honestly, idk

🩷 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.