#i got you buddy

[itskeej]

hi person who forgot to hit anon i am giving you another chance to hit anon <3

edit: this makes me sound like a super villain lowkey out of context why is my wording so aggressive... is this what i sound like to people- /lh

[buckaroo627]

Ryan Guzman: Kenneth Choi Instagram post

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

"This is how you save someone's life..."

Ryan's comment : "You're not dying on my Watch!!! Ps. No gum was harmed in the filming of this."

Kenny's reply: @/ryanaguzman 😂😂😳

Haha cpr

[analyticallymindedaa]

thinking abt how in nearly every verse fitz comes looking for jemma once she's settled down somewhere. it's usually several years after she's left (because she has to be fairly settled and feel fairly secure before he even gets a shot at finding her), but even then he'll find her place and tries to convince her to go "home" to shield w him and it usually takes a few times of her saying no (and a dog bite) before he leaves and kinda just want more interactions where people are Around for that

[strawberries-are-my-life]

also noone worry about booping me back i'm already at OMG

reblog only if you’ve received less than 1000 boops! we can all get each other to “max”

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[feral-peacock]

She sees me

We broke up

[ivegotyourbackbuddie]

I would love a classic scene of Eddie questioning if he’s straight or not, and Buck swooping in with a, “I wasn’t sure until Tommy kissed me, so maybe you just need a guy to kiss you.”

Of course, Eddie would look right at Buck and ask, “Do you know anyone offering?”

And Buck, thumb hooked in his belt, chest out, would walk up to Eddie and say, “I think I do.”

Only for Chimney to interrupt the moment and yell, “Alright! Pucker up, buttercup. They don’t call me Mr. April for nothing!”

[mipmoth]

It's only me and you in this cruel world walking radiator

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

"oh please everyone has gay thoughts sometimes" so what i'm hearing is that heteronormativity is so ingrained that a significant percentage of the population regularly experiences bisexual attraction? but dismisses it as something that all straight people experience? this is so concerning are you guys okay

[o-sunny-day]

oh….. the THINGS i would give for a @forgettable-au movie……..

gang- okay…

The vision of Papyrus and Gaster at Wingdings’ funeral…. was so vivid in my head. And now its going to be there forever. and i have 0 complaints.

Dunno if any of you have played Omori, but SPOILERS!

the context to this is kinda like the Blackspace segment. Papyrus is in his head sorting out the shit he needs to sort out through metaphors n such. But Gaster is also there because he can do that because theyre the same person (IT MAKES SENSE)

I imagine that whole thing happens right after Papyrus regains all his wingdings memories like he gets knocked out or something- IM MAKING A LOT OF ASSUMPTIONS HERE LIKE HE MIGHT NOT EVEN REMEMBER, EVER!!! I REALLY HOPE HE DOES!!! BUT!!!

Just let me have my silly fanfics…

After a lot of fighting and agony over the question of WHO IS PAPYRUS? ESPECIALLY AFTER HE’S LEARNED TOO MUCH?

it ends with a somber scene of putting Wingdings to rest, letting his 2 halves live their own lives.

Papyrus asks “Why did you do this?” as in… Why did you bring me here? and why did you do what you did? throwing yourself into the void?

Gaster has the same answer for both of those questions

Thats my theory, I think a lot of Gaster/Wingdings’ ambition, in game and in comic, is just curiosity

TIME FOR SOME FUN LITTLE EASTER EGGS!!!

In the first frame, theres a raindrop in front of Papyrus’ eye socket, meant to allude to Wingdings’ eye lights.

Also the field is filled with Echo and Golden flowers. Echo represents Wingdings, and Golden represents Papyrus. Gaster is just Gaster, don’t worry about him

I also had fun making the save point star look sorta like a cross from the distance…cause yknow…heaven….TEEHEE

I got emotional putting “dearest brother” on the grave cause I couldnt put any more stuff like “closest friend” or “dear son”….Sans was kinda all he had…

and lastly heres some bonus behind the scenes stuff because I have enough room for it

some sketches, and a speedpaint with the best instrumental song ever made from the best liveaction movie ever made that has absolutely nothing to do with the forgettable au (Little Miss Sunshine - “THE WINNER IS”)

Highly recommend, 100/10, makes me UGLY SOB, think the undertale gang would like it (especially Papyrus and Undyne)

[stevenrogered]

Can we also talk about how Buck has feelings for Tommy...who is literally a carbon copy of Eddie?

[lover-of-mine]

#*ariana grande starts playing* break up with your girlfriend cuz im bored

[shepscapades]

Xisuma, why in the world were trying to fix your helmet with TAPE?? I thought the superglue idea was unhinged but THIS IS A NEW LEVEL

(I know that it's probably not holding itself ONLY on tape, but the image in my head is too funny)

What's next? You tell me he attached Doc's new arm to his body with tape and glue too??

THIS RESPONSE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE COMICAL but I let it get away from me;;

[hotshotsxyz]

the taste of iron

(buddie) (2.3k words) (8x01 alternate ending) so i made a joke the other day about what would have happened if buck hadn't pushed gerrard out of the way and then i kept thinking about it and then it wasn't a joke anymore and now we're here content warning: minor character death (but like. it's gerrard) (also blood related to said death)

Gerrard is so fucking loud. The vitriol, the bigotry, that’s what makes Buck angry, but it’s the volume that sets his teeth on edge. How it isn’t driving the rest of them insane, he’ll never understand.

The more he berates, the louder he gets. The construction, just feet away, adds to the cacophony. Buck can feel his eardrums vibrating with every spit-punctuated syllable that flies from Gerrard’s mouth. He needs it to stop, he needs it to—

All at once, three things happen. Gerrard’s hand comes up, finger pointed accusingly at the center of his chest. Buck takes an instinctive step back and stumbles, just enough to throw him off balance. The sound of the saw changes.

The split second it takes for Buck to steady himself is a split second too long.  The saw blade flies across the room and embeds itself in the engine, but not before slicing deep into the tissue of Gerrard’s throat. Arterial blood sprays itself across Buck’s face. For a moment, everything goes quiet. Then, it descends into chaos.

Distantly, Buck hears someone shout his name. A hand grabs his shoulder and—

Firefighter needs help, I repeat—

—spins him around.

“Buck!” It’s Eddie’s voice, but Eddie—

Are you hurt?

—Eddie’s hands are on him, on his face, on his chest. They come away red and slick with blood.

“You’re okay, Buck, look at me, you’re okay.”

Go! Go, go, go go!

Buck blinks. Swallows. He tastes—

Three minutes away, we’re so close.

Eddie’s hands find his face again. “Look at me,” he says, as if Buck could ever look away. “I need you to breathe.”

I need you to hang—I need you to hang on.

Buck takes a breath, then another. There’s blood on his face. Eddie’s hands are on his face. Eddie’s hands are covered in blood. It’s not Eddie’s blood. It’s not Eddie’s blood.

There’s a siren, but Eddie’s not in the engine. Eddie’s in front of him, still standing. Eddie—

“Just like that, there you go. With me. In… and out…” His voice is calm, steady, unlabored.

“You’re—” Buck croaks.

Eddie’s eyes are wide and brown and focused. “I’m right here, Buck, keep breathing with me.”

His hand rises of its own accord and finds Eddie’s shoulder. The fabric of his t-shirt is dry and undamaged. Eddie’s brows draw together and a moment later realization seems to dawn.

“I’m okay, Buck,” he says, painfully quiet. “I’m not hurt.”

All at once, the tension that’s been keeping him upright goes. He stumbles, and without Eddie’s steadying grip, he’d probably fall. Buck blinks a few times, and the blurry world around him and Eddie comes back into focus.

Eddie’s turned him away from the engine bay, away from what must be an ocean of blood behind him. Everything he can see looks normal, but it’s unnaturally quiet. Buck lets out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and it’s like shattering glass the way it breaks the silence.

Eddie’s face relaxes a fraction. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Buck lets Eddie pull him toward the locker room and guide him down onto the bench. He’s gentle, like Buck might break if he presses just a little bit too hard. He pulls at Buck’s shirt until it comes untucked, then carefully peels it off of him, leaving shivering gooseflesh in his wake.

“I’ll be right back,” Eddie says, “I promise.”

Buck nods numbly.

Eddie slips into the bathroom, and a moment later Buck hears the sound of running water. He comes back a few seconds later with clean hands and a damp towel.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He kneels and brings the towel to Buck’s cheek. It’s warm; Eddie must’ve waited for the water to heat before wetting it.

With one hand, Eddie drags the towel in soft, short strokes across Buck’s skin. The other cups the back of his head, steadying him. Buck’s eyes flutter closed, and Eddie takes the opportunity to carefully wipe at the blood that flecks his eyelids.

Finally, Buck hears the towel drop wetly to the floor and opens his eyes.

“With me?” Eddie asks. His eyes bore into Buck’s.

“Yeah,” he rasps.

Eddie squeezes his knee and stands. “Good,” he says, turning away just long enough to fish a sweatshirt from his locker and hand it to Buck.

“Thanks.” Buck pulls the sweatshirt on and is immediately enveloped by the smell of Eddie’s laundry detergent. It settles a little more of the anxiety that’s dug itself deep into his stomach.

Eddie settles next to him on the bench and brushes their shoulders together. “You want to talk about it?”

Buck shakes his head. He doesn’t. But—

“Is he dead?”

In his peripherals, Buck sees Eddie frown. “Probably,” he says after a long moment.

“Oh.” Buck feels less about that than he thought he might. He’s neither sad nor relieved, though he suspects the apathy will fade with the shock. “Can we go home?”

Eddie huffs a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh on another day. “Yeah. Pretty sure the 118’s not going back into service until B shift gets here.”

“Who’s going to deal with…” Buck trails off.

“Not us,” Eddie says decisively. He stands and grabs both of their bags from the lockers. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

“You hate driving,” Buck says quietly.

The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticks up. “Which is why I owe you more rides than you’ll ever cash in on.”

Buck surprises himself with something close to a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Eddie all but manhandles him into the passenger seat of the truck, lingering just a moment longer than strictly necessary, then jogs over to the driver’s side. He turns the key in the ignition and fiddles with the radio until it lands on a station playing something old and soft.

As far as Buck can tell, it’s not a song he’s heard before, but it’s warm and comfortable all the same. He relaxes into his seat and pulls the sleeves of Eddie’s sweatshirt over his knuckles. It’s loose on him, unlike the majority of Eddie’s clothing, and Buck wonders if he bought it with a day like this in mind.

Eddie taps his fingers on the wheel as he drives and glances over at Buck every time they hit a red light. He’s quiet, though, and Buck is too, grateful for the chance to gather himself in the near silence. By the time they pull into Eddie’s driveway, Buck’s starting to feel mostly like a person again.

He follows Eddie inside, and it’d probably feel like any other day if he wasn’t still wearing his uniform pants and boots.

“I’m just gonna…” Buck says, nodding toward Eddie’s bedroom as he toes out of his shoes.

Eddie steps around him and squeezes his elbow. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says, but it feels a little more like, ‘take all the time you need, I’ll still be here’.

Buck’s had a drawer at Eddie’s almost as long as he’s known him. He bypasses that drawer and goes straight for the one that houses Eddie’s most comfortable and threadbare pajamas. He changes into a pair of soft cutoffs, and with his uniform sheds the last of the tension in his shoulders.

He wanders into the kitchen and finds Eddie whisking eggs in a mixing bowl. Wordlessly, Buck sets the table and pours two glasses of orange juice. When he’s done, he sits, knowing exactly what Eddie will say if he offers to help with the food.

A few minutes later, Eddie carries two plates to the table. Breakfast is simple, just scrambled eggs and toast, but Eddie’s gotten good at this; the eggs are beautifully fluffy and the toast is a perfect golden brown.

“Hang on a sec,” Eddie says.

He goes over to the fridge and returns with a new, unopened jar of blueberry preserves, the kind you can only get at the farmer’s market. Buck swallows thickly, suddenly aware of just how many words are caught in his throat.

“Thanks,” he says, the only one of them he thinks will come out painlessly.

Eddie ghosts his hand along Buck’s shoulder then sits in the chair closest to his.

“Eat,” he says softly, and it’s only then that Buck realizes he hasn’t even picked up his fork.

Buck read somewhere, once, that the physical act of chewing was enough to meaningfully lower cortisol levels. He’s not actually sure if it’s true, but sitting here with Eddie, he thinks it might be. It makes sense – you don’t stop to eat until the danger has passed. You eat when you feel safe. Buck feels safe. He spreads blueberry preserves on his toast and eats.

When he’s done, Eddie grabs both of their plates and drops them in the sink. He returns to his chair.

“Do you want to talk or try to get some rest?” he asks after a long moment.

Rest sounds really good, actually, but—“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” Buck admits.

“We can watch a movie,” Eddie says, offering him an out.

Buck smiles half-heartedly. “Not sure I can do that, either,” he says.

“Then tell me,” Eddie says, voice full of all the concern he hasn’t expressed yet.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Buck says, finding it to be true as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Eddie looks conflicted for a second, but then his expression steels. “When I got shot. That’s what it reminded you of, right?”

There’s a certain relief in not having to voice it himself. Buck nods.

“Okay,” Eddie says gently.

“For—for a second I wasn’t in the station anymore. It was—I know you don’t really remember anything about that day.” Buck shrugs helplessly.

“I do,” Eddie offers. “Not most of it, I mean, but…” Eddie lifts his hand to Buck’s face and brushes a thumb along the curve of his cheek.   

Something Buck doesn’t have a name for clenches in his stomach.

“I have this picture of you in my head; I was never quite sure whether or not I dreamed it.”

Buck’s breath catches in his chest.

“Guess not,” Eddie says ruefully, shaking his head.

“What, um—what do you—” Buck presses his lips together as the rest of the question refuses to form in his mouth.

Eddie sighs. “We never really talked about this, did we?”

Buck frowns. “We did,” he says.

Eddie shakes his head. “We talked about me, but you were there, too.”

“I didn’t get shot, Eddie.”

“And I didn’t get struck by lightning.”

Buck looks down at his hands and realizes they’re shaking.

“I know what it feels like to watch you die, Buck,” Eddie says seriously. “And you know how it feels to be covered in my blood.”

“I know how it tastes,” Buck corrects quietly. He glances up in time to see the stricken expression on Eddie’s face.

“What?” he breathes.

“It was the only thing I could taste for weeks.” Eddie’s hands find his. “And then today, I tasted it again.”

“Buck,” Eddie says roughly. Buck’s always liked the way his name sounds on Eddie’s lips. He says it like it means something.

All at once, Buck realizes that he’s been waiting years for permission to talk about this, permission Eddie’s finally given him, and it all comes pouring out.

“I thought you were gonna die, Eds. I—I thought I was going to have the taste of your blood in my mouth for the rest of my life. And I—god, I blamed myself for—for not seeing it coming, or getting to you faster.”

Eddie’s hands tighten around his. “You got there fast enough. You saved me,” he says.

Buck laughs softly. “I know. In my head I know that, but—but it never feels like it.”

“Still?” Eddie asks.

In lieu of a response, Buck takes one of Eddie’s hands in his own and presses his fingers to the pulse point in his wrist. His heart beats strong and steady. Buck closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

He blinks them back open. His brow furrows. “For what?”

Eddie’s lips twist painfully. “We should have talked about this a long time ago. I should’ve asked.”

Buck shakes his head. “That’s not on you.”

“I think it might be,” Eddie says.

“You got shot,” Buck says. “You’re allowed to avoid the subject.”

Eddie huffs a soft breath. “I think…” he trails off.

Buck waits, counting every beat of Eddie’s pulse against his fingertips.

“I think I was afraid that if we talked about it, I’d remember.”

“And you didn’t want to,” Buck says. “I get that.”

“It’s all so blurry,” Eddie says, “but I remember the way it hurt. I remember being afraid. But I also—there was a moment, somewhere in all that, when I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Buck bites his lip and nods.

“And…” Eddie’s jaw tightens for a moment. “And when I think about that, I—that’s when I see you.”

Buck takes a sharp, aching breath.

Eddie watches him for a long moment until something minute shifts in his expression. “Oh,” he says softly.

“What?” Buck asks.

Eddie shakes his head. “I just—I remembered something else.”

“Do you want to…”

“I think I’m gonna need a minute with this one,” Eddie says. “But I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“You don’t have to,” Buck says.

The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticks up into a small smile. “I know.”

“Okay,” Buck says softly. He holds Eddie’s gaze for several seconds, but nothing in it scares him. It’s Eddie, warm, perceptive and sure. “I—I think I might be able to sleep.”

“Good,” Eddie says. He stands, pulling Buck up with him. “Come on.”

And just as he has every other time Eddie’s asked him to, Buck follows.

[archiepelago]

alternate surface au inspired by a few ive seen around on tumblr :3

[beets]

baby, bi bi bi