#things you said fics

[firstelevens]

#8, things you said when you were crying for the fic meme!

8. things you said when you were crying

this might more accurately be termed 'things you didn't say when you were crying' but that doesn't roll off the tongue as well

When Bucky wakes up, there's a weight on his chest and a sob caught in his throat. His heart is starting to race in his chest and he does his best to slow down his breathing, reaching out to feel around him in the dark like he might find something there to anchor himself.

The first thing that his fingers brush is a woven rug, the tassels at the end worn down to almost nothing. It’s old, clearly, but well taken care of, no pilling or loose stitches. Just beyond it, he feels polished wood, and when he curves his fingers around it, he can feel a short, square post, like the leg of a table. His pillow is cool and wet by his ears, and it takes him far too long to realize that it's from tears that have been tracking their way down his face long enough to leave a trail.

There’s a wooden floor underneath him, cushioned with a plush sleeping bag, and when he pulls his hand back towards him, it brushes against a soft, knitted blanket.

Bucky can sense one of those ugly, choked gasps rising up in his chest, his attempts at even breathing too late to help it, so he tries to tuck his head under the blanket to muffle it as best he can. The tears don't stop, but as he takes shaky breaths with his face pressed against the blanket, his nose is filled with the smell of sandalwood and citrus, something that would be intimately familiar even if he hadn't ended up using that particular soap in the shower for the past few days.

It's Sam's soap, pipes a little voice somewhere in the back of his head. It's Sam's soap and Sam's blanket and Sam's bedroom, he remembers with another shuddering breath. He's in Sam's bedroom, and Sam is asleep just a few feet away, and Bucky is safe here.

Bucky slumps back against the pillow, presses the heel of his hand against his eyes like that'll do anything, but the tears don't stop. The thing in his chest feels more than hollow; it feels like some kind of vacuum, and he doesn't know how to stop it from swallowing him whole.

By now, Bucky's had plenty of practice waking up from nightmares of his time as the soldier, or even before that, back when he and Steve were on the front lines. He's dreamed of Azzano, of Zola, of so many of the people he'd been made to hurt. It's grim, but that's been a part of his life long enough that Bucky has a system for dealing with it.

This hadn't been a nightmare, though, or at least not that kind of nightmare. This time, he'd seen his family, warm and cozy and boisterous in a brightly light apartment. There was Becca stringing popcorn garlands with Evie and Ma putting oranges in Christmas stockings, all of them safe and whole and surrounded by the crackle of the radio. He'd been there, too, right in the doorway, but he hadn't been able to make his feet move closer, and he hadn't been able to touch any of them. Instead he'd watched them with a growing ache in his chest, just out of reach and unhearing, even when he'd tried to scream for their attention.

Bucky blinks rapidly, pushing himself up to sit in the hopes that it'll help him breathe better, but there's no difference. He has a hand pressed to the center of his chest like maybe it’ll stop the pounding, and he almost doesn’t hear the quiet creak of bed springs and the rustling of sheets as Sam rolls over. Bucky's eyes have finally adjusted to the sliver of moonlight coming from between the curtains, and in it he can see Sam silhouetted against the window, pushed up on one elbow.

"Buck?" he whispers. "What happened?"

But Bucky can't make words happen, can't do anything except breathe those shaky breaths. He doesn't know what he'd say even if he could speak.

He must have been quiet for longer than he thought, because he hears Sam mumble a soft curse before the bed springs creak again and the silhouette resolves into someone sitting up at the edge of a bed. "I'm gonna turn on the light, okay?" he asks softly, and then leans over and waits with his hand over the switch like he's giving Bucky a chance to stop him.

When Bucky manages an mhmm, there's a click as the bedside lamp comes on, throwing a soft orange glow around the room. It's just enough light for Bucky to see the pained expression on Sam's face as he looks down at Bucky.

Sam's eyebrows knit together for a minute, and he starts to reach out a hand before hurriedly drawing it back. "Can I touch you, Bucky? Is that okay?"

Bucky nods mutely, and Sam pushes up off the bed and comes to kneel beside him instead. With gentle fingers, he moves Bucky's hair away from where it sticks to his forehead, seemingly unfazed by the cold sweat there. Then, with a knuckle, he brushes away the stray tears on Bucky's cheeks. It's only when he swipes a thumb under Bucky's eye that he seems to realize he's cradling Bucky's face in his hands, and he goes to pull away.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't realize I..."

But whatever the thought is, Bucky doesn't let him finish. Sam's hands are warm and familiar, the touch of them doing more to steady Bucky’s breathing than anything else has. He's not quite ready to lose that and return to a world where this would never happen. He reaches up with his right hand--his prosthesis set aside when they called it a night a few hours ago--and holds Sam's hand where it is, shaking his head a little.

Sam relaxes, but it's just for a second before he finds something new to be concerned about. "Shit," says Sam, his voice soft. "You're freezing. How come you didn't say you were cold?"

The truth is that Bucky hadn't really realized, but he feels pathetic enough without bringing up the fact that his frame of reference for temperature is wildly skewed thanks to all of Hydra's freezing and defrosting over the years. He just shrugs and hopes that’s enough of an answer.

Generally, Sam is nosier about this stuff, but he lets it slide. “I can try to dig around the closets, maybe the attic,” he says. “See if the kids managed to leave us any blankets after they made their fort downstairs.”

Bucky feels his eyes go wide, his heart kicking up like Sam is proposing walking into a den of lions and not down the hallway of the house he grew up in. Though he schools his face into something else a moment later, it’s long enough for Sam to notice.

He watches Sam’s gaze drop down to where Bucky’s hand holds his in place, and Bucky doesn’t know whether it’s absent or intentional when he sweeps his thumb up and down Bucky’s cheekbone like he knows Bucky’s been matching the rhythm of his breaths to it.

“I mean, we could also–” Sam starts to say, then falters. It’s weird, Sam not knowing what to say. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, and maybe you want space, so I could go sleep in AJ’s room, because I know he’s downstairs with the others, so you wouldn’t have to–”

“Sam,” Bucky manages to croak, and startles him into silence.

But Sam’s eyebrows just knit together, his eyes locked on Bucky’s like he’s trying to read something there. It feels like watching Sam just before he takes to the skies on a mission, like he’s spinning some tactical diagram around in his head and mapping out all the ways something could go wrong, and Bucky realizes suddenly that Sam is nervous.

It should be uncomfortable or tense or something, given how awful Bucky felt just minutes ago, but instead he’s finally got his breathing back under control, the hammering of his heart finally slowed down to something vaguely normal. With the adrenaline rush of the nightmare ebbing away, exhaustion and the late hour are settling over his shoulders, and Bucky doesn’t have it in him to puzzle out what’s happening.

“Sam,” he says again, his voice still hoarse. Once Sam’s gaze has snapped to his again, Bucky turns his head just enough to brush a kiss against the heel of Sam’s hand, soft but deliberate enough to make Sam’s eyes go wide. “What is it?”

The careful way that Sam’s been holding himself relaxes just a fraction as he lets out a long, slow breath. “The bed,” he says softly. “I could- we could share the bed, if you wanted. So you could be warmer.”

Bucky breathes a soft oh of realization, and though there’s already an answer on the tip of his tongue, he takes a moment to really look at Sam. There’s determination in the set of his jaw and tenderness in the way he holds Bucky. His eyes are watchful, scanning Bucky’s expression for something, and he’s got pillow marks running up to his left cheekbone. Bucky wonders if that means they would sleep facing each other. He wouldn’t mind that, he thinks.

The longer that Bucky stays quiet, the warier Sam’s eyes get, but there’ll be time for conversations later. Bucky is just so tired, and Sam’s warmth draws him in even on days when he isn’t chilled to the bone, and the idea of getting to bask in it—in being seen and held and heard, even when he isn’t saying anything—is too tempting to refuse.

He turns and presses another kiss to Sam’s hand, firmer this time, and hears Sam’s breath catch in his throat.

“Okay?” asks Sam, and his eyes are wide and curious like he really doesn’t know how hard Bucky has to work to keep his distance.

Bucky smiles a little, reaching out to hold Sam’s face the way that he’s holding Bucky’s, sweeping his thumb along the cheekbone and abruptly wanting to kiss him there, too.

“Okay,” says Bucky, soft, and feels the bright grin on Sam’s face even sooner than he sees it.

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[magnusbae]

To illustrate this post by @mayahawkse I would like to visualize to you the difference:

A post in 2023:

A post in 2014:

A zoom out of the same post:

This is what a community looks like.

See how in 2023 almost all of the reblogs come from the OP, from their few hours/days in the tag search. Meanwhile in 2014 the % of reblogs from OP is insignificant, because most of the reblogs come from the reblogs within the fandom, within the micro-communities formed there. You didn't need to rely on tags, or search, or being featured. Because the community took care of you, made sure to pass the work between themselves and onto their blog and exposed their followers to it. It kept works alive for years.

It's not JUST the reblog/like ratio that causing this issue, it's the type of interaction people have. They're content with scrolling and liking the search engine, instead of actually having a reblogging relationship with other blogs in their community.

Anyways, if you want to see more content you like, the only true way to make it happen is to reblog it. Likes do not forward content in no way but making OP feel nice. Reblogs on the other hand make content eternal. They make it relevant, they make it exist outside of a fickle tumblr search that hardly works on the best of days.

If you want more of something, reblog it.

[milktrician]

(what the. who threw a wife plot device in the middle of a peak lord meeting)

i thought about this bit at the end of the airplane extras the other day. bro why are you looking at your coworkers like that rn

[keferon]

Did you think I was done? Ahahahaha no, I have more.

Because chapter 70 of MOMU gave me the very dynamic between them that I missed so much, I just blacked out and started drawing uncontrollably lmao

Also. ALSO. I noticed a while ago that Prowl has the habit of..like…constantly frowning. So. I did a bit of research and made this graph.

In 70 chapters, Prowl frowns rougly 104 times. And the intensity of this gesture is very clearly correlated with the development of his relationship with Jazz, as you can see ahahahahah It might be wrong tho don’t take me seriously I’m not good with graphs

[helpimstuckposting]

From Santa

Prompt: Magic | Rating: G | Wordcount: 2,957 | AO3 | @steddiebingo

Steve was seven when he found out that Santa did not exist. He tried, once, the whole ‘Santa’ thing. After hearing the stories from kids at school, he ran over to Melvald’s and bought a tin of cookies with his allowance before skipping excitedly home. Some of the kids mentioned feeding the magic deer, because flying took a lot out of them obviously, and Steve wasn’t quite sure what magic deer ate, but he left out a few carrots in the yard just in case.

He was so excited, setting out the cookies in front of the big tree in the living room and hoping he’d wake up to find a present underneath, just for him. Maybe it would be a cool Hess Truck like Tommy wanted, or maybe it would be an action figure, or comic books, or maybe his parents would come home. The other kids said Santa was magic, that he could do anything, so Steve wasn’t picky.

He went to bed excited and could barely close his eyes to sleep, but the other kids said Santa didn’t come if you were awake so Steve tried his very best. He finally fell asleep with the taste of ginger snaps on his tongue (there was a whole tin, and Santa had hundreds, maybe thousands of cookies every night, so he didn’t think Santa would mind one less).

He woke up to a spotless and quiet house, no puddles from snow on Santa’s boots, no bites out of the cookies, and no present under the tree. No parents either. Steve didn’t have any more cookies that day. He couldn’t bear it.

When his parents arrived a week later, Steve was greeted not by hugs and exclamations of how much his parents missed him, but by his mother loudly and forcefully demanding answers to why her yard was scattered with gross old carrots, drying and cracking and covered in mud from the melted snow. So he told her. He told her about Santa and how he wanted him to come, how he went to bed early like a good boy, and waited all night. How he didn’t show up.

She laughed.

It was cold and icy, like the shards still hanging from the gutters on their roof. She told him he shouldn’t be impatient for his presents — they were in the car like always — and really, Steven, it doesn’t look good for a boy to be so demanding, and the presents certainly weren’t from Santa because the man did not exist.

Santa didn’t exist.

So yes, Steve knew from a young age that the jolly man in the coat and hat was simply a lie — told to children to excite them and give them something to look forward to. He didn’t really get it at first; were the presents not enough? Was the week off from school not exciting? Did they not look forward to Christmas morning without the story of a man sneaking down the chimney? But he’d also fallen for it. He was so excited, he liked the idea of feeding the magic deer, and leaving a treat out for someone delivering gifts out of kindness. He liked the story, that a man with so much power wanted to use it to make children happy. He liked being thought of, liked being remembered by someone he didn’t even know, liked that it was a reward for being nice throughout the year.

But it wasn’t true. And that was fine, Steve tried to convince himself. He still got the presents, and he still got his parents, even if they were a week late. He still got a hug from his nanny, and his mom let him have the rest of the ginger snaps, and he didn’t even have to clean up the carrots from the yard.

His parents left again, and school started again, and it was fine.

It was fine, until Tommy came barreling through the door with his Hess Truck held high and the praise of Santa spewing from his lips, and Steve noticed that not everyone shared in Tommy’s delight. Most of them did, and a lot of them brought their favorite toy to school just like Tommy, but a few kids (maybe three) sat still in their chairs — like they could avoid any questions if they blended into the background. They ducked their heads and they sank in their seats, and Steve wondered if they also found out Santa wasn’t real.

But Tommy singled one kid out at recess. He dragged him out, to the center of the playground, and told everyone that Santa didn’t go to trailer parks, that the kids in Forest Hills didn’t get presents from Santa, because only good kids got presents, and how could they be good if they lived in a junk yard. Those words didn’t sound like Tommy, but he was always repeating things his dad said, copying him and taking his word as gospel.

The kid, scrawny with a shaved head and angry brown eyes, sank into his shoes. Not in retreat, not in a cowering way. He sank into his shoes like he was grounding himself, like he was making sure his footing was firm and steady, and he shoved Tommy right into the ground.

Of course, only then did a teacher interject, and only the boy Steve didn’t know the name of was dragged away to the office. Tommy angrily scrambled to his feet and spat at the ground where the kid had stood, remarking that he was right and the Forrest Hills kids were definitely on the naughty list, Steve, wasn’t he right? Did he see that? What a freak that kids was.

Steve rolled his eyes and didn’t say anything. He knew interrupting Tommy was just more hassle than it was worth, and Tommy was wrong anyway because Santa wasn’t real. He’d figure it out eventually, Steve supposed, but he wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

It was his walk home that gave him an idea. He saw the bus pass by as he trudged along, down the road and off in the direction of Forrest Hills trailer park. He wondered if that kid from recess was there, if he saw Steve out the window as he passed, if he really didn’t get any presents. He thought about all the gifts his parents gave him that were still packaged up in his closet because he had too many and he didn’t really like them all. And he thought about how much he wanted someone to think about him on Christmas, with no other purpose or desire but to make him happy.

So, with an inkling of an idea creeping its way through his head, he ran the rest of the way home and pulled out the phone book from the hallway table, as well as his yearbook from the previous year. There weren’t many numbers from Forrest Hills, but he did find the three kids from his class and a couple from the year above. He picked out which of his unopened presents he thought they’d like the most, and he wrapped them crudely in leftover paper he found in the study. He ripped off a few pages from the note pad by the phone, and wrote out in his best writing:

From Santa, sorry I was late

And then:

P.S. my elf wrote this

Because his best writing was still pretty bad.

It took him a couple days to plan and gather things, but in the dead of night — after his neighbors clicked off their porch lights — he piled all five presents into a little red wagon and tied the wagon to the end of his bike. He took off toward Forrest Hills, a little list of names and addresses crinkled in his pocket. He tip-toed around the dirt paths, freezing in fear every time his little wagon’s wheels squeaked, and placed the presents and the notes from ‘Santa’ on the doorsteps that matched his little list. He checked it twice, just for fun.

He felt lighter on the ride back home, and not just because his wagon was empty.

Steve was seven when he decided to become Santa himself.

It wasn’t obvious, the next day at school, and Steve didn’t do it just to listen to kids whisper about Santa visiting Forrest Hills a week late, but he did notice something. The three kids who had sunk low in their seats the first day back, who avoided talking to the others to brag about their presents, were no longer trying to blend into the background. They sat comfortably in their seats, and whispered among themselves, eyes twinkling a little more than they had a few days ago. Steve was ecstatic. He sat, buzzing silently with excitement as he tried to keep his face blank and neutral. Santa had to be kept secret, after all.

He did it again the next year, adding the newest kids to his list from the years below him, and saved up his allowance to get some cuter presents for the girls; some nail polish and art supplies, some coloring books and beads. This time he wasn’t late, and his handwriting had improved a lot from the year before (though he still blamed the elves for his wonky letters).

He had fun, learning how to wrap the paper around each gift, saving up his money to pick out presents he hoped the other kids would like, wondering what their faces looked like when they opened the door to find a present on their front step.

He was a little worried that the kids would be concerned Santa hadn’t made it inside, being magic and all, but he also noticed that none of the trailers had chimneys so maybe that was okay. He also learned that most of the kids in Forrest Hills did get presents, and he felt a little stupid for assuming they didn’t just from Tommy’s dumb comments, but he also knew they weren’t the fancy presents other kids got like bikes and new games.

He tried making his Santa presents a little more extravagant. After all, why would Santa give Tommy a brand new Lego set, but give Willie across town a pack of baseball cards? Steve just wanted to even the playing field a bit, knock Tommy down a peg or two when he tried humiliating another kid on the playground and that kid said Actually Tommy, I got the new Hess Truck from Santa, too! And Steve remembered wrapping it up, much neater this time, and almost getting caught on the stoop when a dog started barking at him. He muffled a giggle into his hand when Tommy floundered for something to say, coming up empty handed.

As the years passed and the kids in his grade stopped believing in Santa, he scratched their names off his list. He kept adding to it as well, though. He paid attention to the new kids in each grade, noticed if they had a little less than those around them, noticed if they were on the outskirts or if they looked a little nervous as the holidays drew nearer and nearer. He left presents for the Byers one year when he heard that Jon’s mom lost her job after his dad left. He left presents almost all over town, had the phone book highlighted with every address he wrote down in his notebook — a much needed upgrade from the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. He wrote a list, he checked it twice, and he made sure to slip through the dark like a shadow, avoiding anything that might give him away.

He was always surprised when no adults tried to stop him. Surely, the stoop presents were well known throughout town by the time Steve reached high school, but maybe they didn’t want to know who was behind it. Maybe they wanted to keep the magic alive, too. Either way, Steve played a successful Santa for nearly two decades before anyone found out.

It was Eddie.

It was always Eddie.

Eddie, the boy who knocked Tommy clear to the ground that first winter. Eddie, the boy who made Steve want to help. Eddie, the boy who received the first ever gift from Hawkin’s own Santa, though Steve kind of hoped that was a secret he could keep.

They were putting up the tree in their apartment, the first Christmas they were spending together. Eddie had brought several old ornaments from the trailer, ones that he stole from right under Wayne’s nose because lord knows the man wouldn’t want to part with them if he didn’t have to — a collector, that man was. Steve picked up one that, at first, had been unassuming, a clear bauble filled with glitter. Hanging it on the sad twiggy branch of their Charlie Brown tree, however, he noticed a little piece of paper inside. It was aged and a bit crumpled, but not too shabby for how old it was.

From Santa, sorry I was late, it read in squiggled, messy handwriting, the wonky letters leaning to one side more than the other.

P.S. my elf wrote this

Steve stared at it for entirely too long, catching Eddie’s attention as he hung the last ornament.

“Wayne made that one, if you can believe it,” Eddie said, tapping the plastic bauble with the nail of his pointer finger. “I mean, not the note,” he clarified, “that was Santa.” He whispered the last part conspiratorially, as if letting Steve in on a huge secret. Steve felt like he was going to cry, suddenly, the tears pricking behind his eyes. With a start he realized, selfishly, that he didn’t want Eddie to know. He wanted to keep this mystery alive for just a little longer, like a parent too sad to let their child grow out of the world of magic and wonder, like it was too soon though the secret had been brewing for nearly twenty years.

Eddie wrapped a cautious arm around Steve’s shoulders, unsure of where his sudden teary-eyed expression came from. Instead of facing his questioning look, Steve tucked his head into the crook of Eddie’s neck and listened as the man regaled him with the story of his first ever gift from the Santa Claus.

That year, Wayne had lost his job as a trucker because Eddie had fallen into his lap. He couldn’t leave the kid all alone, had to stay and take care of him, and he was between jobs until the holiday snuck right up on them both. They had a tree, just as shabby and sparse as the one they currently stood in front of, but there was no money to spare for gifts. Wayne had apologized, and Eddie had been very understanding for an eight year old — after all, he had been learning not to rely on adults, anyway.

He’d gotten in trouble when the school year resumed, however, for shoving an insufferable Tommy Hagan to the ground during recess. Of course Tommy hadn’t gotten in trouble, since vigilantism was an under appreciated form of justice, Eddie declared. Steve snorted into Eddie’s neck, just imagining the ranting tirade the skinny boy with a shaved head must have gone on, trying to defend himself to the principal.

Eddie was furious as he got back home, pissed off at Hagan, pissed off at his parents, pissed off at the world. And then — what to his wondering eyes did appear — two days later, Wayne had opened the door to the shittiest wrapped present he’d ever seen. Steve bit his tongue. It was for Eddie, according to the name scribbled onto the wrapping paper, and the little note declared it was a lost gift from Santa.

“Like magic,” Eddie smiled.

Steve had no idea that was his first Christmas at Wayne’s, and he had no clue what that first shove on the playground could lead to. He could still picture Eddie’s scrunched brow as he glared daggers at Tommy, could still remember the way he sank into his shoes and grounded himself for a fight, like he was used to it, like he knew what was coming. He wished he could picture Eddie’s face as he realized Santa hadn’t forgotten about him.

“Anyway,” he said, startling Steve from his thoughts, still tucked away in Eddie’s neck, “Wayne kept that note, and I think he’s got the one from the next year, too. He’d saved enough money for a couple presents that year, but I think he was grateful for a little extra help.”

Steve pictured himself, a tiny little thing, curled up in the living room, all alone on Christmas Eve as he wrapped up presents and wrote out his Santa letters. He remembered feeling less alone for the first Christmas in forever, because he was too busy sticking too much tape onto glittery wrapping paper and worrying about not getting caught to care that his parents weren’t home again.

He thought about the bag full of presents, tucked away in the back of the closet so Eddie wouldn’t find them, and his list of kids he collected from the library’s giving tree. He had planned on sneaking out, planned to slip away from Eddie’s prone form and deliver the gifts alone, like always, but Eddie squeezed his shoulder and kissed the top of his head and he realized that he didn’t have to be alone anymore. Maybe this year there could be two Santas, delivering gifts to the children of Hawkins in the dead of night. Maybe this year he could have some help. Maybe this year, there could be twice as much magic as the year before.

—

Bingo Prompts

[stewykablooey]

matt damon: dude did u see the succession finale? tragic ending for kendall :(

ben affleck:

[buddie-buddie]

Buck drums his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel of his Jeep, his left knee bouncing as he waits out the red light in front of him. His shift ended half an hour ago, but the tension in his shoulders hasn’t budged. He thought the drive across town to Tommy’s would help— windows down, music blaring— but it’s done nothing to quiet the anxiety buzzing beneath his skin.

The light turns green, and Buck presses the gas pedal a little too hard, the Jeep lurching forward. Driving through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Tommy’s neighborhood usually settles him, quiets his mind in the way that only the promise of strong arms and that warm, familiar smile can. But tonight, even the hum of crickets and the soft glow of porch lights can’t soothe the unease twisting in his gut.

He pulls up in front of Tommy’s house and sits for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel. He stares at the front door, watching as a couple of moths flutter around the porch light Tommy always leaves on for him. It’s something so small, yet it hits him right in the chest every time. It makes Buck’s skin flood with warmth, makes those three little words rise in his chest until he can practically taste them on the back of his tongue.

In every other relationship, those words felt like a lifeline— something he had to cling to, something that had to be said and something that had to be heard, just to make sure he wasn’t standing on shaky ground. He found himself constantly waiting for that reassurance, always needing to feel wanted. Even when the words came, they didn’t bring the safe, steady feeling he was so desperate for. Instead, they left him restless, chasing a sense of belonging that slipped through his fingers, no matter how tightly he held on.

It’s different with Tommy.

He doesn’t feel rushed, doesn’t feel pressured. He doesn’t feel like there’s a countdown ticking in the background, waiting for the moment those words will finally fall from his lips or Tommy’s. He’s content to let it be what it is, for as long as it takes.

Because with Tommy, it doesn’t have to be said. He can feel it.

He hears it in the quiet moments that hang between them on slow mornings, when they’re curled up together in bed, limbs tangled beneath the sheets, the world outside forgotten. He feels it when they’re in the car together, when Tommy’s left hand rests on the steering wheel and his right hand settles on Buck’s thigh like it belongs there.

It’s in the small, thoughtful things— like the porch light, glowing softly and guiding him home. It’s in the way Buck’s favorite coffee quietly appeared in Tommy’s cabinets, how his fancy, hard-to-find body wash showed up on the ledge in Tommy’s shower one day.

It’s in the way Tommy leans in close, steadying him when his mind runs too fast, grounding him without a word. How he always remembers the little things— like Buck’s complicated coffee order from the cafe down the street from the loft, or how he always wakes up thirsty in the middle of the night. 

It’s in the glass of water that’s always on the nightstand next to Buck’s side of the bed. It’s in the feel of Tommy’s hand on the small of Buck’s back when they’re out, a touch that says I’m here without needing to say anything at all. How, when Buck has had a hard day, Tommy makes space— quiet, gentle space— for him to just be, without asking for anything in return.

It’s in those little moments, tucked away between heartbeats and breaths, where words aren’t needed. 

Tommy leaves the porch light on. And even if they haven’t said as much yet, it feels like love, all the same. 

Buck leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly through his nose. The knot of unease in his chest hasn’t disappeared, not entirely, but it’s loosened just enough for him to get a deep breath and turn the engine off. 

He finally gets out of the car, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat. He walks up the path to the front door, the sound of his boots quiet against the brick. The porch light casts a warm glow over everything, and Buck finds himself smiling, just a little.

Before he can dig out the key Tommy gave him a few weeks ago, the door swings open, and there’s Tommy— hair mussed, barefoot, wearing one of his old threadbare t-shirts that’s too soft for its own good. Buck’s heart unclenches just a little. 

“Did they let you out early for good behavior?” Tommy says by way of greeting, his mouth curling into that little lopsided smirk Buck loves so much. He steps to the side, his back against the open door to let Buck through.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Buck mutters, pausing as he steps inside to meet Tommy’s lips in a soft kiss. While Gerrard didn’t technically let him out early, it was the first time in the last few weeks that he didn’t approach Buck in the last twenty minutes of the shift to saddle him with a ridiculously tedious task–– the kind that takes at least an hour–– and tell him he wasn’t to leave until it was finished. Which meant that Buck actually left the station on time for the first time in the better part of a month. 

“Hi, baby,” Tommy murmurs against Buck’s lips.

Buck exhales, the tension in his chest loosening just a bit as he leans into Tommy, chasing the kiss for a moment longer. His hands come to rest lightly on Tommy’s hips, grounding himself in the familiar feel of his steady, solid warmth.

“Hi,” he whispers back, his voice low and tired. He lingers there, forehead pressed gently against Tommy’s, letting the moment stretch between them. 

Tommy pulls back slightly, his thumb brushing along Buck’s jaw in a way that feels like both a comfort and a promise. “Rough shift?”

“Uh,” Buck toes his sneakers off, leaving them beside the door next to Tommy’s boots. “Weird one,” he says, trying and failing to suppress the weariness that pulls at the corners of his voice.

He lets his bag drop to the floor beside his shoes as Tommy turns to close the door with a quiet click. Buck watches as he locks up and flips the porch light off, a quiet confirmation of Buck’s suspicions that Tommy turns it on for him, a 60-watt beacon guiding him here, guiding him home.

The realization settles deep in Buck’s chest, spreading warmth through him like a slow-burning fire. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of being cared for like this— so subtly, so consistently, without any sort of fanfare or obligation. It’s not something he had to ask for or fight to get. It’s just here, waiting for him.

Buck swallows hard, the tight knot of exhaustion and frustration from his shift loosening just a little more. Tommy catches the look on Buck’s face, his expression softening as he steps back into Buck’s space.

“C’mon,” Tommy murmurs, his hand finding the small of Buck’s back, the same familiar touch that grounds him every time. 

Buck leans into the touch, letting Tommy steer him toward the couch. He slumps onto it, dropping his head into his hands with a low sigh. Tommy sits beside him, close enough that their knees bump, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s good at that— letting the silence sit until Buck is ready to speak.  

“Gerrard hugged me,” Buck blurts out, his hands tugging at his hair. 

Tommy goes still for a second, and then— “He hugged you?” There’s disbelief in his tone, and when Buck lifts his head to meet Tommy’s eyes, he sees that crooked smirk forming again, fighting to stay serious.

“That’s not even the worst part,” Buck mutters, voice tight with frustration. “He— He told me he’s gonna take me ‘under his wing.’” He tears his hand from his hair long enough to make air quotes around Gerrard’s words.

Tommy blinks. Then snorts.  

“Under his wing?” Tommy echoes. “That’s where all the love and joy of life go to die.”  

Buck huffs out a laugh. He leans back against the couch cushions, his hands falling to his lap. “You’re not helping.”  

“I’m not trying to help yet,” Tommy replies, smirking again. He nudges Buck’s knee with his own. “I’m trying to make you laugh so you don’t spiral. Looks like I’m halfway there.”  

Buck shakes his head, but the small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth anyway.  

“Okay, seriously,” Tommy continues, his voice softening. “What happened?”  

Buck sighs, letting his head fall back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I– I don’t know. He had us line up at the start of shift. Went down the line and was his… usual self to everyone else. And then he got to me and– and…” Buck’s voice trails off, discomfort curling in his gut as he relives the moment. “He– He told me I saved his life and then he hugged me.” He drags his hands down his face. “And now, suddenly, I’m his pet project.”  

Tommy’s brow furrows. “He really hugged you?”

Buck makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Yeah. A hug. Not, like, a friendly slap on the back, but a full-body, completely awkward, get-in-here-son hug. You should’ve seen everyone else’s faces. I thought Eddie was going to keel over.”  

Tommy lets out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “That’s... something.” He leans back, resting an arm along the top of the couch behind Buck. His fingers slip into Buck’s hair, running through his curls as the silence hangs between them. Buck relaxes into the touch, tipping his head toward Tommy, leaning into the warmth and steadiness of his hand.

“Under his wing,” Buck mutters again, almost to himself. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means you’re officially his new favorite. Congratulations, babe. You’ve leveled up.”

“Oh, yeah. Lucky me,” Buck deadpans, dragging his hands down his face. “Just what I’ve always wanted—mentorship from a guy who makes my skin crawl.”

Tommy lets out a soft chuckle, his fingers still threading gently through Buck’s curls. The silence between them stretches, comfortable but charged, like Tommy is waiting, watching, reading Buck the way he always does. The humor fades from his face, replaced by something softer, more careful. “Okay,” Tommy murmurs after a moment, his fingers brushing lightly along the nape of Buck’s neck. “What’s really going on?”

Buck freezes for a second, caught between wanting to say it and wanting to shove it down. Tommy always has this way of coaxing things out of him without even trying. He approaches him with equal parts gentleness and insistence, like peeling back layers until Buck has no choice but to lay it all bare.

“It’s nothing,” Buck tries, voice thin.

“Evan.” Tommy’s voice is low, steady, patient. His thumb sweeps a slow circle against the back of Buck’s neck. “Talk to me.”

Buck blows out a breath, frustrated more with himself than anything. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair as if it might shake the thoughts loose.

“I don’t even know that I meant to save him,” Buck admits, his voice tight. “I can’t... I can’t tell if I pushed him because I heard the blade, or if I just— snapped.”

Tommy stays quiet for a beat, letting the weight of Buck’s words settle between them. His hand doesn’t leave the back of Buck’s neck, fingers still working in soothing circles. “Maybe it’s both.”

“Both?” Buck glances at him, brow furrowed. 

“Yeah.” Tommy shrugs, his expression steady but kind, his gaze warm with quiet understanding. “You’re not exactly known for your patience, Evan. But that doesn’t mean your instincts aren’t solid. Maybe you snapped, and maybe you also saved his miserable life at the same time. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”  

Buck lets the words sink in, his jaw tightening as he rolls them over in his mind. He exhales slowly, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit. “I– I don’t know. I keep thinking, what if– what if it wasn’t instinct? What if it was just... me losing control?”

Tommy’s thumb strokes a slow path along the back of Buck’s neck, and he leans in even closer, their foreheads almost touching. “You’re human,” Tommy says, his voice gentle. “You get angry. You hit your limit. But you wouldn’t have let him die, even if you wanted to knock his teeth out.”

Buck huffs out a wet laugh, shaky but real. “I definitely wanted to knock his teeth out.”

Tommy grins, brushing a kiss against Buck’s temple. “Rightfully so.”

Buck closes his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the warmth of Tommy’s presence, the steadiness of his voice, the way his hand stays firm and reassuring on the back of his neck.

“I just don’t want him anywhere near me,” Buck admits, well aware of how petulant and childish he sounds— and yet, he doesn’t care. Something about Tommy makes it easy for Buck to drop the mask he wears everywhere else, to let the frustration and helplessness spill out without fear of judgment. With Tommy, he doesn’t have to be composed or tough all the time; he can just be— messy, tired, and human. Tommy’s presence is like a safety net, one that will catch him no matter how ridiculous he sounds or how tangled his emotions get.

“I don’t know how I’m going to survive this,” Buck mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You will,” Tommy says without hesitation. “Keep your head down, lean on all of us who’ve got your back, and wait him out. He's going to burn out or screw up sooner or later. You’ve just gotta outlast him.”  

Buck huffs a tired, bitter laugh. “I’m not good at keeping my head down.”

“I know,” Tommy murmurs, his lips brushing the top of Buck’s hair in a soft, steadying touch. “But you’re good at the important stuff— like saving people. Even assholes who don’t deserve it.”

Buck closes his eyes, leaning into Tommy, the familiar weight of his hand still resting on the back of Buck’s neck. The knot in his chest loosens just a little more, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit under the warmth of Tommy’s words. “Yeah, well... maybe I’m getting tired of being good at that.”

Tommy’s arms tighten around him, pulling Buck closer. “That’s okay, too,” Tommy says simply. His voice is barely louder than a whisper, low and steady and full of quiet, unwavering conviction. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

Buck closes his eyes, sinking deeper into Tommy’s embrace. This time, when those three little words rest on the tip of his tongue, he doesn’t swallow them down. Even though he knows they won’t ever be enough, he can’t think of anywhere better to start. 

“I love you,” Buck whispers, the words slipping out like an exhale, simple and unforced.

For a moment, Tommy stays perfectly still, as if letting the words settle between them. Then, slowly, a smile curves against Buck’s temple. 

Tommy presses a kiss to the top of Buck’s birthmark, soft and reverent. “I love you, too.” 

And just like that, everything feels lighter. Not perfect. Not fixed. But it’s enough.

It’s quiet between them, the kind of silence Buck used to hate. The kind he used to scramble to fill with words, desperate to bridge the gaps. But here, in Tommy’s arms, the silence feels different. It feels easy. It feels safe. 

It feels like home.

also on ao3

[dandelion-roots]

[ID: a series of drawings featuring Riz Gukgak from D20 Fantasy High. In the first, Pok holds Riz's shoulders in heaven as says, smiling, when you work until the dead of night, your friends know you do it because you love them. In the second, Riz is having a group hug with his party and the text reads, but is it really love that drives you, Riz Gukgak... In the next, a desperate, pleading Riz clutches the shoulder of an indifferent, faceless person and the text continues, ...or is it fear? In the fourth, Riz is younger and digging through crystals with bleeding hands; the text reads, what use are you when you can no longer dig. In the fifth, Kalina, shrouded in darkness with only her eyes glowing, reaches towards the camera with a smile; the text reads, when you're too scared to think. Sixth, Riz is filling out Fig and Kristen's papers under the light of a lamp, serious and tired; the text reads, when you're too tired to work. Seventh, Riz is lying in bed, eyes hidden behind hair, hand on his father's picture; the text reads, too sad to keep the mood up. Eighth, Baron stares into the camera; the text reads, too lonely, too insecure, too weird. Ninth, Baron is holding a defeated Riz by the throat; the text reads, to keep moving? Tenth, Riz is standing in the distance, holding his briefcase, and behind him is a football/soccer ball; the text reads, what use is a ball that can no longer roll? The last drawing just says none in brackets on a dark background. End ID]

[allthenicknamesweretaken]

IT IS DONE

Fanart of Chapter 25 of The Neon Void by @sugarpasteltmnt

Fanart done to the lyrics of The Other Side Of Paradise

THIS TOOK SO LONG OH MY GOD

I first got the idea for this some time after chapter 25 but then I got burned out and then I got distracted by artfight and then I got distracted by an AU I’m making BUT NOW IT’S DONE

YIPPEE

[moeblob]

Gavin mentally: wait... that doesn't add up........

[firstelevens]

22 for sambucky? :)

22. things you said after it was over

It would be nice, Sam decides, if the people around him could acknowledge, just one time, that he's a goddamn professional.

Sure, they're willing to trust his tactical assessments and follow his plans in the field, and there's plenty of mentoring opportunities where they actively seek out his advice, but apparently that doesn't mean shit. Apparently, at the end of the day, Sam's team--and a number of people who aren't on Sam's team, which is kind of the problem--is convinced that he'll handle any given awkward situation with all the grace and professionalism of a thirteen-year-old.

Nobody has said as much, of course, but he can feel all of their eyes on him, their interest barely disguised as they watch him from across the jet. Whatever world-ending threat it is that demands the presence of both Team Cap and the Thunderbolts, it's been overshadowed by the mere act of Sam walking across the jet to sit beside his ex.

Bucky, at least, doesn't give him anything more than a glance of acknowledgment as Sam takes a seat on the bench. There's about a foot of space between them, and Sam is abruptly reminded of the time when there used to be no space there at all, when the furthest that either of them could bear to be was still near enough to orbit the other.

"Torres still thinks I'm the one who broke up with you and you're covering for me," Bucky says, by way of greeting. His jaw is tight, so different from the sweet smile he used to send Sam's way when he was about to either be very sweet or a complete nuisance. "You might want to refresh your team on intel gathering."

Sam snorts, but he doesn't feel particularly like laughing. "If Torres can't believe the truth when he hears it, we've got much bigger problems than how he thinks our relationship ended."

All he gets in response is a grunt, Bucky's eyes focusing back on the paperback in his hands.

"I'm not here to talk about Torres, anyway," says Sam.

"No?" asks Bucky, flat. "And I was so sure you were here to braid my hair and tell me that he finally asked you out."

Sam, a goddamn professional, ignores the jibe. "I'm here because AJ's twelfth birthday is next week, and Sarah says you still haven't RSVP-ed."

"What do you mean?" asks Bucky. "I told her weeks ago I couldn't make it."

"Yeah, that was the wrong answer," says Sam, crossing his arms. "It's AJ's birthday. Everyone he loves is going to be there. You're not skipping it."

Bucky's eyes narrow in irritation, and although it's directed at Sam, he still feels a rush of relief that it's no longer the closed-off expression he was getting earlier. "Is that an order, Cap?" he sneers. "You know I don't answer to you anymore, right?"

"You never answered to me to start with," snaps Sam. "And it's not an order; it's an invitation."

"I know I'm getting up there in years, so maybe my memory's going, but invitations are usually requests, aren't they?" asks Bucky. "There's not generally a right answer."

"Fine. It's not an invitation. It's a reminder," he says. "AJ loves you and you love him. He wants you at his party, and you wouldn't break his heart by missing it."

Bucky scowls, crossing his arms. "You sound very sure of yourself."

"Oh, I am," Sam says. "I already worked it out with Sarah and everything."

He can see Bucky trying not to take the bait, but after a long moment, Bucky's frown gets deeper as he asks, "Worked what out with Sarah?"

"AJ and I are going on a trip before his birthday to celebrate, just the two of us," says Sam. "The day of the party, I'll be on call, so I won't be there. For whatever it's worth."

But naturally, Bucky can't let anything be easy, so he gets all huffy. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Sam. Why would you be on call during AJ's birthday party?"

Sam mirrors Bucky's scowl. He hasn't missed these arguments. "So we can fix the stupidest thing I've ever heard, which is you telling Sarah that AJ's favorite person can't come to his birthday party because it would be 'uncomfortable' for one person who's not even that relevant to the party."

"It's AJ's birthday," says Bucky. "His uncle should be there."

"And he will be," says Sam, with his fiercest glare. "Right?"

He watches realization color Bucky's face, slowly melting into wonder.

"Oh," says Bucky, softly. The look on his face, all tender, heartbreaking awe, triggers Sam's muscle memory so fast that his hands are reaching out to hold Bucky almost before he realizes that it's happening. He snatches them back as soon as he clocks it, but Bucky is clearly too caught up to notice either way.

"Yeah, oh," Sam says, trying for the even tone he'd used earlier. "So you'll be there?"

Bucky nods shakily, his eyes still wide. They look a little glossy, maybe, but Sam can't fault him for that.

"I'll be there," he whispers. "Thank you, Sam."

"Of course," says Sam, pushing off the bench seat. He clears his throat. "Be safe out there."

"You, too," is the immediate response. There's a drawing-in of breath, like maybe Bucky has something more to say, but nothing else follows, and eventually, Sam is out of reasons to stay. It's hard to pull himself out of Bucky's orbit all the same.

[erinwantstowrite]

people underestimate how close tim and dick are and it is driving me NUTS

you get me oh my god,,, alighterwood and i talk about this ALL the time

like, i do love the dynamics between jason and damian and the rest of the bats!! do not get me wrong, i think they have lots of potential and the writers did us dirty in some cases. it's fun to explore them. however, tim and dick's brother relationship is so impactful to the entire story between them that it's insane no one talks about it more? or practically no one??

tim learned their identities through dick grayson, robin, not batman. he looks up to both of them but robin was his hero. when jason died and tim knew something needed to be done, he went to dick first above all else (technically, he went back to the circus). he trusted that nightwing (his robin) would be able to do something about it. he wasn't aware of just how deep dick and bruce's fight went but he knew who to go to about it. dick brought him back to the manor and tim became robin because of it. he was involved in tim's time as robin, he was the person that tim could go to about his insecurities, he was the one that tim went to about his relationship/family/friendship/life problems. he learned how to be the hero he is because of dick (and bruce, but this is about him and dick).

they were brothers before jason came back, before damian, before tim even met steph, etc. when tim was, in fact, going a little crazy (even if he was RIGHT, that doesn't mean he wasn't losing his mind at least a little bit, Tim Stans) about bruce being alive, dick was WORRIED about him!! because that's his brother!! he didn't threaten to send tim to arkham, he wasn't even the one who planned to give damian robin!! dick picked up the batman mantle because he felt there was no other choice (do not get me started on how gotham does not actually need BATMAN, but his spirit) and with that came the responsibility of looking after BOTH of his brothers. brothers. not children. dick can do a lot of things but he is not infallible. it was a shitty situation and it does not soley reside on his shoulders. tim had a right to feel hurt that no one was listening to him, but... y'all. he dropped out of school, he was kind of going off the deep end with how many other people died in his life around that time (his BEST FRIENDS) so of course dick was like "hey dude..."

tim is the closest to dick in the family, he looks up to dick as if he IS infallible in a lot of ways. that's his BIG BROTHER and also his personal hero. his favorite person. and dick cares about him just as much

can you tell alighterwood and i have such strong feelings about this?

[thou-babbling-brook]

Even little revolutionaries get sleepy 🌙💤

[illogicalvulcans]

[Fic Book Covers 11+12/?] Integrative Approaches by Nnm / @mouseonamoose

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens

“I’d love to meet with you,” Davey said, apologetically, when he had been called up by a fellow looking to initiate therapy, “but I’m all booked up for months.” “Are you sure?” The fellow said, through a poor connection that crackled. Davey had been sure. And yet. Right there in his calendar was a blank spot, just a few days away, which he had somehow completely overlooked before. “How about that…I’ve got Wednesday at eleven, if you can make that work.” “What a miracle,” the fellow said, “that would be just the perfect time.”

[cornsyrupfromhell]

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