#michael for some parts of this for some reason

[electricbitterness]

°.🎼🏆Take Your Time🏆🎼.°

•*. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁- A Michael Jackson X gender neutral reader fanfic… because I’m allowed to have fun on my blog…. -݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁°.•

📀Part 1📀

The auditorium is expansive, and packed full. You feel a vague sense of importance from merely attending the event. The crux of the universe, some kind of grand gravity centralized on the stage. It felt, despite your opinions regarding the Grammy’s itself, like everyone had come together for something important. Huge and cultural. Chatter before the show filled the air so palpably it felt like it was bouncing against your skin, and electricity cracked through the air like a whip.

All of the many lights were warm like sunshine, or maybe the sheer number of bodies was the reason behind that. When the show started, the lights dimmed and voices hushed, it becomes clear the warmth is actually your keen over-awareness of the man sparkling on your left.

You sit next to Michael Jackson.

You’re his date for the evening.

One after another, there is a stream of, in your opinion, great performances. Each one of them wows you to your core, even the ones you can acknowledge aren’t your favorite. You watch each one rapt with appreciation for the artistry and confidence of the musicians present.

Michael… is respectful. He claps when songs are over, though the sound is muffled by his glove. He sits up to show attention.

But… if he wasn’t doing those two things, you wouldn’t be able to tell if he was sleeping under there, or not. His shades are impenetrable, he is totally expressionless for maybe… 85% of the night. The only thing you can tell he’s actually paying attention to at all, is what you’re doing. It makes you so nervous, sometimes you forget to breathe.

You can tell he’s watching you, he turns his head to watch you clap. He tilts his chin up when you lean forward in your seat in interest. His head even twitched marginally your way when you fidgeted with your hair.

It’s making you anxious. For sure. Being watched so acutely. By someone who, by all means, should be paying attention. You’d hazard to think the man with the most important record of the year would be more present in the ceremony of it all.

The way his mouth goes from a resting frown, to something more ambiguous when he’s watching you— it tells you he isn’t judging you. A gut feeling, like a sixth sense for his aura. He’s just… looking at you. A lot. More than the performers. It’s… weirdly flattering? Mostly nerve-wracking.

You wonder why he does it, actually. Why he invited you in the first place. You send him side-long glances, shift in your seat on purpose to try and catch him looking. You’ve picked the impression that he’s simply unreadable like that sometimes. He doesn’t take your bait, you never do meet each other’s glances.

You were just his concept artist, really. You think about that with a glance at your shoes. Somebody he hired to visualize his auditory ideas.

You’d bought them, the shoes, just for this, may or may not ever wear them again. But you liked them, they were stylish in a way that made your heart tug with pride, and they made you feel a little less dressed-down next to Michael.

You start to bounce your leg, tap that expensive shiny black shoe on the ground as quietly as you can. You know for a fact Michael’s watching you do it, too. If you look a certain way, you can make it out in your periphery. The corner of his eye gets dark.

If it weren’t for his scrutiny, you’d be rapt with attention for all the performances, bits, speeches. But he’s making it difficult. He doesn’t realize how much he gets under your skin, probably, but that reasoning doesn’t make the goosebumps go away.

It makes you retreat into your thoughts, ponder on how you were asked to be his date in the first place. It takes you to the back of your mind, out of the show. The only thing keeping you really there at any capacity, is the fog of hairspray and expensive perfumes…

One evening, about two weeks onto easy working and bouncing ideas off of eachother, he had taken a seat next to you, on the couch in his home studio. For a silent beat and a half, he only watched you draw.

You switched between different markers, holding them in various ways to get the right angle. You drew with you pad a ways away from your face, but you could still smell the chemicals from the pens.

You barely noticed Michael spectating, if you recall correctly. It was just something you knew he was doing, but you didn’t care. You’d gotten used to it. He payed you to draw his ideas so he could hang them up. For inspiration, he said.

The target on the forefront of your mind was drawing out the look of the song Michael had described, based on how he sang it to you. You replayed the sound of his voice in your head, could almost feel it in your ears still. Assigning colors to each of them based on vision and instinct alone.

To him, you must’ve seemed calculated. Like you were doing some kind of reasoning, like math.. To yourself, it was as natural as organizing alphabetically. Still, he watched you. You’re starting to realize he does a lot of staring.

“Now, I need you to hear me out for a second,” he said, in his careful voice cutting through the sound of your markings. Your hand froze in the middle of the page, mid-stroke. You eyeballed the aborted line with some dissatisfaction, but figured you’ll fix it in a minute.

“Alright. Go for it,” you told him, your mind lagging still in the art space. You answer automatically, before you have the chance to get queasy about his tone.

You fold the marker and sketchbook into your lap, and sit up from your typical artistic slouch.

Michael smiled wide, and twisted his big hands together. “Now, I just want you know I’ve really enjoyed our time workin’ together...” he looks you in the eye. He means it.

Your heart beats painfully in your chest. Hearing him say those words startled you like a balloon popping right by your ear. In that moment, you were absolutely positive he was firing you. Not a doubt in your mind, really. It was blatantly obvious. Something you did, you weren’t sure what. Or something you could’ve been doing.

You thought it was a damn shame, at the time, because it was probably the most fufilling job you’d ever had. Using your passionately honed skills to aid someone as magical as Michael Jackson. It was motivating like no other work you’d done, especially in this field.

In his own, kind way, he was firing you. And you had to accept that. His voice was so, so soft. It sugarcoats it, you think.

You sat up straighter, and cast the sketchpad off your lap. “Okay.”

“What?” Michael looked up, confused. Something about the way you said that one word. He started twisting the hem of his pink Mickey Mouse shirt, eyebrows furrowed together.

“No, no, it’s okay! Don’t worry about it, I’m not taking it personally.” You told him. Even though on the inside, you had felt the heavy weight of mediocrity settle in the deepest abyss of your stomach.

Absolutely nauseating.

Your insecurity in your art, which has lessened during your time working for Michael, reared its ugly head. It told you that your work— just wasn’t cut out for someone as explosively creative as him. You started picking up your things.

You decided you would handle this with decorum. professionalism, and class. Even though you had considered you and Michael’s work relationship turning into something friendlier, and maybe it had, he needed somebody better than you. Or something entirely different. That’s okay.

You collected your line of markers.

Michael stood up.

“Wait,” he insisted, and he grabbed your arm so quickly, you didn’t see him reach. You wince, and open your mouth to say something gently dismissive.

“Wait!” He said again, brighter. When you stopped to actually look him, he started laughing so hard his shoulders shook. He let go of you, and covered his mouth with his long fingers, embarrassed. He was just so taken aback by your reaction, when he really shouldn’t have been. He really did word that horrendously.

You smile right now, thinking about it.

You waited, eyebrows raised in a silent question. His laughter, though extremely cute- the way he hoots— it was exasperating you.

“I’m not firing you, silly!” He shook his head. You recall the feeling of being utterly upheaved by how he called you ‘Silly’, how strangely sweet. Like, as if that’s just something grown adults call eachother. Your whole posture fell in relief.

“Thank god…” You groaned, and he just laughed harder, covering up his mouth completely. You dropped your things back on the couch, not finding it as funny. What was funnier was him, how bodily he laughed, and how he seemed so bashful about. The way he covered his face and shook his head was endearing, despite you wanting to be at least a little sore with him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he stomped his foot.

“No! No! I’m sorry for laughin’ I just-“ He shook his head. “You’re just crazy! You’re the best artist I’ve ever met. I’m not firin’ you. No.”

You started to smile too, then.

Michael sat back down, lanky and relaxed. More comfortable now that he knows he hasn’t upset you too bad. He gestured with his long fingers for you to do the same. You do.

“Okay. Now I’m kinda nervous. You got me all off track,” he hid his face in his palms as he said this, and snickered some more. Giggles bubbled from inside your chest and toppled over your lips, you couldn’t help it, if you even wanted to. You crossed your legs and sunk back into the black leather sofa.

“It’s alright, Michael. Go ahead,” you assure him.

He sighs.

“You know, the Grammy’s are coming up.” He doesn’t bother phrasing it like a question, you definitely knew. You had previously given him a tip for his outfit, when he had been discussing what to wear with his wardrobe designer. Helped him narrow his vision down, like you always do.

He continued. At first, he was looking everywhere infront of him except for at you.

“Well- well I’ve been wonderin’… I dunno… If maybe you’d be interested in coming as my date that night?”

That’s when he looked up at you, with the biggest, darkest eyes and the longest eyelashes you’d ever seen on a man. To just say he looked like a doll, or a doe, it would be cheap. He looked so openly and totally Michael in that moment. He looked like an angel. He looked better than an angel, because somehow, he was real.

Now, if you had been a little smoother, you might’ve said “Yes” without even thinking. But you could barely wrap your head around the concept of what was happening to you, let alone agree with it.

“Me?” You asked timidly. He nodded.

“Yeah, I wanna take you as my date. Tell me you’ll go?”

“Aren’t you performing?” You asked softly.

You truly didn’t know. The Pepsi disaster was so recent, he was still healing. You knew so, you don’t heal and grow your hair back that fast. Whatever he was doing to hide it, you knew he was still hurt. But, he’d definitely been practicing, that’s for sure. He couldn’t help but practice off to the side during your long drawing sessions.

“No.” He told you, flat out. It meant he was sure of it, how quickly he answered. You wondered how that refusal might seem in the eyes of the people running the Grammy’s. You also… didn’t really care. If Michael wasn’t performing, he had good reason not to. You nodded once, to show you weren’t going to press on that.

He knocks your knee with his.

“I’ll be bored as a house cat sittin’ down there. You really just have to come with me.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do…” he trails off.

“…I’m just kidding,” he adds, for safe measure. “But I really would like you to. Very much.”

There was a brief period of just… processing it. Your brain was churning with a million and one reasons why this couldn’t be happening. Dream, nightmare, prank, hallucination from marker fumes. None of them were right.

“Alright, then.” You said with a ringing uncertainty in your voice.

You didn’t really have anything to wear to an event like that. Michael knew. You’re not the award show type. A flashy piece here and there, absolutely, but nothing formal.

“I’ll have to get you something cool to wear, huh?” he asked with a charm to him, a smile that was just on the dangerous side of flirtatious.

That set off alarm bells in your head. You’d really rather not accept any gifts from a date, in the case of somehow disappointing them. Especially not when your date is Michael Jackson. Not wanting him to get used to doing you favors, you shook your head vehemently.

“I’ll put something together. Er- I’ll go shopping. Don’t worry about it.”

Michael pouted, seeming a bit put-out.

“What if I wanted to help you pick it out?” he practically whined.

You raised your eyebrows at him in disbelief.

“…Okay? But I’m paying for it.” You said.

“Deal!” He chirped.

…Interactions appreciated for Part 2, thank you for reading

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

🥁 I have a headcanon...

William Afton is the kind of man who, mid-conversation, mid-threat, mid-surgery, mid-board meeting—will, without breaking eye contact—just reach under the desk, behind his coat, or from beneath some impossibly small drawer... and pull out a pair of perfectly polished, well-maintained bongo drums.

No one knows how. No one knows why.

Where did he get them? Nobody knows. Not even he remembers. They just exist. Like Schrödinger’s Bongos, they simultaneously exist and don’t until the exact moment he wills them into reality.

Michael once asked.

"Why do you... have... bongos?"

William, dead serious: "For... morale."

Taps twice. Bum-ba-dum

Imagine: he’s lecturing an employee about safety protocols after yet another technician got mauled by Ballora or Funtime Foxy. He’s speaking in that low, cold, eerily pleasant voice, silver eyes half-lidded

"Now, you must understand, Gregory, that when the manual states 'Do not enter Funtime Auditorium without proper lighting,' it is not merely a suggestion—"

Mid-sentence. Mid-sigh. Bum-ba-dum. Bum bum.

Doesn’t even acknowledge it. Just keeps going.

Gregory’s sitting there like ???

Or picture this—some poor Fazbear corporate suit comes down to inspect Afton Robotics. They try to bring up ethics violations, OSHA codes, lawsuits.... William, smiling, silent, lets them talk.

Then slowly... slides a pair of bongos onto the table.

Leans forward, fingers steepled.

“Do go on.”

Taps. Bum-bum.

There’s also a nonzero chance that the bongos are part of a petty inside joke with himself. A grim reminder that no matter how serious the world pretends to be, he owns the rules. “I build animatronics that defy death... I harvest Remnant... and yes, I play the bongos whenever the mood strikes. What are you going to do about it?”

And sometimes... sometimes late at night... alone in the lab... when the only sound is the hum of machinery and the static hiss of monitors...

Bum-ba-dum. Bum bum.

For no reason. No audience. Just William. Just him and his stupid, inexplicable, omnipresent bongos. He laughs. Quietly. The kind of laugh that doesn’t belong to anyone sane. “God, I’m brilliant.”

I also headcanon that William plays the casual bongos while recording, then loops it instead of just taking the sound somewhere and stitching it together. Canonically, the time period is the 1980s, and audio software back then wasn’t exactly a plug-and-play Lo-Fi Beat Maker.

He doesn’t grab stock music.

He doesn’t delegate.

He doesn’t download or sample (because it’s 1983 and the internet doesn’t exist)

So this obsessive, theatrical, control-freak composes the bongo loop himself.

[nicholasistrying]

The Winter Soldier's Spare

“Soldier?”

“Ready to comply.”

The HYDRA agent nodded slowly, closing the leather-bound book nestled in scarred hands. He placed it on the table next to the Soldier, walking around the weaponized chair with an arrogant breeze about him.

“Mission report: May 4th, 2012. Target: Michael Vasquez. Quiet neutralization. No witnesses.”

He materialized in front of the Soldier, leaning down to try and meet his cold gaze. There was nothing there, just a pale face and a hard set jaw. 

“Relay.”

“Mission report: May 4th, 2012. Target: Michael Vasquez. Quiet neutralization. No witnesses.” He echoed, voice devoid of any emotion.

“Excellent.”

–

Things went sideways almost immediately.

For one, there were aliens appearing from the sky. The Soldier had seen a lot, most of which he couldn’t remember, but it didn’t hold a candle to the creatures reigning hell from above. The com in his ear buzzed with frantic Russian, staticky and breaking out.

“Sold–” Static. “F–” Static. “–ait further instructi–”

There was a loud explosion before the line went dead. He clenched his jaw, glancing around. He’d been stationed at a coffee shop, waiting for the target to roll down the street in a white BMW. 

By now, the place was deserted. Why wouldn’t it be after aliens fell from the sky?

For some reason, they steered clear of him. The Soldier was glad, although he wasn’t really sure what that felt like. Maybe relieved. Spared a few bullets.

Screeching came from the telltale sound of wheels against grated concrete. His head jerked in the direction of the sound. Before the comms went dead, they’d been following the target’s vehicle with a tracker. No word had followed, but that didn’t mean he could abandon his mission. They’d extract him when they could.

He shrugged off the disguise they’d supplied him with, a green PVC jacket and a cap, and bounded toward the sound of screeching rubber. After wrestling with a duffle bag, he pulled out the Heckler and Koch, the familiar groove of a handle settling into his palm.

“Rita! Rita!? Open your eyes! Please, oh please, Lord, please for the love of God open your eyes!” The Soldier’s mind ran a mile a minute trying to decipher the language. Spanish. “It’s going to be okay! It–The tire popped, that’s okay! Rita, baby, we’ll get to a hospital!”

The right side of the car was being crushed by rubble from a fallen building. A woman lay face down on the dash, unmoving. The front windshield was shattered, giving the Soldier a complete view of his target.

He was injured. Busted lip and a bleeding nose. Still, nearly identical to the image they’d seared into his brain. Black, close cropped hair. Tan skin. Moles underneath his eye and in the corner of his chin. He was young. The file had said 26. Married, with a kid.

They didn’t tell him why he had to kill this man. They never did. Sometimes there was an item he had to retrieve, files or a weapon. Sometimes he had to bring them back alive. Most of the time, though, it was killing. Lots of killing.

Michael Vasquez, the target, managed to move his bleary vision to the Soldier’s fast approaching figure. It took a moment to process before he began to fight with the seat belt, spewing out pleas in rapid Spanglish.

“No– No, no! I didn’t tell anyone– I told them I wouldn’t say anything–” The Soldier was five feet away from the car, lifting up and cocking the gun. His face was obscured by the mask and goggles, but evidently, the target already knew who he was, and who he was sent by. “Please! My wife! She’s–She’s injured and–”

The Soldier pressed down on the trigger. One shot, right between the eyes.

Michael slumped forward in the same position as his wife. The Soldier eyed his surroundings. Aliens were still flying from above, although most of them seemed to be heading toward the busiest part of the city, where Stark Tower rose above New York. The streets were clear. No witnesses.

Mission successful. If he tried to focus, there was the smallest ember of pride in his gut before it was snuffed by a sniffle.

His head snapped to the car. Michael. Dead. The wife. Dead.

Silently, he lifted his boots to walk around the half-decimated car, shadow casting menacingly over the back door.

Metal on metal screamed as his left hand yanked the back door clean off. The Soldier was met with big, teary eyes.

A child, no older than maybe eight stared back at him. Terrified, scared shitless. 

His handler’s voice echoed in his head, surly Russian laced with arrogance. No witnesses.

No witnesses.

The Soldier gripped the gun with both hands, lifting it to the child’s head.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. Didn’t say a word. The kid went cross eyed staring down the barrel, perhaps wondering why the Soldier wasn’t firing.

He wasn’t sure his damn self.

Morality, maybe. Whatever was left of it. Whatever HYDRA would manage to get out if he didn’t kill this kid. This witness. He’d seen it, after all, right? The Soldier’s figure, his father’s begging, the bullet’s exit point through the headrest.

Why wasn’t his finger moving? Why could he not complete the mission?

His mind reeled. Had he ever killed this young? Teens, sure. But not a child.

Too long. He’d been thinking too long, too much about himself, about his past. The kid was still there, unmoving, now staring straight at the Soldier. Shit. 

Faster than he could comprehend, the kid was gone. He fired at the empty seat, not even stumbling when something appeared around his midsection. Tiny arms, barely able to connect around his back, and a face smushed directly into his stomach. 

Violently, his world blurred for a second. Memories, distant, foggy, almost nonexistent, pried at a part of his brain HYDRA had meddled with. Bony hands and arms. Cherubic faces of childish glee. Smiling and laughing. Happiness.

When was the last time he was happy?

He?

Who was he?

“Thank you.” The child’s voice was slightly muffled by the Soldier’s leather vest, Spanish falling clumsily from a mouth with missing baby-teeth. 

“Soldier!?” A new voice. His comms were back online. “Mission status?”

“Complete.” He grated out. His hands–hand. His hand was shaking. The flesh and blood hand. Why did he only have one?–“Ready for extraction.”

“Extraction en route.”

The Soldier stayed perfectly still, taking in his surroundings. It was quiet, now. The sky had gone dark for a moment, but the mission came first. He didn’t have time to worry about the alien invasion. The child was still wrapped around his stomach, not saying a thing.

He was dressed hurriedly, in a rush. A too-small jacket over a ratty shirt and even rattier jeans. He didn’t wear shoes, just mismatched socks with holes in them. The Soldier couldn’t see the child’s face, but he had dark hair and tan skin like his parents. Nothing else identifiable.

Desperately, he tried raking his mind for more details about the target’s file. The wife was an immigrant, naturalized nine years ago. The child was almost nonexistent on the documents, if memory serves correctly (it probably didn’t).

Criminal records. The Soldier knew the target wasn’t innocent. Several charges of child endangerment and reckless abandonment. This was the victim in question.

His eyes zeroed in on a kid’s backpack laying on the floorboard of the car. Multicolored, over-the-top, exactly the kind of junk a parent would get their kid for daycare. At the top, there was a clear slot, displaying a sloppily written name on the piece of paper behind it.

Oscar.

[drsantosgf]

i would like to hear your thoughts ❤️

gahhhh okay no one throw rocks at me, this is buck x oc

adam has been a nurse for a long time. he's dealt with trauma after trauma, met so many firefighters and paramedics but none with a bigger heart than evan buckley. he's seen him around a few times, the station 118 is pretty well known in their hospital for being a bit a problem station. people are constantly getting stabbed and struck by lightning, evan buckley in particular seems like maybe he pissed off god personally. they exchanged a few words here and there, laughed at a few of the others jokes, but every time they lock eyes, buck makes quick work to look away and bite the inside of his cheek. adam specializes in hurt and believe him, buck seems... hurt.

it isn't until they bring in a young kid, probably 16 or 17, with bruises and cuts all over his body. he was beaten until- well, until it was pretty touch and go for a minute there. two of them hang back in particular, hen and buck. he's talked to hen before, back when she was going through med school, she told him about her wife and kids, how hard she was fighting for them, how draining it was. adam joked about that sounding familiar, he remembers med school well enough when he was single, he couldn't imagine it with a partner and a kid.

the two of them were standing together, watching the kid be carted away, both biting their cheeks and clenching their fists. hen whispered something to buck and patted his back.

"i know, it's just- god, that was brutal." buck wipes his face.

"that's why we look out for each other." hen squeezes his arm and walks away.

"does he have anyone to look out for him?" buck says to himself

interesting, he doesn't know the full story- just that that kid looked like he was in a hell of a lot of pain. and judging by the rainbow bracelet around his wrist, he's guessing he knows why.

he's about to work himself up to go talk to him. there's something about his eyes, wide and sad and so deep in thought he wonders how he pulls himself out.

they lock eyes again. adam gives him a tiny wave and an awkward smile. buck looks like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and returns the nicety before bolting out the door. hen notices and looks back, processing something in her head. she smiles but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

then buck shows up at the hospital later in his civvies, rubbing his hands together.

"hey!" adam says just a little too loudly, cringing.

buck jumps a little, like a scared deer, adam absolutely does not think it's the cutest thing in the world.

"uh, h-hi." buck is still whining his hands together.

"adam! sorry, i don't know if i ever gave you my name or if you remember-"

"i do." buck smiles, "yeah, i remember."

"good." and then he just stands like an idiot for reasons he cannot grasp before remembering he should probably speak now, "are you visiting someone?"

"do you remember that kid from earlier? the one had the um-"

"the kid that got hate-crimed? yeah i remember. he's stable now. he had a rough night, but he'll pull through."

buck visibly releases a weight off himself, "oh, good. i just wanted to check in on him. i don't know, it was a rough call, it was driving me crazy not knowing."

adam put down his clipboard, nodding, "yeah, i mean, that stuff definitely hits home for me, for sure."

"it doesn't for me," buck says and oh, shit, i guess he's not queer, fuck did i read this wrong, "i mean! like- when i came out, i had so many people that cared about me. my sister, my-well- my dad, my best friend, my boyf-" buck cuts himself off and deflates again, "sorry. i just hated the idea that he didn't have that, you know?"

"no, i get it, don't apologize. that's-thats really sweet. visiting hours are almost over but i can see if he's up for it, okay?"

bucks nods, and maybe adam is a fool with a dumb little crush but he swears he blushes a little. he feels his heart bursting a little about it. he came back to this kid, felt the need to check in and ask about him, because he didn't have something that he did.

"pull it together," he whispers to himself as he walks away.

buck keeps coming back, too. visiting the kid as often as possible, playing cards, and giving him fun facts from some documentaries he's watched. adam perks up whenever he hears one that he's watched. he lets it slip that he watched the same one, went on the same wikipedia binge. buck does that smile softly and look away like you're about to throw thing he does. adam occasionally joins in on the conversation whenever he gets a free moment. and then eventually, the kid gets discharged and buck is there to see him off. it turns out he has an aunt out in texas that's far more accepting than his folks here. he swears he sees buck tear up a little as he walks out the door, waving back at both of them.

and adam fully expects buck to go back to being a first responder he sees a few times a week and exchanging awkward, stolen glances.

but he doesn't stop coming. buck shows up the next day with two coffees in his hand. adam waves at him and buck breathes like he's psyching himself up and walks over.

"you said you liked chai lattes, so, um, i figured-i figured you would-"

"thanks!" adam decides to put him out of his misery, "are you visiting someone?"

buck ducks his head and scratches his neck, his smile looking less tortured, "hopefully, if you were free, you."

"i was about to go on my first break, if you wanted to go for a bit of a walk." adam suggests.

"that sounds great." buck clears his throat.

"great, gimme just a second, alright?" he walks away and hears buck mutter what he thinks, "i used to be better at this."

a few weeks pass by like that. buck hovering just on the outskirts of his life, very careful not to step too far in, but still present in a way that drives him crazy. he can't stop thinking about him but he only gets him for fifteen minutes now.

"do you wanna go out for dinner sometime?" adam asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

buck gasps, like audibly, like a woman fainting after meeting the beatles, "i-uh, i should probably get back, sorry."

oh, he watches him go. and then stop in his tracks. and then turn back around, "can i get your number actually? or instagram or something?"

trying to contain his excitement, he nods, because of course he nods. when a hot, sweet as fuck, puppy dog eyed firefighter offers you their phone number, it's a crime to say no.

eventually, they do end up on a date- or at least he thinks it's a date. he can't be sure. the wine certainly feels date-eske but he really can't be sure because buck is barely looking at him in the eyes. he picked his very best "possibly a date" outfit and went in with low expectations for anything other than a really pleasant, really awkward evening. he decides though that if he gets to spend it with buck, it feels worth the awkward tension. especially because sometimes, he can coax him out of it and he looks so- vulnerable, an open wound. he's like a starry sky that hides behind a cloudy night.

adam doesn't remember what he says but eventually they start talking about things that should probably be save for the 40th date, not the maybe, jury's still out first.

but adam definitely knows he says, "you seem like you've been hurt." because the moment he does, he wants to punch himself in the face after buck gets this horrified expression like adam just said he likes kicking dogs in his spare time.

then, the moment passes, and he clicks his tongue, "i used to be better at hiding it."

"it seems like maybe it's a good thing you don't."

buck shakes his head, "i also used to be better at this," he gestures between them, "dating, flirting, having a crush," which does get buck to smile and adam gets to see that twinkle in his eyes again.

"oh okay, so this is a date, noted. and- you're not terrible at it, it's pretty adorable, actually. and i'm hardly one to judge. i'm very familiar with hurt."

buck keeps smiling, "well, my hurt is a 40 year old firefighter-pilot who broke up with me a year ago, so- i don't know how familiar you are with that kind of hurt."

"oh, i am all too familiar with that kind of hurt. does this hurt have a name?"

buck sucks in a breath, adam gets the sense that he hasn't said it in a while, "tommy. tommy kinard."

adam feels like buck is cracked open right now, "are you not ready to move on yet? cause, i'm okay with just being friends!"

"i really don't want to."

"be friends? damn, okay-"

buck puts on a hand on his for a second and adam's heart flutters, "no, i don't want to be just friends. tommy was- well, i loved him. i mean, i-"

"still do?"

"god, i'm really cursed to fuck up first dates, aren't i?"

"it's okay. i mean, i like you. i've liked you for a while, you know? and i've had my own tommy, the one that got away, one i'll never stop loving. i think-" it hurts to think about but he knows it would hurt more to forget about it, "i think what our tommys have in common is that we never let them go, or stop loving them, but we-" he sighs, thinking about his own heartbreak, his own first love, his own missed connection, "we take the love we have for them and we can let it grow into love for others too."

bucks bites his cheek. adam briefly wonders if the inside of his mouth is scarred of all the biting, "i guess i'm scared of giving him up. like if i stop thinking about it or if i like someone else, he'll disappear and everything we had will just- vanish," he chokes out.

adam hums, "it won't. that's the great thing about tommys, right? they stay with you, you never stop feeling that love. you just- build on it and give it to the next person."

buck has tears in his eyes now, adam thinks he might too, but god he's looking at such a beautiful man, with such a big heart and he can't help but thank whoever tommy is for giving him so much love that he's overflowing with it.

"sorry-"

"don't apologize, this got heavy really quick and we're only half way through the bottle of wine," they both laugh into their glasses.

"i guess i'm a little- hurt, like you said."

"i'm a nurse, buck, i kind of specialize in hurt. and if you're willing to try, i'd like another date, one that i actually know is a date beforehand."

buck really does blush this time, "i can do that."

buck leans in and kisses him on the cheek on the way out, oh god, he's a gentleman too, i'm so screwed.

down the line, when they're celebrating their engagement in the same park they used to walk through on adam's breaks, he thinks to himself, not for the first time, oh, tommy kinard, wherever you are, whoever you're with, thank you for loving our man, and thank you for letting me love him just as much.

[silasplaskett]

[localsamalicer]

My bestie made a DoorKeay kid and one time when talking about them having a baby it was brought up that if Gerry were to be pregnant distortion Michael would still somehow feel the majority of the pregnancy pains.

[creaturefeaster]

ive been thinking about this for a while, i sent an ask about it a while ago but i was in a spot with bad service so im not sure if it sent or not, so sorry if something like this already went through to your ask box. But, how does vilmer and maja speak and know swedish if cq doesnt take place on earth? is there a different place that’s native language is swedish, and also is it called something different? or is sweden just laying around somewhere on theia

It's a mix of a few things, and it applies to all real languages used in the CQ universe:

1) There are no Earth-aligned countries on Theia, but there are definitely parts & communities of the world that have different languages, accents, and dialects. This is also why there are other languages spoken such as Spanish or French, why Bonnie knows languages such as Hungarian, and so on.

2) Even though I chose to express the world's writing primarily in English, it's still a language just like any other and should not be assumed the default for the entire world of Theia. Many places they travel to, were there to be any survivors, do not speak English at all.

3) My ass is not about to conjure 100 different fake languages for the world when there are plenty of interesting and very real languages to explore & implement into the world. The swedes spawned in this world and they are here to stay, and no they won't elaborate how or why.

Also yes it is still called swedish, same for any other real language used in my writing ^_^!

[edge-oftheworld]

quarterly reminder that lighter is a BOP

[jamjacket1992]

when the interviewer asks him if he has any friends and he`s silent for several moments, then says he loves his fans, then after being pressed some more lists off several people. can i talk to you

[ennard-is-near]

“I know it was an accident” (from the SL secret night) get slept on so hard. I think about that line every day and I’ve never seen anyone else talk about it.

[broken-clover]

Holiday retail shifts this year are turning me into an unironic hallmark villain. Something uniquely wrath inducing about getting snapped at over 30 cent discounts while the radio blares songs about it being the most wonderful and peaceful time of year. If anyone comes within my vicinity with any song that has the words merry jolly christmas reindeer snow or bright in them or has that obnoxiously twee sounding singing that's like 50 years old or sounds like frank sinatra or has nasally small child singing I'm going to beat them with a lamppost. If they play any iteration of 'my favorite things' again I'm committing arson. I'm reaching the end of my rope. I look at the calendar and there's still two more weeks to go

[offthewall1979]

the "mj's real voice was really deep, the high pitched voice was just an act for the public" thing is really tiresome. people just talk differently in different situations. i think he was self-conscious, i don't think it was some grand manipulative scheme. he grew up in the spotlight, with hundreds of thousands of people focused on his voice. he spoke like that as a very young teenager. there are private phone calls where he sounds just as gentle and high pitched as in interviews. there are live performances where he used a deeper voice to command more attention. maybe there WAS an element of manipulation - i do think he was very aware of his image and effect on people - but i don't think it was some elaborate conspiracy

[8cfc00]

i love relistening to podcasts to the point where relistening to any episode becomes incredibly boring because i already know what happens

[tothechaos]

just played bg3 for the last five hours and with my door closed, the heat generated from my pc was enough to raise the temperature of my room by several degrees compared to the rest of my apartment

[bravevolunteer-a]

me vs the urge to rewrite my bio for no reason

[roccoparondi]

I don’t know what to do with myself if you wrote a Tedesco fic omggg

I should clarify, I've already started "writing" but it's more like stream of consciousness brain dump stuff that I typed up so I wouldn't forget it lol. So nothing like comprehensible to other people right now, but I can work with it!

I have a few ideas in mind (both reader-insert and OC-ish), so hopefully y'all will be seeing some of that come to fruition soon. If you follow me on main, you know I love a nun!reader, self-flagellation, and stigmata so yeah🤭 Extremely not normal about him but I'm having so much fun!

There's so much I wanna write in general, I feel like I don't have enough time...

🦇 Battie