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confessedlyfannish · 26 days

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Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

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singgibanggipoongpoongbanggi · 1 month

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IF ANYONE SAID ANYTHING I WILL SHOOT MYSELF AND AT THIS POINT I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING *S(CREAMING) INTENSIFIES*

#you see this girl ready to pull her hair out? yeah that's me right now #if you were to take my brain out you'd find scoups scoups and scoups only #i have been audibly screaming for the entire day #I'm so close to commiting arson and I'm not even being dramatic about it #scoups the man you are #scoups #seventeen #svt

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heartorbit · 5 months

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a fool and a sinner

#heyy WATCH REVUE STARLIGHT[TRAIN PASSES OVERHEAD] I SAID WATCH REVUE ST [FOGHORN] [SIRENS]#revue starlight #revstar #hikari kagura #kagura hikari #shoujo kageki revue starlight #Girl you're so damn dramatic get your ass up and continue the cycle #STFU AND START ONCE AGAIN BUILDING THE TOWER THAT WILL INEVITABLY FALL 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣#i'm back in my bimonthly revsta haze. Oh my god starry session revival was SOOOOOOOOOO.#i missed seeing kukugumi performing together. And oh my god mayanana sirius. OH MY GODDDDDDD #PRIDE AND ARROGANCE WAS ONLY SUPPODE FTO BE KAORUKO AND THEY WERE LIKE THATS CRAZY CAN WE MAKE TOXIC YURI OUT OF THIS? IKUTERU GET UP THERE #i screamed. all i can say #semester AMOST OVER assignments MANAGEABLE status: ALIVE #pretend i didnt post a drawing of myself coughing uo blood on twitter 24 hours ago. teehee #i need to rewatch gekijouban. Will be a little treatfor me after my last assignment gets handed in #Also theres this rpgmaker game ive been following that finally came out this year and inknow it will give me brain worms im so excited to #play it. ALSO I HAVE AN EMU TO POST I DID AN AGGIE WITH MY CLASSMATE but i gotta clean her up. maybe tonight after homework. amen #its her n cinnamorolllll so cutessss SOOOO CUTES

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ninja-boo · 2 months

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not enough people are talking about these shitty fan castings on Pinterest from like 2016

#brain splatter on my wall #white girl called harumi #british jay walker #old man lloyd #... wu speaks for itself #lego ninjago #ninjago #lloyd garmadon #ninjago jay #ninjago harumi #im not tagging wu. sensei wu fans dni 💀#LMFAO I SOUND SO DRAMATIC MY BAD YALL

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bakudekublogblog · 5 months

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shigaraki being like “I’m killing you bc you’re izuku midoriya’s baby girl and it’ll send him into the rage” is SO LOVE INTEREST it’s so YOURE HIS PRECIOUS SOMEONE if something happens to YOU he’s gonna LOSE IT if you wanna go for izuku’s HEART you TAKE HIS KACCHAN

#bakudeku #bkdk #manga spoilers #I’m getting caught up in the manga and katsuki being izuku’s damsel is so #he’s so the love interest coded he’s explicitly izuku’s precious someone #how is bkdk up for debate when the MAIN ANTAGONISTS ARE LIKE it’s you you’re his baby girl get him #it’s so CHARGED ITS SO ROMANTIC ITS SO!!!!#no one means as much to izuku as katsuki does no one else has his love so intensely!!#like guys the author would NOT be doing this unless it was true #no sane author is gonna have just pick anyone to send the mc into a rage #at the CLIMAX his DARKEST HOUR #YOU DONT JUST PICK ANYONE TO KILL OFF DRAMATICALLY IN FRONT OF THE PROTAGONIST #YOU KILL OFF THE ONE THATS GONNA HIT HARDEST #anyway bkdk canon argue with the wall

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jar-of-maise · 8 months

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"Lynette!" Lyney bursts into the living room with uncharacteristic clumsiness. Leaning against the door frame, Lyney looks like the perfect image of chaos. Little streamers erupt from his pockets and tiny fireworks explode, crackling from under hat and sleeve as he stumbles through the doorway.

The ominous smell of smoke begins to taint the air.

"Lyney, you know what the rules are about magic props inside the house," Lynette chides, blowing on her tea meticulously without looking at her brother.

"Is something wrong...Lyney?" Freminet asks hesitantly, unsure of how to breach the topic.

His older brother huffs dramatically, staggering over to the couch with comically elongated steps. Freminet has to remind himself that this is his older brother, Lyney the Magician, the responsible team leader they all look up to and admire.

He takes another look at Lyney's frazzled expression and decides that now might not be one of those times.

“Oh it’s horrid!” Lyney whines, “the show’s all falling to pieces now!” He exclaims, shoving his face into a cushion. Freminent glances at Lynette, who’s determinedly ignoring Lyney and eyeing a slice of cake on the table.

“Leave him be,” she says when she notices Freminent’s silent cry of help, “he’s just being dramatic. Lyney pull yourself together,” she scolds, carefully slicing through the cake with a fork, “you’re making Freminent worry.”

“Oh my dearest little brother! I had no idea, please forgive me for causing you grief!” Lyney monologues, in a manner not very different to how Lady Furina would deliver speeches, “but this is a matter of utmost importance, I’m really in a pickle.”

“Lynette, maybe…” Freminent begins, watching as his sister’s tail flicks, “hm? Oh alright,” she says in an exasperated voice, “Lyney, use your words. What. Is. It?”

“I,” Lyney begins, delighted to have an audience, “have a problem!”

“I’m delighted to know that you have gained self-awareness,” Lynette replies dryly, reaching for another slice of cake, Freminent watches her and knows that a scolding from Lyney is imminent, but keeps his mouth shut.

“Oh Lynette, how could you be so cold to your dear brother?” Lyney continues to complain, he rests his cheek on the cushion and sighs.

“Are you going to talk about your problem or not?”

“All in due time, there’s no need to be impatient,” Lyney retorts, Freminent blinks, clutching Pers a little tighter as he gets comfortable.

“See, it goes a little like this,” Lyney begins wistfully, “I’ve been experiencing something quite phenomenal you see,” he says, eye turning round, “my hands have been sweating a lot, and it’s like my heart is about to go–” Lyney snaps his fingers and miraculously, a shower of blue coloured butterflies erupt from his fingertips.

“Like that!” He waves his hands.

Freminet nods, “I see,” he says, absorbing himself in the storytelling.

“Just get on with it,” Lynette says, delicately pouring herself another cup of tea, her ears pricked in a very satisfied manner.

“Well!” Lyney continues unoffended, “my brain has also been going fuzzy and I’m finding it hard to focus…no matter what happens, I just keep thinking about the same thing. But sometimes I’m giddy and all mushy like–”

“Please don’t,” Lynette interrupts, “it’ll be a hassle to clean up later.”

“Oh just this once, please Lynette, please?”

Lynette sighs, “fine.” She says, with unamused eyes.

Lyney grins and melts himself onto the couch, “I’m melting like sugar, or one of those chocolates that dissolve in your mouth!” He proclaims, and throws a sweet at Freminet who catches it, “Caramel Melts; nothing like a melt to give you a little help,” he says slowly, reading the cursive print on the wrapper.

“Where did you get this from?” Freminet asks curiously.

“Unimportant,” Lyney says dismissively, “I’ll get you some more if you like them though, but anyways, all of the symptoms listed above,” Lyney unravels a scroll and unrolls it with a flourish.

Freminet should be used to Lyney’s tricks by now, but he’s still amazed at the fountain pen that begins writing by itself, “sweaty hands, strange emotions; mushiness, unreasonable amounts of joy…” he stops reading.

“All of these,” Lyney points at the scroll, “are what I believe are symptoms of…” he pauses for dramatic effect.

“That’s right! These are none other than…signs of heart stroke!” Lyney says proudly.

There is a long, fat silence.

The floor is very interesting, Freminet decides, and these shoes have a spectacular shine, I should really polish them some more, he thinks to himself.

“Lyney,” Lynette says, breaking the heavy silence, “you’re not going through heart stroke.”

Thank archons, Lynette is here! Freminet doesn’t think he’d have the courage to say that to Lyney’s face, in a manner that wouldn’t make Lyney even more melodramatic.

“What!? Then what is it?” Lyney asks, rising from the clutches of the plush couch for the first time.

“My diagnosis is…” Lynette pauses for dramatic effect, and Freminet swears Pers is listening attentively too.

They all hold their breaths.

“You’re in love, Lyney.” Lynette announces, taking a long sip of her tea. Freminet’s eyes widen, but it doesn’t compare to the heavy thud he hears and the long, loud shriek of, “WHAT?!” That echoes well and truly wonderfully throughout Hotel Bouffes d'ete. From then on, the urban legends of Fontaine often speculated about a most inhuman ghoul or perhaps, troll that was being kept hidden in the Hotel basement.

Not that such rumours could ever be proven.

“Let them imagine,” Lynette would say, sipping her tea nonchalantly, “a little shock has never hurt anyone,” she glances at Lyney, who’s been sitting on his chair with a stunned expression on his face. Indeed, Lynette helps herself to a macaroon, perhaps the next step is to give Lyney a little push, after all, a gentle nudge has never hurt anyone either.

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fantastic-nonsense · 1 year

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I'm sorry but I'm not going to be able to take those dramatic angsty scenes between Hermes and Percy in The Last Olympian seriously now. I just can't keep a straight face imagining Walker Scobell shouting at Lin Manuel Miranda for abandoning his kids

#pjo #pjo tv #percy jackson #hermes #lin manuel miranda #like not me imagining LMM trying to be angsty and dramatic while blaming a 16 year old girl for his son turning to the dark side....#(I CAN see the George and Martha scenes being funny af though. those I can see with an LMM!Hermes)

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mernaroll · 13 days

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Sebastian vettel in 2016 stayed BOOKED AND BUSY (he had to speak German with Nico and English to Lewis so they don't have to talk together in the cool down room because the girlies were tussing😔)

#brocedes #war flashbacks #seb was GOING THROUGH IT #they were MESSY messy #the girls are fighting #my divorced parents #Silver War #TM #*shudders*#angsty chaos #like okay dramatic ass #THEY WERE HOLDING DANIEL HOSTAGE TOO #he told me himself #sebastian vettel #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #formula 1 #mernaroll

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buckttommy · 9 days

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ok but buck fawning over tommy’s chin, kissing it and complimenting him on it every chance he gets bc he just finds it so cute 😔

i know this is not technically what you asked for, but. well.

"you like... my chin."

there's absolutely no reason for tommy to look as skeptical as he does, if buck is being honest. tommy's face is gorgeous in an old hollywood way. not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, and subsequently perfect because of it.

"well." buck reaches for tommy's smoothie and takes a sip. raspberry vanilla. buck's favorite. god, he wants to marry this man so badly some day. "i mean. the rest of your face has a lot going for it too, but. yeah. it's interesting. it makes your face nice to look at."

he watches tommy's face go from amused to straight up joyful, watches the column of his throat as he tips his head back and he laughs out loud, cheeks flushing pink, and god if that isn't the most beautiful sound buck has ever heard? made even more beautiful because buck knows how hard he had to work for his joy, his ease as he moves through life. tommy kinard is a weightless being and it shows in the way he navigates the world, deliberate in his intention to experience everything about life to its absolute fullest.

it's unfair.

it's unfair for one man to be this handsome.

moments like these, he wants to look around, see if anyone else in the cafe is as aware of tommy's beauty as he is but he always decides against it. number one, he already knows from experience that no one is actually looking at him, at them, and, number two, even if they were, it wouldn't matter. he's all buck's anyway.

tommy shakes his head, laughter quieting. "you're ridiculous. of all the things to lust over."

"oh, okay, laugh it up."

but tommy's eyes are soft and fond, despite the teasing. or, okay, maybe partly because of it. buck's boyfriend is a bit of an asshole, after all, but that's okay. he'll happily be the butt of every single joke if only tommy would keep looking at him like that, keep smiling at him like he's the answer to every question he's ever had.

tommy leans across the table into his space, voice lowering like they're the only two people in the world. he hums, eyes searching buck's face, and leans in, pressing a gentle, brief kiss to his lips.

"god, i love you."

buck's voice goes breathy like it's the first time he's ever heard it. "yeah?"

"mmm," tommy hums again. "i love you, you beautiful..." kiss. "...ridiculous..." kiss... "...hilarious..." kiss. "...kind of odd..." kiss. "deeply intelligent..." kiss. "...overwhelmingly sweet man."

he finishes with one last kiss to buck's mouth, and buck has honest to god butterflies in his stomach when tommy pulls away and sits back in his seat. eight months in and being kissed by him still feels the same as it did the first time—still feels warm, and safe, and beautiful, and loving, and... how did this happen?

how did buck become the guy who gets butterflies in his stomach over a kiss?

"uh." he blinks a couple times to clear his head, to focus his thinking. not like it works, not when tommy is looking at him like he hung all the damn stars in the sky. buck clears his throat. "well. yeah." a beat. "but i'm your idiot."

and it's so cheesy. if given the opportunity, buck probably could have thought of a million different sweet and sexy things to say, but, at the end of the day, it's true. he's tommy's in the same way tommy is his.

tommy rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, his nose scrunching up even as he takes his drink back. he takes a sip from his straw without blinking, swallows the rest of the thing down like he didn't order it specifically because he knows buck likes to steal his drink, and. god. buck is so in love it fucking hurts.

tommy reaches across the table and takes his hand, the last traces of humor smoothed away and replaced with nothing but aching sincerity. "yeah," he says softly. "yeah. you're my idiot."

#hey guys not to be dramatic but i'm fucking losing it a little bit #they are sooooooooo *screams into hands*#anyways #jack answers mail #tv: 911 #bucktommy #my fic #hmm. do i like this? i don't know. but it exists so! whatever! yolo girls! yolo!

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