#mod's fics

[violetshine-appreciation]

tumblr is once again refusing to let me embed links, so here's a leafpool and squirrelflight story i wrote.

tws for implied/referenced abuse and suicide ideation.

[sin-grumps]

omg I just remembered. I had a dream last night where brian and dan had rented out a small cottage or something, and were writing stuff late into the night. (I was there too for some reason, it's a dream don't worry about it lol). There was also an animated music video demo that they got to watch which was so goddamn cute with in-universe stuff. Danny's hair was particularly floofy and bouncy in it

I vividly remember two "shots"/"scenes" from this, and even my dream self tried to sketch one of them out so I wouldn't forget lol

one was of the two of them sitting opposite one another in, I wanna say couches? armchairs? but they were both huddled forward on a coffee table over their respective papers (no laptops for some reason idk), clearly both extremely tired. In particular I remember brian's face being closer to the papers, and dan's head was just kinda squished against his forehead. Also dan was wearing a beanie. idk why I remember that specifically but there you go

another was a bit later when they decided it was enough and were reading each other's papers together on a separate, two-seat couch, all huddled up. I think dan was lying on brian's shoulder and brian was resting his cheek on top. Can't remember if there was a blanket involved, there might have been one. Cottage vibes and all that

The last one I vividly remember was from the unfinished video, a sort of birds-eye-view of a restaurant/diner/bar booth of some kind. There was a whole animated sequence of Danny grabbing NB from the aisle and picking him up bridal style and then sitting down on the "bench" (for some reason the table wasn't an issue) and he was absolutely giddy about it. NB's reaction was to look directly into the "camera", blush hard, and then the animation skipped a little through rough storyboards until the next animated shot which was NB somehow having gotten out of Danny's grasp and was now dropping him on the floor. Still blushing, still looking at the camera.

Oh and we all had a brief discussion about the video, wherein some of the unfinished parts only had maybe two-three colors, which were clearly supposed to be overlays of some kind. Lots of purples and lilacs and blues n such. We all agreed that it made everyone in it look like "bubble people" and had a bit of a laugh

There was some other completely unrelated stuff later but these are what i remember the most.

Personally I blame this on the comic that just came out lol

[tossawary]

I just know in my heart of hearts that in "Star Trek" at one point, there was some moral panic somewhere on Vulcan (among the uppity sorts) because Human culture was "infecting" the local youth with their overly emotional, destructive, unproductive, frivolous, and uneducational ways.

And what was actually happening was that a bunch of Vulcan kids got really into 23rd-century "Minecraft" or something.

Small Vulcan child @ another Vulcan child: (in a tone that sounds flat to Humans but angry as hell to Vulcans) "You have compromised the optimization of my fortress. I am having an emotional urge to blow up your house... in Minecraft."

[verocitea]

“And what happens when they catch a glimpse of you on their radar, huh?” Sonic grinned. “Well, first they’d have to catch me, sis.”

So excited to share my @sthbigbang piece for @skimmingmilk’s incredible underground fic, Relative Dissonance!! Please be sure to check it out, as well as the other amazing illustrations created for the fic by @eclecticjace (x) and @manicpanic-arts1 (x)!

[tackytigerfic]

ZOOM

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: inhale

Drarry, Formula 1 AU, this is sort of Maxiel-coded ok.

Dear @wolfpants I'm sorry it's F1 but wanted to wish you a very happy and very belated birthday, pal.

There's a moment, after his front wheels lock but before he hits the wall, when Harry experiences a weird and total purity of vision. Everything leaps into high colour: the numbers flashing demurely on his screen, the flickering jaunty stripes of the wall he's about to crash into, the gloss of his gloves where his hands are flexing as the steering wheel spins through his hands, as though turning it will do the slightest bit of good.

In his moment of clarity, Harry just has the time to think “Malfoy,” and then the nose of the car is buried in the barrier, the air fuel-hot, the throb of the engine suddenly, horribly still.

It’s objectively a weird last thought to have had; Harry’s done with Malfoy, has been done with Malfoy for ages. It might just be hysteria manifesting in a weird way, the thought of imminent death combining with the awful, frightening, sudden pain of the impact making Harry loopy. He doesn’t have time to worry about it anymore, though, because that’s when he smells burning.

***

The interview with Malfoy is all over the news by the time Harry gets home from the hospital, and it plays on a constant silent loop on the big telly while he drinks a Red Bull straight from the can, standing in the cold blast from the open fridge door. There’s an interview with Albus too, outside the Firebolt hospitality. Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying, hasn’t watched it, but he can make a fairly good guess.

He has watched the Malfoy interview. Couldn’t help himself, if he’s honest, plus it’s also all over the socials, even the Firebolt ones. No escape. It's obviously recorded just after the race, because Malfoy is still trackside, lines scored over his cheeks from the balaclava, his hair sticking with sweat behind his ears. His dad is beside him, scrolling furiously through his phone, wearing a Strike hoodie, the silver snake of the S gleaming in a thousand camera flashes.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy tells the cameras — the word is bleeped out, but his mouth moves unmistakably through the consonants. He sucks aggressively on his straw as the microphone is shoved in his face again, a bodiless voice saying, “Can you tell us how you’re feeling about what happened to Harry, Draco?”

Malfoy throws his helmet. Whoever’s behind the camera does a good job of capturing the sudden movement, the slight sheen of sweat in the armpit of Malfoy’s green fireproofs, the viciousness of the overarm throw, the clumsy harmless landing as the helmet rolls uselessly along the ground — if Malfoy was aiming for the reporters, he was way off. Embarrassing, for a professional athlete.

There’s silence.

Malfoy shoves through the crowd of reporters, the dangling arms of his race suit flapping behind him. The camera moves with him. He turns.

“I don’t give a damn about Potter.” And then he really is gone, the green globe of his helmet still rocking on the concrete.

The camera pans back to Lucius Malfoy, who looks bored.

“Of course, my son wishes Potter a speedy recovery,” he says. There’s an excruciating pause while he taps at his phone screen efficiently, then the whoosh sound of a message sending. He looks up. “They were, after all, teammates once.”

They’ve even shared the clip on the Strike socials, though they left out the swearing and the straw-sucking and the helmet-throwing, just kept the moment when Malfoy stalks out of the paddock, Lucius Malfoy’s glib statement.

A slow-mo of Malfoy throwing his helmet already has over a million likes on the official F1 account on Insta. Harry’s checked, from his fake account. He watches it four times while he eats one of the revolting meals that are all Ginny allows him to eat in-season. She’s got a new training schedule set up for him too; she’s left it stuck to the front of the fridge with one of the Potter 7 magnets he has about 20 of.

His phone is going, Ron out of some sponsorship meeting, a pic of the contract with a thumbs up emoji. Harry gives it a thumbs up back and then Ron messages again — Malfoy asking about you and the puking emoji. Text him mate or he’ll just keep texting me.

Harry’s message thread with Malfoy is over a year old. It’s buried so deep he almost hopes he won’t find it, but of course it’s there as he scrolls down, just an anonymous M for Malfoy in the place of the photo Harry used to have saved. He clicks in, thumbing quickly into the text box so he doesn’t have to look at the line of blue messages one after the other. Malfoy had never replied, not since the day he told Harry that he was moving to Strike. Harry shouldn’t even fucking bother messaging now, he should just let Ron handle Malfoy. That’s literally his job.

I’m fine, is what he settles on. It strikes the right note, he thinks. Dignified, but factual. He hits send, then undoes it all by going back in straight away and following it up with Ron told me you asked. He almost mentions the onboard. Malfoy would have mentioned it, if it was the other way round. But he’s glad he managed not to, when his messages turn to read but Malfoy doesn’t reply.

***

The buzzer goes just after Harry takes his first round of painkillers. He's still swishing water around his mouth when he looks at the door camera feed and sees Malfoy is there, unmistakable.

“What are you doing here?” he says into the intercom, and watches the jerky delay of the image as Malfoy rolls his eyes and hammers a fist on the door.

“Open up, Potter,” he says, without bothering to press the intercom button, loud enough that Harry can hear him through the door. Harry does open up.

Malfoy comes in. He’s wearing white from head to toe, some sort of tracksuit with baggy trouser legs and an oversized hoodie. His trainers are definitely not meant for actually training in — they’re pristine, totally unmarked as though he’d taken them out of the box before he came over here. He bends to unlace them, tugs them off and sets them on the mat. Under his baseball cap, his hair is pushed back behind his ears, almost the same colour as the fabric. He looks ridiculous. He looks expensive. In fact, he looks like two million dollars, which is exactly what Ron reckoned he’d made off the Nike deal.

“What the hell, Malfoy?” Harry says, and Malfoy looks him up and down, taking him in slowly, the stretched-out old Firebolt tee from Harry’s first ever round of proper merch, his shorts, his bare feet. The cast on his left hand.

“You fucked it, Potter,” Malfoy says. “I’d be embarrassed for you, if I cared.”

“And yet,” Harry says, moving around Malfoy to kick the door shut behind him, “here you are. Presumably to let me know in person just how little you care?”

“Are you out for the rest of the season?” Malfoy grins at the idea, winningly. He doesn’t wait for Harry to answer, just makes for the kitchen. Harry can hear the whirring of the ice-maker on the fridge, the crisp sound of a bottle of sparkling water being opened.

“Dunno.” Harry leans against the kitchen door. Malfoy unerringly reaches into the glasses cupboard, fills two tumblers with ice. His sleeve flaps as he pours the water. “They think I have a mild concussion. Even Albus wasn’t going to drag me into a team meeting when I’m just out of hospital.”

Malfoy looks at him thoughtfully, readjusts his baseball cap. A tuft of hair is sticking out the opening at the back, like a little tail.

“They’ll have to keep you out for a few races, at least. You’ll be lucky to be back by Singapore, my father thinks.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he has an opinion on it, alright.” Harry kicks at the door frame with the back of his heel. He watches Malfoy drink, the moving line of his throat, the small subtle sparkle of the number 13 at his breast as he swallows.

“Right,” Malfoy says, setting down his glass next to Harry’s untouched one, which is sweating despite the aircon. “You’re not dead, anyway. I’ll be off, then.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” It must be the concussion that makes him keep talking. “You could stay for dinner. If you want.”

It’s an awful idea — Harry knows it even as he says it, even as Malfoy’s mouth curls into distaste. The last time they had dinner here had been the night Malfoy had told Harry about Strike. About leaving.

“You can’t just hit your head,” Malfoy says, his back to Harry as he puts the water bottle back, slamming the fridge door shut behind him, “and then start acting like everything’s normal again.”

“I’ve been acting normal this whole time.” Harry’s done; he needs more headache tablets, some air, a glass of water that hasn’t been poured for him by Malfoy. “You’re the one who made things not normal. I mean, Strike? If you had to go, at least go somewhere good.”

It’s so very much an echo of the last time they spoke that Harry wonders if maybe he’s actually having an extended hallucination. But no, even a concussed brain couldn’t have conjured up the intimidating crispness of Malfoy’s white tracksuit, the baseball cap with its rearing snake logo, the crooked seam of Malfoy’s left sock. He’s unimaginable, here in Harry’s kitchen.

“Yes, I bet you’d have loved me to stick around playing second driver to you,” Malfoy says, pushing past Harry to look for his shoes in the dim hallway.

“You’ll always be second to me,” Harry replies, and kicks one of Malfoy’s trainers at him. It couldn’t hurt, all that light foamy stuff, but Malfoy makes an injured noise and shoves at him again, shoulder to chest, nudging Harry back into the wall. He wriggles a foot into the trainer, not bothering with the laces. Harry wants to shove him back, but settles instead for saying, "Doesn’t matter what car you’re in, you’re still going to end up exactly where you belong. Behind me.”

“Oh promises, promises, Potter. Behind you, indeed. I’m sure you'd like that. We've all seen the photos.”

Malfoy’s breath shivers over Harry’s cheek, minty, like he’s been chewing gum and then drinking Harry’s iced water. He’s so physically present, the smell of his weird perfume that he orders from Paris, his lopsided stance where he has only one shoe on, his hard shoulder still pressed forcefully against Harry’s chest, saying things with his blandest voice just like he does in pressers, as though Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s insinuating.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says, and elbows him. His stomach is rock hard under the folds of the white jumper; he always did have more discipline than Harry.

“Looks like everyone knows about you now. Oh, sorry — touched a nerve, have I?”

He has, though not for the reasons he means. Harry doesn't really care about the photos, that so many people have seen him like that, or even that the guy had probably made a packet out of tipping off the paps, and he hadn’t even been that good a shag. Nothing much has changed for Harry since it all came out, really — even in the aftermath, the team had come up with the statement, he just had to read it. He wears a rainbow lanyard for his paddock pass now, but that’s really the only thing that’s different.

Harry only cares about the fact that he’s clearly not very happy in the photos. When they pop up online like they still do from time to time, even now, all he can see are the shadows under his eyes, the patchy stubble, his eyes red-rimmed. He hadn’t been sleeping well back then.

“Everyone who mattered already knew.” Harry shrugs. “No point in living a lie, anyway.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. Glib statements drive him crazy, and apparently Harry isn’t over wanting to do that.

“I’m not—” Malfoy begins, but he knows that Harry knows. Harry was there for it all. Malfoy was there too — in Vegas, where it started, in their shared hotel room, his eyes feverishly bright in the reflected glow of the strip outside the window as he watched Harry from across the room, the rustle of his bedsheets, Harry’s frantic hand, the sounds they made from their entirely separate beds that make Harry hot to think about even now. All the hotel rooms, always separate beds, the line they very carefully never crossed. The time Malfoy texted a photo of his palm, come pooling, from the toilet of the gala they were both at. The time on the jet when Ron had nearly walked in on Harry with his cock out and Malfoy had pretended to be asleep in his seat, a malicious flush creeping up his neck, smothering his laughter in his blanket.

Harry gets his phone out. Malfoy’s still close enough to see the screen, watches Harry thumb in the passcode that Malfoy had known off by heart, that Harry has never bothered to update. Malfoy’s face doesn’t change as Harry brings up the clip, first the slow-mo slide of Harry’s car into the candystriped barrier, the hail of debris over the track. And then the screen switches to Malfoy’s onboard, his green gloves steady on the wheel as he whips around Turn 2.

There are so many fan edits of this bit, all of them set to swoopy music and intercut with flickering old photos of Harry and Malfoy in their matching race suits, from before, but Harry doesn’t need to go that far. This one is enough to get the point across.

Here it comes, the demanding crackle of Malfoy’s radio.

“Who?” he asks, and Goyle —fucking Goyle, the traitor, who hadn’t even thought about not following where Malfoy led — replies, “Safety car, Draco, safety car.”

“I know, I just saw,” Malfoy replies. “Who? Is it Potter?”

“It’s Potter,” Goyle confirms, and Malfoy breathes in so hard you can hear it over the engine, even through the fuzz of the onboard.

“Harry?” Malfoy asks then. Harry’s listened to this about a hundred times now, in news reports and on the official socials and all those edits, which have all added soaring music to this bit, violins or something, and then Goyle says, “Harry’s okay, Draco, he’s out of the car.”

Harry shuts the screen down. He can hear Malfoy breathing in the sudden silence.

“Looks like everyone knows about you now, too,” Harry says. “It’s all over the socials. We have a ship name and everything.”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy says, and then kisses Harry, nonsensically, almost missing his mouth, the brim of his hat knocking into Harry’s forehead, his lips rasping over Harry’s unshaven chin. Malfoy tries again, but he’s at the wrong angle, so Harry turns him, both of them tripping over Malfoy's other shoe. Harry pushes him up against the wall, knocks the stupid hat off his head so he can kiss him properly, his tongue in Malfoy’s hot mouth, Malfoy’s hand sliding unerring up the back of his t-shirt.

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says into Harry’s mouth, and then forgets himself to kiss Harry again for a bit. “It’s fine for me to— It’s fine that I care—”

He’s trying to reassure himself, and annoyed about it. Harry suspects it’s probably not all that fine, at least not from the point of view of the Strike management team, which is to say Lucius Malfoy. But Harry doesn’t care as long as Malfoy is allowing him to lick into his mouth, bite at his lip a bit, his body solid and moving under Harry’s hands.

“Yeah,” Harry tells him. “It’s fine, it’s good. I care too, I care—” Malfoy kneads his chest, thumb flicking over one nipple. “I thought about you before I died.”

Harry manages to wriggle his good hand between them, and Malfoy’s dick is there and Harry’s touching him where he’s hot and straining and kind of big where the fabric is all rucked up over his hard-on. Everything is clear again, like the moment before he died, Malfoy in sharp focus even in the dim hallway, his spiky pale eyelashes and his faint freckles and the wet patch on his trackie bottoms under the heel of Harry’s hand.

“You didn’t die,” Malfoy says — his crooked incisor, the scar on his lip from the time they went karting for Crabbe’s stag do, his skin that tastes weird and looks all dewy from whatever moisturiser he’s using these days — and shoves his knee between Harry’s legs for Harry to clench around, rub against. Harry’s going to come like this, maybe; it feels as good as driving, as good as a podium — or nearly, at least.

“I did break a metacarpal, though,” Harry tells him, breathless. “It’s actually very painful. I might need surgery.”

“You’re pathetic,” Malfoy says, sounding deeply satisfied about it. Harry’s bad hand is in his hair. Harry’s glad his fingers are free, at least, so he can ruffle up the strands that have been moulded flat by the hat.

“But I did think I was going to die, to be fair,” he says, stroking, stroking, one hand on Malfoy’s dick and one in his hair so Malfoy makes a sound and arches his back, meeting both touches. Harry’s own dick is jammed up against Malfoy’s hip. “And I thought about you when I did.”

“Alright,” Malfoy says, unpeeling himself from Harry, kicking off his one untied shoe. “Bedroom.”

Malfoy leads the way, shedding his hoodie as he goes so Harry can admire the working of his shoulders. On the console table, next to a big horrible arrangement of flowers and a bowl with all of Harry’s car keys, is the helmet he’d been wearing the day of the accident. It was supposed to be auctioned off for charity after the race — they might still be planning to, in fact. It'll probably make even more since the crash; people are weird like that. It's quite pretty, actually, designed specially for Zandvoort: a riot of brightly painted tulips around all the sponsor logos, Harry’s lightning bolt picked out in gold on top, the rest of it Firebolt red.

Malfoy pauses. He’s halfway through removing his tracksuit bottoms, one thumb hooked low in the back of the waistband, most of his tight white underwear on show. He looks at the helmet consideringly. Harry catches up with him, bites at the line of his shoulder. Malfoy reaches out, one finger tracing the lightning bolt, and then, as delicately as a cat, pushes the helmet off the edge of the table. It bounces when it hits the marble floor tiles, the sound of impact louder than Harry was expecting. Together, they watch the helmet roll then wobble then still, a gleaming red orb half under the table alongside Harry’s running trainers and the Crocs he wears for taking the bins out.

“It’s a shit design anyway,” Malfoy says, tilting his head to allow Harry better access. Harry’s nose is in his hair — shampoo, warm scalp, and underneath it all, the faint hot smell of fuel.

[oddly-specific-hermit-headcanons]

no one on hermitcraft is human (and they all know this)- except for mumbo. He also has no idea anyone else is not human. For the funnies, no one believes him when he says he's human, and keep trying to figure out (in their own ways) what he is.

Impulse keeps trying to subtlety tell mumbo he has nothing to hide and can tell the hermits anything (this confuses mumbo quite a bit)

Grian says he believes mumbo, but really his diamonds are on either vampire or some sort of shadow monster in the betting pool

Doc and etho are running a betting pool

Zed has bdubs skizz and tango and himself working to keep a constant monitor on mumbo just in case he does something suspicious , this includes using cameras, spyglasses, various small holes to peek through and watch him, grian, ect.

Xisuma knows mumbo is human, obviously, but is participating in the betting pool anyway solely because he knows the hermits know that he knows, and him participating will encourage the rumors (not that he would encourage that type of thing, no, never)

Gem keeps asking mumbo random questions to try and get him to reveal something, which of course he doesn't, but she is convinced his answers must mean something, and keeps coming up with increasingly random theories about what he could be

The only person gem has managed to successfully convince of these theories is pearl, who has taken to dropping in on mumbo at random times to try to "catch him in the act"- the act of what even pearl herself doesn't know

Cub is having a field day making horns out of confused mumbo noises and various other "I'm just a human!"'s

Scar is the accomplice- the accomplice to what, nobody knows, but he was definitely the accomplice to something, possibly everything

And finally- mumbo is just as oblivious as ever, he has no idea most of this is going on (except for things asked to him directly) and thinks there must be something in the water making everyone a bit crazy, possibly the chemicals he's been pouring into it, that he has somehow been exempt from.

As an extra, autocorrect has tried to correct watch to watchers multiple times (I'm rather proud of it) doesn't know how to spell as accomplice (to be fair, I didn't either, had to look it up on Google) and seems to think xisuma should be insulation, despite auto filling xisuma- very interesting choice auto correct.

.

[uhhlifeig]

Funeral - May 6 - word count: 297 - @wolfstarmicrofic - CW: hallucinations

“Moony, how does this suit look?” Sirius asked, doing a little twirl.

“It looks great on you, Pads,” Remus said, smiling softly.

“Thanks, Moonpie,” Sirius grinned, facing the mirror to tie his tie. “You look good too.”

“You’re so sweet, seren. Thank you.”

A beat of silence.

“Moony, are you… alright? You’re a lot less energetic than I expected, especially for a day like this.”

“Oh, I’m… fine, I suppose,” Remus said, waving his concerns off. “I won’t get worse, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Alright,” Sirius huffed, buttoning his blazer. “I’m still asking you later.”

“Fine with me,” Remus shrugged, stepping behind Sirius and wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Oi, Pads?” James’s voice called from outside the room. “Who’re you talking to?”

Sirius furrowed his brows. “It’s Remus, James. Can you not hear him?”

His next words punched Sirius in the stomach. “Pads, Remus… he’s dead, remember? Today’s his funeral.”

Sirius fell to his knees like a marionette with its strings cut, staring up at the ceiling. “Stop,” he muttered, hoping James would tell him that no, Remus was still alive, and this was all a big prank. “No, that’s not right. He wouldn’t-”

“I’m sorry, Sirius. It was the moon, remember?”

“No,” Sirius said, louder this time- more frantic, too. “It’s not real, James. Tell me it’s not real.”

“I’m so sorry, but he’s gone- but I get it, Pads. I’m here for you. He was one of my best friends, too.”

Sirius looked up at the figure that appeared to be Remus- down to the freckles splattering his nose and the amber flecks in his eyes.

Fake-Remus smiled sadly at him, vanishing in front of his eyes.

He stared numbly at the engagement ring on his finger.

They would’ve gotten married next month.

[hyruling]

“So. How are you really?”

Buck stares into his mug, thumbs the smooth edge. The ride from the airport had been all stilted conversation; funeral logistics and small talk and updates on Chris, on Maddie and the rest of the 118. Eddie pointed out the Dairy Queen that opened a few miles from the house sometime in the two months he’s been gone. Buck told him about his gym flooding three weeks ago. It got pretty quiet after that, conversation ultimately turning towards the inevitable, and neither of them seemed inclined to break the seal. They made it home in record time by LA’s standards, and Buck pulled into the driveway with an uneasy sort of relief.

Eddie had hugged him, at least, in the middle of the crowded baggage claim. Dropped his duffel and wrapped both his arms around him, held him longer than anticipated. The scruff of his stubble scratched Buck’s neck, and just before pulling away, Eddie ducked his chin and pressed his mouth to Buck’s collarbone for one loaded second. And that had felt — normal. Not normal. Left him wanting more.

Now the coffees been brewed, the bag put away, suit hung safely in the closet. Their knees press together under the table, a grounding point of contact that he leans into. Eddie just looks at him, looking soft and rumpled from travel, and Buck wants to touch him again so badly his fingers ache with it.

“I’m—“ Buck starts. Stops. “I don’t—I don’t know, Eddie.” He scratches idly at his neck, an itchy feeling under his skin that he can’t settle. “I’m just kind of going through the motions, I think.”

It’s the most honest he’s been in weeks. He’s not sure it makes him feel any better.

Eddie nods and sips his coffee. Buck picked up a bottle of his creamer yesterday, and Eddie gives him an appreciative little smile around the lip of the mug.

“That’s okay,” Eddie says. “You don’t have to be anything right now.”

“That’s what my therapist keeps saying,” Buck says with a half-hearted laugh that Eddie returns. They each take a drink, and Buck asks, “How are you?”

Eddie sighs and looks towards the window. “I’m… it’s still a little surreal, to me. I haven’t been—I’ve been so removed out in Texas, it’s like—like it’s not real to me yet.”

“Yeah,” Buck says. His phone buzzes with a text from Ravi that he ignores for now. “I kind of feel that too.”

Eddie frowns, mouth twisting in a familiar way he hates.

“I should have been here,” Eddie says, hushed like a confession. He stares at the placemat, tears starting to form in his eyes. Buck’s already shattered heart breaks impossibly more.

“Don’t do that,” Buck tells him. Eddie shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “You can’t go down that road, Eddie. He—he wouldn’t want that.”

“I should have been here sooner,” Eddie clarifies, still avoiding Buck’s eyes. “I know—no one could have known what would happen. No one will ever know if I could have—if I could have changed anything. And I’ll just—I’ll have to live with that. But I should’ve gotten on a plane the second you called, I should have been here with you, I’m—fuck. I’m sorry Buck.”

“Hey, no, come on. Eddie, look at me.”

Eddie ignores him, gone somewhere Buck can’t reach him. His arm is right there, his hand clenched in a ball on the table only inches from Buck’s. He lays it over Eddie’s white-knuckled fist before can think better of it. It works, draws Eddie’s attention back to him, flicking between Buck’s hand and his eyes.

“Buck,” Eddie whispers.

Slowly, Eddie relaxes — he unclenches his fingers, lets them splay out beneath the weight of Buck’s hand. Buck watches, entranced, as he twists his hand around to hold Buck’s hand properly, fits his fingers between Buck’s. Squeezes gently.

He’s always had such beautiful hands. Big and warm and perfectly sized to fit in Buck’s, knowledge he doesn’t know what to do with now that he has it.

“I don’t hold anything against you, Eddie. You have to know that. You were exactly where you needed to be, Chris needs you more than I do. You—I’m not yours to worry about.”

“Yes you are,” Eddie says. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s known, a simple fact of the universe. But to Buck, it’s as if the world that had stopped spinning two weeks ago shifts beneath his feet, shudders with the effort to start turning again.

Eddie doesn’t look away, even as his cheeks go pink right as Buck’s do. He doesn’t let go of his hand either, thumbs over Buck’s knuckles in a way that has the potential to ruin him.

“I’m—really glad you’re home,” Buck admits quietly.

Eddie smiles, soft and crooked — and though their world has irrevocably changed, Eddie’s smile still has the power to flood him with warmth.

“Me too.”

[crazymecjc]

“as long as you’re here, I’ll be alright.”

my piece for @souyoproject’s 2024 souyo bang, to go with this absolutely incredible fic by @/suspend_disbelief on ao3! Please go check it out, it’s a fantastic work and I had a blast drawing for it!

[sambuckylibrary]

TFATWS Anniversary Event 2025

The @sambuckylibrary will be holding a TFATWS Anniversary event! The event will run from March 17th to April 27th. During that time, we will be reblogging and sharing the work you guys create here on our blog.

You can post fanfiction, art, fic rec lists, comments, moodboards, podfics, edits, etc. It’ll be a low-stakes event. No need to sign up. Just remember to tag @sambuckylibrary in your post for each fill, and we will be tracking #tfatwsanniversary2025 for reblogs.

If you are posting on AO3, please add it to the TFATWS Anniversary Event 2025 Collection.

For the prompts for the event, as well as the FAQ and rules, check the information under “keep reading”.

The Prompts Will Be:

WEEK 1:

Monday: Madripoor Tuesday: District of Columbia Wednesday: Birnin Zana Thursday: New York City Friday: Delacroix

WEEK 2:

Monday: "You give them something to aspire to." Tuesday: Long, Separate Vacations Wednesday: "Can you move your seat up?" Thursday: Big Three Friday: "I love you, buddy."

WEEK 3:

Monday: Meet Ugly Tuesday: Enemies to Lovers Wednesday: Only One Bed Thursday: And They Were Roommates Friday: Didn't Know They Were Married

WEEK 4:

Monday: Leila Taylor | Sidewinder Tuesday: Joaquín Torres | Ayo and Shuri Wednesday: Isaiah and Eli Bradley | Redwing Thursday: Karli Morgenthau | U.S. Agent Friday: The Wilson Family | The Barnes Family

WEEK 5:

Monday: Fantasy AU Tuesday: Soulmates AU Wednesday: Sports AU Thursday: No Powers AU Friday: Celebrity AU

WEEK 6:

Monday: Searching for Bucky Barnes Tuesday: On the Run Wednesday: TFATWS Thursday: Captain America Sam Wilson Friday: Forming the Thunderbolts* | Reforming the Avengers

FAQ

What is this?

It’s a SamBucky multi-week event in celebration of the anniversary for TFATWS TV show.

Is there any pressure?

No pressure at all. Fill one prompt. Fill all the prompts at once. Do however many you please.

Can I fill more than one prompt with one piece of art/one fic?

Yes! You can fill one prompt with one piece of art or fic. You can try to fill all of the prompts during the event at once with one piece of art or fic. You can do any number in between.

Are there any prizes for making anything for this event?

Just the satisfaction that you made something cool.

Is it just SamBucky?

Yes please, just SamBucky. There can be side ships, but the main ship should be SamBucky.

How long will this event run?

It will run from March 17th and run until April 27th.

I heard there are badges I can use for each fill?

Not this year, unfortunately. But there will be cool banners for each day!

RULES AND GUIDELINES

What are the guidelines for the event?

I will be borrowing some of this from the MYSU Valentine’s Day Bingo 2022 Guidelines, since they were fantastic.

For Everyone:

1. Remember to @sambuckylibrary in the post as well as #tfatwsanniversary2025.

2. Please also tag the prompt you’re filling (for instance, if the square is “Redwing”, use “#redwing” as one of your tags when posting about it on Tumblr).

3. If you’re uploading to AO3, please:

a ) Say somewhere which prompt you’re filling.

b ) Add it to TFATWS Anniversary Event 2025 (TFATWS_Anniversary_Event_2025).

For Artists:

1. Create at least one piece of new art that can’t have been posted anywhere else before this.

2. All visual art forms are welcome:

a ) Gifsets, at least 2 gifs.

b ) Aesthetic boards or moodboards, at least 4 images each.

c ) Drawing/painting, that is not a sketch.

d) Fan video.

e) Graphics edit.

For Authors:

1. At least 500 words.

2. Posted on Tumblr or AO3.

3. Can be part of a series, but should work as a standalone.

For Podficcers:

1. The podfic should at least be 5 minutes long.

2. It should be posted on either Tumblr or AO3.

3. The podfic can be of a fic made for the event, a fic not made for the event while still adhering to the prompt, or a notfic.

For Fic Rec Lists:

1. You must have at least three fics or podfics on the rec list.

2. Make sure to give brief descriptions of the fics or podfics as well as their rating and wordcount.

For Commenters:

1. Any amount of comment counts, from a heart emoji (“❤️”) to an essay.

2. We would rather this be about what makes you happy and joyful about reading than any scathing critiques.

Things to be mindful of when creating:

For Sam

Avoid framing Sam only as a caretaker or emotional support for Bucky. Be mindful of Sam acting angry or aggressive in an out-of-character way and falling into the angry/sassy Black man trope (check out the MCU source material to help with character traits).

Avoid decentering Sam as a main character and refrain from focusing entirely on Bucky.

In art: avoid whitewashing Sam’s skin and research drawing Black characters.

General disclaimer: Race affects every aspect of his life, including interacting with police/government and the white structures of the world when it comes to performing his duties as Cap and simply being a Black man that lives in the U.S.

For Bucky

Avoid phrasing “flesh/normal/human hand” to refer to the contrast between his prosthetic arm and his right arm. The phrasing is ableist. You can simply refer to his prosthesis when relevant, otherwise use “right/left arm/hand”.

For more information, please check out this document suggested by @ninesdb on how to write Bucky as an amputee. @ninesdb is also open to questions if you have any queries not answered by the google doc.

Specific Tags:

Avoid tags in AO3 like “Sam Wilson is a Gift”, “Sam Wilson is a Saint”, and “Bucky Needs a Hug”.

Have fun and we look forward to your TFATWS inspired pieces!

- The Mods

[acevity]

gangle hugs :D

[violetshine-appreciation]

huh. tumblr wont let me embed links for some reason.

oh well. heres a little fic i wrote abt squirrelstar and brambleclaw. its not much, just a little exercise to get me back into writing.

(tw for implied/referenced emotional abuse)

[fortress-rising]

Wait heavy, you write about Star Trek?

Hobbies. Everyone has to have one, or so they say

[in reference to this answer]

[southconfessionpark]

Probably controversial but I’m tired of the “alcoholic Stan” trope in fics. Most of the time it feels like his addiction is just shoehorned in to add angst and isn’t properly understood or handled. Like the author needed drama and that was the easiest way to go

[padfootfest]

✨🐾 PADFOOTFEST 2025 IS HERE! 🐾✨

We're back for Year Two of PadfootFest, the Sirius Black-centric fan celebration you know and love! Whether you're here for the angst, the fluff, the dog jokes, or the rebellious chaos—this fest is for you.

All the info you need for the moment can be found on the banner below. Stay tuned for prompting, sign-ups and more mischief.

This year's banner was made by wonderful @sorenphelps

[ctrl-alt-bucky]

♡ Aftermath ♡

Simon Riley x Female Reader

You find yourself against the shower wall in the midst of a second round because— well, it's never one and done with you two, is it?

Y'all encouraged it, so here it is: a follow-up to Release! Highly recommend reading that first for context, but you won't be too lost without it tbh. This one includes more focus on you ;) Enjoy!

Posted on: 2/7/25 | Words: 2,073 | Tags: fempov, shower sex, foreplay/build up, fingering, breast play, cunnilingus, very minor pregnancy scare, standing doggy, mild choking, mutual orgasm

We’ve got some work to do, Ghost had said as you extracted yourself from the slippery table and honest-to-god waddled, like a penguin, with your hand cupped between your legs over your cargos as if that’d somehow stop the mess from flooding your ruined panties.

Apparently that work was worth putting off another couple of hours.

Ghost has you pushed up against the wall of the shower, the cold, slick tile pressing to your warm skin as water cascades around you both. His stubble is rough, no doubt leaving behind pink marks on your chin and underneath your bottom lip as he licks into your mouth like he's making it his mission to claim your insides.

As far you're concerned, he already has.

Steam obscures half of your vision when you open your eyes. Simon's chest is rising and falling rapidly, the skin dashed with lines of scars and dotted with healed bullet holes. His hands, previously holding your waist to keep you from slipping back, cup your breasts and lightly squeeze, thumbs rubbing over your hardened nipples.

You tangle a hand in his short blonde hair and bite your bottom lip. It's far too late to reel yourself back in. The calm and controlled soldier everyone knew you as was shattered in Ghost's eyes; you were sure of it. He's the only one to see that facade falter— the only one to snap your resolve, lose you in pleasure, and make you nearly beg for more. And in a way, it isn't one-sided.

Ghost's brown eyes are intense when they meet yours. The way he's looking up at you is foreign. Where he usually towers over, he's bent now, his face inches away from his grasping hands as they squeeze, release, and squeeze again. While it isn't direct stimulation, nothing compares to the heat buzzing between your legs— itchy, almost, with need. That's the only way to describe the feeling: as if it's a deep scratch in need of relief, pulsing with heat and blood and the primal urge to soothe.

But Ghost must understand this. You only know it, because he seems to be purposefully holding off from doing what you want. The bastard.

Your hand tightens in his hair and you watch as a subtle grin grows on his kiss-bitten lips. Christ, as if the mask wasn't bad enough, he's even more attractive under it; No room to speculate on what the crinkles of his eyes mean; You can see exactly the type of amused expression he proudly sports.

“Simon.” You huff.

“Mm?” Ghost hums, playing dumb. He kisses the side of your breast, then flicks the tip of his tongue over your nipple and grins again when it knocks a puff of air from your lungs. Sensitive, your body screams. Go too long without stimulation and look what happens— you react like a virgin now. How embarrassing.

Ghost's breath isn't as warm as the steam or water, but it still tingles your skin as it travels further down. He's a bit clumsy as he fits himself between your legs. The shower isn't exactly made for two people, what with the built-in lip of a tub surrounding the small square of space, but he somehow manages to sit, kneeling, on the backs of his ankles as his broad body forces your stance wider.

Water runs down Ghost's back and flicks droplets off the top of his head onto your skin. It makes his hair stick to his face, so your thumb idly brushes away the front strands to expose that amused, hungry gaze of his again. Except he's no longer looking up at you— his focus is entirely captured by the mess still leaking from your pussy.

Ghost's cum, inside of you, dripping down the insides of your thighs, getting washed away bit by bit from the droplets tracing your flushed skin— you realize you're blushing from head to toe, even though compared to all the other things (namely, potentially alerting the team as you screamed and came on his dick earlier), this wasn't much to get worked up over. But it's the thought of being marked in a way you never obtain, so intimate and risky, fuck, it didn't even occur to you once that your coupling was unsafe. Sure, neither of you are getting laid around here— that's half the reason you climbed him like a tree the second he caved— so there's no real transmission risk.

Pregnancy, however?

You push the thought away as soon as it strikes. There's no way in hell that can happen. You won't let it. You won't—

A sharp pain in your inner thigh rips you from your spiral.

Ghost's eyes are curious, but his expression is concerned. His thumbs rub soothing circles into your hips as he stares up at you questioningly. Before he has a chance to ask, you stammer,

“I-I'm not on the pill.”

Ghost’s expression doesn't waver. In fact, his lack of reaction just makes the panic tightening your chest feel all the more restricting.

After far too many tense seconds of silence, Ghost lines his fingers up to your entrance, pointer and middle pressed tightly together, and he murmurs,

“Let's get it out then, hm?”

You hardly have time to process what exactly he means before his fingers plunge in, slickened by the cum, yours and his, and the wetness already inside. At this angle, the pads of Ghost's fingers rub right over that sensitive bundle of nerves inside of your quivering walls. Gasping, you throw your head back against the tile wall and hope to god your legs don't give out beneath you as he makes a scooping motion with his fingers while he sloppily thrusts them in and out. Each curl sends shocks of electricity to your core, the buzzing, itching need deep within you returning insistently within seconds.

The bastard.

You bring your hand up to your mouth to cover it— an action you probably should've thought of prior to the shower. Your hips buck uncontrollably, twitching with unreleased energy as Ghost builds a steady rhythm, in and out, the sounds sloppy over the rushing of the water, lewd in ways that make your brain feel like it's going to turn to mush.

And then you decide to look down.

Not only is the squelch of your cum-soaked pussy loud enough to hear, but so is the equally hot sound of Ghost's hand on his cock, which pumps in time with each thrust of his other fingers. It's a bit uncoordinated, but his focus is strong. If it weren't for the shower, a sheen of sweat surely would be forming over his tense, rippling muscles and veiny arms. Ghost’s eyes are half-lidded, but they close as he leans in and runs the tip of his tongue over your clit.

You jolt, groaning, and he does it again, tonguing the sensitive nub in slow circles. The stimulation is so direct it’s almost painful, but you don’t stop him. God, you’d be insane to.

Ghost’s tongue goes flat while his fingers curl in, the wall vibrating with the sound of a thump as the back of your head hits it. Eyes squeezed closed, you feel your thighs trembling as your orgasm builds and builds. What finally pushed it over the edge, the final straw that has you grasping at Ghost’s hair and gasping for air, is when he seals his lips over your clit and sucks while he flicks his tongue rapidly back and forth.

Your pussy spasms, each pulse clenching down around his thick fingers while they rub and rub and holy shit you might actually pass out from this—

“St-Sto- ah!” You push at Ghost’s head as the pleasure turns into a sting of overstimulation, and reluctantly, he tips it back to look up at you, an expression of pure hunger in his eyes. A second later, his fingers follow, which then join his hand as it grips your hip tightly. Ghost stands up, his body knocking yours in his scramble. You have no idea what he’s planning, but he’s feral about it, spinning you around against the tile so fast that your feet lose their balance for a second or two. But it doesn’t matter because Ghost is there to catch you, to steady you, as he always is.

You can’t recall a time where he wasn’t there for you.

Ghost’s stubble is rough on the juncture between your left shoulder and neck. He bites down gently, teeth scraping the skin lightly; a message that he could mark, but he won’t.

But Christ, you really, really wished he would.

And then his tip is at your pussy, clumsily rubbing between the folds and over your clit. You reach a hand down, but only the tips of your fingers can actually touch at this angle. Regardless, you manage to guide him in, and it’s a long, smooth slide that’d embarrass you if it weren’t for your foggy brain. A part of you internally wonders if it was his cum still slickening you up or if your body really was that greedy and easy for his cock.

“That’s it,” Ghost murmurs in your ear, his voice low, rough. He pulls his hips back by an inch and thrusts back in, hard, like he’s trying to wedge himself impossibly deeper. “Atta girl. Just like that.”

You cry out a mixture of his name and whatever gibberish your brain supplies. All you know is that you’re slurring— begging?— while Ghost fucks into you in short, sharp thrusts, chasing his own pleasure without a care in the world for yours.

One of his hands leaves your hips to rest upon your neck, his thumb in the dip of your throat. He grips lightly, but soon he begins to squeeze tighter and tighter the louder you cry out. Head fuzzy, you rest your cheek against the tile and do your best to breathe with what little oxygen he supplies you. Even without him restricting you, the air is clouded with steam, making the tiny space even hotter. At this point, water isn’t the only thing dripping down your forehead.

The slap of Ghost’s hips against yours is muffled under the water. He turns, his big, strong hands sliding down to tightly grip your waist like you’re his own personal fleshlight, and he bites down on the juncture of your neck again and sucks, teeth grazing the skin, as you feel his movements stutter. Your face is no longer against the tile, freed only briefly so that you can gasp in air and scramble to flatten yourself against the wall while Ghost grunts out an order to stay still.

Cock slipping free, you see Ghost’s arm jolting furiously as he jerks off. He slaps the tip against your ass every so often, smearing pre-cum that gets washed away a few seconds later. Ghost’s eyes are hungry, his chest heaving, and you’re no better. Christ, the rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins while you arch your back and wonder, briefly, if shoving him back in was worth the risk.

You don’t have the chance to decide for long, however, because then Ghost is holding you steady and breathing out a low curse as his cock spurts short ropes of cum onto your flushed skin.

“Oh fuck,” You pant weakly.

Ghost makes a noise like he’s agreeing with that sentiment.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, letting the tension flood from your body; Tension that you weren’t even aware that you held until it became suddenly clear that the ache between your legs and in your thighs might just not be completely from desire.

Groaning, your left hand reaches for the handle and turns it, shutting off the steadily cooling water. Ghost chuckles behind you and you roll your eyes.

“What?” You mutter, unable to help a smile.

“You sore?”

You shove at Ghost’s bicep weakly and he chuckles again before stepping over the lip of the tub onto the bath mat. A towel gets wrapped around his waist, the other one getting tossed over you. With a huff, you wrap it around your shoulders and join him.

“Might need to work on your fitness regime.” Ghost comments. You realize, strikingly, that he looks at ease for the first time since you’ve met.

“I wouldn’t mind daily lessons.”

Ghost turns to you, amused.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Any specific kinks you wanna see in the future? Lemme know in an ask! As always, prompts/requests are open! Check my ficlist for more, my AO3 for additional fics, and thanks so much for reading! ♡♡♡