking a cup of tea. Like it's that simple. Numbers and sin, cos, tan and circle theorems and whatever tragic nonsense is being spouted in his lectures.

He hardly speaks to me. Three years together and I barely know him. Sometimes I tag along with him when he goes out for breakfast. Once every two weeks. Sunday morning. We talk about school, about friends, about anything that pops in our heads. Yesterday we spoke about music. He originally wanted to pursue a career in music. A band. But they didn't work out. He took a gap year to pursue this group. So he's a year older than all of the other third years. He doesn't let that faze him. When he told me stories about his band, 'Inhaler', I had to lose eye contact, look down at the pink marshmellos floating about in my cup. He looked lost. This wasn't the place for him. He missed the confidence upon stage, the ability of making something out of nothing. Life is unfair. That is when I realised it. Hearing about shattered dreams and names of songs that were never produced.

I also realise life is unfair right now, as I accidentally bang my hip onto the kicthen island, the knife-like corner lodging itself into my skin. It's like the world is against me. 

Sometimes I wonder if Robert thinks I'm an idiot. I feel like I'm an idiot when I walk past his bedroom, hunched over his laptop, headphones on as he works through the most difficult maths questions I've ever encountered in my life. He makes university seem easy. Has his allocated times for study, going out with friends, the gym, practicing bass, going though record shops, meals, watching TV. Everytime he gets home, he drops his things down in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at the big green 'A*' on all of his test papers. I look up to him. His intelligence, his masterful management of time. I'm always too frightened to ask him how he does it. He'll think I'm stalking him. 

Me, on the other hand, I waste time. I don't have balance. I never have time to be with my friends. Always locked up in my room. A prisoner. Essay after essay. Poem after poem. Book after book. A constant cycle I've been in for three whole years. The stress is weighing down on me like a hundred bags of bricks. I need to stop for a second. To breathe in. To calm down.

So I do the last thing I would normally do. I go into the living room and sit beside Robert on the sofa. He's half asleep, jeans cuffed, hair all over his face. He sees me walk in, glances up, eyes big and speculting. He instantly moves his spindly, spider-like legs from the armrest to give me some space. I can hear some sort of maths video playing on the TV. I'm scared. At least it's not English. I'm immune to maths. It doesn't affect me anymore. Whatever logorhythmic scale this American YouTube man is yapping about isn't making my face contort at all — it's like sorcery.

This could be a way of winding down. Maths. I'm calmer now. No changes of focus or narrowing of perspective. No pathetic fallacy or magical realism. Just messes of words that don't really make sense at all.

"'D'you want to watch TV? I can turn this off if you want." Robert has his thumb on the home button.

"Leave it on. I just need a moment."

He dubiously puts the remote back down. He yawns, stretching out his arms and leaning back. I hate it when boys do that. With his parted, manspreaded legs, adams apple bobbing, head rolled back. It's idiotic. Completely idiotic. He doesn't seem too intrigued by Mr American man. The video is a guy next to a whiteboard writing millions of brain-numbing equtions. Robert is nodding along. I think I'm going to cry. I don't know why I want to right now. My hip is actually starting to throb and ache. I look down at my jeans. There's a hole in them. There's blood. It's wet. I hadn't noticed before. It's properly pouring out blood.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I exclaim, hand pressing down onto the cut through my jeans.

Robert swiftly nears me. He's looking at me up and down, hands trying to find a place to move to. It's dark in the room. He reaches for the lamp switch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding. Jesus christ. That kills. Fuck me."

He passes me his jacket and says, "Apply some pressure." 

Then he runs out of the room. Fast as a plane. A man on a mission. Long curls dancing to the rhythm of his steps. Mr American man won't shut up about algebraic expressions. He's got a really bald head. Glimmering. 

Robert is back. He has bandages. I don't know where he got those from. Antiseptic wipes, plasters, sweets, even a cup of tea. He was only gone for about five seconds. How did he manage to get all of that? He hands me the cup of tea and sweets whilst asking, "What happened?"

"I walked into the island like an eejit. I'm so feckin' stupid."

"Just breathe, okay. You're not an eejit. I do that every day." 

I have to unzip my jeans to let him check the cut. Which is awkward, to say the least. He's looking at me like a doctor — not really caring about seeing my skin — but I'm still so shy around him. He sees me struggle with the button. He undoes it, fingers coming in contact with mine. They're slender. So very perfect for the bass guitar. Then he's unzipping my jeans. Only the tiniest bit. A mere centimetre of my knickers appear out of the top. Any more than that and I'd be flush as a tomato. I've always had a little crush on Robert. Being stuck with a really smart bass guitarist with the dreamiest eyes for three years is enough to make a person fall. The reason I've been avoiding him lately has been due to that fact. I don't want to make it obvious.

He finds the cut. It's bled through my knickers, making a big blot of dark red. He pulls down the waistband of my pants, prepared to wipe the wound. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a sob from escaping me. I'm crying. Stressed and hurt and just wanting to dissolve into nothing. The cold draft of wind isn't improving the situation. If only there was no such thing as coursework and I couldn't glide my way through university like Robert. 

More and more blood. I think I might pass out. The blue-eyed boy is knelt down on the floor, knees biting into the carpet so that he can properly see where to put the bandage. 

"So how's English going?" He's not looking at me. Only at the wound. I don't think he's noticed that I'm crying. I don't want him to. I cover my face with bloody hands, accidentally smearing the metallic substance onto my nose. 

I don't know what to say. Do I tell him how much I regret picking it? Do I make this already awkward situation about ten times worse? I hate when people pity me. I hate when I feel like eyes are lingering for far too long when I cry. But when Robert looks at me, it's different. The pools of serenity circling his iris aren't looking down at me with a sort of aristocracy. That's how my English peers stare me down. No, instead, he's looking at me like there's a billion questions rushing across his forehead. He just needs to decide which one to ask. Or to simply say nothing. Like I am. We've both learnt how to cohabit in silence. To walk past eachother and ignore the feathers of conversation falling between us. We're busy. Always busy. Except for those perfect Monday mornings that I always look forward to. Especially the one time when he showed me around his favourite record store. He had asked me to choose him a record to buy. I walked through the entire shop, fingers shifting records, reading unfamiliar artist names. Then, I saw it, the — now bane of my existence — Hozier's 'unreal unearth'. He bought it. He'd told me he only really knew 'Take Me To Church'. I'd leant against the till as he paid and said, 'it'll change your life.' Then he'd locked himself in his room. Through the ever so thin walls — paper thin — I could hear each track hum into my room. I never got the chance to talk to him about the album. I think the thought of bringing it up made me feel sick — due to the English essay upstairs still waiting patiently to be finished.

Now there is an excuse. To talk. I'm injured. I don't want to move. He's still attempting to wrap a bandage over my stomach, then across my back until it's around my torso. I feel his fingers graze my skin with every subtle movement, along my spine, the small of my back, my abdomen, my hip bone. He's still looking at me. Searching. Like I'm a new island and he's an explorer trying to name me.

"What's up, sweetheart?" He finally talks again. His words are throaty, emananting from the pits of his throat. He's still wrapping, waiting for an answer.

"Just college. You know. It's killing me."

He shakes his head. "You're so smart."

"Says you."

He shakes his head. "Look, this might be a bit weird but sometimes when you leave random essays lying around or even creative writing. I read them. They're incredible. Your mind just works in such an interesting way."

I'm at a loss for words. He reads those? Those are usually just failed attempts that I toss aside. Scrap paper. Strange drawings. I don't even want to look at them.

"You get top grades in every test," I sigh. "I'm barely passing. I'm the worst in the class. My professors hate me, I've got so much work, I'm falling behind in every assignment—"

Then I'm properly crying. Sobbing. Breathing so heavily I think I might collapse. Heaving. Sniffling. Covering my face so he can't see me. I'm like a child. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. I was never good enough for Trinity. Why did they let me in?

Warm arms, press of skin. Just above the wound, over my chest, arms dig into my body, hugging me from behind. Head burrowing onto my shoulders, knees into the sofa. His lips ghost the back of my neck. Tears are falling down. He turns me around to face him. I hate how he's seeing me like this. My cries are usually saved for when he's out with friends or blasting music on his record player. He's never seen me this vulnerable, just utterly ripped into shreds by the hands of life. His scent is making me feel better, the tissue now on my cheek makes me feel better, the quiet words of 'breathe, let it all out, it's okay' make me feel better. He's calming me down. I start to forget what I was even crying about when I look into his eyes. This intense eye contact. Remembering his height. Even sat down, his torso is far longer than mine.

"I've got an idea," he murmurs, peeling his body away. I miss the warmth. I miss the touch. 

"What is it?"

"We should go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Say it's a 'mental health field trip'." He curls his fingers to accentuate the apostrophes."Maybe down to the Cliffs of Moher. When you're all healed up of course."

"Give me a week."

"A week? I'll be the judge of that." He raises an eyebrow, now tying up the bandage.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"I'm actually first aid trained. Did it in my first week of uni." He takes a deep breath, settles back onto the sofa. 

I take a sip of my tea. My eyes are surely blotchy and red. I bet there's mascara all over my face. "Thank you so much."

"No problem at all. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Is there any way I can help?" He's referring to my school work. "I was alright at English in high school. No where near as good as you are. But maybe another opinion might help you."

"I'm really stuck on a Hozier analysis."

"I never told you how much I love that album. It's perfect." His eyes glow like they do when he's talking about something he loves. Usually it's caused by talking about playing bass, but right now it's due to the beauty of Hozier's music. "I learned the bass line of De Selby part two."

"Show me. Now." I don't even ask. It's simply a demand. Anything to take my mind away from that cut still bleeding profusely. A little concert would be nice. Especially if said concert involves watching Robert play bass. I sometimes peek through the crack in the doorway to see him sat down on his bed, pick between his index and thumb, bass guitar on his lap, headphones over his ears. The pure concentration on his face is unparalleled. Notes thrum quietly through the room. He falls into any piece of music.

"Alright." He laughs at my enthusiasm. "Then I'll help with your English."

"Thanks." This is probably the most I've ever spoken to him. I'm mumbling each word, not wanting to look into his eyes.

He disappears once again. This time I hear the thudding footsteps over creaky floorboards. I hear a door squeak open, the faint patter of rain upon the ceiling, the quiet murmur of distant sirens as night blooms. It's tranquil. For a moment, I'm at peace. Until I remember the stack of unread books in my bedroom. I groan into my hands. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and—

He's back. Not empty handed. Bass in one hand, Hozier lyrics and my pencil case in the other.

"I emailed your professor about the trip. I'm sure she'll be okay with it." He's off again. He comes through the door with his amp and lead. He plugs both in. 

"You're a life saver, Rob," I say.

He starts twisting around the knobs on the bass. Volume up. Then he's tuning. He smiles up at me. I think I'm staring. I think he can tell. His long fingers, tattoos, rings. It's all too much. My fingers are restlessly tapping the armrest. My legs are up on the coffee table. He pulls out his phone and plays the song. Then I'm lost in the music. His eyes are closed as he slides his fingers up and down the neck of the bass, as he stomps his feet down on the carpet to every drum beat. If only I could go back to the days I'd go to concerts every day. If only I could go back and see 'Inhaler' on a world tour, watch Robert from the crowd, completely in his element. Exhilarated, chanting, knowing every lyric like it's my mother tongue. Sometimes I wonder what life could've been like if the band had worked out. If the world did realise just how incredible they are. But, here, appreciating each pluck of every string, the grin as he watches me. I can't take that for granted. 

[strryhaze]

you know how to ball, i know aristotle .

bobby being the first kennedy to obtain his harvard letter with a broken leg

jackie, who went on to become a book editor, carrying a deep love and respect for literature and poetry and even writing some herself

[sammyluvr]

sam and someone who doesn’t believe in love>>

like i feel like she’s a hunter too but she was raised by a hardass father who didn’t take shit from no one and basically told her from the get go that most men r shitty ppl so she’d js make herself as undesirable as she could.

she woulda definitely met sam n dean on a hunt and she woulda saved them bc she can absolutely kick ass and sam was like an in love puppy straight away, and he tries to be like “hey let’s be friends” but she’s like “i don’t do friends” and leaves it at that but like a year later they meet again at the roadhouse and i feel like some of the old men hunters were definitely talking shit abt sam so she’d kick their asses. also dean lays it on THICK with her but she’s like “hit on me again and i’ll knock your teeth out” and he doesn’t so him n her have a sibling dynamic from then on.

but yeah no shes got a soft spot for sam, a tiny one but its there, she slips him her number but is like “we’re not friends, it’s only if you need help” and leaves and again he’s in love all over again but she’s like a ghost to him, when she appears it’s brief and his heart hurts when she goes. anyways he calls her (not for help js to talk) and she hangs up because it’s not for case help.

they meet again at bobby’s where she’s crying (very unusual for her because she’s very cold and tough) but basically her dad died and bobby was comforting her and sam wants to but she’s not a touchy person and tries to keep her façade up in front of him and fight his hugs but eventually stops resisting and just cries in his arms, also remember that by this point sam’s in love with her. i think she’s starting to day but she’s like “nah i don’t do love” very stubborn but they don’t see each other in person for around 2 years, only phone calls

then they meet again and she’s the one in trouble and sam n dean both save her, while getting drunk they get on the topic of convo (love) and she says she doesn’t believe and sam does and sam actually rambles on cutely about it and she kinda falls for him but represses it and an extremely drunk sam confesses his feelings to her and she just shuts down and leaves and she gets into a car crash, she deffo has bobby as her next of kin since her dad is gone so the boys find out so sam sees her in that state and breaks down crying bc the woman he’s loved for so many years is laid in a hospital bed hooked up to sm things but he stays with her and his face is the first she sees when she wakes up and sam lays her head on her and she comforts him

anyways she decides to get closer to sam and they become friends and they have deep conversations about love, she puts it down to oxytocin n shit and he tells her why it’s sm more than that and she thinks she’s starting to believe but she’s like “nah dude” to herself

anyways she asks bobby for advice n he says to give sam a chance so she calls him and drops the coordinates to a really pretty willow tree by a lake with a gazebo thing and she dresses up the best she can (that being makeup and a pretty dress, accentuates the chest but the rest is imaginative) and he loses his breath for a minute because of how you look under the gazebo light and you tell him how he made you believe and that you love everything you know about him and he cries and kisses you and ur like “why u crying” n he’s like “happy tears honey” and yeah

the timeline for everything above this is between s1-5, so sam waited 4/5 years

ofc she loves dean like a brother, their relationship bloomed into a very nice platonic sibling thing and she occasionally lets him hug her when she needs it

but sam writes her poetry n stuff and they’re like the cutest and sexiest couple, also the loudest, the get a separate room sometimes and dean is like “dudes keep it down i can hear you through the wall u freaks” and it’s the same in the bunker, even when u both think ur quiet dean can still hear shit, he also walked in on u n him while u were on top and sam shielded ur body so good like yes pussy queen slay come here and protect me like that‼️

-💽

this is like a whole ass long fic someone could make this into a series probably like wow. this eats so hard <33 just such a good storyline i love love love it <333 you said it all bbg i don't even think i could contribute to this LOL wagh the potential for all the good fic tropes is absolutely there I JUST LOVE ITTT <333

[iinryer]

do you have a game/show/band/etc that you strongly believe a character from 911 would like? god i wish i could see buck playing dnd because he would be brilliant at it

omg i think chimney would have a blast running games for all the kids, i feel like buck would be 50/50 on whether or not he had the focus for it on any given day gjfjdhf but he would 100% put his all it for the kids

i also think chimney has been showing maddie original star trek and she started out more humoring and just happy to have something to spend time with him doing, but to her own surprise ended up growing very fond of it

buck loves carly rae jepsen. you cannot convince me otherwise this is a core belief and pillar of his characterization. to Me

i could see bobby getting really into those nano tank video series on youtube. he keeps insisting it’s just relaxing but maybe occasionally he does entertain the idea of a fish tank. meditative methodical care he could get behind

eddie feels guilty about not being able to get himself to read full books and gets recommended to try poetry collections bc there’s less pressure to finished full chapters and he can pick up and put down books as often as he likes, and finds he really enjoys it. he reads a saeed jones collection and cries so hard he almost throws up and has to stop reading poetry for like a month

hen takes a welding and forging class once a year. she made the set of kitchen knives as well as the block they live in. for her own home and for the firehouse

i feel like karen could be a craft beer snob (AFFECTIONATE!!). like someone who knows everything about the process of making different brewed drinks, beers, honey wines, ciders, etc, and will always order something weird and brewed locally even if she doesn’t think she’ll like it, just on principle of supporting local and small breweries

[buckevanley]

Little headcanon of mine but I think Eddie is actually like. Secretly really good at poetry.

He’s already got a pen in his hand half of the time anyway, whether it’s updating the fridge calendar or writing Chris notes for his lunches or helping Hen study for med school, he finds himself just jotting down a couple of lines every now and again in the margins of things. Sometimes they’re quick little observations, other times just him playing around with syntax and sounds, even if he doesn’t know the terms for what he’s actually doing.

And maybe Hen notices while he’s helping her study that he’s just absentmindedly been writing these really brief, beautiful little poems on the corner of her neurology notes, and she’s kind of amazed by them. So maybe she and Karen get Eddie a copy of Audre Lorde’s Coal or Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems for his birthday or something just to subtly encourage him to keep going.

And of course the rest of the 118 are confused by the present but Eddie sheepishly admits that he writes sometimes, but it’s not like it’s real poetry, guys, it’s just a way to blow off steam, but of course everyone is so sweet and supportive of it it kind of takes him by surprise.

Chimney wants Eddie to start holding Jee at group gatherings more often so his “poetic juices” will rub off on her and she’ll become a creative genius, even though she’s literally not even two yet. Bobby gets him a notebook, just a simple, plain black thing that can fit into the palm of Eddie’s hand, just so he has something to jot things down in, even if Eddie doesn’t think it’s real poetry, Bobby still claps him on the back and tells him he’s proud of him. And Buck,

Buck doesn’t get it. He so badly wants to, but whenever he asks if he can read whatever Eddie’s writing (which, unbeknownst to him, Buck is the only one who Eddie lets read the stuff he’s working on), he doesn’t understand it. Or, he doesn’t feel like he’s smart enough to understand it on the deeper level that he should, which frustrates him a little because this is a part of Eddie that’s really important to him, and Buck wants to be able to say something intelligent about it, something that says he appreciates this profound thing that Eddie is offering him by letting him read his poems. But he can’t. Not just by reading them on his own.

So he asks, shyly offering the little black notebook back, “can you—can you read it to me?”

So Eddie does. After awkwardly clearing his throat a little and stumbling his way through the first few lines, he eventually finds his rhythm, and his voice grows steady, stronger as it finds the comfortable cadence, and Buck watches his whole posture change while he reads, and he’s never seen Eddie look so confident or at ease with himself, and he’s listening to the words as Eddie reads them and oh. Oh.

Buck gets it now.

[icarusbetide]

On the topic of people with whom hamilton had.. interesting relationships with, do you think him and bobby troup had something going on in college

hey anon! i'm going to be a spoilsport and say that i don't think there's enough for me to suspect anything between them. but the flip side to "we don't know enough :(" is "we don't know enough ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)". they could've been going through the girls-kissing-for-fun-at-sleepover experience as roommates and we'd have no idea, would we?

but what i do know is that they had a life-long, deep relationship that survived a war and all the interpersonal hurdles that comes along with their new york circle being 10 people in a trenchcoat. undergrad roommates at king's college, similar orphan-background. they formed a debating club together, and troup probably saw hamilton's political thoughts on the british-american conflict mature firsthand. later, he had thoughts on philip, on hamilton's financial situation, on how much hamilton charged his clients - he was very intimate and close with the hamilton family at large.

there is recent speculation on whether or not troup "losing" hamilton's youthful poetry that he had been gifted might suggest that the poetry had suggestive material, à la laurens letters. but i don't know why troup would have even brought it up if he had destroyed or tampered the poetry. it seems more likely that he genuinely lost track of the papers and regretted losing them.

i do find it superbly interesting that troup was close to burr as well as hamilton, although i've heard conflicting things on the period and overlap of the friendships, and how troup felt about burr after the duel. there is a very dramatic theory that troup might have been involved with both hamilton and burr.

two of my favorite anecdotes are about them fussing over each other.

troup giving ham updates to rufus king in his 1802 letter, where he goes "Hamilton is closely pursuing the law, and I have at length succeeded in making him somewhat mercenary. I have known him latterly to dun his clients for money, and in settling an account with me the other day, he reminded me that I had received a fee for him in settling a question referred to him and me jointly. These indications of regard to property give me hopes that we shall not be obliged to raise a subscription to pay for his funeral expenses."

i love it because it's so very clearly a close friend fond and amused, you know? "he reminded me that i owe him his fee! the progress!"

2. the fact that troup was the last visit ham made before the duel, and it was him being a mom friend again? troup himself was very sick, and he later recounted that ham showed up and basically gave health advice with such cheerfulness that troup had no idea what was about to happen the next day. it's so very tragic.

"But the whole tenor of the General’s deportment, during the visit, manifested such composure, and cheerfulness of mind, as to leave me without an suspicion of the rencontre that was descending."

tldr: at the very least, a decades long friendship between two people that seemed to have complimentary personalities - the calm to hamilton's storm, in some ways. one of ham's steadfast friends who contributed greatly to the subscription for hamilton's funeral and support for his family. was there more? youthful experimentation, perhaps? let's bring them back and ask.

[minmaxi]

this fic idea has been sitting in my google docs for a couple of months. I'm not great at finishing projects and I'm usually more for something resembling poetry than a story, but I'm posting this as much for me as for a friend who said he's interested to see what I have cooking 😊 (thank you for the encouragement!) and, since I haven't gone to sleep yet, I think we can still call this

FUCK IT FRIDAY

I haven't settled on a title yet, so let's just call this one "the q-word fic," shall we?

———

Buck’s been thinking. Dangerous, he can practically hear someone say; but it's been quite a week, he’s allowed. With Chris back from Texas last week and Bobby finally back in the captain’s chair today, he’s practically basking in the serenity of things going back to how they should be. There's only this 24-hour shift standing between him and 48 hours off, and outside of vague ideas of spending some time with his reunited Diaz boys, he's still not entirely sure what he'll be doing after the shift wraps up in about… 19 more hours, according to his watch? He could swear it's already been 8.

The rigs are all stocked, the supply closet is organized, and he's long given up on finding the clipboard that must've grown legs somewhere between the engine and the ladder truck. Buck's been curled up near the TV, keeping himself occupied with an old YA novel that he's been rereading before he gifts it to Chris. The rest of the team is caught up on their own assignments, too, so anyone else who's not trying to bank some sleep or work out has also gravitated to the loft to settle in.

Adjusting in place, he realizes if he doesn’t move soon that his leg will only get stiffer, and right now’s as good a time as any for some tea, anyway. Setting the book down, brushing his fingers against the dalmatian statue as he stretches up out of the armchair, his mind turns from the new herbal blend in the cabinet back to the present evening.

So far, it's been a qui—

Buck freezes in place.

It's been a while since the last time anyone used The Q-Word in the firehouse, and if for no other reason than some kind of reflex, he won't even let himself think it. That word has bitten him everywhere, every time—from this very station, to a bar in Peru, all the way back to a ranch in Montana—to say nothing of the stories Hen and Chimney have recounted. Even Bobby takes it seriously, even if he thinks it's mostly psychosomatic.

Thankfully, he muses, Ravi learned his lesson from the last mishap—newer probies have been warned since—and everyone else on the A-shift knows better than to invite chaos with such reckless abandon.

"Heeeey, is it my imagination or does tonight seem like it's been nice and–”

Almost everyone.

All eyes turn to Eddie, elbows perched on the counter, hovering over a cup of coffee.

"–relaxed so far?" he smirks, looking up knowingly.

———

p.s. how does no pressure tagging work. I might be overthinking it. please drop in my asks or dms about this. 💜

[bullet-prooflove]

Only You - Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @corruptedcoffin @anime-weeb-4-life @redpoodlern @ravencrow83 @kishie8 @thelonewolfwillsurvive @thanossexual @nu1freakshow @oureternalbond @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @jtelford @the-wandering-lunatic @darqchilddaydreamz @yourwinchesterbros @lexondeck @keyweegirlie @poppyrose33 @belovedbastardremus @trublu2u @thebaileybugle @ambassadortotrilliusprime @yvette22 @legally-a-bastard @thequeenoftheisleofavalon @joyfulfxckery @waysbsgr @thanossexual @justreblogginfics

Companion piece to Punishment & Silver & Gold

Follows on from the events of Weak

It’s quiet up here at the cabin and it’s exactly what Chibs needs as he lays in the large cosy bed with the flannel sheets, your warm form pressed against his naked body. His fingertips trail over the scars that line your back, each lash a reminder of your bravery, your strength, your resilience.

It’s been almost three months since the barn and they’re still no closer to tracking down Galen. The Butcher of Belfast has well and truly gone to ground. They’d received word from Connor that he’s back in Ireland, attending to True IRA business. There’s no way for Chibs to get his hands on the prick because the other Kings won’t let him have him. If he crosses back over to the US it becomes a different story.  

The only solace is that you’ve been able to return to your own life. With Galen out of the country, you’re safe. You returned to work almost a month ago and have been indulging in your own courtroom battles. He’s forgotten how vicious you can be, how you use words to cut down your adversaries and tear apart their arguments. It’s like watching poetry in motion and Chibs is man enough to admit it does something for him to see you in your element.

One of the reasons he’s brought you up here for the weekend is because he thinks you need to take a breather, you’ve been hurtling head long into your cases, working all hours of the night in an attempt to catch up on the ones you let slide during your ‘sabbatical’. The other reason is perspective.

He didn’t set out with the intention of becoming President of the club, it was always assumed that Jax would take over when Clay eventually stepped down. However, it had all gone to hell when Clay had set the Persian on Tig’s girl, Suzie Q. It had ended with an unmarked grave on the outskirts of Charming.

After Clay’s untimely demise Jax hadn’t wanted to take up the mantle, in fact he didn’t even want to be V.P anymore. He wanted to step back into a member position so he could spend more time with his kids. Clay’s death had changed his view on the world. He saw how the power of the gavel could corrupt, how insidious it could be if you didn’t have the Club’s best interests.

Instead of making it his own he had nominated Chibs to take over the role with Bobby as his Vice President.

“There’s nobody here that loves the club as much as you do brother.” He had told Chibs when it was taken to table. “The two of you will do what’s best for everybody and that’s what we need right now. Strong leadership with the M.C at it’s heart.”

The vote had been unanimous.

It’s been over a week and he still isn’t sure how it sits with him.

Your nose trails up along the curve of his throat, distracting him from his thoughts, your lips following suit. He can not express how good it feels to be alone here with you, to carve out this tiny piece of heaven away from all the other shit in your lives.  

Your teeth graze his earlobe, breath ghosting in his ear. It’s one of the things that takes him zero to sixty, you know that. He feels himself stirring, despite the fact he had you less than hour ago.

You and him…

It’s a craving he just can’t sate, no matter how hard he tries.

“You’re insatiable lass.” He murmurs as your hand begins to wander, fingertips trailing over the tattoos that mar his chest and then lower, over the scar where Jimmy O had driven the knife into abdomen and left him bleeding out in the street.

You laugh and he loves that sound, it’s airy and light and it loosens something deep down inside of him. Your palm grazes over his hardening cock, thumb skirting over the tip before you squeeze just right. He moans at the sensation, his head tipping back into the pillow.

“Fuck love.” He mutters as you begin to move in slow languid strokes.

“It looks like I’m not only the interested party.” You tease and he smiles because you really are ruinous.

You have no idea of the things you do to him, how he would spend his days doing anything just to make you happy. You never ask him for that and he knows you never would. It’s part of the reason he loves you.

“I can’t ever get enough of you.” He tells you as he rolls onto his side and cradles your face, his thumb chases over the blush of your cheek. “You’ll always find me wanting.”

He doesn’t know it but his words mean the world to you because deep down there’s this fear. One that you can never explain to the man you love. Sometimes you hear Galen’s voice in your ear, his breath a hoarse rasp when he tells you that Filip won’t want you when he’s done, that he won’t even be able to look at you.  

When Filip kisses you, it feels like you’re drowning. Passion intermingles with the tenderness and before you know it, he has you on your back, moaning into his mouth as he presses deep. He loves you slowly, with languid thrusts that drag over that sweet spot again and again until stars combust through your synapses, igniting every single one of your nerve endings. You tug at his hair, and he comes apart with you, his eyes locked on yours at the pinnacle of release.

This is what he needs, he thinks as he dips his head and kisses you again. You and only you.

Love Chibs? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[c0zy-fluff]

Wanna hear a headcanon? Here's one anyways.

Simon, Poe, Kickin, Bobby, Rabie and Crafty are all theatre kids and they (except Crafty and ESPECIALLY Simon) are about as insufferable as they come.

All of these guys DEFINITELY fit the theatre kids roles, ESPECIALLY Simon.

Simon goes ALL out in his roles; he even drags it on at some points and in rehearsal, he sometimes even does improv for his lines (even if another character has to speak)

Poe treats this kinda stuff like poetry; though they don't like to express themself in any other emotion other than vague anger/brooding, they at least actually know how to act instead of just reading the script in a monotone, robotic voice

Kickin is basically 2nd drama queen, next to Simon; though he's a little more silly when trying to copy Simon's way of acting

Bobby would be a sucker for the plays/musicals that has the tearjerkers, romantic subplots (that are actually written great), and when she finds her favorite scenes from that play/musical, she will quote and act it out for the rest of her life

Crafty may be a little shy, but that won't stop her from wanting to act cuz she has quite the flair for the dramatic

Rabie absolutely LOVES the amount of drama; whether it be betrayal (secret, open, inadvertent, etc) and being on stage performing is basically her side hustle aside from her constant eavesdropping for juicy secrets/gossip

[chappedlipdirtycontacts]

SUPERNATURAL HEADCANONS I LOVEEE

- Angel bl00d glows blue from their grace. they show this a few times with cuts and stuff but i wish they did it all the time

- Visible angel wings, perhaps even halos! we were robbed. maybe not visible all the time cus i could see how it could be distracting. but it’d be cool to show.

- Sam and Dean have weird ass conversations. they’re in the car ALL the time and they’ve never shown their debates about immortality, cowboys or random shit like “is cereal a soup?”

- i saw this post saying Dean snuck some holy water, a notebook, and a pocket knife into Sam’s bag before he left for Stanford. I love that so much :(

- When reading lore books, the Winchesters - mostly Dean - point to ugly creatures and say: “this looks like you” or “this you?”

- Sam is really good at drawing scenery but sucks at drawing people/animals. This headcanon stemmed from that one time in season 1 where Sam drew a tree from memory, but then in season 3 he was a criminal sketch artist and it was terrible.

- This one is really stupid but i think it’s funny. Sam really likes “we didn’t start the fire” because it’s historical and has real events.

- Sam and Dean would play fight a lot as kids. but one time Dean accidentally hurt Sam, so after that he started to let him win.

- I can’t remember if this is canon or not but Dean loves licorice. don’t ask me where i got this info from.

(edit!: it is canon! in Bobby’s memory of the brothers Dean and Sam bicker about whether or not it’s a good movie snack)

- Growing up, Dean would always make sure Sam ate first. so now as an adult where food is readily available, Dean is finally showing how much he can eat.

- Dean loves kids shows. but not in a creepy way (💀) this is sorta canon because he makes references to Gumby and Loony Tunes. but I picture him watching those types of shows any chance he gets. I also picture him putting it on the motel TV just for “background noise”. and as he’s reading lore books he takes breaks and watches.

- I’d like to say Dean can play guitar. but he doesn’t have much time to learn/teach himself. so this one is unrealistic but still cute to think about.

- When Castiel leaves and “wooshes away” some stray feathers fly off and fall to the floor. this used to piss the Winchesters and Bobby off cus the mess. but after awhile Dean and Sam didn’t mind.

- Dean learned mechanic stuff from Bobby. some people say that Dean learned how to work on Baby from John, but that’s so unrealistic? John didn’t gaf about Dean like a father should. It was Bobby that taught him all about cars and fixing them.

- Castiel still loves board games, even after he’s “fixed” after season 7. I see him playing Scrabble and Mancala.

- Sam and Dean, sometimes Castiel, go to the motel pools on summer afternoons as a reward after a case. I feel like they’re always in cold weather, but once and awhile when it’s sunny i think it’d be cute :(

- Hot take: Castiel isn’t gay/MLM. he’s definitely Pansexual or Bisexual. I feel that he really did have a romantic connection with Meg and did care for her. and this is coming from someone who loves Destiel!

- Dean never told Castiel about the Supernatural musical. He was too embarrassed about the Destiel storyline. BUT SAM. This 6’4 dork definitely told Cas about Destiel AND Sastiel

- These habits got better as Castiel spent more time on Earth. But Castiel constantly slams doors, breaks glasses and lightbulbs, and sets off car alarms. Mostly because he doesn’t realize how strong he is.

- (referring to the last headcanon!) Castiel would either be really gentle with things or really rough. i can’t decide which one HAH

- Sam writes poetry and Dean reads poetry but they both don’t know this about each other because they’re too embarrassed. Sam reasonably so! Dean always making fun of him for his interests oml

- Sam can read Italian. specifically old dialects. remember that one episode where he read the Italian lady’s diary? she wrote that in the 1600s

- Sam had/has a Nintendo DS. PLS it’d be so cute him playing it in the car or before bed in a shitty motel room. as a kid he’d prolly play it under the bed covers so John wouldn’t take it away. Dean prolly stole it or found for him too.

Might add more later!! :3

[missmagooglie]

Fuck It Friday

Throwing out another bit of the omegaverse thing I've been working on. Previous snippets here and here.

Buck’s mouth against his neck feels good, too. He tips his head to the side, making room for Buck to press sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all along his throat and beneath his jaw. It's close to where his mating mark will go, but Eddie’s pretty sure they aren't at that part yet. And Buck would warn him, probably, before trading gentle lips for sharp teeth. It might not even be so bad, Eddie thinks. Maybe the way Buck keeps touching him will distract him from the pain of being bitten, like pinching his hand so he doesn’t feel the needle when he gets a shot. Then Buck's hand slides down the back of his pants, thick fingers sliding across the swell of his ass just as Buck grinds their hips together and Eddie can feel that his cock isn’t the only one getting stiff. There’s a sudden, nauseating lurch in his stomach as he remembers the other thing Buck is supposed to do to him tonight, and the thought of it makes Eddie flinch.  Violently. Buck swears and stumbles backwards as Eddie twists out of his grip, elbowing him hard in the ribs as he does.  Eddie's heart is racing as he looks up wide-eyed at the alpha now standing several feet away. He feels his face heat as the old fear that jolted through him subsides, leaving him to feel mortified.  “I'm sorry,” Buck gasps, clutching his side where Eddie has probably left a bruise. “Are you ok?” Eddie manages to nod and tries, unsuccessfully, not to tense up as Buck approaches him. “Do you–” Buck asks haltingly as he takes cautious, slow steps to close the gap between them, “–and listen, I want you to be honest, because it’s ok if you don’t, but. Do you actually know what we're supposed to be doing right now?” Eddie presses his lips together tightly and stares harshly at the ground. He's supposed to be submitting. He's supposed to let himself be claimed. Bobby had all but ordered the two of them to get this done, and Eddie can’t even let Buck touch him like he’s supposed to. “What I mean is," Buck continues when Eddie doesn't respond, "did your parents or anyone ever explain to you what’s, er, involved when two people get mated?” Oh, Eddie realizes, semi-hysterically, he thinks I'm a virgin. “Because I can talk you through it, if you need me to,” Buck tells him with wide, beseeching eyes as he so sweetly as he offers to explain the act of sex.  Eddie's jaw clenches tightly he tries to think through what he should do.

Tags under cut. Drop a note if you want to be added or removed from my tag list for 911 fic!

@onyxmoonstone @daffi-990 @lover-of-mine @pleasestopdeletingmyaccount @coatedpanda16 @littleblackraincloudofcourse @littlefruitybastard @idealuk @blackberry-l @imabtastic @indiearr @machtaholic @zahlibeth, @ladydorian05 @piratefalls @poetry-protest-pornography @911-on-abc @robinplume @mattsire

This is my first attempt at creating a tag list, so I apologize if I got the etiquette wrong. I more or less just tagged anyone who's shown interest in my snippets in previous posts or I thought might be interested?

[03fbrryboy]

Trapped in a Blue Room

Goodbye Poetries Side B: The Blue Man

by Bobby Yusuf

Down at the archive room, With a thousand document files, So dark, so blue, Once red, it loses its colored lamp again, Shattered clearly, none to change

As I cry this heart out, I realized, oh no, Your file is inside it, None of me to purposely save it

I guess it's trapped in a blue room, A blue heart, long gone, impacted, Long gone, attached and affected

All the good mornings not to come, I woke up dramatically late these weeks Oh no, he made me crazy, Asking, "Where's my love been?"

Divide me into poetry and hatred, So hard to admit a love, Stonewalled to convince a way, I'm restless in my mind

Either way, I don't have the intention To have your file here; it's an invention, A record of a thousand-mile love, Even though you can come here someday

Just know you're saved, Trapped in a blue room.