say hello! stay a while! peruse my ao3 library if you like!
or if music is more your vibe, i post clips of my work on tiktok (ew, but necessary evil)
🚒 buddie 🚒
🪦 maybe it was in the water 📦 (T / 9.2k)
There’s a wall of mirrors in front of him for some reason. He looks up from the snow globe he’s wrapping in bubble wrap. Considers that this is the first time his face has been on a wall of this room. He purses his lips. Tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about how much he looks like her. The same round face. The same light hair. The same blue eyes. Tries not to think about everything else he got from her. That inability to stop feeling–too much all the time–overwhelmed with every emotion that passes through him. Searching for any way, then, to shut the bad ones out. Avoidance as a survival tactic. He understands her, he thinks. He wishes he didn’t.
👽 i know the end ⚡️ (E / 6.3k)
They sprint back to the car, arms uselessly covering their heads. Eddie's frustrated swearing quickly dissolving into bubbling laughter to match Buck's own. Eddie’s hair is falling over his face, droplets sliding lazily down his nose. He looks like a heartthrob at the climax of some early 2000s romance. This is the scene where the music swells. Where he professes his love. Where he promises to stay.
Reality is a key in the ignition. Radio coming through the speakers a little too loud. The click of seatbelts. The GPS voice telling them to merge back onto the 10. To head east. And east and east and east.
💡 rabia, rabia, contra la agonía de la luz 🕯(T / 1.5k)
The drive home is quiet. The light hasn't quite returned to Eddie's eyes. His knuckles are white around his phone as it bounces on his thigh. His eyes follow the passing buildings, lingering on all the big complexes that look even marginally similar to 7800 Torrey. Like he's expecting to see some sort of SOS. Like he could catch it somehow, through the walls and through the darkness.
🥀 skeleton crew 🍾 (M / 2k)
Pink carnations droop in crystal vases. White tablecloths are stained with dropped hors d'oeuvres. The grass is littered with the remnants of the party. Broken plastic champagne glasses, paper napkins, scattered rose petals. His wife is getting their son ready for bed. His best friend is hunched over the dance floor with a trash bag, helping to clean up. He's standing by one of the cocktail tables. Just watching.
🩷 tumblr fics 🖤 (G, T, M, 6 works and 6.4k words so far)
Love confessions, first times, bleeding out, throwing up in shower drains, getting freaked out on WebMD, and everything tumblr has inspired me to write.
📚 passing notes 💌 (E / 74k)
It started with a breakup spiral. Doesn’t it always? Buck tends to throw himself headfirst into a new hobby when he wants his mind taken off a broken heart. He went for woodworking this time. He thought it would be cathartic. He could take his anger out on nails and planks of wood instead of his drywall, or, god forbid, a person who doesn’t deserve it. Turns out, he’s not really a woodworking guy. He much prefers his kitchen-based breakup hobbies that lead to delicious meals, or baked treats he can gift to his coworkers and sister. But he did manage to finish one woodworking project before he hung up his saws and hammers: a Little Free Library.
🔥 relatively better 📺 (T / 974)
The fire has almost burned itself to embers, a soft glow all that's left of the dancing flames. Eddie's face on the other side of the pit is still tinged with warm light, but it's slowly being replaced by a swath of shadow. Buck tries not to make it a metaphor.
👁 that's gravity for you ☀️ (E / 5.4k)
It's so gentle, just a brush of lips before Eddie pulls back. He feels like he just shot himself into the sun. Like the moment their lips touched he was burnt to ashes. No, it's more than that. Disintegrated somehow. His atoms absorbed into the corona.
🏜 buck, bedbugged and bewildered 🪲 (E / 8.3k)
Chris emerges from his room around seven, and they sit at the dining table to eat, Chris’s school backpack flung over the back of his chair, Eddie’s gym bag packed and ready next to him, Buck still in the sweats and t-shirt he slept in. And it’s a Norman Rockwell propaganda portrait. He serves up pancakes and scrambled eggs like a Thanksgiving turkey. Freedom from Want it’s called. Buck wants to live in it forever.
🥔 no small potatoes 🕎 (T / 2.6k)
Buck didn’t grow up making latkes. Or anything, really. His parents never cared enough to teach him how to cook, and when they ate them, they were usually frozen, or made from the Maneschewitz latke mix if they felt like putting in a tiny bit of effort. Holidays in general were cold and distant. They lit the candles because it was what they were supposed to do, he got eight lackluster presents because it’s what they were supposed to do, they ate lackluster latkes and blintzes and sufganiyot because it’s what they were supposed to do.
🏳️🌈 notable works for other fandoms 🎭
🕙 crazy notion ❤️ (Falsettos / T / 106k)
“Why does it say ‘2017’?”
“What do you mean?” Whizzer asks.
“Here,” the man says, pointing to the clock on Whizzer’s home screen. “It says, ‘March 15, 2017’. Why would it say that? Why would it say ‘2017’?”
“Because that’s the year?” Whizzer says, raising an eyebrow. Okay. Nevermind finding someone normal. This dude is insane. But the man is looking at Whizzer the same way that Whizzer is looking at the man. With weariness, with confusion, with heavy judgement.
“It’s 1978.”
💊 tk begins 🎒 (9-1-1: Lone Star / M / 9.3k)
So, when the bell rings at 3:15, TK puts his hood up and his head down, and squeezes through the bustling hallways, and out the side entrance to avoid the bottleneck at the front of the school. As soon as he’s on the sidewalk, he takes a hard turn towards the East River, away from the excesses of the 1%, towards what New York passes off as a neighborhood park (a playground and a basketball court) a few long blocks eastward. He picks up a coffee on the way from the same bodega where he always does. He sits on a bench next to the basketball courts, the same as he always does. And he waits. The same as he always does.
📦 two slow dancers 🛋 (Falsettos / T / 2.2k)
His boxes have all been sent ahead of him, so the apartment is nearly empty. There's no food or dishes left in the kitchen. The couch is still sitting in the living room, but his various throw pillows are gone now. The cabinets and shelves are all empty. And the air smells like a cleaning solution that is familiar to him but he can’t quite place.
✡️ blessings of the candles 🕯 (Falsettos / T / 2.3k)
He can see what’s missing, too. Like the specks of wax that should have melted onto the foil during the first seven nights.
This is the first time he’s lighting them this year. He couldn’t bear it. He hates doing this alone.
He can see what’s missing, too. Only he doesn’t need to see it. He can feel it. In every part of his body, he can feel him.
just thinking about how eddie said 'he'll love you. like we all do' when buck came out to him. how the subtext was there, but we have never heard him say the words 'i love you'. we've gotten 'you really do matter to me' and 'it's not nothin'' and 'because evan', but we have never heard eddie tell buck he loves him unless he is hiding behind other people too.
a very interesting terf objection to this one boils down to "but how would the state know who to protect?" because it speaks to the incredible privilege of being in a class the state actually ever remotely wants to protect. most oppressed groups do not want the state to have a registry of them, lol
Researchers can do studies that track disparate impacts across genders just fine without the government storing your assigned sex as part of your legal identity. They do this with race and orientation and disability and so on just fine.
A census can understand population level trends just fine without storing your assigned sex as part of your legal identity. They can ask for this information in the census. The census tracking population level data is not the same as your assigned sex being permanently part of your legal identity. (At least, the way my country does a census.)
Your doctor can know your anatomy by you communicating it to them if/when it is relevant. There is never a time when they might need to know something that could only be conveyed by your assigned sex being officially relayed to them via government documentation. You can just use your words. The same way you tell your doctor any other part of your medical history.
People respond to "the government doesn't need to store your assigned sex as part of your legal identity" as if they are hearing "no one should ever acknowledge gender or sex at all" but that's not what's being said.
Your birth certificate conveys important legal information about you. Your name, as a designation. Your parents, as they have a legal obligation to you. Your place of birth, as that place has a legal obligation to you. Date and time of birth, since age is important for application of some laws.
And sex. That's on there too. But what is the legal relevance? What laws is the government going to apply to you differently based on what sex is on your birth certificate? I can only think of one thing my government really uses that for, and that is to determine who has to sign up for the draft. And guess what, fuck that shit anyway. The government also used to use this to decide who is allowed to marry who. They don't do that anymore. For now.
There is literally no reason my assigned sex needs to be part of my legal identity. My government is not using that for anything (important). It doesn't matter. If the gender markers on everyone's IDs vanished tomorrow nothing (except maybe the draft) would be significantly negatively affected. Data collection for research could continue as usual since researchers usually have people self report these characteristics rather than checking their government IDs. My doctors would still know which organs I have and if they forgot, I could tell them. I don't want anything to be part of my legal identity that doesn't have to be.
thank you for the tags @tweetsongs @sunflowerbuckleys 💛 I'm still on a trip but I've been writing on my phone in bed at 11pm a lot recently so I do have some angsty chinese satellite updates (and a new wip I'll share at some point)
He goes for a run. He can't stand the sight of his old house. It looks dark. Haunted. Buck, who lives with perpetual open windows– happy always to bask in the sunlight filtering in through panes of glass– who complains even about waking up to dark mornings– has all the curtains shut. He can't stand it. Any of it.
He sweats through his old neighborhood. Puts his head down and tries not to think about how much he misses it– how much it still feels like home. Focuses on that familiar pain throughout his body. The punishing sting– the pounding ache– step after step after thudding step.
When he crosses that threshold again– when his eyes adjust to the low light of this strange and familiar living room– he wants to turn right back around and flee. But he forces himself to shut the door behind him. To approach the shadow shifting around the kitchen.
Buck's hair is wet. Darkened curls flattened against his forehead. Most of Eddie wants to brush them back– wants to watch his eyes soften, to soften with them, to taste his lips again– tenderly this time, like he was always meant to. But a small piece of Eddie– the shameful and angry rest of him– wants to tighten his fingers in them and slam his head into the refrigerator door. Just hard enough to knock some sense into him.
He settles for leaning against the kitchen archway. Arms crossed over his chest, “What are you making?” rolling off his tongue as casually as he can manage.
Buck shrugs, gesturing to the empty counter with heavy arms. Doesn't look up at him. “I can't… I don't know.” His voice is tight. Choked. So close to breaking, Eddie can feel it. He wants to wrap him up in his arms. Hold him together by sheer force of will. Maybe put him in a headlock while he's at it. His arms twitch at his sides.
He occupies them by opening the fridge instead.
alexa play get him back by olivia rodrigo 😔 tagging @bucklesdiaz @lesbucks @soupfic @mihidecet @diazboys @damnit-buck @circledwithaheart and anyone else who has something to share!
collecting tags from this week ... i've been tagged by @soupfic @bucksgreyhairs @zinnydark @poledancingghostson @sintari @eddiesgayladder
finally got to a bit in my wolf!buck fic that i actually want to share
It finished its ministrations and nosed at the corner of Eddie's jaw, nudging its snout over his cheek. Every fiber of Eddie's being wanted to revolt, to flinch away; some small part of him wanted to lean in. It nuzzled him, rubbing his face before pulling back to regard him once more.
Something played about its eyes, some expectation. It wanted something from Eddie, was waiting for him to … to what? What could he do, trapped as he was?
Impatient, the beast huffed, ducking its head and peering at Eddie through its lashes. The gesture reminded him of nothing so much as —
No.
It couldn't be.
Eddie looked, really looked at the beast, searching not for confirmation but contradiction. For something in the red eyes, the shaggy fur, the hulking muscles, the faint dark patch above the left eye …
His pulse skipped. Pressure built behind his eyes, a gathering of tears waiting to spill. His lips stuttered, struggled to form the name that his vocal chords would refuse anyway to say.
"Buck."
tagging everyone back because it's been at least a day, as well as @eddiesstabwound @tweetsongs @lesbucks @damnit-buck @circledwithaheart and @bucklesdiaz
hello hello! this saturday brought to you by the incredible beloved @sunflowerbuckleys, a bit more of the buddie blood tattoo fic because i have been rolling it over in my brain!
Buck pouts at him. "Why not?" he asks. "I'm your best friend, I should get to vet your new tattoos."
He knows it sounds insane, but Eddie doesn't say anything about it, doesn't point out the obvious argument that Buck has no say in what Eddie does in his body. Buck feels a little thrill at that, at Eddie's implicit agreement that Buck does have-- some sort of say over Eddie's body. Something like shared property, or possession. It scratches an itch in the back of his mind, even though he knows, he knows that it doesn't mean-- well. It doesn't mean anything important, at least.
"I don't need anyone to hold my hand," Eddie rolls his eyes. "I have tattoos, Buck. I know how this goes."
"Yeah, but--" Buck struggles to come up with an argument that makes sense outside of his head. Something that explains the strange irritation he feels at the idea of Eddie getting new ink on his skin without Buck being there, seeing the needle press into his flesh, watching the ink bloom and become part of Eddie in some fundamental way. He sucks in a breath. "I-- I can still be there, for moral support."
Eddie eyes him, a gleam in his dark eyes. "Yeah, bud, I don't think that the artist will want you hovering over them."
Buck frowns, furrows his brows. "Eddie," he says, very seriously. "Are you saying that your tattoo artist is homophobic?"
mwah mwah all of you, tagging @redrosydiaz @soupfic @poledancingghostson @glorious-spoon @bluerainlily @minalover and whoever else is working on stuff!!
after buck and eddie get together if there isn’t a shot where they’re walking and holding hands and buck bumps their shoulders together and they separate a little but then eddie pulls him back in by their still connected hands i will have a nervous breakdown
okay wait. stay with me. the shot is focused on shoulders-up at first. they’re talking as they’re walking next to each other. buck bumps eddie intentionally, emphasizing whatever point he’s making. they both step back, just a little bit to reverse their momentum. camera pans down. eddie reaches out and grabs bucks hand as he continues the argument, interlacing their fingers and pulling buck back to him firmly enough that they bump into each other again. buck cannot think of a comeback because he’s so distracted
i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point
