#let me live my fantasies

[mintncreamedbeans]

I want to have an excuse to draw every Sans I know this way.

[finniestoncrane]

i swear one day i'll learn how to draw and i'll make so much art of arkham!eddie with his dirty fingers pressed into the flesh of a fat girl or fuck it, any riddler, and then you'll all be sorry

[polarispost]

I deserve to be a hot girl dancing to this in a bar

[buttonheart]

Someone’s not a fan 🙄

[mzzystrlvr]

[st0rm3tv]

JASON TODD didn't want a dog. He lived in an apartment with you, with one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a living room that looked like the furniture decorated in it would fall apart at any moment.

But one day, he comes home to you, sleeping in your bed with a little bull mastiff puppy on his side of the bed. He stares at the dog for a few moments, before going to take off his Red Hood outfit, as though that would make the situation disappear. When he comes back, the dog was still there. Of course.

Gently, Jason shakes you awake, giving you a pointed look. "Got anything you want to share with me, babe?" He asks, eyes trailing down to the dog, still asleep on the bed. A sheepish smile crosses your face. "I can explain?" You say, though it comes out more like a question. "I was volunteering at the animal shelter and found him. He didn't like being with the other dogs in cage but they didn't have enough space to isolate him." "So you thought the best plan was to bring home a dog that can grow to be 150 pounds?" I scoffs lightly. "No, no! I'm fostering him. Just for a little bit," You say quickly. "I thought since he's still a puppy he would be adopted quickly, right? So we won't have to make space for when he gets that big." Jason lets out a soft sigh and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before speaking again. "You're too good," He murmurs softly. You smile up at him and return the kiss onto his cheek. After a few moments, Jason clears his throat and looks down at the puppy, still sprawled out onto his side of the bed. "So where am I going to sleep?" ... JASON TODD sucks at being a foster. He's terrible, horrible, even. If you were to look up 'How to not foster a dog', they would just show his face. It wasn't that he neglected the dog. He could never. He took him out on runs, fed him good food, washed him, played with him. Everything a dog owner could do. No, the reason Jason was so bad was because his first ever foster dog turned out to be a foster failure. Every time someone came by interested in adopting the puppy, Jason would be in your ear, whispering to you that it didn't seem like they knew what they were doing, or that the puppy wouldn't like living with them. Every. Single. Time.

It wasn't till the three month mark of fostering the pup, having moved to a more spacious apartment, that Jason popped the question.

"You know," He starts suddenly while the two of you were on the couch, eating Chinese take out with the dog resting on the floor nearby. "No one here seems to be right for Buster." Buster, his name for the dog. He's used it so much he actually started responding to it. "There's someone, I'm sure," You counter, taking a bite of your food. "I know there is," Jason counters. Just as you open your mouth to tell him that makes no sense, he cuts you off. "Us. We're right for Buster." "Think," He says, reaching out to grip your hand. "For three months, we've had him, we've moved with him. He has his spot in the bed, we've worked him into our schedule. He's happy. Why ruin that?" "So you want to adopt him?" You ask, making sure you understood just exactly what he was saying. It felt too good to be true. "Yeah, I do," He says with a small smile. As soon as he finishes speaking you practically lung at him, tackling him into a hug while whispering small 'thank you's. The action makes Buster jump up and want to join in on whatever is going on, leaping onto the couch and sniffing at the two of you, his massive head bumping you both. In that moment, Jason knew he made the right choice. This felt right. It felt good. It felt like home. You, him, and your giant dog.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A procession of confessions.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[mousecastsfireball]

The best kind of characters Brennan Lee Mulligan plays (objective and true):

sentimental henchmen

single mothers

the most pathetic person you've ever seen

a CEO (bonus if monologue)

just a little guy that's also a little fucked up actually

insane old men (bonus if wizard)

the one normal guy here

(if I missed any feel free to add them in the tags or whatnot 🕺)

[fruityumbrella]

one piece is set in a nautical world with presumably nautical idioms and exclamations to match, right, like swearing by the sea rather than on a god etc. to wit, there's five seas (the four blues + the grand line) so we can assume when you're feeling particularly dramatic, you might refer to all those vast oceans to get your hyperbolic point across.

keeping that in mind, lets live in a stupidly romantic corny ass world for a moment ok? take my hand.

"I swear on all six seas, if you don't shut the fuck up right now—"

"What?" Sanji looks at him like he's stupid. Nothing new, really.

"Ha, even you're going deaf having to listen to your own annoying ass whining all the time, Cook. I was—"

"No, you—"

"Don't interrupt me! Oi!" he yelps as a wooden spoon bounces harmlessly off his shoulder. He's not impressed that Sanji manages to catch it before it hits the counter.

"You said six seas," Sanji states.

Zoro stares back in lieu of an answer.

"Huh, maybe this has something to do with why you're always lost. There's only five seas, dummy."

And ah, now he gets what the idiot cook is on about. He's surprised and a little disappointed, honestly. You'd think the guy would be a little more aware about his own fucking dream, but whatever. He's got that annoying smile, smug and cocky like he's oh so much better than Zoro.

"Would you like me to count them out for you? I know it's a big number, it's probably confusing for a simple creature like you."

Zoro crosses his arms in clear warning, something the cook, as always, blatantly ignores. He's leaning on the counter that's between them now, eyes sparkling with glee. Idiot. Zoro's thoughts do not have a fond tone to them. Thoughts don't have tones at all, thank you very much.

Sanji lifts a hand and proceeds to count off on his fingers with the precision of a drill sergeant.

"I'm sure you at least know our ocean, the East Blue. There's also the West Blue, North Blue, South Blue, and of course the Grand Line," he wiggles all his fingers as he puts his thumb up for the last one like he's emulating fireworks.

Zoro snorts indelicately. "And?"

Sanji frowns with a tilt of his head.

"And?"

Zoro holds up his index finger.

"And," he says, stifling his amusement as Sanji goes cross eyed trying to follow said finger as it arcs towards him, "your All Blue. Dummy."

He punctuates the last word by poking Sanji in the forehead, snickering when he sputters and swats the digit away in a huff. Then Zoro's words finally sink in, and he straightens up almost too fast. It's not endearing at all.

"Wait," he says quietly, "you count it?"

Zoro doesn't like how Sanji's looking at him with an open expression he's not usually allowed. He looks earnest and sincere. Zoro feels suddenly out of his depth.

"Don't you?" he deflects uncomfortably.

"Well yeah, but that's different. You're—" he shrugs half heartedly and looks away. Zoro can't tell if the end of that sentence was going to disparage him or the cook. Odds are likely split down the middle. Sanji keeps looking at him, and he feels pinned. The bright look is gone, replaced by something more reserved but perhaps...searching? Considering, at the least. It's making him increasingly self conscious. He needs to get out of here.

"Okay. I'm gonna steal some alcohol now," he says shortly, striding to the cabinet and swiping a bottle before Sanji blinks out of his stupor.

[sorryforyearning]

oh yeah i have free will *draws myself getting manhandled by arthur morgan*

[a2zillustration]

I love Scratch !!!!!

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[farah-o-0]

did this for Valentine's Day

sorry 😅 forgot to post it here

this is my first rough animation so if you guys have any tips or so please feel free to tell me (I know I can just google animation tutorials but I feel like there things that they don't tell you)

[inluvrn]

[cyberghouleo]

bodyguard! simon riley x celebrity! reader

To the displeasure of everyone I know, I got cod brain rot.

Inspired by: Celebrity by Slayyyter

When your manager suggested you hire a new bodyguard after your old one quit, you were not expecting a masked man with an accent to walk through your doors. 

At first, he sees you as a spoiled brat. He’s not used to being a bodyguard for someone famous, he is used to being hired as a hitman in more dangerous situations. He only accepted this job as the pay was good and his last job was nearby, but now he feels as if he's being toted around like a puppy, trailing behind you as you go along your normal day to day life.

Everything was a culture shift to him, he wasn’t used to following his clients while they shop or getting asked if you should purchase something, to which he always responded with “if that’s what you like.” He’s not used to sitting at lunch at a nearby table as your friends drill you with questions about him, questions about the mask and why he looked so differently than your previous guards. He was used to being in stressful situations, spending hours researching his client's attacker while being on alert 24/7, now he was just following you around with no immediate threats happening to you. 

While you're doing interviews or getting your makeup done before a photoshoot, he is sitting across from you in a chair with his arms crossed. He keeps his balaclava on and hardly speaks unless someone tries to deny him access behind the scenes with you. He speaks before you can, “I’m ‘er guard.” he grunts out as he keeps walking past them, following behind you. 

Trying to get to know him felt like pulling teeth, he’s standoffish and when he does answer questions, it's always short answers, even refusing to tell you his real name after you asked. You knew almost nothing about him, but that all changed once you’re alerted that your P.O box is being sent threatening letters, claiming to have a hit out on you. Ghost instructs that you are both to not leave the house until he can gather enough info about your threatener, leaving the two of you alone for several weeks.

These weeks alone cause him to slowly start opening up to you as the two of you have nothing else to do or talk about. You learn about his past clients, how this is his first high status bodyguard job, and his time in the military. He tells you bits at a time, not willing to spill too much at one time, almost testing to see how you respond to each bit of new information you learn about him. During dinner one night, he randomly speaks up. “Simon.” 

“What?”

“My name. Simon.”

It only takes a few weeks for him to track and find the person sending you the threats, and he reassures you that everything will be fine now. He doesn’t show any proof, but you trust him enough to believe him. The weeks you spent together did lead to some tension between the two of you, you are able to see a human side of him that you weren’t expecting, and you could feel yourself getting intrigued by what else you could learn about him. You scolded yourself for thinking this way towards a bodyguard, someone trying to do his job, but you also couldn’t deny the way you were starting to feel when you caught glimpses of his arms flexing underneath the tight black shirts he wore often. 

He slowly starts warming up to you and seeing you in a different light once he spends a few months inside your house. You aren’t as bratty or snobby as he expected. He tries to brush away any lingering thoughts as you ask him to help you zip up your dress, noticing how small your shoulders look under his gaze. Or when you ask him to help you put on a necklace, comparing how small your hands are to his when you hand him the necklace. 

The tension finally breaks when you are in a dressing room alone, waiting around as the photographer goes over the photos one final time before you could leave. You can feel him eyeing you up and down while you aren’t paying attention, his eyes studying the dress you were getting paid to wear and the way it hugged you. One offhand comment from you leads to him lifting you up onto the vanity counter, his mask pulled above his nose as his mouth finds yours, soft moans escaping you. Your panties are pulled to the side as his tongue circles around your clit, one hand pressed against your mouth to quiet you, so the staff doesn’t hear you cumming against his tongue. 

When in large crowds, one of his hands is always pressed against the small of your back as he guides you through the masses, the feeling of his touch lingering on your back even after he pulls away. His other hand resting close to the concealed gun he keeps at his hip, staying alert as his eyes scan through the faces to assess any threats. Crowds will naturally part once they notice how big he is and the way he towers over most of the fans.

The paparazzi gets a photo of you two together, Simon holding a few shopping bags as he trails behind you. The photo is captioned as if he was your secret boyfriend and your fans go crazy, tweeting how cute the two of you are together and how mysterious he was.

“Look, everyone thinks we are dating.” You say as you shove your phone in his face. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the photo, reading a comment on how good of a couple the two of you are. He only hums a response and rolls his eyes. He expects you to have a different reaction, shocked that you didn’t find it annoying but almost enduring. The idea of you being okay with the two of you being in a relationship and not just fuckbuddies ignites something deep in his stomach. 

You definitely talk him into taking a few photos of you for Instagram, instructing him on how to frame the photo as he stares blankly at the phone. When you post the photos, comments flood in asking if your mystery bodyguard was the one who took them. You often post stories with him lingering around in the background, only fueling the relationship speculation as fans talk about him living with you.

After the media starts to report more on the two of you, Ghost starts getting more offers from other celebrities to become their bodyguard. He gives them no second thought as he denies them. He will get approached with offers to pay him triple and he still waves them off, he plans on staying loyal as a bodyguard to you and you only, no matter how much they offer him.

Simon decides to make the two of you official by gifting you a necklace with his initial, something you wear and post about often, sending your fans into a bigger spiral. He finds the fans both amusing and slightly disturbing, showing how much love they have for you, yet you only get to call him yours. 

[a-deep-ocean-of-secrets]

Home Is Where I Want to Be (But I Guess I'm Already There)

Summary:

The thing is, Buck didn't mean to move in with Tommy.

Read below or on AO3 (3.8k words)

The thing is, Buck didn't mean to move in with Tommy.

Those first few giddy weeks and months (like bubbly champagne buzzing through his veins every time he saw Tommy’s smile, kissed Tommy’s full lips, found himself tangled in Tommy’s bed sheets) of staying over in his boyfriend's cozy, Venice bungalow have him living almost exclusively out of his trusty duffle bag. Which isn't a big deal. He's used to lugging that ratty thing back and forth from the firehouse to his apartment. 

Can it be annoying sometimes? Sure. His clothes are constantly wrinkled (which majorly sucks when he's trying to dress to impress on date nights) and he's always forgetting or running out of one toiletry or another. If it’s not his deodorant then it’s his mouthwash. If it’s not his aftershave then it’s his moisturizer. Minor inconveniences, really, but worth it every time to wake up in Tommy's king-sized bed with Tommy's strong arms wrapped around him and Tommy's hot breath on the back of his neck.  

It doesn't take long for that to change. Like a seed beginning to take root, Tommy, as he’s done since the very beginning, makes room for Buck in his life. Just as he opened his helicopter to Buck and his friends and flew them headfirst into a raging hurricane on nothing more than an outlandish hunch. The same way he took time out of his busy schedule to grant Buck a private tour of Harbor Station and answered all his jumbled questions as Buck nipped at his heels like an overeager golden retriever, tail wagging a mile a minute, wanting nothing more than to be closerclosercloser to the cool guy with a megawatt grin, who called him ‘Evan’ and had his heart skipping a beat even if he couldn’t identify the why of it all at the time.  

So it’s not a surprise at all when he carves out precious space in his closet and lets Buck's colorful and patterned button-ups and polos blend in with Tommy's neutral henleys and shackets. They’re two big guys with a penchant for working out, so their wide array of tank tops, sweatpants, and basketball shorts become indistinguishable from each other. Their LAFD-issued shirts are so interwoven that they've given up trying to tell them apart and frequently go to work wearing the other's name branded on their backs, much to their coworkers’ loud and endless amusement. 

Buck’s grapefruit shampoo and citrus body wash relocate to the shower niche alongside Tommy's own sandalwood and frankincense-scented products. On the vanity, Buck's red toothbrush is a companion to Tommy's green one. 

All these minute modifications to Tommy’s home are simple and understandable ripple effects of Buck regularly spending a few nights a week there. 

The offshoots of that single seed deepen into winding vines without Buck even noticing. 

First, it's Buck's lucky set of boxing gloves hanging innocently alongside Tommy's Muay Thai gear in the garage. After a frustrating and tedious shift, he enjoys nothing more than a few vigorous rounds with Tommy’s punching bag. Then, Buck's large and varied assortment of books (ranging from biographies on famous figures such as Marie Curie to The Book of 10,000 Incredible Facts to the new YA fantasy series that is all the rage among Christopher and his friends) slowly but steadily find a home among Tommy's WWI & II aviation history collection on the shelves of the reclaimed redwood bookcase Tommy crafted by hand. 

His favorite cast iron skillet and Instant Pot take up permanent residence in Tommy's kitchen, alongside his garlic press and waffle maker. His 'Buck Off' coffee mug (a gag gift from the 118) is always ready to go for lavender and daffodil-colored mornings spent on Tommy's front porch overlooking the canal as kayaks and paddle boards drift by in the early morning light. The sinfully soft, ocean blue afghan Carla knitted for him during the pandemic is draped over the back of Tommy's unfairly comfortable sectional. Christopher’s US History textbook is lying open on the coffee table, left behind after a pizza and study session. The newest season of The Bachelor (the combined forces of Maddie, Chimney, and Josh got him hooked. What can he say? He loves love.) is TiVoed on Tommy's flatscreen TV. His Jeep has its own designated spot next to Tommy's ’71 Bronco. 

The roots of their budding relationship grow deeper and extend farther than the eye can see. 

Buck's most cherished brand of coffee is readily available in the kitchen cabinets. His all-time favorite blend just so happens to be named The Beast. A fun fact that never fails to stop him from leering at Tommy and waggling his eyebrows every time he brews a cup. His favorite cereal is stocked in the cupboards and his favorite yogurt is in the fridge. The same fridge that is currently plastered with Jee-Yun's vibrant crayon drawings alongside pictures of Tommy’s nieces and nephews in Chicago. A true collage of sparkly princesses and menacing dragons beside Polaroids of beaming faces on the sandy shore of Lake Michigan and sitting in the stands of Wrigley Field with messy hotdogs and giant foam fingers. 

Even food Tommy turns his perfect, aquiline nose up to but Buck loves (like quinoa and chirimoya) are now staples in his pantry. His most treasured cookbook, battered with stained, dog-eared pages with the margins filled in with his own corrections in his scratchy scrawl, holds a place of honor on Tommy's countertop on a wooden stand Tommy scrounged up at the local flea market. 

He has to rack his brain to remember the last time he spent a night at the loft. The last time he had been there, to pick up some clothes from his rapidly depleting wardrobe, it had looked even emptier and barer than usual with hardly any food in the fridge, the bed sheets stale and unloved, and a thin layer of dust on his kitchen island. The industrial, modern space had felt cold and clinical and nothing like a living, breathing home. 

It lacked the wooden floors Tommy had spent weeks refinishing as he lovingly sought out the perfect stain. It lacked the extra-long, extra-wide hammock hanging off Tommy’s back patio where Buck delighted in taking the occasional catnap on sunny afternoons. The loft hadn't inspired even a fraction of the warmth that Tommy's home did every time he walked through the door with the key Tommy had given him three months in, dangling from a helicopter keychain that made him grin like a dope whenever he pulled it free from his pocket. 

Buck doesn't realize any of these very important and essential truths until one morning when he nearly trips over his running shoe that was lying discarded by the front door. At the sound of his clumsy stumble, Baron, Tommy's five-year-old Shepkita ("That's not a word, Evan. He's an Akita Shepherd.”), raises his head from where he's lounging on his overstuffed dog bed, exhausted from their early morning run at the beach. 

At the sight of Buck being Buck, Baron lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and puts his head back down to resume his beauty sleep. Kicking the offending sneaker out of the way, Buck stops dead center in the living room, hands on his hips and wearing Tommy’s faded USC sweater that’s been worn soft from years of washings and smells tantalizingly of Tommy’s laundry detergent, and can't help but survey the terrain and take stock of how much of himself is residing in Tommy's space. He's visible in every nook and cranny. 

He has completely, and totally, infiltrated Tommy's home. 

The thought instantly fills him with indescribable joy that blossoms like radiant sunflowers inside his chest. For all of ten seconds. He then remembers the last time he unknowingly moved in with someone and the heartbreaking consequences of it.

Abby.  

She had been so terribly sad and broken in the wake of her mother's death. It had been as easy as breathing for Buck to step up, to prove himself, to try and do everything in his power to fix her with his love and devotion. So he stayed with her day and night, and his things had steadily trickled into her apartment. It had been easier back then to do, he had had so little to his name other than the Jeep and his clothes. And he can't lie, it was a relief to get out of that glorified frat house filled with Connor and the others. 

It had seemed natural to move in with Abby (even if she had been unaware of it). He thought they were building something special together, something made to last. He hadn't known at the time that while he saw a new beginning, she saw entrapment. For her, she would be trading one role of caretaker for another. Going from a sick mother to a young punk (at 26, he had still been a kid) who was stumbling like a newborn giraffe through his first serious relationship. Had she stayed, there would have been so much handholding on her part as he continued to figure out all the volatile nuances of life and commitment. And that hadn't been fair of him to ask that of her when she was so vulnerable, he understands that now with valuable time and distance. She had been so lost that the only thing she could do to find herself again was travel halfway across the world and leave him behind in the process. 

He had lived (however briefly) with Abby. He was living with Tommy, even if he hadn't clocked it until just now. 

And he wants it, he realizes with a jolt not unlike the bolt of lightning that had struck him. He wants to live with Tommy. He wants to wake up with him every morning and come home to him every night (demanding schedules permitting, of course). He wants their high-energy workout sessions that always turn into a different kind of workout and their sunset strolls through the canals with an enthusiastic Baron (complete with goofy selfies in front of David Hasselhoff’s house from Baywatch). He wants their weekends at the Venice Farmers' Market. He wants their monthly meetings of the LGBTIQA+ book club that Hen and Karen started and that Tommy and Buck have hosted twice now inside this very house. 

He wants Tommy. Plain and simple. He always wants Tommy. Tommy, who has the world’s worst fake mouth static, but jokingly brags all the same about winning a medal for it. Tommy, who acts big and tough on the job and up in the air, but he never fails to shed a tear whenever they watch the climax of a romantic comedy. Tommy, who always has a heating pad and massage waiting on standby for rainy days when the pain in Buck’s bum leg flares up like relentless flames. 

Tommy, who has no idea that they're living together. 

An icy sliver of fear sluices down his back at the terrifying thought that once Tommy learns they're essentially playing house with each other he might turn tail and run away, just like Abby did. Or, perhaps, even worse, he won't run, but he won't want Buck here anymore either. He can already see it in crystal clear HD: Tommy's handsome face shuttering to stone as it does when he's uncomfortable but doesn’t want to show it. His blue eyes darting away and his lips thinning into a brittle line as he tells Buck that this is all moving far too fast, that maybe they should take a step back and put some space between them, and then Buck will be banished back to his sad, pathetic loft that doesn't have Tommy waiting for him in it. 

He cuts the catastrophizing off at the knees before it can spiral into something far more treacherous. Tommy, for all his flaws — he drinks orange juice straight from the carton like a Neanderthal and he doggedly believes that his directions are better than the GPS ("I spend most of my time in the air, Evan. I know all the shortcuts throughout Los Angeles County.") — isn't the kind of man who runs away from a fight when the going gets tough. He's the kind of man who digs his heels in and comes out swinging the next round. And he's been nothing but kind to Buck the entire time they've known each other. He enforces tough love when he deems fit, but it always comes from a place of kindness and gentleness. 

They love each other. And they live together. It's time Tommy knows it. 

So, screwing his courage to the sticking place (Jee-Yun loves Beauty and the Beast), Buck shuffles his way into the kitchen where his boyfriend is manning the stove and making their breakfast. In the oven, a frittata bakes away in Buck’s cast iron skillet and on the stovetop, turkey bacon sizzles as it fries. Tommy, hair curly and wet from his earlier shower, flips crispy pieces while humming along to The National playing softly in the background on the radio. 

God, Buck adores this man with everything in him. 

Tommy catches him out of the corner of his eye hovering there like a massive dweeb and flashes a dazzling smile his way. 

“Hey, babe. What was that noise I heard?” 

He can feel an embarrassed blush rapidly bloom across his cheeks until his face is as pink and splotchy as his birthmark. “Oh. That was just me. I, uh, tripped over my running shoe,” he lamely explains. 

“They can be quite the menace,” Tommy says with his usual brand of wry humor. He chuckles quietly to himself as he turns his attention back to the mouthwatering bacon. For a tempting moment, Buck just wants to forget the stunning revelation he’s had and instead stay in this blissful, domestic bubble that seems to exist whenever the two of them are alone together. It doesn’t matter where they are or what they’re doing, there’s just an undeniable ease to the two of them existing in the same space, breathing the same air, hearts beating in tandem. 

But, alas, he’s a man on a mission. 

Reaching up and rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, Buck thinks through his options. He’s come to learn, through many a messy trial and error, that honestly truly is the best policy. The last time he had so thoroughly ignored the elephant in the room was when he had asked Taylor to move in with him for all the wrong reasons. 

That had been a train wreck of epic proportions, even for him. He had well and truly bucked that situation up beyond repair. 

But that was then and this was now. And the only things Tommy and Taylor had in common were their initials and their partiality to cruising around LA in helicopters. His feelings for them were night and day as well. He had loved Taylor, but by the exhausting end of their relationship, he hadn’t genuinely liked her anymore as a person. They were too different, their morals too misaligned to exist harmoniously together. It isn’t like that with Tommy. He both loves and likes practically everything about his fellow firefighter, even the traits and bad habits that annoy the ever-living shit out of him. 

“So, hey, I, uh, kinda just realized something…pretty important.” 

Smooth start. And to think, before he met Tommy he had honestly had game. But something about the self-assured pilot, from the moment they met on the tarmac at Harbor and he introduced himself as Evan instead of his standard Buck, had him tripping over his tongue in both the best and worst ways. His foot-in-mouth syndrome had ruined their first date and nearly all chances he had had with Tommy, but it was that same unfiltered nature of his that had Tommy granting him another shot and scoring him as his plus one to Maddie and Chimney’s wedding that never was. 

Which reminds him: he owes Tommy a dance. He files that tidbit into his mental to-do list for another day. 

Tommy looks at him with a quizzical raise of his brow as he lazily twirls the spatula in his hand. “What? Found some more facts about that jellyfish? What’s it called? The spotted—“

“Chriodectes maculatus,” Buck corrects automatically. “Or more commonly known as the spotted box jellyfish. Only the rarest jellyfish in the world, I might add.” 

The corner of Tommy’s lush lips curl up into a fond half-smile. “Yeah, that’s the one. I thought you exhausted all knowledge on it last night when we watched that documentary.” 

“In the words of Chinese philosopher Zhuang Zhou, ‘Life is finite, while knowledge is infinite.’ So, no, I’ll never know enough about jellyfish, rare or otherwise, to exhaust myself, Thomas.” 

Tommy mouths ‘Thomas’ to himself and looks to be gearing up a quippy retort of his own when Buck realizes with tightening dread that he’s on the road to derailing this potentially monumental conversation with talk of jellyfish, of all things. Honestly, he can’t even believe himself half the time. 

Time to pivot. 

“Forget about the jellyfish. They’re not important right now.” 

Swiveling his broad-shouldered body, Tommy gives him his full attention as his eagle-eyed gaze slowly sweeps over the entirety of Buck’s 6’2” frame. Buck, for his part, staunchly fights the urge to fidget as he knows it would give him away in an instant. There’s something almost surgical in the way that Tommy, without ever saying a word, can expertly peel back all the layers of bone and marrow of Buck’s psyche down to his bleeding center where his festering insecurities and crippling self-doubt reside. 

If it were anyone else it’d feel violently invasive. But Tommy has only ever treated these undesirable parts of him with the tenderest of care, delicately stitching up invisible wounds Buck hadn’t even known existed until the moment Tommy kissed him in his kitchen and completely shook the bedrock of all his pre-conceived notions about himself. 

“Sounds serious,” he says after a moment of contemplative silence. The only sound in the kitchen is the hiss of the bacon roasting away on the stove. Through the window over the sink, a beam of sunlight shines in and bathes Tommy in its golden rays. 

Buck heavily exhales a breath out between his teeth. “It is. Or, it could be. Maybe. It really depends on how you look at it, I guess.” 

“Look at what?” Tommy asks, even-keeled as ever. It’d be infuriating if it wasn’t such a damn turn-on. 

It’s now or never. 

“Look at the fact that… We kinda, almost…sorta, seem to be living with each other?” 

Tommy freezes to the spot, his eyes going wide as he blinks, coming off as a perturbed owl for a moment before he schools his features back into his usual calm facade. He looks back down at the bacon and quickly flips some pieces before they can turn into a charred mess of meat. 

Composure regained, he asks, “Was that a question or a statement?” 

He’s always lightning-quick to toss the proverbial ball back into Buck’s court. Always willing to let him take the lead in their relationship and set the parameters and boundaries. Without fail, where Buck goes Tommy follows. It had been a sweet relief in the early days of their relationship when Buck was stumbling around blind, but nine months in and Buck needs Tommy on equal footing with him. It’s the only way forward. 

“It’s, uh, a statement.” Damn. That didn’t sound convincing at all. Closing his eyes and centering himself the way Dr. Copeland taught him, he slowly takes a deep breath, and then another, and then one more for good measure, opens his eyes, and looks Tommy square in the eye. “It’s a statement. We’re, for all intents and purposes, living together. And I want, no, I need to know what you think about…that.” 

Tommy’s gaze slides away and catches sight of Buck’s mug already topped off with his second cup of coffee for the day as swirling mist rises off of it. He sees Buck’s LAFD hoodie hanging off the back of one of the stools situated at the island. He spots Jee-Yun’s drawings on the fridge, giving the stainless steel appliance so much color and joy. He spies the Fokker Dr. I triplane chew toy Buck specialty ordered for Baron lying on the floor near the dining table. 

Tommy’s home hasn’t just been Tommy’s home in quite some time. 

He spots every single change that Buck has brought into his house with his very presence, and he gathers them to him like they’re the most precious of jewels. He turns to Buck and smiles at him. 

It nearly stops Buck’s heart for a moment. 

He loves all of Tommy’s smiles. He loves his smirk when he’s said something particularly snarky or deadpan. He loves the closed-mouth grin he does when Buck is batting his eyes and pouting and Tommy is steadfastly pretending he isn’t endeared by the silliness. He loves the smug curve of his lips when Tommy moves just right inside of him, hitting that elusive, perfect spot that has him seeing stars and clutching Tommy tighter to him until he can’t tell one limb from another. 

But this, this is his favorite Tommy smile by a far-flung mile. 

It is simply radiant. His smile is wide and open, with his straight, white teeth brilliantly on display. It stretches broadly across his rugged face, exposing his deep-set dimples on either side of his ample mouth. His nose adorably scrunches and his eyes are squinty with unbridled happiness. At the corners of his eyes, his crow’s feet spread like tiny estuaries spooling into the grooves of his tan skin. 

He looks boyish and carefree. And so very in love. 

All because of Buck. He was the cause of such boundless euphoria. No one has ever loved him the way Tommy unashamedly does. 

“What I think is,” Tommy says clearly and concisely, “I think we should make it official. What do you say, Evan? Will you move in with me?” 

Buck feels like he was socked in the gut, but only in the very best of ways. His breath is stolen from his body and he doesn’t even know if his feet are still on the ground or if he’s simply floated away with how incandescently lighthearted he feels at this very moment. 

“Y-You really mean that? You want to live together?” 

It never hurts to double-check. He does that every time with his faithful clipboard. It is truly the only way to be efficient. 

Tommy’s smile only widens further. “Evan. You’re my favorite person in the world. Of course, I want to live with you.” 

The sunflowers inside Buck’s chest come to full bloom. 

He and Tommy live together.

[wowa-bublord]